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Your Ink on my Skin

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Cherry occasionally holds calligraphy classes for free on the weekend, as his way of contributing back to the community.

Most of the time, his students are elderly persons or young adults, and most of the time, they're astute enough to dress appropriately, in traditional wear that is suitable and respectful to the ancient Japanese art of calligraphy that they are partaking in.

Which is why when one large, muscly man wearing a bright orange striped tee and bermudas is sitting in his class, it's more than likely he'll draw the attention (and wrath) of the teacher.

Joe grins cheekily at him, and Cherry grinds his teeth in an effort not to beat the living shit out of the guy. What the hell was he thinking?!

In fairness, perhaps it was better that Joe hadn't chosen to wear a yukata - it was more than likely he'd wear it the same way as his S outfit, open distastefully down the middle and slung carelessly low across his biceps. Cherry didn't need that kind of indecency in his class - especially not when his younger female students keep sneaking obvious glances at him and giggling to themselves. He was distraction enough, even while fully clothed.

Cherry pettily hopes that Joe'll learn his lesson by being forced to sit in seiza position throughout his class, but he also knows that it wouldn't be much of a problem for him, given Joe's ridiculously muscled legs. 

… Great, and now he can't stop thinking about Joe's legs. Goddamn that idiot gorilla.

He clears his throat, and places his hands lightly on his knees, looking to the rest of the class a perfect picture of poise and serenity. "Welcome to the class. By the end of this session, I hope you'll be taking home at least one, if not several, beautiful renditions of your own name, written in your own hand." Cherry pastes a smile on his face and hopes it looks friendly - he wasn't a stranger to this by any stretch, having conducted dozens of classes before already - but Joe hasn't moved his gaze away from Cherry's face even once since they sat down, and it was doing horrendous things to his composure. "I'll begin with a demonstration of the sosho script."

With the rapt attention of the entire class on him, he picks up his brush, pulls his sleeve out of the way in a practiced move, and starts writing the characters for "Japan" in confident, smooth strokes. Calligraphing requires a level of focus not unlike skating; there's no room for extra thought, each movement as precise as he is sure. Any ounce of hesitation will cost him his goal.

When he lifts his eyes from the finished product, the first gaze he meets among his captivated audience is Joe's, burning with superheated want behind wine-red irises.

Cherry meets his eyes defiantly, even as an answering heat builds in his abdomen. This is how they've always been - both pushing as far as they can go, neither budging an inch. He doesn't know what kind of game Joe is playing at, but he knows he's in for a long session.

 


 

The second Cherry steps into his apartment and closes the door behind him, he's crowded up against the wall by a familiar pair of beefy arms. Joe crushes their lips together, while his hands drop down to his waist, tugging at Cherry's obi.

"I would have worn one of these today," Joe growls, pulling back from the kiss to slide a hand under Cherry's yukata, his touch gentle despite the roughness in his voice, "but these things don't exactly hide hard-ons well."

"I wouldn't have expected anything less, you perverted ape -" Cherry gasps when Joe's fingers press into the sensitive skin of his inner thigh - "but enlighten me as to why my classes turn you on? It's not like you've never seen my work before." Cherry's apartment houses a number of his own work, framed on the walls, and he's gifted several pieces to Joe in the past for the restaurant, too.

"I've seen your work, but I've never seen you work," Joe explains inbetween the kisses he's working down Cherry's neck. His hands move instinctively to grip Joe's hair, an attempt to ground himself against the mind-melting pinpricks of heat Joe is sucking into his skin. "When you're all focused and serious like that. It's kind of hot."

"I'm also serious when I'm skating, in case you haven't noticed," Cherry accuses, and he's about to add unlike you, just to be difficult, but - Joe lifts his head to seal their mouths together again, and that effectively makes him lose his train of thought for the next several minutes. If Cherry's going to compare calligraphing to skating, then he can compare it to this, too; Joe kisses with a ferocity that leaves no room for anything else, nothing but the feel of his hands on Cherry's bare skin and Cherry's own heartbeat, loud and thundering in his ears as a result of Joe's hyperfocused attention. Joe can claim he knows nothing about art, but he's the only one who can paint Cherry like this, draw him open and keening in the way only Joe's touch and voice and mouth is able to.

He doesn't realise he's said that last part out loud until - "I'll make you fucking sing, Kaoru," Joe promises, sliding to his knees in front of him. Cherry's yukata hangs loose and open on his shoulders, obi long discarded; he's already semi-hard from Joe's earlier ministrations, pressing uncomfortably against the fabric of his underwear. The rush of cold air hitting his cock when Joe pulls his underwear down is a surprise, and Cherry shudders when Joe wraps a hot, heavy palm around him, bringing him to full hardness with a few quick strokes. And then there's no hesitation at all when Joe slides his hands up to grip Cherry's hips, and moves forward to fit his mouth around Cherry's -

"Wait." Cherry stops Joe with a light shove to the shoulder, and Joe pauses, looking up at him questioningly. "Upstairs." His voice is rough and uneven despite his best efforts to sound level, and he's prepared to argue back using some excuse about it being unhygienic to fuck on the nearest available horizontal surface if Joe protests (the truth is that he knows Joe is about to make good on his promise, and Cherry just doesn't want the entire neighbourhood to hear what they're doing quite literally on the other side of the door).

But it turns out he didn't have to, as Joe gives an agreeing nod, and without warning, lifts Cherry up and onto his shoulder - ignoring his startled yelp - and heads for the stairs. Against those bulky muscles, Cherry is as good as a piece of hanshi paper, as fragile and delicate as his S name suggests, easily torn without proper care. It's a constant source of frustration and arousal for Cherry; how carefully Joe handles him, how gentle Joe can be with him, even when he doesn't have to be.

And, well, since he's already started on the calligraphy metaphors - if Cherry was the paper, then Joe was undoubtedly the brush, large hands leaving sweeping strokes of vivid heat in the lines of Cherry's body, his gaze alone enough to make him bleed emotion like ink through paper. It's never been a question of whether they fit together; Joe complements him like no other, and Cherry him. They work well enough on their own, but when they come together, undeniably -

"We're going to be a fucking masterpiece," he murmurs, as Joe drops him onto the mattress and presses him down against the pillows. Cherry doesn't doubt it for a second. They've never been the kind of people who stop before they get what they want, not with their careers, not with skating, and certainly not with each other.

Joe pulls back to look at him, perplexed. "I'm sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

"Just talking to myself, idiot gorilla."