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the sun wears a mask most lovely

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Yusaku is halfway to his classroom when he’s suddenly manhandled into the bathroom and deposited unceremoniously into an empty cubicle.


His first thought is not again, because Shima Naoki had done this twice already in the last week. His second thought goes somewhere along the lines of they should really clean these things more often. Whatever his third thought may have been is a mystery, however, as his mind short circuits when he abruptly finds his mouth being attacked by one particularly attractive cyber terrorist.


“Revolver,” he greets, his voice muffled. “Why are you here?” Ryoken bites at his lips harshly, and Yusaku gets the distinct feeling he’s being punished for something.


“Quiet, Playmaker. Someone could hear you.”


A hand slides under the shirt of his uniform. He sighs at the feeling of cool fingertips against his stomach and leans his head back against the wall as Ryoken trails wet kisses down his neck. His mouth is warm and urgent, his hands exploring. Yusaku closes his eyes, already feeling himself giving in.


“Why are you here?” He tries again. Ryoken’s nails brush one of his nipples as he presses his hips hard into Yusaku’s own, and this is answer enough.


“I just felt like visiting,” says Ryoken into his collarbones. Yusaku briefly wonders when he’d managed to get his uniform open, but then Ryoken is sinking his teeth into flesh and all Yusaku can think is more.


Apparently he voices this because Ryoken smirks at him through pale lashes and hoists his legs up to wrap around his waist. The wall digs into his back and he winces, pushing his chest forward to alleviate the pressure on his shoulder blades. Ryoken murmurs a quiet, “sorry,” but doesn’t bother readjusting.


The first time they did something like this was three weeks ago after a long night of coding on Yusaku’s part and many sleepless hours in an all too quiet house on Ryoken’s. Yusaku still isn’t quite sure why Ryoken came to him or what intentions he’d come with, but he doesn’t ask. He knows some things are better left unsaid when it comes to the leader of Hanoi. Ryoken likes to wear masks, and Yusaku won’t take that from him. He allows him his secrets, and in turn Ryoken allows him the rare privilege of his companionship. It’s a fragile thing, new and thin and feeble, but it’s there. Kusanagi isn’t aware of its recent development, of course, because it isn’t the type of relationship Yusaku feels he should be sharing. He wonders not for the first time if Ryoken has told Spectre, but again, he doesn’t ask. He likes to imagine these meetings are a secret, to pretend that they’re something special for only the two of them to share between them, but in the end he can never be sure.


(Maybe he’s afraid to know the truth.)


Ryoken’s hands slide down his sides, over his hips, palms squeezing Yusaku’s ass the moment they reach it. He gropes and rubs and pinches, and Yusaku drowns in the sensation.


These moments are theirs, he thinks, grinding his growing arousal into Ryoken’s stomach and exhaling shakily. The world outside of this bathroom, outside of the warmth of Kogami Ryoken, doesn’t exist. He can still taste Ryoken’s chapstick on his lips — matcha flavoured rather than the usual strawberry he’d become accustomed to — can feel the phantom trails of his fingertips on his thighs. Everything is Ryoken, Ryoken, Revolver, Ryoken, and Yusaku can feel himself letting go.


“Ryoken,” he breathes, more for the sake of saying it than to get his attention. Blue eyes lock onto his and Yusaku searches them, takes note of the dark shadows under his lower lids, swallows down his question of when was the last time you slept?


Hips grind up against him, hard, and his throat constricts with pleasant surprise.


Ryoken always had been a good distraction.


“Tell me what you want,” he’s saying, his deep voice thick with lust as he very pointedly adds, “Playmaker.” Yusaku shivers from head to toe.


“Whatever you have to give.”


It’s the wrong answer, apparently, because suddenly the wall is falling away from his back and Ryoken is whirling around—


—to drop him onto the toilet. Okay. Right answer, then.


His side collides with the marble painfully and he winces, but Ryoken is grabbing him by the thighs and flipping him over, rearranging his body how he pleases until he’s bent over the bowl with his ass in the air. Cool air washes over him as his pants are pulled down and Ryoken chuckles at the sight. “You’re clenching,” he announces, amused, and Yusaku fights back a blush. “Relax.”


And then his thumbs are pulling him gently apart, spreading him, opening him up; if Yusaku concentrates hard enough he can almost feel Ryoken’s gaze burning into his skin.


“Ryoken,” he tries again, but then there’s a hot tongue licking a stripe up the length of his crack and the world stops spinning at once.


“Hoh~? You liked that?” The action is repeated, slower this time, and Yusaku’s knees tremble a little.


Their relationship revolves purely around touch, but they’ve certainly never done this before.


When Ryoken trails his tongue up for a third time he stops halfway, circling Yusaku’s rim with the tip in a way that sends shivers up his spine. His fingers dig into the cold plaster of the toilet seat but it hardly feels like enough to keep him steady. For all he knows, the floor could drop out from under him at any given moment.


And it almost does, honestly, when Ryoken’s tongue presses briefly inside of him. It’s hot and wet and so new, so good. Yusaku reflexively tenses a little bit at the unexpected breach and Ryoken massages the plush globes of his rear to coax him into relaxing again. He’s not really sure if he’ll ever be able to relax. This was certainly a large step up from the usual groping and careless rutting Yusaku was used to.


“Playmaker,” Ryoken murmurs, pressing little kisses to his skin. “You’re shaking.”


Yusaku closes his eyes tightly. “I’m not afraid.”


There’s an amused chuckle behind him, breathless and just a little bitter. “Of this? Or of me?”


He didn’t even think before responding. “You.”


Ryoken swirls that tongue around his hole again and this time dips his finger in to the first knuckle. “And of this?” He asks, wiggling the digit in slow, small circles.


It takes Yusaku a moment to find his voice to answer, or even to find an answer at all. Every thought in his head revolves around that finger, the warm breath on his skin, the intensity of the moment; revolves around the light of Ryoken’s presence behind him, around the way Yusaku can feel the pressure of his sky blue gaze on him like a physical weight. It burns into him, searing every inch of his skin like a particularly merciless sun and creeping its way to his insides.


Everything is unfamiliar and hot and alive. It’s kind of addictive.


Yusaku opens his eyes. “I’m not afraid of this. It feels good.”


Behind him Ryoken hums, then withdraws his finger and replaces it with the full length of his tongue. Yusaku gasps something embarrassing as Ryoken licks into him, wriggling his tongue about and fucking him slowly with the sinful little muscle like he’d done it a thousand times before, his focus entirely on Yusaku’s body, on the delicious stretch of his ass. When he sucks hard on his rim on a pull out it’s like heaven just crashed down around them — Yusaku clutches wildly at the toilet, his back arching simultaneously into and away from the foreign sensation. His breath is fast, reminiscent of a harsh awakening from a nightmare, only this time it was good, and Ryoken was here to soothe him through it with a soft hand sliding reassuringly up his side and a murmur of you’re doing so good, Playmaker, so good for me.


It’s ridiculous, he thinks, how that voice never ceases to calm him down. It’s also ridiculous how easily its owner can make him fall apart.


When he’s settled back into a relaxed position, forehead rested on his hands, Ryoken’s fingers make a reappearance. There’s two of them working their way inside him, spreading him open almost lazily as the older male presses soft kisses to the small of Yusaku’s back. It’s good, so good. Distantly Yusaku wonders why Ryoken hadn’t done this before, why he’d waited until now, and why he’d chosen a school bathroom, of all insane places, to make his move. Maybe the lack of an intimate setting was soothing to him.


Yusaku feels like he could do this forever, his legs spread wide for Ryoken, always for him, so good. His eyes shoot open when Ryoken’s fingers hit a certain spot — he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them, but suddenly his vision is hazy and his mouth is opened in a breathless little moan. “T-that,” he forces out, lips and tongue heavy with pleasure, “that spot. Again.”


Ryoken chuckles and it’s low and lustful, so very arousing, warming Yusaku impossibly to his core. “Where was that?” He teases, brushing just barely up against that spot. Yusaku shudders and pushes back against him in a sad attempt to get him to hit it straight on.


“Please, Revolver,” he tries. He wants it, needs it, feels like he’ll die without it. “Do it again.”


Although he’s quite obviously not very good at begging, it seems to be good enough for Ryoken. The man presses the tips of his fingers to Yusaku’s prostate, rubbing small but powerful circles that leaves Yusaku a gasping little mess strewn over the bathroom seat. “Right here?” Ryoken asks him, pressing harder, circling harder, harder.


Moaning quietly now, Yusaku can’t find the strength to answer.


“Does it feel good,” the man continues, “right here?” His fingers pull back a bit only to thrust in almost violently, twisting against that sweet spot like he intends to weather the thing down into nothing. “Is it good, Playmaker?”


Yusaku nods his head a few times too many, unable to reply when his body feels like it’s on fire. He thinks he gasps out a yes or two, or maybe something even longer and more embarrassing; there’s no way for him to tell, his senses limited to the feeling of fingers inside him and lips on his back and the sweet baritone of Ryoken’s voice.


Ryoken continues this brutal assault for a few more thrusts of his fingers, then scissors them apart and adds a third. Yusaku tries to hold back a whine at the pleasure-pain of being stretched and filled and is unsure of his success. Ryoken’s skin is rough as it slides back and forth, rubbing harshly against the rim of his asshole from a lack of proper lubrication, but Yusaku finds that he likes this too; the small shocks of pain help to ground him, to help him focus on the fact that this was Ryoken inside him, Ryoken fucking into him with his fingers.


(It was a bit too much.)


His climax quickly approaching, Yusaku clenches purposefully down on the digits and says, “You can put it in, if you want,” biting his lip when Ryoken falters for a moment. When he continues, it’s slower, gentler, almost idle. He’s rubbing circles again rather than jabbing, and it’s somehow more intense now. The tension between them, maybe, or perhaps he’s just a bit sore from the harsh treatment.


“Playmaker,” Ryoken is saying, his voice a little hesitant, a little fragile. Yusaku worries that he’s overstepped for a moment, worries he’s scared him off, but then Ryoken rests his head against his back and laughs a little breathlessly. “I’m not going to fuck you for the first time in a school bathroom.”


And really, it’s kind of funny. Ryoken will stalk him at a hotdog truck, try to murder him in a virtual reality game, but he won’t fuck him in a bathroom.


It’s also kind of sweet, but Yusaku doesn’t dare tell him so.


“Another time, then,” he decides rather boldly and smiles a little when Ryoken murmurs his agreement into the tail of his spine. Another time and Ryoken can be his, if only for a few heated minutes of passion. If only then and perhaps never again. Maybe Ryoken would finally tire of him after that.


He finds release soon after, cumming purely on Ryoken’s fingers and without the aid of a hand on his cock. It’s the kind of release that makes his toes curl and his eyes squeeze tightly shut as his entire body feels like it’s falling, falling… The kind where he moans loud and long, completely overtaken with pleasure and too overwhelmed with euphoria to care who might hear him.


It’s a first for him to cum untouched, but then again, a lot of his firsts have gone to Ryoken. Even after he’s spilt over the toilet and the tiled floor, though, Ryoken doesn’t stop moving his fingers. He continues his languid tracing of Yusaku’s prostate as though he hadn’t just given Yusaku what was undoubtedly the most intense orgasm of his life, and soon enough the younger male is writhing and choking with overstimulation. It’s painfully good but far too much, so good, too much, too much—


Then Ryoken pulls his fingers out and Yusaku is clenching around nothing and panting against the toilet seat.


“You did good,” the cyberterrorist tells him, grabbing a wad of toilet paper to wipe up Yusaku’s spilt cum. Yusaku dazedly pulls his pants up and moves to the far side of the stall to give him room, leaning heavily against the wall with exhaustion; he was definitely going to skip the rest of his classes after this.


“I’ll see you on Friday,” says Ryoken, referring to their plans to code together and trade information. He kisses Yusaku once on the mouth, a soft, fleeting thing, and wow, Yusaku thinks, that’s new. They never kissed after the act. He doesn’t dare contemplate what that could mean.


Instead he gestures vaguely at Ryoken’s obvious arousal. “You don’t want me to help you?”


Ryoken chuckles at him and moves to straighten his school tie. “I’ll be alright,” he assures as he tucks the tails of his shirt in and his hands linger playfully on his ass for a moment. “I have lunch plans with Spectre and Genome.”


Yusaku nods, distracted. “Friday, then.”


“Friday,” agrees Ryoken, a small smirk pulling at his mouth. “I’ll even bring lube this time.”


He leaves then with a final fleeting glance to Yusaku’s hopeful lips, and Yusaku spends the rest of his classes lazing on the roof of the school and watching the clouds move over the sun.