Kurosawa has always thought of Adachi’s voice as endearing.
When Adachi speaks, he sounds warm in a way that makes him an instant favorite for interns, gentle enough so as to not be condescending to them, either. Though it’s sometimes soft to the point he’s inevitably asked to repeat himself—which, also inevitably, makes him stutter more than normal—Adachi’s voice can still harden to a firm confidence at the rare times he knows exactly what he’s talking about. If work courtesy wasn’t a thing, Kurosawa would damn well record it if he could.
Then there are those moments when Adachi’s voice grows a fraction of a tone higher because he’s smiling through his words like he can’t control his face without physically manhandling his cheeks and, god, Kurosawa has to force himself not to sweep this sweet, adorable man into his arms in front of the office printer and the coworker patiently waiting for them both to finish using it.
“It was so sweet but not too sweet and—”
“You’ve been raving about this new sweets shop since this morning,” teases Kurosawa from the dining table, warmed mug of tea in hands, “Are you going to spend all your free time there now? Coming over so often must have made my house boring.”
“Fishing for compliments, huh? As if you don’t get enough hourly.”
“They mean something when they’re from you.”
Weaponized saccharine used to instantly startle Adachi into a stammering mess, but now he just snorts from where he’s finishing up with rinsing the dishes. He holds up a damp, neon gloved hand.
One finger raises with every count: “Jealous of Fujisaki, Rokkaku, that one guy from marketing who complimented my tie which you bought. Are you going to be jealous of establishments now, too?”
Kurosawa waves his mug around indignantly. “Hey, that marketing guy was getting way too close to you that time!”
“He lost part of his hearing! He didn’t even ask me for my name! Sheesh. For such a capable guy, you’re a little crazy, you know that?”
Adachi laughs that giggly, gummy, smiley laugh that Kurosawa only sees and hears when he knows Adachi no longer feels handicapped by his surroundings. Even this simple information makes Kurosawa’s chest want to tighten and hold and keep forever such a bright visage.
The want in Kurosawa for this singular person before him—sleeves rolled uneven; hair still damp from the bath; borrowed pants clearly backwards but unnoticed still—the desire is so great sometimes, it scares him.
“Do you,” Kurosawa starts, staring into his reflection in his tea, scrutinizing the odd curl of his fringe, “Do you mind it? Me being…me being ‘a little crazy.’”
There was a distinct rhythm to Adachi’s dishwashing that is audibly interrupted. The faucet is turned off. Kurosawa can hear Adachi turn around to look at him.
He who bears that name holds on tighter to his mug.
It’s his mother’s name, and his father’s, and his elder sister’s. It’s the name everyone calls him by, from transient relationships to bosses who constantly remind him of business trips to coworkers who admire him for the fortress of a reputation he inadvertently built around a delicate heart.
But when Adachi says it, it becomes something different.
Adachi never says “Kurosawa” with expectation. He never says it like the prequel to disappointment or naive infatuation. Kurosawa’s name always sounds so easy when Adachi says it, in a way that makes Kurosawa feel exactly as he needs to be with that name, in this moment, with this person.
Rarely has he truly felt like the name imprinted on his company card, but when Adachi calls for him—Kurosawa never wants to be anyone else.
“If you’re a little crazy then I’m a complete lunatic,” says Adachi, chuckling to himself. He peels off the kitchen gloves, hangs them on the edge of the sink. “Remember when my magic was still a thing? And I’ve been wearing your pajama pants backwards since changing into them and I didn’t even bother fixing it. Isn’t that pretty crazy? Or maybe I’m just lazy. Or both. And you must have noticed it, too, now that I’m thinking about how many times you were smiling like you were going to laugh at any moment during dinner—”
Adachi’s words are cut off by the battering ram of a partner pulling him into a tight, tight embrace. It’s always been one of Kurosawa’s favorite things to do to Adachi, really, with Adachi being so naturally warm and huggable in the first place. But when the realization hit Kurosawa one day that, in this position, he could hear Adachi’s voice even more clearly, he’d make sure it took Adachi twice as long to pry them apart despite complaints that I really like hugging you, Kurosawa, I do, but I really, really need to use the bathroom.
When Kurosawa feels fingers dig into the back of his shirt, he nearly melts into it entirely.
“Can you,” Kurosawa murmurs, “Can you say my name again, Adachi?”
There is a pause, as if Adachi wants to ask a question, before: “Kurosawa.”
Kurosawa feels like his chest is going to split apart from how hard his heart is trying to escape it. He’s a damn easy read, isn’t he?
While Kurosawa’s hold on Adachi is vice, he begins to pull his head back, slowly, swallow down the lump that hasn’t left his throat since Adachi declared that he, too, liked Kurosawa. An ember is glowing at the pit of his stomach. His skin feels like a forest fire. He read somewhere that dragons are quite possessive of their hoard, their treasures.
Kurosawa meets Adachi’s eyes, criminally doe-like and wide yet analytical in a way that used to be purely for self defense. But now it has morphed into a gentle, unobtrusive curiosity for the thoughts he can no longer read. Magic or not, Kurosawa is certain those eyes could pierce into the most honest parts of his soul—and he would let it happen, many times over.
Kurosawa’s eyes travel downwards, soaking in every pore and freckle and little scar he’s had memorized for years, before settling down at Adachi’s mouth, lips, that mole sitting just above the inviting pink of it all. Kurosawa has been quite vocal about what those damn moles do to him; they’re like targets, symbols of the imperfections Adachi sees in himself that Kurosawa will smother with affection until, maybe, Adachi starts to love those imperfections as well. It’s not that simple, Kurosawa knows, but he’d like to think that he and Adachi are slowly chipping at that barrier together.
“Are you staring at my mole again, Kurosawa?”
Kurosawa bites his own lip through the shiver that crackles through him, like distant thunder.
“What gave it away?” he teases, shaky, “My blatant ogling or the drool in my mouth?”
“Wow, imagine the scandal if news got out that you’re a bit a pervert.”
“A little crazy, bit of a pervert. Anything else to add to the list?”
There is a fleeting, firm pressure at Kurosawa’s lips. The swiftness of the motion implies a confidence that finally sets Kurosawa’s veins ablaze.
“H-How about fiancé?”
That’s the last thing Adachi gets out before Kurosawa kisses him like a man in a desert finding water for the first time. He pushes Adachi against the sink with less grace than he hoped for, but the roughness of the motion shocks Adachi’s mouth into an open opportunity.
Teeth clack. One nose pushes against another. The off-kilter scratch of nails on Kurosawa’s back, skin barely separated from skin by thin cloth, makes him ride the advantage of his height. He pushes into Adachi’s mouth, harder, harder and harder, desperate to pull those near-silent whimpers to a volume so embarrassing that Adachi feels forced to kiss Kurosawa even more to hide them.
The scent of Adachi’s skin is familiar and clean, echoing Kurosawa’s own soaps and creams. Dressed head to toe in Kurosawa’s clothes. Soon to be out of them. In Kurosawa’s bed. Under Kurosawa’s hands, twitching with every motion and saying Kurosawa’s name like a broken record, like prayer—
The sheer imagination of so many dreams at once is enough to overwhelm. Kurosawa has to stop kissing and remember to breathe, damn it, have some self-control for once in your life at the crook of Adachi’s neck. His knuckles must be white at this point, with how hard his grip feels.
A beat passes, then another. They are both breathing hard, still entangled in each other at the edge of the kitchen sink.
“Y-You’re,” starts Adachi, “You’re, uh, revved up tonight, huh? Did something good happen recently?”
Kurosawa makes a choked sound.
“Um, well, depends on what you mean by ‘something good,’” he says. His face is now feeling the heat wave of exactly what demons overtook him—and just from hearing his stupid name in Adachi’s stupid beautiful mouth. Maybe he really is a pervert. “Promise to not laugh at me?”
“I promise to not laugh at you. But I may laugh with you.”
Kurosawa often has the biggest ball teasing Adachi for those prime time-level reactions. But now Adachi’s been bold enough to start teasing him these days. What a gremlin he’s made of this angel.
“That? I mean, this? I mean, um, clarification please.”
“You saying my name, it’s,” inhale, exhale, you big baby, “The way you say it really, erm, does something. For me. If you. If you catch my drift.”
Whether by choice or providence, Adachi shifts his legs and the most embarrassing sound slips out of Kurosawa’s mouth before he knew it existed.
Yes, he’s hard. Yes, he feels slightly ashamed. No, he’s not going to apologize for it.
“I’m not going to apologize for it,” voices out Kurosawa. He doesn’t sound calm. Finally moving to rest his forehead against Adachi’s, he sighs and lets himself grin at the ridiculousness of everything so far. “Your voice, your moles, every strand on your head and every single part of you—I feel like I could go mad with how much I want you all to myself sometimes, Adachi.”
Adachi’s gulp is audible and for a moment, Kurosawa feels a pulse of fear ring through his body at just how crazy he really does sound. Desperate, even, and that pushiness could very well push Adachi away. It’s pushed people away before, and it could happen at any moment still. Kurosawa never had the luxury or practice of reading Adachi’s mind, so half of Kurosawa worries that everything he’s known about Adachi over the years has been utterly wrong—that this is all still a dream.
But then the hot breath of Adachi’s exhale, trembling, hits Kurosawa. Shivers skip down his spine. A palm presses against his cheek—“Kurosawa, Kurosawa, oh, Kurosawa”—like gospel before a soft curve forms at Adachi’s mouth.
“I think I really like this side of you, too, Kurosawa.”
One smile meets another in the same way two waists, heavy with heat, press together like puzzle pieces and suddenly Kurosawa is flooded with ache. Adachi’s mouth is heady and so very easy to fall into for hours at a time; the single tug on his jaw to keep going, more, more, nearly has Kurosawa following suit.
But Kurosawa has plans. Kurosawa has plans that he has rigorously constructed in the milliseconds between seeing that devastating smile and welcoming devastation in its entirety.
He pulls his mouth away with unsteady breath, the thrum of his blood tremendous in his head, swollen lips, inflated chest. Kurosawa is a single river with only one direction to go.
Grabbing Adachi’s wrist, he tugs them both to the bedroom at breakneck speed, narrowly missing a flower vase from Kurosawa’s mother and a framed photo commemorating The First (Actual) Date. They nearly trip over stray house slippers and loose charger wires, laughing between the kisses stolen on the way. For all the serious rigor of Kurosawa’s plans, he’d be a fool to not indulge in what’s offered to him.
Adachi climbs onto the bed, on his back. Kurosawa follows closely, on his knees. The routine of it at times is dizzying.
Kurosawa’s chest rises and falls as he helps Adachi out of his shirt. Soon, vice versa.
Adachi’s first instinct is often of unease, a timidity of where to start when so little baseline can be resourced. But recent nights have grown differently. Recognition shows on Adachi’s face. He knows what effect he can have, Kurosawa is sure, and with new power granted so early tonight, there is no way methodical Adachi doesn’t have plans of his own when he lays back again, body language open, cheeks scarlet-hot, and rasps:
“Kiss me, Kurosawa.”
Kurosawa’s vision nearly whites at the command. At its diminishing rarity.
Low and ardent, Kurosawa swears before diving in—mouth to mouth, mouth to cheek, mouth to that lovely, sweet spot below the ear that Kurosawa has imagined devouring so many times but those fantasies could never compare to the reality of actually doing it. Adachi curses in his moan. Scratches at Kurosawa to come closer. Sounds leave Adachi’s mouth like a trail of smoke and Kurosawa’s lungs are none the wiser.
Concentrate. Kurosawa drags his tongue down, flicks at the chocolate speckle right next to one nipple in a way that drags the sweetest whine from above.
At one point or another, Kurosawa is met with the boundary between skin and cloth, where the elastic ruche of borrowed pajama pants bites into Adachi’s hips—god, I really want to do that—but Kurosawa looks up.
For a hysterical moment, he genuinely wonders if he’s walked into a wet dream.
Adachi’s hair spreads out radially like an ink spill, eyes and kissed-red lips the slightest bit ajar. Adachi’s breathing is quiet, quick. Sweat makes his skin gleam. A bloom of rouge saturates beneath like watercolor from the pin center of Adachi’s chest, mixing with the red already in his cheeks; would it paint Kurosawa’s hands, if he touched them now?
But, truly, nothing makes Kurosawa shudder more than when Adachi’s eyes are fully and immovably set on him. Years of giving this exact attention and being returned slivers had always seemed enough to Kurosawa.
Now, he is greedy for it.
Little hesitation holds Kurosawa from ripping away the last two layers in front of him before sinking his mouth around Adachi’s cock. The loudly muffled groan he hears makes his own twitch, hard.
In his mind, Kurosawa maps out the ridges and veins and the delicious pierce of heat. All of this he knows well, too, but he could never tire of relishing the taste and feel. Taking Adachi into his mouth is one of Kurosawa’s favorite things. It makes him really feel like he’s going to suffocate with the lush, heavy sensation wracking him on an already regular basis.
Adachi likes tongue here, a lick there, and for Kurosawa to suck to a specific tightness that forces Adachi to bite his lip and keep quiet. Kurosawa is even prepared for the very moment Adachi tries to bow his spine against the bed and push further into Kurosawa, “Kurosawa, oh, oh, Kurosawa, please” before being held down with a firm grip that digs into the muscle of Adachi’s thighs.
The syrupy sound that comes out of Adachi is simply criminal and the very last straw before Kurosawa shoves a hand into his own pants—
“N-No, wait, wait.”
Immediately, Kurosawa takes his mouth off, attention prompt in latching onto Adachi’s face for even the smallest sign of discomfort.
Adachi purses his lips. He exhales and palms the sweat-slick strands out of his face. His eyes are watery in a way that worries Kurosawa, pulls him over immediately to swipe his thumbs there because maybe he’d hurt Adachi somehow or did something out of bounds. But when Adachi leans into the gesture, leans up for a kiss, Kurosawa is instantly awash with relief.
Kissing Adachi twice, Kurosawa says, “Hi.”
Adachi “pft”s at him. “Um, hello?”
“How are you doing? Did you want to stop?”
Adachi brings his hands to sandwich Kurosawa’s cheeks, which must be radioactive with color at this point.
“Can I, can I do it?”
Kurosawa’s eyes widen. Adachi’s voice is so small, it’s almost a whisper, but still unfailingly warm like a flickering flame.
“I mean, I mean, I want to do it,” says Adachi. “The same thing. To you.”
“But you haven’t…”
“I want to c—” Adachi chokes over the word, chews over it. It looks like he's trying to configure himself to be able to say it out loud without retracting back into himself. Shit, Kurosawa wants to kiss him so badly. “I want to c-come with you in my mouth, Kurosawa.”
Kiss him, Kurosawa does. Over and over and over until he’s breathless with the feeling of Adachi’s beautiful, sweet mouth on his. It’s such a wonder. Adachi is such a wonder. How did Kurosawa get this lucky, to be handed this on such a sincere, trust-filled platter?
“I would really love that,” murmurs Kurosawa against Adachi’s lips before laying down on his back, replacing where Adachi is no longer.
This isn’t the first time Adachi has done this. That was on a surprise weekend trip to a ryokan Kurosawa’s sister had recommended. The two of them were dressed in midnight-colored yukatas, yellow trim, covered up but easy to access. Hot water was godsend for their aching muscles after a very long week of overtime; it wasn’t so bad, though, since overtime is another excuse to spend time together alone.
Maybe it was something about the simultaneous privacy and exposure of an open-air bath that encouraged Adachi. He was clumsy, of course, but endlessly cute, captivating in his diligence. They were both in a haze by the end of it, with little fault to the steam itself.
Practice makes perfect, Kurosawa would continue to tease. And, indeed, a handful of attempts does not a master make. However—
“I’ll. I’ll start now. Kurosawa.”
—that doesn’t mean Kurosawa can’t enjoy the hell out of it.
The determined breath Adachi takes is equally arousing to the act itself. One inch down, then another, adjusting himself at a pace that is comfortable to him and simultaneously tears Kurosawa apart. Vision is becoming a luxury now, but even Kurosawa can see that Adachi is fisting himself as the red of Kurosawa’s erection passes through the red of Adachi’s lips. Distinguishing the colors is alarmingly difficult.
Kurosawa’s breath is ragged. Terribly loud. His head pitches back sharply when Adachi tightens his throat even though he doesn’t even mean to and it’s really a miracle that Kurosawa hasn’t shouted something absolutely appalling yet.
Instead, he’s huffing the words, “Adachi, Adachi, it’s, I’m, I think I’m, oh god do that again—”
Whatever “that” was, Adachi does it. Kurosawa bites into the meat of his own fist, wanting desperately to sink those teeth into the man between his legs.
Surely, it’s illegal for Adachi to still be so cute, doing this. It’s in the way his eyelashes flutter when his eyes don’t know where to look, or when he’s overcome with arousal himself, or when he glances up at Kurosawa to check on him, to see if everything’s okay with the person who instigated this madness. Kurosawa knows that and sees Adachi gazing at him and it’s just—any second now. Any. A liquid ache is building pressure in his body and Kurosawa is going to break apart with it at any moment.
But then a chill hits Kurosawa’s spit-slick erection. Kurosawa groans like there’s gravel in his throat because Adachi’s mouth isn’t around him anymore when it should be but—oh, but his lips are still there.
“Kurosawa,” Adachi says softly, after licking a strip up the shaft.
“Kurosawa,” Adachi says firmly, against a river vein he grazes his teeth across.
“Kurosawa, my Kurosawa,” Adachi says, kissing the head, in the same way he says I love you. “My Yuichi.”
Kurosawa snaps like a rubber band on its last fiber. Awareness flies out of him when his singular focus becomes release in a violent, heated shudder. He registers the upper half of his body lifting from the bed, a broken, silent cry leaving him, and the sore tightness in his ribcage from wanting so badly to keep everything in—to last longer, really—then failing spectacularly.
Failure is rarely a phenomenon Kurosawa accepts easily. This, though. This was nothing short of incredible.
When the floating circles of color are finally blinked away, Kurosawa props himself on his elbows to get a better look at Adachi. And frankly, if he hadn’t come just now, Kurosawa might have sprung another one immediately.
Adachi looks debauched. Pliant, on his knees, fully body flushed and hair askew, breath lead-heavy and uneven through a gorgeous mouth shining with…with Kurosawa all over it. All over him.
Kurosawa is a razor’s edge from tipping into a state of pure abandonment at this point. But he knows he can’t be selfish.
Quickly retrieving the undone parts of himself, Kurosawa lunges for Adachi, takes him roughly in hand and sucks a dark, deep locus on his hip. Adachi cries out. It’s a signal: he’s close. In fact, Adachi was likely already close to spilling when Kurosawa had him in mouth earlier. To have made it this far to meet Kurosawa, Adachi must have been on and off himself. A sweet agony arises at the thought.
The motions are fast with little elegance. Adachi has waited long enough for pleasure and Kurosawa’s single existence in this moment is to grant it. Patience completely evaporated now, Kurosawa swallows Adachi entirely once again with a rumbling groan, and is quickly met with a short, strangled cry.
A few moments of silence pass, then: “Ah, sorry, Adachi, I should have cleaned you up before doing that.”
Kurosawa’s…his mess, as it were, has begun to dry. He should do something about that. So he dashes to the bathroom for a towel to soap up and dampen because afterglows aren’t excuses to be a barbarian. But the bubbling laughter behind Kurosawa easily slips past the facade; he’s honestly rather embarrassed about the whole thing.
To have lost control like that, and all because of his name. Adachi can just say his damn name and, what, Kurosawa is going to pop a boner and go into a horny frenzy? Just like that? Pathetic.
The walk back to bed feels like the anxiety before a court hearing. Adachi doesn’t even look smug about it, which makes Kurosawa feel worse because at least they could make light banter about it and go to bed—
“Thank you, Kurosawa.”
The toweled hand reaching over stops. “For what?”
“For trusting me with your name. In that way.” Adachi looks like his breath is just returning to normal. He’s smiling to his gums, too, before the surge of characteristic panic sets in, “I-I didn’t mean to say your first name so suddenly, by the way! It honestly just came out of nowhere. It felt right in the moment, and, um, I’ve tried saying it before. To myself. Without you around because I know that’d be burdensome. I could never bring myself to, though. But then I said it, just now, and I don’t know what came over me—”
It takes the world’s longest second before the words reach Adachi and he's aimlessly punching and kicking at the crazy pervert who’d said them. Kurosawa dodges them all, takes advantage of the naked opportunity to retaliate at Adachi’s most ticklish spots. An inexplicably joyous thing fills the room. It pours into an already-infinite cache of it.
When he finally gets around the flying limbs and wipes Adachi down, Kurosawa says, “Should we try that again, but with your name?”
Adachi make the “X” sign with his arms. “Nope.”
“Aw, why not? You might like it.”
“In the same way you did? No way. I’d die of embarrassment.”
And as Adachi grabs a pillow to stifle Kurosawa’s very ungentlemanly cackle, laughing as well through the sudden pillow fight, Kurosawa thinks: Ah, there really is no one else I’d rather be.