Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3263954.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      弱虫ペダル_|_Yowamushi_Pedal
  Relationship:
      Ishigaki_Koutarou/Midousuji_Akira
  Additional Tags:
      Humiliation, Dom/sub, Oral_Sex, Orgasm_Denial, dick_stepping
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-01-31 Words: 1895
****** Put Your Venom in Me ******
by autoeuphoric_(FreezingRayne)
Summary
     “Gross,” Midousuji repeats, but his fingers have snarled tighter than
     ever in Ishigaki’s hair, the bloom of arousal unexpectedly
     disorienting. Of course Ishigaki is thinking about him--he should be.
     Midousuji and the finish line should be the only things he sees.
Notes
     I wasn't going to post this until later this week, but then I
     realized what day it was.
     Nothing like the gift of an Ishigaki on his knees. Happy birthday,
     you kimo son of a bitch.
     Thanks to ouroboros for the beta!
See the end of the work for more notes
Midousuji Akira knows his team as well as they know themselves. Better, since
he doesn’t have to wade through layers of self-deception and optimism bias, or
feel the adrenaline rushes and hits of dopamine that cloud their views of
themselves. He just has to feel his own, and those he’s learned to navigate.
Midousuji knows his team, but he knows himself even better.
He recognizes, for instance, the buoyant satisfaction of being obeyed, the team
acting as extensions of his arms and legs. The low, bubbling pleasure of
finding the chink in a carapace and digging until he has his fingers in the
soft organs underneath. He knows that he likes this feeling too much, sometimes
to his detriment. If Midousuji has a flaw, it’s that he is too good at what he
does; he can’t see the forest for the joy of chopping down trees.
He makes the mistake most often with Kyoto Fushimi’s so-called captain.
Ishigaki is different from the rest of the team—he pushes back harder and he
isn’t an idiot. Infinitely gross, but not stupid. All the rest of them need is
the assurance of victory and the reinforcement of their own senses of injured
superiority. Small fry, all of them.
Ishigaki is a bit more challenging. A bit.
“Ishigaki-kun, stay a minute?” Midousuji gives the phrase inflection even
though they both know it isn’t a request.
Ishigaki’s hair is thick with sweat and the veins stand out in his arms and
calves from the exertion of training. He’s just so gross.
“Ishigaki-kun.” Midousuji stretches his arms out across the back of the club
room sofa. “I’m the Ace, right?” Ishigaki’s throat bobs like he’s trying to
swallow a plate of eels that isn’t quite dead yet, but he nods.
“You’re the captain, but I’m the Ace.” Midousuji feigns thoughtfulness, as
though he hadn’t planned this whole conversation beforehand. “In a way that
makes me higher than a king, right?”
Ishigaki blinks a couple times. “What?”
“In cards, the ace is the highest in the deck.”
“Not always,” Ishigaki says, swallowing, “In some games it’s the lowest card.”
“Not in this game. In this game, the ace towers over the rest of the faces.”
“What’s your point, Midousuji-kun?”
“The point is that you should be doing what I say.”
It’s enormously disrespectful to speak to his senpai this way and they both
know it. Ishigaki looks almost like he’s been pushed too far, but he is also
swaying on his feet in exhaustion.
“I am—I’m always doing what you say. I told you I would, didn’t I?”
He’s turning red, which could just be an anger-flush, but his breathing has
gone shallow. Midousuji can’t help chuckling into his palm. Phase one complete.
On to phase two.
“Hmm? That’s not what I’ve seen.” Midousuji stands up, presses the advantage of
his height as he forces Ishigaki back toward the corner of the room. “I heard
you’ve been letting the small fry out early on days I’m not around.”
“The—.” Ishigaki’s voice is pitched deeper that before. “The schedule is too
strict, they need rest—.”
“The schedule is fine. It’s them that need to be changed if they can’t keep
up.”
They hit the corner and Ishigaki tenses, scrabbling briefly at the wall like he
doesn't know what it is.
He’s propped up against the wall, breaths shaking. “Midousuji, you can’t—.”
“Midousuji-kun.”
Ishigaki winces. “Midousuji-kun. You push them too…too hard.”
Midousuji snatches Ishigaki’s chin and holds it still, stops his mouth from
making noise. “The schedule is fine, Ishigaki-kun. I wrote it. Didn’t I tell
you that if you do what I say everything will be fine? Everything will be
great?”
Ishigaki’s breath is wet and warm on Midousuji’s palm. Gross. And he’s making
such a gross face, too, This is the difference between him and the rest;
shallow breaths, pink flush, dilated pupils. All obvious signs of arousal.
Midousuji doesn’t know if it’s the orders or the threat of violence. Maybe it’s
the struggle between his (very few) leadership qualities and his desire to
obey.
He lets him go and Ishigaki slides down the wall and onto his knees, shaking.
“What’s wrong, Ishigaki-kun?”
“N-Nothing. Just a little dizzy.”
Midousuji knows what’s wrong. The exhaustion and dehydration mingling with the
sudden adrenaline rush of arousal. His erection is shamefully obvious in his
cycling pants and Midousuji sees no point in pretending it isn’t there. “Wow,
Ishigaki, you are really, really gross.” He nudges the toe of his shoe against
it.
He expects it to end here. Ishigaki will panic, apologize for questioning
Midousuji’s training regime, and leave as fast as he can. He’ll be too ashamed
to ever speak of it again.
Instead he groans and spreads his legs a little further, knees widening to form
a V. Without thinking Midousuji grinds his foot down harder. Ishigaki moans,
short and sharp.
“You’re really turned on.” Midousuji moves his foot slowly and Ishigaki’s mouth
drops open. He’s panting, hair stuck to his slick forehead. His eyes are
impossibly dark, ferociously hungry.
“So are you.”
That jars Midousuji for a moment, because Ishigaki is right, and he hadn’t even
noticed. Physical lust feels so similar to the rush of seeing Ishigaki kneeling
in front of him that it’s difficult to piece them apart.
“It’s your fault,” he tells Ishigaki steadily. But now that he’s noticed the
itching compulsion it’s hard to ignore. No matter how strong your will, bodies
are troublesome—they require food and sleep and sexual release.
He hesitates for a fraction of a second, before digging his fingers into
Ishigaki’s sweaty hair. “You should fix it, Ishigaki-kun.”
Ishigaki’s throat bobs visibly and his whole body shudders. With what? Disgust,
desire? It bothers Midousuji that he can’t tell.
“You want me to..?”
Midousuji takes a calculated risk. He tightens his fingers in Ishigaki’s hair,
moves his foot in a slow circle. “You want to.”
Ishigaki stares at him, open-mouthed, and then he’s grinding up against his
foot, moaning as Midousuji pushes down. He fumbles with the waistband of
Midousuji’s cycling pants. They’re tight and tacky with sweat, but Ishigaki
forces them down around Midousuji thighs, freeing his cock. The club room isn’t
cold, but it feels like it to skin that has been trapped in spandex for hours.
Again, Midousuji is surprised. He hadn’t foreseen this as a possible outcome,
at least not until a minute ago. He’s still expecting Ishigaki to balk at the
blatant suggestion of sucking off an underclassmen after practice. Although…
“Have you done this before, Ishigaki-kun?” Midousuji asks. “Do you do it all
the time?”
Slowly, Ishigaki shakes his head, attention still captured, like now that this
particular section of Midousuji’s anatomy has been revealed, he can’t focus on
anything else. “Just thought about it a lot.”
“Gross.”
Ishigaki is close enough for his shaky breaths to touch Midousuji. “Yeah,
maybe.” His eyes flick upward, shadowed down to dark holes. “I...I think about
you, Midousuji-kun. Sometimes.”
“Gross,” Midousuji repeats, but his fingers have snarled tighter than ever in
Ishigaki’s hair, the bloom of arousal unexpectedly disorienting. Of course
Ishigaki is thinking about him--he should be. Midousuji and the finish line
should be the only things he sees.
Ishigaki’s throat bobs, the whole architecture of his neck pulled tight. “What
do you think about, Midousuji-kun?” he asks, barely more than a whisper.
“Not you,” Midousuji says, quickly enough that Ishigaki will think he’s lying,
even though he isn’t.
Ishigaki doesn’t take the opening to mock him, though, just pushes forward and
laps at the head of Midousuji’s cock, tongue flat and coated in saliva. It
doesn’t seem possible that his mouth could be so hot or soft, and Midousuji can
feel his heartbeat rising and his breaths shortening, pulse pounding in his
neck and wrists. He has both hands in Ishigaki’s hair now, and Ishigaki sucks
his cock with soft, sloppy noises, breathing hard through his nose.
Without meaning to, Midousuji rolls his hips forward and Ishigaki chokes. He
pulls back, coughing, spit coating his lips and chin. His breaths are wheezy
and tight.
“Don’t stop.” Midousuji wants it to be an order, like he would give on the
road, but it comes out harsh and full of holes, barely more than a whisper. An
entreaty, rather than a demand.
For one wild, catastrophic moment, Midousuji wonders if he has become the chum
now, if Ishigaki is the shark and Midousuji the blood in the water.
No, no, I don’t want that. That’s not the way things are.
He grips Ishigaki’s hair and pulls him back down onto his cock, just as he
begins to move his foot again, rubbing Ishigaki through his uniform. He makes a
gross, pleading sound. His hands have left the ground, clutching the backs of
Midousuji’s thighs; Midousuji is practically holding him up by his hair. Tears
escape the corners of his eyes and slide down his cheeks, but he doesn’t try to
resist. His hips move desperately, pushing himself against Midousuji’s foot.
“Gross,” Midousuji says, forcing the word out. “You’re disgusting.”
Ishigaki’s hands tighten on Midousuji’s thighs and he makes what sounds like a
noise of agreement.
Midousuji is so intent on Ishigaki’s bright red cheeks and stuttering hips that
he barely notices what his own body is doing until he’s almost reached climax,
and then it’s suddenly all he can think about. His breath is uneven and his
muscles are tense and he can’t help the tight groan he releases at the hot rush
of dopamine that floods his body with pleasure when he comes in Ishigaki’s
mouth.
He has to let go of Ishigaki to brace himself against the wall, legs that are
still weak from training no longer wanting to hold his weight. He gasps,
Ishigaki’s wet breaths loud in the tight corner, trapped by the arch of
Midousuji’s body. His hair is standing on end, cheeks a mottled pink like
they’ve been scribbled on by a child’s crayons, lips swollen. Midousuji pushes
a thumb past them and into the lingering heat of his mouth.
“What if the rest of the team came in and saw you like this?”
Ishigaki laughs once and says in a scratchy voice, “I don’t think any of them
would be surprised, Midousuji-kun.” His shoulders are rigid, and when he raises
his head, his eyes are still lost in heat-haze. He’s still hard under
Midousuji’s foot. He’s waiting for permission.
With a slow, curling smile, Midousuji lifts his foot and pushes himself away
from the wall. Ishigaki makes a noise like a kicked dog. His hand goes between
his own legs.
“Don’t,” Midousuji says. “You aren’t allowed to do that without me watching
you. And I’m leaving now.”
Ishigaki’s eyes widen, and for a second Midousuji thinks he’s pushed him too
far. Stupid. So stupid to lose his control of him over something as frivolous
as sex. But after a moment Ishigaki rests his hands on his thighs. He’s
trembling all over, but he nods once.
“When…” He licks his lips. “How long?”
Midousuji wavers. He almost calls it off. This has been an interesting test of
his power, and he should leave it like that.
“Tonight after dinner.”
He should leave it, but he won’t. Won’t give up any advantage he can press.
He knows himself too well.



End Notes
     autoeuphoric on tumblr. hit me up let's talk about ishimi
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