S-so, hey, guys. Lookit, I actually wrote something a little more risque than I'm comfortable with and I'm actually really embarrassed by it. Like...really embarrassed. Like, so embarrassed that when my sister reads this (as I know she will) I may have to hide my head in shame for the rest of my life. God, talk about awkward.

Uh, so I was geeking around on the P4 kink meme and thought I'd try out a prompt...this one was something along the lines of a hot hand job in the locker room. Or something. This...didn't quite turn out how it was supposed to. I guess it's sorta PWP, but...it has underlying...stuff? Hell, I have no idea.

So, uh...enjoy?

It's only a matter of time, really, until their time runs out.

Kou knows this. He knows that what they're doing is stupid, that they really should be much more careful, that if they keep this up it's only a matter of time until it will all get blown up and shit rains down upon them. (A big kaboom and then the pitter-patter and inevitable splat.) He knows this.

But in this moment—their moment, he has to remind himself—in this small, insignificant scrap of time, when Daisuke is pushed up against the tile wall, right arm slung haphazardly over the grey divider and white-knuckled hands gripping the plastic so hard that it bends, when Kou is pressed flush against him, lips meeting lips, tongue meeting tongue and an arm reaching down between them to take Daisuke in his hand, when Daisuke moans appreciatively and fumbles to reciprocate the action through the haze of shower mist surrounding them, when there's no sound but the spray of the shower and their mingled breaths and throaty moans—

In this moment, Kou forgets. He doesn't care. He forgets to care. He pushes himself closer to Daisuke, slides his free hand up Daisuke's chest to come to a rest at the nape of his neck, and continues to ignore the all reasons why this could all go horribly wrong. (Gear up for the explosion; you better put on your hardhat, or maybe a raincoat.)

In this moment, or maybe just a delicate slice of a second after it, there's a resounding crack through the locker room and the angry scuffle of running shoes across the drier parts of the concrete floor, and several angry voices shouting profanities that echo off the walls and make less and less sense with each bounce they make.

Daisuke freezes for a split-second, unsure of what to do, staring at Kou with frightened eyes that read No, no. It's over, it's done. They know. They fucking know. Then he shoves Kou away with such force that he is sent sprawling backwards onto the slippery floor with nothing to hide his shame, and inside Kou something breaks.

Kaboom.

Shatters, because Daisuke is darting his eyes back and forth between the members of half the soccer team (returned because one of them forgot his bag and in that bag was their alcohol because it's a Saturday and tomorrow they have the day off) and Daisuke is grasping wildly for an excuse and Kou is just sitting there, staring at Daisuke, not really seeing anything, because if this is how Daisuke is reacting was there really anything there to begin with?

Kou thinks that maybe it's his heart that's making his chest feel like this. Like there are hundreds of angry hands hell-bent on squeezing the life out of him.

And later, when the team has left, when they're alone again and Kou is still sitting on the concrete floor, and when Daisuke is dressed and approaches him with a hand outstretched, maybe to offer him a hand up, maybe to offer some comfort and reassurance, Kou stiffens his back and spits out a venomous "don't." The hostility and distrust in his voice surprises even him, and Daisuke hesitates, then retracts his hand. His footsteps retreat and the door slams shut behind him.

It's then, and only then, that Kou allows himself to punch the nearest hard surface and bite back and anguished cry.

(And later, when he's alone in his room and his mother is standing outside of his door and asking him what is wrong, he will say nothing is wrong, mom. I'm fine. Really. He will say this as he closes his eyes and he will take in a deep, shuddering breath, and he will try to forget. He will try to stop caring. He will try to move on.

And he will find that he can't.)

I'm pretty sure that any and all attempts to write actual porn in the future will fail because I know that my sister will find it and I can't handle the shaaaaaaaaame.

So, uh, didja like it?