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Akaashi Keiji is a man on a mission.
With his 25th birthday right around the corner, he’s determined to get rid of his pesky V-card. Though aware virginity is nothing but a social construct, sex has always been something he’s been curious about like one’s curious about things they’ve never tried before, something he’s been looking forward to experiencing that he’s somehow never given himself time to indulge in.
At least, not with another person. There had always been something else that mattered more. Classes, then volleyball, then college, then internships, then his job. Then, then, then…
Every time someone had caught his eye, he had been too busy to even think about pursuing them into anything more than a racy makeout session, always had time for everything but sex. And it had been alright at first, sure. He hadn’t minded it at first, hadn’t even cared that much about what another person could bring into his intimate life.
But after he graduated and all the pent up tension he used to satisfy through learning, through books and late-night studying sessions, through the stray volleyball practice then and there had been left saved up within his gut, he’s found himself growing more and more curious about what pleasure he could achieve through someone else’s hands, mouth, or cock.
Before, when he used to have random sexual thoughts or used to masturbate casually after a busy night to a porn video, he’s now started to get vivid images of hands grabbing him and getting pushed over a counter, against a wall, even over a table, and getting fucked until he couldn’t walk straight and his glasses got all fogged up with the heat.
An overachiever and a methodical planner, giving himself a self-imposed deadline about it had been an excellent idea in his mind. He has to see, to try it, once to learn about it. When he had thought about the idea at first, the maximum date being before his birthday arrived had been a pretty reasonable goal.
He figured it wouldn’t be too hard to find someone. Just because he had prioritized other stuff over sex and romance didn’t mean he hadn’t noticed when someone flirted with him or hadn’t noticed when someone complimented his looks. He’s kissed someone in high school for a dare, and someone in college for not-a-dare.
After all, if he’s learned anything through porn and romance novels and through observation, it’s that he doesn’t need someone to fall in love with him in order to fuck them. He just needed someone willing, that found him tempting enough, that he found tempting enough as well.
As someone that learns through observation, he knows he can’t quite do what he always does, watch, memorize, and mimic, not when it comes to sex. Porn and educational sex videos can only do so much for a very horny, very virgin man, and though he’s masturbated a lot throughout his life (like, a lot, to the point one might think his palm’s got the shape of his shaft engraved against his skin), there’s some things he knows he can’t do on his own as much as he wants to, things he’s been eager to try with someone else’s assistance.
Someone he might or might not find tonight. Would someone be willing to fuck someone that’s as inexperienced as it gets? He doesn’t know. Not quite a topic he’s felt like discussing alongside his friend group. By the time he graduated college, he had never had a serious relationship. His internship sent him straight to a somewhat secure job, and he’s never had time to pursue anyone, and fooling around with someone he barely knew had never been alluring. He had been way too busy. Everyone around him seemed to be ahead of him somehow, people married or in relationships, while everything he had ever had was porn videos, sex education textbooks, and the warmth of his skin against his cock.
Keiji shifts in his seat. He looks around, the place buzzing with people, and vaguely hears voices and music bouncing against his eardrums, sips slowly on his Sake Grapefruit Cocktail (for the courage, if anything) as his eyes roam around the room in hopes of finding someone that might be willing to help him out with his mission.
Having realized he liked men and being an openly gay man since he was still in high school makes things a bit easier, for once. He already knows he’s looking for a man. Which is a good first step, even if he’s unsure at first if he feels like being picky or not picky about a potential one-night stand.
He quickly finds that looking for a man is the first and only step he has guaranteed. Because he is, indeed, a bit picky about his potential companionship.
For the first few hours of the night, as he sits on the corner of the table and idly makes chat with Bokuto (sitting in front of him) and Konoha (sitting next to him), Keiji’s unsure whether he'll be able to find someone to take home (or to take him home, whatever goes—he’s not that picky), already resigning himself a little to give up and enjoy his night without pretenses and try again another day. There’s still time, right? His birthday is not until next week.
The place is crowded and though there’s a fair amount of rowdy men around, there’s no one that quite catches his eye in any particular way. It’s all… mostly volleyball players, some other people he knows from high school, which is to be expected, of course, considering they’re in a somehow secluded, somehow private section at a bar celebrating the victory of the Jackals over the Adlers. Something about Sakusa Kiyoomi pulling some strings around and getting them a private spot to celebrate by themselves, or so Bokuto had said.
“Hey, Kaashi.” Bokuto’s voice is low as he calls out his name. “Psst, ‘kaashi!”
“Huh?” Keiji says, looking directly at his friend’s eyes. The straw’s still between his lips as he waits for him to speak.
Bokuto’s brows are furrowed. “If you feel bored or want to head out before I do, let me know. We came here together and we’re going out together as well.” He nods enthusiastically. “I want my best friend to have the best time on his night off! You never go out!”
Keiji doesn’t even feel bad about the fact he was definitely planning to walk out of this place with someone, before Bokuto leaves. He does feel the slightest bit bad about the fact he’s already not feeling up for celebration—too immersed in his own thoughts.
He licks his lips, relaxes his shoulders, and says, voice as steady as it gets, “Thank you, Bokuto-san.”
Bokuto’s eyes are immediately back on Hinata Shouyou’s face as he recalls a story from his time in Brazil, all hand gestures and accompanying voices, and Keiji is back to sipping on his straw once again.
He lets out a little exhale he hadn’t known he had been holding after a few seconds. He’s sitting on the edge of the seat, on a table that’s too long, too big, and though he’s used to making do with whatever he can, the lack of a backrest for the bench still hurts. The tension from his shoulders strains against his muscles until he manages to put it in the backseat of his mind.
The song changes. It’s around 1 AM, when Keiji’s already getting used to the low buzzing of the music around him, still sipping and still observing, still a little resigned, that a movement catches his attention from the corner of his eye.
When he looks up, he starts chewing on the straw of his cocktail, completely focused on the scene in front of him. Miya Atsumu, who had gone out of the room some minutes before, something about going to pick up someone, walks towards them, dragging someone by the fabric of their arm closer to where they’re sitting. It’s noticeable even from afar that the person’s reluctant, if just by the way their feet drag across the wooden floor like the world’s weighing on their shoulders.
It’s probably his myopia or the fact he’s a little resigned with the night, a little resigned about life, that he realizes the person Miya Atsumu’s dragging along is his twin brother, Miya Osamu, only when he’s standing a few meters in front of Keiji and taking off the hoodie that was covering his head.
“Hey,” Miya Osamu says, to no one in particular. He waves a hand and someone cheers along from the table. “Congrats on the win.”
Keiji feels himself straighten up in his seat, as if a backrest was suddenly pressed behind his back. He’s glad the lights of the bar somehow obscure his expression.
He is… well, more than aware of Miya Osamu as a whole.
Keiji has met him once or twice before in passing, never being able to strike up much conversation beyond exchanging words about buying something from him. Still, Keiji’s observant and he’s noticed him. He’s got rough hands that always grab his attention when he sees them form rice balls, he’s got an accent that’s made his mind wander once or twice whenever he’s feeling particularly on edge, he’s got a nice, broad chest that looks very nicely framed in his usual black shirt and apron.
By the time he finds himself wondering if there are other kinds of balls Osamu might be able to touch and prepare for him, Keiji already knows Miya Osamu is the one he’s willing to try and accomplish his mission with.
He blinks the thought away, though not quickly enough.
“Myaa-sam! Here!” It’s Bokuto, bless Bokuto, that calls him over and spares Keiji all the ordeal of finding a reason to stumble into Osamu.
Osamu moves with Atsumu to the corner where they’re sitting. He leans forward slightly and shit, he’s as hot as Keiji remembers from the last time he had seen him at a game.
“Hey, Bokuto-kun.”
“Tsum-tsum told me you didn’t want to come and he basically dragged you here.” Bokuto’s tone is cheery, despite his words.
A grimace takes over Osamu's face, almost in reflex and he’s about to say something—probably say he’s sorry—when Bokuto puts up his hands, shaking his head slightly.
“Hey, no hard feelings. We know you work hard and it’s late. Hell, even I sometimes wanna stay home on Friday nights! It’s okay. Anyways, my friend here, ‘Kaashi—“ Keiji has to restrain the urge to whip his head towards Bokuto and not flee the place as soon as Osamu’s eyes fall on him, hard and penetrating, due to Bokuto calling attention to him. He has to drown down the urge to shiver at his gaze. “My friend here also didn’t want to go out, because he’s been working hard all week. Maybe you two can chat or something!” Bokuto waves around and moves slightly to the side, barring a seat and offering it up silently to Osamu. “Keep each other company while we celebrate. He promised me he’d tell me if he got bored but he hasn’t yet.” Bokuto shrugs and takes another sip of his drink.
Keiji doesn’t say anything for a moment, waiting for someone else to react first. Did Bokuto somehow know of his plans to get laid and is somehow playing wingman with Osamu? He hopes not. He hopes he’s not as obvious. It’s dawning on him that it’s mortifying enough as it is, trying to get rid of his virginity by a certain date, fantasizing about a man he finds hot as shit. Bokuto’s words are innocent enough, thankfully. Keiji doesn’t think he’s ready to process how he’s somehow been too eager to fulfill his self-imposed deadline for Bokuto to notice, obvious enough about accepting going out on a Friday night and examining possible men to take home when he usually rejects outings that take place in open spaces.
He had hoped his friend had assumed he had doubled down because it was a celebration, a special occasion. He’s not so sure anymore, the weird buzzing silence as none of the twins nor Bokuto speak is suddenly unbearable.
He parts his lips to say something, anything at all to fill the low buzzing silence, when Atsumu clicks his tongue, as if he realized something, before he speaks.
“Do ya remember ‘Kaashi-kun, Samu?” Atsumu’s voice is light, amused. Maybe a little drunk. “He’s Fukurodani’s se—”
“Of course I remember him,” Osamu says, and his voice is deceptively light for how his eyes are on Keiji, all hard and dark, and like he’s examining Keiji’s soul for him from inside out. “Seen him before, yeah. Nice to see ya, Akaashi-kun.” He nods at him and licks his lips.
Something heavy and warm pools low in Keiji’s stomach. A telltale prick of arousal goes up his spine and, shit. This is why. This is why he had wanted to go out and try to find someone to show him. For him to watch, memorize, and mimic.
Miya Osamu seems like the perfect candidate. Oh, he wants to watch, learn, and mimic him. Practice, even.
“Perfect then!’’ Atsumu claps his hands together, effectively pulling Keiji’s attention. “I’ll go sit over there,” Atsumu points his chin towards where the rest of his team is sitting, much more low and rowdy than Keiji’s side of the table. “Have fun, ya boring workaholic bastard.” His voice is mocking, accent coming out thick. “And Kaashi-kun, if he misbehaves or gets too boring just send him home.”
“Shut up.” Osamu rolls his eyes, and as soon as Bokuto moves to the side wordlessly, he slides into the bench in front of Keiji. He puts his fringe back and looks Keiji in the eye again. “Sorry about that,” he points to Atsumu with his chin, “apparently I ate the manners of both of us in the womb. Sad it wasn’t him instead. Would’ve saved us a lot of trouble.”
Keiji halts for a second. He can’t help but let out a loud snort at the stupid, icebreaker joke. “What a pity.” He nods, and he can’t help but notice the way Osamu’s shoulders relax, probably at Keiji’s reaction to his absurd comment.
“How are ya doing?” Osamu nods. “I do remember ya, by the way. I wasn’t trying to be polite.”
“I’m good,” Keiji says, moves his half-full cocktail on the table. “And I noticed.” Osamu arches a brow. “You not being polite, I can notice,” Keiji clarifies. He licks his suddenly dry lips.
A smile threatens to tug up Osamu’s lips. He ends up with a half-smile that shouldn’t be so hot, and yet ends up making Keiji’s horny-riddled little brain rattle against his head. It’s devastating, really, for his poor soul, and reminds him every bit of what’s got him in this situation: outside on a Friday night, surrounded by loud, rowdy men, in a place where he’s got to talk and socialize without being able to bury his nose in a book.
There’s a tap. Then, something is being passed across the counter, from where Atsumu sits on the other side of the table, to Osamu. He grabs the bottle of beer with a hand almost effortlessly from the person next to him—Inunaki, who’s somehow switched places with Bokuto in the minutes Keiji was too focused on Osamu—and Osamu taps it lightly against the wooden table, almost absentmindedly.
“I didn’t tell ya early,” Osamu hums, and though he’s concentrating on taking out the cap with the wooden edge of the table, Keiji knows he’s talking to him, “but ya look good. Hadn’t seen you in too long.” The tone of his voice shifts and it becomes rougher, lower. The cap of the bottle flies off into the table.
Heat crawls up Keiji’s spine at his voice being so low, directed at him, and he’s once again glad for the lights above them, the only reason he’s able to conceal the blush coating his cheeks. Too long? Since when does Miya Osamu think of not seeing him being too long, or even remembers him? He doesn’t want to get his hopes up for where the night might lead.
He’s a very horny, very virgin man with a half-cooked plan. And Miya Osamu is hot and definitely someone that should come with a warning, if only by just the sheer confidence he exudes with every word that comes past his pretty, red lips.
“You look good too.” Keiji clears his throat, and shifts slightly, suddenly feeling too hot at the neck. “How are you doing?” he adds after a moment when he notices he didn’t ask back.
And though he’s not polite nor is Osamu, he still doesn’t want to fall into a weird lull of conversation, not when he’s a man on a mission… and Osamu is oh so tempting.
Keiji takes a compulsory sip of cocktail as he waits.
“I’m good.” Osamu shrugs. “Was a bit busy. Had a week.” He sighs, cranes his neck slightly, and Keiji’s eyes are drawn to the glimpse of muscles of his neck he can see from his hoodie getting more prominent with the motion. When he looks at Keiji again, there’s an unmistakable edge of genuine curiosity to his voice that sets Keiji’s nerves on fire. “What brings ya out tonight? I don’t see ya at these things that much,” his eyebrows furrow slightly, “Sorry if I’m bein’ too noisy. I know ya weren’t here though, I would’ve noticed ya.”
I would have noticed you. The words make Keiji’s cheeks flare up for some reason.
“Here?’’ he repeats, because Osamu’s reduced him to being this eloquent.
“The team outings,’’ Osamu gestures his hand around, “It’s always the same people. I don’t even come out here much because of it. Never had an incentive.’’ He licks his lips and there’s a glint of something he can’t quite place in his eyes that leaves Keiji blinking fogginess away from his own gaze.
“Huh,” Keiji says, trying to keep his voice even. He shifts slightly on his spot, fiddles with his fingers. “I had a busy week too. Friday night seemed like a good chance to decompress.” He shrugs. He looks at Osamu’s eyes, so attentively into his, and he knows what he has to do. “If we’re being honest, Myaa-sam, about today, I had a bit of a…” he clears his throat, makes sure to look into Osamu’s darkened eyes as he says, “motivation of my own.”
There. That’s it. It’s a bit lame, he doesn’t even know if it’ll work or not.
“A motivation of yer own?” Osamu leans closer, elbows over the wood. There’s a table separating them and Keiji wishes he could feel him from closer. It’s like he’s a moth to a flame, and Keiji can’t look away, not with how much he likes Osamu’s eyes and the crinkle that forms around his eyes. “Now that ya mention it, I also had an incentive of my own.” Osamu presses his lip into a line before licking them, giving Keiji a grin, and the image of his tongue peeking out and licking over his bottom lip is sure to be burnt into his mind, searing. Incentive sounds sinful coming from his red lips. “Can I know what motivation that is for ya?” he tuts, voice like honey, “Only if I can, of course. But I’ll show ya mine if ya show me yers.”
The smile on Osamu’s face sends heat down his spine. It makes Keiji freeze in his spot.
Akaashi Keiji knows a lot of things. At the age of 24, he knows how to change a lightbulb by himself, he knows how to do his paperwork down to a T, he knows how to be frugal by repairing his old clothes as long as it’s something within his abilities, he knows how to edit manuscripts and how to revise mangas for a professional setting. He knows a lot of things, alright?
But just as there’s things he knows, there’s some he hasn’t learned yet.
And though he doesn’t have the slightest clue about sex with another person in a personal, intimate setting—anything related to sex he’s had to Google in questionable places, anything he’s learned is between God and his poor computer’s browser—he’s very happy, very glad to know that Osamu’s flirting with him.
It’s the perfect moment, the perfect chance for him, barely less than a week away from his birthday. And Keiji, though inexperienced, is determined. It’s not even about reaching a milestone or trying to catch up to anyone—it’s about Keiji, and his need of knowing and learning things, and about wanting something for himself that someone else can give him. He’s simply curious. And whenever he’s been curious in the past, he’s learned experience is always good, learning firsthand is always best.
Growing up, he’d always found joy in losing himself in whatever book he could get his hands on, in getting all the information he could get about anything and everything. Right now, he wants it all, from Miya Osamu himself.
He wants to get lost in everything and everything Osamu can give him.
Keiji takes one last sip from his straw. He puts his hands on the table and puts up his weight, and his nerves feel like haywire as he settles on saying, “If can definitely show you mine.’’ He can’t even deny the pleasurable that ripples through his spine at the way Osamu’s eyes seem to darken even more under the dimly lit room and how his lips part slightly, how he leans slightly like he’s being pulled by the magnet that are Keiji’s words. “Not here,’’ he adds as an afterthought after a second, because he’s horny, but not drunk enough to be so unabashed as to show him in the middle of the bar, “I know a thing or two about this place where I could show you.’’ His voice is solemn, nonchalant.
“Wherever ya want,’’ Osamu speaks, voice rough, and it’s so simple, just an admission made out of his own volition, yet it’s everything Keiji’s ever wanted to hear.
He nods and stands up, legs surprisingly steady, all things considered. He’s not thinking about his plan or the fact he’s acting way too confident for someone that has little to no sexual experience, he’s not thinking that it’s way too fast, he’s not thinking about the fact he’s basically making this up as he goes. No.
Keiji turns around, takes a step forward as his eyes fall on the bathroom down the hall, the one that’s reserved for the section where they’re sitting, and sees his new goal for the next few minutes with sheer focus.
It’s a bathroom secluded enough but not so far, not so public for anyone to walk in, definitely not so public to be reported for indecency if they ever got caught. He hopes it’s secluded enough to be clean as not to break the mood. He hopes for that and more, and walks until hesitation strikes him.
Is he really doing this? What is this, even? What can even happen in a public bathroom with all their friends outside anyways? Is he getting too ahead of himself? Keiji’s not sure, but right now, he doesn’t care much. He’s willing to give as good as he gets—as public or as private as that means.
“I’ll be right back. I gotta go to the bathroom,’’ Osamu’s voice carries through the air and falls to his ears like a melody. He tells the words to someone close to them—most likely Inunaki—for appearances’ sake, because there’s no way anyone’s sober enough at this hour to comprehend him or care, and there’s no way his voice is loud enough to be heard through the buzzing melody of the old 2010s pop song that’s currently resonating loudly across the place. There’s definitely no way anyone’s focused on both of them to put two on two together about where they’re going and why they’re going together.
That last thought leaves Keiji feeling anticipation running up his spine, and makes all his doubts dissipate into thin air.
He takes a deep breath and keeps walking. He doesn’t look away or turn around to check—somehow, as inexperienced as he is and despite the fact he’s not seeing it, despite that he knows everything by observation and repetition, he somehow just knows Osamu’s on his heels, following behind him.
✸✸✸
As soon as the door closes behind him and Keiji’s pushed against a bathroom wall, it’s like his breath is stolen straight from his lungs at the sudden movement.
He can’t focus completely, the sudden movement making him wobble on his feet slightly by the sheer force of it, but there’s immediately a hand cradling the back of his head, making sure he doesn’t bump it against the wooden door, that makes him look up to find Osamu’s eyes looking for him and look for him in return.
“Akaashi-kun. Are ya sure?’’ Osamu’s voice is serious, too calm for anything this might mean. Is he sure? Whatever it is, Keiji’s sure by the pieces of media he’s seen that it starts with a kiss on the lips, kisses down the neck, or a light caress. No action that may guarantee too much sureness, unless someone is inexperienced—like he is—and doesn’t know what this is exactly, where it ends or where it begins.
Keiji idly wonders if he’s somehow been found out—if his inexperience was somehow written all over his face as they had talked earlier, or if Osamu somehow just knows.
He may be able to learn things through observation. But Osamu seems like the kind of man that… knows just because. It’s a strange juxtaposition, thinking about how different and yet so similar they are.
He doesn’t say anything of the sort. Instead, Keiji just nods. “Yes, I’m sure.’’ He’s grateful his voice comes out as steady and even as it does, because he feels like anything but.
Before he can say more, Osamu’s mouth falls on his lips, warm lips against his, and steals the breath directly from his lips. Keiji gasps into the kiss, trying to gauge for any breath of air he can get. He moves his lips against his softly, at first, most likely realizing Keiji’s reaction to the suddenness of the movement.
After a few seconds where he’s left staring up at Osamu’s closed eyes, at the way his eyelashes brush against the skin of his lips, his own eyelids fall shut at the sensation of warm lips on lips, of how soft they are.
The kiss continues deliberately slowly until Osamu pulls away slightly for some seconds, completely controlling the pace and taking charge, then presses against his lips once again. His lips start moving and Osamu kisses him like he can’t get enough of him, like Keiji’s a lifeline and he’s clinging to life with his last strength. Keiji’s hands move on their own to grab onto something, onto anything to stay in the moment, they move and find Osamu’s shoulders, universe’s hand.
Osamu’s lips on his are so soft and so warm, it makes him feel dizzy. He’s not used to being kissed as he stands upright, without having his feet planted on the ground and he sits; he’s definitely not used to being kissed like this, with such fierceness, such eagerness. It’s overwhelming and yet, he doesn’t pull away; he doesn’t want to. It feels good, something he’s not quite able to learn through his usual method of learning.
He can’t observe and memorize kissing, because he doesn’t feel strong enough to open his eyes and see. He just can feel it, feel Osamu’s lips on his.
Keiji relaxes against him and once he feels the tension easing up from his shoulders, he’s kissing him in tandem, falling on a rhythm of their own, with favor and cadence. He tries to give as good as it gets and once Osamu picks up the pace, Keiji presses against him too, fingers going up to his hair and entangling on black, wild tresses.
Arm around his neck, fingers on his hair, Keiji just feels and takes, and gives.
Osamu pulls away to look him in the eye after a few seconds, a dribble of spit running down his chin. He looks utterly debauched, and they’ve barely even started. Keiji can't look away, lips slightly parted. His lips are so, so red from the effort, Keiji has a hard time processing if that was his fault; if he had gotten so carried away he had bitten his lips to the point of losing his grip on reality, on anything that wasn't just this moment, with Osamu's thigh between both of his.
His pupils are blown wide as he finds Keiji’s eyes. “Do ya wanna come back to mine?” He's breathless as he speaks, the words reverberating against Keiji’s chin like the flutter of a butterfly’s wing against the Earth’s air.
To his place. Keiji freezes in his spot between Osamu’s arms. He gulps, swallows around the dryness in his tongue, considering it.
“To your place?” he repeats, because he’s not sure if this is real, and he needs to.
Osamu nods, so close to him a few errant strands of hair brush against Keiji’s face, tingling. His voice is low and rough as he confirms, “To my place.’’
“Wherever you want,’’ he says, and the way he gets to see a full smile tugging up Osamu’s lips before he presses against his mouth on Keiji’s once again is more than worth it.
He hums and it reverberates against Osamu’s skin too.
✸✸✸
The way to Osamu’s place feels like both too long, too short, too much. Like everything, everything, and more.
His skin is buzzing, feeling almost on fire, under the Osaka night sky, the wind hitting against his cheekbones and playing with his eyelashes like the bees play with the flowers when it’s still light outside.
They walk side by side the few blocks to where he signals he lives, fingers brushing with every step since they’re unable to stay far away from each other, definitely caring less than they normally would any other time for propriety or decency, and Keiji’s once again glad for Friday’s innate drunkenness and carelessness, kind of glad he accepted to go out tonight, because the few people left wandering the streets don’t seem to care about two incredibly flushed, messy men almost sprinting down the streets like them, as much of a curious sight as it is.
“Here,’’ Osamu breathes, as they come to halt on a corner and stand in front of a store that looks very familiar—not that he could know for certain, considering he’s been focused more on the way the tip of Osamu’s nose blushes with the cold than his surroundings.
Keiji’s brows furrow. Here. “You live here?’’
“Yep,” Osamu says, popping the ‘p’ and his expression is so childlike for a second, it’s kind of endearing.
“Alright. Open up.” Keiji nods. He tries to calm down his eagerness.
“Bossy,” he grumbles, but there’s no bite to his tone. He pushes a hand in his coat and fumbles with the keys. “As you wish,” Osamu adds, key entering and unlocking the door.
The door opens and when Osamu lights up the place with a flick of his wrist, he barely registers it’s definitely Onigiri Miya before he’s being dragged inside by the wrist and led into a blind dance where the only thing that guides him is the beacon of light that’s Osamu’s lips on his, and his fingers curling around his shoulders as they move across the room.
Grabbing, pulling, and taking off layers of clothing, they move in unison, stumble upon tables and chairs. They clash against each other, wood and metal and skin, and Keiji feels nothing of the stinging pain and all the soft places their skins meet even through the remaining layers of clothing, even where it meets with no barrier in between. Soon enough, the skin of their legs brush, the skin of their chests brush, and they’re only missing taking off their boxers—only missing that one last step.
His skin buzzes and aches for more of him. He’s burning up for him and everything he wants and can give him. Pleasure coils tightly in his stomach and unfurls in desire and a shiver goes down his spine that rattles all his nerves.
“Fuck.’’ He swears under his breath, pulling away from the kiss. His lips are red and bitten, and Keiji can’t help the satisfaction that spreads in his chest at the thought of having caused it. His fingers move to hook on the waistband of Osamu’s boxers, fingers tingling where they touch his covered naked skin with the intrusion. “Do you—?’’ Osamu gulps and his eyes don’t leave Keiji’s eyes as he says, “Do you have condoms or lube or—?”
Keiji halts. Condoms had been the last thing in his mind earlier, somehow he still has a lot to learn. “No,” he frowns, then he pulls away and pushes a hand in the breast pocket of his coat, “I—” Keiji takes a shuddering breath, “I have lube. Just lube.”
Osamu’s eyes are squeezed shut for a second and Keiji would laugh at the way gratefulness is so plain in his face once he opens his eyes again, if he wasn’t feeling the same way. He looks at him, eyes glinting, before he huffs once again.
Frown creasing his forehead, and Keiji wants nothing but to smooth the frown from his skin. He stays still.
“I don’t have condoms,” Osamu says, voice apologetic and breathing ragged, through gritted teeth. “But…” he gulps, “I can fuck ya raw. I did the tests and I'm all good, Ji.” He speaks louder and his voice is so eager, Keiji can’t help but nod fervently alongside him.
Keiji leans forward and captures his lips in one, quick kiss. He feels like he’s burning, everything feels warm around him, and Osamu’s hands continue their journey down every centimeter of skin he can get to. Wherever Osamu touches, he can’t help but crave for more—a fire he can’t put out, one he doesn’t want to put out.
Osamu’s hands go to his thighs and he hoists him up against a table—and silly, inconsequential wooden tables are something he probably will never be able to look at ever again thanks to this—before he presses against him and their chests crash, grinding against each other and pressing impossibly close. His ass feels slightly cold against the table, once Osamu’s fingers delve into the waistband of his boxers and pull them down, his erection springing free.
It’s probably his own desperation talking—and hey, who knew being in the middle of having sex made him so honest?—but as Osamu’s fingers brush against the naked skin of his cock as they ghost down his navel, Keiji finds himself pressing against him, nodding along, and saying, all in one go, “I’m... Never fucked anyone else but you. Just… please. Fuck me. Fuck me.”
The silence falls over them like a waterfall, sprawling all over their faces. Keiji realizes immediately his mistake. In hindsight, it's definitely not the smartest words that have ever spilled from his lips. He freezes, curses underneath his breath, and looks for a glimpse of Osamu’s face.
Osamu’s brows are pinched together as he pulls back and stays incredibly still. “What did ya just say?’’ He’s not an expert at reading him, but Keiji still somehow knows his voice is too calm, too serene, for this.
Is it really something that big? Well, fuck. He feels slightly lightheaded. Keiji hadn't thought of it as something so big, but again, he's also given himself a self-imposed deadline to stop being a virgin. Maybe he's not the most appropriate person to decide on that matter. Osamu shifts against him and the friction and the movement, the way he presses his knee against his hard cock, suddenly grounds him to his spot, where he’s being pressed against a table. He has to resist the urge to moan, his brows furrowed.
Bad timing. Timing is important. He might be getting kicked, he can’t go around moaning right now, can he? Even if Osamu feels so nicely against him. It's a serious moment. He can take this. He has to wait for Osamu and see.
Yeah, right.
“Yer a virgin?’’ Osamu repeats, and his hoarse voice, probably due to their frantic kissing and sprinting to this place so quickly, does nothing to quench Keiji’s anxiety nor his evergreen thirst. What a predicament he is. The duality of a man—downright horny and worried for the future.
Keiji squeezes his eyes shut. He wasn’t supposed to say he was a virgin. Now what?
He’s hard and horny, half-naked in the middle of Osamu’s shop, his ass perched over a table in the middle of a restaurant—and he’ll probably never be able to look at food establishments the same way. He had expected the night would end with Osamu rocking his whole world. But… by Osamu’s tone, by his question, he had probably assumed he was experienced, which Keiji is anything but.
Keiji is a virgin. He hadn’t thought to say it upfront, maybe he should have. He wants to laugh it off right now, say it was a joke, that he means he hasn’t been with anyone else but Osamu in too long, to please keep on with it.
But that wouldn’t be fair to Osamu, not really. Though it’s not crossed his mind before, he’s heard of people that don’t like to fuck virgins, that don’t like to fool around with inexperienced people, and he can’t help but wonder if that’s Osamu’s case.
Osamu isn’t moving or running off though, he looks at him with his focused eyes, so, so focused, it seems like he’s trying to unravel something from Keiji’s heart. There’s something so different in his expression that is so different from the earlier ravenous look that clouded it, so different that it makes Keiji want to tell him everything, if only to solve this and get his mouth back on his neck and his fingers somewhere in his mouth.
(God, he was so ready. Just a few minutes ago.)
Keiji takes a deep breath. His lips part and close before he opens his mouth again.
“I’m a virgin,’’ Keiji confirms, because might as well say it all out loud now that the truth is out. No need to keep hiding stuff or saying half-truths.
He feels rather than sees Osamu’s reaction then—he’s too much of a coward to say anything out loud, for now, prefers to wait and see—and Osamu swears under his breath, his warm breath hits Keiji’s chin. It’s like his heart drops to his stomach for a few seconds, as he gathers the courage to look at him.
Keiji peeks at him, trying to find out if this is it. When he gets kicked out. He’s only in his boxers, naked as he’s ever been in front of another person—might as well figure out now what’s going to be the rest of his evening.
If he’s going to get kicked out of his place and he’ll never get to taste Onigiri Miya’s rice balls (or his balls in general), if he’s going to never be able to stare at Osamu’s broad back while he waits for his order ever again, or… well, he can think a lot of regrets regarding Osamu, mind you, he might as well find out now.
It wasn’t his intention to trick Osamu somehow, he hadn’t thought about faking his experience, it had kind of just been an assumption. He really doesn’t think he can fake being experienced or even pretend to have an upper hand on Osamu when he only knows about sex through masturbation and the occasional video.
But there’s some things that come with still being a virgin out of college, of never having had any serious relationship, that he needs to face. Some things like this moment—being afraid that probably the first guy he wants to fuck, the only guy he managed to make out to the point of clothes flying off, will kick him out and send him off on his way with a pat to his back and 'a see you never' while he’ll definitely still think of him and his godlike cooking skills for the rest of his life.
Lots of regrets. Lots.
It’s probably the first time he’s felt relaxed enough to pursue someone to the point of wanting to have sex with them… and he fucked up because he’s too blunt.
Keiji is resigned to being a virgin forever. Or at least throughout this year, really, since he’s got only under two weeks for his birthday. It might as well never happen, him losing his V-card, after all, he’s not the most pleasant person to be around, the calmest, or the most joyful. He is not.
Osamu’s first reaction is… well, not moving. Just a frown that leaves Keiji staring, trying to figure out what’s going on inside his mind. Keiji looks at his face and waits for him to kick him out of the place with bated breath.
Just waits, to see.
“Ya mean ya have never been fucked before?’’ Osamu is breathless as he speaks, his voice eerily quiet.
Arming himself with some sort of false bravado, Keiji looks at him and finds Osamu’s eyes are still hooded, his pupils blown wide, and his face is so, so close.
Keiji nods, unable to say anything. His mouth feels dry like sandpaper. Shit. He should drink water or—
Osamu takes a deep breath, his hand traveling up to grab Keiji’s chin and move his face to make sure he’s looking him in the eye. Seeing his eyes somehow calms the raging storm in his own chest. “I can take good care of ya then,’’ Osamu nods eagerly, and Keiji almost shudders at the proximity, at the sincerity in his gaze, “I can take good care of ya. But it’s up to ya. Yer choice.’’ He licks his lips.
Keiji frowns. “What? My choice?’’ He tilts his head slightly, not quite processing what he’s hearing; Osamu’s thumb brushes against his chin with the motion. “So you don’t care?’’
He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Definitely not this. Who would've thought he would be getting blessed tonight? Certainly not him. Not by anything that's not Osamu's dick, certainly.
“I don’t care… in a bad way. Ya should’ve told me, before I shoved ya up a wall,’’ Osamu says, voice serious. His brows are furrowed as he shrugs and God, the muscle of his neck is much more tempting without clothes. Fingers twitching not to reach out, he tries his best to keep his hands to himself. “I don’t particularly care, as in… I don’t care about sleeping with virgins. I like ya for ya. Not because yer a virgin.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Or because yer not. But you should’ve told me…. I wouldn’t have been so rough if I had known ya were a virgin. Ya need to tell me what ya like, what ya need.’’
He looks to the side, at the table behind them, how all the tables are kind of looking out of place. Something akin to laughter and wonder bubbles up his throat.
“I like it,’’ Keiji says after a second. He nods. He gulps, his throat suddenly dry. “Rough, I mean.’’
Osamu takes in a shuddering breath. “I can do that.’’ Osamu nods eagerly, eyelashes long and tempting. “I can do that. Are you sure about this?’’
Keiji nods his affirmation and once again, Osamu throws his whole world off its axis. He grabs him by the thighs and hoists him up, warm against him where their skin touches, and Keiji… Keiji is ready for everything that comes. His hand on his thigh sets him on fire.
Osamu moves with him and Keiji kicks his boxers the rest down his leg, and it falls somewhere on the room rather unceremoniously. When the back of his legs hits against the edge of the table and he gets sprawled like a starfish over the table, Osamu hovering over him, it feels magnificent. He must make some sort of desperate noise as Osamu's hands wander over his skin, he feels an indecipherable sound leaving his mouth leaving the back of his throat, that makes note of his desperation, of his craving, that lets the world—that lets Osamu—know. Because then and there a leg presses between his and though it’s a small reprieve, it’s more than enough for him to grind against and relieve some of the pressure and fire that's licking inside him from within.
He groans, his own hands desperate for anything to take hold of. He finds Osamu’s hands and guides him, feverishly, offering him everything he can give—he takes and keeps taking every bit of skin it can touch.
Keiji’s pretty sure his cock’s hard and wet against Osamu’s stomach. His back's wet against the table with each movement.
Fingertips touch him everything, hands grabbing onto his hips, Osamu's mouth trailing new paths all over the column of his neck and his chest, on the skin of his arm.
“Have ya fingered yerself before?” Osamu’s voice rings against his ears, pulling him out of his musings. Keiji looks up and finds his face very closely. “I need to open ya up for me. If ya still want me.” He gulps.
He has. Keiji’s masturbated before, fingered himself to take a dildo, fingered himself just to explore himself. Technically, he has. He’s never fingered himself to take Osamu’s cock though. Never thought the possibility was on the table before tonight.
But, he’s always learned better through observation. He watches a behavior, memorizes it, and then mimics it. It’s easy, it’s what he’s done all his life. It’s how he learned how to play volleyball, it’s how he found a love for literature. It’s the best way, in his opinion.
Right now, it’s what he wants—to learn through watching Osamu, watching Osamu’s fingers as they bury and thrust inside him. Maybe it's the desperation or just him wanting and wanting and craving, but he finds himself saying, a little breathlessly, “I don’t know. Why don’t you show me?” before he can think better of it.
False bravado… He’s got this. Yes. He does.
Osamu swears under his breath and before he knows it, he hears the telltale click as he uncaps the bottle of lube with precision before pouring some liquid onto the tip of his forefinger and thumb. He puts his fingers up so Keiji can see as the liquid drips down his skin, and Keiji watches with rapture as he warms it up between his warm hands until he deems it good enough. Exhaling a warm, hot breath that ghosts against Keiji’s chin, he feels Osamu’s fingers ghosting down his navel, slightly wet and leaving smeared lube on its wake, as his fingers go down and down and down and down below…
A deep breath leaves his mouth at the first touch of Osamu’s rough fingers against his entrance. It’s featherlight, like he’s scared of startling him, like he's delicate. His eyes are on Keiji’s eyes once again, something warm and kind in his gaze, as he ghosts the thumb over the puckered hole and spreads the lube with care and precision. It makes his heart beat wildly against his ribcage. Keiji takes a deep breath and tenses up a little at the foreign sensation of someone else preparing to pull him apart.
“There,” Osamu breathes out, fingertip circling his hole. “Ya ready?”
“Yes.” Keiji nods, breathless as well. “I’m ready.”
He presses his finger until it goes past his ring, a hiss coming from Keiji's throat. He stops for a little until Keiji nods once again. Once his finger's inside, he moves it lightly, caressing Keiji's sensitive walls with slowness and carefulness. He soon gets used to the intrusion of one finger, Osamu making a home for himself inside him, and this part he knows, because he looks for Osamu's eyes with renewed vigor.
He finds a dark blackness, just a ring of grey looking back at him. He gulps and nods.
Osamu nods and presses another finger past the first. He thrusts in and out until Keiji's moaning from his position on the table. He picks up the pace, spreading his fingers inside him to prepare him for his cock. He hasn't touched him yet but he knows Osamu's girth is wide enough for him to need a bit more prep. It's kind of exciting, fills him with anticipation.
"Another,'' Keiji says after he gets used to the intrusion and the movements, and if it comes out more as a demand, well...
Osamu hums. He moves his fingers lightly against his walls, scissoring and then pushing his fingers together, thrusting in and out of his searing heat for what feels like hours, up until he feels like he's been spread good enough around his fingers, until Osamu deems he's ready for his cock.
Keiji's not sure he's ready himself, after all he's never been fucked before, not by Osamu's cock. It's his time to learn and observe what happens, and he's more than willing. He is.
"I think yer ready for my cock. What do ya say?'' Osamu's voice is light and sweet, and Keiji dazedly blinks up at him through his already fogged-up glasses.
"Yes. I'm good. Good for you...''
The hint of a smile on his face, Osamu leans forward and presses a kiss against his forehead, a gesture so uncharacteristically sweet that leaves him reeling for some seconds, and makes quick work of spreading the rest of the lube over his cock, and wraps his hands around his shaft, jerking up and down to make sure it’s all coated in lube for Keiji to take him.
For the first touch of Osamu’s cockhead pressing against Keiji’s hole, he more or less felt him similarly, when he felt Keiji’s fingers. It’s as grounding, pulls him to where they are now, spread over a table and about to fuck in the middle of Osamu’s restaurant—because he lives upstairs and they were too busy, too eager, too desperate to wait for a bed—with just one touch.
His cockhead lines up against his rim and he searches for Keiji’s eyes like muscle memory. Once Keiji nods, Osamu exhales and moves his hips forwards, pushes and pushes past the tight ring of muscle. Keiji’s mouth opens with the new intrusion, lips parted in a circle, and it's like his breath's being punched out of him once more, as he opens him up with his cock this time, the touch of his fingers now on the back of Keiji’s mind to make room for a more overwhelming sensation. He feels like he’s being pulled apart, like he’s being spread and laid bare in every sense of the world—by the foreign sensation that puts all his emotions on display.
Osamu’s red lips parts slightly, smeared with saliva, and Keiji says the words for him.
“I’m good. Keep moving. Just…” he breathes out, “keep moving.”
As he gets supported by the table and by Osamu’s arms, the table creaks with every thrust forward underneath him. Keiji’s sprawled over and exposed in a way he’s never been before, taking every centimeter that Osamu can give him, the pad of his finger caressing lightly over Keiji’s lip.
Osamu’s hands travel up to his side and as he puts all his weight over Keiji, as he moves and thrusts inside him with slow, measured motions, he feels like the breath’s being punched out of his lungs with every tilt of his hips. With everything he’s giving him.
He rocks against him, inside him, until their breathing becomes ragged, until Osamu’s completely inside him and he’s being stretched around his cock like he’s never been stretched before. They find a rhythm, like they did with their first kiss, touching and taking and being completely and utterly immersed in one another, until he can't think of anything else.
With each thrust, Keiji feels a bit more embarrassed as he feels his feet moving in the air, almost bonelessly. The support of the table's not enough, the table not wide enough for his long, tall figure. It’s like he’s floating and the only things tethering him to the ground are the way Osamu’s cock is seated deep inside him and the hand that’s cradling the back of his head to not get his head bump against the wood, and it's kind of both strange and absurd that he can't help but relish on the sensation of holding onto him in the most primal of ways.
The crease of Osamu’s forehead, how concentrated he looks, takes his mind off it.
Osamu picks up his pace, Keiji rocking forward against him until everything he can hear is his wild heartbeat inside his ribcage, his ragged breathing and the sound of skin slapping against skin. His stomach clenches after a few more pointed thrusts, where Osamu presses against him, the tip of his cock buried as deep as it gets. Heat spreads from his cock and he's pulsing, balls tightening at the sensation of being so close. It builds with every movement, every kiss, every word said before. A shiver goes up and up his spine until he feels it settle in his bone marrow and then, he’s seeing white. His balls tighten, and he cums rivulets of white all over his stomach. It’s not long before Osamu sees him, his lips parts, and Osamu follows him.
Perfectly observing him, memorizing, and mimicking him.
He’s breathless and sated and boneless, and surprised enough for the good experience, that he just lets himself support all his weight on the table.
Osamu moves quickly. And it’s probably some sort of divine retribution—may be the universe’s gift to him—that the table crumbles down to the ground with a thud seconds after Osamu manages to grab Keiji and pull him towards him by the wrist and holds him up against his body, as messy as they are, with cum and sweat all over their bodies, and that it doesn’t break while they were fucking over it. The table that supported them is nothing but sticks sprawled on the ground, without life and piled up.
He blinks at the image. It’s definitely something he could’ve never imagined to happen, a table breaking in his first time, or even managing to fuck someone before his birthday came, or maybe even losing his virginity to Miya Osamu of all people. It's at least not something he could’ve imagined or thought by his usual method of observing and repeating.
He’s standing naked in the middle of an Onigiri restaurant. That’s definitely something unexpected.
“Shit,’’ Osamu breathes, lips pulled into a thin line. His hands go to Keiji’s shoulders and yeah, he doesn’t shudder. Sure… “These fucking tables.’’
“Fucking tables,’’ Keiji deadpans, blinking as he can through his foggy glasses. He probably looks like a mess. But he feels light enough to say again, “Literally fucking tables.’’
It’s stupid, it’s vague. It’s definitely not the smartest thing he’s ever said. But he feels light, and Osamu’s skin against his skin has never made him feel very coherent so far, so he doesn’t think much of it.
Surprisingly, he’s not overthinking right now.
Osamu gives him a dopey smile. “Fucking tables. Literally.” He thinks for a moment and Keiji doesn’t think he’s imagining it when he sees a blush coating his cheeks. “So… would ya care to test out some other fuckin’ tables someday?” He clicks his tongue. “Maybe the ones I got for the new branch,’’ he says, tone seemingly light and inconspicuous as he averts his eyes, “In Tokyo…’’
So he is opening a Tokyo branch, huh? Keiji tries not to let the delight show on his face. He’s not sure he manages to, but he hums, raises a brow slightly, and nods.
“I know you’re not polite,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ve seen you.’’ He shifts in his place, and adds, voice lower, “I wouldn’t be opposed to that.” He blinks.
The way Osamu’s grin widens in his face is like his whole face lights up. And when he leans forward to kiss Keiji this time, Keiji can’t do anything but lean towards him, press his lips against his, and follow his lead.