Work Text:
Kusuke knew Makoto was coming long before the actor wrapped his arms around him from behind. He saw him get home from work, watched him heat up some leftovers in the microwave, and curse as his impatience and hunger led him to take a bite of still too hot food. It was the little, familiar things that made the corners of his lips ever so slightly turn upwards. Alas, letting his mind idle over simple things was not in the genius scientist's nature, and his attention focuses back to his work.
Currently, he was sequencing the human genome, specifically that of a few select individuals that were beyond normal. It certainly wasn't his area of expertise, but that didn't stop him from still being leagues ahead of modern science. Clearly psychic powers did not exist solely in the brain, else his latest control device would have permanently ended Kusuo's powers. If his brain could recover from such an invasive and destructive attack equivalent to a nuke hitting a capitol city, then there had to be another source, another part of the puzzle. His coffee's long since gone cold but Kusuke sips it without a care, willing the caffeine to keep him on the cutting edge of brain hyperactivity. From the corner of his eye, he spots the live footage of Makoto heading down the hall towards the lab. Speaking of Makoto, it looked like some of the preliminary DNA analysis was coming back--
Makoto yawns, stretching out his arm behind his head. The roof of his mouth was still raw from where he's scalded it with the boiling cheese of a microwaved lasagna, but he could already feel the pain slowly beginning to fade. Kusuke had said something about potentially altered healing factors once, but the science babble simply went in one ear and out the other as Makoto fixated on his moving lips, the small areas of chapped skin that the scientist often chewed when he was deep in thought, and how it felt against the carefully moisturized softness of his own lips. Said focus is currently consuming his mind, leading his feet directly to his lover as all of his thoughts and troubles of the day fade in the drowning chorus of Kusuke, Kusuke, Kusuke that echoes in time with his heartbeat.
Kusuke feels arms wrap around his chair and himself, along with warm breath tickling his neck as Makoto leans over to embrace him. It's exhilarating, the way he feels like he's the only other human on Earth, how such a gorgeous man as the likeness of Toru Mugami practically worshiped him like a god. Which you aren't, a nagging voice in his mind reminds him, you are nothing compared to Kusuo. The warring thoughts fade into background noise as soft, open-mouthed kisses trail down his neck, grounding and anchoring him to the present with physical sensation.
“How was work, my love?” he asks, but the term of endearment hardly leaves his mouth before Makoto is shushing him.
“Shhhhh. No questions. Just let me experience you.”
Kusuke hums in wordless acknowledgment, knowing well enough that meant the actor's day had been long and fraught with misfortune. He can feel Makoto nuzzling into the crook of his neck, the actor inhaling his scent like a breath of fresh air. The arms around him close a little tighter, one of Makoto's hands wandering over Kusuke's chest. It was significantly harder to focus on reading data when his traitorous body urged the bloodflow away from his brain and towards the points of contact. He also knew that Makoto's intent came from a place of seeking comfort in shared touch, and not from a carnal desire, yet his libido assumed otherwise. Maybe he was just touch starved. Maybe he was a filthy degenerate who saw all touch sexual in nature.
Tired as he was, Makoto still picks up on the subtle shifts in Kusuke's body. He can feel his heart rate increase, feel his body ever so slightly squirming towards his touch, hear the way Kusuke's hands had slowed on the computer keys. A smile graces the actor's face as he feels the hitch of Kusuke's breath when Makoto's tongue touched the shell of his ear. Makoto would always find his reactions beautiful: they were a representation of reciprocity, that Makoto's days of being rejected over and over by the object of his overwhelming love were in the past.
“You're beautiful,” Makoto murmurs against Kusuke's ear, following it up with a peppering of kisses. He trails his mouth down to Kusuke's carotid, relishing in the gasp he earns when he grazes his teeth over the artery and sucks the skin into his mouth. “Every bit of you.”
Kusuke sighs. There's absolutely no way he can focus on his research now, and the seventeen hours of uninterrupted genius have come to a close. He suddenly feels how heavy his body is, with Makoto's arms being the only thing keeping the scientist from slouching forward. A clever retort about the irony of Japan's top idol calling a mediocre scientist beautiful dies on his tongue, captured in a leisurely kiss the moment his lips parted.
“Makoto,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper.
“I got you, babe,” Makoto replies, turning the office chair so he was face to face with his beloved. He takes Kusuke's hands as he helps him up out of the chair, wrapping his arms around the small of his lover's back and capturing him in another deep kiss. He leans his forehead against Kusuke's, lingering in the intimate moment of shared breaths before giving in to a mutual desire to make their way to bed, soon curled up in each other's embrace as sleep takes hold.