FicAlert! PoT> Tumescence (Ohtori/Shishido) VERY NC-17
Title: Tumescence
Writer: Everlind
Wordcount: 5000
Pairing: Silver Pair, with a twist.
Rating: NC-17. Very, very, very NC-17.
Warnings: excessive use of 'Choutarou'. Prepare for massive confusion.
Summary: ...er, this is utterly PWP. Pure, unabashed smut abound. Only proceed if you can stomach this kinda stuff.
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: This is the porniest piece of fanfiction I have ever written.
hyakuiro I don't know if you remember, but way back when you mentioned Silver Pair threesome. Somehow. Well, here it is.
Special thanks to: nerdish and namae_nashi for being constantly awesome and patient with me.
*Special:* Number 033 'Too Much' for the Big Table of Doom
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHISHIDO RYOU YOU AWESOME AMAZING MANLY MAN YOU!!!
Tumescene
This is either a dream or a nightmare. Hard to decide.
Shishido stands looking at the both of them with a hand pressed against his mouth as though in severe pain. Well, his brain definitely is.
Will the real Ohtori Choutarou please stand up?
But they both already fucking are.
Carefully, he looks at him. Them. One arm he has wrapped around himself, protectively, hand fisted in the fabric over his ribs. The other he keeps in front of his mouth. Holding himself together. Stuff like this doesn't happen. There isn't such a thing like… a look alike that looks so alike -exactly alike- that Shishido honestly cannot tell which one is his Choutarou. And that, that makes him feel a complete and utter asshole.
Shouldn't he be able to?
Shouldn't he?
With this person. Shouldn't he?
He's known Choutarou for a decade. Longer, even. And it is him. Them. Us.
Yet no matter how long and carefully he looks, he is not able to tell which one is his Choutarou. They both seem to be. Down to their pores. There's nothing to tell them apart. Their clothing is the same: folded, creased and buttoned exactly alike. Even how the light reflects off the familiar cross is identical.
And that is not even starting on how they are both looking at him. Both of them, both able to read Shishido's face, his building dread, have disbelief etched over their features. Unable to comprehend how he can not see, not know it is him (the two of him? them? Augh!).
It's the most awful fucking thing ever.
Because how can he not? Choutarou is like a damned slab of his heart. Don't you know the person whose body is more familiar than your own not only physically but mentally? Shishido sure damn would've sworn he did.
But they see him not knowing and Shishido wants to claw at his face in frustration. The disappointment is even worse than the actual situation. Most fucked up of all? It's twofold. Goddammit.
"Shishido-san," Choutarou says (the left one, Shishido notes). "It's me."
Yes, I noticed! Shishido's brain provides in a uncharacteristically high-pitched shriek.
"No!" The other (right one) shouts, voice urgent and raw. "Don't you-" he looks at himself -his other self? the other Choutarou?? his clone???- "don't you dare!" he hisses. Then he turns to Shishido. Pleads: "Ryou. Please."
The hand clapped over his mouth presses down hard enough to bruise his lips on his teeth.
"It's me!" the first one insists. "Look at me. I-"
"No!" says the other. "I know you know it's me. I-"
-know you feel this. Us. There is no way you cannot. It's us.
He doesn't need to say this. Shishido knows. It's in his eyes. That's the worst part. He feels us when he looks into his eyes… and he also feels it when he looks into the other's eyes.
And that's just not possible.
They can't… both be Choutarou. And if they are not, then… well, neither of them is. Even if they both feel like him. Just not fucking possible.
One bright note is that the two of them seem just as creeped out by the whole 'two Choutarous' thing as he is. They keep sneaking sideways glances at one another when they're not desperately gazing at Shishido to make up his befuddled mind. Must be like looking in a mirror suffering some particularly nasty lag.
"Look," one of them says, holding up his hands. "We can't both be Ohtori Choutarou. That's just not-"
"Possible right?" the other finishes. "I know. And I know I am Ohtori Choutarou." He looks at Shishido, who makes a 'don't involve me in your existential crisis' face. Not that they'll spare him or anything. "And he knows it, too," Choutarou ends urgently. His chin lifts, but when their eyes meet they cling warm and knowing.
I've had you in my hands above me, your head thrown back with pleasure, as you moved and moved and moved and I held you and held you after, too, when you held me back.
Shishido looks away.
And into the other Choutarou's eyes. Which is a pretty shitty and bad thing to do.
Because the other, dammit, they both are -he, too-, because he knew what passed between them with that look, knew exactly what made Shishido look away. It hurt him, seeing that, because it was him, too, even while Shishido saw it in the other's eyes.
"Choutarou…" he says, mouth dry.
A thick swallow. "Do you remember the first time we kissed?" he asks.
Shishido groans and closes his eyes. That's fucking below-the-belt, in a not sexy way. Of course he does. And now he's remembering, vividly, thinking about it, how it was snowing and Shishido had forgotten his gloves and Choutarou had suggested to share his -one on Shishido's right and one on Choutarou's left- and clasp the ones in the middle for warmth. Lame much, right? But Shishido had been so stupidly head-over-heels about him that he'd agreed and his stomach had been one painful knot of longing during the whole trek home. At the door Choutarou had not let go of his hand, but used it to pull… He'd kissed Shishido then, in the snow-bright night. Soft, and a little clumsy, off-center. Between the bow of his mouth and the corner, more nervous exhale than lips. It had been everything Shishido had ever dreamt of.
Exactly the same as how Choutarou is kissing him now.
And just like then, he's too shocked to even react in any way whatsoever. Instead he just kinda uselessly stands there, noting that, hey, there's two Choutarous in the room and he's being kissed by one of them.
HOLY SHIT! one part of his brain shrieks uselessly. There's two of them, the other half purrs, knowingly. It kinda sounds like Oshitari.
Before he can even try to examine -from a distance and hiding behind the couch, cause anything sounding like Oshitari is not to be trusted- the second portal to a whole wide wicked world of Things That Suddenly Are Possible, Choutarou pulls Choutarou violently away.
Wait, what?
Yes, well. One of them has hauled the other away by the back of his shirt and is currently attempting to shake him hard enough fit to rattle the teeth out of skull. Whilst shouting the sort of obscenities Shishido would swear Choutarou doesn't even know the meaning of. Wrong again.
When he catches something along the lines of: "-ever again I will rip your liver out and use it to-"
"WHOA!" Shishido yells, shouldering between them both and using a sharp elbow to jab them apart. "No ripping, maiming or other physical crippling of any kind. Or brutal murder," he adds, just to be sure.
"He kissed you!" he breathes, low, teeth bared. Angry and anguished and putting a hand on the small of Shishido's back that shakes like dry leaves in the wind. "It's me… how can you let him when it is me?"
The hand falls away. All three of them stand there.
"I-" Shishido starts, feeling small and grubby and undeserving and horribly, fatally confused. "I can't… I know it is. You. But you is him also," he jerks his head sideways, miserable.
A shuddering intake of air, half a pained hiss. Shishido doesn't look at either of them. His mouth tingles.
"Then let me kiss you, too!" he says. No, snarls. He's never ever heard him do that. It's Choutarou. Soft, politely-spoken, kind and good Choutarou. Choutarou who insists on helping every little old lady he sees to cross. Choutarou, whose absolutely most foul curse words encompass the whole of two: damn and shit. Choutarou who blushes, still, when Shishido slides his hand down the front of his pants and whispers he likes big presents and dang, Choutarou, you're really spoiling me today. Choutarou, who never raises his voice at him in anger. Choutarou who is everything he is not, snarling.
He's noticed before that despite the differences… they're sometimes very alike, too.
A hard, violent, "No!" from the other. His hand is taken, clutching a little too tight around his palm.
Shishido hesitates. "You're both-"
But then there's fingers, which brush along his jaw before finding his chin to tip his head up -just the way it makes his knees weak. He shuts up. It's exactly the same mouth that finds his, the sensation of the connection, the shape of his mouth, the width, the grooves in his lips, the… the way he tastes. The scent, the person itself, it's familiar, it is home, it is Choutarou who is kissing him, hungry, angry, possessive, pleading and searching, using the pressure of a finger pad to coax his lips parted and then tasting Shishido there.
At first, he doesn't dare kiss back, not whilst still clasping hands with a person currently not kissing him. So Choutarou takes from him, warm slow suckling pecks that grow more demanding and moist as they build. Until Shishido's mouth parts, fully, under the onslaught and Choutarou traces his tongue along the part where his lips become slicker, more sensitive. And Shishido can only stand to yield for so long, so when Choutarou lets him, he takes back.
It only occurs to him that he's still holding the other Choutarou's hand when they break apart to breathe.
There's a thundering silence. His body forms a thread tying the impossible together: one hand wound into a shirt, the other holding a hand. Shishido has his own fingers tangled with the hand holding his, holding on hard. Just in case.
This way lies madness he thinks. Both his hands clamp down harder. He hangs his head, grits his teeth.
Behind him, where his right arm trails to, is a noise. A throat being cleared "This…" trails off into silence.
Under the fist clutching the fabric, he can feel the rumble of the answering, "This."
Something is happening. He lifts his chin an inch, suddenly desperately terrified that it'll shatter and he'll be left with the ashes. Neither of them are looking at him. Compared to them, he's short, and they're both staring over the top of his head.
At each other.
There's a moment.
Shishido feels his panic crest.
The line of tension in his arm stretched back slackens as Choutarou steps closer. Close enough he can feel the heat of him. Shishido swallows. Numbed and skittish, his confused brain is half picking up on what is about to happen. But not quite. It's impossible. Not quite. No way. Yes. Not quite, what? Yes please. He bites his bottom lip.
It's like standing in the eye of a tornado, those two having silent communication that does not include him, but is all about him. He can feel the electric force of them prick his skin into goosebumps.
One of them speaks. So near, too close suddenly. Shishido jumps.
"He's-" Silence. The familiar shy silence, just for an instant. Then it crystallizes, all sharp, solid edges.
"Yes."
Choutarou leans in. For a moment Shishido can't even tell which one is standing where and does it even matter when they're both him anyway? "Do you like this, Shishido-san?"
"Two of us."
It feels like his cheeks will catch fire. His heart hurts him -battering against his ribs, as if it'd like to drill its way out.
"Ryou?"
It should feel wrong. But the one standing behind him rests his hands on Shishido's hips and the other nudges the side of his face with his. And it just feels right, terrified though he is, simply right because they both are Ohtori Choutarou.
Lips catch against his temple when they answer, "I think he does."
They crowd him. There's heat against his front, human heat, a human body, a body that is familiar, a body he knows. And the selfsame presence is leaning into his back. His heart seems to have hit the hyper-drive to light speed.
The lips drop a little lower. They're still swollen and warm from their kiss. On Shishido's cheek they smile, "I know he does," when they press so close into him Shishido fears his heart will freak out and abandon ship.
His stupid dick is harder than a rod of iron. He fears if not his heart, his moronic penis will be the end of him.
There's no way to describe it. Choutarou is in front of him, bodily lined up, torso to torso. Feebly Shishido's hand is hanging on to the crumpled shirt. The cross, scratched and battered, lies against shining skin. Shishido sees it, dimly, while kisses are pressed against his cheekbone and jaw. There's a truly masterful erection pressing into his belly. From behind, an arm snakes around his waist. A collective hiss when it catches contact between the press of them as it passes, but Shishido was silent, eyes lidding against the more aggressive and demanding attitude of being leaned into, the body behind curving so he can feel another hard-on, pressing against the seat of his worn jeans. Lips on the back of his neck, edged with teeth.
Everything is a little hazy. His body buzzes, like he's had a drink too much. He's warm, so warm. It's hard to concentrate, his head seems a little loose, swimming with the sensations of somebody who wants him against his back and someone who wants him against his front, hard male bodies. He's being kissed, anything but his mouth. The lips are warm and dragging, almost wandering across the angle of his cheek. On his neck, they are harder, deeper.
He breathes. His mouth feels like a moist bruise.
His hand is still being held. A thumb strokes his skin, tracing a scab along his knuckles gently. Someone kisses his ear, oh damn, and he shivers. He leans, just a little, until he can feel a heartbeat. He loves that, the thrumming. And the smell. Choutarou. His stomach flutters, like the sinuous rubbing of a cat on the inside, a little lower and darker and more animistic than mere butterflies. Like this it feels like his skin is reaching for Choutarou, a taut not completely pleasant sensation that is more maddening than anything else. And with two of him, it feels like he's gonna be ripped apart.
The mouth on his neck presses towards his jaw, and Shishido's bares his neck for him, unable not to. There's a spike of tension with the both of them near his face, especially as Choutarou behind him keeps on, mouth parading a conquering path to Shishido's mouth. Mingled exhales chase across his skin. Through his lashes, he can see both Choutarous staring, hard, at one another. Possessive, sorta. But… the one in front of him lifts a hand, takes Shishido's chin and angles it so that, fuck, god fuck, the one behind him can have a taste. Offering him to the other.
And it is a taste. Slow and unabashed. More tongue curling into his mouth than kiss.
Somewhere, somehow, he's being led -backing up- through the living room. It's a tangle of hands, he can feel the scrape of fingernails through the fabric of his shirt, along his belly and it seems to rake down his spine like burning honey. Details seem far-off. Distances don't seem to match to what he thinks he knows and time seems to have come to a halt, smooth and placid like an untouched lake.
A bed.
His shirt is being unbuttoned -one, two, threefourfive. Four hands guide him. Who's who? The one that kissed him first? Does that matter, because they both have, technically. Or not. Theoretically then? He doesn't know. He doesn't care. Two palms drag over his skin (belonging to the same person, or still the same person separately?), smoothing over his thundering heartbeat before passing over his nipples. It's an acute sensation, sharp, cutting, something that seems to sizzle inwards before crawling down his spine, making him hollow his back. His lips part. They're sealed by a mouth.
Choutarou's.
His shirt slides off his arms.
Choutarou drags him onto the bed, maneuvering until he's leaning back against him as he sits against the headboard. He nuzzles the side of Shishido's throat while his hands slip down from his shoulders, drag over his nipples slow enough to make him arch and then down, down, down, until long clever fingers find him through his jeans. He works the flat of his palm over the bulge, up and down.
Meanwhile, Choutarou stands a step or two away from the bed, watching as he slowly undoes his own shirt.
This is gonna cost him his mind, Shishido knows. But, well, yeah. It's gonna be worth it.
The two of them seem to have decided they're not only both Ohtori Choutarou, but that they're one, sorta. Kinda like Shishido suspects he often wishes he could suck Choutarou off whilst fucking him and having been handed a mind-fuck (har har) of a solution. It is eerie how coordinated they suddenly seem, now that they've decided to stop squabbling for the right of identity and have settled for fucking him instead.
Kinda odd, that.
Not that Shishido is complaining. Fuck, no, not at all, not when those fingers are undoing his fly, the little ra-ta-ta of the slider working down the teeth of his zipper landing like little shocks down the length of his cock.
"He's close," Choutarou says, undoing his own fly with perfect synchrony as Shishido's is.
"Not yet," Choutarou murmurs against his ear. "Ryou, not yet."
His brain might bleed trying to keep up with this. "Knock it off," he growls.
"Hm," the torturous sensations around his crotch cease.
Shishido makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a snarl and a whine and whimper, only totally dignified and manly of course. "Fuck. You bastard," he hisses. "Fuck! Oh-"
The bed dips. When he peers through his lidded eyes, the room is lost in a misty swirl, pitifully insignificant compared to the sight of Choutarou naked, hard, sitting next to him.
Damn. Oh yeah. Choutarou is… well. He's sexy. Completely unaware of it, too. The way he sits there, not posing, every scrap of his attention on Shishido, like always. His torso is lean and strong and just right for it to match against him and suddenly Shishido wants to raise his arms and hold him, heart-to-heart. The expression is familiar, dark eyes and gentle mouth in a face made up of longer, simpler angles than his own. Straight-forward, almost. His legs are long and shapely, his erection lying at the crest of them, looking, well, dang impressive. Forever the legendary envy of the locker-room, his Choutarou.
And yet his eyes are on Shishido, first on his face, then wandering. He doesn't touch, but when his eyes linger over his nipples, a damp thumb suddenly settles to tease one, a rolling swipe. A harsh exhale escapes him and his head drops back a little. Satisfied the eyes go on, lower, down over his shivering stomach, towards the bulge in his boxers, framed by the V of his open jeans. There's a damp spot already.
Fingers dip under the waistband, touch the slickness at the head. Choutarou still doesn't touch. Despite himself, a low, throaty groan escapes him, when the hand moves, slowly spreading his own arousal down the rest of cock. Someone smiles and it isn't him. Shishido is not sobbing. Nope. Just out of breath. Dammit.
"This…" he manages, voice drawn high, "is not fair."
Teeth nip at the edge of his ear. "Isn't it?" Choutarou wonders.
Cold air hits his aching hard-on. Shishido gasps at the cruel contact, eyes flying open. The hand already there has pulled him out of his boxers, is lifting his cock, up, holding it steady so-
When a mouth slips over it, all suck and moist, living heat, Shishido blanks out for a moment as he rises nearly to his elbows, hands clamping down on the thighs at either side of him.
It is night and day. Morning and evening.
His dick is being held, at the base, pointed up so Choutarou can ease his mouth down him, slack and accepting and all seeking tongue, before drawing back up, lips dragging. And there's two hands kneading his thighs, slowly easing his jeans and boxers down. There's the soft, wet noises, the ones that are always there, but they seem indecent and so damn loud in Shishido's ears and he's so close, too close, he hurts, his skin hurts and if he doesn't come he'll unravel in all the ways he does't want to but… but… dammit, fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck him, please. Please.
One hand leaves nipples, which feels bruised and abused by the attention in that way that only feels good during sex. Instead it rest over his throat, cupping his Adam's apple, easing his head back acutely to kiss him, lopsided and open mouthed, wet tongue trailing the shape of his lips.
Choutarou says: "Stop."
All three of them gasp for air. Shishido's have little hitches at the end, voice in it with the effort. His pants seem to be gone. Vanished. Vaporized by his horniness or something. Choutarou looks up at him, lips swollen, redder than usual. His eyes are dark, black and frank as he looks up the length of Shishido's body. Lips linger at the edge of his mouth, making little soothing pecks, while the other hovers at the head of his dick, placing a little kiss, and then another.
A look is exchanged. Shishido just blinks, attempts to fight, feeling like he ought to have more control in this, he usually has. But he's at their mercy, which they don't have. A tongue drags, flat and hard from the base of his cock towards the head, tasting him, before lifting away. Now he whines, high and serrated, body lifting up from the sheets in an effort to follow.
Both of them tumble. There's an unnatural amount of limbs involved. Oh, wait. Not Choutarou. Choutarous.
This is crazy.
They put him between them, like how he was kissed into submission. At least they're all naked. He doesn't know when the other lost his clothes. They're gone. He can feel an answering erection against his own, also slick, god, damn, yes, yeah, better than anything other to feel gliding between they bellies, easing the friction. That's good. That's, damn, he likes this, Choutarou lined up skin to skin, sweat adding to the intimacy, mouths locked. Shishido knows he's sloppy, knows his teeth are too sharp to bite down, a nip to ground himself when fingers prepare him. He doesn't let go, either. If it hurts, Choutarou doesn't mind. The tip of his tongue keeps slipping along Shishido's upper lip. Under his palms he can feel the smooth, steady roll of Choutarou's body as he sways himself up and against him. He's touching Shishido's face, all reverent cradling and stroking fingers.
His sense of self is stretching thin, knowing that Choutarou is rocking against him cock-to-cock, mouth-to-mouth and all the skin and body in-between. But against his back is Choutarou, also, kissing his shoulders, the top his spine, exhaling hot and needy into the hair at the nape of his neck, adding a third finger, careful, always so careful, knowing that he'll need it to be able to stand him sliding inside.
The fourth hand is resting on his thigh.
When the curling fingers leave him, Shishido feels bereft, too small for his own skin and he thinks he says something into the mouth on his own. A soothing noise, unsteady, while Choutarou cants up harder against him, hard enough almost to drag his orgasm out of him with the raw, base feeling of a hard cock slipping on his own.
It all stops for a moment when behind him, Choutarou eases inside. It always hurts. Somehow it is less sharp, odd, but no less important to be careful, now. Two faces nearly merge as they both have their lips on his face. By now they must be finding one another's kiss on him, tasting the same. Their hair tangles, damp with sweat, darker.
His face feels wet. From their mouths, his sweat, their sweat, tears, he doesn't know. His mouth is parted, weak and vulnerable, all sharp exhales against the corner of someone's lips. It is too much. His body can't take the strain, not like this. Everything narrows down until he's barely aware of where his body begins and ends. Choutarou eases in, hard, steady, mindful. A large hand his curled in a dead-grip on his hip. It's a mindless state when a pace is set, drawing back, Shishido can feel it, the catch of his skin and the ridge of the head of his cock, the girth -leaving, but not for long, filling him again until he needs to make a noise, something useless, but a noise. A leg hooks over his, for better leverage, drawing him closer.
Shishido moves between them, forwards and back between them, between them, the both of him, Choutarou. When he can't do anything but breathe, barely, they move him, all hands and strong thighs and hips against the curve of his buttocks and a hard cock against his belly, mouth on shoulders and his cheeks, playing him with their thrusts. The heartbeat between his shoulder blades seems impossibly loud, like a drum, urging his own straggling one on, to beat up in turn to answer the one knocking at his chest.
Someone says, "Harder. Fuck him harder."
Shishido wants to say, no, please, I can't… I can't… I-
Instead he shouts, maybe a name, maybe yes. When Choutarou snaps his hips up in a hard stab, it seems to become harder, sharper, all white, white, blissful noise that is soundless, he's screaming he thinks, his mind a little shivering pinprick under the force of his approaching orgasm, knowing he's plastered between two men that are Choutarou, but still two men. Choutarou -against his front- reaches around him, slipping his hand between the both of them to frame the area where his cock is plunging into Shishido's body, to feel the act of it. He comes with that sound being ripped from him, wild and jagged as his head goes back and his body goes taut, and he feels Choutarou come, too, inside of him, too intimate, as is the feeling against his belly, a combination, all three of them.
His mind shatters, finally. He knows nothing more.
It's really morning when he opens his eyes. He can tell by how the dark is made up of quirky odd luminescent shadows spilling over the mussed sheets. A relief to finally have some sense of time, after the long misty unknown.
Shishido blinks.
His stomach feels tacky. Gee, thanks a lot. Two of them and both lazy asses. At least one of them has wiped the back of his thighs and buttocks. Still… half a job.
Carefully, anticipating some ache, he shifts. Huh. His body feels oddly… unburdened. He'd expected to hurt after that. Fabric slides smooth and soft over his naked body, but catch in the remains of his come.
Yuck.
"You're awake," Choutarou says. His voice is adorably rough and fuzzy.
Shishido turns his head on the pillow to look at him. A ten-mile wide grin sits on Choutarou's face, eyes shining as he leans on an elbow to look at him. Well then. Someone is in a good mood. He turns to look at the other one.
Gone. Bathroom?
Shishido props himself up some. "Where's the other one?" he asks. His voice is a little uncoordinated, but otherwise fine. After a cursory scan of the bedroom, Shishido makes to rise his eyebrows in enquiry.
Whoa.
That's quite a scowl.
"The other who?" Choutarou asks. His face seems to be wavering insecurely around the edges of his anger.
Scratching his hair, Shishido makes a face. "The other you," he says, slowly. "There… there were two-"
Wait.
Crap.
Fuck.
No.
Fuck. No, shit.
Whatever his face shows, it is enough to dispel Choutarou's jealousy, the sudden streak of fear. He starts to chuckle, low and disbelieving, then louder. Shishido face-palms then lifts the sheets -half-dried come or no come- and hides beneath them.
Choutarou laughs, loud and pleased and down-right flattered when he burrows after him to press a grin into Shishido's bed hair. "One of me not enough for you?" he asks.
His face burns under the stain of his blush. "Shut up!" he snarls, embarrassed. His brain has betrayed him. He wants to crawl into the ground and forget this happened. Wants to forget how Mister Ohtori Choutarou sat drolly by to watch him have a goddamn wet dream.
"Hmm…" Choutarou hums, all smiles and warm hands fishing for his face as they crawl deeper into the sheets.
It's kinda hard to breathe and musty and all fabric, but Choutarou kisses his resisting lips. "Saa, Shishido-san," he says, pressing a warm kiss to his nose. "You just have to tell me, you know, when you need mo-"
"Choutarou!" he gasps, batting at hands and wriggling as his partner crawls over him.
His body is sensitive, but Choutarou makes it a worthy, lengthy session counting for two. There's a nearly dopey grin on his face all the while, unless they're moving together. Shishido remembers to whack him over the head occasionally, when he isn't attempting to bodily merge with him.
His alarm bursts into music just as slumps forward onto Choutarou's chest, utterly wrung, spent and empty. His body feel alike a limp noodle. He kinda suspects he'll only be capable of slithering like one out of bed and then lay there, useless. Forget jogging. Further movement is impossible. There's muscles aching he wasn't even aware that he had.
Of course, this is when Pancake jowls like a banshee for breakfast.
Choutarou pets his hair absently. "That enough?" he breathes shallowly. Good, normal. There's laughter caught in his chest, tickling against Shishido's cheek where he rests it.
Sticking his head somewhere into hiding near the vicinity of Choutarou's armpit, he manages a sound that most likely is more agreement than not.
One Ohtori Choutarou is more than enough.
Really.
Stupid brain.
-fin-
Writer: Everlind
Wordcount: 5000
Pairing: Silver Pair, with a twist.
Rating: NC-17. Very, very, very NC-17.
Warnings: excessive use of 'Choutarou'. Prepare for massive confusion.
Summary: ...er, this is utterly PWP. Pure, unabashed smut abound. Only proceed if you can stomach this kinda stuff.
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: This is the porniest piece of fanfiction I have ever written.
hyakuiro I don't know if you remember, but way back when you mentioned Silver Pair threesome. Somehow. Well, here it is.
Special thanks to: nerdish and namae_nashi for being constantly awesome and patient with me.
*Special:* Number 033 'Too Much' for the Big Table of Doom
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHISHIDO RYOU YOU AWESOME AMAZING MANLY MAN YOU!!!
Tumescene
This is either a dream or a nightmare. Hard to decide.
Shishido stands looking at the both of them with a hand pressed against his mouth as though in severe pain. Well, his brain definitely is.
Will the real Ohtori Choutarou please stand up?
But they both already fucking are.
Carefully, he looks at him. Them. One arm he has wrapped around himself, protectively, hand fisted in the fabric over his ribs. The other he keeps in front of his mouth. Holding himself together. Stuff like this doesn't happen. There isn't such a thing like… a look alike that looks so alike -exactly alike- that Shishido honestly cannot tell which one is his Choutarou. And that, that makes him feel a complete and utter asshole.
Shouldn't he be able to?
Shouldn't he?
With this person. Shouldn't he?
He's known Choutarou for a decade. Longer, even. And it is him. Them. Us.
Yet no matter how long and carefully he looks, he is not able to tell which one is his Choutarou. They both seem to be. Down to their pores. There's nothing to tell them apart. Their clothing is the same: folded, creased and buttoned exactly alike. Even how the light reflects off the familiar cross is identical.
And that is not even starting on how they are both looking at him. Both of them, both able to read Shishido's face, his building dread, have disbelief etched over their features. Unable to comprehend how he can not see, not know it is him (the two of him? them? Augh!).
It's the most awful fucking thing ever.
Because how can he not? Choutarou is like a damned slab of his heart. Don't you know the person whose body is more familiar than your own not only physically but mentally? Shishido sure damn would've sworn he did.
But they see him not knowing and Shishido wants to claw at his face in frustration. The disappointment is even worse than the actual situation. Most fucked up of all? It's twofold. Goddammit.
"Shishido-san," Choutarou says (the left one, Shishido notes). "It's me."
Yes, I noticed! Shishido's brain provides in a uncharacteristically high-pitched shriek.
"No!" The other (right one) shouts, voice urgent and raw. "Don't you-" he looks at himself -his other self? the other Choutarou?? his clone???- "don't you dare!" he hisses. Then he turns to Shishido. Pleads: "Ryou. Please."
The hand clapped over his mouth presses down hard enough to bruise his lips on his teeth.
"It's me!" the first one insists. "Look at me. I-"
"No!" says the other. "I know you know it's me. I-"
-know you feel this. Us. There is no way you cannot. It's us.
He doesn't need to say this. Shishido knows. It's in his eyes. That's the worst part. He feels us when he looks into his eyes… and he also feels it when he looks into the other's eyes.
And that's just not possible.
They can't… both be Choutarou. And if they are not, then… well, neither of them is. Even if they both feel like him. Just not fucking possible.
One bright note is that the two of them seem just as creeped out by the whole 'two Choutarous' thing as he is. They keep sneaking sideways glances at one another when they're not desperately gazing at Shishido to make up his befuddled mind. Must be like looking in a mirror suffering some particularly nasty lag.
"Look," one of them says, holding up his hands. "We can't both be Ohtori Choutarou. That's just not-"
"Possible right?" the other finishes. "I know. And I know I am Ohtori Choutarou." He looks at Shishido, who makes a 'don't involve me in your existential crisis' face. Not that they'll spare him or anything. "And he knows it, too," Choutarou ends urgently. His chin lifts, but when their eyes meet they cling warm and knowing.
I've had you in my hands above me, your head thrown back with pleasure, as you moved and moved and moved and I held you and held you after, too, when you held me back.
Shishido looks away.
And into the other Choutarou's eyes. Which is a pretty shitty and bad thing to do.
Because the other, dammit, they both are -he, too-, because he knew what passed between them with that look, knew exactly what made Shishido look away. It hurt him, seeing that, because it was him, too, even while Shishido saw it in the other's eyes.
"Choutarou…" he says, mouth dry.
A thick swallow. "Do you remember the first time we kissed?" he asks.
Shishido groans and closes his eyes. That's fucking below-the-belt, in a not sexy way. Of course he does. And now he's remembering, vividly, thinking about it, how it was snowing and Shishido had forgotten his gloves and Choutarou had suggested to share his -one on Shishido's right and one on Choutarou's left- and clasp the ones in the middle for warmth. Lame much, right? But Shishido had been so stupidly head-over-heels about him that he'd agreed and his stomach had been one painful knot of longing during the whole trek home. At the door Choutarou had not let go of his hand, but used it to pull… He'd kissed Shishido then, in the snow-bright night. Soft, and a little clumsy, off-center. Between the bow of his mouth and the corner, more nervous exhale than lips. It had been everything Shishido had ever dreamt of.
Exactly the same as how Choutarou is kissing him now.
And just like then, he's too shocked to even react in any way whatsoever. Instead he just kinda uselessly stands there, noting that, hey, there's two Choutarous in the room and he's being kissed by one of them.
HOLY SHIT! one part of his brain shrieks uselessly. There's two of them, the other half purrs, knowingly. It kinda sounds like Oshitari.
Before he can even try to examine -from a distance and hiding behind the couch, cause anything sounding like Oshitari is not to be trusted- the second portal to a whole wide wicked world of Things That Suddenly Are Possible, Choutarou pulls Choutarou violently away.
Wait, what?
Yes, well. One of them has hauled the other away by the back of his shirt and is currently attempting to shake him hard enough fit to rattle the teeth out of skull. Whilst shouting the sort of obscenities Shishido would swear Choutarou doesn't even know the meaning of. Wrong again.
When he catches something along the lines of: "-ever again I will rip your liver out and use it to-"
"WHOA!" Shishido yells, shouldering between them both and using a sharp elbow to jab them apart. "No ripping, maiming or other physical crippling of any kind. Or brutal murder," he adds, just to be sure.
"He kissed you!" he breathes, low, teeth bared. Angry and anguished and putting a hand on the small of Shishido's back that shakes like dry leaves in the wind. "It's me… how can you let him when it is me?"
The hand falls away. All three of them stand there.
"I-" Shishido starts, feeling small and grubby and undeserving and horribly, fatally confused. "I can't… I know it is. You. But you is him also," he jerks his head sideways, miserable.
A shuddering intake of air, half a pained hiss. Shishido doesn't look at either of them. His mouth tingles.
"Then let me kiss you, too!" he says. No, snarls. He's never ever heard him do that. It's Choutarou. Soft, politely-spoken, kind and good Choutarou. Choutarou who insists on helping every little old lady he sees to cross. Choutarou, whose absolutely most foul curse words encompass the whole of two: damn and shit. Choutarou who blushes, still, when Shishido slides his hand down the front of his pants and whispers he likes big presents and dang, Choutarou, you're really spoiling me today. Choutarou, who never raises his voice at him in anger. Choutarou who is everything he is not, snarling.
He's noticed before that despite the differences… they're sometimes very alike, too.
A hard, violent, "No!" from the other. His hand is taken, clutching a little too tight around his palm.
Shishido hesitates. "You're both-"
But then there's fingers, which brush along his jaw before finding his chin to tip his head up -just the way it makes his knees weak. He shuts up. It's exactly the same mouth that finds his, the sensation of the connection, the shape of his mouth, the width, the grooves in his lips, the… the way he tastes. The scent, the person itself, it's familiar, it is home, it is Choutarou who is kissing him, hungry, angry, possessive, pleading and searching, using the pressure of a finger pad to coax his lips parted and then tasting Shishido there.
At first, he doesn't dare kiss back, not whilst still clasping hands with a person currently not kissing him. So Choutarou takes from him, warm slow suckling pecks that grow more demanding and moist as they build. Until Shishido's mouth parts, fully, under the onslaught and Choutarou traces his tongue along the part where his lips become slicker, more sensitive. And Shishido can only stand to yield for so long, so when Choutarou lets him, he takes back.
It only occurs to him that he's still holding the other Choutarou's hand when they break apart to breathe.
There's a thundering silence. His body forms a thread tying the impossible together: one hand wound into a shirt, the other holding a hand. Shishido has his own fingers tangled with the hand holding his, holding on hard. Just in case.
This way lies madness he thinks. Both his hands clamp down harder. He hangs his head, grits his teeth.
Behind him, where his right arm trails to, is a noise. A throat being cleared "This…" trails off into silence.
Under the fist clutching the fabric, he can feel the rumble of the answering, "This."
Something is happening. He lifts his chin an inch, suddenly desperately terrified that it'll shatter and he'll be left with the ashes. Neither of them are looking at him. Compared to them, he's short, and they're both staring over the top of his head.
At each other.
There's a moment.
Shishido feels his panic crest.
The line of tension in his arm stretched back slackens as Choutarou steps closer. Close enough he can feel the heat of him. Shishido swallows. Numbed and skittish, his confused brain is half picking up on what is about to happen. But not quite. It's impossible. Not quite. No way. Yes. Not quite, what? Yes please. He bites his bottom lip.
It's like standing in the eye of a tornado, those two having silent communication that does not include him, but is all about him. He can feel the electric force of them prick his skin into goosebumps.
One of them speaks. So near, too close suddenly. Shishido jumps.
"He's-" Silence. The familiar shy silence, just for an instant. Then it crystallizes, all sharp, solid edges.
"Yes."
Choutarou leans in. For a moment Shishido can't even tell which one is standing where and does it even matter when they're both him anyway? "Do you like this, Shishido-san?"
"Two of us."
It feels like his cheeks will catch fire. His heart hurts him -battering against his ribs, as if it'd like to drill its way out.
"Ryou?"
It should feel wrong. But the one standing behind him rests his hands on Shishido's hips and the other nudges the side of his face with his. And it just feels right, terrified though he is, simply right because they both are Ohtori Choutarou.
Lips catch against his temple when they answer, "I think he does."
They crowd him. There's heat against his front, human heat, a human body, a body that is familiar, a body he knows. And the selfsame presence is leaning into his back. His heart seems to have hit the hyper-drive to light speed.
The lips drop a little lower. They're still swollen and warm from their kiss. On Shishido's cheek they smile, "I know he does," when they press so close into him Shishido fears his heart will freak out and abandon ship.
His stupid dick is harder than a rod of iron. He fears if not his heart, his moronic penis will be the end of him.
There's no way to describe it. Choutarou is in front of him, bodily lined up, torso to torso. Feebly Shishido's hand is hanging on to the crumpled shirt. The cross, scratched and battered, lies against shining skin. Shishido sees it, dimly, while kisses are pressed against his cheekbone and jaw. There's a truly masterful erection pressing into his belly. From behind, an arm snakes around his waist. A collective hiss when it catches contact between the press of them as it passes, but Shishido was silent, eyes lidding against the more aggressive and demanding attitude of being leaned into, the body behind curving so he can feel another hard-on, pressing against the seat of his worn jeans. Lips on the back of his neck, edged with teeth.
Everything is a little hazy. His body buzzes, like he's had a drink too much. He's warm, so warm. It's hard to concentrate, his head seems a little loose, swimming with the sensations of somebody who wants him against his back and someone who wants him against his front, hard male bodies. He's being kissed, anything but his mouth. The lips are warm and dragging, almost wandering across the angle of his cheek. On his neck, they are harder, deeper.
He breathes. His mouth feels like a moist bruise.
His hand is still being held. A thumb strokes his skin, tracing a scab along his knuckles gently. Someone kisses his ear, oh damn, and he shivers. He leans, just a little, until he can feel a heartbeat. He loves that, the thrumming. And the smell. Choutarou. His stomach flutters, like the sinuous rubbing of a cat on the inside, a little lower and darker and more animistic than mere butterflies. Like this it feels like his skin is reaching for Choutarou, a taut not completely pleasant sensation that is more maddening than anything else. And with two of him, it feels like he's gonna be ripped apart.
The mouth on his neck presses towards his jaw, and Shishido's bares his neck for him, unable not to. There's a spike of tension with the both of them near his face, especially as Choutarou behind him keeps on, mouth parading a conquering path to Shishido's mouth. Mingled exhales chase across his skin. Through his lashes, he can see both Choutarous staring, hard, at one another. Possessive, sorta. But… the one in front of him lifts a hand, takes Shishido's chin and angles it so that, fuck, god fuck, the one behind him can have a taste. Offering him to the other.
And it is a taste. Slow and unabashed. More tongue curling into his mouth than kiss.
Somewhere, somehow, he's being led -backing up- through the living room. It's a tangle of hands, he can feel the scrape of fingernails through the fabric of his shirt, along his belly and it seems to rake down his spine like burning honey. Details seem far-off. Distances don't seem to match to what he thinks he knows and time seems to have come to a halt, smooth and placid like an untouched lake.
A bed.
His shirt is being unbuttoned -one, two, threefourfive. Four hands guide him. Who's who? The one that kissed him first? Does that matter, because they both have, technically. Or not. Theoretically then? He doesn't know. He doesn't care. Two palms drag over his skin (belonging to the same person, or still the same person separately?), smoothing over his thundering heartbeat before passing over his nipples. It's an acute sensation, sharp, cutting, something that seems to sizzle inwards before crawling down his spine, making him hollow his back. His lips part. They're sealed by a mouth.
Choutarou's.
His shirt slides off his arms.
Choutarou drags him onto the bed, maneuvering until he's leaning back against him as he sits against the headboard. He nuzzles the side of Shishido's throat while his hands slip down from his shoulders, drag over his nipples slow enough to make him arch and then down, down, down, until long clever fingers find him through his jeans. He works the flat of his palm over the bulge, up and down.
Meanwhile, Choutarou stands a step or two away from the bed, watching as he slowly undoes his own shirt.
This is gonna cost him his mind, Shishido knows. But, well, yeah. It's gonna be worth it.
The two of them seem to have decided they're not only both Ohtori Choutarou, but that they're one, sorta. Kinda like Shishido suspects he often wishes he could suck Choutarou off whilst fucking him and having been handed a mind-fuck (har har) of a solution. It is eerie how coordinated they suddenly seem, now that they've decided to stop squabbling for the right of identity and have settled for fucking him instead.
Kinda odd, that.
Not that Shishido is complaining. Fuck, no, not at all, not when those fingers are undoing his fly, the little ra-ta-ta of the slider working down the teeth of his zipper landing like little shocks down the length of his cock.
"He's close," Choutarou says, undoing his own fly with perfect synchrony as Shishido's is.
"Not yet," Choutarou murmurs against his ear. "Ryou, not yet."
His brain might bleed trying to keep up with this. "Knock it off," he growls.
"Hm," the torturous sensations around his crotch cease.
Shishido makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a snarl and a whine and whimper, only totally dignified and manly of course. "Fuck. You bastard," he hisses. "Fuck! Oh-"
The bed dips. When he peers through his lidded eyes, the room is lost in a misty swirl, pitifully insignificant compared to the sight of Choutarou naked, hard, sitting next to him.
Damn. Oh yeah. Choutarou is… well. He's sexy. Completely unaware of it, too. The way he sits there, not posing, every scrap of his attention on Shishido, like always. His torso is lean and strong and just right for it to match against him and suddenly Shishido wants to raise his arms and hold him, heart-to-heart. The expression is familiar, dark eyes and gentle mouth in a face made up of longer, simpler angles than his own. Straight-forward, almost. His legs are long and shapely, his erection lying at the crest of them, looking, well, dang impressive. Forever the legendary envy of the locker-room, his Choutarou.
And yet his eyes are on Shishido, first on his face, then wandering. He doesn't touch, but when his eyes linger over his nipples, a damp thumb suddenly settles to tease one, a rolling swipe. A harsh exhale escapes him and his head drops back a little. Satisfied the eyes go on, lower, down over his shivering stomach, towards the bulge in his boxers, framed by the V of his open jeans. There's a damp spot already.
Fingers dip under the waistband, touch the slickness at the head. Choutarou still doesn't touch. Despite himself, a low, throaty groan escapes him, when the hand moves, slowly spreading his own arousal down the rest of cock. Someone smiles and it isn't him. Shishido is not sobbing. Nope. Just out of breath. Dammit.
"This…" he manages, voice drawn high, "is not fair."
Teeth nip at the edge of his ear. "Isn't it?" Choutarou wonders.
Cold air hits his aching hard-on. Shishido gasps at the cruel contact, eyes flying open. The hand already there has pulled him out of his boxers, is lifting his cock, up, holding it steady so-
When a mouth slips over it, all suck and moist, living heat, Shishido blanks out for a moment as he rises nearly to his elbows, hands clamping down on the thighs at either side of him.
It is night and day. Morning and evening.
His dick is being held, at the base, pointed up so Choutarou can ease his mouth down him, slack and accepting and all seeking tongue, before drawing back up, lips dragging. And there's two hands kneading his thighs, slowly easing his jeans and boxers down. There's the soft, wet noises, the ones that are always there, but they seem indecent and so damn loud in Shishido's ears and he's so close, too close, he hurts, his skin hurts and if he doesn't come he'll unravel in all the ways he does't want to but… but… dammit, fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck him, please. Please.
One hand leaves nipples, which feels bruised and abused by the attention in that way that only feels good during sex. Instead it rest over his throat, cupping his Adam's apple, easing his head back acutely to kiss him, lopsided and open mouthed, wet tongue trailing the shape of his lips.
Choutarou says: "Stop."
All three of them gasp for air. Shishido's have little hitches at the end, voice in it with the effort. His pants seem to be gone. Vanished. Vaporized by his horniness or something. Choutarou looks up at him, lips swollen, redder than usual. His eyes are dark, black and frank as he looks up the length of Shishido's body. Lips linger at the edge of his mouth, making little soothing pecks, while the other hovers at the head of his dick, placing a little kiss, and then another.
A look is exchanged. Shishido just blinks, attempts to fight, feeling like he ought to have more control in this, he usually has. But he's at their mercy, which they don't have. A tongue drags, flat and hard from the base of his cock towards the head, tasting him, before lifting away. Now he whines, high and serrated, body lifting up from the sheets in an effort to follow.
Both of them tumble. There's an unnatural amount of limbs involved. Oh, wait. Not Choutarou. Choutarous.
This is crazy.
They put him between them, like how he was kissed into submission. At least they're all naked. He doesn't know when the other lost his clothes. They're gone. He can feel an answering erection against his own, also slick, god, damn, yes, yeah, better than anything other to feel gliding between they bellies, easing the friction. That's good. That's, damn, he likes this, Choutarou lined up skin to skin, sweat adding to the intimacy, mouths locked. Shishido knows he's sloppy, knows his teeth are too sharp to bite down, a nip to ground himself when fingers prepare him. He doesn't let go, either. If it hurts, Choutarou doesn't mind. The tip of his tongue keeps slipping along Shishido's upper lip. Under his palms he can feel the smooth, steady roll of Choutarou's body as he sways himself up and against him. He's touching Shishido's face, all reverent cradling and stroking fingers.
His sense of self is stretching thin, knowing that Choutarou is rocking against him cock-to-cock, mouth-to-mouth and all the skin and body in-between. But against his back is Choutarou, also, kissing his shoulders, the top his spine, exhaling hot and needy into the hair at the nape of his neck, adding a third finger, careful, always so careful, knowing that he'll need it to be able to stand him sliding inside.
The fourth hand is resting on his thigh.
When the curling fingers leave him, Shishido feels bereft, too small for his own skin and he thinks he says something into the mouth on his own. A soothing noise, unsteady, while Choutarou cants up harder against him, hard enough almost to drag his orgasm out of him with the raw, base feeling of a hard cock slipping on his own.
It all stops for a moment when behind him, Choutarou eases inside. It always hurts. Somehow it is less sharp, odd, but no less important to be careful, now. Two faces nearly merge as they both have their lips on his face. By now they must be finding one another's kiss on him, tasting the same. Their hair tangles, damp with sweat, darker.
His face feels wet. From their mouths, his sweat, their sweat, tears, he doesn't know. His mouth is parted, weak and vulnerable, all sharp exhales against the corner of someone's lips. It is too much. His body can't take the strain, not like this. Everything narrows down until he's barely aware of where his body begins and ends. Choutarou eases in, hard, steady, mindful. A large hand his curled in a dead-grip on his hip. It's a mindless state when a pace is set, drawing back, Shishido can feel it, the catch of his skin and the ridge of the head of his cock, the girth -leaving, but not for long, filling him again until he needs to make a noise, something useless, but a noise. A leg hooks over his, for better leverage, drawing him closer.
Shishido moves between them, forwards and back between them, between them, the both of him, Choutarou. When he can't do anything but breathe, barely, they move him, all hands and strong thighs and hips against the curve of his buttocks and a hard cock against his belly, mouth on shoulders and his cheeks, playing him with their thrusts. The heartbeat between his shoulder blades seems impossibly loud, like a drum, urging his own straggling one on, to beat up in turn to answer the one knocking at his chest.
Someone says, "Harder. Fuck him harder."
Shishido wants to say, no, please, I can't… I can't… I-
Instead he shouts, maybe a name, maybe yes. When Choutarou snaps his hips up in a hard stab, it seems to become harder, sharper, all white, white, blissful noise that is soundless, he's screaming he thinks, his mind a little shivering pinprick under the force of his approaching orgasm, knowing he's plastered between two men that are Choutarou, but still two men. Choutarou -against his front- reaches around him, slipping his hand between the both of them to frame the area where his cock is plunging into Shishido's body, to feel the act of it. He comes with that sound being ripped from him, wild and jagged as his head goes back and his body goes taut, and he feels Choutarou come, too, inside of him, too intimate, as is the feeling against his belly, a combination, all three of them.
His mind shatters, finally. He knows nothing more.
It's really morning when he opens his eyes. He can tell by how the dark is made up of quirky odd luminescent shadows spilling over the mussed sheets. A relief to finally have some sense of time, after the long misty unknown.
Shishido blinks.
His stomach feels tacky. Gee, thanks a lot. Two of them and both lazy asses. At least one of them has wiped the back of his thighs and buttocks. Still… half a job.
Carefully, anticipating some ache, he shifts. Huh. His body feels oddly… unburdened. He'd expected to hurt after that. Fabric slides smooth and soft over his naked body, but catch in the remains of his come.
Yuck.
"You're awake," Choutarou says. His voice is adorably rough and fuzzy.
Shishido turns his head on the pillow to look at him. A ten-mile wide grin sits on Choutarou's face, eyes shining as he leans on an elbow to look at him. Well then. Someone is in a good mood. He turns to look at the other one.
Gone. Bathroom?
Shishido props himself up some. "Where's the other one?" he asks. His voice is a little uncoordinated, but otherwise fine. After a cursory scan of the bedroom, Shishido makes to rise his eyebrows in enquiry.
Whoa.
That's quite a scowl.
"The other who?" Choutarou asks. His face seems to be wavering insecurely around the edges of his anger.
Scratching his hair, Shishido makes a face. "The other you," he says, slowly. "There… there were two-"
Wait.
Crap.
Fuck.
No.
Fuck. No, shit.
Whatever his face shows, it is enough to dispel Choutarou's jealousy, the sudden streak of fear. He starts to chuckle, low and disbelieving, then louder. Shishido face-palms then lifts the sheets -half-dried come or no come- and hides beneath them.
Choutarou laughs, loud and pleased and down-right flattered when he burrows after him to press a grin into Shishido's bed hair. "One of me not enough for you?" he asks.
His face burns under the stain of his blush. "Shut up!" he snarls, embarrassed. His brain has betrayed him. He wants to crawl into the ground and forget this happened. Wants to forget how Mister Ohtori Choutarou sat drolly by to watch him have a goddamn wet dream.
"Hmm…" Choutarou hums, all smiles and warm hands fishing for his face as they crawl deeper into the sheets.
It's kinda hard to breathe and musty and all fabric, but Choutarou kisses his resisting lips. "Saa, Shishido-san," he says, pressing a warm kiss to his nose. "You just have to tell me, you know, when you need mo-"
"Choutarou!" he gasps, batting at hands and wriggling as his partner crawls over him.
His body is sensitive, but Choutarou makes it a worthy, lengthy session counting for two. There's a nearly dopey grin on his face all the while, unless they're moving together. Shishido remembers to whack him over the head occasionally, when he isn't attempting to bodily merge with him.
His alarm bursts into music just as slumps forward onto Choutarou's chest, utterly wrung, spent and empty. His body feel alike a limp noodle. He kinda suspects he'll only be capable of slithering like one out of bed and then lay there, useless. Forget jogging. Further movement is impossible. There's muscles aching he wasn't even aware that he had.
Of course, this is when Pancake jowls like a banshee for breakfast.
Choutarou pets his hair absently. "That enough?" he breathes shallowly. Good, normal. There's laughter caught in his chest, tickling against Shishido's cheek where he rests it.
Sticking his head somewhere into hiding near the vicinity of Choutarou's armpit, he manages a sound that most likely is more agreement than not.
One Ohtori Choutarou is more than enough.
Really.
Stupid brain.
-fin-