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as your skin, still warmed by sleep

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Before actually dating Omi, Tsuzuru’s favorite Omi is Omi in the evenings—leaning by the kitchen counter with a recipe book or a cup of coffee in hand, waiting for whoever it is volunteering to wash the dishes to be done so he could settle back im the kitchen to prepare for tomorrow’s bentou. It’s the relaxed line of his shoulder, Tsuzuru thinks, or perhaps the unguarded small smile lingering in his lips as the Company members thank him for the food. Open and trusting. Accepting. Happy.

Tsuzuru loves Omi in the evenings most—at least until they start dating and he sees what he couldn’t have before.

There’s an odd sort of surreality in the way Omi kiss him in the morning—their feet still tangled in the rather cheap hotel’s blankets, Omi’s skin warmed by the smell of sleep, the scent of their lovemaking last night still in the air, Tsuzuru’s spectacular bedhair sticking out with no regards of gravity. Omi’s fingers run through them almost lazily as he draws Tsuzuru in and kisses him slow, lips so gentle that Tsuzuru wonders if this isn’t just remnants of his dreams until Omi deepens the kiss and coaxes a breathless sigh out of his throat.

Good morning , Tsuzuru thinks as he presses closer and finds Omi’s cock, already hard and heavy against his thigh. He lets a hand wander down, cupping Omi’s balls before flitting up and curling his fingers around the head of Omi’s cock and Omi murmurs appreciatively into his mouth before he grinds against Tsuzuru’s hand languidly. Tsuzuru tastes the beginning of his name on the tip of Omi’s tongue, a sweet sleepy exhale that tells him how treasured, how loved he is, and something in Tsuzuru melts.

“Come here,” the words are warm against Tsuzuru’s lower lip, each syllable a fleeting kiss. Omi’s hand settles on Tsuzuru’s waist, urging, and a laugh escapes Tsuzuru’s throat, because with how flush they are against each other, how is he supposed to get even closer? Except then Omi lifts him and flip them together—Omi on his back, neck craning to nibble on Tsuzuru’s lower lip, and Tsuzuru settles on top of him, a hand splayed over Omi’s chest and the other still stroking Omi’s cock.

Omi hums, apparently satisfied. “Like this,” he sighs, and Tsuzuru obediently moves his hand. Long, languorous strokes that make Omi’s hips arch, that make Omi’s breath catches in his throat, that draws soft groans past Omi’s lips. Tsuzuru buries his face into the crook of Omi’s collarbone, teeth grazing across the stark line to follow it all the way to the sharp, wide shoulder bone, and Omi’s fingers slide run through his hair again, looping strands around fingertips and catching stubborn tangles. Tsuzuru twists his hand, listens to the broken pants that make it through Omi’s lips, and disguises his smile into a soft bite on Omi’s shoulder.

He’s hard too—the good kind, the kind that sends shivers of anticipation up his spine, the kind that doesn’t urge him to chase for release yet. For now, the friction against Omi’s hip every time Omi arches into his hand is enough: the steady tingle of pleasure that makes heat curls comfortably on the bottom of his stomach, the hazy contentedness with each pants that reach his ear, the almost subconscious effort as his hand strokes Omi’s cock, thumb circling over the head before he gives another long stroke, matching with the sharp inhale of Omi’s breath.

“Don’t,” Omi says, the word muffled into Tsuzuru’s hair, and Tsuzuru’s hand pauses. Omi’s chest heaves with a long exhale, bringing Tsuzuru’s upper body up with it, and Tsuzuru uses the momentum to slide up and latch his teeth onto Omi’s chin, softly gnawing at the skin until laughter rumbles in Omi’s throat.

He tilts his head, peppers kisses along the line of Omi’s jaw, and feels rather than hears another one of Omi’s long exhale. Tsuzuru loves the way it sounds. He imagines all of the weight that press down on Omi to ride on that single breath, imagines that it rids Omi of all the worries and troubles that resides in his chest. He loves the laugh too—soft and hazy, almost dream-like, disappearing into the warmth of Omi’s skin instead of joining the scent of sex in the room.

A palm presses gently against the small of his back. Tsuzuru tilts his head, accepts Omi’s seeking lips and lets Omi move under him—sheets rustling as the older man coaxes him into sitting up, muscles shifting almost lazily under Tsuzuru’s hands as if they’re rousing to wakefulness. He settles on his knees, legs caging Omi’s lap, leaning down to press his forehead against Omi’s as he loathes to stop sharing their air.

His breath catches as Omi slips a finger in. Then after a beat of pause, another one—and Tsuzuru muffles a whine against Omi’s brow. He’s still loose from last night, still feeling too empty, and Omi’s fingers are slick as they work their way in, effortlessly curling and scissoring him open, sending jolts of pleasure up his spine. How curious, Tsuzuru thinks hazily, that with each twist of Omi’s fingers, it feels like something in his chest instead yawns open with an almost familiar yearning to be filled.

He wonders if it’s the same for Omi. If with every caught pants and groans falling from his lips Omi feels that yearning too—to have, to want, to possess. If that is why Omi’s breath picks up to match Tsuzuru’s broken whines, or why his teeth worry over the line of Tsuzuru’s neck.

He loves Omi best in the mornings now. When his touches leave no hesitance, yet unhurried and thorough, like they have everything and nothing in the world at the same time. When his eyes are clouded by the haze of pleasure and leftover dreams instead of tinted by distant regrets.

“Want to put it in you,” Omi murmurs, nuzzles the pulse point under Tsuzuru’s ear. He huffs, the only sign of impatience that contrasts the leisured movements of his body. “Like this.”

He loves Omi like this—soft and sleepy and helplessly wanting, all requests like he has nothing left to give.

A hand rests on Tsuzuru’s hip, steadying, grounding, and yet Tsuzuru quivers with anticipation. “Omi-san—“

Omi peers up at him, gaze heavy with pleasure and hints of sleep, and smiles softly. “Tsuzuru.”

This, Tsuzuru realizes, is Omi’s equivalent of the puppy-eyed look.

The first breach is effortless—Tsuzuru likes to think that his body remembers Omi’s shape so well that it readily makes space whenever Omi’s cock slides into him. The familiar heat and friction knock a sigh out of both of them, mingling the beginning of syllables of their names, ending it with amused, breathless laughter. Omi cranes his neck, eyelashes kissing Tsuzuru’s cheek, hands guiding Tsuzuru’s hips down-down-down to the delicious feeling of being full.

“Kiss me,” the words are liquid dreams, thin gossamer threads that captures and draws Tsuzuru in. He follows Omi’s breath, captures the contented sigh that escapes Omi’s lips as he slides home completely within Tsuzuru, swallows the hitch in Omi’s breath as his hips subconsciously jerks up, like he could go deeper, like their bodies can melt into one further.

“Nnn—“ the beginning of a groan trembles in Tsuzuru’s throat, Omi’s lips chasing after it down to the crook of Tsuzuru’s neck as he thrusts up; unhurried and thorough, savoring every inch and second. “Ah, ah—Omi-san...”

“Mmm,” Omi hums, and Tsuzuru feels his smile grows against his skin. His hips snap up, and Tsuzuru arches, tightens around Omi as he rides the pleasure, and Omi’s groan breaks the air between them. “Like that,” he pants into Tsuzuru’s skin, arms circling around Tsuzuru’s waist like a beggar to god. “Feels good.”

He meets Omi’s next thrust, grinds down to appease the greedy beast in him that yearns to be touched faster, harsher, deeper . Omi’s arms keep him down, hips jerking minutely, chasing the heat that engulfs him and like that, the heat in Tsuzuru’s stomach turns into a low, coiling fire. He can feel Omi’s cock swell within him with each thrust, and god, it feels so impossibly big and good and full he forgets to breathe—

Tsuzuru stills. Too fast, too much, too close—and for a second he panics, desperate for the pleasure to last, for the heat coiling within him to stay, for the delicious slide of Omi’s cock inside him to keep up with each grunt vibrating in Omi’s throat. “No—“ he manages,  and Omi greedily catches that out of his lips and mingles it within the sound of Tsuzuru’s name clinging onto his breath. Tsuzuru whines against the kiss, low and drawn out, and Omi’s hand presses flat against his back, hips slowing down to the languid pace he’d set at the beginning.

“Tsuzuru,” he feels each syllable rather than hear them, caressing the corner of his lips, dragging down the line of his jaw, a perfect mirror of Omi’s fingers running down the line of his back, down-down- down to reach where their bodies are joined, tracing where Tsuzuru’s stretched around his cock. Omi buries a sigh into Tsuzuru’s neck, teeth grazing the line of his shoulder bone, and then says, “turn around.”

All requests and quiet demands like he can’t get enough. This is the Fushimi Omi that Tsuzuru loves the most.

His brain feels almost muddled as he follows Omi’s hands, shifting on Omi’s lap and turning around, clenching and unclenching around Omi’s cock as he settles back down—back flush against Omi’s wide chest, forehead fitting against Omi’s jaw like that’s where he’s always belonged, Omi’s soft smile etched against his temple like a prayer.

Omi’s hand finds his cock then, calloused fingers so satisfyingly stroking along the length, and Tsuzuru shudders as pleasure sweeps through his entire being. His hips arch involuntarily, ass clenching hard, and Omi groans as he thrusts up, his other hand pressing Tsuzuru’s hips back down to meet the snap of his hips.

“Nngggh—!!” the fire coiling in Tsuzuru’s stomach flares, unbearably hot and good and Tsuzuru jerks, his body unsure whether it tries to jerk away from Omi’s hips or from Omi’s hand stroking his cock. He’s going to come like this, he realizes—Omi is going to make him come like this, caged in his arms, legs splayed open and everything in full view, filled to the brim with nothing but Omi—

God, the very thought of it only makes him harder.

Tsuzuru watches as their hips undulate together in smooth, long thrusts that match each strokes of Omi’s hands. He listens to the open-mouthed pants pressed against his temple; in each an almost greedy grunt, an almost possessive groan. The fire in his stomach coils, rouses, flares deliciously with each thrust, and Tsuzuru scrabbles at Omi’s arms, flails as Omi rewards him with a particularly hard snap of his hips that his vision whites out for a moment.

“Kiss me,” Omi pants, and Tsuzuru reaches up blindly, both hands buried into Omi’s short locks and pulls himself up, lips following the line of Omi’s jaw until he finds the corner of Omi’s mouth and Omi sighs into the messy kiss—tongue tangling with Tsuzuru before plunging deep, licking into the far corner of Tsuzuru’s mouth, muffling Tsuzuru’s cry as their hips meet in the next thrust, hard and unforgiving. Tsuzuru grinds down, chasing the heat, and Omi snaps his hips up once-twice-thrice, stealing all breath left within Tsuzuru’s lungs, and the fire bursts.

Tsuzuru comes hard, back arching into Omi’s chest, muscles straining as his hips jerk violently, clenching around Omi’s cock and tipping him over the edge as well. Tsuzuru shudders as he feels Omi’s load spurt inside, white-hot and thick and oh, how is it possible that he can feel even fuller?

Omi’s hand spreads Tsuzuru’s semen over his own stomach as he hums into Tsuzuru’s mouth, pleasure in every shift of his muscles. His smile is still the same soft, languid smile that clings to his lips when he first woke up, except more content and happier, and it makes Tsuzuru warm all over.

“Tsuzuru,” his name still sounds oddly surreal in Omi’s murmur. “Good morning.”

Tsuzuru looks down, to where Omi’s semen leaks down his thigh, and his cock twitches almost valiantly in Omi’s hand. Omi barks a laugh, almost too loud in this cheap, small hotel room, but Tsuzuru loves him best like this—open and soft and lazy, ready to take and honest to his wants.

The scent of sleep is almost gone from Omi’s skin now, but the gentle, unhurried kisses he trails along Tsuzuru’s jaw stay the same. Tsuzuru turns from the strong smell of sex in the air and inhales Omi’s breath instead, mingles his laugh with Omi’s chuckle, and claims it with a kiss.

His favorite Omi is Omi in the mornings—one that only he gets to know, one only he gets to give to.