Work Text:
Hitoshi is pretty sure everyone questions their life at least once before they’re 30, but as he watches his clothing being thrown from the upper window of his ex-girlfriend’s apartment building, that new leather jacket landing in a puddle, he’s not so sure. He’s never felt more alone.
“ You fucking asshole!” she shrieks, and yeah, there’s his laptop coming down with a crash. He takes his hands out of the pockets of his jeans, picks up his pack of cigarettes she’d thrown out as well, and finds one that isn’t completely soaked. He lights it, dodges one of her shoes that she chucks at his head and replaces one hand in his pocket.
He should show emotion, maybe. Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do? Beg her forgiveness? Plead that he loves her and hope she’s compassionate enough to help him move back in? He’s just standing there, expression blank, smoking a half-wet cigarette, letting her ruin most of his clothing and belongings. He had a funny feeling about the rain last night.
“Never come back Hitoshi,” she sobs, hiccupping and pushing her wild hair out of her face. It was done up for work about an hour ago. “ Never fucking come back!” She howls, and she slams the window shut, cracking the glass.
He always thought she was very pretty when she was crying, and always loved that fire she had in her. Now, he’s wondering if he ever really loved her at all, or if it was just the idea of her; the abstract beauty of her that he had distanced affection for.
He wasn’t thinking about her when he had her brother’s dick down his throat last weekend, or how much he maybe loved her. Her brother’s stupidity is what ruined his life, even though he knew it was all his fault for cheating on her in the first place, but there was no need for him to call her, crying, confessing what he and Hitoshi had done while she’d gone out with her friends.
Seeing her start shouting at him was the first time he felt like he was in love with her.
He starts picking up the necessities that aren’t ruined by mud-puddles, glad that he thought to grab his phone when she kicked him out, and flicks ash off the end of his cig. It hisses as it hits water. She threw out his work backpack, probably destroying his work laptop, and he starts to shove a few articles of clothing into it, along with a few of his favourite books and his cracked Nintendo switch. Everything else he can replace, eventually.
It’s a few blocks down, after he’s texted Kaminari to see if he can crash on his couch, when Kaminari replies with a gentle rejection with reasonable backing, that everything hits him all at once.
“Shit,” he gasps, ducking into an alley to curl in on himself and cry a little.
It’s not his fault he’s not straight, it’s not his fault, and if it was a choice, he’d choose to be normal.
*
Six months later, he’s working an underground gay club as the primary bartender and a little more comfortable in his own skin. Getting this job opened him up a little more to the idea that there isn’t a normal , not really, and that he kind of likes wearing mesh crop-tops and eyeliner. It also helped him quit smoking. He’s conflicted, always, because it still feels fundamentally wrong that he’s not hiding, that not one of his patrons are hiding either.
Everyone he works with just thinks that he’s naturally an angry person, when in reality he equally hates his new life as much as he loves it.
He’s serving drinks late into the night, people reaching over the bar to stuff cash into the front pocket of his tight black jeans, fingers reaching for a touch of something . He swats them away, and ironically, his annoyance at them makes them love him even more, and try even harder. He’s not toying with them, he doesn’t fucking like them touching him, but the more annoyed and ruder he gets, the more money they give him, so he supposes it works out.
“Let me take you home,” an older guy murmurs into his ear when Hitoshi leans forward to give him his drink. He sounds drunk. It’s one of those nights where Hitoshi is half-hard at the sight of men grinding up on each other on the dance floor, and hates himself for it, so he lets the older guy put his fingers against Hitoshi’s neck.
“Okay,” Hitoshi says.
He gives it hard and good , one hand tight around Hitoshi’s throat, and it hurts so fucking good that Hitoshi comes untouched, unable to make any noise because he’s only barely able to breathe. The guy makes this punched-out sound, and his hips shake against Hitoshi, hand squeezing too hard, and by the time he finally releases Hitoshi, Hitoshi is a split-second away from passing out.
When he realizes that he’s hard as a rock because of that, he gathers his clothes and leaves immediately.
*
Hitoshi is a bit buzzed at work because his co-worker Akito decided that since the owner was out, the staff should all do a couple shots before their shifts started. Admittedly, it’s making his job a lot easier, because he’s not nearly as disgusted with himself as he usually is. The arousal is still ever-present, because men , but he welcomes it now.
“Don’t make me carry you to your car,” Hitoshi flirts, passing a cute customer a shot of tequila.
“Is that a promise?” the cute guy replies, slurring his words just a little bit, face pink. He’s maybe a year or two younger than Hitoshi.
“Hm,” Hitoshi hums, smiling in that slow, honey way that always drives guys crazy. The cute guy’s soft grin drops, and his eyes get dark with hunger, and Hitoshi walks to the other side of the bar to help someone else. He likes to leave them aching for him just a little, so when he eventually wanders back, they’re melting over him, desperate.
“Hey,” Akito says, waving him towards the storage closet. Hitoshi follows, does a shot with him because he’s too tipsy to give a shit now, and then as they’re walking out, Akito says: “Bring a round of drinks to the back booth, yeah? There’s a group there and you’ll drive them nuts.”
“Sure,” Hitoshi says. Why not? Easy tips.
He wanders over, wearing shorts and fishnet stockings and a sheer crop-top that reveals just a hint of his nipples in good lighting, music beating around him like thunder. He has a tray of drinks in one hand, and he uses the other to make sure that the chain collar he’s wearing is set upon his neck perfectly, and that his purple hair is just the right kind of messy. He’s sure his lips are a little wet and red from the shot, and that the alcohol is making his face just pink enough to be sexy.
“Hello,” he says to the group of three, all older guys. One is wearing a ballcap, and Hitoshi can’t quite see his face, but that’s pretty normal. Some guys come to watch the others dance, keeping their identity as hidden as possible. The other two are fairly attractive brunettes, one clean-shaven and one with a bit of a goatee, and Hitoshi smiles honey-sweet at them.
“Hey,” the two say together, and the ballcap guy lifts a finger to acknowledge Hitoshi. The ballcap guy is wearing this thin black tank top, and he’s well built from what Hitoshi can see of his arms and shoulders. A glance down at his lap reveals dark blue jeans that fit snug, but loose enough to hide everything worth staring at.
Something about him makes Hitoshi’s stomach do a bit of a loop-de-loop.
“Here’s your guys’ drinks,” he says, passing them out with that same sweet smile. “I hope you enjoy them,” he adds, winking subtly.
“I’ll enjoy it as long as you keep standing here,” the man with the ballcap says, voice deep and rough, picking up his drink and swallowing half of it immediately. Hitoshi reacts strongly to that voice, and he can feel his knees go a little weak. It’s making him dizzy, and he feels a little like he should know who’s talking to him, but he’s not sure where that’s coming from.
Who are you? He thinks while he laughs softly at the man’s words.
“Well then I guess I’d better wait until you need a refill,” Hitoshi replies, fighting to keep his voice even. It’s probably the alcohol making this guy so impactful. That has to be the reason. He’s been turned on by guys, let them take him home and fuck him stupid, but he’s never had a full-body reaction like this.
The other two guys scoot over in the booth to let him sit, almost directly in front of the man with the cap, and Hitoshi glances at the bar to make sure that Akito has it covered before sitting down, letting the clean-shaven brunette drape an arm over his shoulders.
“What’s your name sweetheart?” he asks, fingertips brushing Hitoshi’s upper arm.
“Shinso,” Hitoshi purrs, eyes stuck on the man in front of him. He can see a sharp jaw and dark stubble, and soft, pink lips, but nothing else. He’s achingly familiar.
The man with the ballcap pauses for a moment, drink being raised to his lips again, and the rim of the hat lifts just enough for Hitoshi to see the top of his cheek and the man’s nose. He’s incredibly beautiful from what Hitoshi can see, probably the most attractive person Hitoshi has ever seen, aside from maybe his old mentor –
The man lifts his head a bit more, and their eyes meet, and Hitoshi’s cute-innocent-fuckable act drops like a ton of bricks.
“Oh my god,” Hitoshi hisses, pushing away from the brunette with his arm around him. The brunette swears, pissed off, but doesn’t try to stop Hitoshi from leaving the booth.
His head is swimming from the alcohol, from fear, and he’s going to puke, he’s going to fucking puke on people dancing in the club he works at , and it’s all he can do to push through them and get behind the bar before it all comes up. It splatters over the floor, mostly bile, and Akito gives a short, startled cry.
“Jesus Shinso!” he snaps. “Handle your fucking booze!”
“Sorry,” Hitoshi groans, crouching down behind the bar, back of his throat and nose burning from the acidity of his stomach. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever,” Akito huffs, tossing him a clean rag. “Go home. You’re off soon anyway.”
“Yeah,” Hitoshi mutters, and then he thinks about the look on Aizawa’s face, and he pukes again. Akito makes another annoyed noise, and Hitoshi swallows whatever he has left in him, and starts cleaning quickly.
The mixture of emotions in him right now is surreal and painful. He’s humiliated, he’s disgusted by himself, why did he take a job at a gay club , he wants to eat the barrel of a gun, he wants to drink until he doesn’t remember seeing Aizawa at that table, he’s still hot and bothered from Aizawa’s voice and appearance, but most of all, he just wants to pick up and take off across the country again.
He finishes cleaning, dumps the rag in the dirty laundry bin behind the bar, and then grabs his jacket. He’ll take the back alley. He doesn’t dare steal a glance to see if Aizawa is still sitting there, doesn’t indulge the urge.
The door slams shut behind him, and he rushes down the alley, his only lighting the neon signs of the downtown district he works in. The light bounces off the walls, off the puddles at his feet, giving everything a rainbow haze that would be pretty any other day. His converse smack against the wet pavement, pace fast, stomach curling and tightening with shame.
A hand shoots out as soon as he reaches the end of the alley, where people are gathered on the street, talking and laughing loudly, and wraps itself firmly around Hitoshi’s bicep. He sucks air between his teeth, raising his other fist to hit his assaulter, but they catch that hand, and Hitoshi knows just by the calluses on their hands that it’s Aizawa, holding him tight and forcing him to be still.
“Let me fucking go,” Hitoshi snarls, and if someone had told him he’d end up speaking to Aizawa Shota like this one day, he would’ve thought they were insane.
“Shh,” Aizawa hisses, and then, in one smooth movement, Hitoshi is pressed against the alley wall, both arms locked behind his back, wrists held tight in Aizawa’s warm, firm hands. He makes a low, threatened noise, cheek pressed against the rough bricks, and tries to hook his foot around the back of Aizawa’s knee. “Shinso, stop ,” Aizawa commands, voice baritone and rough.
“ No ,” Hitoshi defies, angry and ashamed and aroused. He fucking hates himself, hates the reaction his body is having to this, and wishes, pleads to a god he’s not sure exists that Aizawa would just fuck off . He throws his head back, hoping to hit Aizawa in the nose, but then he’s flipped around, wrists held above his head with one of Aizawa’s hands, his forearm pinned across Hitoshi’s collarbones, choking him out just a little.
“Stop struggling,” Aizawa growls.
“Fuck you,” Hitoshi gasps, getting a little light-headed. God, he’s getting hard. Aizawa is beautiful, dark hair pulled back into a bun at the base of his skull, loose hair hanging around his face, eyes bright and hunger-dark at the same time, face flushed from exertion. He’s standing close, too, and his scent is driving Hitoshi mad, making him unable to stay still. It’s the scent of sweat, of shampoo, of musk, of cheap cologne, and it’s so familiar that Hitoshi has a split second where he feels 16 again, struggling with the weight of being attracted to his mentor at that age.
Aizawa stills for a split-second, like something snapped, like Hitoshi cussing him out has stirred something, and then his sharp fucking teeth are biting into Hitoshi’s bottom lip, splitting the skin.
Hitoshi breaks one hand free, and he’s going to punch Aizawa, but his fingers get tangled in his bun instead, pulling it loose. Aizawa’s mouth is hot and wet and burns like the alcohol he drank not five minutes earlier, and Hitoshi’s legs open of their own accord, making room for Aizawa’s hips.
Aizawa kisses with all the grace and ferocity of his fighting, breaking Hitoshi down second by second. His arm isn’t pressing into Hitoshi’s collarbone and throat anymore, it’s looped around his waist, the thumb of his other hand pressing into Hitoshi’s hip just below the waistband of his shorts and boxers. He’s big and hard against Hitoshi’s own erection, and any slight movement that creates friction between them makes Hitoshi gasp and mewl into his mouth.
“ Baby ,” Aizawa groans, his tongue between Hitoshi’s teeth. Hitoshi keeps him close, holding him too tight, their teeth bumping briefly. His grip tightens and loosens in Aizawa’s hair periodically, like he remembers not to hurt him, and then remembers that he might die if Aizawa moves even a fraction of an inch away. The pet name sends a shudder through Hitoshi’s stomach and it rips up his spine, legs shaking. Aizawa moves both hands under Hitoshi’s ass, lifting him with ease, and Hitoshi locks his ankles against Aizawa’s ass.
The change of position is bad, because now his dick is pressed against Aizawa’s stomach where his abs are tightening and shifting, and it’s more than Hitoshi can handle, especially with the bump of Aizawa’s cock against the swell of his ass. Aizawa seems to be just as affected, making these soft, feral noises as he holds Hitoshi up by the hips, hands against his bare waist, and Hitoshi realizes just before it happens that he’s going to come in his jeans.
“ Stop ,” Hitoshi blurts, and Aizawa drops him like he’s just touched something that burns. Hitoshi’s head is spinning, stomach curling and twisting with the almost-orgasm he could’ve had, but he doesn’t let himself stay long enough for Aizawa to say anything. He takes off, grabbing his jacket from the ground, sprinting away.
He manages to escape Aizawa.
He can’t seem to shake the way his dick aches, or the way his chest hurts with shame.
*
Akito doesn’t question when he calls in sick and says he’ll need about a week to get better, and Hitoshi knows that despite his mini puke-fest behind the bar being incredibly embarrassing, it turned out to be a fantastic excuse.
“Food poisoning?” Akito asks.
“Yeah,” Hitoshi says, and he doesn’t even need to fake feeling as shitty. “I had that new chicken place for dinner the night before. I’m really sorry.”
“Get better,” Akito sighs, hanging up.
Hitoshi lays in bed, like he’s been doing since he got home that night. He had basically fallen through his front door, stuffed his hand down his pants and jerked off hard and fast, coming on the inside of his boxers so hard that his knees gave out.
And then he cried quietly but violently, arms curled around himself.
Today, it turns out, is not much better.
*
Aizawa is at the bar, sipping what looks like tonic water, and Hitoshi freezes in the doorway, angry, happy, guilty.
“Get out,” Hitoshi snaps, grabbing his drink right out of his hands. He'd taken the fucking early shift, the one that had barely any tip payoff, just so he could avoid this interaction. He’d lost a week of pay to keep this from happening.
Aizawa grabs his wrist, the tonic water spills, but the glass stays firmly in Hitoshi’s hand. “We should talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Hitoshi says, tone dry. Aizawa’s grip on his wrist is enough to make his lower stomach get molten and twisted, like his intestines are a happy, horny snake, and he decides that he’s a sick puppy for liking this. He wants Aizawa to grab him like this all over, he wants to feel those calluses slip over the head of his wet, hard dick. Sick puppy , he repeats. This man practically raised him. This man is a man , and twice his age.
“Really?” Aizawa asks, and he’s feigning sincerity, spinning the stool round so that his knee is between Hitoshi’s legs. He pops his ankle upward, knee now pressed against Hitoshi’s not-so-secret bulge. Hitoshi gasps softly, he forgot that Aizawa was a bit of an asshole, and immediately jerks away from him. It doesn’t work very well, because Aizawa still has his wrist held. “I would be inclined to argue otherwise.”
“Fucking pervert,” Hitoshi snarls, and he wrenches his wrist free, and Aizawa lets him.
“Brat,” Aizawa snaps, standing to his full height. He’s everything Hitoshi has ever dreamt about in secret, the embodiment of his fantasies. He’s in a t-shirt today, but he’s wearing those same deep blue jeans. His hair is down, falling in waves around his face and over his shoulders, a pair of plain black sunglasses tucked just over the collar of his shirt.
And Hitoshi just called him a fucking pervert, because he’s the one thinking about being choked out and fucked until he’s crying.
Totally .
“Get ou –” Hitoshi starts to spit, but then Aizawa has him by the upper arm and he’s leading him outside the club, through the front doors, out towards his parked car, a sleek, indigo beauty. He struggles, not as much as he could, because he’s a sick puppy , and allows Aizawa to basically throw him into the passenger seat.
“Seatbelt,” Aizawa commands, dropping into the driver seat, starting up the engine.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Hitoshi says nastily, and he hates how turned on he is because of the manhandling and the demanding. All of his anger at himself, all the revulsion, everything is spilling out at Aizawa for making him feel this way about him, for always making him feel this way.
“Disrespect me one more time, Shinso,” Aizawa murmurs, and despite the lack of hardness in his tone, there’s danger there, “and I will gag you.”
Hitoshi’s eyes widen, and heat curls around his navel, lungs freezing. Oh god , he thinks, squirming a little in his seat. He’s like a bitch in heat.
“ Seatbelt ,” Aizawa reiterates, and Hitoshi silently but furiously buckles himself. He pulls away from the club, and Hitoshi feels like he should text Akito, but doesn’t.
He drives down the street, the car silent, and Hitoshi slowly gets more and more restless. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be working at a gay club. He shouldn’t like men. He shouldn’t have cheated on his ex-girlfriend. He should have just been normal . Instead, he’s this freak who made out with his old teacher and mentor, this twisted, sick excuse of a human being.
“You disappeared after you graduated,” Aizawa says, and he sounds angry, and that makes Hitoshi want to throw himself out of the car. “You didn’t respond to my offer to take you on as a sidekick. You talked about wanting that before you left.”
“Priorities changed,” Hitoshi hisses. He was going insane with Aizawa around. He was gorgeous and funny and kind and an asshole, and Hitoshi was getting dangerously close to being in love with him. He fantasized about him, jerked off after every training session they had together, loathed himself for being attracted to him. His solution was to attach himself to the first girl he liked and forget all about Aizawa.
It had almost worked.
“I looked for you,” Aizawa says gruffly. He turns down a different street, taking him and Hitoshi into the more residential area of this city. So Aizawa lives here. It was just a matter of time before Hitoshi saw him. He thought he’d escaped his past, but he was wrong. “Your parents didn’t know where you were either.”
“You went to my parents?” He bursts. Guilt is eating him alive. But he had to go, he had to get away from Aizawa and the wrongness of his feelings for him.
“I was worried,” Aizawa confesses, tone softening.
That makes Hitoshi angry. “Should’ve left it alone,” he bites. “I didn’t want to see you ever again.”
Aizawa says nothing. Hitoshi’s anger only grows. Fuck Aizawa for trying to get back into his life, for kissing him, for holding him like that in the alley, for pushing every single button Hitoshi didn’t know he had. Fuck Aizawa for making Hitoshi into the sick fucking puppy he is. Fuck him for ruining his life.
“You ruined my life,” Hitoshi breathes, as poisonous as he can muster.
Aizawa suddenly pulls into an alley, parking behind a building that houses a closed store, or something waiting to be rented. Regardless, they’re as alone as they can get in an alley, and he jerks the gear stick into park so hard that the plastic cracks against itself.
“ How ,” Aizawa snarls, and his eyes are turning red, hair raising slightly, “ how could I have possibly ruined your life?”
Hitoshi’s composure, what little had left, shatters into tiny little pieces, because Aizawa has no fucking right to be angry with Hitoshi.
“You made me a fucking freak!” He shouts, turning in his seat to face Aizawa. “You made me fucking love you and then wanted me to be your sidekick! You toyed with me! You ruined my fucking life!”
Aizawa’s eyes go black as soon as Hitoshi says the word love . His hair drops, anger fading fast from his face. Hitoshi wants to vomit all over Aizawa’s stupidly pretty face, and he claws at the buckle at his hip, trying to release it so that he can run. Instead, Aizawa reaches over and unbuckles Hitoshi’s seatbelt for him; but before Hitoshi can open the passenger door, Aizawa’s hand is in his hair and he’s pulling Hitoshi forcefully towards him.
“ No –” he cries, but then Aizawa’s warm, soft mouth is against his, stubble prickling his skin, and he can’t fight it. He melts, getting lost in sensation instead of focusing on the rapid-fire thoughts rattling around inside his head, and one of his hands finds its way onto Aizawa’s solid thigh.
Aizawa’s tongue pushes past his lips, brushing against the edges of his teeth, and Hitoshi moans a little, leaning in and deepening it, fingers digging into Aizawa’s jeans. Aizawa’s teeth scrape against his split lip, almost reopening it, and Hitoshi whimpers, which is enough to set Aizawa off into a little bit of a frenzy, dragging Hitoshi from his seat to Aizawa’s lap.
It’s a little awkward, with Hitoshi’s knee crammed between Aizawa’s thigh and the door, but he can cradle Aizawa’s face with his hands, and feel every inch of his warm body. Aizawa fumbles and then the seat drops back, giving them more room, and their noses bump in their haste to stay connected. Aizawa puts his hands up Hitoshi’s shirt, fingernails dragging over his back, palms occasionally pressing against the swell of Hitoshi’s ass. Hitoshi keeps nipping at his bottom lip, licking into his mouth, drunk on the way he tastes and smells and feels. His hands wander down, to the hem of his shirt, and he pulls it up, hand splayed over warm, firm stomach.
Aizawa makes a soft, pleased noise, sitting up and inadvertently flexing against Hitoshi’s hand, and removes his shirt completely. The kiss breaks for just a second, but it’s long enough for Hitoshi to see all the scars he’d earned throughout his life, and if there was room and time, he’d trace every single one with the tip of his tongue. Instead, his hands greedily dance across Aizawa’s warm skin, coarse hair over his chest and down his stomach, dipping below his jeans. Hitoshi’s mouth waters at the sensation, and Aizawa grasps his hair tight, pulling his head back so he can shift into more of a sitting position. It pushes their cocks together through their jeans, and while Aizawa growls, Hitoshi makes a small, wounded noise.
“God,” Hitoshi gasps, allowing Aizawa to remove his shirt. His callused fingers pinch and rub his nipples, sending ripples of pleasure throughout his entire body. “ Aizawa,” he hiccups, grinding down against Aizawa’s dick, hands on his shoulders.
“Shota,” Aizawa corrects, guiding Hitoshi back down so that he can bite at Hitoshi’s pulse-point on his throat, free hand working at the front of Hitoshi’s jeans.
“Shota,” Hitoshi repeats, and Aizawa’s knuckles bump the leaking head of his dick through his boxers once his jeans are open, and he moans, low and needy.
“Good boy,” Shota rasps, grabbing the bulge of Hitoshi's dick and pumping it awkwardly, movement limited by his jeans.
“ Ah ,” Hitoshi whimpers, that phrase doing horrible things to him. His hips buck a little, and he slots his mouth against Shota’s, desperate to be closer, to have more . Shota puts one hand around his throat, squeezing just hard enough, and Hitoshi makes a choked noise, rocking his hips desperately.
Shota suddenly pushes him back, fighting with his own jeans. Hitoshi quickly scrambles to help, tugging them down his hips until Shota’s naked cock slaps against his stomach, big and flushed crimson, precome glistening at the tip and smeared just below his belly-button. Hitoshi’s mouth waters and his head spins with need need need , so much so that he doesn’t notice Shota literally ripped his jeans down the middle.
“Suck,” Shota almost slurs, tone husky, and two of his fingers are pressed into Hitoshi’s mouth. Hitoshi obeys, sucking around them, one hand coming up to his wrist to hold him in place as his tongue twirls around the digits. Shota watches him with blown pupils for a handful of seconds, but then he’s pulling down Hitoshi’s boxers, and the fingers are gone from Hitoshi’s mouth.
“ Oh fuck,” Hitoshi wails, rocking down against Shota’s fingers that are pushing right up into him. They’re thick and warm and not nearly slick enough, but he pushes back, forcing them into him faster than Shota was attempting. That hurts , but it makes his dick jump and a low whine to spill from his lips. Shota seems to understand, because he’s fucking Hitoshi with his fingers ruthlessly, almost tearing his skin there. “Oh my god Shota, fuck, please , oh, fuck ,” Hitoshi babbles, whimpering and shaking.
“So pretty,” Shota breathes, just watching Hitoshi desperately rock against his hand to get off. “Such a pretty boy, aren’t you,” he continues, and Hitoshi claps a hand over his mouth, the other going to the base of his cock to keep him from coming. His cock pulses in his hand, imitating his orgasm, but it stays just behind his hand, cock painfully hard now.
“Fuck me,” Hitoshi slurs, licking his lips, “please, Shota, please .”
Shota pulls his fingers out, spits in his hand, rubs his palm over his own dick just enough to wet it, then pulls Hitoshi’s hips forward and, without warning, pushes all the way inside of Hitoshi. Hitoshi cries out, teeth sinking into his own fist, and instinctively pulls away, but Shota’s strong hands keep him in place.
“I want to hear you,” Shota growls, pulling Hitoshi's hand away from his mouth and slowly rocking up into him, getting him used to the sensation and the burning stretch. “Make noise for me baby,” he says, low and syrupy, and then he snaps his hips up into Hitoshi, hard and fast, holding Hitoshi in place.
Hitoshi grabs onto his shoulders with both hands and helplessly tries to push back in rhythm with Shota’s movements, but he fails miserably and just lets Shota take control, gasping and moaning without a care for noise. Shota praises him gently, a direct contrast to the brutality of his thrusts, Hitoshi’s head almost hitting the roof.
“Fuck, daddy, oh my god,” Hitoshi moans, “Shota, more .”
“ Baby ,” Shota groans, somehow fucking him harder, faster. He moves a hand up to Hitoshi’s throat, forcing him down to kiss him, and the angle gets so intense that Hitoshi’s orgasm starts approaching rapidly. “My good boy, my baby, you’re so fucking good ,” he praises, voice guttural and raw.
Hitoshi chokes against Shota’s mouth and comes viscerally onto Shota’s stomach and chest, ass clenching around Shota’s cock. Shota groans and with a shudder, his hips falter, and he rocks into Hitoshi, riding out his own orgasm, keeping his thrusts hard and deep.
Hitoshi’s face slips into the crook of Shota’s neck, breath coming hard and fast against his skin. Shota runs his hands over Hitoshi’s bare back, cupping the back of his neck and running his fingers through his hair.
This is where Hitoshi would run, if he could, but he’s certain he can’t walk, and even so, maybe he doesn’t have to run.
“I have you,” Shota whispers, lips brushing Hitoshi’s cheek.
Hitoshi swallows, and then, without warning, begins to cry softly and quietly.
“Hitoshi,” Shota soothes, “it’s okay.”
“Shit,” he gasps, sitting up quickly and clumsily bumping the heel of his palm against his eyes. Shota grabs his wrists gently and pulls him back down, cradling him close and holding him gently. “ Shit,” he says again, throat thick.
“It’s okay,” Shota murmurs, “I have you.”
*
Shota drives Hitoshi to his apartment, offering a pair of sweatpants he keeps in his backseat in lieu of Hitoshi’s ripped jeans. Hitoshi wiggles into them and then carefully gets up out of the car, legs shaky and weak. Shota walks over and puts his arm around his waist, leading him up the stairs and into the building.
Once they’re inside, Hitoshi awkwardly sits down on his couch, hands in his lap. Shota hangs his jacket up, puts his keys into his pocket, and then kicks off his shoes. He stands in front of Hitoshi, suddenly uncomfortable, and it’s almost enough to make Hitoshi leave the apartment and move to the US, but then Shota begins to speak.
“My first boyfriend died,” he says, “when we were 17. Villain attack at Yuuei. I couldn’t save him. We had a fight earlier that day. I broke up with him that morning because my parents tried to kick me out for having a boyfriend.”
Hitoshi blinks at him. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Shota try to open up about anything. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely.
Shota shakes his head, clearly uncomfortable with feelings. “There is nothing wrong with being gay.” Hitoshi says nothing, looking down at his hands. “Hitoshi,” he starts, and then stops, grumbling a little. He looks away, sighs, and then looks back at Hitoshi with a steady gaze. “Stay in my life.”
Hitoshi blinks. “Sorry?”
Shota’s face gets pink fast, and Hitoshi feels slightly nauseated at the idea of Shota being embarrassed. Those things have never correlated in Hitoshi’s mind. “Don’t run,” Shota says, looking away.
There’s a moment where Hitoshi wants to laugh at Shota, at the idea of beginning anything with this man – how could that even work? Shota is easily 15 years older than him, and his old teacher. If anyone found out about them, it would be the end for both of them. Hitoshi isn’t even sure he’s ready for anything like what Shota is offering.
“Coffee,” Hitoshi blurts, accepting the fact that he wants to hate himself, but that if he can’t hate Shota for being the same way, maybe it’s something he can get over. He looks up at Shota. “I can do coffee. To start.”
Shota dips his head, and he almost manages to hide the curl of his mouth. “Coffee, then.”
*
Coffee turns into dinner, which turns into staying over at Shota’s, which turns into a toothbrush in Shota’s bathroom, and then shared responsibility of a kitten, and then shared responsibility of an apartment closer to the coast.
And that, after years, turns into Hitoshi wearing a ring with pride.