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Ryouta is the epitome of perfection.
He has the talent to learn quick, can adapt to everyone, and doesn't settle for mediocrity. That, and of course, that he's handsome, a model, lovely, and just perfect.
Now, look at Shougo-kun: the boy has it in him to be great, but is an asshole and he is gross. He is a sparkling, shining example of everything that is wrong with humanity.
Which is why Ryouta is expressionless right now for once, because Shougo is hanging out by his kitchen counter. It's almost comforting, how normal it is. Except not. Ryouta stares pointedly at the open window behind the black-haired man. Shougo sneers at him.
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Ryouta, being the sweet and good host he is, readily to kick him out of his house.
He didn't expect to find himself being crowded up against his fridge.
"....Douchebag. Get the fuck away from me before I punch you," Ryouta warns, gritting his teeth. He is clearly unimpressed by this development.
"I love it when you talk dirty. Besides, you would have done it if you really wanted to, pretty boy." Shougo grins at him, feral, and drags his teeth over Ryouta's collarbone quickly, as he unbottons the blond's jeans. Ryouta feels a shiver race up his spine.
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Shougo smashes their lips together, his teeth scrape against Ryouta's lower lip, tongue, teeth, nipping and bitting.
His fingers pinch a nipple, twisting it and grinding their hips against each other, hand squeezing the other's ass, a finger pressed against the hole.
Ryouta pants, eyes half-open, curls his hands around Shougo's shoulders, and curses under his breath as Shougo presses him further against the fridge, slipping a finger—two, fuck, three now—inside Ryouta.
Ryouta tries not to wonder what the Generation of Miracles would think of him if they found out as Shougo slipped his hand into his boxer.
Shougo's lips are curved up before nipping at Ryouta's throat and sliding his own jeans down his legs. He purrs. "Ryouta, don't forget to breathe.''