How K.Ito met Kurorin

Author's notes: Now is the end to the UST, however there are a couple chapters left. Enjoy.
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His mouth. His body. His hands. Michihiro was drowning in the sound of feel of him, the press of his door against his back drowned out by his taste and heat. He grabbed bright orange hair and pressed tightly against him, his gasp lost somewhere behind Ito's tonsils. Thought was long gone, even as he pulled away, taking a deep breath and trying to pull out his keys while still clinging to Ito. Finally he cursed and turned, pulling away in order to work the mysteries of the lock and his alarm.

Ito did not help his fingers. The moment he was working on the door and the code, the guitarist was pressing against him, mouthing the nape of his neck while his hands roamed across his chest and down his sides. Michihiro bit back a shaky moan, his free hand grabbing at Ito's hair in an attempt to pull him away, but then his mouth found that spot between shoulder and neck and all he could is hang on, back arching and mind blank. Somehow, he managed to turn the alarm off, somehow the door closed behind them and they half stumbled over each other's feet to land against the wall. He found his mouth again, and he taste the sesame seed sauce he had dosed his food with.

A sharp yip broke them apart for a moment, Michihiro toeing off his shoes and letting keys and jacket drop right where he was standing. Ito watching, eyes bright, brighter than his hair, his tongue touching his lower lip. Michihiro pulled his shirt off and gave it a toss, the muffled yip and patter of feet told him that Rhapsody wasn't amused but Ito was on him again, and the thought fled.

He was going to have bruises he thought, feeling fingers and nails dig into his sides. He hooked a leg over his hip and twisted, Ito stumbling against the wall this time, something hitting the floor with a dull thud. The guitarist laughed at his frustrate growl at the layers he wore. He tore at the clothing and felt cloth give away, baring pale skin.

"Hey. . . I liked that shirt."

"Cheap shirt," Michihiro muttered and nipped at the curve of his collar bone.

Ito sucked in his breath. "Okay. Yeah, okay."

He hooked his arm around Ito's neck and dragged his mouth down even as he rolled his hips. The shocked gasp was muffled against the slide of tongues and lips and teasing nips, and he had both legs around him, his weight supported by Ito's arms. He pulled his mouth away, throwing his head back and felt the warmth of his breath against his chest, the flick of his tongue against one hard nipple. Feeling something spin inside his head, he closed his eyes and tightened his hold on him.

"Bed?" Warmth teased his skin, followed by a flick of a wet tongue.

"That way."

After a hesitant step int the wrong direction, Michihiro dropped back to the floor, hooked his fingers in the loops of his jeans and tugged him the right direction. He had a brief thought about how little room there was in his bed before the back of his legs hit it and he feel right on the futon, Ito landing on top of him. There was a brief moment of shifting, of pulling himself up higher and Ito settling his weight better, then they were kissing again, long, slow and deep, fingers stroking skin and tugging on hair. Ito shifted to his elbows, moving up and he gasped, clutching his sides and dragging blunt nails across his skin.

"Where. . ?"

He let go long enough to wave at a nearby table, then snagged his hair when he made to move. Ito grunted in response, shifting again and Michihiro rolled his hips in response. A soft hiss, and he was moving against him, heat and friction that made him bite his lips to hold back a moan. It wasn't enough, not yet. He let go and twisted, all but pushing Ito off and into the corner of the futon and sat up.

"Bossy bossy," Ito muttered, flopping on his stomach and stretching out to open the small drawer and fish around. Michihiro watched the way his back moved, the way his jeans slid down and tore his gaze away. A cluck of a plastic tube hitting wood brought him back, and the expression on Ito's face caused him to snicker and sit up on his knees.

"What the hell is this?"

"American," he replied. Ito looked at him and Michihiro ran his hands down his chest, his mouth twisting at the way he stared, his grin widening more at the sound of his breathing. He unsnapped his top button and raised an eyebrow. "Can't you read English?"

Ito wasn't looking at the tube. His eyes were fixed on his hands, on watching him unbutton his pants and then Michihiro decided to step up the pace. Instead of a slow tease he had thought about doing, he leaned back and stretched, raising his legs and bending himself in half. Then a simple push, a wiggle, and the pants were on the floor. He rolled back to his knees and blinked at the expression on Ito's face. Shaking his head, he took the lube from him.

"Idiot."

"Uh."

"Did I break your mind?"

Ito swallowed, his eyes wide. Michihiro uncapped the lube, filling the air with vanilla, watching out of the corner of his eyes as Ito shook his head and stripped. His pants went flying and he pounced, wrestling for the tube before Michihiro let go and stretched out under him, eyes lidded and his mouth curving. Ito's eyes narrowed and he bent down, biting at the taunt skin stretched across his collar bone. Michihiro grabbed his hair and tugged.

"No marks."

"Too late," Ito said, his voice rough and his tongue swiping over that spot.

Probably, he would have said but his mind was gone as skin slid against skin and Ito's mouth on his. His fingers dug into his shoulders and he felt the pound of blood in his veins, the sharp tear at the first press against him, in him, and he bit down to muffle his curse. He dug his heels and moved up, accepting him, accepting the sharpness as it faded and mutated and spread. Ito trembled, his breathing harsh and his hair plastered against the side of his face. He licked a trail of sweat from along his jaw, whimpering softly as his movements grew. Ito laughed, choked, gasped, and Michihiro sucked in his breath, hooking his legs around his waist.

He was losing all thoughts, his mind wonderfully blank and his body in motion, filled and moving and clinging. Ito shifted with him, sometimes nipping, sometimes stroking, blunt nails moving over sides and digging into his hips. His eyes closed and a light show was behind them, building and throbbing with the taste of sweat and aftershave on his lips. He clawed and someone moaned, and he arched against the body pressing into him, for one glorious moment flew.

Gasping for air, he grabbed once bright orange hair and dragged Ito's mouth to his. They were both panting for air, so it wasn't really a kiss, but Michihiro didn't care, not in the hazy slow motion aftermath. Ito pulled away with a groan, rubbing his cheek against his shoulder. Michihiro knew that they were a huge mess, and that there will be pain and a lot of it once the haze faded, but he was content to lay there with Ito's weight pressing him into the futon. He stroked orange hair and was amused at how readily it spiked even without the help of hairspray. Against his shoulder, Ito shakily laughed.

"I should kick you out," Michihiro said, continuing to try to style his hair.

"I don't know if I can walk," was the muffled reply.

"Too bad." Gathering enough energy, he twisted and managed to dump Ito over the side of the futon. Ignoring the sputtered protests, he stretched and fingered a bruise on his collarbone. "Now I have to dress up tomorrow."

Ito sat up and ruffled his hair, sweat making it spike all over the place like a clown's wig. "So?"

Michihiro leaned over and kissed him on the corner of his mouth before getting up and headed for the bathroom. A quick clean up and he was back in the bedroom, rescuing his cigarettes from his pants and lighting up. Ito had already straightened the bed and was laying on top, stretched out in a way that took up most of the room. Shrugging, he set pack and lighter on the table and then crawled back to bed, straddling him. Ito squeaked and Michihiro smiled around his smoke and shifted his weight, Ito's hands grabbing and stilling his hips.

"Why do I get the feeling that we're not getting sleep?" he asked, already moving with him.

"Oh, I don't know," Michihiro replied, bending down and holding his cigarette out for Ito to take a drag.

"You're a tease," the guitarist replied, grabbing his hair and tugging him down for a kiss.

"What else is new?" he murmured against his lips. Then they were lost against each other, the cigarette smoldering forgotten in an ashtray.