Rating/Warnings: NC-17 for Misaki's total pwnage of Tachiki and his bootleg chinese porn.
Summary: And if it were possible, which is totally isn't, Misaki would completely do it just to prove to Tachiki that he could.
AN: laylah and I had a conversation about the feasibility of this trick in fic a while back, and I'm stealing Secret Dragon Hero Mission from her brain anyhow.
"You want me to WHAT?" Misaki demands the first time Tachiki makes the request, instructions explicit and rushed in between pants for air. Misaki digs his knees into the bed on either side of Tachiki's lap and rolls his hips, making Tachiki grit his teeth and thrust up into him too sharp, out of rhythm. "That's impossible!"
"Is not." Tachiki tightens his fingers around Misaki's wrists and forces them behind Misaki's back, making him arch as his pushes himself down on Tachiki, and Tachiki leans back so Misaki's cock can't rub against his stomach. "Know somebody who can…ungh, can do it."
"Liar," Misaki hisses and struggles against Tachiki, trying to get him to let go of his wrists, or give up some friction in between their stomachs, or even just to come already, if that's the only way he'll give and let Misaki stroke himself over the edge.
The heat of Tachiki's cock inside him is changing over from pleasure to sting by the time Misaki manages to wrench a hand free and wrap it around himself. It takes about two and a half seconds of his sweat-slicked palm squeezing his precome-tacky skin before he's gasping and cursing as his orgasm tears at his nerves.
Every muscle in his body burns when Tachiki finally lets him fall backwards onto his wrecked bed, and Misaki doesn't bother to muffle the whimper when Tachiki pulls out and collapses beside him.
"I'm telling you," even his throat burns when he swallows, "nobody really comes without touching themselves, or at least rubbing against something. You've been watching those bootleg Chinese pornos again, haven't you? God, you could've learned Chinese from them by now, or at least enough to know those subtitles are complete bullshit."
"That's what you said about deep-throating," is all Tachiki replies, and Misaki rolls onto his side, cheeks hot.
After Tachiki goes, leaving the window open so Misaki's room can air out, Misaki showers and makes his bed and still has enough time before his mother and sisters come home from their shopping trip to sit nervously in front of his computer, shifting uncomfortably on the wood chair.
Tachiki has to be making it up, and Misaki just has to figure out how he can google proof without crashing his computer with ads promising to enhance his anal pleasure. After entering the most carefully crafted search string in the history of the internet, Misaki finds himself staring at a set of simple and straightforward directions while he curses his googlefu.
"We're home!" Misaki's mother shouts up the stairs, making Misaki shriek like a girl and clutch at the mouse convulsively, accidentally mashing both buttons.
Printing! the computer informs him cheerfully, and then Misaki screams for real and tears out of the room, making for the networked family printer that's downstairs.
Misaki pushes the door shut behind him as he follows Tachiki into his house, hurriedly kicking off his sneakers and trotting after him into the living room. No one's home, like always, except for Tachiki's usual role model on the television.
"…since you weren't at school yesterday and Tsukada was being a real pill," Tachiki says as he flops down on the couch and scoops up the remote to unpause the DVD player. "You missed a few, but they were mostly filler episodes, except for the one where Dragon Hero uses his Dragon Kick to…" Tachiki trails off, brow furrowing when Misaki climbs up onto him and settles firmly into his lap. "You're blocking the TV."
"Yes," Misaki agrees, yanking Tachiki's head back with both hands to kiss him hard. He rolls his hips a little when Tachiki gives an irritated growl and fists hands in the back of his shirt. Misaki's heart is beating fast, even faster than when they usually do this, but he licks at the roof of Tachiki's mouth and takes deep breaths through his nose and tries to remember what he read.
"What're you—" Tachiki tries to interrupt, leaning his head back, but Misaki follows him to push their mouths back together, pressing against him so tightly that his knees are jammed into the back of the couch. When Misaki wedges a hand in between them and reaches for his belt, Tachiki grabs his wrist. "Hey—"
"I think I can do it," Misaki says, and they stare at each other for a few seconds, chests pressing together as they pant for air, until the confusion clears from Tachiki's eyes and he groans loud enough to make Misaki's head buzz.
And then Tachiki is yanking off their shirts while Misaki tries to undo their pants and gets their arms hopelessly tangled. Tachiki pushes up futilely, trying to bump Misaki off his lap far enough to slide their pants down. "Get off, we're going to my—"
"No." Misaki's firm voice makes Tachiki's jaw drop a fraction of an inch, before he snorts a laugh and drops his glance to the side. A smile is curling the edge of Tachiki's mouth, and that's what keeps Misaki's voice even and low when he says, "I want it like this."
"Of course you do," Tachiki answers, but it lacks his usual condescension and is interrupted by a moan when Misaki finally gets fingers around his cock.
He moans again, louder, when Misaki is sliding down onto him, hot and slow and slicker than usual, but what Misaki read said that was pretty important, and his hands clutch at Misaki's hips and drag him down until they're fitted snug together, panting.
"Don't you dare go early," Misaki says against Tachiki's mouth, and he braces his hands against Tachiki's shoulders and shifts, back a little, up a little, trying to find the spot Tachiki usually hunts down with his fingers, to get into a way where all Tachiki has to do is—"There, just there, just—" and Tachiki gets the idea right away, pushing up to make Misaki arch his back.
Patience, though, is the main thing Tachiki is lacking if he really wants this to work, and when he reaches for Misaki's cock, already rising flush against his stomach, Misaki slaps his hands away. When he growls and reaches the second time, Misaki grabs his wrists and forces them up on either side of his head, against the back of the couch. Tachiki's eyes are wide and dark and hazed as Misaki moves over him, and Misaki shakes the sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes with an impatient flick of his head so that nothing's blurring his view of the way Tachiki's mouth falls open as he gasps for air.
It's almost enough, along with the thudding of Tachiki's pulse under his palms and the sharp press of Tachiki up into his sweet spot, almost but not quite, and Misaki leans forward to slide their cheeks together and says, "Talk."
"Talk?" Tachiki asks, voice thick, and he struggles a bit against Misaki's grip, but it only makes Misaki hum in pleasure and tighten his fingers.
"Talk," Misaki repeats, "and don't—oh—don't stop."
"Desperate for it, aren't you?" Tachiki's smirk starts creeping back, and its pace quickens when Misaki moans yeah keep going oh and pushes down harder over just the right spot. "You just open right up for me, can't wait to get my stick good and deep and hard…"
Tachiki's dirty talk is ridiculous, but hot as hell when he's fucking Misaki in just the right way, and even as Misaki is blushing and fighting back laughter at the use of sports equipment euphemisms, he's throwing back his head and squeezing his eyes shut, and ohFUCK it's actually going work so long as Tachiki just doesn't…
"You slut," Tachiki's voice is shaking, his whole body is shaking under Misaki's, and Misaki is almostalmostalmostthere when Tachiki's rhythm breaks and he laughs, "knew you couldn't," and at the last second Tachiki finally does manage to rip his wrists away from Misaki's grip, sinks fingers into the small of Misaki's back, and slams up into him once, twice…
"Knew I could," Misaki rasps triumphantly when he's got enough air to do so, because the third time was the charm. His arms are wrapped tight around Tachiki's neck, Tachiki's breath stirring the damp hair clinging to Misaki's neck, their stomachs stuck together.
"Brat," Tachiki murmurs, but there's something weird in his voice, like when he shoves the biggest guy on the other team down in the mud and steals the ball, and he doesn't move his elbows from where they're resting on the tops of Misaki's thighs just yet.
"Didn't you mention a bed?" Misaki mumbles after a little, shifting and wincing as their skin starts to pull apart.
"Sure, and let me just carry you over the threshold, princess," Tachiki snorts, and shoves Misaki off his lap to spill onto the cushions beside him. Misaki grunts at the pull of his muscles as he stretches out, then winces at something totally different and reaches underneath himself to pull the DVD remote out from under his shoulder blade.
"Gimme that," Tachiki flops over across Misaki to snatch the remote out of his hand and stays collapsed there, head jostling with Misaki's breath. He thumbs the play button and lets his arm fall to dangle off the side of the couch. It takes less than ten seconds for his attention to be raptly absorbed in the jumble of foreign dialogue and ridiculously fake punching sound effects. "You missed the episode where Dragon Hero Dragon Kicks a guy's head clean off and uses it to beat another three into telling him where the Secret Organization's laboratory is."
"That's impossible!" Misaki protests, then grins when Tachiki's laugh buzzes against his chest.