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Seven months. They’ve been dating for seven months, and the topic of sex has yet to come up.
Ouma has to say, he’s a bit interested. Okay, fine, he’s very interested, but from what he’s gathered from Saihara’s reactions, the taller boy is either not ready or completely uninterested. Which is a pity, considering…
Yeah. He won’t go there.
The point is, Ouma doesn’t think it’s a matter of Saihara not being ready or not being interested. He thinks the detective’s hiding something from him, in all honesty. Saihara indulges in intense make-out sessions, even initiates a few of them. But, to be able to hide something from someone like Ouma for so long? That’s quite the feat. He’s very adamant on figuring out whatever it is that Saihara’s hiding, though.
He’ll figure out by the end of the month, mark his words.
“Ouma-kun, wait, a-ah,” Saihara gasps into his ear, Ouma sitting atop his lap on the throne-like chair in the middle of his research lab. Ouma giggles, grinding against Saihara’s crotch again.
“What is it?” He whispers. Saihara leans forward to capture Ouma’s lips in his own, and Ouma bites down heatedly. Okay, while this isn’t the first time they’ve had a make-out-turned-dry-humping-session, and Ouma isn’t thinking about getting fucked by Saihara for the first time in his research lab, it’s hot and he hopes that maybe they can just get each other off for the time being?
When Ouma reaches a hand and hovers it over Saihara’s very obvious erection, the detective freezes underneath him.
“What do you think, Saihara-chan?” He whispers. He stares into Saihara’s eyes, and a flash of panic crosses the golden-yellow hues, beneath the lust.
“I— I think it’s about time I go, Momota-kun and Harukawa-san are probably beginning their training session around now,” Saihara insists. Ouma frowns, staring skeptically at the other.
It’s the middle of free time, there’s no way Harukawa and Momota would be training now. Ouma wonders: is Saihara genuinely not interested? His erection proves otherwise…
…Maybe he really isn’t ready yet? Well, that sucks… but I can’t possibly force it onto Saihara-chan.
Ouma huffs, swinging his leg over and off Saihara’s lap, but not before purposely pressing against the bulge in his pants. “How do you think you’ll be able to train with that?” He teases. Saihara’s blush intensifies, and he adverts his gaze.
“I’ll t-take care of it,” he mumbles. “In the bathroom.”
And damn, that shouldn’t sound hot, but Ouma feels a shiver run up his spine. Fuck, he forgot about his own erection.
He lets Saihara go, naturally. He has his own problem to take care of, after all.
Ouma spots Saihara later, head buried in a folder that Ouma assumes is his next case. He offers to help, and the two of them sit side by side on the library couch, working together on the surprisingly difficult case.
Frustratingly enough, nothing happens.
(Not like he was hoping for anything to happen, but you know.)
It’s a random thought that Ouma has more often than one would think. Maybe he’s just frustrated? He doesn’t know, but in all honesty, he wants Saihara to fuck him. (Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.)
Honestly, it could go either way. He definitely wouldn't be opposed to topping, but from what he's seen, Saihara's a top. Maybe. That's not the issue though, the issue is, he quite literally wakes up to Saihara grinding against him.
He and Saihara have an unspoken agreement, see. Most nights, if not all, one of them would wake up in the ungodly hours of the morning, just to go to the other's room and cuddle, Ouma being the self-proclaimed little spoon. This developed around three months into their relationship. But, Ouma can say with certainty, he absolutely did not ever wake up to Saihara, in the middle of what is presumably a wet dream about him. Well, definitely a wet dream about him, based off the unfairly sexy gasp of his name he hears several times since he'd awoken.
Ouma doesn't know how either of them will recover from this. Actually, Ouma doesn't mind, not in the least, but he knows for a fact that Saihara will be embarrassed beyond words. While he could just pretend he's still asleep, and let Saihara continue his dry humping, Ouma doesn't think he'll last much longer before spontaneously combusting.
Hesitantly, he reaches a hand under the covers, ghosting over his own erection. He sighs as he grinds into his palm, just barely. Saihara snaps his hips forwards groggily, and Ouma holds back a cry.
…Sorry, Saihara-chan, he thinks, slipping the hand underneath the covers into his own pants, breath hitching as his hand wraps around his cock. You can’t just expect me to not do anything in this situation.
He does have a bit of trouble slipping out of bed later… but at least Saihara’s finished by then.
(Saihara wakes up extremely confused by the wet patch in the front of his boxers. Ouma pretends he doesn’t know.
Saihara figures it out soon enough. Ouma can tell by the squeak he hears in his bathroom a while after.)
Gym class. Oh, gym class. The class he hates with absolutely every fiber of his being.
Well, he guesses there’s a few good things. One, he can watch Saihara work out. Two, he can see Saihara’s abs through the gym uniform. Three, he can watch as Saihara changes in front of him.
(Damn, his horny levels have been off the charts lately. That’s what he blames for the next incident.)
The bathroom stall door is slammed shut behind them, and Ouma is pinned to it by a very horny Saihara. The detective’s lips press eagerly against his, and Ouma kisses back with equal ferocity.
Well, he guesses it’s his own fault for riling Saihara up… but he couldn’t help it when Saihara looks so hot in his gym uniform.
Saihara’s lips trail down to his neck, and Ouma feels a sharp, pleasurable pain near his collarbone. He moans, tossing his head to the side as a plea for Saihara to continue. Saihara complies, and in that moment, Ouma pushes his knee up to press teasingly against Saihara’s crotch.
Saihara involuntarily buckles forward at the sudden contact, groaning. Ouma smirks, nipping the tip of Saihara’s ear with his teeth. He doesn’t really know how, being the inexperienced virgin he is, but Saihara seems to like it based off the sharp suck he gets on his collarbone.
“Hahh, Shumai… don’t make it too obvious or everyone will notice, yeah?” He breaths, earning a disgruntled exhale from the taller boy. That doesn’t stop Saihara from continuing to ravage his neck.
(He finds that he honestly doesn’t mind if Saihara marks him up for the whole class to see. He shivers, lips parted in a soft gasp.)
Suddenly, a click sounds from the entrance of the bathroom, and they both freeze.
“Yo, Saihara-kun? Are you in there?” Someone asks from outside. It’s Momota. Ouma waits with bated breath and Saihara lifts his head slowly, opening his mouth.
“I’m here, Momota-kun. I’ll be out in a bit,” Saihara calls. It goes silent for a few moments on the other side, but Ouma’s too busy staring at Saihara’s swollen lips to comprehend what exactly is going on.
“…Have you seen Ouma-kun? I thought I saw him come in here with you, but…” Momota trails off. Ouma holds in a giggle, pushing his face into Saihara’s shoulder, and his boyfriend shivers.
“Ah, I-I haven’t seen him,” Saihara answers. The stutter slips from his lips, but thankfully, Momota either doesn’t care, or doesn’t notice.
“Alright, that’s okay, I guess! I’ll go find him. Hope you feel better, Saihara-kun!” And with that, the door is shut behind the astronaut.
“So,” Ouma drawls, pressing a gentle kiss against Saihara’s lips. “Want to continue where we left off?”
Saihara blinks, before looking away awkwardly. “O-oh. We should probably get going, Momota-kun’s going to wonder where the two of us are.”
Ouma stares at his boyfriend, disgruntled. At least it’s a good excuse this time, but his head is foggy with dirty thoughts and he wants to skip classes just to have Saihara carry him to his room and finally rail him. Okay, Saihara probably wouldn’t agree to that. But the point still stands, he’s frustrated. Sexually frustrated.
He’s tried asking Saihara a few times about it, but the question is always avoided or someone conveniently decides to interrupt them at that specific time. Yeah, he’s going to ask Saihara about it again, later, in the confines of their own room. And he’s getting it out no matter what, because whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as Saihara having something tattooed onto his dick.
(Actually, that brings up a small idea, that weaves its way into his brain. It might explain the few instances he felt something unmistakably hard and round through Saihara’s pants. And honestly? If what he thinks is true, then he definitely wouldn’t be opposed to it.)
Three days after what he dubbed the “Unfortunate Bathroom Incident,” he regrettably decides to sit together with Iruma and Amami after their classes. Because he can’t work up the nerve to confront Saihara about whatever problem they have, for what’s probably the dozenth time.
Amami and Iruma are, in short, absolutely insufferable. Unhelpful, useless, betraying bastards, and he swears he will never go to the two of them for advice again, despite the two of them being his best friends (other than Saihara himself, or course.)
It isn’t his idea to bring up the topic either: he blames it on Iruma.
“I don’t get it!” Ouma complains, crossing his arms adamantly. “He’s obviously interested!”
Amami lets out a soft snort from besides him, garnering a sharp glare from the purple-haired boy. Amami ruffles his hair. “Remind me why we’re talking about this again?” He asks. Ouma points at Iruma, who sits across from them. Iruma lets out an indignant “hey!” but doesn’t say anything to deny the accusation.
“I— I mean, I thought you two were fucking since last year!” Iruma protests. Ouma resists the urge to slam his head into the table.
“You idiot— we didn’t even start dating until seven months ago!” He exclaims. Iruma twirls a strand of hair in her fingers, looking away.
“You know. F-friends with benefits, maybe?” She suggests. This time, Ouma does slam his head into the desk, and a few students from around them look in their direction.
Iruma suddenly crosses her arms, as if coming to a revelation. “H-hey, why don’t you make the first move? Or are you too much of a pussy for that?”
Ouma’s eye twitches in annoyance. Really, had she not been listening to the conversation the whole time?
“The point is, he has,” Amami pipes up, and Ouma swears he regrets even speaking to them in the first place. Again, he wonders, why did he even do this anyways? At least he knows that the two of them will try to keep it a secret. Amami more than Iruma. Actually, Iruma can’t keep secrets for shit. Damn.
“I just think he’s hiding something from me, you know?” He remarks, gaze drifting off to the side. “He always makes up some shitty excuse when the topic is brought up.”
“Why don’t you just ask him about it? I’m sure he’ll tell you if you asked,” Amami suggests. Ouma leans back in his chair, biting his thumbnail.
“I’ve tried. It’s like he’s embarrassed or something, I dunno,” he grumbles. Iruma opens her mouth, probably to let out another crude joke, but is interrupted by the classroom door opening to reveal Saihara.
Iruma lets loose a wicked grin, and Ouma begins to feel very unsafe.
“Hey, Shyhara!” She hollers. Ouma’s blood runs cold, and he scrambles to stop her. Iruma sends him a indiscreet wink as Saihara begins to walk over.
At this point, half the class is watching the outburst, all looking equal parts interested and confused. And while Ouma isn’t worried about being embarrassed himself, he knows for a fact that Saihara will be uncomfortable.
“You cum dumpster, if you—!” Ouma starts, but Iruma talks over him, very loudly.
“Twinkma here really wants you to—!” Ouma slaps a hand over her mouth and she squeaks, falling silent. Maybe he slapped her a bit too hard, but at least the crisis was adverted. Thankfully, the rest of the class doesn’t seem to care, and go back to minding their respective businesses.
But now, Saihara has a curious look on his face, staring at Ouma. Ouma purses his lips, weighing his options.
One: he can deny that anything even happened. Just go and and lie like he usually does, and Saihara won’t suspect a thing. Or…
Two. Confront him about it. And this time, hopefully get the answer he wants. Ouma hums quietly, eyes flickering to the clock, and his resolve strengthens. He sighs, standing from his seat abruptly, and pushes away from his desk.
He walks away from Amami (who whistles quietly) and Iruma (who snickers to herself), and makes his way to Saihara, lips quirking into his signature grin.
He grabs Saihara’s hand, which earns him a confused look. “Let’s go, Saihara-chan,” he whispers, as discreet as he can. Saihara blinks, before nodding.
(Ouma doesn’t look back at Iruma or Amami, because he knows for a fact that they would both be wearing smug looks on their faces. Bastards.)
As he closes the classroom door behind them, Saihara speaks up.
“Is there something wrong, Ouma-kun?” He asks. Ouma hums.
“We gotta go raid Headmaster Kirigiri’s office, duh,” he answers matter-of-factly. Saihara stares at him disbelievingly, as if he knows that it’s a lie. Ouma huffs, smiling grimly.
“Fiiiine. We need to talk, you know,” he answers, and he doesn’t miss the flash of fear that passes Saihara’s face. “It’s not bad,” he adds. “I’m just a bit curious.”
That at least seems to make Saihara relax a bit, and Ouma takes that time of momentary silence to drag him back to the dorms. After about three seconds of consideration, he stops at Saihara’s door (since there’s no way in hell he’s initiating anything in his own garbage dump of a room).
He pushes Saihara into the room once it’s unlocked, before slipping inside afterwards, locking the door behind him. Then, he sighs, takes about thirty seconds to steel himself, and glares up at Saihara.
“Saihara-chan!” Ouma exclaims, “I know you’re hiding something from me.”
Saihara doesn’t seem to understand what he’s talking about for a moment, but then, his lips part in recognition. His face reddens.
“I’m— I’m really not,” Saihara insists. Ouma narrows his eyes. The lie is so obvious, that anyone from a mile away could tell. He gives Saihara a level stare, before proceeding to walk over to and roll onto Saihara’s bed, adamant.
“You’re a bad liar, you know that?” He deadpans, and finds it a bit amusing when Saihara winces, looking sheepish. He pats the spot beside him, urging Saihara to sit with him. Ouma almost snorts. This conversation is so casual. Just wait until Ouma actually brings up “the topic”.
Saihara walks over to the bed, sitting in the indicated location. “It’s not that big of a deal,” he mumbles, adverting his gaze. Ouma raises an eyebrow. Not that big of a deal? Saihara’s been avoiding the topic of sex like the plague for the past few months.
“Reeeeeally?” He drawls, watching the other through half-lidded eyes. Okay, he supposes it’s time to bring up the real question. And this time, hope to actually get a proper answer.
“Do you not wanna fuck or something?” Ouma asks, deciding to not sugarcoat the subject. He’s mostly curious: he’s honestly fine if Saihara isn’t comfortable with it, but he at least wants to hear it from the source to offer him some sort of closure.
Saihara seems immediately flustered by how forward the question is, and avoids Ouma’s gaze, chuckling nervously. “That’s— that’s not how I would word it? It’s not important or anything,” he blurts out. Ouma purses his lips. Avoiding the topic again.
“Shuichi.” Saihara flinches at the sound of his given name, eyes widening. Well, Ouma wouldn’t have used it, but if he really wants an answer, he supposes it’ll have to do. He continues, “Are you worried I’d judge you or something? Break up with you over something stupid? Cause that’s dumb, and you know it.”
The silence he gets as an answer is only confirmation to his question. So, there is something he’s hiding, Ouma thinks, lips thinning into a line. Saihara still refuses to meet his gaze, opting to stare instead into his lap.
He decides to lighten up the mood just a bit. “It can’t be that bad. Do you have a dick piercing or something?” Ouma jokes, grinning cheekily. To his surprise, Saihara’s face turns even redder. Ouma’s mouth drops.
...There’s no way, right?
“Woah, was I right?” Ouma asks, poking Saihara’s shoulder. He doesn’t receive a reply, and he gasps.
“Saihara-chan! Let me see!” He insists. Saihara freezes, eyes snapping to his.
“W-what?” He stammers, eyes wide. Ouma blows his hair out of his face, crossing his arms.
“Shumai,” he whispers, “Did you really think something like that would scare me away?”
Saihara smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was going through a— phase. And you know. I got one?” He winces, looking thoroughly embarrassed. Ouma stares at him for a bit, before humming, falling onto his back.
“If you’re that embarrassed about it, then fiiine,” he drawls. However, he tries to convey with his eyes that he’s completely fine with Saihara’s decision. Saihara opens his mouth, and then closes it. He looks away thoughtfully, before exhaling quietly.
“No, I’m fine with you seeing it,” Saihara admits, and Ouma perks up. “I guess I was only holding back because I wanted to hide it from you, but… now that you know, I’m fine with doing…”
Ouma doesn’t have to hear the rest, already understanding. A smirk makes its way to his lips, and he sits up, attentive.
“Oh?” He breaths, voice dropping a few octaves. “I’m listening.” Saihara blinks, before he covers his reddening face with his hands.
“You know what I’m talking about, Ouma-kun!” He complains, golden-yellow eyes peeking through his fingers. Ouma bursts into a fit of giggles, leaning forwards.
“Okay, okay, I know,” he teases, crawling atop Saihara’s lap. “I’ll take care of things for now.”
With that, Ouma grabs Saihara’s hands, pulling them away from his face, then leans forwards to press his lips against Saihara’s. Saihara relaxes underneath him, and Ouma shifts himself into a more comfortable position in Saihara’s lap.
A part of Ouma’s brain still refuses to believe this is actually happening. It was just a few minutes ago that Saihara completely refused the idea of intimacy, but here they are. A shiver of excitement makes its way up Ouma’s spine, and he smiles against Saihara’s lips.
Their lips slot together easily, dozens of heated make-out sessions making it easy for them to go with the flow. Ouma’s tongue pushes its way past Saihara’s lips, and he swears he tastes something like vanilla, which is certainly a new taste. Nothing like the coffee he usually tastes.
When Ouma pulls off moments later, he licks his lips seductively, giggling. He makes a mental note to ask Saihara about the faint vanilla taste later, but he chooses to focus on the task at hand for the time being. The “task at hand” being, their already half-awakened erections.
Behind closed doors, Ouma finds that it’s a lot more intimate, and honestly? He doesn’t mind being unwound by Saihara, to show some vulnerability.
(Maybe, secretly, he wants Saihara to dominate him… but he’s not admitting that to anyone but himself.)
He grinds against Saihara’s crotch, eliciting a shaky exhale from the other. Slowly, he gyrates his hips, and trembles from the friction he feels against his own cock. He leans back just slightly, to allow enough room to pull out Saihara’s dick.
“You’re okay with this, right?” He whispers, making eye contact with Saihara. Golden-yellow eyes soften through the lust, and Saihara nods.
Ouma’s fingers inch forwards, reaching for Saihara’s jean’s button. Slowly, he pops open the button, and pulls down the zipper. He can unmistakably see the faint outline of the piercing (some sort of small hoop, from what he’s gathering), through Saihara’s boxers, and he swallows.
(Fuck, the idea is honestly really hot.)
He reaches for the waistband of the boxers, pulling it over in one swift pull. He retracts a bit in surprise as Saihara’s cock bounces out, the piercing and the perfect size making Ouma’s breath hitch just slightly.
“Wow~! My beloved is pretty big, huh,” Ouma murmurs, his hand hovering just above the ring. Saihara’s length looks to be at least seven inches, and the piercing rests against the tip, looping its way through the head of Saihara’s cock.
“I-it’s not that impressive,” Saihara stammers, and Ouma sneaks a glance at his face, amused. He flicks the piercing with a finger, earning a full-body tremble from Saihara.
“What kind of piercing is this?” Ouma asks. Saihara bites his lip, and then furrows his eyebrows thoughtfully.
“Reverse Prince Albert, I think,” he answers. “I got it around two years ago.”
Ouma laughs, the idea honestly amusing to him. “Saihara-chan really was an emo, nishishi,” he teases, and then lifts himself off Saihara’s lap. He lays flat on his stomach, and his head hovers right over Saihara’s cock.
“Ouma-kun? What are you doing…?” Saihara asks, frozen in place. Ouma hums, looking up at Saihara through half-lidded eyes.
“What does it looks like?” He answers, hooking the tip of his finger through the small hoop of the piercing, and then pulling gently. He snickers. “Saihara-chan, I know you’re clean: you told me like a month ago. And, we all took a shower after gym class, only an hour ago.”
Ouma bites his lip sensually. “If only you knew what I was doing in the showers today,” he murmurs, eyes glinting mischievously. He watches as Saihara’s face darkens considerably in understanding, and his eyes seem to practically glow.
“D-do you want me to take off the…?” Saihara trails off, eyeing his piercing. Ouma laughs.
“The piercing? No way, this is the whole reason we’re doing this, right?” He points out. “Plus, I want to feel you. All of you.” Saihara looks away, embarrassed.
“So,” Ouma continues, “let me take care of you.” With that final warning, he leans forward, tongue flattening against the tip of Saihara’s dick.
Okay, maybe it isn’t the best idea to be giving a blowjob during his first time, since he obviously doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s seen enough porn to get the gist of it. His first impression is that it tastes a bit bitter. He hums, furrowing his eyebrows.
It… honestly isn’t as bad as he thought it’d be. He smirks.
The task is a bit harder with the very obvious piercing in his way, but he decides that that’s a problem to deal with as time goes on.
(He does wonder, though. Isn’t it possible to take it off?)
Ouma takes the head into his mouth, and Saihara’s hips buck from underneath him. He wraps a hand around the base, stroking the shaft where he can’t reach with his mouth. He does his best to keep his teeth from grazing the skin too much, but the action seems to be well received by Saihara, anyways, who lets out a shaky moan each time he does so.
Internally, he wonders how far he can really take Saihara. He’s well aware that he doesn’t have much of a gag reflex, but he doesn’t want to risk anything as of yet. Ouma gives the tip a hard suck and fondles the balls for a fraction of a second, before leaning back and assessing the situation.
His eyes trail up to Saihara, who meets his gaze with dark eyes. Ouma sees a bead of sweat trail down the side of his forehead, and fuck if it doesn’t look hot. He’s suddenly aware of the tightness in his own pants, and when he ruts slightly into the bed, his head blanks at the sudden jolt of pleasure.
Yeah, that’s a problem, he thinks. Well, a problem for later. First, though...
Ouma pulls away, mouth hovering over Saihara’s cock. He pokes his tongue out, flicking it over the piercing, and Saihara gasps. Ouma then proceeds to wrap his mouth back around the tip, and in a fleeting moment of boldness, he tightens his jaw, his teeth digging just barely into the flesh.
“Ouma-kun?!” Saihara’s breath hitches, and Ouma feels a hand make its way into his hair. Ouma hums around Saihara’s dick, and then he goes lower again. However, he realizes he may have taken too much too fast, because he feels the piercing press against the back of his throat. And the most logical thing would’ve been to pull off and take a breather, but what he accidentally does instead is bite down. Not too hard, but enough for it to probably be painful.
He’s a bit surprised when Saihara lets out a very loud moan, and Ouma pulls off, taking a deep breath. He takes a moment to massage his throat, and sends Saihara an amused smirk.
“You seemed to enjoy that,” he rasps, eyes twinkling. “Is my beloved a masochist?”
Saihara flushes considerably at the question. “I— no? It just felt good…” he mumbles. Ouma snickers, before lowering his head once again. Saihara stops him, and Ouma stares at him with an eyebrow raised.
“Don’t you need a break?” He asks. Ouma shakes his head eagerly.
“Mm. Supreme leaders don’t need breaks, my beloved,” he whispers over Saihara’s cock. The detective shivers, and Ouma takes that as a sign to move on, wrapping his mouth back around the head. From the way that Saihara’s length throbs in his hand, he concludes that the other is close.
“Ouma-kun, I’m about to—” Saihara cuts himself off with a gasp. Ouma hums, sucking hard on the tip, before lowering himself again. He squeezes the base gently, and the hand in his hair tightens.
When he looks up for a fraction of a second, he sees that Saihara looks more than a bit surprised at his insistence to keep going. Ouma pulls himself up to the tip, before going back down as far as he can. Saihara’s length twitches again in his hand, and Saihara lets out a choked groan.
“W-wait, I—” Ouma suddenly pulls off, taking a large intake of breath. He moves his hand up and down Saihara’s cock, making sure to keep the stimulation going. He flicks his thumb over the piercing, which seems to do the trick: Saihara cries out, and Ouma barely has time to lean back before a spurt of cum shoots out, staining Saihara’s uniform.
Ouma makes sure to let Saihara ride out his orgasm, pumping his fist around his cock a few more times, milking him entirely. Saihara pants, his eyes shut tight, and Ouma stares. The way his hair is matted so perfectly against his forehead with sweat, and how his eyelashes seem to flutter with every gasp.
That’s what reminds him of his own obvious erection.
“Shit,” he swears under his breath, eyelids flickering. Saihara seems to have regained some of his energy at that point, and Ouma sits up slowly. He begins stripping without warning, and catches the way Saihara stares at him with obvious interest.
“Shumai,” he whispers. “How about we continue? Go all the way?”
The flicker of excitement that passes Saihara’s face is more than enough of an answer. Ouma giggles, and then throws his boxers off to the side, spreading his legs for Saihara to see. It seems to be enough to rile Saihara up again.
(Ouma can only hope that he’ll be able to walk on his own two feet tomorrow.)