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The cicadas are deafening, the air thick enough to drink. Every breath feels like it costs something. Sweat slides down Yuma’s back as he glares at Taki—who, of course, looks completely unaffected, his shirt clinging in all the right places.
“You’re so weird,” Yuma mouths, fanning himself with limp wrists in a weak attempt to cool off in any way he can.
Of course, in the middle of an unbearable July heat wave, their cheap, secondhand A/C has to break down. It couldn’t pick a better time to die—Yuma’s always had a weird feeling about the thing, especially since Taki is the one who “scored” it.
(Later, Yuma finds out Taki literally found it—by a dumpster. The garbage truck is already hauling it in when Taki apparently comes charging down their stupidly steep hill, yelling at the poor, underpaid workers to stop. “Beggars can’t be choosers, babe,” is his alleged reasoning when Yuma starts smacking his tin can head repeatedly.)
Life is all fun and games until climate change decides it actually hates you and starts kicking your ass.
And by kicking your ass, Yuma means literally—like, the window he opens in hopes of catching even the tiniest bit of fresh air in their humid-ass living room? Not refreshing at all. Surprise, surprise! Who would’ve guessed the wind during a heat wave is actually hot?
“I think you’re being dramatic,” Taki tells him, hands fumbling with whatever hobby he’s busying himself with at that crucial moment.
“Of course you do!” Yuma complains, tossing and turning on their couch—which is probably the worst place to lounge right now, considering its fabric is itchy and warm, and Yuma is sweating out every last drop of the seventy percent of water stored in his body through every pore. “You probably think this is Mother Nature’s way of flipping us out.”
Taki’s head whips around in a perfect 180-degree turn, a wide grin plastered across his stupidly happy face.
“How did you know?” he asks, genuinely thrilled—making Yuma want to get up and punch him in the nose. He decides against it, though. He can’t be bothered in this heat.
“Just quit pissing me off and take your shirt off,” Yuma tells him.
But Taki’s arms fly up to cover his chest instead, clutching the thick material of his shirt devotedly.
“You just want to see my tits!” he argues, pouting. “I can’t live a single day in this house without getting objectified by you.”
Yuma’s face sours as he straightens up on the couch. When his feet touch the cold concrete floor, he feels a brief, two-second relief. Anything he can get, he’ll take, honestly—maybe Taki isn’t too far off when he says beggars can’t be choosers or whatever.
Yuma just hates admitting that Taki can have a great point every once in a while.
“What the heck is your problem?”
During this cursed, fucking weather, the last thing he wants is to fight his oddly non-sweating boyfriend, okay? Yuma is already pissed as hell, watching Taki sit a few feet away on the floor, completely unbothered by the hot wind blowing through their home.
Taki’s gaze wanders around the room for a good while, like he’s actually trying to come up with a problem. But he must’ve given up, because the next second he’s shrugging and letting out a deep sigh.
“Couldn’t find one,” he admits, sounding rather disappointed—and this time, Yuma physically can’t hold back.
No, he jumps to his feet and storms toward Taki, who watches him with an annoying smirk and sparkling eyes for some reason.
“Take your shirt off,” Yuma orders, bare feet tapping the hard concrete impatiently, one hand reaching out toward Taki—like he’s asking for the shirt. It gives Taki an unpleasant childhood flashback of his mom getting mad at him and taking all his UFO toys away. It's practically PTSD.
“I don’t want to! I’m comfortable the way I am!” Taki argues. He has every right to deny stripping, after all.
But Yuma only frowns harder, brows knitting almost together from how intense his glare is.
“Well, I’m not! Seeing you all dressed up while I’m basically a dripping fountain over here is stressing me out!” Yuma tries to grab hold of Taki’s shirt, wanting to rip it off as soon as possible, but Taki somehow dodges his attack.
“Yo!” he squeaks, hands flapping at Yuma’s, swatting them away. “Quit being horny!”
“I’m not horny, I’m fucking frustrated!”
“I can actively smell your arousal,” Taki says, pointing at his dog-like nose as he dodges yet another attempt from Yuma to strip him naked.
“That’s our fucking furniture melting away, dumbass!”
Welp. He’s kind of got a point, you know? It does smell like burnt plastic and fiber, which should probably concern them—but Taki doesn’t care yet, and Yuma looks like he’s too busy picking on Taki, so who knows what will be happening to them.
“So… you’re not horny?”
It’s a dumb question. Taki only asks it to distract Yuma from the fact that his shirt is still on. He expects it to fall flat—expects Yuma to pounce and rip his shirt apart or full blown beat at him.
What he doesn’t expect is for Yuma to pause.
Awkward? No, Taki wouldn’t call it that.
Weird, though? Yeah, that’s definitely the word for it.
“Are you seriously contemplating it right now?”
Honestly, Yuma was sweaty and gross a few seconds ago, but sitting around whining about it wasn’t getting him anywhere. And really, Taki kind of set himself up. He put the idea in Yuma’s bored little brain, and now Yuma’s thinking… why not?
It’s hot, time’s barely passing, and they might as well get messier while it’s still socially acceptable to be disgusting. Better make the most out of this disastrous weather, right?
“Sit back,” Yuma says all of a sudden, brushing the sweaty bangs off his forehead.
“Huh?” Taki looks up at him, confused—even as he obeys, shifting on the floor with his back pressed against the white wall behind them. “Are you sexing me up?”
Yuma rolls his eyes but still crouches down.
“I’m going to smack you if you don’t quit saying stupid shit,” he says, settling over Taki’s clothed lap.
“Hey, stop being mean to me,” Taki pouts, hands instinctively settling on Yuma’s waist. “All I did was exist.”
“Exactly. That’s enough to piss me off.”
Then Yuma grips Taki’s broad shoulders—and rolls his hips.
The first contact is jarring—Taki’s brows shoot up, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip to muffle whatever pathetic sound threatens to escape, both to save face and to avoid becoming a target for Yuma’s godawful bullying.
“Warn a dude first, yeah?” He hisses, fingers digging into the plush of Yuma’s waist.
Yuma’s hands shoot up, cupping Taki’s face in a firm grip. His hips move with more purpose now, their clothed crotches grinding together. Taki’s hands fall to Yuma’s hips—but whether he’s trying to steady the motion or fuel it is anyone’s guess.
“Gonna take your shirt off now?” Yuma asks, but the moment Taki parts his lips to fire back something smart, Yuma leans in and slips his tongue in his mouth instead.
The kiss catches him completely off guard. Taki takes a few seconds to adjust, trying to understand what Yuma’s trying to strip from him. Their mouths stay open, more desperate for air and connection than a simple kiss, like they’re trying to breathe down each other’s throats.
All the while, Yuma’s hips catch on a mild rhythm, drawing circles over Taki’s lap, pulling whiny little noises out his throat and swallowing them whole.
When they finally pull apart to catch their breath, a playful grin tugs at the corners of Taki’s mouth.
“The obnoxiously thick shirt stays on during sex,” he says, like it’s the best punchline he’s ever come up with.
Yuma seriously has to count to ten in order to stay calm.
“You’re killing my boner.”
Taki chuckles. “You don’t have a boner.”
“Maybe it’s because you fucking killed it.”
“Oh, you like me so much.”
Taki dips his head in first, crashing their mouths together again—this time, he’s the one leading the kiss.
Kissing Yuma feels too good.
Not that this had been the plan from the start or anything—but Taki isn’t a man of complaints, you know? He’s actually pretty happy with the outcome of his stubbornness. Maybe things really do work out the way they’re meant to, after all. All those manifestation pages he’s stalked on TikTok had been right.
Yuma’s soft and warm under his palms, and Taki can’t help but squeeze whatever he can grab—until Yuma lets out a nasally little squeal and starts pushing at his chest.
“Be nice,” Yuma groans, frowning at him.
“Look who’s talking, dude,” Taki gropes him again, just to watch Yuma squeak like a little dog toy on his lap. “Mr. Take-Your-Shirt-Off-or-Perish. Consent means nothing to you, does it?”
“Kill yourself,” Yuma spits at him.
Taki’s hands find his own pants, dipping in to pull his erection out, wasting absolutely no time pressing it on Yuma’s hips. “Now, that’s just plain rude.”
Yuma shivers a little, shoulders tensing up. “Your dick is up my ass crack.”
And he’s just setting himself up at this point.
Taki’s grin grows impossibly wider, his hands find their ways into Yuma’s little shorts next, feeling the guy’s warm skin up shamelessly.
“It can be up somewhere else, too, you know? Depends on your needs.”
“What I need is for you to shut the fuck up.”
Under normal circumstances, Taki would move mountains to give Yuma whatever the hell he wants—well, metaphorically speaking, of course; he’s not Superman or anything.
Then again, he kind of likes pissing him off when he’s already heated, so maybe the metaphor doesn’t even hold up. Whatever.
He simply can’t keep quiet, okay? Yeah, no. Yuma’s just gonna have to cover his ears or something.
Despite telling him to shut up, Yuma surprisingly doesn’t resist when Taki carefully pulls his shorts down—as much as their position allows. He even holds onto Taki and lifts his hips to help. Very helpful, very thoughtful.
No underwear is honestly expected from Yuma. Especially since they knew the heat wave was coming, it only makes sense that Yuma would be bare beneath his booty shorts. Taki doesn’t care at all. (He pretends not to care for his own sake. Trust, he’s going a little nuts. Nothing serious, just the tiniest amount of insanity coursing through his mind.)
Taki doesn’t waste much time. His fingers find Yuma’s heat as soon as he’s exposed.
“Mmgh!” Yuma whines on his lap, arms draped around Taki’s neck, hips buckling away from the fingers dipping between his folds.
“Is this what you meant when you said you were a fountain?” Taki asks, dragging his fingers across Yuma’s wet lips, all the way up to his clit. “‘s really wet.”
Yuma twitches, grunting. “What’s your fucking problem? Stop narrating.”
Taki, uncharacteristic of him, chooses not to argue. His fingers start to draw small circles over Yuma’s clit, other hand reaching down to grab himself.
“Since you’re so wet already I’ll just put it in,” he announces, carefully lining himself up with Yuma’s leaking entrance, still narrating as if he wasn’t told off a few seconds ago.
The moment Taki feels Yuma’s warmth on him, waiting to accept him in, a shiver runs down his spine. His fingers never stop—not for a second—rubbing the sensitive bud, making Yuma whine and cling to him tightly.
They’ve done this with little to no prep before; it’s nothing new. Taki thinks the heat only helps them relax—or at least distracts Yuma from the fact that he hasn’t been properly prepared—as Taki slowly starts to push in.
“Mmgh, Taki!” Yuma’s hands tug at the hairs on his nape, making Taki’s neck itch with pain. “Slow—slower, dumbass…”
“I am going slow?” Taki argues, steadily pushing inch after inch in, watching himself disappear into Yuma’s heat.
It’s a tight stretch—of course it is; Taki didn’t even bother slipping a finger or two in first—but it’s not unwelcoming. Yuma wraps around him beautifully, like Taki’s always meant to rest inside him anyway, like this is where he should keep Yuma all the time: over his lap, around him, on the edge of tears.
Once he’s fully sheathed inside, Taki gives Yuma a moment to adjust, gently rubbing the small of his sweaty back.
The first thing Taki thinks when their eyes meet is how pretty Yuma looks. His face is flushed a deep rose, the color blooming across his cheekbones and brushing the bridge of his cute nose. He was already sweaty—Taki knows that—but now he’s nearly soaked, and for a moment, Taki worries he might be pushing him too far.
His chest rises and falls in slow, uneven breaths, soft exhales slipping past his parted lips. Yuma meets his gaze, brows quivering, as if trying to say something—and Taki doesn’t need words to understand. Move.
He gives a slow, tentative thrust. It’s barely anything, but it still pulls the highest, sweetest little sound from Yuma.
“Why are you so sensitive?” Taki whispers, holding Yuma close, giving him yet another experimental thrust. “It’s like you’re about to pass out.”
“Maybe because I’m having a fucking heat stroke and you just put it in unprovoked, asshole!” Yuma chokes out, digging his nails in Taki’s nape—his way of punishing him or whatever—and it does hurt, kind of. “And you won’t even fuck me properly.”
Taki tilts his head, grinning. “Oh, don’t challenge me, young fella.”
“I am older than you.”
“Hardly matters.”
It’s stupid, but at least it’s them, you know? How Yuma has to bite at him to get what he wants rather than ask for it like a normal human being–because he can never be normal when with him, and Taki wouldn’t want it any other way.
He cups Yuma’s lithe waist with both hands, making Yuma whine softly at the sudden loss of touch on his clit, but he doesn’t give him much time to protest, because before he knows it, Taki’s already moving, fucking into him with a quick, steady rhythm.
“Oh! Fuck—Taki, mmgh!”
Yuma’s moans fill their living room, blending with the heavy, humid air. Taki can’t draw his gaze elsewhere—watching the way Yuma’s nose scrunches up in pleasure, his tongue nearly lolling out, his eyes going out of focus.
It’s messy because it’s hot, and now Taki’s sweating too—still wearing his shirt out of stubbornness, refusing to let anyone tell him what to do. With each movement, Yuma’s quiet sounds grow louder, his nails tracing lightly along Taki’s back, and his legs beginning to tremble.
“More—Taki—need more,” Yuma pants, drooling. His hips meet Taki’s thrusts halfway, fucking himself down on his boyfriend’s length.
The sight nearly drives him insane. Taki’s breath catches, and he can barely think—overwhelmed by the need to please Yuma.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, fingers already finding Yuma’s abandoned clit again, pressing into the twitching bud. “You’re trying to kill me.”
Yuma’s whole body spasms with the touch, back arching until their chests meet, and that’s when he realizes Taki’s still got his shirt on.
“What the fuck?” He yells between moans and hiccups, hands grasping the sweaty clothing, disbelief written all across his face. “Why are you still wearing this, you absolute psychopath?”
“Preferences aren’t to be discussed,” Taki reasons, and Yuma looks like he’s in between coming all over him and wanting to strangle him to death. Taki decides the first one will do him less damage, and speeds up.
His thrusts grow deeper and faster, fingers rubbing Yuma’s clit in every direction, overwhelming him to the max because he’ll make his boyfriend come before he dies. (Even though the said boyfriend hates him lots, especially for wearing a shirt during heat waves.)
“Ah! Taki—mmgh! Stop, stop, stop—” Yuma’s hand wraps around his wrist, trying to stop Taki from toying with his clit, but he’s so overwhelmed and tired that it does absolutely nothing. “—please, please! Taki—I’m gonna come—I’m gonna—”
Taki kisses him, letting every breath and desperate sound slip between them as Yuma comes undone on his lap, hips twitching and hands flailing embarrassingly, like he’s having an OBE.
They stay like that for a while, Yuma’s head now resting on Taki’s still-clothed shoulder, trying to catch his breath as the faintest trembles ripple through his body.
“Take your shirt off,” is the first thing he says when he manages to regain his consciousness. And, honestly, Taki might as well just give in.
“Will you make me come if I do?”
“I’m going to make you come anyway, dumbass.”
“Yuma, the words you speak to me right after I make you black out are so romantic and sensual. Thank you so much for being an awesome boyfriend!”
“Kill yourself.”