Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2296394.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Free!
  Relationship:
      Mikoshiba_Momotarou/Nitori_Aiichirou
  Character:
      Mikoshiba_Momotarou, Nitori_Aiichirou
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time_Blow_Jobs, Mildly_Dubious_Consent, First_Kiss, No_Plot/
      Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Developing_Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-09-24 Words: 4246
****** Roommates ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "Nitori doesn’t know what to do with Mikoshiba. The other boy is all
     but bouncing off the walls of their now-shared dorm room, poking into
     drawers and through shelves with casual disregard of whether they
     contain Nitori’s belongings or his own, opening the window to lean as
     far out as he can, climbing the ladder to the top bunk so he can try
     out the mattress, jumping down from the height so he lands hard
     enough to make Nitori flinch. Nitori’s really starting to miss
     Matsuoka-senpai." Nitori is overwhelmed, and Mikoshiba is
     enthusiastic.
Nitori doesn’t know what to do with Mikoshiba. The other boy is all but
bouncing off the walls of their now-shared dorm room, poking into drawers and
through shelves with casual disregard of whether they contain Nitori’s
belongings or his own, opening the window to lean as far out as he can,
climbing the ladder to the top bunk so he can try out the mattress, jumping
down from the height so he lands hard enough to make Nitori flinch.
Nitori’s really starting to miss Matsuoka-senpai.
The bottom bunk has the potential to be a haven, of sorts, except that Nitori
has no sooner climbed into the shadow of the top mattress than Mikoshiba is
there, crawling onto the bed alongside him with no consideration for the way
Nitori flinches back from his presence.
“You were rooming with Matsuoka-senpai last year, right?” Mikoshiba is leaning
in too close, Nitori wants to lean back but he has the wall at his back and
nowhere he can go. “Was that fun? Was he a good roommate?”
“Yeah,” Nitori says somewhat desperately, eyeing the other boy and wondering
what he can do to get him to back up. “It was good.”
“I’ll be as good as he was,” Mikoshiba says with no trace of self-consciousness
at the vanity of the declaration. “You’ll see, I’ll be better than he was, I’ll
be a good roommate for you, senpai.”
Mikoshiba is too energetic, and he’s leaning in too close, and his smile is a
little bit blinding, but there’s still a trickle of delighted pride that rushes
under Nitori’s skin at the title, at the reminder that he is the senpai, now,
that it is his responsibility to look after the other boy. Some of the strength
returns to his spine, some of the lift comes back to his chin, and when he
looks at Mikoshiba this time it’s steadier, less cringing than his first
reaction.
“You’ll have to work hard at that,” he manages, attempting to sound mature and
responsible, but it comes out in his ordinary voice and Mikoshiba’s grin says
this effort was less successful than Nitori had hoped.
“I can do it,” he says, sounding almost flippant. “Don’t worry about that,
senpai.” He leans in even closer, close enough that he can rest his chin on
Nitori’s shoulder, close enough that Nitori tips away and can feel himself
starting to flush self-consciously even before the younger boy speaks.
“So I’ve been wondering.” His words are blowing against Nitori’s neck, every
breath he takes pulls against the downy hairs at the edge of the other boy’s
collar, and Nitori really wants to pull away but his skin is prickling like
he’s electrified, the casual physical contact is tingling through his nerves.
“Were you and Matsuoka-senpai fucking?”
There is a brief moment of blessed incomprehension. Nitori hears the words, his
brain technically understands them, but for just a breath his ability to
actually put meaning to the sounds he has heard checks out, possibly as a self-
defense mechanism. Unfortunately this doesn’t last long enough to more than
slightly delay his reaction; when he takes an inhale the horror hits him all at
once, hard enough that any attempt to be polite evaporates and he jerks away,
throws himself bodily against the corner of the bedframe in a wild attempt to
get away from the other boy.
“What?” His voice is shrieking high and panicked in his throat, desperate with
his need for denial without the ability to actually form the words.
“Matsuoka-senpai,” Mikoshiba says again, like maybe that’s the part of the
question that is confusing Nitori. “And you.”
“No.” Nitori can’t get himself to actually scramble off the bed and away; he’s
just staring at Mikoshiba’s clear gold eyes like there will be
a reasonable reaction in them instead of the mild curiosity currently visible.
“No, why would you ask that?”
“I was curious.” Mikoshiba leans a little ways back, tips his head like he’s
considering a problem. “You were living together, and you like him. I
didn’t think so, but asking seemed easiest.”
“Wh-wh-” Nitori can’t even form a coherent thought in the quiet of his own
head, much less shape the idea on his lips. “What?”
“That’s a no, then.” Mikoshiba flops across Nitori’s bed, inserting himself
right back into the other boy’s personal space with total disregard for the
shaking panic in Nitori’s limbs. “That’s a relief, it’d be hard to match up to
that.”
“Oh my god,” Nitori whimpers, and shuts his eyes like maybe if he’s not looking
at Mikoshiba he can pretend he’s not there and that they aren’t having this
conversation. Shut eyes don’t defend from the warmth of Mikoshiba’s breath at
his hip, though, and his hearing is still working just fine so he can’t even
pretend to not hear when Mikoshiba hums in thought and says, “Can I touch you?”
Nitori’s throat whimpers for him. His skin is prickling hot and cold with
horror and confusion and panic; Matsuoka-senpai might have been a constant
source of unrequited fantasies but at least he wasn’t like this. “Wh--”
“I want to touch you.” Mikoshiba shifts closer, Nitori thinks his mouth
might actually be touching the other boy’s hip now. When he turns his shoulder
his arm bumps against Nitori’s angled-up knees. “Can I?”
“Hh,” Nitori offers unhelpfully. He takes a breath, swallows, tries to collect
his thoughts even as they spill through his grasp like water. “You -- want to?”
“Yeah.” Mikoshiba rolls in closer, digs his shoulder deliberately into Nitori’s
hip. He’s all but wiggling on the bed; Nitori is reminded sharply and
unavoidably of an anxious puppy.
“Why?”
Mikoshiba’s head comes up, his neck angling back so he can stare up at Nitori’s
face. The wide-eyed confusion on his face freezes the other boy in place,
stalls his breathing like he’s waiting for permission to take another breath.
He thinks maybe he should apologize, though he’s not sure what for, just that
the shock on the other boy’s face is so clear as to be a judgment without even
adding words.
“Cause you’re cute,” Mikoshiba says, his forehead still creased around hurt
confusion.
He doesn’t blush. It’s hardly fair, that Mikoshiba is the one saying
embarrassing things and Nitori is the one who blushes, who goes radiant crimson
and has to lift a hand to cover his face.
“Momo-kun,” he wails from behind the cover of his hand. He can’t see
Mikoshiba’s face but the sound of the other boy’s laughter is unmistakable, as
clear as the feel of fingers closing on his wrist as Mikoshiba sits up and
slides in closer. When he pulls Nitori’s hand away he’s closer than the other
boy expected, his bright hair outlined by the light behind him and his eyes
sparkling as much as his grin.
“That’s not a no,” he observes, and Nitori doesn’t speak, can’t find words
before the other boy is leaning in to press his just-parted lips against
Nitori’s.
It takes a moment for Nitori’s adrenaline to catch up to events. For a breath
there’s just careful input from his skin, eyes, ears: Mikoshiba’s hold is going
loose on his wrist, the other boy is sighing warm air over his lips. Nitori’s
eyes are open, he can see the ruffled mess of Mikoshiba’s hair caught up over
the curve of his ear and the familiar furniture of the room over the other
boy’s shoulder. There’s no sound at all, from Nitori’s throat or from
Mikoshiba’s, which means the damp sound of Mikoshiba’s lips pulling away from
Nitori’s is perfectly clear as the other boy leans back.
It’s only then that Nitori’s heart catches up and races into overdrive. He’s
just blinking, trying to frame he kissed me in his head, when adrenaline hits
him like a wall, sends his pulse racing and his body tensing in panic at the
event that has already become past-tense.
“What did you do?” he blurts. His skin feels like it’s burning, like he’s
giving himself a sunburn from the inside out.
“Kissed you,” Mikoshiba says. He’s faintly pink, now -- at least he’s
not entirely unaffected -- but he still sounds and looks alarmingly calm. Then
he leans in closer again, and any consideration Nitori was spending on the
other boy’s expression evaporates into panicked anticipation. He hasn’t decided
what to do, hasn’t even figured out what he can do before Nitori’s mouth is
against his again, a little harder and a little warmer this time. The contact
lingers, warm and wet, and some learned construct in Nitori’s mind hisses at
him to close his eyes, so he does. With his eyes shut his other senses jump
into sharp relief: the heat of Mikoshiba’s fingers still steadying himself on
Nitori’s wrist, the soft sound of Mikoshiba’s breathing, and Nitori hasn’t
inhaled, he can feel his chest starting to burn with a need for air. He tries
to suck in air against his mouth but can’t get any around the other boy’s
mouth; then he remembers his nose, is just starting to breathe in hard when
Mikoshiba breaks away, laughing like he’s said something hilarious.
“Have you kissed someone before?” He’s far enough away that Nitori can blink
his eyes into focus on the other boy’s features, catch the soft red flush at
Mikoshiba’s lips and the almost-breathless sound of his breathing coming too
fast.
“No,” Nitori says without thinking, too flustered to come up with the framework
of a plausible lie.
Mikoshiba wrinkles his nose, a brief grimace more of amusement than actual
distaste. “Breathe through your nose,” he says as the sum total of his
explanation, and then he’s sliding in even closer. Nitori’s legs are shaking,
when Mikoshiba pushes in against him they fall awkward and angled over the bed.
The other boy doesn’t hesitate; his lips are back against Nitori’s, he’s
humming faintly in his throat, and Nitori loses track of his legs entirely.
When there’s a warm wet pressure against Nitori’s mouth he gasps, opens his
mouth to voice a protest or an exclamation and then Mikoshiba’s tongue is in
his mouth, sliding against the roof of his mouth and pressing against his
tongue, too. Nitori has no idea what to do, his head is going fuzzy with heat
and distraction, but when he shifts his tongue experimentally he can feel
Mikoshiba’s purr of delight so he keeps going, pushes back harder at the feel
of fingers tensing on his wrist, and then they really are kissing. Nitori’s
catching breath as fast as he can through his nose and he’s not actually sure
if his tongue is in his mouth or sliding into Mikoshiba’s, but the other boy is
starting to laugh again and Nitori can feel the vibration all through his lips.
Mikoshiba pulls back for a moment, just far enough to grin “It’s fun, isn’t
it?” He sounds a little breathless, his cheeks are flushing darker, but Nitori
can’t breathe at all, is gasping awkward choking inhales and is reaching out to
grab at Mikoshiba’s shirt and pull him back in by force. He doesn’t have an
answer; it’s not that Mikoshiba is wrong, exactly, but fun is too light for
what this is, sounds easy and casual and Nitori’s blood is pounding in his ears
and hot through his veins like he’s about to swim a race, it’s not easy and
it’s not unthinking as much as it is panting and anxious and rushing towards
something though he doesn’t know what.
Mikoshiba’s fingers let his wrist go, at last, and Nitori’s hand floats up
without his intention, reaches out for the other boy’s shoulder to pull or push
or just steady himself, he’s not sure. Before his fingers touch down
Mikoshiba’s hand is moving, coming in closer to touch against his waist, and
before Nitori realizes where this is going there is pressure against his
shorts, Mikoshiba’s hand pushing in against him so he realizes how hard he is,
and his fingers flail sideways, grab at air instead of at Mikoshiba.
“Ah!” The whimper is higher than Nitori intends, tearing up into the broken
register he usually can avoid, but the cracking wail of his voice is the least
of his concerns at the moment. “Momo-kun what are you doing?”
“You’re hard already,” Mikoshiba observes, and Nitori’s entire face goes hot
with embarrassment. “Do you want me to stop?” That is not an answer, and worse
Nitori doesn’t have an answer to that question. He should say yes, should close
his fingers around Mikoshiba’s wrist and push his hand
away, god Mikoshiba’s touching him that is...that’s...but his fingers are
moving, Nitori doesn’t know what he’s doing but it’s grinding friction against
him and heat out into his skin, flushing pleasure that’s stealing his breath
faster than he can ever manage under his own fingers. His hand is against
Mikoshiba’s wrist but he’s not pushing, he’s clinging like that will somehow
give him a read on the situation, and Mikoshiba’s leaning back in, he’s
pressing his mouth into Nitori’s neck, just under his ear. Nitori didn’t even
think anything could feel that good, even before Mikoshiba’s tongue drags
across the delicate skin. He shudders, whimpers and rocks up without thinking,
and when Mikoshiba says, “You’re cute, Nitori-senpai,” he can hear every word
clearly.
The words make him shiver as badly as the touch, as badly as the damp touch of
Mikoshiba’s tongue under his ear. His hands are shaking, trembling against
Mikoshiba’s wrist and Mikoshiba’s shirt. Letting his hold on the fabric go
doesn’t help, just sends his fingers flailing desperately until he can catch at
the bottom edge of Mikoshiba’s shorts -- then his hand stalls, panic and
uncertainty freezing him in place.
There’s a laugh, shivering over the fine hair at the back of Nitori’s neck, and
Mikoshiba shifts in closer, digs his knee in against Nitori’s hip. “Do it,” he
urges. His hand moves away, leaving Nitori flinching to hold back the whimper
of protest, and then his fingers are back at the other boy’s wrist, he’s
dragging Nitori’s hand up farther. The fabric of his shorts catch, hitch up;
then they fall free, Nitori’s palm catches against Mikoshiba’s hip, and the
other boy lets his hold go. Nitori is arching in expectation even before
Mikoshiba’s hand is pressed against him again, before the other boy blinks at
him and says, “Please,” with his voice so uncharacteristically shaky Nitori
can’t even parse the request for a moment.
It becomes much more clear when he hesitates too long, and Mikoshiba huffs and
twists sideways so Nitori’s fingers slide across the front of his shorts.
There’s resistance, heat Nitori can feel straight through the cloth, and he
sucks in a shocked breath and snatches his hand back just as Mikoshiba groans
and bucks his hips in for more.
“Nitori-senpai,” he whines. “Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not!” Nitori protests, but Mikoshiba is wiggling in closer, he’s pressing
in against Nitori’s chest and his fingers are catching higher, finding the top
edge of the other boy’s shorts.
“Can I do you first?” he asks into Nitori’s shoulder. His fingers are tugging
at the button of the shorts, the fabric is coming loose, and it’s only as
Mikoshiba’s hands are sliding his shorts down that Nitori’s voice catches into
audibility in his throat.
“W-what?”
“I want to blow you,” Mikoshiba says, as if that’s a perfectly ordinary thing
to say. He’s sliding down on the bed, moving until he’s nearly on his stomach,
and Nitori has to look up and away, stare into the light of the lamp while his
brain catches up to the way his blood rushes hot at the other’s words. Then he
reaches out, digs his fingers into Mikoshiba’s hair, starts to say “What?” But
the strands are soft under his touch, softer than he imagined they possibly
could be, and Mikoshiba’s breath is warm against his stomach, and he can’t find
words. Then his clothes are sliding down, the air is hitting his skin directly,
and Nitori starts to blush without looking down, goes crimson with self-
consciousness at knowing Mikoshiba can see him.
Mikoshiba’s head shifts under his hand, there’s a rush of heat, and Nitori’s
self-awareness vanishes, dissolves into warmth and wet and sensation. He can’t
see; he’s shut his eyes, or he’s tipped his head back, or both, but vision
isn’t important anyway. His fingers tighten into fists against Mikoshiba’s hair
and the rumpled sheets under him, but the other boy’s mouth is against him,
Nitori can feel his tongue and the catch of his lips as he moves and even the
softness of his hair is totally irrelevant when compared to that. There are
little jolts of electricity running up his spine, shivering patterns into his
breathing, and Mikoshiba is moving, his mouth or his tongue or both, Nitori’s
not sure and doesn’t care as long as he doesn’t stop. He can just remember the
feel of rationality, enough to know he’s lost it now, but he doesn’t know why
he should care, can feel his awareness of his surroundings sliding away with
alarming rapidity. Sound, sight, speech, they’re all fading into unimportance,
all that matters is the warm wet slide of Mikoshiba’s mouth on him, the steady
rhythm of the head under his fist of hair. Nitori’s breathing is catching
shorter, faster, higher in his throat, someone’s whimpering in little anxious
pants, and he just realizes it’s his own voice wrapped around those sounds when
Mikoshiba comes down farther, sucks a little harder, and Nitori’s vision bursts
into white. There’s a shuddering moan in his throat, a wave of heat that washes
over him from his curling toes to his blushing cheeks, and Mikoshiba pulls
back, replaces his mouth with his hand to stroke Nitori through the shivering
waves of his orgasm.
Nitori doesn’t think about the mess for a minute, not until his vision has
cleared and the tension in his body has faded into languid exhaustion. Then he
processes that Mikoshiba’s fingers are still sticky around him, and when he
looks up he can see damp caught at the other boy’s lips, and embarrassment
comes hard on the heels of pleasure to light his skin back up.
“Oh god.” His hand doesn’t cover his face from Mikoshiba’s gaze, but it helps
darken his own vision so for a minute he can pretend he doesn’t exist. “Momo-
kun, I’m-I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” Mikoshiba’s voice comes. His hand pulls away; there’s the
sound of fabric rustling. When Nitori risks a glance the other boy is wiping
his fingers against his shirt before reaching for the front of his own shorts.
“Do you want to help me?”
Nitori’s hand falls. He can feel his eyes getting wider, panic and interest and
uncertainty all warring for the upper hand. “Momo-kun, I -- I’ve never --”
Mikoshiba waves a hand dismissively. He’s leaning back into the wall, sliding
his shorts down a few inches with no apparent self-consciousness at Nitori’s
eyes on him. “You’ve jerked off yourself, though, right?” He’s settling against
the bed, wrapping his fingers around himself with the casual comfort of
extensive experience. “It’s almost the same.”
Nitori makes another little whine in his throat. He can’t make himself move, he
can’t look away from the movement of Mikoshiba’s fingers and the hard shape of
the other boy’s length against his fingers. Mikoshiba shifts his hips to change
his angle, resettles his fingers, and slides his hand up once, slow and smooth
at once.
“You don’t have to,” he says, and Nitori looks up, sharp and embarrassed to be
caught staring. Mikoshiba’s watching him, his eyes wide and shadowed into
bronze instead of gold, but his lips are parted, like he can’t breathe enough
air through his nose, and his gaze isn’t entirely in focus. His hair is ruffled
up from Nitori’s hold, his skin damp and flushed with heat, and Nitori can see
his eyes flicker farther out of attention as he starts to move his hand,
strokes over himself faster than Nitori ever does to himself, like it’s a race
and he’s determined to win.
“Stop,” Nitori hears himself saying, and he’s moving in, awkward with the
clothes caught off his hips. Mikoshiba hesitates, stalls the movement of his
hand, and Nitori crawls in over the distance, leans in close so he can feel the
warmth of the other boy’s body through his clothes. He’s blushing, still, self-
conscious and awkward with it, but his hands obey when he tells them to move,
and Mikoshiba pulls his hand away without Nitori having to ask. Nitori doesn’t
look down, doesn’t trust himself to keep going if he can see what he’s doing,
but Mikoshiba was right; it feels mostly the same, a familiar shape and heat
and hardness even if the curve is a little different, even if sliding his hand
brings a moan from the other boy’s throat instead of a flush of heat under
Nitori’s own skin.
“More,” Mikoshiba says, sliding a little farther down the wall so he’s closer
to prone than upright. “More, Nitori-senpai, please.” He’s flushed and he’s
breathing hard, and Nitori reaches for the speed he saw in the movement of the
other boy’s wrist, moves faster in experimentation. It feels awkward, too fast
and too hard, but Mikoshiba arches into it, groans “Yes” with all the shattered
purr of satisfaction in his voice, and Nitori swallows hard, and braces himself
against the wall, and does it again.
Mikoshiba is much more active than Nitori expects. He’s rocking up hard into
the other boy’s touch, arching off the bed and sliding farther down until he
really is lying over the foot of the mattress, panting and humming and
thrusting up into Nitori’s hold like it’s not enough sensation otherwise.
Nitori feels an apology on his lips, wants to move faster if he could keep a
rhythm, but Mikoshiba’s smiling, gasping and purring in satisfaction, and he
doesn’t seem frustrated, maybe this is just how he likes it? Nitori’s still
turning the question over, still trying to feel out the shape of the situation,
when Mikoshiba’s breath catches a moment before the other boy’s fingers close
on his wrist.
“Yes,” he says, sharp and delighted. “Yes, just...right…” His words dissolve
into a hum, another rocking thrust, and his fingers clench tight, so hard
Nitori flinches in pain from the strength of his hold. “Don’t stop,” Mikoshiba
orders, so loud Nitori is sure their neighbors will hear, but he doesn’t have
time to panic before the other boy is arching off the bed, sucking in a long
drawn-out breath like it’s the last he’ll ever take, and when Nitori jerks his
hand up too-fast with nerves Mikoshiba groans and falls back to the bed and
comes hot against the his fingers.
Nitori doesn’t know what to do after. Mikoshiba is lying across his bed,
smiling and panting and half-undressed, and Nitori’s mouth is throbbing dully
from the unaccustomed pressure of kissing and his wrist is aching from his
motion, and he’s not sure if he can let go or if he should let go, if maybe he
was supposed to a while ago.
“Ahh,” Mikoshiba sighs, and he’s moving away and Nitori is letting go without
thinking, the motion as easy and unstudied as Mikoshiba’s own. The other boy
sits up, runs a hand through his hair and sighs like the entire world has
aligned itself to him for this moment.
“Do you want to wipe your hand?” he asks without looking back. Before Nitori
can answer he’s pulling his shirt up off his head, twisting to offer it with
one of those sparkling grins that make Nitori feel like he’s hopelessly out of
his depth. “It’s a mess already, I’ll need to wash it anyway.” When Nitori
doesn’t take it Mikoshiba drops it on his lap, slides off the bed so he can
pull his shorts back up around his hips and refasten them.
The movement reminds Nitori of his own half-dressed state, colors his cheeks
with red again, and he hurriedly wipes his fingers and stomach clean and
wiggles back into his own shorts while Mikoshiba is pulling on a fresh shirt.
By the time the other boy has come back Nitori is mostly dressed, if still
crimson. Mikoshiba crawls back onto the bed, leans in close, so close Nitori’s
eyes drop back to his mouth again in case the other boy is going to kiss him
again.
“I’ll be a great roommate for you, senpai,” he declares again. Then he does
lean in, quick and impulsive -- his lips catch Nitori’s, press heat and salt
and damp against the other’s. Then he’s moving away, before Nitori has even
decided whether to shut his eyes or not, grabbing his shirt and tossing it
carelessly into the corner before he moves towards the door.
“I’ll be back later!” he half-shouts as he pulls the door open. “See ya,
Nitori-senpai!” Nitori blinks, and the door shuts, and then he’s alone with the
quiet, and his confusion, and the fading shivers of satisfaction still hot in
his blood.
The bed is still warm when he tips sideways to lie unblinking across the
mattress. His head is whirling, his skin is still prickling with remembered
sensation, and he has no idea what to do about his new roommate.
That doesn’t stop the smile that breaks over his face, though.
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