Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2181762.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      月刊少女野崎くん_|_Gekkan_Shoujo_Nozaki-kun
  Relationship:
      Mikoshiba_Mikoto/Nozaki_Umetarou
  Character:
      Nozaki_Umetarou, Mikoshiba_Mikoto
  Additional Tags:
      Boys_in_Skirts, Boys_Kissing, Inline_with_canon, Established
      Relationship, Blow_Jobs, Blushing, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn
      Without_Plot
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-08-24 Words: 4599
****** Model ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Mikoshiba’s flushed all over his face, the blush bleeding down over
     the edge of collarbone Nozaki can see above the edge of the sailor
     uniform, but that’s not really the important part right now."
     Mikoshiba models an outfit for Nozaki, and they both get distracted.
Nozaki doesn’t look up right away when Mikoshiba comes back. He can hear the
other boy’s footsteps, shuffling against the floor like he can’t quite figure
out how to hold still, louder even than the too-fast sound of his breathing in
the space. But Nozaki’s finishing a sketch, getting the outlines he needs down
on the paper, and he doesn’t want to lose his place. Mikoshiba is quiet for a
moment, even though Nozaki can hear him open his mouth twice, three times
before closing it again and rethinking whatever he’s going to say. Finally the
shape Nozaki needs is in front of him, and he’s letting his hand relax and
looking up just as Mikoshiba finally says “Nozaki?” with his voice faint and
high, as if he’s just said something truly embarrassing.
The collar fits the way it’s supposed to. That’s the most important part.
Nozaki lets out a breath of relief before he blinks and takes in the entire
outfit. Mikoshiba’s flushed all over his face, the blush bleeding down over the
edge of collarbone Nozaki can see above the edge of the sailor uniform, but
that’s not really the important part right now. His shoulders do fit into the
lines of the shirt, condense into the narrow lines like Nozaki’s never will,
and the fall of the fabric against his waist is exactly the way it should fit.
Even the chest isn’t that bad, only a little extra fabric leaving it too loose;
the sizing was just about right, then, Nozaki considers.
There’s something wrong with the skirt, though. It’s fitting correctly, Nozaki
can see that it’s settled at the right point of Mikoshiba’s hips and just far
enough down his thighs to be ostensibly decent while still casually suggestive.
It’s perfect, really, except that the line looks wrong, the pleats aren’t
falling exactly the way they should.
Nozaki doesn’t realize he’s squinting in consideration until Mikoshiba’s hands
come into his view to nervously smooth the fabric against his legs. “Nozaki?”
That’s even more plaintive than before. Nozaki can see the shake in the other
boy’s hands as they attempt a useless adjustment of the fabric.
“The skirt’s not right,” Nozaki says without looking up. “But it fits, I don’t
understand what’s wrong.”
Mikoshiba’s hands are still lingering at his hips. It’s perfect, really; Nozaki
makes a note of the position of his wrists, the shyness in the angle of his
fingers as he makes idle fists in the fabric. Then he shifts his weight to one
foot, sways to the side so the skirt changes its angle, and Nozaki holds up a
stalling hand.
“Stop.” Mikoshiba jerks back to the way he was, the skirt is wrong again, and
Nozaki frowns. “No. Whatever you just did. Do that again, and don’t move this
time.”
“W-what?” Mikoshiba makes a soft noise, a mewl of confusion, but after a moment
he shifts his weight again, angles his hip out sideways, and Nozaki hums in
satisfaction.
“Perfect. Stay right there.”
He looks back down at his paper, picks his pen back up. With the outline in
front of him it’s easy to put on the extra lines to turn the generic dress into
a sailor uniform, to capture the squared-off form of the collar and the way the
fabric rumples in Mikoshiba’s unconscious fists against the sides. The whole
shape shifts sideways but that looks better, more girlish and more fitting than
Mikoshiba’s initial awkward stance; the way his body is angled, now, he looks
shy, vulnerable in a way Nozaki can’t entirely describe but he is more than
capable of copying.
He’s almost done with the shape when he looks up at Mikoshiba’s face again. The
redhead has his chin dipped down, the fall of his hair casting his features
into streaked shadows, and his blush has faded somewhat though not entirely.
He’s pushing at the floor with his toes, dragging idle pressure over the
surface, and for a minute Nozaki is caught by that motion, the nervous energy
in the angle of Mikoshiba’s ankle and foot, before he realizes that his
characters will have shoes on, that this has no relevance to what he’s working
on and he should look back at what he’s doing.
He doesn’t. His hand goes still just over the surface of his paper, his fingers
relax against the pencil across his palm, and his eyes fix and linger at the
shift of tendons over the top of Mikoshiba’s foot, the way he can see the
movement wind all the way up into the other boy’s calf and to his knee. Those
legs aren’t a girl’s, they have a level of definition Nozaki knows won’t work
for the heroine he’s working on, but for a moment he has a pang of
disappointment that he won’t be able to work this unthought beauty into the
pages of his draft.
“Nozaki?”
He blinks his eyes back into focus, looks up. Mikoshiba is watching him, his
mouth parted around the question and his cheeks pale as he forgets to blush.
The color comes back as soon as Nozaki meets his eyes, even before the redhead
jerks his chin away and down to stare at the floor under his feet. “Do you
still want me like this?”
“Yeah,” Nozaki says, blinking hard to clear his mind and refocus his thoughts.
“Yeah. Stay right there.” He sets the pad of paper aside, stands from the bed
so he can come forward to stand in front of Mikoshiba. “Let this go.” His
fingers fit around Mikoshiba’s wrists, draw the other boy’s unresisting arms up
as he lets his hold on the skirt go. Mikoshiba’s blushing again, Nozaki can see
it in his periphery without even looking up, but he lets Nozaki fit his arms
together, cross his forearms one atop the other and tuck his hand into the
crook of his elbow. It’s a bit stiff, even when Nozaki lets go, but it’s close
enough to start with.
Nozaki comes down to a knee, reaches out to grab at Mikoshiba’s shifting foot.
The redhead makes a sound over him, a gasp of what most likely surprise, and
wobbles on his point of balance until Nozaki reaches up and rests his hand at
Mikoshiba’s hip to push him back to equilibrium.
“Just put your foot down,” he instructs, drawing Mikoshiba’s foot flat to the
floor. “But keep your weight to one side.”
“What?” Mikoshiba puts his foot down, but no sooner has his heel hit the floor
than he’s shifting sideways, rocking back into a more normal balanced posture.
“What are you --”
“No.” Nozaki reaches up with his other hand, braces Mikoshiba’s hips between
both hands. When he looks up the redhead is staring at him, his eyes wide and
darker than they usually look. His arms are still in place, though there’s some
tension at his fingers, like he’s squeezing at his arms without thinking. “Keep
both feet on the ground but shift sideways.” He looks back down at the skirt in
front of him, at the pale outline of his fingers against the blue fabric. When
he pushes Mikoshiba tilts but doesn’t angle himself like he did at first; he
nearly falls before he lets his hands go, throws one hand out to catch himself
reflexively at Nozaki’s shoulder.
“Move your center of balance,” Nozaki says, looking up at Mikoshiba’s face with
the vague idea that eye contact will make his point better than words can. The
other boy is staring at him with his mouth soft with confusion, his eyes so
dark he looks like he might be on the verge of tears; when Nozaki blinks at him
Mikoshiba’s teeth catch at his lower lip, unconsciously pull the softness into
tension.
“Relax,” Nozaki says without looking away, pushes at Mikoshiba’s hips again.
But it’s even harder this time, Mikoshiba’s leaning away from him in a strange
way like he wasn’t before, and the other boy is starting to flush darker, color
creeping higher across his cheeks in a way Nozaki recognizes as telling though
he can’t quite make out what’s being said.
He stops trying to push the redhead into position, blinks hard and waits for
the thought to come into focus. “Mikorin?”
Mikoshiba lets his lips go, tips his head down so far his chin nearly touches
his collarbone and hunches his shoulder in as if he’s trying to hide from
Nozaki’s gaze. The fingers at Nozaki’s shoulder pull back, catch at the bottom
of the skirt and drag the fabric taut as if Mikoshiba is trying to buy himself
a few extra inches of length. He’s crimson now even though Nozaki still has no
idea why, the arm angled down in front of him is tense like Mikoshiba is doing
his level best to hide behind the minimal cover. Nozaki’s gaze slides down the
other boy’s shoulder, the awkward twist of his elbow and the sharp
determination in his wrist, and as it turns out that his arm
really isn’t enough to hide behind. The fabric of the skirt is catching against
the resistance of the other boy’s hardening length, it’s clear even through the
minimal cover of the cloth and the halfhearted disguise of his arm.
“Oh.” Nozaki lets one of his hands go, sets his fingers against Mikoshiba’s
knee and slides his fingers up the outside of the other boy’s leg, high under
the fabric of the skirt so he can confirm that there’s nothing but skin
underneath the uniform. “You didn’t put boxers back on?”
“They didn’t fit under the shirt,” Mikoshiba wails, like the words are slipping
from him against his will. “I thought it would be fine.”
Nozaki doesn’t lift his eyes back up to Mikoshiba’s face. He can feel how hot
the redhead’s skin is flushing, he doesn’t need to look up to get confirmation
of the other’s embarrassment, and besides he’s a lot more interested in what’s
right in front of him.
He lets his other hand go, tugs Mikoshiba’s hand free so he can pin the other
boy’s wrist to the wall. That leaves him free to push the fall of the skirt up
higher on Mikoshiba’s hips, collect the fabric in a loose hold to reveal pink-
flushed skin. There’s more fabric than he expected, the pleats are heavier than
they look, and after a moment he lets Mikoshiba’s wrist go so he can take two
hands to push the fabric up and out of the way. Mikoshiba doesn’t try to stop
him, though he makes a funny little gasping sound as the skirt comes up and
stops offering even minimal cover to him. Nozaki’s not sure if that’s
embarrassment or interest, maybe some combination of the two, and it doesn’t
make much difference, as long as Mikoshiba’s not moving to stop him. His hands
are occupied but his mouth is free, and Mikoshiba is flushed hard in front of
him, and it seems perfectly reasonable to come up higher on his knees and lean
in to touch his tongue to the head of the other boy’s cock.
Nozaki can feel Mikoshiba’s reaction, can feel the twitch of response under his
tongue and the tremor of shocked sensation that runs through the other boy
under his hands. There’s another gasp over his head, a little more strangled
around tension in the redhead’s throat, and Mikoshiba’s hand lands on Nozaki’s
shoulder again, his fingers drawing tight to steady himself.
“Nozaki.” The name is drawn shaky and warm, high at the back of Mikoshiba’s
mouth so Nozaki can hear the way the sound reverberates off the inside of his
mouth. “What -- what are you doing?”
“Licking you,” Nozaki says, with absolute truth. He comes in closer, opens his
mouth so he can fit his lips around Mikoshiba’s length, can feel the
involuntary jerk as the other boy rocks into the contact before he can resist
the impulse. When he licks over Mikoshiba again the other boy chokes on another
breath, is still whimpering when Nozaki pulls away. “Blowing you, I guess.”
Mikoshiba whines, sounding so pained Nozaki glances up to check his expression.
The redhead’s looking down at him, and he sounds worried but his eyes are
dilated nearly black, Nozaki can see the dark shocked pleasure in his
expression even under the shadow of his hair and the flush still clinging to
his skin. He comes back in again without looking away; it’s a little harder
when he can’t see what he’s doing, but Mikoshiba’s mouth comes open around a
hiss of reaction even when Nozaki’s lips just bump against him, and when the
other boy gets his mouth back around him he can see the focus slide out of
Mikoshiba’s eyes as the heat of pleasure eclipses the burn of embarrassment.
The angle is a little strained; it’s hard for Nozaki to keep his eyes up and
his chin down, or at least far enough down that he can slide his mouth down and
take Mikoshiba farther into his mouth. But he doesn’t want to look away from
the glazed warmth under Mikoshiba’s eyes, he’s caught by the relaxation in the
other boy’s mouth and the tension in his throat. His hands are curling tighter
against the fabric under his fingers, the back of his tongue is catching
faintly bitter from the taste of Mikoshiba on his lips. When he comes in
experimentally farther and slides down another half-inch, Mikoshiba groans, low
and weirdly resonant in the unfamiliar register, and the sound burns through
Nozaki’s blood so hot he can feel the wave spreading out to his fingers, down
his spine and against his skin until it collects into a knot of want low in his
stomach.
He pulls back, not even thinking of the abruptness of the movement until he
sees Mikoshiba flinch, hears the other boy take a sharp startled breath at the
loss of sensation. Nozaki’s already getting to his feet, letting the skirt go
in favor of pushing up at the bottom edge of the loose shirt so he can curl his
fingers against the flutter of adrenaline in Mikoshiba’s stomach.
“Why did you stop?” Mikoshiba asks. He looks even warmer from this angle,
Nozaki can see the flutter of his eyelashes when he blinks and the reflexive
movement of his tongue against his lower lip. He intends to answer, to offer an
explanation and a suggestion at once, but that motion derails his intention
into something more immediate, draws him in so he can press his mouth against
the damp heat of Mikoshiba’s. The other boy whines in surprise but his eyes
shut instinctively, his hand comes sideways across Nozaki’s shoulder to cling
to the other’s neck, and for a minute Nozaki sets aside response in favor of
tasting the softness of Mikoshiba’s lips under his tongue. He can feel
Mikoshiba shaking under his fingers, can feel how fast the other boy is
breathing against his lips; the awareness catches in his throat, pulls his own
inhales fast and breathless before he pulls back and blinks his gaze back into
focus. Mikoshiba’s eyes are still shut, he’s still panting against Nozaki’s
neck, and when Nozaki pulls at the other boy’s hips he stumbles forward in
closer before he’s opened his eyes to look up. Nozaki takes a step backward
without looking, trusting his memory to keep them both from falling.
“Where --?” Mikoshiba asks, blinking hard as if his eyes won’t come into focus.
He’s nearly stumbling, he’s forgotten to blush and forgotten to bite at his lip
so he’s just warm with pleasure instead of panic, his mouth is still so close
it’s hard for Nozaki to keep his attention on the movement of his feet.
“Bed,” he says in immediate answer. His next step bumps against the frame,
which is good because self-awareness is starting to come back into Mikoshiba’s
body, the other boy is starting to go tense with awkwardness before Nozaki
pulls him sideways and gently urges him down over the sheets. That helps,
Nozaki can feel the other boy going pliant and willing under his touch again,
warm with enough anticipation that even Nozaki straightening so he can reach
for the drawer in the bedside table isn’t enough to entirely distract him.
It is enough of a delay that when Nozaki comes back with the bottle he was
reaching for Mikoshiba’s pulling at the bottom edge of the uniform shirt,
working the fabric unconsciously between his fingers as his skin starts to go
pink again.
“Nozaki.” Mikoshiba’s looking down at the pattern of the shirt, tugging like
he’s not sure if he wants to take it off or keep it on. “Do you want me to take
this off?”
Nozaki rocks back on his heels to consider. Mikoshiba goes darker red under his
gaze, which for once makes sense; his mouth is flushed dark from the kissing
and the uniform is rumpled up around his hips, baring nearly all of his legs
and doing even less to cover his erection now than it was originally. He looks
like he’s been doing exactly what he has been doing; self-consciousness makes
sense, Nozaki supposes.
Nozaki reaches out to catch the bottom edge of the shirt, pushes it up higher
on Mikoshiba’s stomach. The other boy shudders against his touch, Nozaki
watches the reaction ripple under his skin, and there’s something unexpectedly
charming about the way the uniform looks caught high on his chest, the way the
skirt is clinging at his hips.
“No,” Nozaki says. He lets Mikoshiba’s shirt go, leaves it rucked up high over
the other boy’s body so he can replace his fingers against thigh and crumple
the blue pleats up and out of the way. Mikoshiba whimpers again when the skirt
comes up -- when Nozaki looks up the redhead has his hand up over his face,
though it’s doing nothing at all to hide his glowing cheeks. But he’s not
pushing Nozaki away, not voicing any sort of coherent protest, and he’s still
hard, still faintly sticky from the wet of Nozaki’s mouth when the other boy
touches his fingers experimentally against him.
A tremor runs through Mikoshiba’s body, another gasping whine spills from his
throat, and when he speaks again the words are high and stretched tight. “But
it’ll get dirty.”
Nozaki wraps his fingers around Mikoshiba’s length, slowly drags his hand up
while watching the other’s reaction quiver under the taut line of his stomach.
“That’s okay.” When he slides his thumb up over the head Mikoshiba offers a
groan, rocks up off the bed to push against Nozaki’s hand. “I’ll wash it.”
Mikoshiba takes a breath, lets it out. It shakes until it sounds like a laugh,
and when Nozaki glances back up the redhead’s mouth is shaping into a smile
under the cover of his wrist. That makes Nozaki smile too, the expression
curving across his face without any thought at all. He strokes over Mikoshiba
once more, drags the half-formed expression apart into a groan so he can let go
and leave the other boy trembling on the bed while he opens the bottle and
spreads slippery liquid over his fingers.
Mikoshiba doesn’t replace Nozaki’s hold with his own hand; he never does,
unless Nozaki asks him to directly. Nozaki’s not sure if that’s from shyness or
preference or both, and he hasn’t yet asked; it doesn’t make a difference,
except that he can watch the tension building under Mikoshiba’s skin and
drawing tight in his legs in the delay before he tosses the bottle onto the
floor and reaches out to lay his hand against the other boy’s hip. Mikoshiba
arches up off the mattress, rocks his skin in harder against Nozaki’s hand, and
Nozaki bumps the other boy’s knee with his elbow, angles Mikoshiba’s legs out
wider so he can fit his hand between them. Mikoshiba whimpers, goes even redder
under the cover of his hand, but he does shift his weight farther out, the
motion easy with instinct in contrast to his awkward resistance earlier. It’s
easy to fit together when Mikoshiba doesn’t think about it, Nozaki considers as
he touches against the other boy’s entrance. Mikoshiba jerks, takes a sharp
breath of almost-panic like he always does, but Nozaki is ready for that, is
expecting that from experience if not intuition. He lets his other hand come
sideways, replaces his gentle hold on Mikoshiba’s length, and the redhead sighs
and relaxes even before Nozaki has moved his grip at all.
It’s easy to work him open once Nozaki’s started. The problem is just before,
when Mikoshiba knows what’s coming and hasn’t yet entirely let go of his self-
conscious blush. But once Nozaki has a hold on him and is stroking steady
friction up against his length the redhead’s breathing smoothes into a rhythm
in time with Nozaki’s movements, his hand over his face slides sideways and
away, and the next time Nozaki looks up he can see Mikoshiba’s face. His eyes
are shut, his mouth is open around the steady pace of his breathing, and the
red under his skin is higher, paler and warm instead of the blistering heat of
before. All his heat is coalescing around and under Nozaki’s fingers; it’s
pulling all Nozaki’s attention down to his hands, to the points of connection
with Mikoshiba’s skin.
He doesn’t realize his clothes are still entirely on and remarkably unrumpled
until he’s letting his hold go, sliding his fingers free so he can shift his
position. It takes a moment to get his jeans open and the fabric pushed far
enough aside; by the time he leans back in to fit his hips between Mikoshiba’s
legs instead of his hand the other boy is going red again, his nerves showing
in the resumed set of teeth against his lip. That’s okay; Nozaki’s close
enough, now, that he can coax Mikoshiba’s hold free by pressing his mouth
against the other’s boy’s, can feel the sigh of calm as Mikoshiba relaxes again
even before he’s shifted his weight onto an elbow so he can wrap his fingers
back around the redhead’s length. That gets a whine, another upward shift as
Mikoshiba rocks up off the mattress into the friction. Nozaki angles his hips
forward to line himself up, slides his hand up slowly, and while Mikoshiba is
gasping a breath he thrusts forward to push into the other boy.
Mikoshiba moans, faint and breathy in the back of his mouth, but Nozaki barely
hears the sound for the rush of his heartbeat in his ears and the huff of
breath that drags out of him in involuntary reaction. Mikoshiba is warm and
shaking under him, he can feel the tremors of sensation quivering up the other
boy’s thighs and hips and around him in little bursts of reaction, and for a
moment he goes still, his mouth forgotten just against Mikoshiba’s and his
fingers tight but unmoving on the other boy’s length.
“Mikorin,” he says, and it comes out low and humming in his throat with fervor
he didn’t intend. Mikoshiba whimpers again, tips his head up to press his mouth
to Nozaki’s in a deliberate kiss, and when Nozaki pulls back far enough to see
the redhead’s expression there’s no embarrassment on his face at all, just the
flushed pink of pleasure dragging his gaze hazy and unfocused. Nozaki slides
his hand up slowly, just to watch Mikoshiba’s eyes shut and his mouth come open
a little wider on a breath of reaction, and when he pulls back an inch to
thrust back in the other boy’s head drops to the side, so the light catches his
earring and skims off the tension in his throat. Nozaki tips his head down,
lets his mouth settle against the soft skin just under Mikoshiba’s ear, and
when he starts to move with true deliberation he can feel the other boy’s pulse
thudding under his lips.
It’s hard to keep a pattern. Coordinating his own movements would be difficult
even all alone without the distraction of Mikoshiba shifting to arch in closer
or falling back breathless to the mattress. And there’s Nozaki’s own breathing
coming too fast, uncontrolled and stuttering until it’s hard to even remember
what he’s doing for the flicker of heat under his skin. He loses track more
than once, lets the flushing heat start to swamp him only to have Mikoshiba
gasp “Nozaki” in a tone as much a plea as a protest so Nozaki realizes his hand
has stalled. Finally he gets it right, falls into a rhythm between the slide of
his grip up over the other boy’s length and his own thrusts into him; he’s just
starting to let the coordination slide into unthought instinct, just letting
the rising wave of pleasure surge higher in his blood, when Mikoshiba’s hands
come up. One closes hard on the bottom edge of Nozaki’s shirt, one clutches at
Nozaki’s shoulder, and Mikoshiba is pulling away from the catch of lips at his
skin, curling in closer until his forehead hits Nozaki’s collarbone and his
choked gasp of air comes hard against Nozaki’s chest.
“Mikorin,” Nozaki says again, and it’s all in pieces now, he can feel the sound
of the other boy’s nickname resonate through his entire body. Mikoshiba doesn’t
respond for a moment, doesn’t even let his breath go; then he groans, the
reaction dragging involuntary and sincere all up his throat, and Nozaki can
feel the tremor that ripples through him as he comes.
Nozaki keeps his newfound rhythm until Mikoshiba has collapsed back to the bed,
until the other boy has blinked his eyes back into focus and is starting to
flush with embarrassment this time. Then he lets his hold go, drags his sticky
fingers hastily over the skirt -- it’ll have to be washed anyway -- so he can
shift his hold to Mikoshiba’s shoulder, hold him steady while he lets the heat
surging into his blood drive his movements. His mouth fits in against
Mikoshiba’s neck, his fingers find out a handhold on the other boy’s shoulder,
and the fingers pulling at his shirt have just let go, just started to push
tentatively up and under to bare skin, when Nozaki’s breathing catches, and his
focus vanishes, and everything goes white and warm.
Nozaki lets the tension in his arm holding himself up go before the last
shudders of pleasure have quite gone, so he falls heavy and satisfied against
the other boy’s support. He can feel Mikoshiba still radiating warmth under
him, the burn of the redhead’s skin clear even through the fabric of the
uniform.
Mikoshiba clears his throat. When he speaks again his voice is going shrill
enough that Nozaki doesn’t have to look up to know how red he is. “Is the
uniform okay, then?”
“Yeah.” Nozaki doesn’t lift his head, so the words are muffled against
Mikoshiba’s shoulder. “Yeah, it was just what I needed.”
“Do you need more reference?” Mikoshiba asks. The sound comes out purring, a
suggestion as much as the fingers trailing up into Nozaki’s hair. Nozaki waits,
doesn’t move and doesn’t answer until he can feel the first edge of awareness
hit, the horror of self-awareness tightening Mikoshiba’s hand against his neck.
“Yeah.” There’s no inflection in the word at all, but he’s smiling where
Mikoshiba can feel if not see it. After a moment he lets his hand trail down
the fall of fabric, slide up under Mikoshiba’s shirt to settle steadying
against the other boy’s waist. “I think I might.”
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