Work Text:
Toshinori strides into the apartment ( their apartment, Shōta reminds himself yet again) like a hurricane, cursing and throwing his set of keys onto the nearest available surface while shrugging off his trench coat. The outerwear barely misses Shōta when it’s flung onto the sofa he’s occupying and the tall man continues to storm off into the kitchen area, English curses flowing from him like steam from a locomotive.
Shōta had been taking it easy this afternoon by sprawling across said sofa and going through his social media feed which he’d been neglecting for the past three days. He’d been rewarded though with all the updates on his favourite cat’s Instagram, and before Toshinori had appeared like a man back from hell’s gates he had been chuckling over Wilfred and his silly face and latest shenanigans. Now he’s staring at the tall man (good thing about modern places with their open concepts) currently trying to put the kettle on, the loud cursing diminished into mere grumbles.
“Rough day?”
”Will be rougher if the water doesn’t start boiling this instant .”
Oh, he’s in a damn foul mood. Shōta carefully hides a smile behind his phone.
The first time he had seen Toshinori like this he had almost jumped a mile in the air and had hurried off to another part of the apartment when he deigned it safe enough to do so. Not because he fears his lover, never, but because he’s shit at handling situations like these (not to mention wary of them due to his upbringing), so retreat had been the first instinct. A person who’s upset or annoyed over something is like a minefield, and by experience, Shōta had always managed to step on one.
Not his fault people are so damn sensitive, but at the time he really didn’t want to experience that with Toshinori so early in their relationship.
‘Calm waters always hides the worst currents’ is the saying after all.
“Where is that damn tea? I just bought it.”
“Second cupboard,” Shōta answers, scrolling through his feed again. “Can you get me a can from the fridge?” he asks without clarifying exactly which can because by now Toshinori has learned what he means by that.
There’s a mutter, but also the telltale sound of the fridge opening before the cupboard is. Shōta fights down another smile.
“You should stop hoarding shit like this. We have a perfectly good coffee brewer that I bought for you. These ones are not healthy .” Toshinori stresses the last word, it almost sounds like a hiss.
“I’m gonna die anyway, might as well enjoy the ride.”
There’s silence in the kitchen, and Shōta does his best to pretend to be engrossed by his phone even though he’s all too aware of those neon blue eyes staring at him across the distance between them. This is so much fun and he tries to keep his face straight because he can feel the disapproval tainting the air.
Toshinori continues with his silence, but the harsh closing of the cupboard door is the opposite. Soon enough there’s also the sound of boiling water and clink of ceramic on marble, along with the rustle of tea leaves. They’re all just as harsh like the slam of the door.
“So” Shōta begins with a drawl, and scrolls down on his feed, “are you going to tell me what’s got you in a hissy fit?”
“I’m not-” There’s a suffering sigh and it takes every inch of willpower in him not to cackle out loud at the sheer exasperation in Toshinori’s voice. “I’ve talked to the service centre,” he finishes in a tone of resignation.
Shōta doesn’t reply, only holds his breath and stops scrolling. It’s about the door problem in Toshinori’s fancy car. They’d only noticed it some days ago that one of the doors wouldn’t open (the one by Shōta’s seat) and suspected something wrong with the mechanics of it. Or that’s what Toshinori had told Shōta since the latter had no fucking clue about cars. The door isn’t working and Shōta isn’t allowed to kick it open as a solution, period.
“The issue would have resolved in a day, but since they don’t have the spare part this whole problem will take 2 to 3 weeks. Which is kind of them considering it normally takes almost 5 weeks...”
“Ah.” Shōta shrugs and goes back to looking at his phone while Toshinori enters the lounge area, tea in one hand and coffee in the other. “That’s not so bad.”
“Not so bad?” The can slams on the table next to Shōta, which startles him and makes him accidentally tap ‘Like’ on one of Mic’s selfies. “It’s a disaster!”
Shōta glares at the screen. That picture isn’t even good. Fuck.
“It’s a car.” He directs his glare at the grumpy old man sitting in the nearby armchair, ridiculous long legs crossed while cradling a cup of hot tea in his hands. “It’s not as if you need that flashy penis extension, ask my damn throat.”
Toshinori makes a spluttering noise and there’s dusting of red on his cheeks along with a tightening of his jaw. He lifts the drink in his hands as if it’s the only lifeline he has in this situation and something devious awakens inside Shōta.
“Get a new one.”
The taller man stops drinking and lowers the cup slowly, and Shōta can see his jaw tensing even further as the neon blues are directed at him, squinting. But he perseveres and continues with the same bored tone of voice like before, disinterest lacing his every word as he pretends to focus on his phone again.
“You’re rich and you’re All Might. You expect me to believe that you can’t snap your fingers and get a car like that?” He even demonstrates by snapping his fingers with his left hand to make his point. The sound echoes through the room.
“I don't want another car, I want that car.”
“If you ask me, you’re acting like a kid who’s throwing a tantrum because he’s not allowed to have his toy.” Shōta taps ‘Like’ on Emi’s photo from a recent coffee shop discovery. Hmm, maybe he should try that place out, the drinks look good. Then again it could be the filter tricking him again. “You could get the exact same one, no one would notice. Go take a nap or something.”
There’s a heavy silence that’s finally broken by the sound of ceramic hitting the table and the sound of someone shuffling up to stand.
“It's the principle of the thing Shōta!” and Toshinori storms off .
Shōta looks at the back of the man leaving, a mere blur across the apartment until he disappears into the hallway. The only indicator of where he’d gone is the loud slam of a distinct wooden door that means he’s gone to hide away in his study.
Since his lover can no longer see him he grins openly and it probably looks manic as always but he doesn’t care.
What a tantrum.
Toshinori has abandoned his tea on the table, a testament to how upset he is; it’s still steaming and it’s in that mug Shōta gave to him on a ridiculous whim. It has a bright mint coloured text that says “Get Work Done!” in English and he remembers all too well when he had practically slammed it on Toshinori’s desk to point out how annoyed he was with him and his work ethic. For some reason, Toshinori had kept it and Shōta doesn’t know if he should be embarrassed of the fact that he’d bought a coffee mug in order to bully his new co-worker and said co-worker had brought the damn thing home.
A normal person would get up and bring the forgotten beverage as a peace offering to their boyfriend and perhaps apologize.
But Shōta is not a normal person.
Instead, he hurries off to their bedroom, abandoning his phone on the sofa along with the can of coffee and tea mug, and runs into their walk-in-closet in order to rummage among his possessions. After throwing some garments onto the floor with no care (he can fix that later) he finally reaches for the box he had hidden away from Toshinori’s ever observant eyes.
He had bought it as a surprise - for a rainy day, so to speak. Considering the thundering dark cloud Toshinori is making a good impression of, that day has finally arrived.
He opens the lid and takes care to not tear the delicate tissue paper that’s covering the silken garments. Inside there’s a full set of lingerie he’d bought a while ago, as a surprise for Toshinori and an indulgence for himself.
This one is special because unlike the regular black ones made of lace hanging in his closet, this one is made of the softest silk he’s ever touched, in a soft blue colour. A colour he normally would never wear but it had gained his attention when he scrolled through the webpage. He remembered an off-hand comment from his older lover about the lack of colour in his wardrobe and what a shame it was since Shōta had the perfect skin tone for paler hues. He had snorted at the memory and yet before he knew it he had put in his cart and bought it.
A garter belt, underwear, high stockings, and a bra. All in the same colour and all made specially to be worn on a male body.
His body.
Shōta grows giddy and undresses as fast as he can, practically throwing off his hoodie and sweatpants (he had put them on after his long shower earlier today; why he insists on putting on the old clothes instead of fresh clean ones after a shower is one of the unsolved mysteries in the universe), along with his underwear. Once again, he can clean that up later.
He has tried it only once before when he had been home alone, and the smooth feeling of it had almost made him want to call Toshinori to order him to hurry his ass home. The idea of riding Toshinori clad in this getup had been cemented in his brain but before it came to that he’d stopped himself. So they’ve been in that box ever since, hidden. Until now.
The softness as he slides the garments on is just the same as he remembered, and he regards himself in the mirror as he fastens to stockings to the belt with familiar ease. The bra is a bit more difficult to work with and takes its time because normally it’s not something he uses, but he manages after some frustrating tries. When he’s done with the last part he takes one good look of himself in the mirror and then let his hair fall down from the bun he’d done earlier, ruffling it to make it look more presentable.
Not bad.
In a moment of indecision, he considers one of the high heels at his disposal but decides against it. There’s just something satisfying about walking with bare feet on the wooden floor of Toshinori’s study and he bets it feels just as nice to do so in these stockings.
He gives one last look at the mirror and then saunters off; this is going to be so much fun.
As soon as he walks down the corridor in order to go back to the lounge area he gets goosebumps on his skin, and he swallows a soft curse. That was expected considering the downsizing in his clothing but still, it’s annoying. He will be warmed up soon enough if his plan goes through (it will) and he reaches for the mug with the now lukewarm tea. His eyes glance towards the haphazardly thrown trench coat on the sofa and Shōta smirks and reaches for that instead.
The fabric feels a bit rough on his naked skin, but only slightly, and he ties the belt around his waist. He takes a moment to inhale the scent of Toshinori’s cologne that lingers on one of the flaps and his eyelids flutter at the familiar scent of safety and comfort. He stops himself before getting too distracted (would only remind him of that time he masturbated while smelling one of Toshinori’s dress shirts during a lonely night when the man had been out of town) and takes the mug from the table and walks over to the door of the study where his sulking man is currently in.
He knocks gently on the door (though frankly he wants to kick it down in his eagerness).
“Toshi, don’t you want your tea?” Shōta masks his voice with feigned disinterest.
No answer.
He grins and decides to raise the bar a bit with a small white lie. "It got cold so I fixed it for you.”
There’s an audible sigh heard even through the door and it’s followed up by the vocal affirmation for Shōta to enter, which he does while pushing down his glee. The floor is cool under his feet even through the fabric covering them, but he focuses on Toshinori who’s sitting by his large desk, various textbooks open before him along with a notepad that has been recently written on from the looks of it. Most importantly, he’s wearing those reading glasses of his with the red frames. The blue eyes behind them are regarding him with wary confusion, a question in the making visible in his whole expression.
Shōta swallows thickly and puts the mug on a nearby shelf filled with books with no care, it had been used only as a tool to be allowed entry after all.
”Why on earth are you wearing my jacket?” There’s still annoyance lingering in Toshinori’s tone, and his blue eyes are practically blazing. ”Don’t you have your own clothes, Shōta? Or am I going to be forced to buy a new one since you’re so fond of that solution?”
Shōta rolls his eyes rather theatrically (and reminds himself not to do that again, fuck his dry eyes) and reaches for the belt he had tied in a loose knot, unravelling it quickly while he walks closer to the seated man. For having been the number one hero he’s quite dense at times. Where have those famous observation skills of his gone all of the sudden? One should assume something is afoot when your lover enters your study wearing a damn trench coat to cover his body, especially after a little ‘discussion’. Illogical man.
He lets the coat slide off his body and fall around his feet.
Toshinori had looked as if he was going to start a tirade, but now his jaw is hanging open while his eyes look enlarged behind his spectacles as he stares at the sight before him. There’s no noise from him, only silence and Shōta grins widely this time because he can’t help himself. What a nice reaction; he quite enjoys making Toshinori quiet now and then that doesn’t involve shoving a cock in his mouth.
But the silence is broken rather quickly as the blonde man grits his jaw; there’s a fire blazing in his eyes again.
“The curtains are wide open,” Toshinori protests as he gestures with a hand at the large panel windows overlooking the scenery outside. It’s not as wide as in the lounge area, as over there it’s been designed to impress guests with the city skyline, whereas inside the study it’s solely to let as much natural light in as possible. People could technically look in, Shōta remembers. “Anyone could see you right now!”
“Does it look like I give a fuck?”
“I give a fuck,” Toshinori grumbles into his crossed hands. He’s leaning his chin against them in order to avoid looking at Shōta and his red frames slide slightly down on his sharp nose. “I don’t enjoy the idea of you being seen.”
“So you’re saying that you don’t like seeing this?” Shōta asks doubtfully as he closes in to take a seat on the edge of the desk, crossing his legs slowly and tilting his body to face the other man - who’s still determined in not looking at him. In a way, this is actually really disappointing of a reaction and Shōta almost makes a noise in the back of his throat to signal his displeasure.
A small betraying voice in his head whispers that perhaps this had been a bad idea but he pushes it out from his system before it takes root. As Nemuri would put it, he looks bomb in this outfit and he intends to fulfil his mission.
The mission is, of course, to get Toshinori to fuck him silly.
Before he can utter anything at all the other man beats him to it by answering in a waspish tone, “You know perfectly what I mean, don’t be stupid.”
It takes all his willpower again to not grin widely. Oh, what a damn temper.
“I really don’t,” Shōta teases by feigning obviousness and ignores the scathing glare directed at him to look down at the papers scattered across the desk. He picks one up to give it a closer look and gives it a raised eyebrow when he sees the written content. ‘10 ways to improve your teaching skills.’ Huh.
The paper is snatched from his hand, how rude.
“Leave it.”
”Someone is really defensive.” Shōta sighs and closes his eyes as if exhausted, all while making a show of leaning slightly back on the desk. “Here I thought I could cheer you up, but it was damn useless.”
“Really. Went through all this trouble,” he continues with the same bored tone, making a small gesture with his hand to point out his attire even if Toshinori’s eyes are dead set on looking straight ahead again, ignoring the man sitting on his desk. “But I guess one can’t compete with a car .”
Shōta lets out another sigh while uncrossing his legs, moving to rise from his seat in order to go away and leave the man alone. Maybe he can go back to the bedroom and have a solo act? If Toshinori is set on being a spoilsport determined to sulk like the old man he is, then why should Shōta deny him that pleasure?
He doesn’t get far, only managing to stand up when suddenly a stern voice stops him from taking any other step.
“Don’t you dare. Sit back down.”
Shōta obeys (how can he not?), feeling his heart hammer against his chest. The temptation to grin like a maniac is overwhelming. He crosses his legs again because fuck if that voice doesn’t make him harden in an instant.
“I thought it was illogical of me to continue to stay in here when I’m not welcome?” he fully grins, with no care in the world about it and decides to push the last button by softening his voice. “I can't help it Toshi, I just love it when you're grumpy like this.”
There’s a loud scoff, and Shōta hears rather than sees the chair scraping backwards against the floor as - before he can even blink or comprehend what just happened - he’s suddenly pulled into Toshinori’s lap. He can only grab onto the shoulders of the seated man since he doesn't enjoy the idea of falling on the floor - although the secure grip on him probably won’t let that happen at all. Especially since one hand is now currently running up on one of his thighs.
“You really think I’ll allow you to leave when you look like this?” Toshinori mutters against the skin of Shōta’s throat, and it sends shivers down his spine. “Brat.”
“I don’t know, it’s not as if I have four wheels.”
The pressure of teeth latching into Shōta's flesh is not a surprise but a much-welcomed result - of course he had hoped for this -; it’s not so hard that it could break the skin but it’s hard enough that he whimpers before he can suppress it.
Toshinori pulls off too soon and blows slightly on the no doubt already reddened skin and it sends waves of pleasure through Shōta’s body. His legs are probably already quivering. Oh, it will bruise nicely. Perfect.
“Do not vex me, you’ve done enough of that today.”
Shōta feels teeth scrape across the same spot as a warning, but no way he won’t encourage more biting by doing exactly what Toshinori advises him against. “I really don’t think so.”
Toshinori leans back in the chair, resting his elbow on the armrest and his chin is on his hand as he regards Shōta. His red glasses have been pushed back up his nose (no doubt when he had nuzzled into Shōta’s neck) and suddenly Shōta feels very exposed under that scrutinizing stare that shamelessly rakes over his body. How can he not? He’s practically perched on Toshinori’s lap while wearing basically nothing.
“Shōta.” Toshinori’s other hand rises to touch Shōta’s shoulder and swiftly digs one of his long fingers under one of the shoulder straps of the bra, making it slide down. “Don’t test me.”
Foolish man, that is practically begging him to do so and Shōta licks his lips while he reaches for one of Toshinori’s bangs and tugs it slightly. Neon blue eyes flash behind the red frames.
“Why?” He ignores the caution and let’s excitement bubble inside of him. “Are you going to punish me or something?”
He’s answered by feeling Toshinori’s large hand swiftly sliding from his shoulder to his back. There’s a quick tug before Shōta’s upper body feels lighter all of the sudden and the sensation of cool air shocks him enough that his hands rise protectively across his chest. Just to foolishly realise that there’s absolutely no fucking need for tha t. He feels his face grow hot when Toshinori’s booming laugh echoes through the room.
“Hey, this is actually making me feel a bit better!” Toshinori chortles and then coughs a little bit into his hand. “Your face!”
“How did you manage that with one hand?” It’s bizarre; it's taken Shōta forever to put it on so logic says that it should be the same for the opposite action. Toshinori levels him a look that manages to convey the expression "Bitch, please", though of course the man is too polite for that. Shōta uncrosses his hands and clears his throat, sliding the bra off his arms. He’d have let it fall to the floor if it hadn’t been for the older man taking it from his hand before he could do so.
Toshinori regards the item, turns it around a bit as if inspecting it, all while resting his chin on his hand once more. Shōta doesn’t really know what to say or do but he does level a raised eyebrow at him, but said man is too busy to see it while he strokes his thumb on the fabric of the padded thing.
Shōta can feel his eyes double in size when the bra suddenly flies across the room, soaring right into a hidden waste bin in a corner as if this is some practised move, and he can feel the ends of his hair tickling his cheekbones as his temper rises.
“What the fuck old man!”
“Not so fun when something you spent money on gets ruined?” Toshinori points out with a condescending aura and Shōta grits his teeth. Okay, now it’s just not fun any longer and getting dressed like this had been a clear mistake.
“It’s not my fault that your stupid car decided to bail on you, Yagi!” He scrambles to rise to his feet all while trying to rein in his temper so he can fucking see since his hair has started to go haywire; he can’t really storm off like he wants to before it stops its erratic floating. The only thing missing now is him colliding with the bookcase or something equally idiotic. “You’re irrational! Obviously you don’t even want to be cheered up-”
Shōta finds himself blinking his eyes in bewilderment at the close up dark details of wood.
He’s been shoved down, that is clear; the strong hand holding his head to the side is probably the reason why he has not hit his nose or something alike. His torso had gotten that treatment instead and that explains the loss of breath. A warm body is behind him, pressing him down further and an amused (he think it’s amused) tone of voice breaks through Shōta’s inner confusion.
"Oh this is you trying to cheer me up?"
“Is it working?” Shōta deadpans; it’s not as if he can do anything else in this moment. There’s a sound a drawer being opened and the hand on his head leaves, so Shōta can crane his neck and sees a familiar object in Toshinori’s hands. The old fucking pervert has lube stashed in his workplace.
He’s not going to comment on that; in fact he curses quietly at himself for forgetting to bring some preparation tools with him prior to entering the study. A gross overlook on his part, but Toshinori had been prepared (oh, Shōta’s so going to comment on it later on, who is he trying to fool?)
“Did I say that you could move?”
He feels (and can barely see from the corner of his eye) his underwear being pulled to the side roughly and he goes rigid, but manages to sound demanding when he speaks again. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Toshinori deigns to answer by slowly sinking one finger into him and Shōta arches his lower back wantonly, already begging for more, and would have been annoyed at himself by the display if it isn’t for the fact that he gives zero fucks by now. That long finger crooks, pressing against him and searches slowly for that one spot that will make Shōta see stars. It doesn’t take long, only a few sweeps and some adjusting but he does succeed and Shōta rewards him with a gasp and his hips eagerly presses down onto Toshinori’s finger. Too soon it leaves him and he feels bereft and empty until two press into him instead, god, that’s perfect and it isn’t long until Shōta is trying his best to ride both of those strong fingers. Toshinori doesn’t utter a word, but he does move with sweet, tight circles, stretching Shōta good. His eyes fail to focus while his breath keeps on hitching for every twist those devious fingers make.
He’s desperate for this, and he thinks he has conveyed this message loud and clear to Toshinori since the man lets out a low chuckle above him. He pulls his fingers out and Shōta makes a complaining noise.
A broad palm runs slowly down on his spine as if to soothe him, and he shivers at the slight pressure of the nails and how they glide across his old thin scars. Since they’re located in a place he seldom touches, it keeps on surprising him how sensitive they really are. Toshinori’s hand is warm and calloused, and it feels so good on his naked skin. It’s so strong and finally rests at the small of Shōta’s back, keeping him down on the desk with firm pressure.
There’s the sound of a belt unbuckling behind him, and he smiles against the wooden surface.
Shōta bites down on his bottom lip as he feels the hand returning to his backside once more then the sensation of his underwear being pulled to the side again, but this time there will be no fingers entering him, and that knowledge makes him almost shiver in anticipation.
After what feels like an eternity he finally feels the familiar burn of Toshinori’s cock entering him. Normally, his lover bides his time, going in slow and with utmost care. This despite the many times Shōta has begged him to stop treating him as if he’s made of glass, and that he can handle a little roughness now and then.
This time though it sure is a different tale as Toshinori seems to finally have listened to Shōta’s minor complaints; he shouts as the whole length slides into him with no warning whatsoever. The desk is uncomfortable beneath him and he struggles to control his breathing after the harsh and sudden intrusion. Fuck.
“Don’t leave any marks.” He can feel that damn smirk above him and Shōta grits his teeth when he realises that he had tried to hold onto the surface in an attempt to ground himself. His nails are currently digging into the wood. ”If you can manage that is.”
“Fuck your desk. Buy a new one if you’re so bothe-!”
Toshinori’s rough thrust effectively makes him choke on his unfinished sentence. The harsh movement sends delicious jolts of pleasure through him and he pushes backwards with impatience, but the infuriating man is still again under a facade of allowing Shōta the time to get adjusted. The broad palm continues to press Shōta down although it’s starting to slide upwards along his spine towards his neck. He feels long fingers dig into his thick hair and before he can fully enjoy the sensation of it, it’s cut short by the sudden strong grip and he has no choice but to allow himself to arch up.
"It's surprising that your solution to all these problems is to spend money when you so often prefer to be a cheapskate."
“Why do you talk instead of fucking me?!” Shōta hisses and tries his damn hardest to ignore the obvious jab at his personality as well as the slight pain that digs into his thighs when another sharp thrust pushes him against the sharp edge of the desk. There’s a sound of a dark chuckle above him and his teeth clench despite the fact that that particular sound always makes him melt like a puddle. It’s a wonderful sound, and it’s always audible when Toshinori is finally letting go of his inhibitions. It’s noticeable by the way his other hand is gripping tightly to Shōta’s hip, and he just knows that it will bruise later. How he loves when Toshinori holds him like this; as if he can’t get enough and refuses to ever let go of Shōta.
"Oh, you think I can't do both at once?" There’s a merciless tug on his hair again and Shōta lets out a loud moan despite himself. “It's not really that hard to get you desperate for my cock, Shōta, really.”
Damn him and that amused tone of his!
“Like now.” The grip on his hip relaxes and instead that hand runs down to tug lightly on the garter straps. “Did you save this pretty outfit for a special occasion? How long have you been hiding this one from my knowledge, you lovely thing?”
Shōta tries to scrabble for a hold and catches a stray piece of paper that crumples in his tense grip; it offers little comfort as Toshinori has picked up a rather harsh pace. Shōta’s cock is still trapped in his underwear and it’s probably leaking on the surface of the wood. So much for making sure he doesn’t ruin Toshinori’s workplace.
“This colour is really nice on you...” How the hell is the man still able to run his mouth? He’s basically fucking him into next week! Shōta drags his nails on the wood in a petty revenge and groans aloud when the next thrust turns out almost vicious, as if it was a punishment for his bad behaviour. Fuck . “Hey, give me the website so I can pick out some things for you since you want me to buy things so badly .”
Toshinori is still so strong, anyone who thinks otherwise couldn’t be more of a fool. The way he’s holding down Shōta in place - who wants nothing more than to arch further up so he can take himself in hand -, the way their hips are slapping in a brutal pace when he slams home into Shōta? The desk is scraping against the floor and it echoes through the study along with their panting. He can only cling to dear life to anything he can get his hands on while Toshinori is using his body for his pleasure, taking everything he can get from Shōta.
It’s not as if he’s denying the older man this. In fact, he encourages it. This is everything he hoped to achieve and now he relishes in the sound of those deep grunts.
The thrusts are bordering on being painful but it’s the good sort of pain that makes his toes curl and his breath hitch. Thank god for Toshinori’s insistent teasing with his fingers earlier and that hidden bottle of lube or else this would not have been enjoyable at all.
Speaking of enjoyable, he really does need to touch himself, even if he does like the feeling of his cock being pressed between the desk and his lower abdomen. But it’s not enough, not when he can feel himself be so close and he craves relief. Maybe, maybe if he scratches on that precious furniture once more (really hard this time, who cares about the state of his nails after) then Toshinori will pull him up by the hair so that he’s almost standing, berating him for not appreciating craftsmanship or whatever, and then Shōta can take matters into his own hand. The other man is close anyway by the sound of it; the increased pace sure indicates as much. The fronts of his thighs will be so sore and bruised tomorrow from the insistent digging into the hard side of the desk but he doesn’t care.
He smirks and spreads his palm on the table to make sure that the man above him can’t miss it, and with one swift move drags his nails across the surface. He delights in the sound of it and also in the sting that now lingers under his nail beds. Oh, he did this good.
“You brat .”
The voice is soft, but with feeling, and for a moment Shōta is certain that his plan worked - but instead his arms are directed behind him and are locked in position by Toshinori’s strong grip. Any other time this would be welcome but not now and he curses.
“For fuck’s sake, Toshinori!” This had not been his plan and now he’s unable to move a damn finger. “I need to come!”
“Well, I was thinking more along the lines of coming inside you first, and then when you're dripping maybe I'll touch you.”
Shōta hitches his breath when that torturous pace starts anew, now with the added pressure of his arms tucked behind him and forcing him to yield in earnest.
“Speak -” Shōta pants and can’t keep his eyes open; they’re fluttering too much because of how Toshinori is hitting all the right places. The pleasure of it keeps on building inside him. “More like that.”
“Oh?” The annoying, clearly overrated, retired hero speaks in a surprised tone that sounds closer to him than earlier; Shōta can feel the tickle of familiar blonde bangs on his oversensitive skin. “I was under the impression that you don’t like it when I’m talking while fucking you?”
“This is not the time to act cocky, Toshi.”
“On the contrary, sweetheart, I think you rather like it.”
The man knows him so well, he can’t argue with that.
A well placed slam of hips fucks the smirk right off Shōta’s face as if the other man had known it was there. Their skin is slapping lewdly and his legs are tired and his arms are aching, not to mention how much his dick is probably leaking. If only Toshinori could understand how he aches for release - but this is probably his revenge, the annoying bastard.
“Yes, it is.”
Fuck. Did he say that out loud? That’s going to be embarrassing for later on when his mind is no longer in this haze. A bit hard to even care, considering how Toshinori is hitting all the right spots inside of him and fuck who is responsible for designing Yagi Toshinori, because the man is perfect and he wants to thank the designer in person.
“You’re babbling my love.”
No wonder? He’s been reduced to a mess of a man, fucked into oblivion because his other half is a whiny old bastard with a severe car fixation and also has the nerve to have the the most perfect cock ever graced on this earth and is currently using it to make Shōta a useless pile of limbs.
A kiss is pressed on his shoulder, near his neck and that husky voice whispers close by his ear.
“On another day I want you to wear this again. When you do, I will take my time to worship you properly and show you how beautiful you are, Shōta. I will be extremely patient with you. I promise I’ll treat you so well.”
Shōta trembles and keeps his eyes closed as he hangs onto the voice like a lifeline - albeit a lifeline that keeps on whispering sweet nothings and promises into his ear. Of how he will beg and keen and, oh, what lovely sounds he will make. If he behaves in the meantime, that is.
He feels his orgasm finally within reach and he pants loudly, knowing in the back of his head that he’s also chanting Toshinori’s name, until it finally crashes down and he can hear nothing but white noise in his mind and chokes on his current breath, his whole body shuddering as he orgasms in streaks between his stomach and the desk. While this happens he clenches down on Toshinori’s cock and almost misses the strangled noise above him and gets fucked even harder by someone who acts like a man possessed while Shōta is riding through his climax.
It’s passionate, its core built on sheer frustration but Shōta will not complain, will only receive and mewl until Toshinori’s rhythm finally shatters, the last thrust pressing in as deep as he can while his own orgasm tears him - along with Shōta - apart.
They both pant and try to regain their breath. Toshinori releases his harsh grip on Shōta’s arms and he almost groans from relief at the freedom. Not that he has any real feeling in them yet, but he lets them fall next to him. Useless limbs. As a mercy, Toshinori starts gently rubbing them and then runs his hands across Shōta’s shoulders, and it makes his heart flutter with content.
They are one for a few more gasping breaths, until Toshinori slowly draws himself out of Shōta, who shivers when he can feel come drip from him as was previously promised.
At least he’d come before any threat of ‘maybe’ being touched came to fruition. Hah. But his lingerie is probably ruined now.
He’ll complain about that later, now he just wants to ground himself.
There’s a sound of muttering behind him (someone is not thinking along the same lines of ‘rest now and complain later’) and Shōta wakes up from his haze and asks with an annoyed voice what the hell the man is now sulking about. For a moment there’s silence, and then the low voice starts again slowly, as if too ashamed to confess. It takes all his remaining willpower to focus on what is being said behind him (the hands on his body are not helping since they’re so soothing).
“The reason why I’m upset is because I wanted to use that car for our special date.”
“What date?” Shōta wonders while he continues to relish in the comfort of Toshinori’s hands sliding across his skin. There’s a huff and he smirks a bit because, really, such an intense fucking and the man insists on being grumpy regardless.
“A date I had planned taking you on, and now it’s... I wouldn’t say ruined but it’s not exactly optimal. That car, you must understand, is very special to me because of you .”
Shōta stays silent and feels his heart thumping madly, and the man ceases his petting and continues on with a tired voice. “I just wanted it to be perfect.”
“Toshi.” Shōta turns around in order to look up sternly at the taller man. The movement makes him wince but he perseveres because this is important. His voice almost fails him though because by god, their intense fucking has taken its toll on Toshinori. The man looks debauched and wrecked, clothes rumpled and glasses pretty far down on his nose. Focus, Aizawa, focus. “You know I don’t care about those sorts of things. For all I care you could fetch me on a bicycle and I would still want to give you a blowjob in a dark alley.”
Toshinori lets out a shocked, but bright laugh, which makes the lines around his dark eyes etch deeper than they already are and Shōta feels his heart threatening to escape from his chest, overcome with emotions for this wonderful gift of person.
“You peculiar man,” Toshinori comments with fondness lacing his tone while he shakes his head, then leans down to give the shorter man a soft kiss that melts his insides. He runs a thumb across Shōta’s lips when his kiss ends and Shōta already longs for more. “You make me so happy, you must know this, right?”
Dark hair tickles against his cheekbone for the second time this afternoon and Shōta’s face feels ablaze when Toshinori’s eyes shift from a mild surprise to a downright sappy look.
“Don’t say stupid things.” he hisses but this only makes the other man laugh again, so Shōta makes sure to grip Toshinori’s hair in order to drag him down into a harsh kiss to shut him up.
Luckily, it works, Toshinori’s arms coming up around him and holding him close.
When they do go on that date Toshinori has so lovingly planned, with the car he’s so obsessed with, Shōta will make absolutely sure that he’s wearing the lingerie again.
As in inside that car with just the lingerie, nothing else, and that plan makes him smile into the kiss.