Work Text:
“Ngggh.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Yer– damn.”
“Yup.”
“Ya did not just ‘yup’ me while yer inside me.”
“Yup. You’re so tense, Crow-chan~”
“Why don’cha shut it already and fix that?”
And just like that, the slow drag that’s been melting his gray matter grinds to an even slower stop. His eyes pop open as Otoya sits up, resting an elbow on one of Karasu’s spread knees and planting his chin on it. “If you’re gonna be a jerk I‘m not gonna fuck you.”
Now, Karasu’s never been unaware of Otoya’s status as fuckboy incarnate, but seriously, where does this idiot get off acting like this with his whole dick in a guy? “I didn’t ask ya to.” He snips, and doesn’t think about how mediocre that sounds, nor how this is basically the same spat they had on the pitch the other day, minus the whole dick-inside-him part.
Otoya remains just as unaffected now, rolling his eyes and extending his bent arm, pushing Karasu’s thighs further apart and angling himself back up into position.
“You said you needed to blow off some steam before you could sleep,” He says in that soft, unbothered monotone of his, curving his body over Karasu and sinking just that tiniest bit deeper. “I know what that means, Crow. We’ve only been shacking up together for two months.”
Karasu’s stomach clenches, the tension threaded through the core of him stoked, shivering. That’s the reason his breath flees him in a rushed gasp, definitely not the coy way Otoya noses at the junction of his jaw and ear, the way he knows just winds him up more.
“Yer such a dick.” He grits back, feeling himself heat, because letting things go gracefully is a skill issue.
“Like you’re gonna go ask for it from someone else.”
And that– there's really no way for Karasu to defend that. Otoya snaps his hips as if to prove the point, and Karasu’s body shudders, his tense lines and bruised ego making nice real fast. They’d called their partnership a relationship of convenience but it’s just that there's no one he can stand to touch him like this, when he gets like this, except Otoya. No one else he can trust.
Otoya thrusts again and he groans, digging his nails into his partner’s shoulder, and finds all his complaints starve themselves behind the gritted line of his teeth.
“Just hurry up. I don’t wanna be ass-out when Shidou gets back.”
Otoya mutters something to the tune of not like he’s gonna care, but sighs, “Aye, aye, capitan.” propping himself up over Karasu. His head tilts down as Karasu’s tips back, their gazes brushing for a heady, heated moment. And then Karasu closes his eyes, relinquishing himself to what comes next.
Otoya maintains the slow pace they started with, deep and even, no surprises. Easy for Karasu to predict, acclimate to. And his touches keep him grounded, dancing over his cheek, his chest, knuckles skimming ribs before unfolding to cradle his side. Karasu gets locked in against his body, enrapt in each slick, seamless roll of hips, the brush of their stomachs, all the places their bare skin colludes. Otoya had stripped him down the moment he got hands on him; striking weakness is usually Karasu's thing, but some part of him can’t help preening about it. Not just good enough to fuck, but good enough to get naked.
Good enough ain’t ever enough to get by. Not back in Osaka, and sure as shit not here in Blue Lock.
It’s a cold comfort in its certainty, but a comfort nonetheless. There ain't a lot that's certain in this world, but somehow this has become something he can rely on now too.
He just needed it– well maybe not it, not dick precisely, not Otoya’s dick at the very least, but he needed this. A release. A damn break. A minute or ten to turn his brain off and just let his body feel something that wouldn't have irreparable consequences for his future, or his ability to cooperate with thirty-four other psychopaths that a normal, mediocre guy like himself didn't have a chance in hell against but had fooled them all into believing anyway.
It’s why he always lets– goes to– Otoya for this. He ain't gotta overthink it. He ain't gotta think at all. Otoya is a mix of unmixable qualities, perceptive and oblivious, reliable and careless, not a serious thought in his dumb head yet he levels with Karasu without breaking a sweat, their chemistry here as natural as it is on the field. And for a guy that had ostensibly been straight two months ago, he doesn't bat an eye at a hard dick, doesn't flinch away when Karasu touches him back.
Though maybe, that bitter, realistic part of Karasu loves to caw from atop the headboard, a hand’s a hand, and a hole's a hole–
“Hey, you’re tensing up again.”
Karasu grunts, dropping back into his skin, suddenly aware of the tension coiling anew within his limbs. “Sorry, didn’t mean ta–”
A hand sneaks up the back of his neck, and he cuts off, ambushed by the kiss Otoya suddenly drops on his shoulder. Heat arches his spine, and Otoya keeps his lips pressed there, fingers tangling into the long strands of his shower-damp hair, breathing slow and easy against his body, steady like he meant to give it to Karasu.
“Take what you need. I got you.”
And this is prolly why all the girls can’t get enough of this guy. Karasu feels himself catch, smolder and burn. Ain't like I’m much better.
Ball’s in his possession now, so he takes it and runs. He rolls his hips, pushing up, chasing friction as Otoya thrusts forward, following him through it. “‘Toya…” slips from his mouth, and he mmhmms to his throat, all that needs to be said. Long fingers wrap around his cock and Karasu nearly whines from it, the white-hot shock it sends through his blood.
“Tighter…” He rasps, shameless, fucking into that hand.
Otoya tilts his head, the side of his nose brushing Karasu’s as he tilts them together, and Otoya is all he sees, so close it couldn’t be called eye contact anymore. They exchange a single gasp of air, all that can fit between their mouths that don’t quite touch, a boundary they haven’t dared cross. One they just might crash and burn into anyways.
The fist around him squeezes, dragging heavy off him as Otoya thrusts into him. It’s just what he needs, exactly what Karasu’s wants, pleasure warming his guts as tears warm his eyes. Otoya is still with him as he blinks them away, the edge of his dagger-sharp gaze gone hazy, affected, and he twists it around himself, that look, as the hard knot at the center of him quivers, begging to be undone.
“ ‘M close…” He mutters into his cheek, eyes squeezing shut, a moment’s relief from everything he feels. “Ya might– hah, wanna lay off fer a sec,”
He means it in that there’s about to be a hell of a mess if he doesn't move. Saying it for the sake of saying it because he doesn’t wanna ruin the mood is Otoya ain’t there himself yet. But Otoya only speeds up, pulling away to bury his head in the muscle of Karasu’s shoulder, the coarse bob of his bleached hair scratching Karasu’s neck, and he wonders if it even matters, what he said.
The hard line of the abyss nears, of finally letting go, and somehow that’s what puts him there, warm skin and dry fucking hair. He goes over.
And he knows, in this and all things it feels like now, Otoya’s got him.
He gasps when it hits, the first wave like crashing through a plane of glass, shattering into the next, the next. Each subsequent rush tearing at the threads wound tight in his chest, his stomach, his head, a miraculous unwinding as gravity has its way. The hand on his neck is firm, and the hand on him doesn't flinch away, doesn't stop for a second.
And then all at once, the cord holding him together snaps. Karasu collapses back, spots dancing in his vision, the relief almost dizzying.
He thinks he might pass out, but the bed creaks as a shadow draws near. “Better?” Otoya whispers smugly, nosing at his ear. His shadow.
“Yeah.”
“Gonna bite my head off if I keep going?”
He feels as hips rotate in lazy circles against him, Otoya’s need still heavy and hard inside him. Following his lead, waiting for the call, same as always. “No,” Karasu rasps. And he then wraps his arms around his partner’s shoulders, drawing him back in. “Give it ta me.”
His legs are shaking by the time Otoya goes sloppy, losing his rhythm. But he toughs it out, pliant and good until the very end. Otoya pulls out and finishes on Karasu’s stomach, the spill quick and hot. And then it’s over.
Otoya sinks atop him, and for a moment they only breathe into each other, chest to chest in the come down. When he starts to get up, Karasu tightens an arm, returning Otoya with an oof.
The cold breath of a quiet laugh brushes his heated neck. “What about Shidou?”
“In a minute.”
It’s probably several minutes, but eventually Otoya does manage to slip away. He’s back before Karasu has a chance to miss him though, returning to Karasu’s bed with a towel and someone’s water bottle– which of theirs, anyone's guess. They’ve swapped spit enough times from just this, Karasu muses to himself as Otoya wipes them down. Two months of indirect kisses, here and gone like that.
When he's done Otoya balls the towel up and hurls it at the laundry hamper. It misses.
Karasu snickers. Otoya groans, but instead of going for it he just turns and throws himself back over Karasu like a lean, sweaty blanket. He huffs but doesn't shove him off, letting their limbs fall where they may, and decides to let the comfortable weight of Otoya hold him down a little bit longer. Just for now.
“Thanks.” Karasu tells him after a while, lost in raking his nails through Otoya’s undercut. The green is always so surprisingly soft compared to the white, splitting easily around his calloused fingers.
His partner hums from the hollow of Karasu’s throat, sleepy and satisfied, and bonks Karasu’s chin with his forehead like a huge house cat.
“Anytime.”