His meal sits forgotten in front of him, barbeque drenched chicken wings dangling between two fingers. Instead, Ichigo is riveted by the messy scene across the table from him.
He watches as Renji devours his meal, smearing sauce over his lips and fingers. Tongue darting out to lap an escaping drop of sauce. Then focusing on his barbeque covered fingers. Cleaning them with long licks of his tongue. Sucking each finger into his mouth, cheeks hollowing with suction. Releasing it with a lewd pop only to start on the next one with the same aggressive intent.
There’s a drop of sauce on Renji’s chin. Ichigo wants to lick it off so badly that he squeezes a paper napkin with his left hand, right hand dangling midair with an untouched chicken wing.
This shouldn’t be so hot, but it damn well is.
“These are fuckin’ good,” Renji mutters as he nibbles on a wing, lapping at excess sauce with his tongue. He adds a small moan, one of enjoyment.
Ichigo’s insides lurch with need. He lowers his own wing back to the plate, wanting to grab Renji’s hand. Lick that sauce off for him. Watch those amber eyes darken, bank with heat.
Ichigo squirms in his seat. He wants.
Renji looks up at him, arching his brow. Either perfectly oblivious or damn well aware of Ichigo’s discomfort and secretly delighting in it.
Ichigo swallows thickly, lies through his teeth. His brow is sweaty. He doesn’t really care.
Renji grunts, points at Ichigo’s plate with a sauce-covered forefinger. “Then are ya gonna eat those?”
He pushes the plate toward Renji. Hunger for food replaced with a different sort, interested only in watching Renji continue to tease.
“Sweet.” Renji sucks on his fingers again, seemingly unaware of Ichigo’s plight. To the fact that Ichigo’s pants have become uncomfortably restrictive.
Ichigo drops the napkin and reaches for his glass of soda, gulping half of it down. Pretending like he’s not watching Renji from the corner of his eye, watching that skilled tongue lap up drops of sauce, easily able to imagine that tongue elsewhere.
‘Want to push him down,’ Ichigo thinks, half-imagines.
Lick sauce off his lips and fingers, watch Renji turn red and hear his breath come in sharp stutters. Wants to make Renji moan and writhe, tasting sweet, tangy barbeque sauce on Renji’s tongue.
Ichigo groans inwardly, wanting to thunk his head down on the table. Wanting to do a lot more lewd things than that but knowing he can’t.
This is almost torture.
He can’t do anything but sit here, watching Renji molest a bunch of chicken bones. Ichigo’s insides churn with want, his face heats, his jeans uncomfortably hot, and damn it, Renji is going to pay for this later. Ichigo vows this to himself.
But first, he’s got to survive this. Somehow.