And Let Me Take Care of You (Arashi)
Title: And Let Me Take Care of You
Pairing: Aiba x Nino
Rating: NC-17 ('das right)
Summary: A continuation of "Take Care of Me" by ames_909. I said jokingly that I wanted someone to write the next part where Nino and Aiba have hot socky!Nino sex. Somehow I was coerced into it. This is also reason #374621 why I shouldn't write smut.
"Oi, you forgot to clean up the place for me," Nino informed the tousled mess of brown hair peeking out from beneath the blanket. He crouched down beside Aiba's head and freed one hand to poke at him. "I'll let it slide this time, but you're not getting off that easy. You hear me?" He took Aiba's silence as a yes and stood up, trying not to smile. "Good."
Aiba's cheeks were hidden by the blanket, a soft, warm rose colour that echoed through muted hues in the fabric and pulsed against the faintly stitched daises. He took a breath--in, then out, quiet, quiet, relaxing and calm: before his eyes flashed the images of a dream, the easy, comforting storyboards of a reality he wished to belong in, a world that didn't seem so strange. It was a world where he would be important and remembered, well-loved and easy to get along with, and the sky might be purple or even orange--Nino was in this world too, hot and panting and--no, no, there was a castle and floating cars and animals that could speak any language, an apartment that had no keys and a washing machine that didn't cost money--and there was a Nino who seduced Aiba late at night, who came out of the bath dripping wet and flushed, eyes focused in a way that just screamed for his body to be violated--no, no no, it was more like--like airplanes could fly into the stars-- like, like Nino could be handcuffed to the bed, like--
"Nino," he finally burst out, though in retrospect it wasn't as dramatic as he had hoped, with a voice raw from sleep and face huddled against the arm of the sofa. He swallowed, and tried again.
"Nino."
It came out as more of a whisper, dark and heated and oh, okay, maybe Aiba was thinking a little too hard about all this, and it was really too early to be doing anything--
"Nino," Aiba repeated, and managed to open one eye, blinking to stay in focus. "Nino, Nino-chan? Nino..."
He heard the giggle ring in his ears like a bell, like the sound of doomsday, or perhaps just the pleasant ding of an elevator as it settles onto the right floor. Maybe he was just imagining things.
(Maybe I should open both eyes, Aiba grumbled to himself, though made no effort to do so yet.)
"Yeah?" Nino asked, bemused, half-turned towards the kitchen. There was a bowl in his hands, which Aiba noticed in thankful relief--that meant he still had an appetite, which meant it was probably only a simple cold, which meant Nino was perfectly fine and ready for more strenuous activities, like soccer or tennis or oral--
Aiba jerked against the sofa and laughed, awkwardly.
"Nino," He said again, and there, his other eye opened, chin now propped up against the armrest. "Nino, you're only wearing socks and underwear."
"Yeah," Nino replied, seemingly unamused and seemingly unaffected. "What of it?"
(I want you. I want you I want you I want you I want you make me stop wanting you.)
"Are you cold?" Aiba asked, soft and even, because through the veil of his bangs he could see the tensing of Nino's chest, the easy rise and fall that he had felt only hours earlier, as if he had been holding Nino for a reason, or that he had been the reason for Nino's breath.
"Nino," Aiba gasped, chest shuddering with the effort to hold back his newfound (and rather frightening) desire.
It didn't work.
He couldn't exactly place what happened: maybe Nino tripped over his own pile of crumpled dirty clothes, or maybe Aiba sat up too quickly, maybe they were both idiots and maybe they were both about to do something terribly and deliciously wrong--he couldn't exactly place what happened, but somehow, there was an overturned bowl of food on the sofa and a hardly clothed Nino in Aiba's lap.
(Heart, meet my throat, he stammered.)
"Is this okay?" Aiba asked, voice full of restraint. He felt like he was out to sea with no life vest--he felt chilly and sunken and unprepared. The cold tingled in his fingers, like the feel of a bubbling tea kettle, where the heat is so intense it feels like dry ice, steamy and iridescent.
"This is why I gave you a key in the first place," Nino mouthed--Aiba felt it rather than heard it; those lips were against the bulge in his throat, nipping and teasing.
Aiba swallowed.
It took him very little time to push Nino against the bottom of the couch--it took even less time to pull his shirt off over his head, where it disappeared into the messy pile of Nino's dirty clothes bearing witness on the ground. The cushions of the sofa were dark blue and ripped in some places: it was clear Nino had tried to patch them up, or someone had, but the result was the strange indent of stitching into his palm, and the blur of colour around Nino's hair, which lay tangled against his face. Aiba took in a breath--and couldn't let it out.
"--Aiba-chan," Nino murmured, hands against Aiba's narrow, bare shoulders, "Oi, hey, stay with me here, pay attention."
(Pay attention, Aiba repeated, like that's really a problem.)
His hands were traveling across Nino's body at an unknown speed, and really, he didn't care what it was anyway--world records or ideas for experiments were far from his mind, and the only thing he could think of was Nino's face and Nino's skin and Nino's nipples and the way his fingers were curled in against his skin, getting sharper and sharper and okay, maybe that hurt a little, Nino's arms were way too tense and his face was turning pink; there were too many things he wanted to do and too many things to see at once--Aiba felt a little cheated, like this should be video taped or something: then he could just press rewind; he could watch Nino's chin quiver with a moan, or see the shaking of his eyelids, or observe the soft velvet of his socks digging into the sofa cushions in an effort to keep from fidgeting.
"Does it feel good?" Aiba asked smugly. His fingers, long and arched, pressed down against Nino's chest, tracing the indents, thumbing the muscles and the dark circle of Nino's right nipple--a strangled gasp punched the air above his head, and Aiba couldn't help but smirk a little, distracted and aroused by the sheer power he had over Nino, who always teased him and poked him and ridiculed him without a second thought.
"Does it?" he asked again, lips a light quiver to Nino's collarbone. Down and down, his kisses fell, like autumn leaves or the icy brush of snow, apparent but not really; obvious, but not really.
Two of his fingers cradled Nino's chin, dancing up against the skin, holding him in place for a moment--he received nothing save the pulsing heat of labored breath, and his nails pinched the edge of Nino's lower lip, pushing his jaw down, easing his lips further apart.
"Take them," Aiba murmured, a gentle command, though his mind was reeling and his need was really quite obvious and it took way too much will power to keep from ripping Nino's boxers off and taking him dry.
But his focus was easily switched, despite all previous frustration: Nino's tongue was against his fingers, pulling him in, raking his teeth across his knuckles and oh god that would probably feel horrible but just the thought of Nino's tongue against him and Nino's saliva and the way his lips fit so snug against his digits, raw and warm, and the way his tongue knew just where to go, like--like Nino was already between his legs and like he was being engulfed in the misty heat of his mouth--
Aiba was too needy: his fingers were gorging down Nino's throat, pushing and pushing, like the eager pulse of a mother bird, or the automation of a mechanic arm. Further and further he tried, with eyes closed and mind open, with thoughts flying in and out of his head and the fervor of his imagination sending blasts of hot, boiling blood past his stomach. He pushed, and Nino made a sort of gurgling noise, coughing and trying desperately to hold on, to swallow, but there was nothing there-- saliva dribbled down past his lips, and Aiba felt it against his palm, moist and almost cold.
"Sorry," he managed, and withdrew a little. "Sorry, let me make it up to you."
Nino was clearly expecting something then, because his eyes were flared, bubbling past his eyelashes and searing Aiba with the touch of a hot iron. He ghosted a smile: okay, maybe he was feeling a little desperate, but he was still giving, he was still willing to participate--
Aiba's free hand worked between them, snapping at the buttons on the front of Nino's boxers, pushing the folded fabric away hurriedly. He didn't have time to mess with the way it was supposed to go. He didn't even have time to keep from ripping the seam--he weaseled his hand into the apex of Nino's boxers and found the warmth he was expecting, erect and impatient.
"Shh," Aiba murmured, because he felt Nino's mouth tense; he felt those eyes on him, round and surprised, like this wasn't really what was supposed to happen, like Nino didn't think it would really come this far.
But he should know, Aiba thought as his hand worked awkwardly in the tight space of Nino's underwear, wrist twisted with each subtle jerk: he should know it's going to go much further than this.
Nino's mouth gave way to a moan--his clamp on Aiba's fingers was suddenly released, giving way to the mixture of cold air and Nino's hot breath, his tongue flat and dormant, as if waiting for something more to happen. Aiba's fingers curled tighter, carefully watching for any sign of distress, and the soft cotton of Nino's boxers stretched unwillingly against the back of his hand, like it didn't want to allow him the room to truly complete his task: it didn't want to allow him the pleasure of running his hand up the entirety of Nino's length, feeling the pulse of blood beneath the skin.
"Oh--oh god," Nino choked around the fingers in his mouth, and Aiba leaned sideways into the couch, trying to find a good position, but nothing was working at all; he was drinking up Nino's body and the way it arched, the way it moved up from the sofa as if possessed, like it wanted to be closer to him, to feel the pulse of the body that controlled the outlet of his pleasure.
Something in his body nagged at him and gave him a sharp pang of desire, reminding him, reprimanding him, a quick rush of blood and Aiba gasped, grip tightening unconsciously. Nino's voice snapped. Aiba loosened up in automatic shame, shifting to hover over Nino's strained face.
"Kazu," he whispered, and felt a strange flood of feeling at the use of such an intimate name. He liked the way it rolled of his tongue; he liked how boyish it sounded, how personal and intruding. "Kazu, I need a condom, where are your condoms.."
There was a brief, random gesture--Aiba almost thought Nino wasn't really paying attention, he just wanted his weight off him, and so he gave a curt nod, a soft, muted kiss to Nino's nose, and his hand was gone, his body was gone--Nino almost whimpered, but Aiba wouldn't let himself be fooled by it, he wouldn't let himself be taken by Nino and the sweat that bundled up near his eyebrows, the hazy, impatient look in his eyes and the damp spot growing at the front of his boxers, stretching as if to reach for Aiba again.
He stumbled over that same damn pile of clothes and went on a tirade through the kitchen.
There was a tiny, brief moment where he wondered why Nino kept his condoms in the kitchen; he knew this was not the right time to ask, but it was going to nag at him later, he just knew it. Maybe afterwards, when Nino was spent--no, that wouldn't be an appropriate time either, but it all depended on the length of Aiba's curiosity, which could easily be compared to the length of--
With a self-satisfied smirk, Aiba rolled the box towards his palm, squeezed it hard enough to dent the cardboard, and flipped the top to pull out a string of plastic squares.
"Aiba," Nino called, voice taken by desire, "Did you find them?"
"Yeah," Aiba said, the plastic between his teeth and his fingers working at his jeans, shimmying out of them and leaving them in a pile on the kitchen floor. "I'm coming."
It was like a picture when he returned to the living room, and Aiba once again wished ruefully for that video camera: Nino hands were on his own skin, skimming dutifully across his stomach and the muscles that lay dormant beneath. His fingers steadied near his bellybutton as if asking for some sort of permission, but Nino wasn't one to obey anything, and neither were his fingers--they tickled lower, tracing along the indent of the band of his boxers, and then lower still, pushing towards the slope of his pelvis. His boxers were twisted and tossed to the floor.
"Up," Aiba said, as Nino's fingers began to explore the length of his erection, "Get up. Nino..."
Nino's eyes flashed, lips parted, and Aiba felt like an idiot, standing there in his briefs with a string of condoms hanging from his mouth and his fingers sticky with something he had found in the kitchen, something he thought might speed up the process; he felt like an idiot and a voyeur as he watched Nino's small, round hands curl around himself, like only he knew best how to do this, like only he knew what he liked, and Aiba was simply a novice, not ready for such big game.
His cheeks flared--he wasn't going to take this, no, not now, when he was so close to having what he wanted.
"Up," Aiba repeated, except this time, he didn't wait for Nino to respond--a few awkward steps and some juggling later, and they were against the wall, Nino slumped and surprised and Aiba with such a determination in his eyes that the other refused to speak. That's it, Aiba thought, that's it, don't complain, don't say a word.
"Aiba," Nino breathed.
(Okay, so, I guess it's okay if you say that, Aiba corrected.)
"Aiba," he whispered again, a slow smile growing across his face like a disease, his words short and tempered. "You know we don't need that many, right."
One of Aiba's hands was above Nino's head, and the other scratched at his cheek curiously, desire temporarily satiated with embarrassment--his teeth held true to one condom while the rest were torn along the perforated edge, and Aiba threw them aside in irritation.
"We might," he murmured in reply, eyes focused on the task at hand, which was turning out to be far more difficult than he imagined--with sticky fingers it was beyond frustrating to try to rip the wrapper, and his attempts grew more and more frantic, flicks of white plastic staining his tongue and sticking against his lips.
"Oh for the love of--" Aiba cried out, though it was quiet, like he intended; Nino's voice escaped past his lips in a giggle.
"Give it here."
Small fingers reached towards his face, gently taking the condom away. A pair of lips kissed him dutifully, and Aiba swallowed.
"Can I do this then?"
Nino's voice wavered in his affirmation, as Aiba's fingers searched between his naked legs, sliding, sliding, and--
"Ah," Nino moaned, his head pressing back against the wall, hair twisted around his cheeks. "Oh, ah, okay..."
If Aiba had been really concerned about time, he would have gauged Nino's delay at about four to six seconds. He would have then noted that it took him another ten to keep a strong hold on the condom, rolling it out a bit between his fingers--after another three seconds, Nino's other hand was pushing down Aiba's briefs and feeling for his erection.
Of course, if Aiba had been really concerned about time, he would have also noticed that he was coming way, way too close to the finish line, and the race had barely even started.
"You, you're ready, you.." Aiba stammered, his fingers working up and down, in and out, careful of the hitches in Nino's breath, the stalling of his hand. "You, I need you, Kazu, can we..?"
He heard panting. Nino was tensing around him, and Aiba knew he couldn't stand to be without that anymore, he couldn't stand to just feel Nino's fingers against him, teasing him, he wanted more, he wanted what he wanted, what he had always wanted, what he realized was probably a bad thing but it didn't matter when Nino's free hand was around his neck, fingers in his hair, tense, lips hot and pink and so delicate, so careful and so un-Nino that Aiba's breath failed him and his fingers curled inward, one last push before--
It was obvious that Nino hadn't done this in awhile, and just the thought alone was strange; Aiba always assumed that if Jun wasn't the promiscuous one, then Nino would take up the tab--he figured every night was occupied by Nino's friends or Nino's girlfriend or interviews exclusively about Nino and his exploits and how popular he was and how perfect. He couldn't comprehend the tenseness he felt inside Nino, couldn't understand why it was getting harder to move, why it felt so deliciously new and absurd.
Nino's leg clung to Aiba's, his foot wrapping around his shin like a snake, a fuzzy snake with a hole in its skin where a baby toe peeked out, frozen and rigid. His face was flushed, eyes closed as if to concentrate more on the inner workings of this than Aiba himself, and for a moment, Aiba was scared, though his hormones interpreted that as a rush; one of his hands scrambled desperately for Nino's leg, palming up beneath his knee and yanking his leg up around Aiba's waist. It was awkward, but Aiba heard no complaining, and felt nothing until Nino's other leg began to wobble, and his voice rose in pitch, crying out and moaning and--oh, good god how could he be doing this, it felt like such a burden to control himself and hold back enough to keep Nino safe, to not hurt him--
Aiba's body slammed forward, sandwiching Nino between the wall and his damp, heat stained chest. He met with a tiny grunt of resistance, but that was all, and Nino's other leg rose, languid and shaky, his ankles hooking in the space of Aiba's lower back. The soft, carpet worn fuzz of his socks rode childishly against Aiba's skin, and it was almost too much for him, too much to think about Nino and the way their bodies meshed and how he was getting tighter and tighter around him, how they were stumbling together towards the end of the game, the flash of the checkered flag.
Nino's back rode against the wall, chafing, his hair moving up and down with each push of Aiba's body, each pulse of blood into him. "Oh, oh god--"
Aiba didn't want to have to share anything with Nino now: he didn't even want to be breathing different air.
"Yes, Kazu, come on--" he managed in a low, eager voice, feeling himself shaking with intensity, feeling his lips against Nino's jaw and his hand working at a strange, odd angle between them, trying to win against the distraction of Nino's body.
"Come on," Aiba repeated into Nino's throat, over and over.
He felt himself let go first, and it was almost out of guilt that his hand stopped moving, fingers frozen in an overwhelming wave of garbled emotions and hot, hot sentiments.
Nino came easily after.
He didn't mind much that his hand was soiled, because it was as if their bodies shared some sort of link now, though it could easily be washed away; he didn't mind that Nino was almost too weak to stand on his own and that they couldn't move away from the wall for a moment, he didn't mind the chill of Nino's lips and the depression of his kiss.
Aiba's hand raised, fingers damp, and sifted through Nino's bangs, pushing them gently away from his forehead. Their eyes met, low and almost embarrassed. Aiba grinned at him, and carefully set the back of his hand against Nino's flushed skin.
"You still have a fever," He said, doting on a touch of worry.
Nino's eyes flared. "Shut up," he grumbled, and hid beneath the comfort of his eyelashes, "Aren't you supposed to be cleaning?"
"I will," Aiba supplied good-naturedly, his cheeks rosy with the aftermath of orgasm and the strange, unnerving happiness of having Nino against him.
"I will," he repeated, eyes shining unknowingly: "Later."
Pairing: Aiba x Nino
Rating: NC-17 ('das right)
Summary: A continuation of "Take Care of Me" by ames_909. I said jokingly that I wanted someone to write the next part where Nino and Aiba have hot socky!Nino sex. Somehow I was coerced into it. This is also reason #374621 why I shouldn't write smut.
"Oi, you forgot to clean up the place for me," Nino informed the tousled mess of brown hair peeking out from beneath the blanket. He crouched down beside Aiba's head and freed one hand to poke at him. "I'll let it slide this time, but you're not getting off that easy. You hear me?" He took Aiba's silence as a yes and stood up, trying not to smile. "Good."
Aiba's cheeks were hidden by the blanket, a soft, warm rose colour that echoed through muted hues in the fabric and pulsed against the faintly stitched daises. He took a breath--in, then out, quiet, quiet, relaxing and calm: before his eyes flashed the images of a dream, the easy, comforting storyboards of a reality he wished to belong in, a world that didn't seem so strange. It was a world where he would be important and remembered, well-loved and easy to get along with, and the sky might be purple or even orange--Nino was in this world too, hot and panting and--no, no, there was a castle and floating cars and animals that could speak any language, an apartment that had no keys and a washing machine that didn't cost money--and there was a Nino who seduced Aiba late at night, who came out of the bath dripping wet and flushed, eyes focused in a way that just screamed for his body to be violated--no, no no, it was more like--like airplanes could fly into the stars-- like, like Nino could be handcuffed to the bed, like--
"Nino," he finally burst out, though in retrospect it wasn't as dramatic as he had hoped, with a voice raw from sleep and face huddled against the arm of the sofa. He swallowed, and tried again.
"Nino."
It came out as more of a whisper, dark and heated and oh, okay, maybe Aiba was thinking a little too hard about all this, and it was really too early to be doing anything--
"Nino," Aiba repeated, and managed to open one eye, blinking to stay in focus. "Nino, Nino-chan? Nino..."
He heard the giggle ring in his ears like a bell, like the sound of doomsday, or perhaps just the pleasant ding of an elevator as it settles onto the right floor. Maybe he was just imagining things.
(Maybe I should open both eyes, Aiba grumbled to himself, though made no effort to do so yet.)
"Yeah?" Nino asked, bemused, half-turned towards the kitchen. There was a bowl in his hands, which Aiba noticed in thankful relief--that meant he still had an appetite, which meant it was probably only a simple cold, which meant Nino was perfectly fine and ready for more strenuous activities, like soccer or tennis or oral--
Aiba jerked against the sofa and laughed, awkwardly.
"Nino," He said again, and there, his other eye opened, chin now propped up against the armrest. "Nino, you're only wearing socks and underwear."
"Yeah," Nino replied, seemingly unamused and seemingly unaffected. "What of it?"
(I want you. I want you I want you I want you I want you make me stop wanting you.)
"Are you cold?" Aiba asked, soft and even, because through the veil of his bangs he could see the tensing of Nino's chest, the easy rise and fall that he had felt only hours earlier, as if he had been holding Nino for a reason, or that he had been the reason for Nino's breath.
"Nino," Aiba gasped, chest shuddering with the effort to hold back his newfound (and rather frightening) desire.
It didn't work.
He couldn't exactly place what happened: maybe Nino tripped over his own pile of crumpled dirty clothes, or maybe Aiba sat up too quickly, maybe they were both idiots and maybe they were both about to do something terribly and deliciously wrong--he couldn't exactly place what happened, but somehow, there was an overturned bowl of food on the sofa and a hardly clothed Nino in Aiba's lap.
(Heart, meet my throat, he stammered.)
"Is this okay?" Aiba asked, voice full of restraint. He felt like he was out to sea with no life vest--he felt chilly and sunken and unprepared. The cold tingled in his fingers, like the feel of a bubbling tea kettle, where the heat is so intense it feels like dry ice, steamy and iridescent.
"This is why I gave you a key in the first place," Nino mouthed--Aiba felt it rather than heard it; those lips were against the bulge in his throat, nipping and teasing.
Aiba swallowed.
It took him very little time to push Nino against the bottom of the couch--it took even less time to pull his shirt off over his head, where it disappeared into the messy pile of Nino's dirty clothes bearing witness on the ground. The cushions of the sofa were dark blue and ripped in some places: it was clear Nino had tried to patch them up, or someone had, but the result was the strange indent of stitching into his palm, and the blur of colour around Nino's hair, which lay tangled against his face. Aiba took in a breath--and couldn't let it out.
"--Aiba-chan," Nino murmured, hands against Aiba's narrow, bare shoulders, "Oi, hey, stay with me here, pay attention."
(Pay attention, Aiba repeated, like that's really a problem.)
His hands were traveling across Nino's body at an unknown speed, and really, he didn't care what it was anyway--world records or ideas for experiments were far from his mind, and the only thing he could think of was Nino's face and Nino's skin and Nino's nipples and the way his fingers were curled in against his skin, getting sharper and sharper and okay, maybe that hurt a little, Nino's arms were way too tense and his face was turning pink; there were too many things he wanted to do and too many things to see at once--Aiba felt a little cheated, like this should be video taped or something: then he could just press rewind; he could watch Nino's chin quiver with a moan, or see the shaking of his eyelids, or observe the soft velvet of his socks digging into the sofa cushions in an effort to keep from fidgeting.
"Does it feel good?" Aiba asked smugly. His fingers, long and arched, pressed down against Nino's chest, tracing the indents, thumbing the muscles and the dark circle of Nino's right nipple--a strangled gasp punched the air above his head, and Aiba couldn't help but smirk a little, distracted and aroused by the sheer power he had over Nino, who always teased him and poked him and ridiculed him without a second thought.
"Does it?" he asked again, lips a light quiver to Nino's collarbone. Down and down, his kisses fell, like autumn leaves or the icy brush of snow, apparent but not really; obvious, but not really.
Two of his fingers cradled Nino's chin, dancing up against the skin, holding him in place for a moment--he received nothing save the pulsing heat of labored breath, and his nails pinched the edge of Nino's lower lip, pushing his jaw down, easing his lips further apart.
"Take them," Aiba murmured, a gentle command, though his mind was reeling and his need was really quite obvious and it took way too much will power to keep from ripping Nino's boxers off and taking him dry.
But his focus was easily switched, despite all previous frustration: Nino's tongue was against his fingers, pulling him in, raking his teeth across his knuckles and oh god that would probably feel horrible but just the thought of Nino's tongue against him and Nino's saliva and the way his lips fit so snug against his digits, raw and warm, and the way his tongue knew just where to go, like--like Nino was already between his legs and like he was being engulfed in the misty heat of his mouth--
Aiba was too needy: his fingers were gorging down Nino's throat, pushing and pushing, like the eager pulse of a mother bird, or the automation of a mechanic arm. Further and further he tried, with eyes closed and mind open, with thoughts flying in and out of his head and the fervor of his imagination sending blasts of hot, boiling blood past his stomach. He pushed, and Nino made a sort of gurgling noise, coughing and trying desperately to hold on, to swallow, but there was nothing there-- saliva dribbled down past his lips, and Aiba felt it against his palm, moist and almost cold.
"Sorry," he managed, and withdrew a little. "Sorry, let me make it up to you."
Nino was clearly expecting something then, because his eyes were flared, bubbling past his eyelashes and searing Aiba with the touch of a hot iron. He ghosted a smile: okay, maybe he was feeling a little desperate, but he was still giving, he was still willing to participate--
Aiba's free hand worked between them, snapping at the buttons on the front of Nino's boxers, pushing the folded fabric away hurriedly. He didn't have time to mess with the way it was supposed to go. He didn't even have time to keep from ripping the seam--he weaseled his hand into the apex of Nino's boxers and found the warmth he was expecting, erect and impatient.
"Shh," Aiba murmured, because he felt Nino's mouth tense; he felt those eyes on him, round and surprised, like this wasn't really what was supposed to happen, like Nino didn't think it would really come this far.
But he should know, Aiba thought as his hand worked awkwardly in the tight space of Nino's underwear, wrist twisted with each subtle jerk: he should know it's going to go much further than this.
Nino's mouth gave way to a moan--his clamp on Aiba's fingers was suddenly released, giving way to the mixture of cold air and Nino's hot breath, his tongue flat and dormant, as if waiting for something more to happen. Aiba's fingers curled tighter, carefully watching for any sign of distress, and the soft cotton of Nino's boxers stretched unwillingly against the back of his hand, like it didn't want to allow him the room to truly complete his task: it didn't want to allow him the pleasure of running his hand up the entirety of Nino's length, feeling the pulse of blood beneath the skin.
"Oh--oh god," Nino choked around the fingers in his mouth, and Aiba leaned sideways into the couch, trying to find a good position, but nothing was working at all; he was drinking up Nino's body and the way it arched, the way it moved up from the sofa as if possessed, like it wanted to be closer to him, to feel the pulse of the body that controlled the outlet of his pleasure.
Something in his body nagged at him and gave him a sharp pang of desire, reminding him, reprimanding him, a quick rush of blood and Aiba gasped, grip tightening unconsciously. Nino's voice snapped. Aiba loosened up in automatic shame, shifting to hover over Nino's strained face.
"Kazu," he whispered, and felt a strange flood of feeling at the use of such an intimate name. He liked the way it rolled of his tongue; he liked how boyish it sounded, how personal and intruding. "Kazu, I need a condom, where are your condoms.."
There was a brief, random gesture--Aiba almost thought Nino wasn't really paying attention, he just wanted his weight off him, and so he gave a curt nod, a soft, muted kiss to Nino's nose, and his hand was gone, his body was gone--Nino almost whimpered, but Aiba wouldn't let himself be fooled by it, he wouldn't let himself be taken by Nino and the sweat that bundled up near his eyebrows, the hazy, impatient look in his eyes and the damp spot growing at the front of his boxers, stretching as if to reach for Aiba again.
He stumbled over that same damn pile of clothes and went on a tirade through the kitchen.
There was a tiny, brief moment where he wondered why Nino kept his condoms in the kitchen; he knew this was not the right time to ask, but it was going to nag at him later, he just knew it. Maybe afterwards, when Nino was spent--no, that wouldn't be an appropriate time either, but it all depended on the length of Aiba's curiosity, which could easily be compared to the length of--
With a self-satisfied smirk, Aiba rolled the box towards his palm, squeezed it hard enough to dent the cardboard, and flipped the top to pull out a string of plastic squares.
"Aiba," Nino called, voice taken by desire, "Did you find them?"
"Yeah," Aiba said, the plastic between his teeth and his fingers working at his jeans, shimmying out of them and leaving them in a pile on the kitchen floor. "I'm coming."
It was like a picture when he returned to the living room, and Aiba once again wished ruefully for that video camera: Nino hands were on his own skin, skimming dutifully across his stomach and the muscles that lay dormant beneath. His fingers steadied near his bellybutton as if asking for some sort of permission, but Nino wasn't one to obey anything, and neither were his fingers--they tickled lower, tracing along the indent of the band of his boxers, and then lower still, pushing towards the slope of his pelvis. His boxers were twisted and tossed to the floor.
"Up," Aiba said, as Nino's fingers began to explore the length of his erection, "Get up. Nino..."
Nino's eyes flashed, lips parted, and Aiba felt like an idiot, standing there in his briefs with a string of condoms hanging from his mouth and his fingers sticky with something he had found in the kitchen, something he thought might speed up the process; he felt like an idiot and a voyeur as he watched Nino's small, round hands curl around himself, like only he knew best how to do this, like only he knew what he liked, and Aiba was simply a novice, not ready for such big game.
His cheeks flared--he wasn't going to take this, no, not now, when he was so close to having what he wanted.
"Up," Aiba repeated, except this time, he didn't wait for Nino to respond--a few awkward steps and some juggling later, and they were against the wall, Nino slumped and surprised and Aiba with such a determination in his eyes that the other refused to speak. That's it, Aiba thought, that's it, don't complain, don't say a word.
"Aiba," Nino breathed.
(Okay, so, I guess it's okay if you say that, Aiba corrected.)
"Aiba," he whispered again, a slow smile growing across his face like a disease, his words short and tempered. "You know we don't need that many, right."
One of Aiba's hands was above Nino's head, and the other scratched at his cheek curiously, desire temporarily satiated with embarrassment--his teeth held true to one condom while the rest were torn along the perforated edge, and Aiba threw them aside in irritation.
"We might," he murmured in reply, eyes focused on the task at hand, which was turning out to be far more difficult than he imagined--with sticky fingers it was beyond frustrating to try to rip the wrapper, and his attempts grew more and more frantic, flicks of white plastic staining his tongue and sticking against his lips.
"Oh for the love of--" Aiba cried out, though it was quiet, like he intended; Nino's voice escaped past his lips in a giggle.
"Give it here."
Small fingers reached towards his face, gently taking the condom away. A pair of lips kissed him dutifully, and Aiba swallowed.
"Can I do this then?"
Nino's voice wavered in his affirmation, as Aiba's fingers searched between his naked legs, sliding, sliding, and--
"Ah," Nino moaned, his head pressing back against the wall, hair twisted around his cheeks. "Oh, ah, okay..."
If Aiba had been really concerned about time, he would have gauged Nino's delay at about four to six seconds. He would have then noted that it took him another ten to keep a strong hold on the condom, rolling it out a bit between his fingers--after another three seconds, Nino's other hand was pushing down Aiba's briefs and feeling for his erection.
Of course, if Aiba had been really concerned about time, he would have also noticed that he was coming way, way too close to the finish line, and the race had barely even started.
"You, you're ready, you.." Aiba stammered, his fingers working up and down, in and out, careful of the hitches in Nino's breath, the stalling of his hand. "You, I need you, Kazu, can we..?"
He heard panting. Nino was tensing around him, and Aiba knew he couldn't stand to be without that anymore, he couldn't stand to just feel Nino's fingers against him, teasing him, he wanted more, he wanted what he wanted, what he had always wanted, what he realized was probably a bad thing but it didn't matter when Nino's free hand was around his neck, fingers in his hair, tense, lips hot and pink and so delicate, so careful and so un-Nino that Aiba's breath failed him and his fingers curled inward, one last push before--
It was obvious that Nino hadn't done this in awhile, and just the thought alone was strange; Aiba always assumed that if Jun wasn't the promiscuous one, then Nino would take up the tab--he figured every night was occupied by Nino's friends or Nino's girlfriend or interviews exclusively about Nino and his exploits and how popular he was and how perfect. He couldn't comprehend the tenseness he felt inside Nino, couldn't understand why it was getting harder to move, why it felt so deliciously new and absurd.
Nino's leg clung to Aiba's, his foot wrapping around his shin like a snake, a fuzzy snake with a hole in its skin where a baby toe peeked out, frozen and rigid. His face was flushed, eyes closed as if to concentrate more on the inner workings of this than Aiba himself, and for a moment, Aiba was scared, though his hormones interpreted that as a rush; one of his hands scrambled desperately for Nino's leg, palming up beneath his knee and yanking his leg up around Aiba's waist. It was awkward, but Aiba heard no complaining, and felt nothing until Nino's other leg began to wobble, and his voice rose in pitch, crying out and moaning and--oh, good god how could he be doing this, it felt like such a burden to control himself and hold back enough to keep Nino safe, to not hurt him--
Aiba's body slammed forward, sandwiching Nino between the wall and his damp, heat stained chest. He met with a tiny grunt of resistance, but that was all, and Nino's other leg rose, languid and shaky, his ankles hooking in the space of Aiba's lower back. The soft, carpet worn fuzz of his socks rode childishly against Aiba's skin, and it was almost too much for him, too much to think about Nino and the way their bodies meshed and how he was getting tighter and tighter around him, how they were stumbling together towards the end of the game, the flash of the checkered flag.
Nino's back rode against the wall, chafing, his hair moving up and down with each push of Aiba's body, each pulse of blood into him. "Oh, oh god--"
Aiba didn't want to have to share anything with Nino now: he didn't even want to be breathing different air.
"Yes, Kazu, come on--" he managed in a low, eager voice, feeling himself shaking with intensity, feeling his lips against Nino's jaw and his hand working at a strange, odd angle between them, trying to win against the distraction of Nino's body.
"Come on," Aiba repeated into Nino's throat, over and over.
He felt himself let go first, and it was almost out of guilt that his hand stopped moving, fingers frozen in an overwhelming wave of garbled emotions and hot, hot sentiments.
Nino came easily after.
He didn't mind much that his hand was soiled, because it was as if their bodies shared some sort of link now, though it could easily be washed away; he didn't mind that Nino was almost too weak to stand on his own and that they couldn't move away from the wall for a moment, he didn't mind the chill of Nino's lips and the depression of his kiss.
Aiba's hand raised, fingers damp, and sifted through Nino's bangs, pushing them gently away from his forehead. Their eyes met, low and almost embarrassed. Aiba grinned at him, and carefully set the back of his hand against Nino's flushed skin.
"You still have a fever," He said, doting on a touch of worry.
Nino's eyes flared. "Shut up," he grumbled, and hid beneath the comfort of his eyelashes, "Aren't you supposed to be cleaning?"
"I will," Aiba supplied good-naturedly, his cheeks rosy with the aftermath of orgasm and the strange, unnerving happiness of having Nino against him.
"I will," he repeated, eyes shining unknowingly: "Later."