
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3696533.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      弱虫ペダル_|_Yowamushi_Pedal
  Relationship:
      Midousuji_Akira/Onoda_Sakamichi
  Character:
      Midousuji_Akira, Onoda_Sakamichi, Imaizumi_Shunsuke
  Additional Tags:
      Developing_Relationship, Emotional_Hurt/Comfort, Shaving, Fluff,
      Frottage, Experimental_Style
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-04-06 Words: 3621
****** How to Show Affection for Your Lizard in 12 Easy Steps ******
by mamebo
Summary
     Warming up to humans and human touch requires taking things a step at
     a time.
     Mostly fluff with a dash of porn at the end.
Notes
     Based on the 12_stages_of_physical_intimacy, and inspired by
     krickettking.
See the end of the work for more notes
1. Eyes to body
He looks upon Onoda with shades of irritation and bewilderment sewn together
with years of trained, cold indifference; Onoda looks at him with excitement
and curiosity that sets his skin and nerves alight like a sword whet with
gentleness.



2. Eye to eye
Even in the privacy of a dark room with a shut door, it’s still difficult for
him to meet Onoda’s eyes for anything longer than a brief glance.
In the broad daylight of a race course lined with spectators, he can easily
mock someone to their face while diving into the pits of their soul through the
pried-open door of their psyche—but not with Onoda, who smiles with all the
innocence and fragility of a winter sunbeam and whose eyes are as transparent
as glass.



3. Voice to voice
Talking is a little easier, because Onoda says any countless number of idiotic
things that require rebuking or insulting or both, and while at first Onoda
stumbles and backpedals and apologizes left and right, it doesn’t take long
before he starts asking why and how come and have you ever even watched that
anime, Midousuji-kun?
It startles them both when Onoda says something so utterly embarrassing that
laughter bubbles past the hard white barrier of his teeth, and as soon as he
catches himself making such an absurd sound he clams back up, clenching his jaw
tight against the knees he hugs close to his chest.
Onoda stammers through terrible jokes until he stiffly unfurls himself again,
and while he doesn’t laugh again for the rest of the night, Onoda seems
perfectly fine settling for pained half-smiles hidden behind gloved hands and
whispers of gross, Sakamichii.



4. Hand to arm / Hand to hand
In the deep chill of winter, when banks of snow prevent them from riding
everywhere on their bikes, they commit to figuring out the cheapest way to get
to the city, even if it means walking blocks at a time while bundled up like a
couple of homeless vagrants.
When a whip of wind blows past, halting their walk to a slow-motion penguin
shuffle, Onoda huddles in tight against his side with his nose buried into the
protection of his woolen scarf. After he almost slips once in an icy patch on
the sidewalk, he instinctively reaches for Midousuji and attaches himself to
his elbow, and even Midousuji doesn’t have the heart to tell him to let go as
they tiptoe across the street.
They wisely opt to take a bus home in the evening, and in the back row of
seats, shielded by a few dozen columns of swaying bodies, Onoda curls his hand
against Midousuji’s in the secrecy of his coat pocket as his head droops
against a bony shoulder.



5. Hand to shoulder / Arm to shoulder
Sohoku knows that the two of them talk, even if they might not have picked up
on anything beyond that (because they’re all dumb and blind, just look at
Weakizumi—what else is new, Sakamichii), and he knows how desperately they
still despise him.
All the more reason for him to drop by their area before races, draping his
long, spindly arms around Onoda’s shoulders while bending down like a beady-
eyed vulture, leering at the lot of them as they bite their tongues and glower
in frustration, unable to raise dissent when Onoda so clearly enjoyed the
looming shadow of his presence for some unfathomable reason.
After that race, while he dutifully and mutely packs up his things and cleans
up Kyofushi’s tent space, a pair of little hands like sparrow wings alight upon
him. He freezes, his entire body going stiff and cold as Onoda exclaims his
congratulations and happiness in getting to race Midousuji-kun again, and his
arms wind closer and tighter to his neck like an impending chokehold—coupled
together with the astonished stares of the zaku, he feels himself about to
burst.
He shoves Onoda outside, grabs him by his shoulders, and shakes an apology out
of him.



6. Hand to waist / Hand to back
After he has said his goodbyes but before he manages to leave the house, Onoda
stops him with a plaintive bleat of Midousuji-kun and weaves his baby-short
arms around his waist, and a small circle of warmth blooms in between his
shoulder blades, right over the knobs of his spine.
Do you have to go, Onoda whispers into the fabric of his jacket, little hands
clamped tight over the bony jut of his hips, fingers indenting the skin under
his shorts. The loop of his arms blazes warmth like a ring of fire, and the
thought of heading out into the coldness of a winter too sluggish to leave
suddenly seems much more disheartening than it had a few seconds ago. It’s not
like he can really stay any longer—he’s already put off leaving more hours than
he should, and by the time he gets back home it’ll be nearing the wee hours of
the morning, and the temperature will only drop overnight along the way.
So with reluctance he pulls himself free of Onoda’s embrace and heads outside,
where his white breath momentarily obscures the weak light of the sliver of
moon overhead before he yanks his neck gaiter up around his nose.
Onoda tries one last time to get him to stay though they both very well know he
can’t, and he rides hard for the first several kilometers until the rest of his
body warms to the lingering heat of Onoda’s hands and body against his.



7. Mouth to mouth
It wasn’t so much a conscious decision as it was a result of circumstance—a
pleasantly warm afternoon with Onoda nestled against him, rambling about some
annoying post he had seen online describing Love Hime as pastel trash—and
therefore totally inevitable.
At some point Onoda droops against him, half-asleep and entirely too delirious
with arguments about the value of magical girls who bore their flat chests with
rebellion, and they end up melting onto his bed, wound up comfortably snug in
each other’s limbs. Onoda giggles, surely feverish with his hime-hime dreams by
this point, and wriggles close, leaning forward just enough to press his mouth
against his lips for a brief second.
He blinks and screws up his face, but otherwise he barely feels himself react,
his brain’s reflexive response to gross behavior like kissing dulled with
Onoda’s inane droning and the sunlight acting like a heatlamp on his back.
That, and maybe because it’s Onoda, whose smile gleams sugar-sweet when he sees
that Midousuji doesn’t seem entirely adverse to the thought of germ exchange,
which empowers him to do it again, and then again, and then yet again, until he
gets a headbutt for his trouble.
Do you not like kissing, Onoda asks rather belatedly as he rubs at the red spot
on his head.
I don’t hate it, says Midousuji as he casually leans his mouth against the new
bruise, all while ignoring the prickles of gooseflesh rippling over his skin
with every flutter of laughter that escapes Onoda’s mouth.



8. Hand to head
Picking a fight with Weakizumi when he’s upset after losing yet another race at
his hands is almost sinfully too easy, and it’s with absolutely no remorse that
he sidles up to Sohoku after the awards ceremony to kick him when he’s down.
Imaizumi sees him coming and meets him halfway, eyes shining bright with
deliciously frustrated tears as he hisses, Just what is your problem—is this
how your mom raised you, or is this just what happens when you grow up without
one?
He was not expecting that level of head-on aggression and tries to take a step
backward, but Imaizumi has balled his fists up in Midousuji’s jersey to prevent
his escape, and with an angry snarl he shoots back, scrabbling at the hands
that are too close to his throat for comfort, Just who told you that?
For a wild second he fears the way Imaizumi’s pupils suddenly dilate,
swallowing the gray of his eyes into unearthly blackness, and a strange, choked
hysteria cracks open his voice as he half-shrieks, Is your mom even dead, or
would you even lie about that just so Onoda would pity you?
Naruko and Teshima spring into action with sharp words, prying Imaizumi off of
him and dragging him away like a petulant child, leaving him to stand in the
middle of Sohoku’s tent like an unsteady, eroding pillar. Out of the corner of
his eye he sees Onoda cautiously approaching him, and without a second thought
he turns on his heel and runs.
He’s been pulling at his hair and swallowing down incomprehensible, broken
sounds for what feels like hours when Onoda finally finds him, and the first
time Onoda tries to touch his shoulder, he lashes out violently, hits him hard
enough that his glasses go tumbling to the concrete, and his body burns with
anger and shame and disgust—with himself, with Imaizumi, with Onoda for
having told them.
Onoda gathers himself up and tries again, and this time Midousuji is too weak
to resist when he tenderly cradles his pounding head against the yellow of his
jersey, and when Midousuji can no longer scream he clings instead, blocking out
the sharpness of the world around them with the soft warmth of Onoda’s body.



9. Hand to body
For some godforsaken reason or other, the Love Hime feature-length film has
been canceled, and Onoda is an absolute wreck over the news.
He has no idea why it falls to him to try to cheer him up (because it’s
not his fault that his host refuses to move from his spot on the floor after
learning he’s not getting 1.5 hours of flat-chested justice this summer),
especially when he’s probably the king of ruining someone’s day, but the house
is empty and desolately quiet with Mrs. Onoda gone on some housewives’
association business, and Onoda looks so lifeless that even Midousuji feels
kind of obligated to say something.
It’ll be fine, it’s not like they would have produced any actual quality
animation with their lousy budget is probably not the best thing to have said
in retrospect, and Onoda makes some kind of gross deflated sound and covers his
face with his arms. He expects a reaction, some kind of glimmer of the usual
Onoda—the one who would say Midousuji-kun, you should expand your
horizons, or That last battle with Arimaru-kun and Kotori-chan was beautifully
animated!—but all he gets is frosty, sullen silence and then, at length, Leave
me alone, Midousuji-kun.
Midousuji is honestly so taken aback that he sits up straight in his spot on
the floor next to him and stares at Onoda’s limp body, wondering how
on earth Onoda thought this was acceptable behavior when he rode five hundred
kilometers to come see him over the weekend, and as he glares at him he notices
the sliver of skin over his hip, exposed by the hem of his shirt riding up his
side.
With a garbled, triumphant hiss, he sticks his (chronically cold) fingers into
the slot of flesh and then slides them over Onoda’s ribs with great relish,
skittering his blunt fingertips over pebbling skin, and Onoda screams as
Midousuji rakes his hands over his body with a delighted cackle.
Onoda melts into a mess of choked gasps and whimpers punctuated with the
occasional shriek or howl, and while he resists at first, it doesn’t take much
before he is crying with laughter, begging him to please stop, I c-can’t
breathe even though Midousuji has no such desire, keen as he is on observing
the way Onoda’s trim abdomen starts and stutters with every light pass of his
hands over the gentle arcs of his ribs.
At some point Onoda ends up draped over his lap, wheezing like a dying fish
with his hands hooked into the pockets of Midousuji’s sweater, and in the
ensuing silence broken only by Onoda’s labored breathing, his large hands come
to a stop, suddenly ponderous, awkward things disconnected from the rest of
himself.
His palm curls around Onoda’s side and drinks in the vitality thrumming there,
sending an electric pulse up the nerve endings of his skin, up his arm and into
his brain, and when he catches Onoda staring wide-eyed up at him, they both
look away immediately with heat staining their faces.



10. Mouth to chest
They don’t have much time until their teammates come looking for them, but
perhaps because of the heat, perhaps because of their mutual inexperience that
tamps down on typically enthusiastic and adventurous teenage spirit, their
hands and mouths trail musingly slow over sweat-sticky, sun-kissed and
sunburned skin.
Onoda makes any number of soft, wordless sounds as Midousuji gingerly bites at
the skin below his ear, tasting the sharp tang of salt and the warmth of heated
blood. Little hands, still gloved, cling shakily to his shoulders, pressing
into the aching muscles of his back and neck, and the little pinpricks of pain
make him dig his own fingers in a little deeper into Onoda’s hips, indenting
the skin just enough that the faintest of gray-blue bruises will bloom there in
a day.
Midousuji-kun, Onoda whimpers, tilting his face upward like a flower seeking
the sun, and Midousuji bends toward him almost reflexively, all while hating
how fast his body has conditioned itself to respond to Onoda’s beck and call.
The press of their lips is soft but the taste of it, the heat of it, stings the
inside of his mouth and makes him immediately clamor for more like some
disgusting masochist, and underneath him Onoda whines as he tries to keep up
with the onslaught of tongue against his.
It takes only a second more longer before Onoda’s knees give way, buckling
under day-long exhaustion and unfamiliar sensation, and Midousuji deftly spins
them, forcing Onoda to straddle his leg as he takes a seat on a forgotten
cooler.
Midousuji-kun, Onoda says again tentatively, shifting forward (dragging himself
along Midousuji’s thigh) and dotting his fingertips along the pale stretch of
bony chest before him. He leans down fractionally to press a butterfly’s kiss
to a prominent collarbone, and the little shy slip of tongue that follows
almost launches Midousuji into space with the way it sets his entire body
alight.
Akira, he breathes raggedly against the crown of Onoda’s head, swallowing hard
when the tongue gets a little braver and begins to slide farther down his body.
Akira-kun, Onoda repeats reverently with a smile that burns like a brand over
his heart.



11. Hand to bits
Are we doing this, Onoda asks shakily, and for a long moment they stare at each
other in wide-eyed silence, because yes, last Midousuji checked,
they were doing this, even if they had no idea what they were doing exactly.
He licks his lips, glances away out of nervous habit, and fidgets with the
flip-top lid of the atrociously pink lube Onoda had smuggled into the house as
he tries to ignore how close Onoda’s naked body is to his own very naked body.
What are they doing, he wonders wildly, allowing Onoda to pry the bottle away
from him and trying not to watch too closely as he squirts out a dollop of the
sweetly sakura-scented gel.
Onoda curls his palm in on itself a few times and then reaches down with jerky
movements toward Midousuji’s still-soft member. U-Um, let me know if this feels
weird o-or anything, Akira-kun, Onoda mumbles, his face red like heatstroke as
he tentatively loops his trembling fingers around Midousuji, who nearly jumps
off the bed at the first cold press against slowly-warming skin. Onoda jumps
and immediately exclaims an apology, and Midousuji shakes his head, grabs at
his wrist to keep it there, and tells him to continue even though he can’t
bring himself to touch Onoda in the same way, too caught up as he is with this
strange heady mix of feelings both inside and out of his body.
His body starts to react, slowly and then more surely, to Onoda’s surprisingly
deft little fingers, and when he thinks to use both hands—gripping both the
upper and lower halves of Midousuji’s cock in his slippery fists—the downward
rush of blood steals his breath away and thankfully robs him of the ability to
feel embarrassment at Onoda’s awed Wow, Akira-kun, y-you’re really big down
here!
Not a sound escapes him as Onoda goes on to experimentation, pulling at
different angles, using more or less of his wrist, playing with the head, all
while murmuring nonsensical phrases of encouragement (and probably more than
one whispered hime hime) both to himself and to Midousuji. In between his
uneven, staggering breaths, Midousuji registers Onoda’s own cock stiffening
against his belly, swaying gently with every movement of his hands and arms,
and he swallows down a cringe.
He makes some kind of vague attempt at touching Onoda in return—his hand
brushes Onoda’s thigh, and his fingertips brush across the delicate skin of his
flushed cock, earning him a soft little Ah for his trouble—but his brain aborts
all thought immediately thereafter, because for some reason his entire body
winds itself tight like a spring, and the heat slowly gathering in his belly
intensifies and spikes and now he is shaking like a leaf in a blustery winter
wind while horrific, desperate sounds escape his mouth, and even Onoda looks
surprised at the bursts of come that spill out onto his hard-working hands.
It takes yet another long moment before either of them realizes what has just
happened, and when Onoda attempts to say something conciliatory (It’s okay,
Akira-kun, I read online that sometimes you’re a little sensitive during your
first time—), Midousuji finally remembers to breathe and kicks him off the bed
with a sharp screech of agonized embarrassment.



12. Bits to bits
Onoda was the one who had shyly (and yet so brazenly) suggested it, so it would
make Midousuji’s job and life so much easier if he didn’t struggle nearly as
much, especially when a sharp blade was involved. Stop wriggling around, he
reprimands, sticking the razor under the running tap with a tsk, a clump of
black falling away into the basin below, do you want me to cut it off
accidentally?
S-Sorry, it’s just—it feels really weird, mumbles Onoda, who twitches again
under the ginger press of the razor against his lathered skin, and to distract
him Midousuji bites gently into his neck while he drags the blade through the
next coarse patch of hair. He rinses the razor under the water, sucks a little
harder into the softness of a pale shoulder, and Onoda whimpers as a hard edge
passes right next to his slowly-stiffening member.
Almost done, Midousuji says in a deadpan that hardly eases Onoda’s nerves,
especially when he calmly reaches around and takes Onoda’s dick in his hand,
squeezing it while maneuvering the razor with aplomb around to the other side
of yet-untamed hair, and this time Onoda’s jittering knees splay completely
open, unashamed as the day he was born.
He is entirely unprepared for Onoda lewdly panting out Hurry, please, Akira-
kun, and the way he pushes back insistently against Midousuji’s long-neglected
cock makes him drop the razor in the water, and with a growl he fishes it back
up and punishes Onoda with a rough grope for the momentary distraction. Onoda’s
head lolls feverishly on the curve of his shoulder as he tries to shave him
with as much speed and precision as he can manage with slightly-shaky hands,
and as soon as he sets down the blade after the last stroke Onoda swivels
around and practically climbs up his body, fusing their mouths together with
earnest greediness.
His cock slides up against painfully smooth skin as Onoda rocks their hips
together, and he can’t help the moan that squeezes out of his throat at the
sensation of his cock slipping with a staccato press over Onoda’s. Somebody is
groaning out loud—he thinks it’s Onoda, but it’s honestly hard to tell anymore
what his mouth is doing with everything is going on at the junction of their
bodies farther down—and the sound reverberates through the tile of the
bathroom, embarrassingly loud enough that Midousuji feels compelled to grab
handfuls of pert bottom to speed things along and finish it before he loses his
nerve.
Small, swelteringly hot palms encircle their cocks, pressing them close and
coaxing them in a slide up along each other with delicious wet softness that
sends warning shots firing all throughout Midousuji’s brain. Onoda breathes out
sharply, head tossed back and exposing the luscious line of his throat that
Midousuji no longer feels any hesitance in clamping his teeth into, and
together with Onoda’s whistling, breathy moan he feels himself begin to tighten
dangerously all too soon, but at least this time Onoda is teetering over the
edge along with him.
Desperation unbalances the usually steady pace of Onoda’s hands and hips, and
the last few strokes for both of them are uneven and jarring, the orgasm
jolting out of Midousuji like a full-body impact while Onoda arches beautifully
with an echoing cry, and together their come paints stripes that intermingle
with the remaining streaks of foam still lingering on their bodies.
Afterward, while they sit curled up in the bath, Onoda giggles and pets
himself, marveling at his incredible smoothness, while Midousuji reclines
behind him, clutching a rubber ducky to his chest while sighing heavily up at
the ceiling in contemplation of his recent decisions in life.
End Notes
     I couldn't bring myself to tag "premature ejaculation" for midou's
     sake : l
     (Am I working on Lizard Brain? WHO KNOOOWWWSS)
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their work!
