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Keigo knows that the Olympic Village has a bit of a reputation—one he’s pretty eager to scope out for himself—but he’s not planning to be a slut about it. At least, not until he sees Enji Todoroki.
At the time, of course, he hadn’t known the man’s name. Just seen him from across the 24/7 cafeteria, still damp with sweat, and immediately wanted to climb him like a tree. Because, Jesus, that jawline? With a bead of sweat just dripping along the edge? On that body? Keigo luckily is halfway through his first cup of coffee for the day, so has enough brain cells functioning to recognize the jacket worn by the older man he’s talking to, thin and wrinkled but still carrying himself like he’s full of power, probably a coach. He spends the rest of breakfast trying to internet stalk this man—because surely it shouldn’t be hard to find a man like that, surely there’s a sizable corner of Twitter already thirsting over the guy as badly as Keigo is—but he’s still coming up empty by the time he’s supposed to head to practice.
Because he hadn’t been exactly distracted—he’s way too fucking good at what he does to be distracted—but at least aware of the lingering mystery through practice, in a way that means there’s at least a tiny bit of his brain not fully present in his matches, and he certainly doesn’t need that at his first Olympic Games, he relents and goes for the nuclear option.
hawks: how familiar are you with team japan?? urgent, life or death input needed
usagimama: i already told you i don’t know any tea about the fencers and if i did i wouldn’t spill it to you, bitch
hawks: RUDE
hawks: as IF i’d need your help to win
hawks: i need a name. hot guy, maybe 6’4’’, red hair, built like a brick house, face like he’d degrade me and i’d let him
usagimama: this is about getting your DICK WET? i can’t
usagimama: omg though do you mean enji todoroki
hawks: have Google stalked to confirm and fuck yes that’s who i mean
usagimama: ahahaHA you’re gonna die
usagimama: the dude’s a famous boxer with a notoriously bad attitude and is to my knowledge STRAIGHT
hawks: nothing ventured, nothing gained
hawks: this is the olympics, where dreams come true
usagimama: it’s not fucking disneyland
usagimama: jfc kei if you’re going to get yourself punched in the face maybe at least wait until after your event
usagimama: but i’ll put twenty bucks down right now that he punches you
hawks: FINE
hawks: i’ll wait until after i win
hawks: and fifty bucks says he lets me suck his dick
*
Like he promised Rumi, he waits until after he’s won his medal. He’s a patient man—and men’s sabre is one of the earliest events, after all.
The medal is gold.
Ever since he’d torn off his mask, sweaty and triumphant and yelling just for the sheer energy of it, he’s felt on top of the world. He wasn’t the favorite, but it didn’t matter—not that he’s too young, not that he had to beat out a senior teammate to get to the finals, not that his coach Mera is kind of a dick, not even that he bets his mom forgot to even DVR the event, much less watch it live—none of it mattered in the face of his hunger. After the ceremony, he’s off the podium and Rumi’s trying to convince him to let her put him on her shoulders so she can carry him, triumphant, back to the dorms. She’s almost as drunk off his victory as he is, her Stanford sweatshirt thrown on over her Team Japan gear, but he feels like anything he wants right now is his for the taking, and there’s one thing he has been wanting, and it’s not their customary victory ritual of Sour Patch Kids and karaage in Rumi’s bed.
He checks his phone and decides he has just enough time to make it to his room, shower, change, and make it back out to the arena where the men’s super heavyweight boxing preliminaries will be taking place before they start, and tells Rumi as much.
“You’re disgusting,” she says, fondly. “I’ll have consolation candy waiting in my room for when you strike out.”
Keigo laughs, too loud, but he’s still coming down from his adrenaline high, like his veins are running with champagne and fucking cocaine or something. Christ, no wonder everybody’s constantly chasing the Olympics, this is the best he’s ever felt in his life. It makes the prospect of walking up to a complete stranger from a different country and propositioning them seem easy as a Sunday morning, and he gets why the Olympic Village has the reputation it does.
“You’ll be eating that candy and your words. You better have fifty bucks ready.”
“Can’t believe you have an entire Olympics full of hot guys, and you’re going after Enji Todoroki. Did I mention he has kids?”
Keigo makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat, grinning and not even caring about the way his dick twitches. “A literal daddy.”
Rumi audibly fake gags, the ungrateful bitch. He’d crashed every single softball party with her last semester.
“He’s like twice your size. He’s gonna crush you.”
Keigo’s pretty sure she means that in a bad, hate-crime-y way, but all Hawks can think of is being pressed under all that muscle, shoved down and pounded into the bed, or maybe swallowing down what’s got to be a pretty sizable dick, trapped between those thighs. He doesn’t realize he’s been zoned out too long until he has to reach down and surreptitiously adjust himself, cock on the way to half-hard between his fantasies and his lingering energy from the match.
“I don’t even want to know what you were thinking about to get that look on your face.” Rumi sounds halfway between delighted and disgusted.
Keigo, because he is disgusting and Rumi loves it, hums softly until he’s sure Rumi’s recognized the tune from TikTok, and then grins, wide and teasing, and softly sings, “Glory, glory, what a hell of a way to die.”
Rumi decides that’s the last straw and literally throws him over her shoulder, leaving him to dangle until he promises to change her name in his phone to “buns of steel” and they’re both laughing so hard they’re crying.
*
He makes it to the arena in time to watch Enji’s match, and the one before it too. He thinks that’s good, makes him look a little less obvious. Only a little.
In his spare time, when he’d needed to get his mind off of sabre before he overthought things and worked himself up too far, he’d watched old YouTube videos of Enji’s matches (and only jerked off like, once, which shouldn’t even count). There were plenty, since the guy’s old—a perennial number two for longer than most people’s careers, and now trying not to let go of the top after finally getting there. Still, though, the videos are nothing compared to seeing the man in person, a hair shorter than his opponent (what do they feed these people, Keigo thinks) but broader and still faster, light on his feet, taking light jabs from his opponent like they’re nothing, and then lashing out with a right that is scorchingly powerful, enough to knock the other guy into the ropes, leaving him blinking dazedly for a few seconds.
It’s painfully hot, and Keigo’s getting hard in his Team USA sweats. He’d worn them so he’d stand out from the crowd a bit, show he’s not just a random spectator, but now he’s wishing he’d worn something that allowed him a bit more discretion. He spends the rest of the match half-focused on containing his arousal. Enji wins it with a brutally straightforward 5-0, and Keigo’s practically tripping over his own feet to intercept him on his way out of the arena.
Enji notices his approach and steps back from where he’s refilling his water bottle.
“The American boxers are over there,” he says in perfect English, motioning to the left and moving to step past Keigo without a second thought.
From someone else, Keigo might have appreciated that they hadn’t just looked at his face and the Takami stitched on his jacket and assumed he spoke Japanese, but he’d seen the way Enji’s eyes lingered on his dyed hair, on the red white and blue all over him, and Enji’s assumption that he’d need English felt like judgment. The challenge of it gets him a little hot and bothered, makes him bold enough to reach out and put a hand on Enji’s arm before he can pass Keigo.
“I was looking for you, actually,” he says, in perfect Japanese, reminding himself to buy Rumi something really nice for convincing him to whip his Japanese into shape for this, “I’m a big fan.”
If he’s surprised Enji, any trace of it quickly disappears into a frown. “You’re a boxing fan?” He sounds disbelieving, which is fair, since Keigo’s pretty sure he’d never even seen a boxing ring before his Enji Todoroki YouTube rabbit hole.
“It’s pretty recent,” he admits with a grin like he’s letting Enji in on a secret, “but yeah. If I’m being honest, more of a you fan, though.”
There’s a long moment where Enji’s just frowning down at him, and Keigo doesn’t think Enji would punch him in public but he’s almost sure he’s been obvious enough at this point.
Maybe not quite enough, though, because Enji scoffs, sounding like even he thinks the words he’s saying are faintly ridiculous. “If you’re trying to have sex with me, just say it.”
“I’m trying to have sex with you,” Keigo does, almost before Enji’s finished with his own sentence.
This time around he catches the surprise on Enji’s face, staring at Keigo like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He doesn’t see, though, any indication that he’s about to get punched, or even a trace of anger or disgust. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but Keigo would almost call the look he gets considering.
Too keyed up on victory and possibility, Keigo doesn’t wait for Enji to answer before he’s joking, “Would it have helped if I’d worn my gold medal?”
The expression on Enji’s face shifts to blatant skepticism, and Keigo thinks he’s fucked it up, but then Enji is actually pulling his phone out of the pocket of his sweats and squinting down at it.
“Holy shit, it would’ve,” Keigo crows in delight, laughing, loud enough that someone shushes him, at the realization that Enji’s trying to Google him, and at the red flush creeping across Enji’s face.
“No, go on, big guy, take a look for yourself,” he continues when Enji’s fingers pause over the keyboard. “Yours truly, Takami Keigo, your men’s individual saber gold medalist.” He makes the same face he’d made in his Team USA headshot, trying his best to be serious, but it dissolves into snickering laughter at the way Enji’s frown deepens in response.
After a few more seconds in which Keigo presumes Enji has confirmed that he is not, in fact, full of shit, the older man looks up and gives Keigo a long once-over, expression more evaluating than aroused. Keigo’s half-hard cock twitches, and, based on his sharp inhale, Enji didn’t miss it.
“My room number is 808. I’ll be free at 9,” Enji says bluntly, as if he’s scheduling a tooth cleaning and not a fucking Olympic hookup, and Keigo is practically salivating.
“Yes, sir,” Keigo winks, taking the opportunity to linger while Enji walks away, to better admire his ass.
*
He knocks on the door of room 808 at 8:57.
Enji opens the door shirtless with a towel draped across his shoulders, hair still damp from the shower, and Keigo makes a noise like he might be dying. Anyone with eyes can see from a mile away that the man is a fucking specimen, but here, up close and shirtless, his abs would make a sculpture jealous, and ‘suffocating between those fucking tits’ just rocketed to the top of Keigo’s list of places that he’d be happy to die.
“Are you going to come in?” Enji sounds amused, like he can tell what Keigo’s thinking.
At the confirmation that this is really happening, Keigo’s inside and got the door shut behind him in record time. The room looks just like Rumi’s, like Keigo’s, like every athlete’s room in this place, which makes it easy for Keigo to unthinkingly toss his shirt in the direction of the laundry service hampers. He means to get started on his pants, but Enji’s voice stops him.
“You’re shameless.”
Ah, right.
Against his bare chest is Keigo’s gold medal.
“Don’t act like you don’t like it,” Keigo taunts, watching Enji’s pupils dilate. He takes a step further into the room, closer, reaching out to brush a hand against Enji’s hip. “Can I call you Enji?”
The older man huffs out an annoyed breath, but doesn’t step away from Keigo’s greedy hands, both of them now rubbing patterns just above the line of Enji’s sweats. “We just met,” he says, as if that’s an answer.
“Yeah, and?” Keigo takes another step to close the distance between them, close enough now that he can lean in and drag his lips across Enji’s chest, mouthing at clean skin until he lets just a hint of teeth skim the edge of Enji’s nipple. “If everything goes to plan, in about twenty minutes I’ll be sitting on your dick, so I think we can move past the formality of family names.”
Fast enough for someone with Keigo’s reflexes to see coming with time to spare, but still fast, Enji’s got a hand wrapped in Keigo’s hair, tugging his head so he’s forced to meet Enji’s intense, hungry stare. “You’ve got a mouth on you, don’t you, Keigo?”
Keigo would be embarrassed by the way he whimpers in response, if this wasn’t already the hottest thing that had ever happened to him. “Yeah I do,” he says, ignoring the way his voice cracks. “You got any ideas about what to do with it? Because I sure do.”
He licks his lips unsubtly and reaches up to grab Enji’s wrist, coaxing it out of his hair to drag over to his mouth. He presses a couple of hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses against the center of Enji’s palm before he drags his tongue up to lick around the base of one of Enji’s thick fingers, all the way up to the tip, where he sucks gently, blinking coyly up at Enji from underneath his lashes. Because he really is shameless, he leans to angle himself so that the light catches on the medal hanging from his neck, and, because Enji really does love it, he makes a noise like a bitten off groan and shoves the rest of his finger into Keigo’s mouth, hand twisting to grip his jaw and finger pressing down on his tongue until Keigo can’t do anything but take it, drool pooling under his tongue and slipping from the corner of his lips. Keigo moans, choked and stuttering, and ruts forward to grind his cock against Enji’s thigh. The friction drives another sound out of him, high-pitched and desperate. Enji swears under his breath and pulls his finger out of Keigo’s mouth. His free hand drops to Keigo’s hip to drag him to straddle one of Enji’s thick thighs, guides Keigo into making soft little rutting motions against him in time with Keigo’s breathy gasps. Keigo’s grip on Enji’s wrist has turned desperate, for support as much as anything else now that he’s twitching and sagging into Enji’s grip, but he uses it to pull Enji’s hand back to his mouth, so that he can lick and suck around the rest of Enji’s fingers.
He pauses when he gets to Enji’s ring finger. When he sees the tan lines, the thick strip of lighter skin near the base of the finger.
“Divorced?” He knows it’s not true—he wasn’t such an ineffectual Googler as to have failed to turn up the fact that, in spite of much speculation to the effect, the end of Enji Todoroki’s marriage had never been confirmed. He’d decided it didn’t matter, but that doesn’t mean that something low in his stomach doesn’t flip at the sight of it, shiny with Keigo’s spit.
“Separated.” Enji’s answer is ready and sure, and he’s even taken the moment to halt Keigo’s little grinds against his thigh. Like he’s taking Keigo seriously. Like he’d actually stop, if Keigo wanted to. Separated could just as easily be a convenient, unconfirmable lie as the truth, but for whatever reason, that anxious thing in Keigo’s stomach settles, and he presses an almost chaste kiss to the line where the ring had once sat.
“Their loss, my gain,” he says before twisting Enji’s hand, nipping sharply at his thumb. Faster than Enji can react, Keigo has reversed their positions and pushed Enji back onto the small, temporary bed. “Hope these things are sturdier than they look, big guy.”
Enji seems more amused than annoyed by the way Keigo’s taken the reins, spreading his legs in an obvious invitation. Before he accepts it, though, Keigo gets his hands in Enji’s hair and drags him into a kiss. Enji’s so tall that Keigo barely has to lean down to catch his lips, and that, combined with the cool of his medal, warming between their chests, is enough to have Keigo nearly wild at the beginning, all teeth and tongue, sloppy and desperate. Gradually, though, they shift into a slower rhythm, Keigo’s hips rocking against Enji in time with the brush of their tongues. It’s almost soft, how slow and deep it is, but nonetheless something about it turns Keigo into a live wire, until every brush of Enji against him sends sensation ricocheting through the entirety of him, sparking from the crown of his head down to where his toes are curing against the floor. Eventually, the slow heat they’ve been building stokes itself into a wildfire, and Keigo breaks away to sink to his knees in the vee of Enji’s thighs.
He just rests his forehead on Enji’s stomach while he’s tugging down Enji’s pants, focuses on breathing, because somehow, he’s riding the edge of coming in his pants just from grinding against Enji half-clothed while they kiss. He’s gratified to see that Enji’s in much the same predicament, if the wet slap of his cock against his stomach when Keigo’s finally wrestled him out of his sweatpants is any indication. He leans back to tug Enji’s sweatpants the rest of the way off, and takes a long moment to admire Enji’s cock. It’s more than just pretty sizable, it’s fucking huge, and it’s already fully hard. He feels greedy and pretty invincible, and the picture Enji makes, flushed hungry face staring down past his cock, tip shiny with precum, to look at Keigo, is pretty irresistible, so he surges upward to take as much of Enji’s cock in his mouth as he can.
Fucking Christ, Keigo thinks on a choked moan. He can barely manage to get halfway down Enji’s cock before his jaw aches. He does the best he can, pressing his tongue against the underside of Enji’s dick, sucking around him in greedy slurps, and jerking what he can’t get in his mouth with his hand until Enji is twitching, but eventually he has to pull back, gasping for air and massaging his jaw.
“Shit. I’m kinda desperate to get my mouth on you, but I also kind of want to be able to speak for the next week,” Keigo laughs, breathy with desire. Enji stays silent, but Keigo can see his cock twitch at the comment, notices how his breathing gets a little shallower. Looks like even Enji gets off on something as cliche as hearing how big he is. It makes Keigo feel a little lighter, like he’s dragged Enji down to his level, relaxes some tension in Keigo that he’s been carrying over how fucking obvious he’s been about this whole thing.
“Actually—” The idea sends a spike of arousal down his spine when it hits him, and he’s a little rough in the way he jerks Enji’s hips further down on the edge of the bed, angling him and shoving at his torso until Enji’s sprawled back against the wall, legs hooked over Keigo’s shoulders. Keigo brings his hands up to dig his fingers into the flesh of Enji’s ass, pull and spread his cheeks so that Keigo can lean in and drag his tongue from the spot just behind Enji’s balls down to circle his rim.
“Oh, fuck,” Enji murmurs from above him, hips twitching as one hand comes down to grasp roughly at Keigo’s hair, to press him more firmly against Enji’s hole.
“Fucking—shit, yeah, really?” Keigo pants, pressing sloppy kisses against Enji’s rim. He hadn’t been sure Enji would be into this—they’re basically strangers—but from the choked-off groans above him and the way Enji’s rim flutters against his tongue, it seems like Enji is very into this. “God, you’re hot,” Keigo mutters against the skin of Enji’s inner thigh as he frantically squirms to grab the lube out of his pocket and then shed his joggers. He’d at least had the foresight not to wear underwear, even though that meant that he’d walked through the residential halls conscious of his bouncing, half-hard dick.
At the gentle click of Keigo opening the lube, Enji bucks his hips, pressing down against Keigo’s tongue, and Keigo groans, cock twitching.
“Oh god, I can’t believe—you’d really fucking let me top, wouldn’t you? Fuck, that’s tempting, but—I had this fantasy where I ride you wearing my gold medal and if that’s on the table too—”
He bites at the tender skin of Enji’s inner thigh, soothing it with licks that turn into a sharp suck, a little mark that says Keigo was here, and Enji groans.
“So what do you say, big guy? Who am I opening up?”
Enji takes a moment, but when he answers his voice is steadier than Keigo expected—certainly steadier than Keigo’s. “You.” The weight of his answer rolls down Keigo’s spine in a shudder of arousal, and he’s already squeezing way too much lube onto his fingers when Enji’s hand in Keigo’s hair stops him short. “And you’d better do a good job of it if you want my cock.” He presses Keigo’s head back between his thighs when he’s done, as if to make his point even clearer, and Keigo is pretty sure that he died in one of his matches earlier today and everything since—the gold medal, this—has been an afterlife he definitely doesn’t think he deserves.
Keigo dives into his tasks, licking and sucking at Enji’s rim at the same time as he moves his slick fingers to rub and press at his own. He focuses on managing to work the tip of his tongue into Enji, loosening him up enough that Keigo can give him little thrusts of his tongue, fucking into him while Enji writhes. Once he’s worked Enji up to a rhythm on his tongue, punctuated by a steady pattern of low, breathy grunts, Keigo focuses on opening himself up as quick as he can. It’s not like he doesn’t do this often enough, even if he’s been a little more careful the past couple weeks, so he starts with two fingers. His groan at the sharp stretch, the dull ache of being so unexpectedly full, makes Enji’s cock twitch and drool, a thick drop of precum rolling down the side. Keigo works himself until two is easy, until he can just get a third finger all the way inside, but Enji’s noises are getting deeper and breathier, his hand in Keigo’s hair a little more assertive, and it’s got Keigo desperate.
He pulls off of Enji, giving the outside of his thigh a soft smack. “C’mon, up.”
Just like in the ring, Enji is more nimble than a guy his size has any right to be. He hauls Keigo up into his lap, still half-leaning against the wall, and all Keigo can do is moan at the manhandling. He ruts back against against Enji’s cock, and the two of them groan almost in unison. Before Keigo can reach back and line him up, Enji’s got a hand at Keigo’s rim, fingers pressing in and probing. Keigo gasps, feels like he’s choking on the sensation of two of Enji’s thick fingers pressing into him. He whines and squirms, alternately rocking down into the ache of the stretch and twitching away from it, his body desperate and confused.
Enji fucking tuts, like he’s misbehaved. “You’re not stretched enough. I told you to do a good job if you wanted my cock.” Keigo whines, can’t fucking believe that the guy wouldn’t fuck him at this point, but made desperate enough by the prospect that he’s ready to beg for it. “Get me the lube,” Enji says, instead, and Keigo is too grateful that he’s still going to get to ride that cock to argue with the command.
Enji slicks his fingers up liberally and slides two back in. He’s not gentle, but he’s thorough, each press of his fingers dragging all the way out and then pressing far enough back in that Keigo can feel the pressure of Enji’s knuckles at his rim, the scrape of them where they’re calloused. Time seems to blur, and Keigo can’t tell how long Enji’s been fingering him with that slow rhythm, only interrupted by the occasional scissor of his fingers, holding Keigo open, before Enji finally slips in a third, and Keigo scratches down Enji’s back on a sob.
“There, there,” Enji whispers against his temple, a little bit gentle, a little bit condescending. Keigo’s cock throbs, untouched and smearing precum against Enji’s picture perfect abs. “Thought you wanted to sit on my cock, show off that pretty gold medal of yours.”
Keigo gasps, arches backward to balance his hands on Enji’s thicks and grind down onto his fingers. They’re thick enough that he can still feel the stretch, but he’s setting the pace now, so he quickens it, bouncing on Enji’s fingers and angling so that they graze past his prostate. The pleasure quickly outpaces the pain, and he grins at the way Enji’s eyes keep darting to the medal against his chest.
“If you think it’s pretty now, think of how pretty it’s gonna look when you’ve got me squirming on your dick,” Keigo taunts, relishing in the feeling of Enji’s cock twitching against his ass.
“Fuck, fuck,” Enji mutters, pulling his fingers out of Keigo fast enough to make Keigo whine at the sudden emptiness and frantically scrabbling at the nightstand for one of the condoms they’ve all been oh-so-helpfully provided. Keigo grabs it from him and rolls it onto his cock, grinning at the way it pulses in his hold. He uses excess lube scraped from between his own thighs to slick Enji’s cock, listening to Enji’s breathing stutter, and then he’s finally sitting up on his knees, lining Enji up, and sinking down onto his cock.
Even with Enji’s fingers, the stretch is enough to make Keigo’s eyes water. It feels good though, Keigo feels like he’s never been so full in his life and there’s still more to go. He makes a soft, ecstatic noise, wiggling slightly, and then groans at the little hitch in Enji’s hips he’s provoked. The older man has been so good beneath him, holding himself still while Keigo takes him and visibly trembling with the effort of it. Keigo lets him know it, too—he’s already fucked out enough to be babbling, and he’s not even gotten all of Enji’s cock inside of him.
“Oh, that’s—so good, Christ you’re so good to me. Such a nice, big cock for me to ride, and you’re holding so still for me, just letting me take it, yeah?” Keigo rocks his hips, until Enji slides a little deeper, and he has to bury his face in the juncture of Enji’s neck and shoulder to shake with it. “So good to me, yeah?”
Keigo can feel Enji’s cock throb and twitch inside of him at the praise, he’s so tight around it, and the sensations are dizzying. Enji’s eyes are pinched tightly shut, his jaw clenched against deep, steady inhales, like maybe Enji’s skirting the line of his self-control, just letting Keigo rock down on him like this. Keigo groans, pressing past the stretch to bottom out on Enji’s cock with a guttural noise that he’s pretty sure several hundred world-class athletes just heard. Enji’s head thumps back against the wall, and his hands move to grip Keigo’s hips with a bruising tightness.
Once he feels like he’s recovered enough to speak, Keigo manages to pant out, hot and wet against his neck, “It’s okay, though. You’ve been so good, but you don’t have to be so careful with me. C’mon, baby, I want you to wreck me.”
Enji buries a moan in Keigo’s temple before he seems to break, hips snapping up hard to bury himself in Keigo, and, shit—Enji is strong, and the absolute intensity with which he fucks is enough to send Keigo’s brain fuzzy. He’s vaguely aware that Enji is using his grip on Keigo’s hips to adjust his angle, a little bit at a time, searching for something, but he doesn’t process it until suddenly those powerful thrusts are nailing his prostate. The sharp little whines each thrust punches out of him would be embarrassing enough on their own, but what’s almost worse are the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He leans back, bracing his hands on Enji’s knees, but Enji just curls over him to keep that perfect angle, keep Keigo reeling with pleasure. The shift in position leaves Keigo feeling a little off balance, a vulnerability to it that makes him light headed with arousal, but it also gives him more room to move, some leverage to brace against the bed. He tries to take back some of the pace, rolling his hips to meet Enji’s thrusts, but all they wind up doing is chasing each other into faster and faster rhythms, pleasure spiraling until Keigo is is practically nonverbal, crying and gasping as he bounces on Enji’s cock, so much precum running down his own dick that it’s leaking, drooling constantly.
“‘M close… so close, fu-uck,” Keigo whines. He tries to move one of his arms, hoping he can get get a hand around himself, but his weight shifts when he tries, the angle sending Enji impossibly deeper. “Fuck, please, Enji,” he gasps, “Enji, more—I need—more, please, Enji.”
Enji’s thrusts get faster, shallower, his breath coming in sharp, heaving bellows, and then one of the hands at Keigo’s hips skims up his stomach and chest, coming to rest lightly wrapped around Keigo’s throat. Enji doesn’t say anything, but the question is clear. Keigo is pretty sure he stops breathing for a second, and then everything whirs into place, his brain finally processing everything promised in Enji’s hand at his throat, and Keigo is babbling, again, “oh, oh, please, yes, yeah, fuck, do it.”
Enji takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then squeezes, carefully, so that Keigo only feels pressure at the side of his throat. The bottom edges of Enji’s hand are wrapped around the ribbon of his medal, where it rests against his neck, and Enji’s thumb runs over the soft fabric before pressing, hard. Just that hint of restriction coupled with Enji’s thrusts, coming faster and sloppier now, Enji’s stuttered moans, when Keigo knows he’s close, is enough that, when Enji lets up, Keigo comes with his first deep inhale. He’s gulping in air, and his cock is twitching, spilling hot and wet between them. Enji groans, drops his head to press against Keigo’s, and wraps the hand that had been at Keigo’s neck around his cock instead, gentling him through the end of his orgasm. Keigo’s not even finished, still clenching around Enji’s cock buried inside of him, fluttering on the edge of overstimulation, when he feels it throb in warning, and then Enji is coming, buried deep inside of him, smothering his stuttered curses in Keigo’s neck.
When Keigo comes down enough from their orgasms to think, it’s because his thighs are trembling. He pushes gently but insistently at Enji’s chest, until he’s rocking back against the wall, letting them both slump together, shivering through their aftershocks.
*
Keigo’s usually got better manners than to fall asleep on someone’s dick, but, to be fair to himself, he thinks that riding Enji should count as a second Olympic event he’d competed in.
For his part, Enji doesn’t seem too offended by Keigo’s sleeping habits. Keigo had startled into a half-doze first when Enji had slipped out of him, and again when he’d felt a warm rag cleaning the sloppy lube dripping from his hole, but both times Enji had just shushed him, stroking over the nape of Keigo’s neck until he settled back into sleep.
He wakes up again, in the middle of the night, and jerks with a start at the empty space next to him in the tiny bed. He hears the click of the bathroom door opening just a few seconds later, and some of the alertness drains out of him.
“Time ’s it?” he mumbles, struggling not to sink back against the pillow.
“Two. Go back to sleep,” Enji says, tone firm but not unkind. Keigo, still in the haze between sleep and wakefulness where inhibitions go to die, apparently, whines and reaches out greedily for Enji. The quiet exhale Enji makes sounds like a laugh to Keigo in the dark, and, in the end, he does crawl back into the bed, wrapping himself around Keigo in the tight space.
When he finally wakes up for good, the thin light of early dawn is creeping through the blinds, and Enji is pulling on workout gear.
“Shit. You’re heading out?”
Enji looks up sharply, clearly not having realized Keigo had woken up yet. “I have a workout at 6. You can go back to sleep.” He pauses, his eyes dropping down to his shoes and brow furrowing slightly. “I was going to leave a note.”
Keigo groans, rolling out of the cramped bed and staggering over to where his pants and shirt are crumpled on the ground. “No, I promised my shitty best friend I’d work out with her every morning until her event. Fuck, where are my socks?”
They’re quiet for the few minutes it takes them to finish dressing, and then Keigo’s moving toward the door. He’s almost got his hand around the handle when Enji stops him with a gentle pressure on his shoulder.
“Forgetting something?”
“Hm? … No?” Keigo looks down at himself—it’s not like he’d had anything with him when he came, just his big old slutty self.
Enji scoffs, grabbing something off of the dresser behind Keigo’s shoulder.
It’s Keigo’s gold medal.
“Shit, thanks,” Keigo says, tone soft in the early morning light, wrapping his hands around the medal lovingly. Realizing that he hadn’t woken up in the medal, which means that Enji had, at some point, probably when he was cleaning Keigo up, taken the medal from Keigo’s neck and folded it carefully on his dresser.
They step out into the hallway, which remains largely quiet, aside from the occasional soft, waking up sound—a shower running, a muffled alarm.
“So, uh. That was—well, fucking fantastic,” Keigo laughs awkwardly, fighting the urge to cross his arms. “Good luck in your matches. I’ll, uh, be there cheering you on. I kind of wound up watching a bunch of your old stuff, so I actually am a big fan. At least, now. Not, I mean, because of the—”
Enji, thankfully, interrupts Keigo’s attempt to shove his foot so far in his mouth he actually dies. “I watched your matches. I don’t know much about fencing, I admit, but you were—very good.” It’s laughable, since Keigo won an Olympic gold, but it still hits Keigo’s chest like a genuine compliment. Maybe because Keigo’s pretty sure Enji means it for one. Like he really did come back here after Keigo’d propositioned him and pulled up Keigo’s matches. Keigo actually blushes a little, blames it on the afterglow, and is about to turn around to leave when Enji speaks up again, voice a little throatier, in a way that sends shivers down Keigo’s spine.
“And, Keigo? I’ll come find you after I win my gold.”