Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/3696533. Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Underage Category: M/M Fandom: 弱虫ペダル_|_Yowamushi_Pedal Relationship: Midousuji_Akira/Onoda_Sakamichi Character: Midousuji_Akira, Onoda_Sakamichi, Imaizumi_Shunsuke Additional Tags: Developing_Relationship, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Shaving, Fluff, Frottage, Experimental_Style Stats: Published: 2015-04-06 Words: 3621 ****** How to Show Affection for Your Lizard in 12 Easy Steps ****** by mamebo Summary Warming up to humans and human touch requires taking things a step at a time. Mostly fluff with a dash of porn at the end. Notes Based on the 12_stages_of_physical_intimacy, and inspired by krickettking. See the end of the work for more notes 1. Eyes to body He looks upon Onoda with shades of irritation and bewilderment sewn together with years of trained, cold indifference; Onoda looks at him with excitement and curiosity that sets his skin and nerves alight like a sword whet with gentleness. 2. Eye to eye Even in the privacy of a dark room with a shut door, it’s still difficult for him to meet Onoda’s eyes for anything longer than a brief glance. In the broad daylight of a race course lined with spectators, he can easily mock someone to their face while diving into the pits of their soul through the pried-open door of their psyche—but not with Onoda, who smiles with all the innocence and fragility of a winter sunbeam and whose eyes are as transparent as glass. 3. Voice to voice Talking is a little easier, because Onoda says any countless number of idiotic things that require rebuking or insulting or both, and while at first Onoda stumbles and backpedals and apologizes left and right, it doesn’t take long before he starts asking why and how come and have you ever even watched that anime, Midousuji-kun? It startles them both when Onoda says something so utterly embarrassing that laughter bubbles past the hard white barrier of his teeth, and as soon as he catches himself making such an absurd sound he clams back up, clenching his jaw tight against the knees he hugs close to his chest. Onoda stammers through terrible jokes until he stiffly unfurls himself again, and while he doesn’t laugh again for the rest of the night, Onoda seems perfectly fine settling for pained half-smiles hidden behind gloved hands and whispers of gross, Sakamichii. 4. Hand to arm / Hand to hand In the deep chill of winter, when banks of snow prevent them from riding everywhere on their bikes, they commit to figuring out the cheapest way to get to the city, even if it means walking blocks at a time while bundled up like a couple of homeless vagrants. When a whip of wind blows past, halting their walk to a slow-motion penguin shuffle, Onoda huddles in tight against his side with his nose buried into the protection of his woolen scarf. After he almost slips once in an icy patch on the sidewalk, he instinctively reaches for Midousuji and attaches himself to his elbow, and even Midousuji doesn’t have the heart to tell him to let go as they tiptoe across the street. They wisely opt to take a bus home in the evening, and in the back row of seats, shielded by a few dozen columns of swaying bodies, Onoda curls his hand against Midousuji’s in the secrecy of his coat pocket as his head droops against a bony shoulder. 5. Hand to shoulder / Arm to shoulder Sohoku knows that the two of them talk, even if they might not have picked up on anything beyond that (because they’re all dumb and blind, just look at Weakizumi—what else is new, Sakamichii), and he knows how desperately they still despise him. All the more reason for him to drop by their area before races, draping his long, spindly arms around Onoda’s shoulders while bending down like a beady- eyed vulture, leering at the lot of them as they bite their tongues and glower in frustration, unable to raise dissent when Onoda so clearly enjoyed the looming shadow of his presence for some unfathomable reason. After that race, while he dutifully and mutely packs up his things and cleans up Kyofushi’s tent space, a pair of little hands like sparrow wings alight upon him. He freezes, his entire body going stiff and cold as Onoda exclaims his congratulations and happiness in getting to race Midousuji-kun again, and his arms wind closer and tighter to his neck like an impending chokehold—coupled together with the astonished stares of the zaku, he feels himself about to burst. He shoves Onoda outside, grabs him by his shoulders, and shakes an apology out of him. 6. Hand to waist / Hand to back After he has said his goodbyes but before he manages to leave the house, Onoda stops him with a plaintive bleat of Midousuji-kun and weaves his baby-short arms around his waist, and a small circle of warmth blooms in between his shoulder blades, right over the knobs of his spine. Do you have to go, Onoda whispers into the fabric of his jacket, little hands clamped tight over the bony jut of his hips, fingers indenting the skin under his shorts. The loop of his arms blazes warmth like a ring of fire, and the thought of heading out into the coldness of a winter too sluggish to leave suddenly seems much more disheartening than it had a few seconds ago. It’s not like he can really stay any longer—he’s already put off leaving more hours than he should, and by the time he gets back home it’ll be nearing the wee hours of the morning, and the temperature will only drop overnight along the way. So with reluctance he pulls himself free of Onoda’s embrace and heads outside, where his white breath momentarily obscures the weak light of the sliver of moon overhead before he yanks his neck gaiter up around his nose. Onoda tries one last time to get him to stay though they both very well know he can’t, and he rides hard for the first several kilometers until the rest of his body warms to the lingering heat of Onoda’s hands and body against his. 7. Mouth to mouth It wasn’t so much a conscious decision as it was a result of circumstance—a pleasantly warm afternoon with Onoda nestled against him, rambling about some annoying post he had seen online describing Love Hime as pastel trash—and therefore totally inevitable. At some point Onoda droops against him, half-asleep and entirely too delirious with arguments about the value of magical girls who bore their flat chests with rebellion, and they end up melting onto his bed, wound up comfortably snug in each other’s limbs. Onoda giggles, surely feverish with his hime-hime dreams by this point, and wriggles close, leaning forward just enough to press his mouth against his lips for a brief second. He blinks and screws up his face, but otherwise he barely feels himself react, his brain’s reflexive response to gross behavior like kissing dulled with Onoda’s inane droning and the sunlight acting like a heatlamp on his back. That, and maybe because it’s Onoda, whose smile gleams sugar-sweet when he sees that Midousuji doesn’t seem entirely adverse to the thought of germ exchange, which empowers him to do it again, and then again, and then yet again, until he gets a headbutt for his trouble. Do you not like kissing, Onoda asks rather belatedly as he rubs at the red spot on his head. I don’t hate it, says Midousuji as he casually leans his mouth against the new bruise, all while ignoring the prickles of gooseflesh rippling over his skin with every flutter of laughter that escapes Onoda’s mouth. 8. Hand to head Picking a fight with Weakizumi when he’s upset after losing yet another race at his hands is almost sinfully too easy, and it’s with absolutely no remorse that he sidles up to Sohoku after the awards ceremony to kick him when he’s down. Imaizumi sees him coming and meets him halfway, eyes shining bright with deliciously frustrated tears as he hisses, Just what is your problem—is this how your mom raised you, or is this just what happens when you grow up without one? He was not expecting that level of head-on aggression and tries to take a step backward, but Imaizumi has balled his fists up in Midousuji’s jersey to prevent his escape, and with an angry snarl he shoots back, scrabbling at the hands that are too close to his throat for comfort, Just who told you that? For a wild second he fears the way Imaizumi’s pupils suddenly dilate, swallowing the gray of his eyes into unearthly blackness, and a strange, choked hysteria cracks open his voice as he half-shrieks, Is your mom even dead, or would you even lie about that just so Onoda would pity you? Naruko and Teshima spring into action with sharp words, prying Imaizumi off of him and dragging him away like a petulant child, leaving him to stand in the middle of Sohoku’s tent like an unsteady, eroding pillar. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Onoda cautiously approaching him, and without a second thought he turns on his heel and runs. He’s been pulling at his hair and swallowing down incomprehensible, broken sounds for what feels like hours when Onoda finally finds him, and the first time Onoda tries to touch his shoulder, he lashes out violently, hits him hard enough that his glasses go tumbling to the concrete, and his body burns with anger and shame and disgust—with himself, with Imaizumi, with Onoda for having told them. Onoda gathers himself up and tries again, and this time Midousuji is too weak to resist when he tenderly cradles his pounding head against the yellow of his jersey, and when Midousuji can no longer scream he clings instead, blocking out the sharpness of the world around them with the soft warmth of Onoda’s body. 9. Hand to body For some godforsaken reason or other, the Love Hime feature-length film has been canceled, and Onoda is an absolute wreck over the news. He has no idea why it falls to him to try to cheer him up (because it’s not his fault that his host refuses to move from his spot on the floor after learning he’s not getting 1.5 hours of flat-chested justice this summer), especially when he’s probably the king of ruining someone’s day, but the house is empty and desolately quiet with Mrs. Onoda gone on some housewives’ association business, and Onoda looks so lifeless that even Midousuji feels kind of obligated to say something. It’ll be fine, it’s not like they would have produced any actual quality animation with their lousy budget is probably not the best thing to have said in retrospect, and Onoda makes some kind of gross deflated sound and covers his face with his arms. He expects a reaction, some kind of glimmer of the usual Onoda—the one who would say Midousuji-kun, you should expand your horizons, or That last battle with Arimaru-kun and Kotori-chan was beautifully animated!—but all he gets is frosty, sullen silence and then, at length, Leave me alone, Midousuji-kun. Midousuji is honestly so taken aback that he sits up straight in his spot on the floor next to him and stares at Onoda’s limp body, wondering how on earth Onoda thought this was acceptable behavior when he rode five hundred kilometers to come see him over the weekend, and as he glares at him he notices the sliver of skin over his hip, exposed by the hem of his shirt riding up his side. With a garbled, triumphant hiss, he sticks his (chronically cold) fingers into the slot of flesh and then slides them over Onoda’s ribs with great relish, skittering his blunt fingertips over pebbling skin, and Onoda screams as Midousuji rakes his hands over his body with a delighted cackle. Onoda melts into a mess of choked gasps and whimpers punctuated with the occasional shriek or howl, and while he resists at first, it doesn’t take much before he is crying with laughter, begging him to please stop, I c-can’t breathe even though Midousuji has no such desire, keen as he is on observing the way Onoda’s trim abdomen starts and stutters with every light pass of his hands over the gentle arcs of his ribs. At some point Onoda ends up draped over his lap, wheezing like a dying fish with his hands hooked into the pockets of Midousuji’s sweater, and in the ensuing silence broken only by Onoda’s labored breathing, his large hands come to a stop, suddenly ponderous, awkward things disconnected from the rest of himself. His palm curls around Onoda’s side and drinks in the vitality thrumming there, sending an electric pulse up the nerve endings of his skin, up his arm and into his brain, and when he catches Onoda staring wide-eyed up at him, they both look away immediately with heat staining their faces. 10. Mouth to chest They don’t have much time until their teammates come looking for them, but perhaps because of the heat, perhaps because of their mutual inexperience that tamps down on typically enthusiastic and adventurous teenage spirit, their hands and mouths trail musingly slow over sweat-sticky, sun-kissed and sunburned skin. Onoda makes any number of soft, wordless sounds as Midousuji gingerly bites at the skin below his ear, tasting the sharp tang of salt and the warmth of heated blood. Little hands, still gloved, cling shakily to his shoulders, pressing into the aching muscles of his back and neck, and the little pinpricks of pain make him dig his own fingers in a little deeper into Onoda’s hips, indenting the skin just enough that the faintest of gray-blue bruises will bloom there in a day. Midousuji-kun, Onoda whimpers, tilting his face upward like a flower seeking the sun, and Midousuji bends toward him almost reflexively, all while hating how fast his body has conditioned itself to respond to Onoda’s beck and call. The press of their lips is soft but the taste of it, the heat of it, stings the inside of his mouth and makes him immediately clamor for more like some disgusting masochist, and underneath him Onoda whines as he tries to keep up with the onslaught of tongue against his. It takes only a second more longer before Onoda’s knees give way, buckling under day-long exhaustion and unfamiliar sensation, and Midousuji deftly spins them, forcing Onoda to straddle his leg as he takes a seat on a forgotten cooler. Midousuji-kun, Onoda says again tentatively, shifting forward (dragging himself along Midousuji’s thigh) and dotting his fingertips along the pale stretch of bony chest before him. He leans down fractionally to press a butterfly’s kiss to a prominent collarbone, and the little shy slip of tongue that follows almost launches Midousuji into space with the way it sets his entire body alight. Akira, he breathes raggedly against the crown of Onoda’s head, swallowing hard when the tongue gets a little braver and begins to slide farther down his body. Akira-kun, Onoda repeats reverently with a smile that burns like a brand over his heart. 11. Hand to bits Are we doing this, Onoda asks shakily, and for a long moment they stare at each other in wide-eyed silence, because yes, last Midousuji checked, they were doing this, even if they had no idea what they were doing exactly. He licks his lips, glances away out of nervous habit, and fidgets with the flip-top lid of the atrociously pink lube Onoda had smuggled into the house as he tries to ignore how close Onoda’s naked body is to his own very naked body. What are they doing, he wonders wildly, allowing Onoda to pry the bottle away from him and trying not to watch too closely as he squirts out a dollop of the sweetly sakura-scented gel. Onoda curls his palm in on itself a few times and then reaches down with jerky movements toward Midousuji’s still-soft member. U-Um, let me know if this feels weird o-or anything, Akira-kun, Onoda mumbles, his face red like heatstroke as he tentatively loops his trembling fingers around Midousuji, who nearly jumps off the bed at the first cold press against slowly-warming skin. Onoda jumps and immediately exclaims an apology, and Midousuji shakes his head, grabs at his wrist to keep it there, and tells him to continue even though he can’t bring himself to touch Onoda in the same way, too caught up as he is with this strange heady mix of feelings both inside and out of his body. His body starts to react, slowly and then more surely, to Onoda’s surprisingly deft little fingers, and when he thinks to use both hands—gripping both the upper and lower halves of Midousuji’s cock in his slippery fists—the downward rush of blood steals his breath away and thankfully robs him of the ability to feel embarrassment at Onoda’s awed Wow, Akira-kun, y-you’re really big down here! Not a sound escapes him as Onoda goes on to experimentation, pulling at different angles, using more or less of his wrist, playing with the head, all while murmuring nonsensical phrases of encouragement (and probably more than one whispered hime hime) both to himself and to Midousuji. In between his uneven, staggering breaths, Midousuji registers Onoda’s own cock stiffening against his belly, swaying gently with every movement of his hands and arms, and he swallows down a cringe. He makes some kind of vague attempt at touching Onoda in return—his hand brushes Onoda’s thigh, and his fingertips brush across the delicate skin of his flushed cock, earning him a soft little Ah for his trouble—but his brain aborts all thought immediately thereafter, because for some reason his entire body winds itself tight like a spring, and the heat slowly gathering in his belly intensifies and spikes and now he is shaking like a leaf in a blustery winter wind while horrific, desperate sounds escape his mouth, and even Onoda looks surprised at the bursts of come that spill out onto his hard-working hands. It takes yet another long moment before either of them realizes what has just happened, and when Onoda attempts to say something conciliatory (It’s okay, Akira-kun, I read online that sometimes you’re a little sensitive during your first time—), Midousuji finally remembers to breathe and kicks him off the bed with a sharp screech of agonized embarrassment. 12. Bits to bits Onoda was the one who had shyly (and yet so brazenly) suggested it, so it would make Midousuji’s job and life so much easier if he didn’t struggle nearly as much, especially when a sharp blade was involved. Stop wriggling around, he reprimands, sticking the razor under the running tap with a tsk, a clump of black falling away into the basin below, do you want me to cut it off accidentally? S-Sorry, it’s just—it feels really weird, mumbles Onoda, who twitches again under the ginger press of the razor against his lathered skin, and to distract him Midousuji bites gently into his neck while he drags the blade through the next coarse patch of hair. He rinses the razor under the water, sucks a little harder into the softness of a pale shoulder, and Onoda whimpers as a hard edge passes right next to his slowly-stiffening member. Almost done, Midousuji says in a deadpan that hardly eases Onoda’s nerves, especially when he calmly reaches around and takes Onoda’s dick in his hand, squeezing it while maneuvering the razor with aplomb around to the other side of yet-untamed hair, and this time Onoda’s jittering knees splay completely open, unashamed as the day he was born. He is entirely unprepared for Onoda lewdly panting out Hurry, please, Akira- kun, and the way he pushes back insistently against Midousuji’s long-neglected cock makes him drop the razor in the water, and with a growl he fishes it back up and punishes Onoda with a rough grope for the momentary distraction. Onoda’s head lolls feverishly on the curve of his shoulder as he tries to shave him with as much speed and precision as he can manage with slightly-shaky hands, and as soon as he sets down the blade after the last stroke Onoda swivels around and practically climbs up his body, fusing their mouths together with earnest greediness. His cock slides up against painfully smooth skin as Onoda rocks their hips together, and he can’t help the moan that squeezes out of his throat at the sensation of his cock slipping with a staccato press over Onoda’s. Somebody is groaning out loud—he thinks it’s Onoda, but it’s honestly hard to tell anymore what his mouth is doing with everything is going on at the junction of their bodies farther down—and the sound reverberates through the tile of the bathroom, embarrassingly loud enough that Midousuji feels compelled to grab handfuls of pert bottom to speed things along and finish it before he loses his nerve. Small, swelteringly hot palms encircle their cocks, pressing them close and coaxing them in a slide up along each other with delicious wet softness that sends warning shots firing all throughout Midousuji’s brain. Onoda breathes out sharply, head tossed back and exposing the luscious line of his throat that Midousuji no longer feels any hesitance in clamping his teeth into, and together with Onoda’s whistling, breathy moan he feels himself begin to tighten dangerously all too soon, but at least this time Onoda is teetering over the edge along with him. Desperation unbalances the usually steady pace of Onoda’s hands and hips, and the last few strokes for both of them are uneven and jarring, the orgasm jolting out of Midousuji like a full-body impact while Onoda arches beautifully with an echoing cry, and together their come paints stripes that intermingle with the remaining streaks of foam still lingering on their bodies. Afterward, while they sit curled up in the bath, Onoda giggles and pets himself, marveling at his incredible smoothness, while Midousuji reclines behind him, clutching a rubber ducky to his chest while sighing heavily up at the ceiling in contemplation of his recent decisions in life. End Notes I couldn't bring myself to tag "premature ejaculation" for midou's sake : l (Am I working on Lizard Brain? WHO KNOOOWWWSS) Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!