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Ouma likes Momota's dick.
He'll be generous. "Like" might be too mild a word. It's similar to the marshmallowy affection one gets for a friend's adorable pet ("I know you're only saying that to gross me out, but what the fuck," Momota says when Ouma explains this to him). It's not his responsibility, but he's more than happy to play with it when the chance presents itself.
He likes sucking it for decidedly less sexy reasons than one might assume. The musk of gym rat sweat he breathes in when his nose is pressed right up to the base doesn't do anything for him, and neither does the thick impression of the shape it hollows out in his throat. It's not the taste. The salty sheathe of the skin itself isn't especially offensive, but the first time Momota accidentally pulled out too late and blew gummy globs of spunk all over Ouma's angelic face, a drop had seeped into his mouth and the united verdict that sounded sharply in his mind, over Momota's frantic hemming and hawing, was a bold font Nah. Not that he's sworn off the possibility altogether. One day, with discipline, he'll swallow Momota's load with movements that suggest it tastes no different than sweetened milk, and whatever look he's rewarded will surely be one he'll be proud to regale his grandkids with. But thanks to the bane of social conventions, he can't exactly practice on anyone but the same man, and so, progress is slow.
Returning to the point he was getting at: he enjoys sucking Momota's cock because it's like being handed a Momota-controlling remote. When he pulls his lips over his teeth and suckles softly at the leaking tip, Momota keens like a pathetically cute animal caught in a jaw trap. He holds it still in his mouth and exhales hot breath over the glans, and Momota reacts like he's been shot. He unwraps and grazes his teeth ever so lightly across the ruddy ridges of flesh, and Momota straightens up immediately, utterly stiff as he says, "Kokichi," like he's just remembered something terrible. It's kind of like playing the flute, he muses, and imagines an orchestra filled with dozens of Momotas and for each one, a musician gargling on his dick, composing beautiful symphony.
These are not the contemplations of someone overcome with lust, he's well aware. Nor is his conjecture that the only explanation for Lil' Momo's size ("Don't call him that," Momota barks) is 1. penis enlargement pills smuggled from across some border or 2. penis workouts, of which the effectiveness is widely accepted as legend but Ouma wouldn't be surprised if there was a secret room behind a mechanical bookshelf in Momota's favorite gym with miniature dumbbells for those looking to bulk up their special little friend. He could probably check Momota's credit card history to discern which of these possibilities is true.
Why he always comes up with his best material when he's on his knees, Ouma will never understand. If only a notepad was nearby so he could write with one hand and stroke with the other. The sight would make Momota pop a vein in his forehead, too, which is always a plus. Momota when he's as thoroughly furious as he is horny often does more for Ouma's libido than sex organs themselves.
(And yeah, he's well-endowed, but Momota really shouldn't get ahead of himself. There are bigger dicks out there. You don't have to even see what's in Gonta's pants to recognize this to be true. Ouma hopes the thought keeps Momota on his toes.)
And lastly, he knows that for every new little trick he successfully pulls off, ever-competitive Momota-chan is taking notes, ready to reapply them for Ouma's own pleasure when it's his turn. Experience is the best teacher and boy, was Momota in desperate need of cram school when they first started. How someone with such a huge mouth can be so shit at sucking dick is beyond him.
These are the thoughts swimming in Ouma's head as he bobs it up and down on the girthy dark cock jutting from Momota's zipper. He'll reassess. If there's one thing about dick he enjoys by itself, it's feeling a soft cock reach full density inside the cave of his mouth, helpless against his curling tongue. He's trained himself to deepthroat with rapid success - for that, he could use tools besides the blood-circulating real thing for practice - just so he could experience the full length of Momota throbbing to life within the base of his pharynx.
He applies this technique now, and as per usual, Momota's too caught up in the silky smooth flexibility of his throat to take notice of how much fun Ouma is having. Ouma is having so much fun, he doesn't notice Momota's fingers disengaging the bunched up sheets to glide down his scalp, through his hair -
Ouma pulls off with a very slight sputter, swatting at the rough hands. He wipes away the glue of drool and precum that's collected on his lips so he can respectably chide, "I know what I'm doing, Momota-chan, thanks."
Momota is breathless and foggy-eyed, but his temper stubbornly shines through. "Not what I was, fucking," is all Ouma cares to hear before he pops the lonesome cock back in his mouth. He knows Momota's on the brink, but so is his oral stamina. Much as he delights in giving them, blowjobs are a treat he passes out sparingly because that would be like overindulging his Momota-chan on addictive sweets that will bit by bit lead him to crave higher and higher concentrations of sugar until it becomes a habit that can't be afforded. In precise terms, no amount of practice will change the fact that his mouth is small and Momota's cock is big and his jaw gets tired very fast.
It's too bad because he'd like to take his sweet time, although this was supposed to be a quickie so that he could get back to devising his current scheme of imprisoning groups of people who listen to music genres he doesn't agree with. Momota knows this, which is why he exhales a puzzled "Uh," when Ouma peels off his pants and underwear in one fluid motion.
"Come on, Momota-chan," he admonishes, feeling around beneath the mattress to unearth the bottle of lube he'd strategically wedged there. "You didn't think you were the only one getting off tonight, did you?
"Ten minutes ago you said 'You're the only one getting off tonight', so yeah, actually, I did." Momota shifts awkwardly; his hands have returned to tightening around the bedsheets in place of Ouma's hair. "Guess that was a lie. Big fuckin' surprise."
"I'm full of them." Ouma gives his blushing cockhead a little goodbye kiss, even though they're about to be reacquainted in a different manner, soon. The action succeeds even now at stupefying Momota into relative speechlessness as Ouma presents him with a look of innocence, poking a finger to his cheek. "Unless Momota-chan has somewhere to be at this hour?"
"No, I -" He scrubs at his temple with the heel of his fist, blaring red up from the neck. "I fuckin' want to," he says, taking the hint.
"Then let's saddle you up, pardner," Ouma says, and by that he means lathering up Momota's cock - standing at attention, eager to serve - with a nice waterfall of lube. Momota shivers as Ouma attends to his little soldier, dutifully equipping him for battle.
By the time that Momota is pushing past the snug ring of his hole ("Giddyup, pony!" he whoops, and Momota asks, "Do you want me to fuck you or go flaccid?"), Ouma's the one wound up on his back, thighs pried apart, with a horse-faced excuse for an astronaut mounting him. He doesn't really mind gratifying Momota's preferences like this. Just like how he permits Momota to do him raw, if the idiot would quit wheedling about how hang on, they're supposed to use condoms, aren't they, when Ouma knows fully well it's more pleasurable without and why does Momota-chan even bother trying to keep up appearances like that unless this is a way of cluing him in that Momota-chan has been going around catching STDs?
The initial stretch burns and aches - they both have busy schedules, and haven't been able to reconvene as much as Momota surely hopes - but it fades with the distraction of Momota's blundering, patent struggles to keep his hips still while Ouma acclimates. He thinks he wouldn't mind just staying like this for a while. It'd be easy to rattle off a lie about how he just wants to feel Momota-chan for a minute, and then he could amuse himself watching Momota's hideous, chiseled face distort with increasingly goofy cartoonishness as he flounders and fights his base instinct to start bucking like a wild bronco. But Ouma would ask him not to, and so, even if it kills him, he wouldn't. Just the knowledge that this power is available if he wants it gives Ouma a thrill up his spine.
Big dumb Momota probably thinks that shudder is thanks to his big dumb cock and not daydreams of emotional torture, but Ouma isn't one to tear away the comfort of a kind lie. He lets Momota's tongue slip into his mouth as they start to move.
"Next time," Momota says, mid-kiss, "I'll do you, okay. Haven't, ah, been pullin' my weight, it feels like."
Ouma snickers against his lips. "You're only realizing that now?"
"The fuck up," Momota mutters, "'s more like you won't fuckin' let me."
"Don't be silly," Ouma soothes him. "If I was dating you for your sexual prowess, Momota-chan, I wouldn't be dating you."
Momota doesn't rise to the bait. Ouma can actually feel the heat radiating off his cheeks when he asks, serious, "Yeah? Then why?"
"I like people that ask stupid questions," Ouma says and closes their mouths together.
In reality, he could give a few answers that would turn Momota redder with each line off the list. One plus to getting fucked by Momota is that the Ultimate Nitwit can direct the rotation of his pelvis remarkably well, angling and thrusting his hips with the exemplary speed and strength of a virile young man all while maintaining unbroken control of his upper body. This means he isn't jostling Ouma's face around with his mouth or clicking their teeth together, no matter how fiercely he's rutting into him or how springy the mattress is. Through the mist brimming his mind, Ouma bets if he brought this skill up in conversation, Momota would explain it as the result of special astronaut training for when he encounters and has to breed with aliens on foreign planets. Even as he's imagining it, Ouma knows it makes no sense, but the idea strikes him as funny. Momota's firelit gaze wandering over him, intense as if he can glimpse inside him, is even funnier. And the way Momota's arms, strong and sun-washed, enfold him like a locked cage that will keep the rest of the world from ever hurting him, is hilarious.
The member jabbing the underside of his belly throbs, sliding against his prostate with every pull and every push, and he's stuck between moaning and laughing although he's already forgotten what was so funny. Here comes the floaty, fluffy white wave he has to be careful not to get swept under. It turns him fucking dumb - fucked dumb, he giggles at the thought. Drunk off cock. In little flashes, he feels the reins of control being handed off and being too gloriously stupid to even recognize fear. This must be what it's like to be Momota-chan all the time, is what he tells himself as if an hour ago Momota wasn't pouring over textbooks, reevaluating the argument of periapsis in a language that Ouma will never understand. Still, the brainwork calms him. He has to keep telling himself these things to get through the sensation of actually being conscious of his brains getting fucked out.
Momota paws around between them in his ham-fisted way, wrapping a sweaty hand around Ouma and lavishing him with quick, clumsy strokes. What that means is he's already on the verge of cumming and needs Ouma to receive him at the same height of pleasure, unless he wants his name to become "quickshot" for the remainder of the night. Ouma lets him be, content to nurse on a collarbone, leaving blotchy purple marks at every stop his mouth takes.
Momota lets go first, swelling him up with the hot, creamy feeling that he still hasn't decided if he hates or not. Then, Ouma's muscles contract and all of a sudden release, and he's spilling onto his stomach, letting his doddering limbs shudder out and his rib cage tremble to the standard that is necessary for him to begin to collect himself.
Clammy and pink, Momota staggers off of him with a grunt. Ouma feels the wave recede and leave behind an odd mix of relief and loss, like touching down after skydiving, which happens to be his main method of transportation so he can attest to the accuracy of their likeness. He appreciates the change of clean sheets but can only take so much of Momota's fussing over him before pushing his chest neatly away with a tiny foot.
No one feels like getting up to shower, and so Ouma allows the dragging of his body towards Momota's. He doesn't even open his eyes when he hears, "I want you to know I wasn't trying to. Fucking control you or anything." The brawny chest underneath Ouma's cheek vibrates. "I just wanted to touch you."
Ouma knows exactly what he's talking about and says, "You really are silly, Momota-chan. In case you haven't noticed, you just got to touch me, ummmm, a lot."
Momota's face says I-know-you-know-I-know-you-know-I-know-you-know-I-know-you-know-what-I-mean. Ouma's face says, And?
Momota massages his brow with his fingers. "I'm too tired for this shit. Remind me to call you out on it later."
"Ehhh, schedule's full. It'll have to wait till next month." Ouma tips his head, like he's considering. "We still haven't fought about how sweaty and stinky your pits are, and how your cologne is even stinkier, and how your dumb houseplants take up room that should be reserved for my man cave..."
"You fucking liar, shut up," Momota says, and he truly believes Ouma doesn't notice him taking an offhand whiff of his underarm.
"Okay!" Ouma cheers and rolls over on his side. "Nighty night, you big stinker!"
"Good fucking night. Dickhead." The gravelly texture of Momota's voice becomes much thicker as he swings an arm over Ouma's chest and brings him in close. He yawns, and the strained way he flashes his canines always reminds Ouma of those foxlike breeds of dog. "Love you," he grumbles directly in Ouma's ear and thinks nothing of it when he doesn't get a reply.
It's not the first time he's said it. Ouma wonders when it will be the last.
-
The absolute worst thing about Momota - well, one of the absolute worst things - is how often he ruins Ouma's plans without even trying, presenting the opposite result of what's been painstakingly calculated like it's a gift.
Tonight, Ouma wants, no, he needs to see how far his darling is willing to go, and how much he can take. As many times as they've been together, he's a bit overdue to be conducting this particular experiment, but Momota's gone softer in the head than usual, which is saying a worrying lot, and needs to reconsider what his feelings towards Ouma are. He waits until the mood is right, and then the jabs he cherry-picks are particularly below the belt; mostly related to dignity, masculinity, Momota's lack of it, and, yeah, he calls him a fucking pussy.
A snarl resounds, and Momota shoves him - doesn't shove him, actually, but grabs him by the scruff and throws him - with such force that the mattress doesn't feel like a mattress but instead the cold hard floor. The dim lamplight casts shadows that draw Momota's looming figure featureless. The ambiguity of his silhouette could be the shape of any one of the people that might push Ouma to the ground.
Ouma is patient when he waits. Ouma doesn't let a single facial muscle so much as twitch. Ouma is perfectly still when two rough hands reach down to pull him by the arms and sit him up as gently as their roughness allows them. The shadowy black mass recovers the details in its face. Momota is saying something about being sorry that Ouma doesn't care to fully comprehend because it doesn't make a lick of sense and is a waste of brainpower to process. Momota ruffles his hair and uses a thumbpad to massage the dimple of his shoulder and for some inane reason, the length of a sleeve to dab at his cheeks.
Then the sex is slow and tender and doesn't come until hours later, only once Momota's been wholly assured that Ouma's eternal soul wasn't ripped to shreds by the trauma of falling onto a bed or whatever nonsense it was that the spacecase had cooked up in his pea-sized brain. It's itchy and gross because without the distraction of a hard, fast fuck, the only sensation left is another person inside him forcing him to feel things. Ouma knows himself well, but he doesn't know exactly what it says about him that his personal hell involves being kissed too softly and too long by the person he calls a boyfriend. But that's a lie. He knows what it says.
Worst of all, when Ouma makes a brilliant observation about the bugs living in Momota's goatee, Momota just caresses his cheek. Not even pinches. Caresses.
"I sure hope you got all that ooey gooey sappy sentimental crap out of your system," Ouma yawns once he returns from his long shower, "because the next time we're doing that, it's when I become suicidal and want to be bored to death."
Momota looks unimpressed as Ouma lies down next to him. "Whatever. You still came, dude. It couldn't have been that fucking bad."
"So an orgasm makes it okay?" Ouma says, aghast. "You sound like a predator."
"Excuse me for wanting to fucking take care of you. Jesus."
Ouma goes quiet. If repeatedly telling Momota he's taking the day's earlier incident way too seriously - which is the truth - isn't going to work, he'll have to go back to the basics. "Momota-chan. If you're still worried about that... shouldn't you have realized by now? That was obviously just a -"
"Don't," Momota snaps. "Don't fucking do that. I can take the lies, but don't lie to me about what you know I know isn't a lie."
"Momota-chan, if there's anything you need to worry about, it's your apparent brain injury," Ouma says.
"Don't fucking play dumb."
We can't all be born naturals, my sweet Momota-chan, is on the tip of his tongue, but Momota cuts him off.
"Let's say you're telling the truth right now." Ouma thinks he's never been more offended by someone having the gall to doubt one of his lies. "If you are, then." Momota glares at his fists as they clench and unclench in his lap. "Don't ever tell a lie like that again. When someone as brave as you looks at me like they're scared of me," he turns on his side, and all Ouma can see is the broad expanse of his back, "it makes me feel like a fucking monster."
Ouma could laugh. The notion that not him, but Momota, could be the creature that belongs lurking under the bed makes him want to laugh.
But this is the time for apologies, not laughter. Paradoxically, he knows if he offers his first since meeting Momota, the significance of the act will only compound Momota's belief that he should be taking the situation seriously. Or maybe he just doesn't want to say sorry. Who knows?
There is one thing he can do, though. "Okaaaayyy, Momota-chan, if you're going to cry about it. I'll never do it again. Cross my fingers - I mean, my heart. Pinkie swear." He sticks out his little finger and waits for Momota to roll around to glower at him.
The broad shoulders remain still as stone. Ouma waits for a second longer before letting his hand fall with an audible plop to the pillow.
"Momota-chan." He pokes him in the spine. "Momota-chan. Momota-chan. Momota-chan. Momota-chan. Momo. Mo. Momota-chan. Momota-chaaaaaaan." He starts up a rhythm, poking and calling his name to the tune of the Star Wars theme. Bafflingly, he still gets nothing. "If you're trying to make me believe you're asleep, Momota-chan, it's not going to work. You would be snoring super loudly and obnoxiously right now if that were the case."
Silence. Is Momota really doing it? The worst thing in the world you can possibly do to a Supreme Leader of Evil? Is Momota-chan ignoring him?
It's never been difficult to get Momota's back to swivel to face him before, but it was usually with bared teeth, red in the face not from embarrassment but anger. There was a time, not too long ago, when all Ouma had to do was squeak his shoes on the linoleum and Momota would go whirling on him, firing accusations that Ouma had worn "faulty shoes" (whatever that means) just to fuck with their class during test-taking hours. Ouma would glue the tail end of Momota's coat to his seat or steal his lunch (and then promptly dump it in the trash because vegetables, yuck), and the next thing you know, there's Momota's dumb slippers pounding down the school hallways, a drumming beat to the chant in Ouma's head that goes look at me, chase me, catch me, play with me. His faith that Momota-chan hates me too much to ignore me was one he could always turn to for comfort.
Now that Momota claims to love him, the winding state of their relationship is far more precarious. Take it too far, and instead of chasing him, Momota's trying to escape him. Momota only sees the circus show. He doesn't see that Ouma's been walking the tightrope the whole time. Ouma sneers at his own analogy.
Whatever. Ouma Kokichi doesn't beg for attention - he works for it. With a pompous sniff, he twists away from Momota and cuddles up to the blankets instead.
The handle Ouma keeps on his emotions doesn't slip, but he can't lie his way out of physical wants and needs. When he comes to in the middle of the night, he's nestled deeply enough into Momota's back that he might have been trying to burrow a hole inside him. With the deftness of a cat, he repositions himself so he's hanging off the very opposite edge of the bed. Momota is none the wiser.
-
In the morning, Momota readies himself to run errands and Ouma decides to come with him. More specifically, he decides that Momota is going to invite him along. While Momota ties his sneakers, Ouma pumps his legs over the side of the bed and conjures up a mile-long grocery list on the spot.
"...Zip ties, a cleaver, gasoline, pliers, syringes, a padlock, strychnine, handcuffs, bleach..." He taps off his fingers. "Oh, and a new toaster to replace the one Keeboy ate when he broke into our house last week."
Momota opens the fridge and sweeps aside paper bags of fruit to reveal the spot whereupon Ouma had cleverly placed the banged-up toaster that someone had knocked into the sink the other day.
"Ooh, so the little bastard's just been fucking with us," Ouma says.
"If you really want any of that stuff," Momota says, shrugging his jacket on, and Ouma hears the words before they leave his mouth, "you're gonna have to come with and haul it back here yourself. I mean, I'm manly and strong as fuck but also I don't want to carry that shit."
"I pay good money for a pack mule and all I get from it is backtalk!?" Ouma roars. The next second he's beaming, producing a wallet stuffed with cash from his pocket. "I tell you what - do this teeny tiny favor for me, and I'll even fund the whole excursion! All you have to do is catch this! Go, fetch!" He tosses the wallet into the air and, despite the totally random direction he'd chosen, it flies up and miraculously lands on one of the ceiling fan's immobile blades.
Momota watches it go. "You know that's my wallet."
"No?" Ouma tries.
They went to bed too late and woke up too early, which is the only reason Momota isn't yelling at him when he points at the fan and says, "Go get it. Go fucking get it. I'm not getting it."
He's noticeably disheveled, which is uncommon, even for a sleep-deprived Momota. Ouma stands with his hands on his hips, calculating the distance between the fan and what Momota can reach. It's about a foot off, and Ouma considers his options. He could disparage Momota for his height, but that will only backfire in the most obvious of ways. Relenting, he says, "Well, Momota-chan. It's clear to me that in a dire situation such as this, we have no choice but to put our differences behind us and work together. Lemme on your shoulders."
"Don't fucking order me around," is what Momota says as he squats low enough for Ouma to climb on.
Either Momota is too tired or just too plain stupid to think of switching the fan on and letting the wallet slip right off, but regardless, Ouma rarely gets to enjoy the sight of the top of his unkempt head.
The errands pass with a lot less squabbling than Ouma had anticipated and maybe hoped for. Momota doesn't say anything when the only thing Ouma pulls from the shelf is a liter of soda and a pack of gum, and he continues to not say anything when Ouma foregoes checkout belt dividers so that Momota pays for his share. They stop by a few more places that Ouma has no interest in, and he thinks they're heading home when Momota profers the bunch of groceries he's been trucking around.
"You go back without me. I'm gonna drop by the gym, maybe call up Shuichi and Harumaki," he says, waiting patiently for Ouma to accept the plastic bags. "Might be gone a while."
Ouma looks from the groceries then back to him, and barely thinks it through when he says, "But you're not dressed for it." A nasty spike of humiliation pierces him at the weak warble of his voice. He may as well just fall to his knees crying and screaming and throwing up now, totally bereft of dignity as he is. He can only be grateful for Momota's ignorance when the distracted look on his repulsive insect face doesn't change a whit. Every time Momota has visited the gym so far, he's never failed to invite Ouma, even when he's met with the rebuttal that such facilities aren't meant for supreme leaders but for the poor sissies that didn't shoot out the womb already swole as fuck.
"I've got a change of clothes in my bag," Momota tells him. Ouma takes the groceries. They're not that heavy - even the mini toaster - but something else is. Momota presses a kiss to his forehead and says, "Later," before turning his back and proceeding down the street.
A goodbye kiss must mean Momota isn't trying to punish him, but rather that his current state of making Ouma miserable with his presence is just an unintended consequence of... Ouma doesn't finish the thought. It doesn't matter. Once he's dropped the goods off, he can use Momota's absence as a chance to fulfill some of his supremely evil supreme leader duties that have been piling up to excess. Momota normally requires so much care and maintenance, he's lucky if he has time for anything else.
It's nearly evening when he returns to the apartment, and though he doesn't call out for Momota, he instinctively knows the place is empty. He rings Momota's phone only once and stands beneath the orange sun thawing their balcony as no one picks up. Momota is a devout follower of gym etiquette and keeps his phone off from the entrance to the exit. So it's either that or Ouma is being ignored. Just the thought is enough for him to spin on his heel and burst back onto the street.
This isn't how events are meant to play out. When the foreman calls off the chipping away of his walls, Ouma is supposed to lie back, grinning, fingers threaded behind his head, thrilled with the tenacity of his workmanship. But this time, it's not hammers and pickaxes attacking steel barriers he thinks of, but the melty warmth of Momota's skin bumping forceless up against his.
Ouma draws to a halt at the steps leading up to the gym and plants himself on the stoop to take a breather. The lit-up windows of the building display no Momota-chans within them, which isn't improbable, but neither is it reassuring. He could go look inside, but for all Momota's incessantly offered to pay for his membership, he still doesn't have one, and he knows from experience that trying to shoulder his way through a musclehead rearing program will not end in his favor.
Time passes with him just scanning yellow squares for signs of a head that is reminiscent of a hedgehog's. Eventually, the doors slide open to release someone that knows his name and says it out loud.
"Momota-chan," he replies, not relieved at all but sick of sitting on the shitty stoop of a shitty building for people that have given up on developing their intelligence in favor of their quads. "Thank goodness. I was afraid they had you tied up in a basement somewhere milking you and force-feeding you protein shakes made from your own milk."
Momota must have sweated off his bitchiness because he answers with, "Nice to see you too. Fuckin' weirdo," instead of that dull look Ouma had been dreading as he stamps down the steps to meet him. They join together without further preface and begin strolling down the sidewalk in tandem.
Ouma glances over his shoulder in search of any gloomy, dust-licking homewreckers. "Your slaves I mean servants I mean sidekicks blew you off?"
"Shuichi and Harumaki," Momota says with meaning, "are busy with important shit. But it's cool. I needed some time to myself anyway."
"Too bad," Ouma lies. "But at least tell me next time. I was about to start checking love hotels for you next."
"The fuck are you implying?"
"Oh, nothing." Ouma spreads his very interesting fingers out in front of him, checking his very interesting nails. "Just that if you don't want me to think you're off getting extracurricular action, don't ditch me for your henchmen all day and ignore my calls when I'm literally dying."
It's so extreme, there's no way Momota will take his complaints seriously. He's distinctly not dead, so there's no reason to dwell on the rest.
"If you're saying what I think you're saying," Momota speaks slowly, "you need to back the fuck up if you actually think I would do that."
"Anyone else, I wouldn't doubt," Ouma hums, arms behind his head. "But it takes a pretty huge idiot to risk pissing me off, and those are the two things you're known for, so..."
He detects Momota's hands squeezing into fists from the corner of his eye. For someone that's been hitting the treadmills and the weights and the whatever it is they have at gyms for the past too many hours, he's still hasty as ever to get riled up.
"Not a fucking idiot, idiot. And you don't get to say this shit to me when all I fucking did was spend more time than usual working out, and as soon as I get done, I see you're blowing up my phone with these fucking voice mails that have the receptionist thinking I'm dating a rabid chimp."
"What do you mean you're dating a rabid chimp?" Ouma trembles his voice and wobbles his lower lip. "So you are cheating on me?"
The joke is wasted on him. "I keep telling you, " Momota says, "you've gotta stop interpreting everything so - "
"Negatively," Ouma cuts him off brightly. "I know you're very proud of yourself for learning a big word like 'interpret' and want to use it at every given chance, Momota-chan. I have to admit, it's quite cute. Let's work on learning how to read, next." He rises on his tiptoes and administers to Momota's forehead the most condescending pat imaginable.
Momota sounds earnestly curious when he asks, "How are you this much of an asshole?"
Ouma puffs out his cheeks adorably. "I was trying to find the positive in your stupid lectures, Momota-chan! Geez, nothing's ever good enough for you..."
Momota shakes his head and starts powerwalking ahead of him. "Why the fuck do I bother..."
Ouma's about to explain to him why (hint: it has to do with him being an amazing catch), but the way Momota picks up his pace like he's eager to put distance between them has Ouma rethinking his tactics. He works his legs faster - it's considerably more effort than the long strides Momota's able to take with irritating ease - and snatches up Momota's hand, twining their fingers together.
Momota glances at their hands, chagrined. Ouma soundlessly begins swinging their arms back and forth.
"If you're going to feel bad about hurting my feelings, maybe you could try not fucking hurting them in the first place," Momota says.
Ouma is about to inform him that only diaper-shitting babies get things like hurt feelings, then remembers he's in peacemaking mode. He shrugs. "How am I supposed to know what's going to hurt your feelings, and what's a hilarious joke that's going to make you laugh your ass off?"
"Since when have you ever made me laugh my -"
"Spacebar," Ouma says flatly.
"Yeah, that was pretty funny. " Momota stops to look up at the sky. Their swinging arms steadily lose momentum. Autumn-cool night is coming, and a hazy dusk of blue and purple surrounds them. The grip of Momota's hand isn't half as strong as Ouma's.
Ouma knows he has to give him something, and fast, even though his reserves are finite and soon enough Momota will pick him clean. But the way Momota's head is turned to watch the sun fall and the stars appear instead of him drives him to say, "It's not that I want to hurt you, Momota-chan."
Momota turns to him, and Ouma quickly follows it up with, "But it's kind of like you bought a pet pufferfish and now you're all sad that you can't cuddle with it."
"What the hell are..." Poor, silly Momota-chan looks so confused. Then realization takes over his features, and he seems to get it. "Kokichi, you're not a fucking fish."
Or maybe not. "Astute as always, Momota-chan! You know, I see now how ridiculous it is of me to keep calling you an idiot."
"Look, asshole. You're not -" He waves around his free hand. "You're not a goddamn animal that was born not to be touched. You don't have fucking spikes coming out of you," as if to prove this, he runs his fingers along the side of Ouma's face, and Ouma doesn't even wince or anything, "and it doesn't hurt me to touch you. You choose to do that shit. And you can stop anytime you..." He trails off. He puts on that face he uses to trick people into believing he's capable of thinking deep thoughts.
"Is it my turn to lecture you about how you're a hypocrite that has to lie to yourself just to get through the day or are you still going?" Ouma asks.
"I'm still fucking going."
"Well, go this," Ouma says snidely. "I know I can stop anytime I want, keyword being. But what I want is to keep being me."
"And I'm saying I can handle your shit," Momota snaps back, "because I know half the time you're just spewing crap for attention. But if what you want includes fucking with my feelings all the time, you can't keep acting like that when I get frustrated and need some space."
Ouma stares. "Like what?" he asks, but awareness hits him in full force. He hates that. He hates the way all the meticulous hard work poured into his impeccably painted persona can be rendered worthless by just a few dismissive words from an idiot.
"You know, like - you're the one that's being hurt," Momota says. "It's not goddamn fair, okay? You can't push me away and look at me like that when I leave. It fucks with my head."
Ouma doesn't say anything. It's not that he doesn't have a brilliant lie at the ready. Finding a way to slip back into the deceit and the shadows after being exposed is one of the main possible dilemmas he's spent his life preparing for. But it's the how that he's been dragged into the light he hadn't taken into account. The lies at his current disposal will only further entrench Momota's point. This is, in fact, the downside to always assuming the worst.
He realizes they're still holding hands when Momota startles him by running his thumb over the back of Ouma's in a soothing motion. Ouma suddenly doesn't know if it was Momota's grip that was loose or his own that was too tight.
"Listen," Momota starts. "With Shuichi and Harumaki, I - don't get pissed," he says pointedly.
"Pissed? Who's pissed? Not me," Ouma says, pissed, but certain that not a shred of emotion is showing on his face.
"Yeah, okay, well." Momota huffs out a sigh. "With them, I knew if I just kept pushing and pushing they'd eventually let me in. I knew they were just waiting for someone to reach out to them, so if I offered a hand, there's no way they wouldn't take it. But you're different."
"Momota-chan, if you're only saying that because you know I have snipers trained on you right now..."
"Shut the fuck up," Momota replies, and with that, Ouma knows he's in the clear. "Anyway, I know you're sure as hell not waiting around for anyone to help you, so if I push you, you can just fucking leave because you..." His hand comes up, and he splays his fingers over half of his face, trying to hide without it being deathly obvious.
"Momota-chan?"
"Because you don't need me," he laughs, forcedly. The hand in Ouma's twitches, closing around and wrapping him up entirely. "So it's like, if it seems like I keep fucking up with you, that's why. The shit that always worked for me doesn't with you. I have to start from the ground up."
He's so clearly holding himself together by a thread, and if Ouma wasn't the embodiment of pure evil, he would be feeling something like empathy right now. He tilts his head, and his voice is soft, coaxing, when he says, "You don't think it worked, even a little?" He places his other hand on top of Momota's. His fingertips come just up to Momota's middle knuckles.
Momota looks at him in surprise. Then he looks quickly away, rubbing his nose, ears glowing red, and Ouma finds he doesn't mind Momota turning away from him in this instance.
"W-well, of course," Momota blusters. "There's no one on this planet that can totally resist the charms of the Luminary of The Stars, so."
"Of course." Ouma holds Momota's hand close to his heart and flutters his eyelashes. "Everybody absolutely adores you, my big, strong, manly Luminary."
It's meant to be teasing, but Momota is overly pleased, crowing and puffing out his chest as he breaks their tangle of hands to throw an arm over Ouma's shoulder. That's probably for the better. Ouma leans his head against Momota's bicep and graciously commands him to point out some constellations. The whole way back to their apartment, Momota bumbles and chatters away like a little kid. The sticky black sludge condensed in Ouma's chest thins out to a paste.
-
It's sometime later, a dull afternoon when Ouma is riding Momota with a vigor that the black dissolves. While letting Momota bend him over the bed or push his knees past his ears and from there observe his darling get lost in power fantasies is entertaining in its way, the view from up here is undeniably the best. He's in the perfect position to play with Momota's chest, which he's very sensitive about, both in the physical sense and the getting-your-boobs-groped-isn't-manly sense, and just when Momota thinks he's adjusting to the set rhythm, Ouma will gyrate his hips in little half-circles that send him squirming and balling up the bedsheets.
In the midst of expertly flexing and pumping his walls around the dick he's seated on, an idea strikes Ouma - less of an idea, more of a compulsion. He grabs the big hand delving the crux of his hip bone and presses it to his stomach, so the thick fingers fan out over the flat of his abdomen, covering his belly button. In between grunts and barely restrained moans, Momota makes a noise of confusion as Ouma holds him there, bouncing his hips in quick, short surges all the while.
"I can feel Momota-chan here," he whispers. "Can you?"
Momota goes wide-eyed, then lowers his gaze, skims and brushes his callused fingerpads over the curvature of Ouma's taut tummy. Of course he can't feel anything, but he adopts that burn-a-hole-through look like he could, like he believes staring hard enough at something will spur it to spring forth answers. It's that disarming eying up that suddenly makes Ouma feel naked. He is, literally naked, but it's only then he's hit with the urge to veil himself. With no other options, he bends down low, laying his body out on Momota's torso so they're neck-and-neck.
"Momota-chan," he says, as Momota's hips roll up to match him. "Momota-chan, Momota-chan..."
Momota mouths and laps at his neck. His hands reconcile on Ouma's waist. Ouma takes both wrists in his too-small fingers and places Momota's hands on his head, so the palms are prone against either side of his skull.
Very still at first, Momota has a moment to take his cue as Ouma lets him go, so he can focus only on the lilting rise and fall of his body over Momota's. Then Momota is patting and petting, kneading Ouma gently behind the ears with his rawboned knuckles, smoothing back the hair over his forehead with the other hand, and kissing him head-on. Momota rocks up and presses himself as deep and tight as he can go.
Ouma forgives it. When they're both spent, basking in the aftermath, and Momota is still nuzzling him like a big, slurpy, scratchy-faced dog, Momota will forgive him for biting down on his wrist. It's not that he wants to hurt. But an animal like him needs to experience the satisfaction of sinking his teeth into something real, lest he goes stir crazy inside the prison of domestication. They're just mammals, after all.