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Wish That I Could

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So here’s the problem: Kurosawa finds Adachi very attractive.

That wouldn’t be a problem in and of itself. There are plenty of attractive people in the world, and there’s nothing inherently inappropriate in noticing. But Adachi isn’t some pretty face on the street, or big eyes staring at Kurosawa from the front of a magazine. Adachi is his co-worker. His presumably straight, very unavailable co-worker who Kurosawa sees regularly. In the office, in meeting rooms, at lunch, heading to the train station. Regularly regularly, and in the most neutral and professional settings humanly possible.

Hence the problem. Because Kurosawa finds Adachi attractive. Really, really attractive, and the attraction only grows as his feelings for Adachi grow stronger. He loves him, he adores him, his whole heart belongs to him. That part, at least, Kurosawa can compartmentalise and make peace with.

The problem is that all of Kurosawa’s love is directed at one person, solely and exclusively. His decidedly romantic, deeply passionate love. Which despite the mind-numbing blandness of their usual meeting places manages to blossom in the world of his imagination into an ardent, amorous and occasionally steamy affair.

Kurosawa knows, logically, that nothing is ever going to happen. But his libido absolutely does not get the message.

- - -

Kurosawa likes to think he’s a restrained man. He’s never been the casual type – a brief string of flings that left him heartbroken and feeling terrible about himself in his early twenties quickly trained him out of any delusions of that – but he’s perfectly capable of meeting his own needs when they arise. He does have them – plenty of people do – but he’s quite content scratching that particular itch with the use of his own hand and then getting on with his life, without any of the complications arising from other people’s involvement.

Imagine his surprise, then, when during one of his most private moments, his imagination makes use of Adachi in the most inappropriate of ways.

Kurosawa is in bed after a long day, not quite ready to sleep yet. Vaguely aroused, his body wanting stimulation even if he knows he needs sleep more, with another long list of meetings and client visits awaiting him tomorrow.

But he could use a bit of relaxation time, to be honest. A bit of time just for himself. The arousal is a pleasant sensation in his gut, and some solo fun never goes astray after a long day at work.

He’s not thinking of anything in particular when he takes himself in hand. Vague fantasies bouncing around the back of his mind, but mainly just enjoying the physical sensation of his hand on his rapidly enlarging cock. He sighs, shifting into a more comfortable position, stroking himself slow and languid.

His mind wanders. He imagines it’s someone else’s hand around his cock. A man’s hand, broad and veiny, stroking him teasingly. Drawing it out a little, making him wait. Trailing slowly down his body, mouthing at his belly, his hip bones, his thighs. And when he’s waited enough, tonguing at the head of his cock. Flashing dark eyes up at him, teasing – not teasing, shy. Shy dark eyes, beautiful eyes, attached to a beautiful face, messy hair and a mole above his lip, lowering to wrap his mouth around Kurosawa’s cock, oh Adachi

With a gasp, Kurosawa comes.

Pleasure is short-lived. As soon as the spasms die down, Kurosawa stares up at the ceiling, wide awake and decidedly not relaxed. He did, admittedly, come harder than he has in a long time, but the come-down isn’t followed by the usual contented bliss it usually is. Kurosawa just came, suddenly and way too fast, to thoughts of Adachi. Kurosawa isn’t remotely relaxed. Kurosawa is… ashamed.

Adachi is his co-worker. His co-worker, distant and professional, regardless of how Kurosawa feels about him. Adachi has never given even the slightest indication that he feels the same way, never even so much as indicated that he’d like to be friends

And Kurosawa just masturbated to him.

I’m sorry, Adachi, Kurosawa thinks. Sweet, shy, adorable Adachi, who Kurosawa absolutely should not be having lewd thoughts about, despite how much he likes him. Never again.

- - -

It happens again.

More than once, actually, despite Kurosawa’s usually impeccable self-discipline. He ends up giving up on fantasy-based masturbation sessions entirely because as soon as he starts getting into it, letting down his guard and losing himself in the pleasure, he can’t help but think of Adachi.

He turns to pornography, of all things, just so that he has other images to distract him.

But it’s still a problem. Because Kurosawa finds Adachi so alluring. Because Kurosawa is in love. He's human, and he's in love, and he finds Adachi so attractive. Most of his fantasies of them are of the romantic sort, Kurosawa's heart holding more sway than any other part of his anatomy. But sometimes… well. Sometimes Kurosawa's thoughts stray.

He's usually good at nipping it in the bud. Drawing his boundaries and setting thoughts of Adachi aside while he takes care of himself, as he needs to from time to time. There's nothing inherently wrong with masturbation, but Kurosawa doesn’t like to use Adachi as… well, jerk-off material. It seems cheap. Seems disrespectful and inappropriate to a man who is very much a professional colleague.

But Kurosawa is so in love with him. So in love that he doesn’t want to go to bed with anyone else. So in love that even when he’s watching porn, trying valiantly to distract himself from any other images long enough to successfully get off, Adachi still strays into his thoughts. Would he like that, would he do that, god I’d love to do that to him, I wonder if he’d let me.

Kurosawa is watching a man on-screen get a truly fantastic-looking blowjob, thoroughly enjoying the image, his imagination sternly held at bay. It’s a good video, and the performers are handsome, and there’s nothing wrong with either of them. They’re both stunning. They’re both skilled performers, even in the simpler, more natural-looking setting Kurosawa prefers over exaggerated moaning and studio lighting.

They’re still not Adachi. Not the man Kurosawa loves. And so despite his best efforts, his thoughts wander. Inserting Adachi into the picture. Wondering if he’d gasp like this man is gasping, wondering if he’d fist his hands in Kurosawa’s hair, if he’d come all down his throat –

Kurosawa groans as he comes, unexpected and hard, his head tipped back and his lip between his teeth to stifle his noises. His hand slows, drawing the pleasure out in just the way he likes. He’s made a mess of himself, but he’s too blissed out to care right now. Shivering with the aftershocks, head momentarily, blissfully blank.

It doesn't last long.

There’s a moan from the tinny speakers of his laptop. On-screen, the performers are still going at it. Acting out a fantasy entirely different to the one that just went on in his head, because Kurosawa completely checked out. He blinks at the screen, and there’s a moment of disorientation. He doesn't even remember why he clicked on this video, because now he's come down from his orgasm he doesn't find anything erotic about it.

He just jerked himself off to thoughts of Adachi. Again.

He shuts his eyes, just for a moment. Carefully, he wipes his hand and shuts the video, wipes his history, and closes the lid of his laptop. He shuffles to the bathroom, cleaning himself up, unable to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

I shouldn't do this. I'm sorry, Adachi. Never again.

He promises that every time. It’s one of the rare few promises Kurosawa continues to break.

- - -

Kurosawa tries not to think too much about his problem, he really does. He's a man of action, not a wallower, and what he needs to do is be better. Restrain his feelings. Remind his body, even in its most instinctive and animal moments, that it's inappropriate to fantasise sexually about a man he isn't involved with.

The irony of his situation doesn’t entirely escape him. Kurosawa barely noticed Adachi when he started working at the same office. He was friendly of course – Kurosawa is friendly with everyone, it’s part of his job – but Adachi cringed away from human contact and Kurosawa didn’t bother putting the effort in to broach the gap. 

Then, as if the universe is taking vengeance on him for his hubris, the rug gets ripped out from under his feet and now Adachi consumes every waking thought, every breath, every beat of his heart.

Kurosawa falls for him fast, but he falls lastingly as well. It’s not just infatuation, not a passing fancy. It’s a lingering, longing love. It doesn’t go away, even as other beautiful people wander in and out of Kurosawa’s life. Kurosawa watches Adachi, and it’s like a veil has been removed from his own eyes, because he sees him. Sees him for all that he is, and Kurosawa can’t help but love him.

Adachi is kind, so kind, not just to Kurosawa drunk and weeping on a bench but to everyone. He doesn’t speak often, stutters and stumbles his way through most conversations, but when it matters… when it matters, Adachi seems to know just what to say. Reaches out past the wall of his own shyness and touches people when they’re at their lowest, when they need him. He does it softly, gently, without any expectation of reciprocation, retreating back into his shell as soon as they don’t need him any more.

He’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful, inside and out. He hides behind baggy suits and messy hair, but the more Kurosawa looks at him, the more beautiful he becomes. On the rare occasions he looks at Kurosawa, really looks at him, face unguarded and eyes warm, Kurosawa practically stops breathing.

Kurosawa loves him. He adores him.

He’s not some sort of… sex pervert, is the point. He doesn’t mean to be inappropriate, even when his mind wanders to inappropriate places. He doesn’t pursue Adachi, because Adachi doesn’t want to be pursued, and he respects that.

He’s fine. Really. And his little problem… he deals with it.

Life goes on, and the time goes by. He sees Adachi around, his heart beating its warm, longing rhythm, but his behaviour perfectly in check. He helps Adachi with a project, leaning over his shoulder to look at Adachi’s computer screen, and Adachi smells so good – Kurosawa wishes he could bury his nose in Adachi’s hair, trail down Adachi’s neck and throat, press kisses to the nape of his neck and just breathe in the heady smell of him for hours – but Kurosawa goes back to his own desk and gets back to work, locking those thoughts away. Adachi knocks into him once as he’s walking away from the photocopier and Kurosawa steadies him with hands on Adachi’s shoulders, and Adachi stammers apologies and walks away and Kurosawa lets him without a moment’s reluctance, without allowing even the briefest lingering of his hands, without allowing himself to actually feel Adachi, even a little, because that wouldn’t be right. They go to yet another work dinner and Adachi is seated next to him, the table too cramped to allow for the amount of people crowded around it, and Kurosawa gives himself back pain for the next three days with the way he twists to avoid spending hours with Adachi’s thigh pressed up against his own.

Kurosawa is a reasonable man. A respectable one, or so he likes to think. Adachi doesn’t know how Kurosawa feels about him, but Kurosawa does, and he’s not going to take liberties. He loves Adachi, but it’s not reciprocated, and Kurosawa is fine with that, really.

Telling himself that is all well and good. But even Kurosawa, despite his best and very concerted efforts, can't control himself all the time.

During the day, he is content to admire Adachi from afar. His adorable bedhead, the way his eyes curve when he smiles, the moles scattered across his skin (sexy, very sexy, but Kurosawa tries not to fixate). He admires Adachi's hands, and the cut of his shoulders when he stands up straight, and the ill-fitting suits that lead to hours of rumination on what Adachi really looks like underneath.

That is, admittedly, not the most chaste line of thought. But during work hours, it is more scientific. A curiosity, an infatuation, as Kurosawa imagines holding those hands and putting his arms around Adachi's waist and tangling their legs together on the sofa.

He loves Adachi. He’s in love with him. He wants, more than anything in the world, just to be with him. To be allowed to hold him, and stroke his hair back from his face, and have Adachi smile at him, because of him. Kurosawa wants many things with Adachi, but the thing he wants most of all is as simple as it is unlikely: he wants Adachi to love him back.

Adachi doesn’t. Adachi won’t. And Kurosawa is fine with that. Contents himself with innocent daydreams, and lets the thought of them becoming reality go.

The problem is that his musings don’t stay so innocent. At night, away from work, it's like Kurosawa's libido has trained itself to rev up. To turn his hopelessly romantic musing into something infinitely less chaste.

He loves Adachi. And somehow, the emotional attraction to him becomes inextricably linked with Kurosawa's sexual fantasies. And he can't stop it.

He tries focusing on increasingly extreme types of porn, to limited success. Tries reading erotic literature, but the romantic language only makes him think about Adachi even more. He tries thinking about nothing at all, focusing solely on the physical sensation of his hand on his cock and his mind under strict instructions to behave, but he fails extravagantly.

At wits’ end, he stops masturbating entirely. It seems like the only remaining solution. Kurosawa is a reasonable and respectful man generally speaking, but as soon as his dick gets hard that flies right out the window. And it is disrespectful. It’s inappropriate to use Adachi as jerk-off material. So he stops jerking off at all.

It's not a solution. He starts making a mess of his bed sheets like he's a teenager again, and the amount of laundry alone quickly puts a stop to that.

- - -

Kurosawa has a problem, and he has yet to find a way to fix it. But he’s trying, he really is. He’s trying.

Today was an excellent day. He got to spend time with Adachi, far more than usual, and Kurosawa was practically floating by the time he left the office. They have a big sales contract coming up and Adachi is crunching the numbers, which admittedly isn’t a very romantic activity, but Kurosawa sat next to him and they talked and Adachi even smiled at him. Smiled! More than once! Best of all, they’re going to keep working together tomorrow.

Bliss. Pure bliss. 

Kurosawa lets himself into his apartment with a spring in his step, and Kurosawa is still thinking about Adachi as he makes dinner and eats and does the dishes entirely on autopilot, caught up in reliving today and imagining tomorrow.

He’s so lucky. He’ll get to spend a whole morning with Adachi tomorrow. Kurosawa can’t believe how lucky he is.

He’s walking on cloud nine right up until bedtime when, like his body is on a schedule, he feels the familiar stirrings of arousal. If Adachi were Kurosawa’s boyfriend, he’d be here in Kurosawa’s home at this hour, well-fed and happy. If he were Kurosawa’s boyfriend, this is the exact time of evening that Kurosawa would take him to bed.

It’s like his dick knows, honestly.

Ignoring it won’t work. Kurosawa is too excited, still on edge after a day spent so long in Adachi’s company, and he flips from romantic to sensual like the flicking of a switch. Suddenly all he can think about is Adachi’s lips and the heat of his body and the noise he made when he popped a sweet into his mouth earlier today and –

No. No. Absolutely not.

Kurosawa goes for his laptop. Sits himself down and pulls up something kinky, something as far away from what he can reasonably imagine doing with Adachi as possible, and tries to focus on that. He sincerely doubts Adachi would be interested in acting out a pirate/cabin boy role-play – honestly Kurosawa isn’t that into it either – but he’s desperate. He needs something, anything, that his treacherous mind won’t sneak Adachi into halfway through.

It works. For about two minutes.

The pirate and the cabin boy get down to it quickly. There’s some appalling dialogue, though fortunately it’s quick, and then the cabin boy’s hands are roped and he’s being tugged back against the pirate’s chest, the pirate biting at his ear and grinding his erection against his ass, and Kurosawa closes his eyes, just for a second.

His cock is rigid in his hand, and he strokes it in the slow, sensual way he likes best, foreskin gliding over the sensitive head of his cock. A moan from on-screen, but Kurosawa isn’t thinking about that any more. With his eyes closed, his mind wanders, and suddenly he’s thinking about having Adachi in his arms, pressing up against him from behind just like the pirate did, but it’s different. He’s running his hands over Adachi’s waistband, freeing his shirt from his pants and slipping his hands underneath to feel the warmth of Adachi’s stomach, and Adachi wouldn’t be tied up but he wouldn’t reciprocate either, not yet, he’d just let Kurosawa touch him, let him run his hands all over his skin, let him slide down to grab –

No, no, no.

Kurosawa pulls his hand away from his cock, leaving it bobbing freely in the air, flushed and neglected. He stares at his laptop screen unseeing, feeling more than a little wild. This is ridiculous. This is absurd. What is wrong with him?

I love him, he thinks miserably. That’s the problem, the undeniable reality he’s facing. He loves Adachi. Kurosawa doesn’t want anyone else, not even in a fantasy. He just wants him.

He feels half mad with it. Unrestrained in a way he never lets himself be in the daylight hours. Kurosawa wants him so badly. Most of the time the ache is only in his heart, and that he’s used to, that he can cope with. But then his libido revs up like this, and nothing but Adachi will satisfy him.

Kurosawa snaps.

He all but slams the laptop shut. Gets up from his chair and shuffles, erection sticking out of his pants and fully aware of how stupid he looks, to throw himself onto his bed.

He wants Adachi. He wants Adachi so bad his cock is aching with it. Porn just isn’t the same, and Kurosawa is so, so horny.

He’ll be horrified about this later, but he can’t help it anymore. He gives in.

He closes his eyes, wrapping his hand around his cock and moaning at the touch. At the mere thought of Adachi, unfiltered, unshackled, he’s already on fire. His breathing is too fast and he forces himself to take calming breaths as he strokes himself idly, not yet in the flow of things, trying to decide what fantasy he’ll focus on.

Even having given himself permission, it’s not as easy as he thought it might be. He feels guilty. Embarrassed to be doing this, jerking himself off to thoughts of his co-worker. It’s shameful. It’s disgraceful.

Kurosawa doesn’t want to be Adachi’s co-worker. Kurosawa loves him.

In the end, that’s the fantasy he sinks into. Swallowing, and letting himself go. Letting himself imagine that Adachi is his boyfriend, and they’ve been together a while, and Kurosawa is allowed to touch him. Letting himself imagine what it would be like to kiss Adachi, to put his hands around his waist and pull him in close. To pin him against his desk – no, not his desk, too much stuff there – to pin him up against the wall. Office empty of everyone but just the two of them.

Kurosawa would kiss Adachi slowly, pushing his thigh between Adachi’s legs. Rubbing, giving him some friction as he kisses him, waiting until he feels Adachi start to harden.

God. Kurosawa’s hand speeds up, his teeth biting at his lip as a jolt of arousal goes through him. Adachi’s cock. He wants it so bad, wants to drop to his knees and –

No, too fast, he’s imagining this too quickly. Slow down. Kurosawa wants to do so many things to Adachi his head is spinning with it, but he refocuses his imagination on earlier in the scenario.

He’d tease Adachi first. Wait until Adachi was rocking against his thigh, panting into his mouth (god that’s sexy), wait until after he’d slid his hands everywhere he could reach, over Adachi’s chest and his thighs and his tight little ass (Kurosawa groans, tilting his hips into his hand), wait until Kurosawa gave him one final kiss and dropped to his knees, but even then he wouldn’t take Adachi’s cock out of his pants. He’d lean in, nuzzling at Adachi’s bulge, mouthing at him through the fabric until Adachi was whining, and pleading, and –

Oh, god.

Kurosawa removes his hand just in time. The very second before the tension in his groin snaps, and it’s agony making himself wait, but he doesn’t want it to be over yet. His chest is heaving, cock twitching in the cool air as Kurosawa forces himself to calm down.

Not yet. Not yet.

He groans. Rolls over so he can take himself in hand that way, and he didn’t think to put a towel down but frankly he’s too far gone to care, and it’s not like he hasn’t done plenty of laundry lately. He buries his face in his pillow, pretending it’s Adachi, mind conjuring the smell of him. His hips twitch in his hand, but he doesn’t move until he feels less on the brink, less like a single touch will shove him over the edge.

When he moves, he moves slowly. Grinding into his own hand in his lonely bed, pretending Adachi is there beneath him. He imagines burying his nose in the nape of Adachi’s neck, kissing at his moles as he grinds against Adachi’s back. Imagines sliding his cock against the cheeks of Adachi’s ass, just that, grinding against his skin. Inhales again, and there’s nothing but the smell of Kurosawa’s own laundry soap, so he redirects his imagination.

He thinks of Adachi sprawling out beneath him, on his back now, his shirt unbuttoned and lips kissed red. Thinks of running his hands down Adachi’s chest, unbuckling his belt. Thinks of rubbing his own cock against the bulge in Adachi’s pants over and over, grabbing Adachi’s hips and grinding against him, fucking him through the fabric of his pants and – Kurosawa needs to come so badly, the mere thought of Adachi’s cock makes him want to explode, he needs it, he can’t hold on any more, he's hurtling over the edge, oh Adachi.

Kurosawa moans, loud and unrestrained. Mouth open, dampening the pillow with his saliva as he jerks and grinds, spilling all over his hand and onto the bed sheets below, coming so hard he’s shaking with it. It’s every bit as good as he imagined, so good he can’t stop moaning, he’s still coming, god, Adachi.

He’s gasping by the time he’s done, jolting with the aftershocks. His cock is almost unbearably sensitive, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t do anything but collapse onto the mattress, heedless of the mess he’s made. He pants, heart rate slowly coming down from the best orgasm he’s had in ages, and he hasn’t even imagined Adachi’s cock out yet, god.

Kurosawa has never even been to bed with Adachi, but he’s already confident in stating that Adachi is the sexiest person alive.

It takes him a long time to get himself upright again. A long time to strip his sheets and put new ones back on again, because despite how thoroughly he’s disgraced himself tonight he still needs to have some standards. He feels loose-limbed, almost jelly-like, deliberately skirting around the reality of what he’s just done and putting himself to bed, going to sleep with his arm around a pillow, pretending it’s Adachi.

He can only put off the guilt for so long. The next morning, Kurosawa stares at himself in the bathroom mirror so long he’s almost late to work.

He masturbated to Adachi. Again. But more importantly, he let himself masturbate to Adachi.

It’s official: Kurosawa has a very big problem indeed.