[He presses his thumb into Masamune’s cheek, “I was counting on you to have the experience.”]
***
we are a supernova that won’t burn out
Character(s): Furuya Satoru, Hongou Masamune
Word Count: 600
Ratings/Warnings: T(?); warnings for terrible writing, awkward teenagers
Dedication: @b-okutos (please don’t be disappointed, Aiko!!)
Notes: this is an outtake from my earlier (just as terrible) furuhon fic!! i, ah, didn’t intend to post it because a) i am really bad at writing intimacy and b) i am really bad at writing intimacy - however!! i decided to take the plunge because 1) this is a tiny ship and 2) no-one will probably ever see this anyway a h a h a
please understand there is a reason this is an outtake
***
Masamune fixes dark, penetrating eyes on Satoru’s face. Satoru finds he can’t look away, caught like a fly in a spider’s web. Not for the first time, he remembers how cold can burn. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”
Satoru is not entirely sure when he’d moved, but he is close enough now that Satoru can feel his breath – hot, damp – against his face, see himself reflected in his eyes, which shutter as his gaze flickers down to Satoru’s mouth. Satoru freezes.
The thought I think he wants to kiss me pops into his mind, strangely amplified, like it was spoken into a microphone. It is followed by what if he wants me to kiss him, which segues into but what if I’m reading him wrong, and it turns out like the time he ignored my hand, and I’ve never kissed anyone before; will he be able to tell –
“Oh, fuck,” Masamune says, derailing Satoru’s train of thought, “I knew waiting for you to make a move was a stupid idea,” and before Satoru can protest he has surged forward the rest of the way – the chains holding up the swings jingle – and crushed his mouth against Satoru’s, hand curving firmly around the back of Satoru’s neck to hold him in place –
Satoru thinks ow, because it hurts. There is no finesse in the gesture – Masamune’s teeth collide with his, and rather than any real sense of pleasure there is a lot of wet – Satoru can’t quite hold back the little hiss of pain that slips out of his mouth – Masamune pulls back, looking rather panicked –
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I hurt you – sorry, not good at this – ” He chews his lip, endearingly red across the cheekbones, so at odds with his customary tough-guy demeanor, and perhaps that is what makes Satoru bring his hands up to cup either side of his face.
Masamune’s cheeks are hot to the touch. “Neither am I,” Satoru says, the warmth in his chest spilling into his voice. He presses his thumb into Masamune’s cheek, “I was counting on you to have the experience.”
“Oh my God,” Masamune says, incredulous, “do I look like the kind of guy who’s been kissed, ever?”
Satoru says, gravely, “anything is possible.”
There is a short, pregnant pause.
“Fuck you,” Masamune says, sullen.
Satoru can’t help it – he laughs. Masamune looks stunned, for several moments, but then he relaxes, and is even able to conjure up a smile, which Satoru considers a great success.
“How have you escaped unscathed, though,” he continues, mock-irritably, “you probably have tons of admirers, you’re so pretty – oh, wait, it must be your fucking personality – ”
“I guess you don’t want to try again, then,” Satoru says, smiling.
“I didn’t say that,” Masamune mutters. He stands, leaving his abandoned seat swinging desolately back and forth, and moves to sit on the ground. He looks up at Satoru from underneath raised eyebrows, leans back on his hands. “Well, come on, Sa-to-ru, are you going to come kiss me or not?”
The kiss is slow, exploratory – punctuated with an occasional accidental knock of teeth or a muffled sound – Satoru’s heart pounding an irregular sort of rhythm against his ribs. The tarmac bites into Satoru’s skin through the fabric of his trousers, but it is easier, sitting on the ground, to fit his mouth over Masamune’s, set his arms over Masamune’s shoulders, splay his fingers over the expanse of Masamune’s back. He sits cross-legged, knees pressing into Masamune’s thighs. Masamune shudders, exhales, breath playing across Satoru’s face
Satoru tentatively slides his tongue along the seam of Masamune’s lips. Masamune groans in response, curls his hands into Satoru’s hair, the sound sending a spark of electricity down Satoru’s spine. His fingernails scrape against Satoru’s scalp.
Masamune’s eyes, when Satoru sneaks a peek, are squeezed shut, eyebrows tightly furrowed. Satoru smiles against his mouth.
