Distraction [Wild Adapter, PG-13]
Distraction
Wild Adapter // Kubota/Tokitoh, PG-13
1164 words
Games and playing them. Kubota can never resist amusing things. For darknightrain's Minekura kink meme.
When Tokitoh played video games, he became something very interesting. He was never a gamer who totally went away, zoned out into some meditative state. Kubota did that; he had a lot of practice from when he’d hole up for days in his apartment, slumped back on the couch learning to beat a game until the sun rose. No one at the Izumokai could absent himself enough to learn that way--there was too much going on, too much yelling, too much attention, too much of everything. They all tried in a way that betrayed how they were as little boys, how young they still were in that they loved games. They tried, but they failed, and Kubota always beat them.
He liked to watch Tokitoh play because he was vocal about it. He had a running commentary that mostly consisted of disjointed, angry curses and cries of triumph. He furiously pounded away at buttons in a funny, graceless way, and he rocked forward on his perch, so intent on the TV that he looked like he was going to fall. His little unconscious mannerisms shone, like how he curled his toes when he was so close to winning, or how he gnawed at his lip when he was really irritated.
So when Tokitoh played video games, Kubota sat and watched him, and sometimes it was worthwhile, like when Kubota played a game of his own. Tokitoh was the best sort of entertainment.
Kubota trailed the tips of his fingers over the back of Tokitoh’s neck, his touch feather-light. Tokitoh didn’t look at him, but he glared fiercely at the TV, like it might burst into flames if he did it hard enough. “I hate you,” he muttered, trying to twist out of reach as he clumsily mashed buttons. “Don’t do this to me, Kubo-chan.” On screen, his player-character took a vicious uppercut and went flying. Tokitoh swore.
“Do what?” Kubota said, scooting a little closer. He moved like he was going to reach an arm around Tokitoh, and Tokitoh shot him a furious look and squirmed away. Kubota settled for leaning against his arm on the back of the couch. “I’m not actually...doing anything.”
“Like hell you aren’t,” Tokitoh hissed, dodging a hit from the other fighter. “I’m so--” he made a little agonized sound as his enemy started throwing blades. “Shit. I’m--fuck--so close in this, and you--”
“Watching.” Kubota eased closer. He glanced at the TV. “You’re losing.”
“Shut up.”
“If you don’t use the special attack--there--you missed it. You’ve lost.”
“Shut--augh. No--” Tokitoh’s toes curled under, and he leaned forward, his brow knit. Kubota enjoyed the line of his profile, the intense light in his eye and the fall of his bangs over his cheeks...and then he closed the distance between them and ran his tongue along the soft flesh of Tokitoh’s neck just below his ear.
Tokitoh jerked back, throwing all his weight against the back of the couch. When the couch tipped over, Tokitoh gave a little yelp and tried to scramble away, but the whole thing hit the floor in a tumble of limbs and blankets. Kubota grabbed him and held him close, his fingers wrapped around hard lines of bone and muscle, and he could feel the thud-thud-thud of Tokitoh’s heart against him. They were tangled together, Tokitoh’s elbows digging into Kubota’s collarbones and his knees somewhere behind Kubota’s head, and when Tokitoh rolled upright, Kubota was looking at him upside-down, and Tokitoh’s hair was tousled and sticking up all over, like he’d slept on it.
“That was dirty,” he said, his voice accusing. His hands were planted on Kubota’s shoulders, his knees on either side of Kubota’s head.
Kubota blinked up at him and made a hmm? sound. “What does Tokitoh know about dirty things?” he murmured, and had the awful satisfaction of a bright flush washing over Tokitoh’s cheeks.
“You’re stupid,” Tokitoh muttered, sitting back on his heels, still blushing. “And you made me lose my game,” he complained. “I bet the controller got yanked out, too....” He started to climb up over the seat of the couch, peering around for the controller, and as he did, his shirt rode up, revealing a stretch of skin. Kubota reached up and ran his fingers over Tokitoh’s ribs and was rewarded with a reflexive jerk and an ungainly squawk as he hit a ticklish nerve. Tokitoh rocked back, narrowly missed kicking Kubota in the head, and Kubota grabbed at his wrist and pulled him down to sprawl on the floor.
Before Tokitoh could do anything, Kubota slung his weight over him, trapping his legs. Tokitoh made an exasperated sound and covered his eyes, muttering, “You are so irritating sometimes.” Kubota didn’t answer, but he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Tokitoh’s stomach, sliding one hand up the inside of his leg. He could feel the tightening of Tokitoh’s stomach muscles, hear the little groan that slipped past Tokitoh’s lips as his hand ghosted over the front of his jeans, and Kubota smiled.
Nothing ever changed, or so Kubota liked to think. He had a cat, a funny little thing that hissed and scratched and--when touched correctly--completely bellyrolled, no matter how reluctant he was in the beginning. Tokitoh touched and grasped, lifting his hips and arching his back in a way that looked a bit like a dream. Kubota pressed his fingers against Tokitoh’s shoulder blades, those wings of jutting bone so sharp they could cut him, and he had to be careful, so careful with his timing--because if he leaned down and pulled at the cuff of Tokitoh’s glove with his teeth too soon, then things really would change, and he would have ruined them all. But when he got it right Tokitoh would barely notice, except the tension would just melt out of him, and when he came, his bright eyes would shut and he would breathe Kubota’s name and his cat’s hand would be right there with his human one, and it would be okay.
Later, Tokitoh was still complaining that Kubota was stupid. He had different ways of saying it, and each time, he meant something different, sometimes something new. He could scream it in fury, or he just breathe it against Kubota’s skin in a sort of resigned way, even as he buried his face in Kubota’s hair and clung to Kubota’s neck. He liked to say it. It could mean so many things.
He never reached that weird meditative state, he never zoned out. Tokitoh was always there, his sharp eyes focused on something. He glared, he hissed, his little kitten claws scratched red lines over skin. And Kubota smiled and said, Yes, yes, and things really were okay, and he knew that it by the way Tokitoh’s fingers spread and pressed against Kubota’s chest, pulsing warmth against his skin in time with his heart.
Wild Adapter // Kubota/Tokitoh, PG-13
1164 words
Games and playing them. Kubota can never resist amusing things. For darknightrain's Minekura kink meme.
When Tokitoh played video games, he became something very interesting. He was never a gamer who totally went away, zoned out into some meditative state. Kubota did that; he had a lot of practice from when he’d hole up for days in his apartment, slumped back on the couch learning to beat a game until the sun rose. No one at the Izumokai could absent himself enough to learn that way--there was too much going on, too much yelling, too much attention, too much of everything. They all tried in a way that betrayed how they were as little boys, how young they still were in that they loved games. They tried, but they failed, and Kubota always beat them.
He liked to watch Tokitoh play because he was vocal about it. He had a running commentary that mostly consisted of disjointed, angry curses and cries of triumph. He furiously pounded away at buttons in a funny, graceless way, and he rocked forward on his perch, so intent on the TV that he looked like he was going to fall. His little unconscious mannerisms shone, like how he curled his toes when he was so close to winning, or how he gnawed at his lip when he was really irritated.
So when Tokitoh played video games, Kubota sat and watched him, and sometimes it was worthwhile, like when Kubota played a game of his own. Tokitoh was the best sort of entertainment.
Kubota trailed the tips of his fingers over the back of Tokitoh’s neck, his touch feather-light. Tokitoh didn’t look at him, but he glared fiercely at the TV, like it might burst into flames if he did it hard enough. “I hate you,” he muttered, trying to twist out of reach as he clumsily mashed buttons. “Don’t do this to me, Kubo-chan.” On screen, his player-character took a vicious uppercut and went flying. Tokitoh swore.
“Do what?” Kubota said, scooting a little closer. He moved like he was going to reach an arm around Tokitoh, and Tokitoh shot him a furious look and squirmed away. Kubota settled for leaning against his arm on the back of the couch. “I’m not actually...doing anything.”
“Like hell you aren’t,” Tokitoh hissed, dodging a hit from the other fighter. “I’m so--” he made a little agonized sound as his enemy started throwing blades. “Shit. I’m--fuck--so close in this, and you--”
“Watching.” Kubota eased closer. He glanced at the TV. “You’re losing.”
“Shut up.”
“If you don’t use the special attack--there--you missed it. You’ve lost.”
“Shut--augh. No--” Tokitoh’s toes curled under, and he leaned forward, his brow knit. Kubota enjoyed the line of his profile, the intense light in his eye and the fall of his bangs over his cheeks...and then he closed the distance between them and ran his tongue along the soft flesh of Tokitoh’s neck just below his ear.
Tokitoh jerked back, throwing all his weight against the back of the couch. When the couch tipped over, Tokitoh gave a little yelp and tried to scramble away, but the whole thing hit the floor in a tumble of limbs and blankets. Kubota grabbed him and held him close, his fingers wrapped around hard lines of bone and muscle, and he could feel the thud-thud-thud of Tokitoh’s heart against him. They were tangled together, Tokitoh’s elbows digging into Kubota’s collarbones and his knees somewhere behind Kubota’s head, and when Tokitoh rolled upright, Kubota was looking at him upside-down, and Tokitoh’s hair was tousled and sticking up all over, like he’d slept on it.
“That was dirty,” he said, his voice accusing. His hands were planted on Kubota’s shoulders, his knees on either side of Kubota’s head.
Kubota blinked up at him and made a hmm? sound. “What does Tokitoh know about dirty things?” he murmured, and had the awful satisfaction of a bright flush washing over Tokitoh’s cheeks.
“You’re stupid,” Tokitoh muttered, sitting back on his heels, still blushing. “And you made me lose my game,” he complained. “I bet the controller got yanked out, too....” He started to climb up over the seat of the couch, peering around for the controller, and as he did, his shirt rode up, revealing a stretch of skin. Kubota reached up and ran his fingers over Tokitoh’s ribs and was rewarded with a reflexive jerk and an ungainly squawk as he hit a ticklish nerve. Tokitoh rocked back, narrowly missed kicking Kubota in the head, and Kubota grabbed at his wrist and pulled him down to sprawl on the floor.
Before Tokitoh could do anything, Kubota slung his weight over him, trapping his legs. Tokitoh made an exasperated sound and covered his eyes, muttering, “You are so irritating sometimes.” Kubota didn’t answer, but he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Tokitoh’s stomach, sliding one hand up the inside of his leg. He could feel the tightening of Tokitoh’s stomach muscles, hear the little groan that slipped past Tokitoh’s lips as his hand ghosted over the front of his jeans, and Kubota smiled.
Nothing ever changed, or so Kubota liked to think. He had a cat, a funny little thing that hissed and scratched and--when touched correctly--completely bellyrolled, no matter how reluctant he was in the beginning. Tokitoh touched and grasped, lifting his hips and arching his back in a way that looked a bit like a dream. Kubota pressed his fingers against Tokitoh’s shoulder blades, those wings of jutting bone so sharp they could cut him, and he had to be careful, so careful with his timing--because if he leaned down and pulled at the cuff of Tokitoh’s glove with his teeth too soon, then things really would change, and he would have ruined them all. But when he got it right Tokitoh would barely notice, except the tension would just melt out of him, and when he came, his bright eyes would shut and he would breathe Kubota’s name and his cat’s hand would be right there with his human one, and it would be okay.
Later, Tokitoh was still complaining that Kubota was stupid. He had different ways of saying it, and each time, he meant something different, sometimes something new. He could scream it in fury, or he just breathe it against Kubota’s skin in a sort of resigned way, even as he buried his face in Kubota’s hair and clung to Kubota’s neck. He liked to say it. It could mean so many things.
He never reached that weird meditative state, he never zoned out. Tokitoh was always there, his sharp eyes focused on something. He glared, he hissed, his little kitten claws scratched red lines over skin. And Kubota smiled and said, Yes, yes, and things really were okay, and he knew that it by the way Tokitoh’s fingers spread and pressed against Kubota’s chest, pulsing warmth against his skin in time with his heart.