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The music was loud enough to drown out any thoughts he might’ve had, were he in a state of mind to have them. Warm bodies pressed up against his sides and jostled him to the music. His hat was long gone, knocked astray by an aimless arm, probably, and it felt refreshing to have his bangs flying around freely as he danced. Apparently there was a whole world to be seen and experienced beyond the blue brim that so often blocked his eyesight. Who knew?
Kite was only a few drinks in, and he had a fairly high tolerance for alcohol, having mastered the art of not throwing up in college, but he was a little dizzy and disoriented. Perhaps he was dehydrated – he couldn’t remember the last time he drank water that day, and it was nearing midnight, so he’d been dancing for at least two hours straight.
He left his apartment that night in hopes of getting his colleagues off his back. They told him he was too uptight, too focused on his work, and too boring (like reading, cooking, and tending to animals were boring activities), but he humored them and they’d gone to some club together. As chance would have it, he really did need a break, and the first sip of vodka had loosened up muscles he didn’t know were tense.
Someone tugged his hair – maybe on accident, maybe on purpose – and he scowled, making his way in a different direction on the dance floor. He wasn’t drunk enough for that yet.
Banana and Spin were shimmying around the perimeter of the crowd, completely wasted and having what looked like a good time. Stick was nowhere to be seen and Monta was watching them from a booth. He couldn’t usually get drunk due to his large size, and often volunteered to be an extra layer of protection for the group, sort of like a bodyguard. Kite would normally be by his side, but he was having a nice time letting go.
The DJ switched tracks and a few people who recognized the new song made excited arm movements. They were nearly indistinguishable from regular flailing arm gestures commonly found on dance floors, but Kite had a keen eye. This particular song had a more earthy tone and reminded him of something off a runway show. It was nice enough, still not anything he’d listen to on a regular day.
But today wasn’t a regular day.
He was beginning to regret wearing his customary long sleeved shirt; it trapped all his body heat in an uncomfortably tight way, but he didn’t have anything to change into. That sucked a lot. At least he was wearing deodorant.
Something brushed his sides, and Kite almost changed directions again, but a low voice in his ear rumbled playfully. “I like your hair.”
He glanced down, realizing there was a tanned hand with blunt nails grazing his hip. Kite started to step away, but the hand insistently held him in place, and he felt its owner’s body bump into his back. “Ah – excuse –” He began, but the music was too loud, and he knew anything he said would be lost if he didn’t yell or speak directly into someone’s ear. The hand inched a little lower. Kite frowned, turning to face whoever they were and politely decline whatever their proposition was, coming eye-to-eye with a mess of black hair.
A few inches shorter than him (that was generous), the man had a strong build, grizzled facial hair shadowing his face and lively amber eyes glowed in the atmosphere. His jaw was chiseled nicely, the movements hypnotizing Kite as he spoke, and he almost missed the words entirely. “It’s grown since I last saw you.”
Kite assumed the man was talking about his hair, but honestly, “it” could refer to any number of (un?)pleasant things. He was perplexed. Before he had a chance to reply or think more about types of male anatomy that could change size, the man’s face was alarmingly close, and powerful lips pressed against his.
A couple people nearby hooted in encouragement, as he supposed was customary whenever it looked like someone was going to get lucky, but he found it more embarrassing than anything else. The man’s facial hair grazed his chin lightly. He smelled like musk and spices. It was intoxicating.
Kite felt his brain processing things at a slower rate than normal, and the seconds that ticked by were exponentially longer than they should have been. He was paralyzed and couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to kiss back or kick the man into a dumpster outside. A thumb gently rubbing his hip bone – when had that hand slipped under his shirt? – made the decision for him, and he gave in, tilting his head into the kiss.
He could feel his stomach heating up with anticipation. Their lips were synchronized, and he knew how rare it was to find someone you could kiss with chemistry. He vaguely remembered Spin ranting about it a few months ago, after she had a particularly harrowing experience with some sleazebag in… a situation not unlike this one.
Kite felt himself flushing, and he almost pulled away, not wanting to end up in some club-borne horror story. None of them would ever let him forget it. But a warm tongue ran lightly over his bottom lip, and his spine shuddered and he opened his mouth in surprise. That was a mistake – the man’s tongue swept past his lips, and he was overcome with an earthy, deep taste. It reminded him of walking through a nature store, maybe the hunting department, but he couldn’t place why and didn’t care to try.
He was just getting comfortable craning his neck down to accommodate the man’s stature when his lips pulled away. Kite blinked his eyes open, and heard, “Do you wanna take this back to mine?”
Kite’s cheeks burned as he hesitated. Did he? Was he really going to turn this chance encounter into an intimate encounter? People bounced and gyrated around him, the flashing lights making it difficult to think straight. Well, if this guy didn’t look as handsome in better lighting, he could change his mind and come back. Kite reassured himself; he was no weakling, and he’d make sure his friends knew what was happening. He could change his mind anytime throughout and book it if things went sour.
He had always been curious and this seemed like an opportunity he couldn’t pass up, at any rate. The smell and taste of this man was something he wanted more of. “Okay.” He muttered as loudly as he could into the guy’s ear.
A wide grin burst out onto his tanned face, and he took Kite’s hand, starting to lead them out.
“Wait. I’ll meet you outside.” He had to shout over the music, but the man nodded, signaling he’d heard, and he disappeared.
Kite made his way to the booth where Monta sat. Spin and Banana were nowhere to be seen, but if Monta was here, then they were safe.
“Want another drink?” His friend asked, holding up a shot glass. Thankfully, the music was a little quieter here, and they only had to yell at 80% vocal capacity.
“No, I need some water.” Kite reached into their group backpack, filled with bandaids, replacement phone batteries, and of course, water, for times just such as these. He took a long swig, downing half the bottle in one go, before wiping his mouth off.
“You okay? You look kind of red.” Monta squinted up at him in the dim lighting.
“I’m fine. I’m going to, uh, I’m going to go home with someone.” It was a necessity, but he still felt awkward saying it. Monta’s eyebrows raised in disbelief.
“Really?
“Yeah.” Kite chugged the rest of the water, pouring a little on his hands to wipe the sweat off his face.
“Here, use these.” Monta handed him some of Spin’s makeup removing wipes, from the backpack. Kite smiled and scrubbed his face furiously.
“How do I look?”
“Like you.”
“Thanks.” Taking a hair tie from his pocket, he whipped his hair into a messy ponytail. “My phone’s on, I’ll call if anything happens. I might not be back tonight, so see you when I see you.”
“What’s she look like?” Monta’s lumbering voice was much too slow for Kite’s buzzing excitement. He tapped his foot anxiously.
“He’s kind of short, black hair, brown eyes, tan skin, wearing a white shirt with a grey scarf.”
Monta’s eyes widened a little at the unexpected pronoun, but he didn’t say anything, simply nodding and waving as Kite departed.
He supposed it was a little startling. Historically, his partners had been women, but it had only been circumstantial. Maybe to others it was more representative of some sort of choice. For him, it was just how things had turned out. Rock-solid sexualities were overrated.
Kite half-expected to see the man smoking a cigarette and leaning against a wall. Wasn’t that the trope for things like this? He resolved if there was a smell of smoke anywhere around him, he’d change his mind and go back inside. It would ruin the man’s interesting taste. And, of course, smoking was bad. Yes.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the streetlights outside. His ears were still throbbing with a beat, and everything around him was muted.
“This way.” The voice, now familiar enough, was close by his ear, and Kite almost jumped. This guy either had really quiet feet or he was actually deaf to anything that wasn’t trashy music. A hand took his, and they started walking down the street, away from the downtown district.
Kite paid close attention to the street signs and landmarks as they walked. He never liked to be lost. They were still in an area he knew quite well, so he wasn’t particularly worried, and took a few seconds to look more closely at his “date”. The neon signs and street lamps illuminated his face more clearly, and Kite wasn’t disappointed at all by the finely arched brows and thick hair. His lips weren’t chapped, which was a blessing, and his arms betrayed the true muscle composition of his body with thick veins and sculpted biceps. Kite swallowed thickly. His own body was nothing to laugh at, but it was more lanky and flexible, something you’d expect from a gymnast. This man looked more like a swimmer or maybe even a lightweight bodybuilder.
“I didn’t think you’d ever visit again, Mikaela.”
The blood froze in Kite’s veins as he remembered – this man had addressed him as though they were acquaintances, and now, apparently, he was being mistaken for a woman. He frowned, looking down at his body briefly. Maybe the shirt was baggy enough to hide his lack-of-curves, but he was so incredibly tall, and his hands weren’t feminine at all. Did this man know he was making a mistake? Should Kite tell him?
He grappled with the idea. If he told the man, would this thing end here? Would that be okay with him? Obviously, the truth would be revealed when things progressed, and he wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of it then, because the man would know he lied. But maybe he’d be so worked up by then he wouldn’t care?
No, that was stupid, he thought he was taking “Mikaela” home, there’s no way he’d be down to tumble with someone who didn’t fit that set expectation. But how could Kite just casually mention he wasn’t Mikaela? He didn’t even know the man’s name, how could he address him in conversation? God, the guy would know he was a fake if Kite asked his name, too. There was really no easy way out of this.
They were climbing the stairs in an apartment complex, and Kite stumbled as he realized he was out of time. The hand steadied him, and he uttered a low, “thank you” with reluctant gratitude, desperately wracking his mind for a way to resolve the predicament.
Keys jingled and a door swung open. It was nicer than he expected – he knew they were in the relatively wealthy part of town, but had mistakenly figured it would be one of the lower-rent apartments anyway. This was a nice surprise. The living room was furnished with some semblance of décor and color theory, and the kitchen had granite counters, a testament to the value of the complex.
The man led them into the bedroom, an open window letting in some of the street lights and providing enough visibility to function. Damn. He felt his hands shaking a little as he struggled to find words.
“Are you okay?” The man asked. Kite forgot they’d been holding hands, and cursed to himself.
“What’s your name?” He blurted, glad the light wasn’t strong enough to reveal his blush (and probably horrified expression).
The man stared at him for a moment before laughing. “You haven’t changed. Still a fuckin’ asshole. It’s Ging. You’ll need to know that.” Kite’s stomach lurched with the insinuation, but any comments he had were silenced by another kiss, more heated and direct this time. A hand cupped the back of his head, pulling him closer and stroking his hair. He was mildly offended the tone of his voice hadn’t given it away, but maybe this Mikaela had a deep voice?
His mind stopped supplying excuses when the man bit his bottom lip, tugging lightly and slowly moving them towards the bed. There was really no help for it, he had to say something now.
Kite pulled away reluctantly. “I’m not Mikaela.” He said, tensing his body for any type of reaction.
“What’s that?”
“I’m not Mikaela. I don’t know you, ah, Ging. My name is Kite.”
There was a silence in which he thought he might actually die. Kite lived a healthy life, he ate vegetables and fruits almost exclusively, exercised five times a week and constantly volunteered at animal shelters to care for strays. He was a contributing member of society. If he did die here, it would be without regrets.
Okay, he sort of regretted the time he shrunk a brand new shirt in the dryer, but that was lower on the scale of things that mattered right now.
“Kite.” The man repeated slowly, his hands dropping to his sides.
“Yeah. And I’m, you know. A man.” In case that wasn’t obvious by now. Well, if he hadn’t noticed on the walk here, who’s to say? Maybe “Ging” was just really oblivious.
“Huh? Why didn’t you say so sooner?” Ging ran a hand through his messy hair. Kite couldn’t read his expression, so he just offered a halfhearted shrug. “I thought Mikaela turning up here would be too good to be true.”
His heart sank a little. “Sorry, I’ll go.” Kite moved towards the door, but Ging grabbed his arm, holding him back gently.
“What? Why?”
“…why?” Kite was the one repeating this time, his brow furrowed in confusion. “You’re…?”
“I mean, Mikaela’s great, but you’re a better kisser, and you’re way nicer. Why would I want her here when I just met you?” Ging’s smile was lopsided and really endearing. Kite couldn’t find it in himself to look away, but he knew he was making some sort of face, and he wished he could stare at the wall instead.
“Oh, uh.” Was all he could manage. Ging let out another laugh and it boomed in the quiet stillness of his apartment.
“I’m still interested if you are.” He brushed Kite’s bangs out of his face, amber eyes blazing.
“I’m. Yeah.” Kite was only allowed to be mortified with his poor word choice for a second before Ging was kissing him again, fingers brushing through the Kite’s hair. The earthy taste filled his mouth and his chest hummed happily. Not daring to believe his luck, Kite hesitantly gripped the fabric of Ging’s shirt, his movements slow lest Ging change his mind.
There were no protests, vocal or otherwise, and the teeth nibbling on his lip suggested Ging was really quite serious about continuing forward. Kite’s hands traveled up his chest, slowly untying the scarf around Ging’s neck and letting it drop to the floor, running his fingers along the newly revealed collarbone. It was incredibly pronounced – of course it was, the man was built like Adonis – and he cupped his hand on the warm skin of Ging’s jaw. Stubble tickled his fingers. It reminded him of the mechanics necessary to perform sex between them, and he belatedly hoped Ging had lube of some sort lying around.
Ging’s lips moved down to Kite’s throat, and he planted kisses across his Adam’s apple and the surrounding area, starting to back them up towards the bed. Kite followed without question, nuzzling his head into Ging’s hair (which smelled faintly of herbs and mint) and letting out small sighs of contentment. Contentment wasn’t good enough, apparently, because Ging bit down on the tender skin of Kite’s neck with an insistent force. Kite let out a low groan, fisting his hands in the white shirt that really had no place being where it was.
They tumbled onto the bed, Ging taking the lead and pressing Kite into the mattress with the full weight of his body as he lay waste to Kite’s throat and shoulders. There would probably be marks in the morning. Kite’s closet had an overabundance of turtlenecks, so this, thankfully, wasn’t an issue.
A skilled hand ran under Kite’s top, worn fingertips that clearly housed a lot of strength pressed flush against his stomach, and then his chest.
“Arms,” Ging said distractedly, motioning for Kite to raise his arms. The shirt was off seconds later, and Ging’s head dipped as he ravaged the new sea of pale skin, brushing his lips across the planes of Kite’s stomach and pausing occasionally to deal an open-mouthed kiss on areas that warranted extra attention. There was no pattern to his movements, and Kite gave up trying to watch, resting his head back on the bed.
“What do you like?” Ging’s voice came from somewhere around his navel.
This was a question he’d most certainly never been asked before. The people he’d been with had only assumed, and gauged his enjoyment by his visible reaction to things, which worked out well enough, but often took time for them to master. Kite tried to formulate his thoughts into words.
“I like, uh, teasing, and, mm, orgasm denial, blindfolds, power play, sometimes choking –” He said, punctuated by small gasps when Ging bit or licked a particularly sensitive spot.
“That’s a pretty wide variety for one round.” Ging chucked, sliding back up to look Kite in the eye. “What don’t you like?”
“Hair… pulling?” It came out as more of a question than a statement, and Kite corrected himself. “Too hard. Not too hard. Um, humiliation, slapping, anything violent or overly aggressive.”
Ging pressed a kiss to Kite’s earlobe and whispered, “You’ll tell me if I do something you don’t like, right?” Kite nodded numbly. “Good. Are you okay bottoming?” Was the next question, and he sort of felt like he was undergoing some kind of interview process; one for a job he shouldn’t want but definitely did.
“Yeah.” He didn’t mention that he’d never officially bottomed before, but had tried it by himself on several occasions, always finding it to be interesting and quite enjoyable.
“Okay. I have lube and condoms, don’t worry. Now, what kind of teasing do you like?” It seemed more rhetorical in nature as Ging’s hand gripped Kite’s thigh, his thumb awfully close to the apparent bulge in Kite’s pants.
He answered anyway. “All kinds. Any kinds.”
Ging mumbled something against the distinct V of Kite’s hips, but it was too quiet to hear. Kite felt a little bad for not doing more; he was used to being the dominant one most of the time, trading roles whenever his partner got bored or was in the mood to be more controlling. He was still a little thrown by the scenario and Ging didn’t seem to mind, so he tried to keep himself focused on the sensations, noticing the belt to his pants was laying innocently next to him on the bed. When had that happened?
Ging unbuttoned his pants, sliding the zipper down at a painfully slow pace. His amber eyes were sparkling as they looked up at Kite. The dim glow from the street lamps outside cast shadows on Ging’s face, hiding his expression as he worked Kite’s pants off. Kite’s black boxerbriefs were still taut against his skin, the tight fabric holding his erection down. Ging gripped Kite’s thighs, kneading the skin with his fingers and he exhaled into Kite’s neck, mumbling incoherencies.
Finally taking a piece of initiative, Kite tugged at Ging’s shirt, pulling it up as far as it would go without cooperation. Ging obliged and tugged it off, revealing a finely toned torso. The tan must be natural, because there were no lines anywhere on him, but that could just mean he didn’t wear a shirt in the sun. Both possibilities were equally attractive.
Kite reached out a hand to see if his abdominals were as hard as they looked, but Ging grasped his wrist and pinned it to the bed, leering down at him. The implication was clear: look, but don’t touch. Fire kindled in the pit of Kite’s stomach. He was already playing Kite’s kinks like a fiddle.
With slow, tantalizing movements, Ging ground down against Kite, the rough fabric of his jeans cloaking what felt like a sizable erection. He wondered what Ging was packing and if he would be able to handle it. How embarrassing would that be, having to stop halfway because he wasn’t prepared enough.
Ging’s lips were at his jawline, grazing the skin lightly. There was an intentional reservation in his movements that really frustrated Kite, but that just made it all the more enjoyable, and he fisted his free hand in Ging’s messy hair. Finally, finally, Ging stood, unbuttoning his own pants, but not unzipping them, instead beckoning to Kite with two fingers.
He sat up, his long silver hair strewn about his shoulders, and kneeled forward obediently. He knew what was supposed to happen – though he’d never done it, or practiced, or even tried on something like a banana. Looking up, he hoped that sentiment was conveyed somehow, and a tiny nod from his partner reassured him.
Taking the zipper in his hand, Kite pulled, his eyes widening a fraction as he realized Ging was going commando. Questions popped up all over in the back of his mind (was it comfortable? Did he do this every day? Didn’t it itch?), but he said nothing, his mouth having gone dry. Ging’s pants, oversized as they were, slid down his slim hips enough to reveal something surprisingly clean – for whatever reason, Kite had imagined him as an au naturale type person – with trimmed hair and a refined shape. It didn’t look as big as he’d first assumed, which was a relief, but it was by no means small. Perhaps as long for both of his hands to grip comfortably, and as wide as a – well, something. Kite stopped thinking as he leaned forward, unsure of exactly where to start and trying to remember where his partners had started on him.
He paused. “What do you like?” Taking a chapter out of Ging’s book was probably the best way to handle it. In hindsight, he wasn’t sure why he’d never asked anyone this before. It seemed so common sense.
“Is this your first time?” Ging’s hands were resting on the waistband of his jeans, but he didn’t look threatening or expecting at all. Kite nodded. “Then don’t worry about it. You don’t have to.”
Kite wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not. He brushed his bangs out of his face, thinking through his options for a moment, before Ging swooped down and kissed the thoughts out of him. With hands that seemed more tender, somehow, Ging cupped his face, gently guiding them back down to the mattress.
“Are you sure?” Kite breathed against his lips. He didn’t want to ruin the night by not feeling confident in his abilities. Ging tugged his hair lightly so Kite’s neck was splayed open before him, vulnerable to all kinds of things, and he made a grunt of affirmation. Kite could feel Ging’s hands stroking him through his boxerbriefs, still with that slow, persistent tempo, and he bucked his hips up. Ging laughed softly into the hollow of his neck.
The fabric was pulled down far enough to expose him to the apartment’s moderate temperature, and his stomach tensed as Ging’s thumb rubbed against the head of his penis. His grip was firm and unyielding; Kite found he couldn’t move, under its ministrations, so he just tried to keep his breathing even.
After a few minutes, Ging rolled to the side of the bed, rummaging in the nightstand for a few seconds. Kite propped himself up on his elbows to watch. Even Ging’s ass was muscled, his pants having slid down a little further, and Kite thanked whatever god might have blessed him with such a view. Ging rolled back to face him, clutching a small bottle of lubricant and a few condoms. He laid them to the side, motioning for Kite to remove his boxerbriefs as he prepared himself.
Kite stole a glance as he slipped off his underwear, double-checking the fit of the condom. It looked okay. He could hear the pop of the lubricant as it was opened, and the sick noises of liquid being worked around made him want to giggle. He’d never liked having lube on his hands or having to work with it in any capacity for just that reason.
Ging kneeled between his legs, coating a finger in lube thoroughly. He looked up at Kite for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me if you want me to stop.” Ging pressed the first finger inside, pausing for Kite to adjust and relax his muscles. It felt more non-intimate than he expected; sort of like a clinical check-up, awkward and strange. The second finger was a little more what he was used to, through his various experiments and trials, but Ging’s fingers were shorter and thicker than his own, so it was still a new sensation. The third finger made him bite the inside of his cheek. Ging seemed to notice, and he patiently waited, not moving or pushing.
Kite mumbled, “okay” under his breath, and Ging started to stretch his fingers around, scissoring and pressing deeper with careful movements. Kite knew where his prostate was, and tried to rotate himself to help Ging find it. It took no time at all – in seconds, he felt the familiar tickling heat, and let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in a weighty gasp.
Ging kept working his fingers, occasionally brushing by that spot with a small smile.
“Do you feel ready?” He asked, voice low and gruff.
“Mm,”
“Okay.”
Kite looked up at the ceiling, bracing himself for something new – a decidedly thicker and more substantial something. He could feel the head of Ging’s cock pressed up against his entrance, and closed his eyes, counting down in his head.
It was, like everything else, slow. Slow and hot and slick and he sort of wished the condom was ribbed or had some sort of texture because it felt funny to have it be one solid thing, but when Ging was fully seated inside him, there was a satisfying sense of fullness he can’t say he’d ever imagined before. Kite felt incredibly exposed, with Ging towering over him, but the care his partner had taken thus far was a good sign, and he let out a quiet hnnn.
Taking that as a cue, Ging pulled back out a little, his hands braced on Kite’s hips for support, and he pressed back in, deeper this time. His rhythm was maddeningly cautious. It took a few thrusts for him to find the right angle, the angle that made Kite’s back arch and his breath quicken, but Ging was a fast learner and he wasted no time.
The heavy slap of flesh against flesh echoed in the otherwise quiet room, with Kite panting and gripping the sheets as his prostate was hammered again and again. A few beads of sweat trickled down Ging’s face as he moved, but his features were locked in stone-cold concentration, keeping his thrusts steady and focused.
Kite lowered a hand to stroke himself, but he found his wrist pinned against the mattress again. Ging shook his head, looking down at him in the darkness, and used his free hand to grip Kite’s cock tightly, rubbing his thumb over the head like he’d done during their foreplay. He used long, powerful strokes, his hand moving fast enough for it to feel like he was using both at once.
There was a defined smirk on Ging’s face. It was mocking, but not rudely so, and Kite felt himself rising to an unspoken challenge in the air. He sat up abruptly, his hair pooling at his waist and on the bed, and grabbed Ging’s shoulders. He flipped their positions in a second so he was straddling Ging’s muscular hips.
“Oh?” The response was baiting. Kite grit his teeth and lifted his hips up, searching for Ging’s cock, which had slipped out during their switch. Ging busied himself with Kite’s hair, which now lay plastered against his chest. He tugged and gripped it experimentally, even holding two sections as reins for a moment before Kite’s glare made him reconsider.
Having situated himself comfortably, Kite braced his hands against Ging’s shoulders and lowered himself down, hard. There were a few twinges of pain, but he ignored them, savoring the moment when Ging’s eyes glazed over and rolled back into his head with a particularly deep thrust. Kite set a breakneck pace, testing his own ability in this new arena, letting out quiet moans when he did something particularly right. It only took five or six minutes before his muscles started to burn – riding someone was just as effective as doing squats in the gym – but he kept pushing himself. Ging, the gentleman that he was, made it easier by bouncing his hips with shallow movements, his hands on Kite’s sides to help him move.
Kite watched Ging’s lips wistfully, his cock throbbing every time Ging made a noise of contentment. It was a huge ego boost to render someone into putty like this, especially for his first time having sex this way.
He was just about to tie his hair up in a messy topknot to keep it out of the way when Ging’s face was eye-level with him. Kite blinked, registering, and finally planted a deep, open-mouthed kiss on those tantalizing lips. Ging accommodated him for a few minutes, kissing him as they ground into each other, and when he pulled away, Kite almost whined.
“I think your turn is over.” Ging whispered into Kite’s ear, his breath hot and humid and still so damn inviting. He wanted to kiss the stubbly chin, leave marks on his neck and shoulders and claim this night as his and his alone, but Ging didn’t give him the chance, pinning him down on the mattress and quickening the pace. He was mercilessly determined, this time around, stroking Kite’s eager cock in time with his thrusts and never missing a beat.
Kite wasn’t sure how long it had been when Ging spoke again, but his body was on fire and there was a pool of heat that told him he was pretty fucking close to finishing. “Close your eyes,” Ging said, not stopping to wait for an answer. Kite shut his eyes, curiosity piqued, and he understood when a hand closed around his neck. Instinctively, he took a breath before the pressure was exerted on both sides, minimizing his ability to breathe. The rest of his senses heightened in natural panic, every nerve in his body firing off warning signals that mixed sinfully with the fire in his veins.
Kite keened, the heat in his stomach becoming insatiable.
He opened his mouth to warn Ging, but white-hot flame reared its merciless head too soon, and his cum splattered over their stomachs.
Ging removed his hand and Kite wheezed reflexively. His entire body felt spent, but thick, dense pleasure was still radiating from inside, and Ging kept thrusting for a few more minutes. Kite saw his eyebrows knit together and, sensing the importance of the moment, he tensed the muscles in his ass, trying to tighten as much as he could. It paid off – Ging’s mouth parted and he growled out, “holy fuck”, his thrusts losing their rhythm and becoming more sporadic as he finished.
Moments later, he pulled out, standing to remove the condom and dispose of it in the trash.
“Ah, one second.”
Kite waited, feeling sticky and sweaty and mostly satisfied – he knew from experience that in an hour, if Ging was still around, he’d want to go again. He’d always been a marathon type, preferring to have sex only a few times a week but making an occasion of it each time.
Ging returned with a few paper towels and a wet washcloth. He leaned over Kite’s body, wiping off the worst of it with the towels, and offering him the washcloth to finish up.
“You can use my shower, if you want.”
Kite sat up, rubbing the rest of his sticky climax off, and watched as Ging found his pants and shirt.
“Do you want me to go?”
Ging turned to face him. “I was going to walk you home.”
Kite stopped rubbing, surprised. “Walk me home?”
“Ah, yeah. Did you – did you want to stay?” Ging looked just as confused. Maybe he’d assumed Kite would just get up and leave; was that what people did, these days? A preemptive route to avoid awkward mornings?
“Oh, um,” Kite fumbled with his thoughts, and they both stared at each other. “I mean –”
“Nevermind, I’ll just, uh. Do you want eggs? I can make eggs,” Ging offered. Kite wasn’t sure, but there seemed to be the tiniest hint of pink on his cheeks.
“It’s two in the morning.”
“Yeah, it’s morning. Breakfast.”
“I – okay. I’ll have some eggs.” Kite held up the washcloth. Ging grabbed it and tossed it into a hamper, removing his shirt again and trudging out the bedroom door with his pants hanging loosely around his waist.
“Take a shower, you’ll feel better.” He called out over his shoulder.
Kite hummed in acknowledgment, but laid back down instead, inhaling deeply. The whole room smelled like nature: spices and herbs and earth. Even the sheets were laced with mint and lavender. He heard Ging banging around in the kitchen, and running a hand through his unruly hair, thanked the universe for giving birth to his doppelganger, Mikaela.