![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lysapadinTitle: Rough Trade
Pairings: Imayoshi/Aomine
Summary: Aomine has an itch, and Imayoshi knows exactly how to scratch it.
Notes: Adult for smut. 3286 words. This is a fill from![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
knb_kink, for a prompt to the tune of Aomine wanting to be fucked hard and rough, and picking up hooker!Imayoshi to get that taken care of. I felt that this was definitely a thing that needed to exist in the world, so here, have a bit of hookerfic featuring rough sex!
~~~~~~~~~~
Rough Trade
It's not like Daiki's in the habit of paying for what he wants, because he isn't. It's the first thing he says, in fact, plain and simple. "I don't have to do this, you know."
It earns him a leisurely flick of the eyes and once-over that precedes the slow unfurling curve of a smile. "I'm sure you don't," the guy tells him. It ought to sound sincere, because there's nothing but earnestness in his delivery, and yet—Daiki can't help feeling that he's being mocked. It's something about the way the guy tips his head to the side, or maybe it's the sly glitter of his eyes, creased with silent laughter behind the lenses of his glasses.
The hot flush of anger washes through him. "I don't," he insists, despite knowing that protesting will only make him sound pathetic. More pathetic.
The guy shifts on his barstool, leaning back and looking Daiki over again. Daiki glares at him and tries to return the favor, taking in the long legs wrapped in worn black denim, knees spread wide in what makes for a blatant invitation where the guy's jeans pull snug across his crotch. The guy's not much of one for flashy displays, unlike some of this bar's other patrons—he's wearing a plain white t-shirt, but it's saved from being boring by how built the guy is. Daiki doesn't want to be impressed by the breadth of the guy's shoulders or the solid muscle that fills out his sleeves, but there's a tiny, sneaking part of him that is.
"Maybe not," the guy says, the words dripping off his tongue the way honey trickles off a spoon, sweet and slow, and he smiles, sleek and satisfied, like he can tell that Daiki likes what he's seeing. "And yet—here we are."
There's a glass sitting on the bar at his elbow, condensation beading its sides and a thin circle of lime floating in the drink itself; the guy picks it up and drinks, tipping his head back. Daiki watches the slow bob of his throat as he swallows and the way the guy licks the water from his fingertips after he sets the glass down again, and he has to admit that he's in the presence of a master. An irritating master, but a master nonetheless.
"So." The guy gives Daiki another of those lazy smiles. "What brings you to my office?"
Daiki hesitates for a moment, but—hell, he's not here looking for someone he likes. He just wants—he wants. He leans against the bar and looks the guy over—Daiki doesn't have a name for him, all he had to go on was he's got a smile like a fox's and he works out of the Emperor and holy fuck, he'll give you exactly what you want, even if you don't know what that is. "Hear you're the person to talk to if you've got an itch that needs scratching."
That modest smile and dip of the eyes doesn't ring any truer to Daiki than the guy's show of sincerity did before. "Well, I do aim to please." He picks up his drink again but merely holds it, watching Daiki over it, and names a number. "Paid up front, and no negotiations," he adds.
That meshes with what Daiki has heard. "Fine."
The guy smiles again and drains his glass. "Well, then, why don't we go on upstairs for a bit?" he says as he slides off his stool, moving like he has liquid where he ought to have bones.
Daiki follows him as he prowls through the crowd, doing his best to pretend that there aren't a few knowing looks being cast in his direction—fuck, whatever, this isn't even his bar, he's never going to see any of these assholes again—and through a door situated at the back of the room. Behind the door is a dimly lit flight of stairs that creak under his tread as he follows the guy up, and a hallway lined with anonymous doors at the top.
Daiki's apparently not the only guy around here with an itch to scratch; he can hear a steady thump-thump accompanied by the rhythmic shriek of abused bedsprings coming from behind at least one of the doors, and while he's waiting for the guy he's with to unlock the door at the end of the corridor, someone else groans like his world is coming apart.
He doesn't quite realize that he's flushing until the guy glances at him and says, "I'm beginning to think that maybe you don't have to do this after all."
"Fuck you," Daiki says, uncomfortable.
The guy grins and pushes the door open. He flourishes his hand at it and doesn't say a word when Daiki hesitates a moment before going in.
It's a pokey, plain little room, barely worth looking at once. The walls are dirty, there's no window, and the only piece of furniture is the bed itself, a single thin mattress on a battered frame, no blankets and just a flat pillow to grace it.
The click of the latch is loud behind him, and so is the guy's voice when he says, "Reckon I'll trouble you for my fee now, if you don't mind." He's leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, when Daiki turns, wearing that vulpine smile and somehow making it work for him.
Daiki's sort of proud of the way he doesn't fumble with his wallet and the fact that his fingers don't betray his nerves while he's counting out the bills. "You got a name or something?" he asks while the guy is performing some sleight of hand that makes the money disappear. Impossible to say where it goes; neither the guy's shirt nor his jeans seem to offer much space for concealing even a few notes.
The question seems to give the guy a moment's pause. He looks at Daiki, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "Generally folks call me what they like." He sucks on his teeth. "You can call me Shouichi, if you're not feeling creative."
And the heavens only know whether that's a real name or not. Daiki doesn't have time to decide which he thinks it is, because Shouichi—if that is his real name—moves in the next instant, slinking away from the door and insinuating himself against Daiki's chest. "What—?" Daiki says, caught off guard.
"Hush now," Shouichi tells him, his smile perilously close. "You're not paying for polite conversation over a cup of tea." He hooks a hand around the back of Daiki's head and pulls him down into a kiss.
It starts out careful, if a kiss could be any such thing, like Shouichi is testing him. His lips are dry against Daiki's. When Daiki leaves off being startled and tentatively kisses back, parting his lips, Shouichi's mouth tastes of lime juice and tonic water. Shouichi hums against his mouth and lets Daiki slide their tongues together, and this is okay, this isn't anything that Daiki hasn't done before with partners he's only just met. It's just sex, or at least the preliminaries to sex, and Daiki's intimately familiar with those.
Thing is, if that were all he wanted, there wouldn't have been any need to seek Shouichi out.
Daiki lifts his hands from where they hang loose at his sides and sets them on Shouichi's back, pulling the guy tight against him, and he gives himself permission to push.
That's what it feels like he's doing when he pulls Shouichi tight against him, crushing his mouth against Shouichi's, letting the burning hunger that brought him to this place off its leash the way he usually can't. Unlike some of the guys Daiki has picked up before, Shouichi doesn't go still or try to push him away. He makes a sound against Daiki's mouth, one that's either thoughtful or satisfied, Daiki doesn't know which, and he pushes right back. He tightens his fingers in Daiki's hair, twisting the short strands tight, and he slides one of his thighs between Daiki's, pulling Daiki up tight against it. Daiki can't help the way he responds to that, his cock already going tight and heavy in his jeans, and he grinds himself against Shouichi's thigh. It's a relief, is what it is—the fact that Shouichi stands his ground and doesn't give way, not when Daiki tries to devour his mouth and not when Daiki rubs against his thigh, already urgent for more.
Shouichi holds steady for that and even slides his other hand down Daiki's back, fitting it into Daiki's back pocket and helping him press closer. The curve of his hand against Daiki's ass is sure, and so is the way he squeezes. Daiki grunts against his mouth, and that's when Shouichi pulls back and sinks his teeth into Daiki's lower lip. It stings, sharp with the faintest tang of copper and iron, and Daiki's cock twitches in his jeans with the way lightning streaks down his spine. He groans, and Shouichi laughs. "I see," he says, knowing. "You like to play rough." He tightens his fingers in Daiki's hair until the ache makes Daiki's eyes water, and Daiki groans again, all but humping the guy's thigh. "I reckon I can accommodate that."
He's as good as his word, because he moves as fast as a striking snake, grabbing Daiki and slamming him up against the nearest wall and holding his shoulders against it while Daiki's head and back are still processing the ache of the impact. He kisses Daiki again, nothing careful in it at all—this kiss is nothing but demand and teeth until Daiki's lips feel hot and swollen with the bruising force of Shouichi's mouth. He grabs handfuls of Shouichi's shirt, hauling him in until they're pressed together, chest to chest and hip to hip, and rolls his hips against Shouichi's, groaning with how good it feels.
Shouichi laughs again, the sound low and soft as velvet. "You keep that up, you're not gonna get your money's worth." He reaches down anyway and cups the front of Daiki's jeans, kneading him through the denim. His grip is hard, just this side of painful, and Daiki swears as he sees stars with how good it feels. "Maybe that's what you want, though. To come in your pants just like this." He bites down on the side of Daiki's throat, hard enough that Daiki has no doubt that there's going to be a bruise there later.
He can't bring himself to care, not when pleasure is singing through him, hot enough that he's almost willing to let Shouichi go ahead and bring him off—but that's not really what he came here for. "Nn," he says, and has to try again when the obscene squirm of Shouichi's tongue against his throat derails his train of thought. "No, I'm here to fuck."
Shouichi squeezes him again as he sets his teeth against Daiki's ear, biting down on the shell of it. "To fuck?" he murmurs, his breath hot in Daiki's ear, while Daiki strains against him. "Or to be fucked?"
"What the hell do you think?" Daiki grinds out, hot with how much he wants it and the flush of having to ask for it. Having to come here for it.
Shouichi's chuckle is edged with smugness. "I think I'm gonna be nice this time and not make you say it," he says, squeezing Daiki through his jeans one more time before releasing him.
Daiki doesn't know whether he's protesting that confident this time or the sudden absence of the pressure on his cock, but before he can do more than begin with, "What the hell—" Shouichi is setting heavy hands on his shoulders, pushing on them as he takes a step back out of Daiki's space. The weight of them is enough to make Daiki's knees buckle a little, and that's when he gets it. It's on the tip of his tongue to protest—who's paying who, here, anyway?—but the way his stomach twists on the spike of hunger stops him.
Shouichi presses down on his shoulders until Daiki finally folds himself down to his knees, where he gets a good look at the way Shouichi's cock is filling out his jeans. He doesn't move, not until Shouichi wraps a hand around the back of his head and says, "You waiting for an invitation?"
"You got an awful smart mouth, considering," Daiki tells him. He reaches for Shouichi's fly anyway and pops the button. The rasp of the zipper sounds loud in his ears, and so does Shouichi's little sigh of relief. He sinks his fingers into Daiki's hair again and urges him forward while Daiki's still dealing with the fact that apparently Shouichi's the kind of guy who likes going commando.
"Been told it's one of my winningest features," Shouichi says as the pressure of the hand he's got wrapped around the back of Daiki's head increases, inexorable. Daiki leans forward under that weight while Shouichi eases his cock free of his jeans and strokes the head of it across Daiki's lips, leaving a wet smear on them. "Come on, now."
That shouldn't make the heat flare along Daiki's nerves, but it does. Daiki opens his mouth and takes it when Shouichi slips his cock right between his lips, sliding it over his tongue. He's not shy about it either, pressing in until Daiki grunts a protest—what, does he think Daiki can swallow him down just like that? Shouichi smiles down at him and cups Daiki's jaw between his hands, holding him still for it when he draws back and begins to fuck Daiki's mouth. It's not like any blowjob Daiki's ever given. Shouichi doesn't bother asking him whether he's okay with how deep he's pushing his cock in or whether Daiki can handle it, doesn't bother going slowly or giving Daiki a chance to draw a good breath every few strokes. He uses Daiki's mouth, fucking into him and humming with pleasure as he slides his cock back and forth. Daiki's jaw aches with the stretch of it and it's not long before he's dizzy, lightheaded from the lack of oxygen, and that's before Shouichi rolls his hips forward until the head of his cock is nudging at the back of Daiki's throat. The way he grins down at Daiki is nothing short of a challenge.
Daiki has never been good at backing down from a challenge.
Shouichi groans when Daiki swallows him down, fighting against the gag instinct until his nose is pressed flat against the cotton of Shouichi's t-shirt, full of the scent of laundry detergent and sweat and sex. Shouichi holds him there, moving his hips in shallow little thrusts as he fucks Daiki's throat, and Daiki groans around his cock, shaking with how good it is and how much he's wanted this. He drops a hand between his own thighs, cupping himself through his jeans, and groans again, shuddering on the edge of coming right then and there.
Just when he thinks he can't possibly stand it for another instant, Shouichi pulls back, all the way back, and Daiki sucks in a shuddering breath, dazed. Shouichi releases him and jerks his head at the bed. "Reckon this ought to do it," he tells Daiki, and holds a hand down to him when Daiki is slow to move.
He lets Shouichi haul him up, moving gingerly, and isn't even sure what he says when Shouichi reaches down and unfastens his jeans. It might not even be coherent, because Shouichi laughs at him and propels him over to the bed with a hand at the small of Daiki's back. He presses Daiki down onto the thin mattress, which groans under Daiki's weight as he kneels on it, and settles behind him. "I'd hold on to the headboard if I was you," Shouichi remarks as he pulls Daiki's jeans and underwear down his thighs.
Daiki barely has the time to make sense of that recommendation and lean forward to wrap his fingers around the cheap particleboard frame before Shouichi takes hold of his hips and spreads him open. He feels the stroke of Shouichi's cock moving against him, pressing in, barely slick enough, and everything between Daiki's ears goes to static with the raw burn and stretch of his muscles as Shouichi fucks his way into him. There's nothing but the sensation screaming up his spine, too much to bear. Daiki isn't even conscious of the mattress beneath his knees or the headboard he's gripping or the breath hissing out him on a stream of disjointed profanities by the time Shouichi comes to lean over him, buried in him and breathing hard.
"Still with me?" he asks after a moment, some of the velvet of his voice gone ragged, holding himself steady against Daiki's hips.
Daiki lets his head drop between his outstretched arms, breathing hard, straining after some edge of self-control. It's shockingly elusive, and Daiki draws a wavering breath, not even knowing what he wants to say to that. He whines when even that tiny movement shifts the balance between them. Shouichi is impossibly large inside him, and the movement of his body against Daiki's is enough to tear any hope of control away from his grasp. He groans with the twist of raw sensation, which balances on the razor line between pleasure and pain, and shifts his hips back against Shouichi's.
"That's my boy," Shouichi breathes, and there's a smile in his voice.
Daiki doesn't get a chance to even think about making a reply, not when Shouichi begins to move in the very next instant, rocking against Daiki, thrusts slow and shallow to begin with. Even those are almost too much; Daiki clings to the headboard and lets Shouichi support his hips, moaning breathlessly as the raw, brutal feel of it scours him. Everything disintegrates before the force of being fucked like this, mercilessly hard, every limit Daiki thought he had and then some, until there's nothing left of him but the pleasure crackling along his nerves. It's almost a relief when Shouichi shifts his hand from his hip and folds it around his cock, because that tips Daiki over the edge and whites out his world completely.
There's no telling how much time has passed when he finally begins to become aware of the world again. When he finally blinks his eyes open again and they remember how to focus, he finds that he's staring up at the cracked and water-stained ceiling. He aches all over, and his muscles feel as though they've been wrung out like a dishrag.
Shouichi is leaning against the headboard and peering down at him. "Back with us, I see."
Daiki remembers that it's customary to respond when being addressed after a bit, and eventually manages to put together an answer. "Holy fuck."
Shouichi grins at that, slow and self-satisfied. "Take it that scratched your itch," he drawls. He drops a hand down and ruffles Daiki's hair. "Satisfaction is guaranteed."
"Nngh," Daiki says, because he's all out of the wherewithal to deal with that—that—whatever that is, sarcasm or professional pride or a twisted sense of humor.
Shouichi pats his head. "Well," he says then, "next time you get itchy, you know where to find me." He seems to take it as a given that Daiki will be back.
Daiki gazes up at him, and it occurs to him that Shouichi is probably right that he will. "Fuck," he says.
It's no comfort at all when this only serves to make Shouichi laugh at him again.
end
Comments are always lovely!
Pairings: Imayoshi/Aomine
Summary: Aomine has an itch, and Imayoshi knows exactly how to scratch it.
Notes: Adult for smut. 3286 words. This is a fill from
knb_kink, for a prompt to the tune of Aomine wanting to be fucked hard and rough, and picking up hooker!Imayoshi to get that taken care of. I felt that this was definitely a thing that needed to exist in the world, so here, have a bit of hookerfic featuring rough sex! Rough Trade
It's not like Daiki's in the habit of paying for what he wants, because he isn't. It's the first thing he says, in fact, plain and simple. "I don't have to do this, you know."
It earns him a leisurely flick of the eyes and once-over that precedes the slow unfurling curve of a smile. "I'm sure you don't," the guy tells him. It ought to sound sincere, because there's nothing but earnestness in his delivery, and yet—Daiki can't help feeling that he's being mocked. It's something about the way the guy tips his head to the side, or maybe it's the sly glitter of his eyes, creased with silent laughter behind the lenses of his glasses.
The hot flush of anger washes through him. "I don't," he insists, despite knowing that protesting will only make him sound pathetic. More pathetic.
The guy shifts on his barstool, leaning back and looking Daiki over again. Daiki glares at him and tries to return the favor, taking in the long legs wrapped in worn black denim, knees spread wide in what makes for a blatant invitation where the guy's jeans pull snug across his crotch. The guy's not much of one for flashy displays, unlike some of this bar's other patrons—he's wearing a plain white t-shirt, but it's saved from being boring by how built the guy is. Daiki doesn't want to be impressed by the breadth of the guy's shoulders or the solid muscle that fills out his sleeves, but there's a tiny, sneaking part of him that is.
"Maybe not," the guy says, the words dripping off his tongue the way honey trickles off a spoon, sweet and slow, and he smiles, sleek and satisfied, like he can tell that Daiki likes what he's seeing. "And yet—here we are."
There's a glass sitting on the bar at his elbow, condensation beading its sides and a thin circle of lime floating in the drink itself; the guy picks it up and drinks, tipping his head back. Daiki watches the slow bob of his throat as he swallows and the way the guy licks the water from his fingertips after he sets the glass down again, and he has to admit that he's in the presence of a master. An irritating master, but a master nonetheless.
"So." The guy gives Daiki another of those lazy smiles. "What brings you to my office?"
Daiki hesitates for a moment, but—hell, he's not here looking for someone he likes. He just wants—he wants. He leans against the bar and looks the guy over—Daiki doesn't have a name for him, all he had to go on was he's got a smile like a fox's and he works out of the Emperor and holy fuck, he'll give you exactly what you want, even if you don't know what that is. "Hear you're the person to talk to if you've got an itch that needs scratching."
That modest smile and dip of the eyes doesn't ring any truer to Daiki than the guy's show of sincerity did before. "Well, I do aim to please." He picks up his drink again but merely holds it, watching Daiki over it, and names a number. "Paid up front, and no negotiations," he adds.
That meshes with what Daiki has heard. "Fine."
The guy smiles again and drains his glass. "Well, then, why don't we go on upstairs for a bit?" he says as he slides off his stool, moving like he has liquid where he ought to have bones.
Daiki follows him as he prowls through the crowd, doing his best to pretend that there aren't a few knowing looks being cast in his direction—fuck, whatever, this isn't even his bar, he's never going to see any of these assholes again—and through a door situated at the back of the room. Behind the door is a dimly lit flight of stairs that creak under his tread as he follows the guy up, and a hallway lined with anonymous doors at the top.
Daiki's apparently not the only guy around here with an itch to scratch; he can hear a steady thump-thump accompanied by the rhythmic shriek of abused bedsprings coming from behind at least one of the doors, and while he's waiting for the guy he's with to unlock the door at the end of the corridor, someone else groans like his world is coming apart.
He doesn't quite realize that he's flushing until the guy glances at him and says, "I'm beginning to think that maybe you don't have to do this after all."
"Fuck you," Daiki says, uncomfortable.
The guy grins and pushes the door open. He flourishes his hand at it and doesn't say a word when Daiki hesitates a moment before going in.
It's a pokey, plain little room, barely worth looking at once. The walls are dirty, there's no window, and the only piece of furniture is the bed itself, a single thin mattress on a battered frame, no blankets and just a flat pillow to grace it.
The click of the latch is loud behind him, and so is the guy's voice when he says, "Reckon I'll trouble you for my fee now, if you don't mind." He's leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, when Daiki turns, wearing that vulpine smile and somehow making it work for him.
Daiki's sort of proud of the way he doesn't fumble with his wallet and the fact that his fingers don't betray his nerves while he's counting out the bills. "You got a name or something?" he asks while the guy is performing some sleight of hand that makes the money disappear. Impossible to say where it goes; neither the guy's shirt nor his jeans seem to offer much space for concealing even a few notes.
The question seems to give the guy a moment's pause. He looks at Daiki, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "Generally folks call me what they like." He sucks on his teeth. "You can call me Shouichi, if you're not feeling creative."
And the heavens only know whether that's a real name or not. Daiki doesn't have time to decide which he thinks it is, because Shouichi—if that is his real name—moves in the next instant, slinking away from the door and insinuating himself against Daiki's chest. "What—?" Daiki says, caught off guard.
"Hush now," Shouichi tells him, his smile perilously close. "You're not paying for polite conversation over a cup of tea." He hooks a hand around the back of Daiki's head and pulls him down into a kiss.
It starts out careful, if a kiss could be any such thing, like Shouichi is testing him. His lips are dry against Daiki's. When Daiki leaves off being startled and tentatively kisses back, parting his lips, Shouichi's mouth tastes of lime juice and tonic water. Shouichi hums against his mouth and lets Daiki slide their tongues together, and this is okay, this isn't anything that Daiki hasn't done before with partners he's only just met. It's just sex, or at least the preliminaries to sex, and Daiki's intimately familiar with those.
Thing is, if that were all he wanted, there wouldn't have been any need to seek Shouichi out.
Daiki lifts his hands from where they hang loose at his sides and sets them on Shouichi's back, pulling the guy tight against him, and he gives himself permission to push.
That's what it feels like he's doing when he pulls Shouichi tight against him, crushing his mouth against Shouichi's, letting the burning hunger that brought him to this place off its leash the way he usually can't. Unlike some of the guys Daiki has picked up before, Shouichi doesn't go still or try to push him away. He makes a sound against Daiki's mouth, one that's either thoughtful or satisfied, Daiki doesn't know which, and he pushes right back. He tightens his fingers in Daiki's hair, twisting the short strands tight, and he slides one of his thighs between Daiki's, pulling Daiki up tight against it. Daiki can't help the way he responds to that, his cock already going tight and heavy in his jeans, and he grinds himself against Shouichi's thigh. It's a relief, is what it is—the fact that Shouichi stands his ground and doesn't give way, not when Daiki tries to devour his mouth and not when Daiki rubs against his thigh, already urgent for more.
Shouichi holds steady for that and even slides his other hand down Daiki's back, fitting it into Daiki's back pocket and helping him press closer. The curve of his hand against Daiki's ass is sure, and so is the way he squeezes. Daiki grunts against his mouth, and that's when Shouichi pulls back and sinks his teeth into Daiki's lower lip. It stings, sharp with the faintest tang of copper and iron, and Daiki's cock twitches in his jeans with the way lightning streaks down his spine. He groans, and Shouichi laughs. "I see," he says, knowing. "You like to play rough." He tightens his fingers in Daiki's hair until the ache makes Daiki's eyes water, and Daiki groans again, all but humping the guy's thigh. "I reckon I can accommodate that."
He's as good as his word, because he moves as fast as a striking snake, grabbing Daiki and slamming him up against the nearest wall and holding his shoulders against it while Daiki's head and back are still processing the ache of the impact. He kisses Daiki again, nothing careful in it at all—this kiss is nothing but demand and teeth until Daiki's lips feel hot and swollen with the bruising force of Shouichi's mouth. He grabs handfuls of Shouichi's shirt, hauling him in until they're pressed together, chest to chest and hip to hip, and rolls his hips against Shouichi's, groaning with how good it feels.
Shouichi laughs again, the sound low and soft as velvet. "You keep that up, you're not gonna get your money's worth." He reaches down anyway and cups the front of Daiki's jeans, kneading him through the denim. His grip is hard, just this side of painful, and Daiki swears as he sees stars with how good it feels. "Maybe that's what you want, though. To come in your pants just like this." He bites down on the side of Daiki's throat, hard enough that Daiki has no doubt that there's going to be a bruise there later.
He can't bring himself to care, not when pleasure is singing through him, hot enough that he's almost willing to let Shouichi go ahead and bring him off—but that's not really what he came here for. "Nn," he says, and has to try again when the obscene squirm of Shouichi's tongue against his throat derails his train of thought. "No, I'm here to fuck."
Shouichi squeezes him again as he sets his teeth against Daiki's ear, biting down on the shell of it. "To fuck?" he murmurs, his breath hot in Daiki's ear, while Daiki strains against him. "Or to be fucked?"
"What the hell do you think?" Daiki grinds out, hot with how much he wants it and the flush of having to ask for it. Having to come here for it.
Shouichi's chuckle is edged with smugness. "I think I'm gonna be nice this time and not make you say it," he says, squeezing Daiki through his jeans one more time before releasing him.
Daiki doesn't know whether he's protesting that confident this time or the sudden absence of the pressure on his cock, but before he can do more than begin with, "What the hell—" Shouichi is setting heavy hands on his shoulders, pushing on them as he takes a step back out of Daiki's space. The weight of them is enough to make Daiki's knees buckle a little, and that's when he gets it. It's on the tip of his tongue to protest—who's paying who, here, anyway?—but the way his stomach twists on the spike of hunger stops him.
Shouichi presses down on his shoulders until Daiki finally folds himself down to his knees, where he gets a good look at the way Shouichi's cock is filling out his jeans. He doesn't move, not until Shouichi wraps a hand around the back of his head and says, "You waiting for an invitation?"
"You got an awful smart mouth, considering," Daiki tells him. He reaches for Shouichi's fly anyway and pops the button. The rasp of the zipper sounds loud in his ears, and so does Shouichi's little sigh of relief. He sinks his fingers into Daiki's hair again and urges him forward while Daiki's still dealing with the fact that apparently Shouichi's the kind of guy who likes going commando.
"Been told it's one of my winningest features," Shouichi says as the pressure of the hand he's got wrapped around the back of Daiki's head increases, inexorable. Daiki leans forward under that weight while Shouichi eases his cock free of his jeans and strokes the head of it across Daiki's lips, leaving a wet smear on them. "Come on, now."
That shouldn't make the heat flare along Daiki's nerves, but it does. Daiki opens his mouth and takes it when Shouichi slips his cock right between his lips, sliding it over his tongue. He's not shy about it either, pressing in until Daiki grunts a protest—what, does he think Daiki can swallow him down just like that? Shouichi smiles down at him and cups Daiki's jaw between his hands, holding him still for it when he draws back and begins to fuck Daiki's mouth. It's not like any blowjob Daiki's ever given. Shouichi doesn't bother asking him whether he's okay with how deep he's pushing his cock in or whether Daiki can handle it, doesn't bother going slowly or giving Daiki a chance to draw a good breath every few strokes. He uses Daiki's mouth, fucking into him and humming with pleasure as he slides his cock back and forth. Daiki's jaw aches with the stretch of it and it's not long before he's dizzy, lightheaded from the lack of oxygen, and that's before Shouichi rolls his hips forward until the head of his cock is nudging at the back of Daiki's throat. The way he grins down at Daiki is nothing short of a challenge.
Daiki has never been good at backing down from a challenge.
Shouichi groans when Daiki swallows him down, fighting against the gag instinct until his nose is pressed flat against the cotton of Shouichi's t-shirt, full of the scent of laundry detergent and sweat and sex. Shouichi holds him there, moving his hips in shallow little thrusts as he fucks Daiki's throat, and Daiki groans around his cock, shaking with how good it is and how much he's wanted this. He drops a hand between his own thighs, cupping himself through his jeans, and groans again, shuddering on the edge of coming right then and there.
Just when he thinks he can't possibly stand it for another instant, Shouichi pulls back, all the way back, and Daiki sucks in a shuddering breath, dazed. Shouichi releases him and jerks his head at the bed. "Reckon this ought to do it," he tells Daiki, and holds a hand down to him when Daiki is slow to move.
He lets Shouichi haul him up, moving gingerly, and isn't even sure what he says when Shouichi reaches down and unfastens his jeans. It might not even be coherent, because Shouichi laughs at him and propels him over to the bed with a hand at the small of Daiki's back. He presses Daiki down onto the thin mattress, which groans under Daiki's weight as he kneels on it, and settles behind him. "I'd hold on to the headboard if I was you," Shouichi remarks as he pulls Daiki's jeans and underwear down his thighs.
Daiki barely has the time to make sense of that recommendation and lean forward to wrap his fingers around the cheap particleboard frame before Shouichi takes hold of his hips and spreads him open. He feels the stroke of Shouichi's cock moving against him, pressing in, barely slick enough, and everything between Daiki's ears goes to static with the raw burn and stretch of his muscles as Shouichi fucks his way into him. There's nothing but the sensation screaming up his spine, too much to bear. Daiki isn't even conscious of the mattress beneath his knees or the headboard he's gripping or the breath hissing out him on a stream of disjointed profanities by the time Shouichi comes to lean over him, buried in him and breathing hard.
"Still with me?" he asks after a moment, some of the velvet of his voice gone ragged, holding himself steady against Daiki's hips.
Daiki lets his head drop between his outstretched arms, breathing hard, straining after some edge of self-control. It's shockingly elusive, and Daiki draws a wavering breath, not even knowing what he wants to say to that. He whines when even that tiny movement shifts the balance between them. Shouichi is impossibly large inside him, and the movement of his body against Daiki's is enough to tear any hope of control away from his grasp. He groans with the twist of raw sensation, which balances on the razor line between pleasure and pain, and shifts his hips back against Shouichi's.
"That's my boy," Shouichi breathes, and there's a smile in his voice.
Daiki doesn't get a chance to even think about making a reply, not when Shouichi begins to move in the very next instant, rocking against Daiki, thrusts slow and shallow to begin with. Even those are almost too much; Daiki clings to the headboard and lets Shouichi support his hips, moaning breathlessly as the raw, brutal feel of it scours him. Everything disintegrates before the force of being fucked like this, mercilessly hard, every limit Daiki thought he had and then some, until there's nothing left of him but the pleasure crackling along his nerves. It's almost a relief when Shouichi shifts his hand from his hip and folds it around his cock, because that tips Daiki over the edge and whites out his world completely.
There's no telling how much time has passed when he finally begins to become aware of the world again. When he finally blinks his eyes open again and they remember how to focus, he finds that he's staring up at the cracked and water-stained ceiling. He aches all over, and his muscles feel as though they've been wrung out like a dishrag.
Shouichi is leaning against the headboard and peering down at him. "Back with us, I see."
Daiki remembers that it's customary to respond when being addressed after a bit, and eventually manages to put together an answer. "Holy fuck."
Shouichi grins at that, slow and self-satisfied. "Take it that scratched your itch," he drawls. He drops a hand down and ruffles Daiki's hair. "Satisfaction is guaranteed."
"Nngh," Daiki says, because he's all out of the wherewithal to deal with that—that—whatever that is, sarcasm or professional pride or a twisted sense of humor.
Shouichi pats his head. "Well," he says then, "next time you get itchy, you know where to find me." He seems to take it as a given that Daiki will be back.
Daiki gazes up at him, and it occurs to him that Shouichi is probably right that he will. "Fuck," he says.
It's no comfort at all when this only serves to make Shouichi laugh at him again.
end
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