Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3600474.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      弱虫ペダル_|_Yowamushi_Pedal
  Relationship:
      Aoyagi_Hajime/Teshima_Junta
  Character:
      Aoyagi_Hajime, Teshima_Junta
  Additional Tags:
      Massage, Established_Relationship, Hand_Jobs, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What
      Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Fluff
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-13 Words: 1848
****** Radiant ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Of all the wonderful things Aoyagi’s hands can do Teshima likes this
     best, when he’s lying face-down across his bed and Aoyagi is kneading
     the knots out of his shoulders." Aoyagi is great at giving massages,
     and Teshima is insistent upon reciprocation.
Aoyagi has surprisingly strong fingers.
Teshima has known this for a while, knows all about the dexterity that lets
Aoyagi steer a pencil over his sketchbook and the grip strength that lets him
open jars Teshima can’t manage alone. But of all the wonderful things Aoyagi’s
hands can do Teshima likes this best, when he’s lying face-down across his bed
and Aoyagi is kneading the knots out of his shoulders, the strength in his
hands brought to bear on the knots of stress Teshima invariably collects over
the course of the day.
“That feels amazing,” Teshima says without lifting his head, not because Aoyagi
needs to hear it but because he likes the way his voice sounds, all slow and
hazy and as wrecked as if they were doing something more sexual than what they
are. “Right under my left shoulder, please, Hajime.”
Aoyagi’s hands slide down, his palms pressing neat lines of force against
Teshima’s spine before his fingertips seek out the twist of tension as easily
as Teshima can piece together meaning from the other boy’s silence. In the
quiet the press of his fingertips is as good as an affectionate headshake, his
shove to draw a hiss of reaction from Teshima as clear as gentle condemnation.
“I didn’t want to bother you with it,” Teshima offers, not protest as much as
the weak-formed excuse it is. “I’m sorry.” He is, too; at the time it felt like
an imposition, to pull Aoyagi away from his homework or his reading or his
drawing, but the other’s face always lights up like Teshima has asked him to
watch the sunrise, like he wants nothing more than to coat his hands in the
faint-scented oil and slide soothing pressure along Teshima’s spine.
Aoyagi’s fingers loosen, let Teshima catch his breath past the unravelling knot
in his shoulder, and he knows he’s forgiven without hearing the words aloud. It
makes him smile, makes him shut his eyes so he can focus on the glide of
Aoyagi’s touch over his skin. The worst of his tension is gone anyway, knots
tugged gently loose by the blond’s touch, until by now the trailing contact of
Aoyagi’s hands is more for the pleasure of the contact than anything else.
Teshima’s not surprised, then, when there’s a tug at his hair, the loop of his
hairtie slipping free; he just smiles, turns his face down towards the bed,
breathes in against the heavy weight of the cover while Aoyagi’s fingers slide
up into his hair to smooth traces of the flowery oil up into the dark curls.
It’s a comforting friction, the slide of Aoyagi’s fingertips over the faint
ache at Teshima’s scalp from the all-day tug of his ponytail, until he’s
humming satisfaction against the sheets and thinking about falling into a doze
under the comfort.
He really is half-asleep by the time Aoyagi slides his fingers free, smooths
the fall of his hair back into order and taps his shoulder in gentle
suggestion. It takes a moment for Teshima to blink himself back into full
consciousness, another to sit up -- slowly, as Aoyagi’s lingering touch reminds
him to ease himself into motion -- and then he’s shaking his hair over his bare
shoulders, stretching long and luxurious with appreciation of the unhindered
motion of his previously-aching shoulder.
“Thanks,” he offers, tips his head so he can see Aoyagi smile from under the
burnished gold of his hair. Aoyagi catches his gaze, holds it for a moment, and
then they’re both smiling, leaning in without needing to speak for a flutter-
light kiss. Aoyagi lingers at the contact, tipping his head in unspoken offer,
but Teshima refrains from pursuing the contact further just at the moment.
Aoyagi would be happy to give without any implication of reciprocation, they
both know, but Teshima’s sense of justice won’t let him accept without
carefully precise turnabout, and they both know that too. So Aoyagi is smiling
when Teshima draws back, moving back to lie across the bed before Teshima has
formed words to “Your turn, Hajime.” It makes Teshima smile before he reaches
out to tap at Aoyagi’s boxer-clad hip, urge him over onto his stomach so
Teshima can move in to straddle his calves instead of his hips.
If Teshima holds his stress tight in his shoulders and knotting along the line
of his spine, Aoyagi keeps his cramping in his legs, knots catching in the
muscles of his thighs until he can wake shouting in pain from a cramp if
they’re not proactive about it. But Teshima knows that, now, and he doesn’t
need a reminder to know where to focus in his return massage. The oil is cool
at his palms, slick against his skin when he rubs it into a smooth layer across
his hands, and then he leans in to bring his weight to bear and push his hands
down the smooth curve of Aoyagi’s legs. The other boy shivers at the contact,
wiggling in the first involuntary reaction to the ticklish sensation, and
Teshima laughs but doesn’t pull away, just keeps sliding all the way down until
he’s hit the pale inside curve of Aoyagi’s knee and can start over again from
the top. It takes less dexterity than Aoyagi’s fingers maneuvering through the
curves of Teshima’s shoulders, but from the way Aoyagi sighs and goes limp and
warm against the bed, it’s just as pleasant in a different sort of way. It
makes Teshima smile, fall into a rhythm only interrupted by a brief pause to
spill more oil against his palms so his motion is as much a slide as it is
friction.
It’s a subtle shift when they move from contentment into more teasing pleasure.
It’s partially Teshima’s fault; his fingers are the ones that creep up higher,
after all, slipping under the bottom edge of Aoyagi’s boxers to smooth over
what is only very generously still the other boy’s legs. But Aoyagi huffs a
tiny laugh into the pillow, tilts his hips down to push himself in against the
sheets, and so Teshima doesn’t stop, keeps letting his hands slide over glowing
skin in what is half comfort and half the beginnings of foreplay. After a few
minutes Aoyagi reaches down, hooks a finger under the edge of his boxers, and
Teshima takes the hint to reach out and tug at the elastic. Aoyagi tilts his
hips up, the clothes slide down, and then there’s a whole new expanse of skin
for Teshima’s slick hands to wander over.
He doesn’t stay upright for very long after that. Aoyagi is tensing more than
he is relaxing, now, arching forward and against the sheets, and after a minute
Teshima reaches up to smooth his hair back from his ear, leans in to press a
kiss to the corner of Aoyagi’s shut eye. Aoyagi laughs, a tiny bubble of almost
soundless reaction, and then he’s turning up like a flower towards sunlight,
opening his eyes and twisting to grab at Teshima’s shoulders to pull him into a
real kiss. His mouth is soft, warm under Teshima’s, and everything smells like
perfume and Teshima is laughing, sliding sideways and off Aoyagi so they can
turn in to face each other instead of one perching on the other.
“I wasn’t teasing you,” Teshima insists as Aoyagi raises an eyebrow in
disbelief at him. “It’s just too hard to resist touching you. All of you.”
Aoyagi laughs, ducks in closer so his breath blows warm against Teshima’s mouth
but his lips stay shy of the other’s. When he reaches out his fingers curls in
against the edge of Teshima’s boxers, press into the line of the other’s hip as
he rocks in closer. It is teasing, deliberately so, but Teshima likes the way
it makes his breathing catch, the way he can feel the expectation shimmer
through his blood like a heat mirage.
“Hajime,” he groans, tipping himself closer, as close as he can get, until the
front of his boxers are catching the hard heat of Aoyagi’s length.
There’s another laugh, shuddery and delighted, and then “Junta,” slow and
purring. Teshima laughs, a funny melting rumble in his throat, and then
Aoyagi’s fingers are easing the fabric off his hips and they are reaching for
each other at the same time, moving on the signal neither of them needs to hear
to understand. Aoyagi’s hand closes into a gentle hold on Teshima’s cock, and
Teshima is trailing his fingers up across Aoyagi’s, the featherlight contact he
knows will make Aoyagi shiver like he is now. They’re still close enough to
kiss but aren’t, just breathing an inch apart so they’re sharing the same air
as they fall into complementary rhythms of their hands. Aoyagi knows to tighten
his grip, to bring the strength of his fingers to bear until Teshima arches in,
gasping at the air that is going hot at his lips. And Teshima is gentle in
return, trailing up and down in delicate fluttering contact until the head of
Aoyagi’s length is slick and burning to the touch, like he’s turning into a
star under the glide of Teshima’s fingertips.
Teshima’s not completely sure which of them is breathing harder and hotter, if
they’re not both heating the air between them as one. It doesn’t really make a
difference anyway. Aoyagi is pushed in against him, so near their hands are
bumping together with every motion, and all Teshima’s attention is going hazy,
melting into a transcendent glow he can feel radiating out to merge with
Aoyagi’s.
“God,” he says, breathless and leaning in so the shape of the word presses a
kiss to Aoyagi’s lips. “Hajime, I’m close.” It’s part a warning and part a
plea, a request for the verification that he wants even if he doesn’t need it.
And Aoyagi gives it, like he always does. His inhale is long, slow and hesitant
like he’s waiting for some cue; then Teshima draws up over him, Aoyagi’s back
arches in against the other boy, and “Junta,” slides from his lips, soft and
gentle and unhurried to match the tension going slack in his limbs. Teshima
takes a breath, his rushed and frantic, and then he shuts his eyes and listens
to Aoyagi shuddering through his orgasm as backdrop to the heat cresting in him
and washing him into pleasure. They both keep moving, the jerky arrhythm of
orgasm more than enough the draw the aftershocks of sensation out of the other,
until they are shuddering in time with each other and alternately gasping and
half-laughing with breathless satisfaction. Finally Teshima goes still, Aoyagi
barely a breath behind him, and for a moment neither of them speak, just
breathe hot against the other’s skin.
“Junta?” Aoyagi finally is the one to say, framing the word into a question
even though there’s no real doubt at all between them, like this.
Teshima laughs, and ducks in for the flutter-quick of a kiss, and says, “I love
you too, Hajime.”
He knows Aoyagi likes to hear him say it out loud.
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