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Koutarou gets home from his run, huffing and puffing. His muscles have that floaty, well-worked feeling that promises a satisfying soreness tomorrow. He ran hard today, hit a record speed, but he feels like he could go 20 kilometers more. He’s coursing with endorphins, buzzing as he toes his running shoes off, sets his phone and keys down, and slides into the kitchen. He fills a tall bottle of water and downs half of it in one go.
He should stretch. He should shower and wash off the sweat that’s dripping down his neck and dampening his compression tank top beneath his arms. The thin material of his shorts sticks to the moisture of his skin too.
Maybe he should do a hundred pushups and try to work out some of this excess energy.
Instead, his feet carry him to the bedroom to check if Keiji’s still sleeping. He pauses in the doorway to admire him.
Keiji is awake. He’s propped up against a few pillows with the covers pulled up to his waist, reading by the light of the sun flooding through the window, a fresh mug of coffee set on the nightstand beside him—his favorite weekend morning routine. Koutarou’s ratty old T-shirts are Keiji’s preferred pajamas, and he’s wearing one now, the neckline of it loose and drooping to reveal the graceful lines of his collarbone.
There’s a bruise fading there, from two nights ago, when Koutarou had him begging and clawing at his back as he teased him with slow, unsatisfying thrusts, sucking marks all over his chest.
The energy singing in Koutarou’s muscles finds a new, molten focus. It courses into his abdomen, thickens into desire. He could run another 20 kilometers. Or he could do something a lot more fun.
Keiji knows Koutarou is there. The almost imperceptible shift in his posture tells him so—the delicate flare of his nostrils and slight tilt of his head, as if he’s subconsciously putting the long column of his throat on display, trying to look tempting for Koutarou.
Koutarou takes another sip from his water bottle and watches him, but Keiji doesn’t look. He wets the tip of his finger with his tongue to turn a page—something Koutarou has never once seen him do before.
Little minx.
It should probably be embarrassing to be so whipped for someone that the sight of them reading a book makes your dick hard. But whoever determined that has not met Akaashi Keiji, Koutarou reasons. Plus, whoever decided that can’t have met Koutarou either. Embarrassment has never come naturally to him. Can he get super emotional? Yeah. Ferociously horny? Absolutely. But embarrassed? In front of Keiji?
Keiji has watched him do the most ridiculous, loud, and filthy things and only ever loved him more for it. When it comes to the vast world of ways he wants Keiji, self-consciousness is a feeble little weed that can’t survive.
Patience also has a hard time living in that world. It’s frail and withers up quick under the blasting sunlight of Koutarou’s lust.
“Keiji.”
Koutarou needs Keiji’s eyes on him, and he gets them. Slowly, Keiji looks up from his book, tracing from Koutarou’s socks to the hem of his shorts. Up the contoured muscles of his torso, over his bare arms, the bob of his throat as he takes another drink, and his sweat-dampened hairline. Koutarou slips a hand down his stomach, and Keiji tracks it naturally, watching as Koutarou squeezes the growing bulge in his shorts, letting him see what he does to him without doing anything at all, how much Koutarou needs him right now.
Behind his glasses, Keiji’s lids lower. His tongue dips out to wet his lips. Wordlessly, he closes his book and sets it on his nightstand, then folds his glasses and places them neatly on top of it. He shuffles down a bit further into the pillows and looks back to Koutarou expectantly, squinting through his blurry vision.
He opens his mouth and lolls his tongue out.
“Fuck yes, baby,” Koutarou growls.
Like the snap of fingers, a clap of thunder, Koutarou’s blood is white-hot lightning. He drops his water bottle and covers the distance to the bed in two rapid strides, then crawls nimbly over Keiji. Straddling Keiji’s chest, he grips the headboard and peers down at him, breathing heavily, as if he’d just run another few kilometers. With one hand, he bunches his compression tank top a few centimeters higher up his stomach, and he presses his pelvis forward until the tip of Keiji’s nose brushes the fabric over his balls.
“Ahh,” Keiji moans quietly, tongue still out. His lovely long lashes flutter as he inhales greedily, and Koutarou’s body flares with another bolt of lightning.
“Go ahead, baby. Just your mouth.”
Koutarou wants Keiji to snap into action, but he takes it slow. He fits his hands behind Koutarou’s thighs, stares up with those dark, blue-green eyes, and drags his tongue over Koutarou’s balls in a slow, ticklish lick. Koutarou’s hips jerk. His grip tightens on the headboard, but Keiji doesn’t match his desperation, not even close. Instead, he closes his eyes and presses his nose into the crook between Koutarou’s balls and thigh and inhales deeply. The pads of his fingers dig into Koutarou’s hamstrings.
“You like that, Keiji?”
Keiji nods, exhaling through his mouth and inhaling again through his nose.
“Ran 16 kilometers this morning. Got really sweaty. Suck on them, see if you can taste it.”
With a small, broken moan, Keiji’s mouth opens again, fitting over Koutarou’s balls. His tongue is wet enough this time, Koutarou can feel the heat of it soaking through the fabric. Keiji sucks, and when he groans, Koutarou knows it must be the musk of it hitting his taste buds. Helplessly, Koutarou shifts a little, rubbing his balls over the flat of Keiji’s tongue.
“Uh-huhhh,” Keiji affirms through his wide-open mouth. Gradually, his kisses and sucks and licks grow less controlled.
It always goes like this, and it makes Koutarou’s cock fucking throb. Keiji likes to put up this front of composure, but it always crumbles so quickly. That process—that fade to desperation—is the most exhilarating thing to watch.
“Stay there, Keiji. Mouth open, just like that.”
Keiji obeys and peers up at him, mouth wide, tongue out, hair messy with leftover bedhead. Koutarou knows Keiji can’t make out the details of his face, but it’s the act of submission, the knowledge that Koutarou likes to see his beautiful eyes, that makes him look up anyway.
“Perfect,” Koutarou whispers, and he grinds his cock into his husband’s face.
He’s more than half-hard now, and it’s uncomfortable to stay confined in the tight material of these built-in-briefs and running shorts, but Keiji’s breath is panting and hot and his cheek is so soft, and his lips close naturally in sweet kisses along his length. Swaying side to side, Koutarou drags his shaft along Keiji’s open mouth, pausing when Keiji laps at his tip. Keiji leaps at the hesitation, mouthing at the thick, sensitive head of Koutarou’s cock, soaking the fabric with his saliva, humming when Koutarou’s cock twitches and precum joins whatever else he’s tasting. Pleasure shoots through Koutarou’s cock with each teasing lick, heat flashing anew over his skin as it radiates from his core.
“Fuck. I need your mouth on me, baby. You want it?”
“Please,” Keiji murmurs, and it’s the first word he’s said all morning. He nuzzles against Koutarou’s cock, lashes fluttering.
Balancing on one knee, Koutarou hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts and shoves them down, shimmying and twisting until they’re all the way off. Straddling Keiji again, his balls hang free, his cock jutting out just in front of his face. Keiji gazes at it, a little cross-eyed, squinting adorably.
“So fucking big, Koutarou,” he says, even though he’s seen this cock hundreds of times. Regardless, it does for Koutarou’s ego what it always has done, and he mutters a curse. Reaching down, he smacks Keiji’s cheek with the weight of himself and drags it all over his flushed cheeks, his elegant nose, his chin. He can’t get enough of how it looks measured against him, how much Keiji loves to be claimed by it in every way.
“Yeah? You like this cock? Like it on your face?”
“Yes,” Keiji breathes. His blunt fingernails dig crescents into the backs of Koutarou’s thighs.
“Yeah.” Koutarou presses his tip to the plush heat of Keiji’s lips, inhaling sharply when Keiji kisses it. “That’s it. Show me how much you like it, sweetheart.”
Keiji dips his tongue out just enough to lap at the pre leaking from the slit, just enough to make Koutarou shudder, then stops, blinking up slowly.
“Can I use my hands?”
“Fuuuuuuck,” Koutarou growls. Jolting down, he cups Keiji’s face and kisses him fiercely, tasting lingering notes of coffee as well as the salt and musk of himself on his tongue, then straightens, breathing hard. “Such a good boy for asking. Go ahead.”
A smug smirk flickers over Keiji’s lips—no doubt the satisfaction that he can be laying there, trapped under Koutarou, a cock dragging over his face—and still have that much power over Koutarou’s responses.
He slips his hands to the front of Koutarou’s thighs, wrapping one around Koutarou’s base and using another to gently cup Koutarou’s balls. The energy in his muscles hums, and the pleasure sparks and flashes, urging Koutarou to grip Keiji by the hair and slam into his throat, but he resists. He grips the headboard, murmurs, cmon, cmon, cmon, baby, open up, and Keiji leans up off the pillows, parts his lips, and takes him into his mouth.
They both moan. Keiji sucks him in slow, steady strokes, mouthing over his tip, hollowing his cheeks. He laps at the sweet spot on the underside, then sticks his tongue out and slaps Koutarou’s cock against it, letting the wet, heavy sound of it fill their otherwise silent bedroom.
“Fuck, yeah. You like it?”
“Yes,” Keiji nods, sucking greedily at the tip again. “You taste so fucking good, darling.”
Logically, Koutarou knows that the way his dick tastes is largely out of his control, but it still makes his head dizzy with pride.
“Yeah? Want some more, baby?” Koutarou cups the back of Keiji’s head with one hand, urging him down. With a hum, Keiji’s spit-slick mouth finds Koutarou’s balls.
Huffing and licking and sucking, Keiji worships him there, eyes closed, Koutarou’s cock laying heavy on his face. Koutarou’s lip stings as he digs his teeth into it, but the prickling in his eyes is from emotion, not pain. It’s just—it’s so crazy to be loved like this; sometimes it catches up to him all at once. To not only be lusted for, but submitted to, worshiped, to have someone else care so much for his success they’ll stay countless hours after school to send him tosses, care so much for his pleasure they’ll greet him good morning by shoving their face in his crotch and sucking on his balls. Fuck fairytales, this is romance !
Koutarou’s chest threatens to burst wide open.
“You’re so amazing, Keiji.” Koutarou strokes Keiji’s hair, cradling him close. “I fucking love you—oh fuck, that’s so good. Suck on them some more— ohhh fuck yes, like that, oh my god. You like how it tastes? Yeah, you do. So perfect for me, such a good slut for me, baby. I’m gonna eat you out so good after this your legs are gonna shake. You want that? Gonna fuck you in every room of our house, all day long. I love you so much, Keiji, you know that, right? Look at me.”
Keiji pulls off, one of Koutarou’s balls slipping from his lips with an obscene pop. He’s gorgeous. Red-lipped, dark-eyed, flushed. A drop of pre is smeared on his forehead. Koutarou swipes it with his thumb and brushes it on Keiji’s lips.
“I know, Koutarou. I love you and I want you—anything, everything you’ll give me.”
Groaning, lips wobbling, Koutarou pulls back enough that his tip hovers near Keiji’s mouth. “You want my cock? Want it in your throat?”
“Yes, please.” Keiji lies back on the pillows and parts his lips. Surrendering.
Shuddering with electricity, with the fierceness of his affection and desire, Koutarou guides himself into the heat of Keiji’s mouth.
One of Keiji’s hands is splayed against Koutarou’s hip, the other tugging his balls in the way he knows drives Koutarou mad. Fisting Keiji’s hair, Koutarou rocks forward and back over his tongue, watching the stretch of Keiji’s lips and pinch of his brows. His cock aches to bury all the way in that heat, but he lets Keiji get used to it, lets him get desperate for it too.
Keiji moans and tries to lean forward on his own, eyes open, big and pleading.
“You ready?” Koutarou pulls out.
“Yes,” Keiji gasps.
“Deep breath, baby, all the way down.”
Keiji lays there and lets Koutarou slide into his throat, into that tight wetness that’s so different from his hole but such a privilege, such a gift. It takes so much care and concentration from Keiji, and Koutarou doesn’t take it for granted. He knows how lucky he is. He’s burning with it.
“Fuck,” Koutarou hisses, breathing in and out through his teeth while Keiji nuzzles deeper into his groin. He head lolls back as Keiji’s throat convulses around him, and he grinds there, cock kicking. He laughs a little—a low rumble of disbelief—at the fact that Keiji is gagging and drooling onto his balls but hasn’t even tried to pull off yet. “You’re so amazing. Incredible, Keiji, god.”
Finally, at the lightest pressure of Keiji’s hand against his thigh, Koutarou eases back quickly, letting Keiji suck on his tip as he recovers.
“Again. Gonna fuck your throat a little, yeah?”
Keiji hums, and Koutarou thrusts back into his mouth. With short, deep thrusts, he fucks Keiji’s face. This, right here, is why Keiji first took off his glasses. All those minutes ago, he folded them up neatly because he knew what was coming; he wanted it. The knowledge makes Koutarou release an animalistic growl.
Their fucking is loud and sloppy. Keiji’s eyes are streaming and rolling back, drool streaking down his throat and stringing to Koutaoru’s balls as they slap his chin. God, Koutarou doesn’t know how Keiji does it— he can never seem to replicate it when he deepthroats Keiji —but there’s this way that Keiji massages him with his throat, swallows around him just right, and suddenly any creeping, crawling pleasure is sprinting toward the climax, glaringly urgent, vibrating at the highest frequency, ready to explode.
“Oh my god. Oh, fuck. I’m so close, Keiji, f-fuck, fuckfuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”
Koutarou yanks back, using his fist in Keiji’s hair to turn his face up towards him, and jacks himself with all the ferocity he can muster. His every muscle is tense, flexing, wound up tight. Keiji coughs and draws in greedy breaths, but still manages to stick his tongue flat out, eyes on Koutarou’s face. He rolls Koutarou’s balls in his palm, and it slashes a wicked bolt of pleasure through his stomach.
“Yeah, you want it? F-fuck, here it comes.”
The first two ropes streak over Keiji’s lips and cheek, gorgeous against the flush of his tanned skin. But then Keiji surges against Koutarou’s grip, yanks his hands out of the way, and dives down to take him back into his throat, burying his nose against his groin.
The already explosive pleasure cranks up even higher, and Koutarou yells, because he’s unloading right down Keiji’s fucking throat, and it’s just a random Saturday morning, and it’s blowing his mind and blowing his load just how sexy his husband is.
When he’s finished, Keiji pulls off, and suddenly Koutarou can’t support his own weight. He plunks down heavy on Keiji’s stomach, blinking through the bursting stars in his vision at his husband’s contented smile. Smile. Keiji just did the filthiest thing Koutarou’s ever witnessed, and he’s doing the same teasing smile as when he’s made a silly, sarcastic little joke.
“What the hell?” Koutarou hisses. He surges forward to kiss him until Keiji’s giggling under the assault. “That was insane?” Koutarou licks up a streak of cum and kisses him again. “How am I supposed to live my life now? How am I supposed to do anything now that I’ve seen you do that? I’m gonna be a sex-crazed freak forever! I’m gonna go to work and practice and live literally every single second wishing I was fucking you! You’ve ruined my life!”
Keiji laughs, full and loud and raspy, and Koutarou’s chest aches with happiness. It’s his very favorite sound.
“Now you know how I feel, darling. I am a sex-crazed freak.”
“Keiji! I'm—! I’m so lucky.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my husband and you’re sex-crazed for me.”
Keiji chuckles, stroking through Koutarou’s hair, squinting at his smile. Koutarou reaches over, retrieves Keiji's glasses, and delicately slips them back onto his nose, so Keiji can see him clearer. Slumping to the side, Koutarou drapes an arm and leg over his husband and nuzzles into his neck.
"So, you had a good run, love?"
"Yeah! I ran my fastest kilometer ever, right in the middle! And I... got quite the runner's high."
"So it seems."
“Yeah. I’m sorry I interrupted your favorite morning routine.”
“Do not apologize. This is my favorite morning routine. Reading and being throat-fucked. That’s true rest and relaxation.”
Koutarou slides his leg down, letting it graze the significant tent in the covers over Keiji’s lap. He slips his hand beneath the loose collar of Keiji’s t-shirt, stroking over his chest. “Remember what I said about eating you out until your legs shake? Think that can fit in your morning routine too?”
Groaning, Keiji kisses him, slowly, his hips squirming. “Yeah. And I haven't forgotten about the ‘fucking me all over the house’ part either. That can be part of the afternoon/evening routine. But first, I need a shower. It’s very hot and sweaty under all these covers.”
“Oh? Sweaty? Why would that be a problem?”