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writetomyheart2013-02-01 01:55 am
miquilis.livejournal.com) wrote in writetomyheart2013-02-01 01:55 am
Entry tags:
[team 1] late birds
This changed so many times, still not pleased with it but wanted to post something.
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Mornings are the worst.
At least Ohkura makes breakfast — rightly so in Kitayama’s mind as he’s the guest in the other’s apartment and there’s a crick in his neck from sleeping on his friend’s uncomfortable coach. Pain shooting deep enough into the knot of a muscle that no stretching will loosen. Kitayama just slumps motionless at the table waiting. Does no more but yawn from exhaustion rather than impatience, he knows the longer Ohkura spends cooking the better the results.
Kitayama stares ahead inert and apathetic, almost slipping back into sleep with eyes still open until Ohkura walks through his vision breaking his gaze. Unconsciously he starts to track the other’s movements as Ohkura moves from counter to fridge, back to counter, then to the hob. Occasionally he reaches up to a high shelf or bends low, twists and stretches to ease out his own set of kinks, each movement drawing Kitayama’s eye to a new revealed patch of skin. Ohkura’s t-shirt’s hem rising, the neckline loose and stretched.
In his mind Kitayama plays a game tracing the visible beauty marks and spots he can see marring his friend’s skin. When the path breaks his memory pastes in the unseen dots covered by fabric but that he knows are there from previous glances or revealing photo shoots. Kitayama travels far enough down to the one on Ohkura’s right butt cheek and imagines biting the skin hard only to feel Ohkura buck in shock against him. He muffles the laugh of amusement into the crook of his elbow, pillowed comfortably on crossed arms.
The smells coming from the kitchenette tickle pleasantly at Kitayama’s nose. Spoon in hand, Ohkura dips and dabs at a pan tasting everything as he cooks and Kitayama toys with the idea of walking over and tasting it too as the flavour lingers on Ohkura’s lips. Fingers curled tightly around the nape of Ohkura’s neck pulling him down to Kitayama’s level, mouths opening languidly, tongues meeting, some addictive umami taste shared.
Kitayama’s never kissed Ohkura before, but he can guess how it would feel, that he’d like it. The lips are plump and Ohkura’s manner with everything is slow and easy, letting Kitayama take control and set a pace — but it’s morning, and work leaves Kitayama always tired and he’s too lazy like always to act on any plan.
“Dinner tonight?” Kitayama asks already planning what restaurant they could go do, what he’ll order, how many side dishes, wondering if maybe he’d finally have enough energy for it all later.
“I have to go back to Osaka for recordings. Maybe next week.” Ohkura replies, still tending to the stove, back facing Kitayama, doesn’t even know what he’s being asked.
Truly the worst.
-
Mornings are the worst.
At least Ohkura makes breakfast — rightly so in Kitayama’s mind as he’s the guest in the other’s apartment and there’s a crick in his neck from sleeping on his friend’s uncomfortable coach. Pain shooting deep enough into the knot of a muscle that no stretching will loosen. Kitayama just slumps motionless at the table waiting. Does no more but yawn from exhaustion rather than impatience, he knows the longer Ohkura spends cooking the better the results.
Kitayama stares ahead inert and apathetic, almost slipping back into sleep with eyes still open until Ohkura walks through his vision breaking his gaze. Unconsciously he starts to track the other’s movements as Ohkura moves from counter to fridge, back to counter, then to the hob. Occasionally he reaches up to a high shelf or bends low, twists and stretches to ease out his own set of kinks, each movement drawing Kitayama’s eye to a new revealed patch of skin. Ohkura’s t-shirt’s hem rising, the neckline loose and stretched.
In his mind Kitayama plays a game tracing the visible beauty marks and spots he can see marring his friend’s skin. When the path breaks his memory pastes in the unseen dots covered by fabric but that he knows are there from previous glances or revealing photo shoots. Kitayama travels far enough down to the one on Ohkura’s right butt cheek and imagines biting the skin hard only to feel Ohkura buck in shock against him. He muffles the laugh of amusement into the crook of his elbow, pillowed comfortably on crossed arms.
The smells coming from the kitchenette tickle pleasantly at Kitayama’s nose. Spoon in hand, Ohkura dips and dabs at a pan tasting everything as he cooks and Kitayama toys with the idea of walking over and tasting it too as the flavour lingers on Ohkura’s lips. Fingers curled tightly around the nape of Ohkura’s neck pulling him down to Kitayama’s level, mouths opening languidly, tongues meeting, some addictive umami taste shared.
Kitayama’s never kissed Ohkura before, but he can guess how it would feel, that he’d like it. The lips are plump and Ohkura’s manner with everything is slow and easy, letting Kitayama take control and set a pace — but it’s morning, and work leaves Kitayama always tired and he’s too lazy like always to act on any plan.
“Dinner tonight?” Kitayama asks already planning what restaurant they could go do, what he’ll order, how many side dishes, wondering if maybe he’d finally have enough energy for it all later.
“I have to go back to Osaka for recordings. Maybe next week.” Ohkura replies, still tending to the stove, back facing Kitayama, doesn’t even know what he’s being asked.
Truly the worst.
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no subject
He turns again, and pouts into his pillow. His mind wanders, in that meandering 3-in-the-morning kind of way, to Kitayama's lips, full and pouty; Kitayama's bare chest, and the way the blankets always slip off his left shoulder when he sleeps; Kitayama's thighs, powerful from soccer and roller skating. Drifting in and out of sleep, Ohkura half dreams of Kitayama straddling him with those thighs, half imagines Kitayama slowly sinking down on him with a wide-awake look under the lazy semblance of half-closed eyelids.
Ohkura can feel himself getting hard now, but only a little. He's too tired and too sleepy to even want to do anything about it, except roll over one more time so that his cock his trapped pleasurably between the bed and his stomach. The last thought he has before he falls asleep is that next week when he's in Tokyo, they'll definitely, definitely...
no subject
But if Ohkura's too tired to even masturbate how will he ever have the energy to make a move...