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Takao rearranges the pillow behind his head, lounging back on their bed as Midorima unceremoniously pulls down Takao's sweatpants and boxers. Takao ignores the urge to do something silly like hide while Midorima sets their half-full bottle of lube somewhere to Takao's right, his other hand absentmindedly spreading Takao's knees further apart.
Takao wets his lips as Midorima sets his phone on his other side. "Isn't a video a bit much, Shin-chan?"
Midorima's eyes flick upward, his hand leaving the inside of Takao's knee to start peeling the tape from his opposite fingers. "I like hearing you," Midorima explains plainly, then furrows his eyebrows in question. "Is filming no longer on the table? You seemed enthusiastic when – "
"Yep! Still all good, Shin-chan, just – " Takao finally gives into the temptation to hide, briefly shading his eyes with his palm. "Stop saying embarrassing things for a second, okay?"
"I did not realize my words warranted embarrassment."
"Maybe not for you," Takao argues, then dramatically splays his arms across the bed. He huffs out a long breath. "Shirt on or off? I would've assumed you wanted it off, but this is Shin-chan's shirt, so maybe – "
"I see what you meant," Midorima cuts off, "by saying embarrassing things." He turns his gaze to the side. "... Shirt on, please."
Takao grins up at him. "I always knew Shin-chan was secretly dirty."
Midorima pushes up his glasses, his now-bare hand reaching down to caress Takao's hip. "Is it really much of a secret anymore?"
"Guess not," Takao relents, tilting his chin up as Midorima leans closer, his face hovering over Takao's. "Just for me though, right?"
"There is no one else, naturally," Midorima murmurs, then angles his head to kiss him.
Takao hums into the kiss, his hands reaching upward to comb through Midorima's shower-fresh hair, Midorima's hand still pressed to his hip bone while the other climbs up his waist. Midorima's lips are warm and chapstick-sticky, unhurried as they glide across Takao's, and even the strange roughness of Midorima's clothed lower half against Takao's bare legs can't stop Takao from melting into the languid movements, his mouth readily parting when Midorima's tongue sweeps over it.
By the time Midorima pulls away, Takao's lips are wet and tingly, and Midorima's hand has managed to push the hem of Takao's shirt up to his chest. Takao reflexively angles his knee outward as the hand on his hip slides downward, rubbing along the skin of his inner thigh, and it's not until the mattress creaks under Midorima's weight that Takao bothers blinking his vision back into the focus, taking in the way Midorima sits back on his heels and the phone that's made its way into his right hand, the neon pink neoprint Midorima stuck in his phone case staring back at him.
Takao's breath hitches as Midorima's fingertips inch higher on his thigh. The contact is glancing at best, brushing up Takao's skin with little more than tickling static, but Takao shivers into it anyway, startled by the thrum of arousal that buzzes through him. Although Midorima's gaze is trained on the phone screen, it burns through Takao all the same, making his cock twitch off his stomach and his toes curl into the bedsheets. The phone can't completely hide the answering smirk that flashes across Midorima's face, or the smug satisfaction that lingers even after the expression melts away. His thumb traces upward, drawing along the crease between Takao's hip and thigh, and Takao's cock embarrassingly fills out as Midorima's fingertips press into the divot of skin.
Midorima shifts wider on his knees, Takao powerless to stop the way his hips jerk off the bed when he slides his hand inward, fingers brushing along the side of his cock. Midorima audibly exhales, and instead of reaching for Takao's shaft he reaches down for his balls, rolling the one between his fingertips. Takao lets out a strangled excuse of a sound, his hips twitching off the bed once more, and wonders if he should be concerned by how much he likes this, the way Midorima cups and squishes Takao's balls in his palm while his finger traces up the underside of Takao's cock. Midorima doesn't seem to mind, at least, phone tipping forward to catch the movement, and only the awareness of Midorima's precious fingers between his legs stops Takao from clamping them shut.
"Shin-chan," Takao says, wetting his lips again when no follow up comes to mind, his eyes dropping to catch the movement of Midorima's wandering hand. His fingers finish their journey upward and then some, fingertips ghosting across Takao's abdomen while he cups the head of his cock, swollen skin nestled into the creases of Midorima's palm.
"Takao," Midorima answers, just as useless, squeezing around the head of Takao's cock before stroking downward, his fingers wrapped precisely around Takao's length like the tape that usually adorns them. Takao's breath hitches again, his exhale resonating into something a bit too close to a moan for his liking, but there's really no helping it when Midorima drags his hand upward sweet and slow before stroking harshly downward once more, Takao's hips rolling into the rhythm of it with a familiarity that speaks of practice.
Falling into Midorima's pace is easy, and soon Takao is panting into the pillow, his head turned sideways to press his cheek against the pillowcase. His feet are flat on the bed, his knees spread wide, his soles steadying himself on the mattress while he chases the tight circle of Midorima's fingers with his hips. It's a little strange not having Midorima hovering over him, the air between them tingling with Midorima's body heat, but if Takao closes his eyes he can imagine it – can imagine Midorima's free hand around his ribcage and on his nape and up in his hair, can ignore the tiny screen that's currently occupying Midorima's hold and his attention. Midorima grunts quietly while he squeezes his fingers around Takao the slightest bit tighter, and Takao's leg jerks toward his chest at the way pleasures sparks between his hips.
Midorima's hand slides sideways again, letting go of Takao's cock to press his jerking thigh to the bed, Takao involuntarily whimpering as Midorima's fingertips dig into his skin. The hand leaves a second later, Takao's whimper melting into a questioning hum, and then his eyes pop open at the sudden cold pooling in the seam of his hip. "Shin-chan?" he yelps.
"Yes?" Midorima replies, tilting his head to meet Takao's eyes.
Takao pouts up at him. "Shin-chan, that's cold."
Midorima makes a sound suspiciously close to a snort. "It won't be for long," he assures, dipping his fingers into the puddle of lube at Takao's hip, twisting and sliding the digits until they're shiny and wet. Takao opens his mouth to complain again, but he's easily distracted by the touch of fingertips, rubbing slick circles over his entrance as he instinctively tenses. He hisses in a breath, deliberately blowing air through pursed lips as he relaxes, and what had just been the suggestion of pressure becomes searing sensation, pulling his spine off the bed as Midorima's first finger pushes inside him.
"Hah," Takao gasps out, reaching to grip the pillow over his head. Midorima moves slowly, thrusting with that single finger, the knuckles of his other hand turning white around his phone case. More than the familiar ache, it's the sight of those fingers that has Takao turning his cheek into the pillow once more, not entirely sure if it's the memory of that same hand around his hip or the reminder of his own figure on the phone screen that makes him clench his own fingers tighter. He bites his lip when Midorima curls his finger inside him, pressing, searching, and when it slides up over his prostate he bites down harder, swallowing down the moan that tries to escape.
He catches Midorima's frown from the corner of his eye, but Midorima's middle finger prods at his rim before he can really process it, his vision unfocusing as both of Midorima's fingers sink down to the knuckle without prompt or warning.
"Stop that," Midorima demands, dragging his fingers back, and Takao doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until he gasps at the exacting stretch of Midorima's fingers thrusting into him once more. He curves those fingers downward, harsh and sure, and the groan that punches out of Takao's chest feels less like response and more like instinct, like inevitable defeat at Midorima's fingertips.
What isn't instinct is the way he turns his face toward the phone camera, neither is the way he licks his lips as he watches Midorima's little frown turn into something soft and open, and Takao pretends the pulse of heat between his hips is from Midorima's still-thrusting fingers rather than the faint dusting of pink across Midorima's cheeks. "Have I told you that you're unfair today, Shin-chan?" Takao asks, breathier than he intends, throwing his head back against the pillow as Midorima's fingers twist in reply.
"Not today, no," Midorima absentmindedly answers, slowly scissoring his fingers apart. It's nearly too much, the way he spreads and twists his fingers, but another brush across his prostate has Takao squirming, his cock leaking onto his stomach.
Takao whines as Midorima pulls out completely, sliding his fingers through the forgotten puddle of lube at Takao's hip. "You're real unfair, Shin-chan," Takao reiterates.
Midorima peeks around the phone once more. His eyes crinkle at the corners, above the still-dusty pink of his cheeks. "No more than you are," he argues, then presses three fingers into him.
Takao's vision goes unfocused again, the entirety of his attention on relaxing around the press of Midorima's knuckles, his heels scrambling for purchase on the mattress at the stretch. "Shin-chan," he gasps.
"Are you close?" Midorima asks, but he sounds far away in Takao's ears, like he's already bundled in some hotel bed with his headphones in, talking to Takao on the phone while he plays his recording under the covers. Takao moans instead of answering, closing his eyes against the weight of his own arousal, coiled tight and trembling inside his gut. "Both my hands are rather occupied, you know."
Takao does know – is well aware of the way Midorima's left hand busies itself inside him while the other forces itself into a steady hold – and even as the knowledge overwhelms him, pushes him closer to the edge than he really thinks it ought to, parsing Midorima's veiled requests has always been second nature, even if following through isn't quite so smooth.
He tries anyway, prying his fingers away from the pillow to wrap around his cock instead, back arching when Midorima crooks his fingers just as Takao strokes upward. The coil of heat inside him bursts, Takao shaking as he cums, a rough whimper leaving his mouth as Midorima slowly drags his fingers out of him.
Takao is only vaguely aware of the fingertips swiping through the cum on his abdomen, drawing nonsensical lines over his stomach while Takao recovers his breath and his senses. He's not quite sure when Midorima sets the phone aside, only realizes that he has when Midorima is suddenly closing the space between them, soiled hand wrapping around Takao's waist while the other grasps onto his chin. Takao catches a glimpse of green eyes, pupils dark and dilated, before Midorima's lips crash into his, messy and uncontrolled in a way only his mouth ever is.
His hands are steady as ever, though, tilting Takao's chin to kiss him deeper, the hand at Takao's waist moving to unbutton his fly and wrap around his own cock, knuckles brushing over Takao's twitching muscles and over-sensitized nerves.
Takao inhales sharply through his nose and kisses back, lips and teeth and tongue, and untangles his free hand from the pillow to tug Midorima's hair instead, his other hand still trapped under Midorima's body weight. Midorima groans into his mouth, wet and only marginally muffled, vibrating at the same cadence as Takao's trembling limbs as Midorima's cock jerks and spills, adding its sticky warmth to the mess already decorating Takao's skin.
Midorima drops his head onto Takao's shoulder, his nose buried into Takao's shirt, while Takao idly pets his head as their cum cools on his hand and stomach. The mess has become mildly uncomfortable by the time Midorima pushes himself upright, and Takao doesn't even have time to protest it before Midorima snatches his phone up once more, capturing Takao as he is, sprawled and dirty on the bed.
Takao sighs and stretches, ignoring the extra picture or two Midorima snaps of him. "Those aren't even sexy pictures," Takao calls out, when Midorima finally leaves the bed for a towel to clean them off. He picks up Midorima's phone himself to check, ready to laugh at his own cum-covered photos, but instead finds himself blinking incredulously at his own face, languid and ugly and no evidence of their mess at all.
Midorima strolls out of the bathroom, wet towel in hand. His pants are still undone when he kneels on the bed once more, dutifully wiping Takao off. "They are of you," Midorima says simply, and Takao can't be blamed for the way he immediately grabs the pillow from underneath his head, hitting Midorima with it.
Midorima slaps him on the side with the towel right after, and Takao pretends pulling the pillow over his face is to hide his laughter and not his blush.