"Tabletop," Ken/Omi + Francescu, NC-17
Thanks to Cescu for taking a beta look.
There are many advantages to sharing an apartment with Omi and Ken. The rent is more reasonable, his friend and boyfriend are in close reach, and between the three of them, they can generally navigate the cultural divide without too many phone calls to Xander or Willow.
And then there are nights like this, when he wakes from what had been a sound sleep to Ken and Omi in the kitchen, and the walls seem too thin and the apartment far too small.
"Come on," Omi is saying. "Please?"
"But I don't know--"
"He had that concert," Omi says, and Francescu can hear fabric, motion. "He won't be back for hours. Please."
Ken doesn't answer in words, but Francescu can hear his answer; sloppy, wet sounds, obvious kissing, and then something moving--
The basket they keep on the kitchen table with the mail, dropping on the floor.
Francescu puts the pillow over his head, but it's not enough; Omi's moans are loud, clear encouragement, and entirely unavoidable. He could ward his bedroom swiftly enough, but they are so used to his magic they might notice.
He bites his lip. He does not know how Omi behaves during sex, but he knows Ken's jeans will be down to his knees; Ken gets eager, sloppy.
"I don't--"
"There's olive oil," Omi says urgently. "Over there. Hurry."
Ken almost slips on his way to the sink where the bottle is, and Omi chuckles. "Take 'em off," he says, and Francescu can hear Ken wadding up the fabric, the cork sliding out of the bottle with a quiet pop.
"Please," Omi says, his voice serious and intense, and Francescu remembers how careful Ken can be, how he slows himself down, and he wonders if Omi tilts his hips back when Ken slides in his fingers, if he even can on the flat surface of the table.
Omi is the smallest of the three of them, his slenderness hiding his strength; Francescu knows Ken's body all too well, and he cannot stop himself from picturing them together, wondering how Omi reacts to Ken's touch, wondering what the tiny whimpers he hears signify.
He wonders if Omi has removed any of his own clothing; if he is reaching under Ken's shirt to touch his nipples, or if he is too distracted with the promise of sex to bother. His own pajamas feel tight and hot and unnecessary. He shifts his weight and their fabric teases his body; enough touch to stimulate, but hardly enough to satisfy.
And as reluctant as he is to admit it, his body is craving satisfaction.
Francescu reaches down through the fly of his pajamas and curls his fingers around his cock, sliding the foreskin back as gently and quietly as possible. The sounds in the kitchen pick up speed, and he dares to stroke himself, shifting his weight to free his arm.
"Fuck me," Omi hisses suddenly, and Francescu hisses in breath.
"Yeah," Ken says, and Francescu strokes himself in time with the sounds he hears from the kitchen. Though Francescu has no standard to compare him with, he still knows that Ken is good in bed; he is patient, caring, and his stamina is astonishing. The sounds from the kitchen sound rougher than he's used to; he wonders for a moment what Omi is doing, what Omi wants in bed, when they are in bed together.
He wonders if Omi is facing Ken, and if his eyes look as blue in the half-dark of the kitchen as they do during the day.
He should not be wondering about Omi. He grits his teeth and strokes harder, wanting to finish before he has any more treacherous thoughts, before he wonders if they embrace during sex, before--
And then his orgasm, distracting him, however momentarily, from the gasping and panting in the next room to focus him on his own pleasure, the smooth motion of his hand--
Ken saying Omi's name, over and over again, an incantation--
Semen hot and cooling on his hand, his pajama bottoms damp with sweat--
He grabs a tissue and cleans up as they finish, and prays they will retreat to the bedroom after this.
There are many advantages to sharing an apartment with Omi and Ken. The rent is more reasonable, his friend and boyfriend are in close reach, and between the three of them, they can generally navigate the cultural divide without too many phone calls to Xander or Willow.
And then there are nights like this, when he wakes from what had been a sound sleep to Ken and Omi in the kitchen, and the walls seem too thin and the apartment far too small.
"Come on," Omi is saying. "Please?"
"But I don't know--"
"He had that concert," Omi says, and Francescu can hear fabric, motion. "He won't be back for hours. Please."
Ken doesn't answer in words, but Francescu can hear his answer; sloppy, wet sounds, obvious kissing, and then something moving--
The basket they keep on the kitchen table with the mail, dropping on the floor.
Francescu puts the pillow over his head, but it's not enough; Omi's moans are loud, clear encouragement, and entirely unavoidable. He could ward his bedroom swiftly enough, but they are so used to his magic they might notice.
He bites his lip. He does not know how Omi behaves during sex, but he knows Ken's jeans will be down to his knees; Ken gets eager, sloppy.
"I don't--"
"There's olive oil," Omi says urgently. "Over there. Hurry."
Ken almost slips on his way to the sink where the bottle is, and Omi chuckles. "Take 'em off," he says, and Francescu can hear Ken wadding up the fabric, the cork sliding out of the bottle with a quiet pop.
"Please," Omi says, his voice serious and intense, and Francescu remembers how careful Ken can be, how he slows himself down, and he wonders if Omi tilts his hips back when Ken slides in his fingers, if he even can on the flat surface of the table.
Omi is the smallest of the three of them, his slenderness hiding his strength; Francescu knows Ken's body all too well, and he cannot stop himself from picturing them together, wondering how Omi reacts to Ken's touch, wondering what the tiny whimpers he hears signify.
He wonders if Omi has removed any of his own clothing; if he is reaching under Ken's shirt to touch his nipples, or if he is too distracted with the promise of sex to bother. His own pajamas feel tight and hot and unnecessary. He shifts his weight and their fabric teases his body; enough touch to stimulate, but hardly enough to satisfy.
And as reluctant as he is to admit it, his body is craving satisfaction.
Francescu reaches down through the fly of his pajamas and curls his fingers around his cock, sliding the foreskin back as gently and quietly as possible. The sounds in the kitchen pick up speed, and he dares to stroke himself, shifting his weight to free his arm.
"Fuck me," Omi hisses suddenly, and Francescu hisses in breath.
"Yeah," Ken says, and Francescu strokes himself in time with the sounds he hears from the kitchen. Though Francescu has no standard to compare him with, he still knows that Ken is good in bed; he is patient, caring, and his stamina is astonishing. The sounds from the kitchen sound rougher than he's used to; he wonders for a moment what Omi is doing, what Omi wants in bed, when they are in bed together.
He wonders if Omi is facing Ken, and if his eyes look as blue in the half-dark of the kitchen as they do during the day.
He should not be wondering about Omi. He grits his teeth and strokes harder, wanting to finish before he has any more treacherous thoughts, before he wonders if they embrace during sex, before--
And then his orgasm, distracting him, however momentarily, from the gasping and panting in the next room to focus him on his own pleasure, the smooth motion of his hand--
Ken saying Omi's name, over and over again, an incantation--
Semen hot and cooling on his hand, his pajama bottoms damp with sweat--
He grabs a tissue and cleans up as they finish, and prays they will retreat to the bedroom after this.