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It was Thursday afternoon, edging into evening, and the apartment walls may well have been rice paper for the malicious thickness of the air. The only sound was the long-suffering drone of the old AC unit, sweeping back and forth. Shouta was starfished naked on his futon, hovering on the edge of a hot and heavy sleep, when the apartment door opened.
There was a click, and footsteps. Though he didn't raise his head at the intrusion, he listened until he heard the thump of Toshinori setting down his side-saddle bag by the door, beside their shoes. Surfacing, Shouta made a gruff noise to indicate that he was alive, even if the sight of him air-drying on the floor post-shower was a common one these days. Considering their profession, it was just polite.
“Ah! My poor sensei,” Toshi tutted upon spotting him, like he didn't also have twenty screaming children to attend to on a daily basis. Then again, as the resident active hero who still had functional knee caps, the duty of training those who required hand-to-hand combat often fell to Shouta, which routinely left him splayed and wafting away whatever perspiration and stress his rotating mini-fan couldn't manage in the afternoons.
He was fused to the sheets, fused to the futon, and every breath was a miserable gout of steam. It was sweltering, and it was only the beginning.
Half-dead, Shouta grumbled at nothing and everything as Toshinori knocked around in the kitchen for a moment, then made another, far more primal sound of relief when Toshinori kneeled beside him and placed a cloth-wrapped ice pack on his neck. It was like a starburst of cool, clean heaven.
“Look at you,” came the husky voice above him, paired with a big hand peeling the rest of his smothering hair from his neck. “You're soaked.”
Toshinori sounded tired, too. Shouta felt almost defensive on his behalf, and ready to fight the coming Summer months with his bare hands. It wasn't easy getting anywhere in this sauna, much less with one lung, and he hated to think of how quickly walking wore the retired hero out even as he refused to say so.
Stubborn. Independent. He worried.
“Yeah,” he said instead. “Must be 32 degrees out there.”
“Ah, it's the humidity. I told you to consider training in ground Zeta,” Toshinori said with a quiet sigh, dabbing the icepack down his naked, aching back in a way that made Shouta want to propose, and also made his ass clench ecstatically. He bit back a moan, shivering.
“Too far, too little time,” he muttered into the sticky sheets, then raised his head and fumbled a hand up to wipe the curtain of hair away from his face, drenched with sweat and water. “Shitty weather. Makes you wish for typhoons.”
Toshinori's only response was a humming noise and then simple silence – not that their conversation was anything other than a ritual they went through every other weekday, every training day, before the older hero left him to nap and attended to what grading he could until darkness and dinner. The ice pack was a new addition, though, and Shouta – more specifically, Shouta's last braincell leftover from drilling Shinsou in binding cloth techniques – was pleased.
With the air on his back and Toshinori in charge of the icepack, he could almost pretend it wasn't hot season. Shouta drifted between the cool glow and the sweat slipping down his sides, eyelids fluttering, and made a questioning sound when he felt fingertips smoothing over his back in gentle patterns.
“May I?” Toshinori's deep voice was soft and hopeful. If Shouta flushed at the clear implication of privilege in the question, his face was already buried in the rumpled sheets. Instead, he spread his legs without a word.
Toshinori laughed, settling beside him and wasting no time in spoiling the expanse of his bruised body with his large and talented hands. He may not have been professionally trained, and his arthritis limited these kinds of things, but Toshinori wasn't afraid to use his strength in lovingly wringing the worst of the knots out of his unhappy muscles. For that, Shouta couldn't have been more thankful … and sometimes, even when the very idea of touching another human being was disgusting, it didn't really count when it was Toshinori.
First, he felt callused thumbs dig into the meat of his shoulders, pressing out the worst of the stiffness. Then, Shouta moaned and groaned as the heel of Toshinori's palm, tough and bony, pulped every angry major muscle group with wonderfully evil, meditative little circles until he couldn't even arch into the pressure. He focused on breathing as the pain-pleasure ebbed and flowed, absently flexing his toes and listening to the gentle, close rustle of Toshinori's starched button-down as he shifted and pushed and scrubbed so devoutly, wringing him down to glorious nothing.
It was only when the worst of the work was over and Toshinori's touch softened, fingertips lazily chasing the last beads of sweat down his sides and in between Shouta's spread legs, that the shivers turned from cold to very, very hot.
Within a moment, the summer sitting heavy in the room paled in comparison to the heat and tension radiating from Shouta's naked back. His dick was hard past the point of no return and strained between his belly and the bed when Toshinori grazed his ass in passing before moving down to squeeze his way down one thick thigh with each hand. The gripping, pumping motion of it almost forced Shouta to hump the bed and fuck, just the thought of being gently shoved like that until he creamed the sheets was the last straw.
Once a blessing, the cool back-and-forth blast of the mini fan was just annoying now, buffeting the older hero's hands and generally getting in the way of Toshinori touching him. Shouta groped around until he hit on the base of the fan and shut it off, then shoved it over onto the floor with a plasticky clatter. Just to be completely clear.
“Oh?” Toshinori chuckled in the fresh silence, slightly breathless. His hands lifted from Shouta's legs, presumably to hover there politely. “Are you done?”
“No,” Shouta grunted into his folded arms, and rolled his hips up. He didn't want politeness. He wanted those hands back on him. “Neither are you.”
“Oh?”
Oh again. He loved to play the oblivious old man card, but he was a notoriously easy trigger. Rubbing him up and down like this, Shouta bet he was close to bursting out of his slacks.
“Are you hard?” Shouta asked, less a question than a thought steaming directly out of his mouth under the press of heat.
“Shouta!” Toshinori pretended to stutter, but Shouta was well aware of his little airs by now. Otherwise, the old man wouldn't be palming his ass again, voice deep and rumbling and so very disappointed.
“I – You wound me.”
“Are you?” he pressed, craning his head around as if to see. In response, Shouta felt a big hand cup his head and gently push it down, fingertips scrubbing through his damp hair without relinquishing that grip. The touch had been so soothing before. Now, it only made Shouta twitch and added fuel to the fire, and he pushed his chin and his stiff dick into the sheets, growling.
“I'm perfectly capable of seeing your naked body and not flying into a fit of lust, thank you. I can resist my own desires,” Toshinori was busy informing him, to which Shouta snorted.
“Why bother?”
He made to rise in earnest and Toshinori shoved him back down, cheek to the floor. His cock was throbbing even before the older hero-turned-teacher shifted his weight and leisurely bent over him, mouth against his ear.
“You've worked hard enough today, sensei. May I continue?”
Shouta nodded, or said yes, or something. It was too hot, he couldn't think, and now his insides were burning up, too. Mostly, he settled atop the sheets and vibrated, waiting for the first touch.
Predictably, with Shouta breathing hard through his nose and fidgeting under his massive shadow, Toshinori first kissed his shoulders. They were sensual, open-mouthed and tasting kisses, warm and wet enough to make Shouta melt and want that mouth elsewhere. Down, preferably. Down and buried between his asscheeks, eating him out for about an hour.
And down he went, but in tantalizing stages and sections, dinner-plate hands cupping his sides and holding him to the bed as Toshinori devotedly sampled every bit of his skin, even rubbing his stubbly cheek over the tenderest ticklish bits in the small of his back and biting into him in little ways that made Shouta fist the sheets to stay still and stay quiet.
Then, right as his wet mouth closed over the top of his asscheek, sucking noisily, and Shouta felt twin thumbs dig in and part his ass down the middle like an over-ripe peach and he absolutely ceased to breathe, Toshinori rose with a throaty sigh and draped himself along his back again, nose in his wet hair.
“You washed your hair,” he murmured, nuzzling in to place a light, sweet kiss on the back of his neck. Alert as he was, the soft touch travelled down Shouta's overheated core and nearly made him cum into the sheets.
“It smells amazing. Is that the new bottle that Kayama-kun dropped off?”
“Huh. Yeah.” Shouta grunted, so pinned he couldn't arch into Toshinori's hand now shamelessly petting and squeezing his asscheek like a piece of meat. The way it fit, he felt oddly, deliciously small, and he couldn't think of what the new shampoo bottle even looked like. Color, shape, anything? What of the last hour of his life, before this torture started?
Fuck, his brain was frozen.
“Toshinori.”
“Hm?”
“Toshinori,” he repeated, almost panting. He let his flushed face fall against the sheets in defeat, groaning and tasting sweat on his own cracked lips. “I'm tired.”
Too tired for this song and dance, he meant, but Toshinori was no pushover when it came to extortion. He made an understanding-yet-disappointed noise and leaned over to press another kiss to the side of his head.
“Ah. Understandable. We should stop, then.”
“You should stop fucking around and eat my ass, is what you should do,” Shouta grumbled instantly, to a delighted bark of laughter from his idiot of a boyfriend.
Toshinori laughed. He laughed and laughed, guffawing in pure rambunctious glee, but thankfully it wasn't the kind of ordeal he would have expected from, say, All Might. Toshinori didn't like gloating any more than he liked playing past a white flag. Not in this game, at least.
“Goodness. How could I refuse?”
Toshinori leaned over his shoulder and turned Shouta's chin with a hand, drinking in the instant groan of relief as he kissed Shouta hard. Shouta struggled in his grip and sucked messily on the angled, insufficient thrust of his tongue as he shamelessly ground his dick against the futon, sparks gushing into his belly from the pressure and rub.
He whined again – tired – and Shouta thought for an instant what it was, to have someone he could whine in front of. Communicate needs, admit weakness and, beyond any games or good-natured boundary play, have that need fully respected and answered.
And then Toshinori's tongue was in his ass and he wasn't thinking about anything at all.
He groaned in relief, grunting greedily in rhythm as Toshinori lapped at his hole with a low, pleased hum that went straight to his balls. Just when he thought he couldn't take the silky pressure glossing back and forth over the whorl of his aching rim, he felt a hard finger slide in and a tongue ease in after and bit the sheets in agony. He shoved his ass back to meet that slippery girth and groaned helplessly when Toshinori grabbed his hips and propped him up on his knees like a doll so he could hold his legs apart and bury his face in his sticky ass exactly how he wanted, panting and rumbling. Shouta heaved and shook each time his tongue shoved in and squirmed deep, stirring his superheated insides open like Toshinori was going to find his heavy, aching prostate and suck it dry with his mouth alone.
Shouta loved this. It was actually, factually devastating, how much he loved it, and Toshinori had made no secret of the fact that one day he planned to drag Shouta to cumming with just his tongue and his big hands holding him to the bed, whether it took an hour or five.
Thankfully, today was not that day.
Moaning under his breath, half swooning amid the wet crackle of spit and heavy breath against his sensitive skin, Shouta craned downward and back, feeling the resistance in his sore back and hips as a familiar but far-away warning as he reached under his own spread legs. The exertion and thrill of almost bending himself in half like this made his asshole clamp down and pull at Toshinori's busy tongue, and it only made him want to beg for the man's cock with his entire body.
Any orifice, any way, any time, as long as he never stopped.
He panted sharply when his shaking fingers found the stiff heat of Toshinori's dick tenting his business slacks. He only managed a clumsy, glancing grope before Toshinori pulled back and captured his scrambling fingers in his own, already chuckling.
“You're too flexible for your own good, my love.”
Shouta snarled in response, caught. He couldn't turn his head, but he could imagine the front of Toshinori's button-down blotted with sweat from excitement, from the exertion and pleasure of licking his ass wide. He could hear the rough heat in his voice, the want, and he wanted to see how blue his irises were, lit by that unexpected ferocity fucking brought out in him.
“Fuck me,” Shouta hissed, huffing shallowly from the top of his crunched belly. His legs were beginning to shake, but all he could feel was the softened gape of his own exposed rim and the way Toshinori held him in place to look, admire, and decide what to shove in him next. All of him throbbed, and the lack of air was dizzying in the heat.
“How about you show me exactly how flexible you are, hm?” Toshinori rasped at last, stifling a small cough and smacking his inner thigh. “On your back.”
Shouta hurried to comply, but he wasn't as young as he used to be and unfolding himself from a poor decision wasn't so simple. Seeing no recourse but to complete the forward roll he'd accidentally wedged himself into, he cursed when his weak legs wobbled wide and he nearly kicked his boyfriend under the chin on the way. Not the kind of hand-to-hand he was expecting today, to be sure.
Toshinori was laughing again when he clumsily straightened himself out, then abruptly wasn't once Shouta was on his back on the futon, feet planted wide and chest heaving and utterly, irrationally exposed.
Shouta didn't mind being naked. He preferred it, and was generally practical about sex as well, but once Toshinori looked at him, really looked, that's when he felt defenseless. Something about the retired hero's gaze always quieted him, stilled him. It wasn't just the stark black and stunning blue, but how much those eyes had seen over a lifetime as a hero.
And yet, Shouta often found himself on the receiving end of a long, unabashed stare ... like he was something worth looking at. Something to study, and fall into. To be honest, his brain couldn't handle it.
It was that same electric attention he found himself under now, the older man's gaze unwavering as big hands mechanically loosed his belt and he reached for the lube they kept bedside. Self-conscious or nervous or just plain needy, Shouta palmed his dick and automatically slicked his fingers with the precum pooled molten at the tip, shivering at the smooth glide of his fingers and the needy flex of his cock, biting his lip and watching Toshinori watch him gingerly touch himself.
“Oh, Shouta.” Toshinori said at last, nothing more than a rosy sigh with teeth and tongue in the shape of his name. He savored it, and for an instant Shouta just couldn't comprehend having a man like that look at him in such a way, who kept coming back to look at him and touch him, and kiss him. Suddenly, his heart was pounding.
So handsome.
I could touch you all day.
I'm so lucky.
My love!
All the ridiculous little comments Toshinori had made over the past year piled up into that one smoldering look – things he had brusquely snorted away at the time, but perhaps more importantly, things he never expected anyone to say to him and mean. In the height of irrationality, Shouta began to quail as the retired pro leaned down and almost turned away when Toshinori briefly scrubbed a thumb along his stubbly chin and cupped his face. Then he just started to touch him.
First, it was a tickle at his neck. Callused fingertips traced over his Adam's apple and along his carved collarbones, dragging through the sweat there. Toshinori's big hand paused over his heart and then wandered down his chest and belly until long crooked fingers smoothed over his own where they curled around his stiff cock, then glided up the inside of his thigh and the stark line of his sartoris muscle. He lifted Shouta's legs over his shoulders and settled them there, clasped close like an embrace.
Like every part of him was just as relevant, just as erotic and important as the next, Toshinori just knelt there and held him as if in reverie, bright hair plastered to his temple and hollowed cheek, radiant with the sheen of sweat enriching his sunny skin.
Shouta closed his eyes. He had to.
The emotion was so intense as the older hero turned his face and pressed a long, lingering kiss to his knee – his knee, scuffed from that morning and scabbing – that Shouta almost felt as though he were intruding on something. Or it could have been how dangerously full his chest was, as if the silent worship had condensed and rushed down his naked legs to pool under his chin, tumultuous, achingly massive and ever-churning, shaking his heart up and begging for one less sense to marshal.
There were any number of reasons why he closed his eyes, and exactly one reason why he opened them. Shouta instantly recoiled with a sound of disgust and surprise when something cool and slimy quickly slipped into the miserably sweaty seam under his knee. He was greeted by the sight of Toshinori grinning down at him, tongue out as if to leave no question on what had happened.
“Don't fall asleep on me, sensei,” he drawled, turning as if to kiss – or tongue-fuck – his knee again. Shouta squeezed his legs together almost as a reflex, catching the idiot's head between and giving it a stern little shake. It was definitely a reflex to grin when Toshinori erupted with a guilty, riotous peal of laughter, grappling Shouta's sweaty legs from his ears like he wasn't the strongest man on earth a year ago.
It was a fantastic sound, sweet and tumbling and stupid. Uncontrollable in a way that sang of trust, or a lifetime of restraint finally cast off. It made Shouta think of what Emi had said one night after drinking far too much, that a person's soul could be seen in their laugh.
He didn't laugh much, he thought. Could Toshinori see him half as well as he could see Toshinori?
“Pervert,” Shouta murmured. His stomach felt full and fluttery as he angled his leg to smear one of his boyfriend's rowdy bangs out of his face and failed, and he was still smiling like an idiot. Wiping hair and sweat from his shadowed eyes, Toshinori tilted his head and sighed, grimacing.
“Ah, but this pervert's dick is so very, very hard.”
Shouta bit his tongue. Freed from his pants and framed between his spread legs, he watched Toshinori's hand stroke the terribly hard dick in question, tip ruddy and shining wet under his thumb. Also, two inches from his ass.
“Are you going to take responsibility for what you've done, Shou?” Toshinori asked, carefully caressing the magnificent cock as if just to show off how fat it sat in his palm. Shouta wet his lips. With a squeeze of his fist, Toshinori's deep voice lowered to a husky moan, looking down at him with a suddenly scorching gaze. “What you've always done to me?”
Shouta was never very good at words, but he became downright stupid when it came to things like this. Namely, when the thing he wanted most was just out of reach, and Toshinori was making sure to torture him with that inability to speak. After rudely drizzling freezing lube between his cheeks, he seated his cock there and rocked his hips just enough to rub over Shouta's aching hole, looking down and biting his lip at whatever he was seeing.
All of his growling and wordless pleas came to nothing, as did any attempt to meet Toshinori's torturous rhythm. In fact, the bastard made him reach up and do it himself, fingertips scrabbling to hold his lube-smeared asscheeks apart until Toshinori lovingly nudged the blunt head of his cock past his rim. He crooned at him all the while as Shouta started to minutely writhe and shake with every little push deeper inside, struggling to stay still and accept.
So soft. So good. Will you let me fuck you? Ah, I dream about you. I dream about this.
The words didn't matter, but the warm baritone cradled Shouta in the moment and gave him permission to whine and gasp as Toshinori eased his cock deeper with a delicious aching stretch and rumbling reassurances, suspended with his knees safely anchored to Toshinori's shoulders. Soon he was clawing at the sheets, groaning from his gut with every leisurely smack of his ass against the hero's slacks as his cock drove deep and squelching. His eyes rolled back, the lines between him and the sheets and the humid air blurring with the heat pulsing from his skin, pleasure soaking him through and boiling up and out.
“Sh-shouta.”
Toshinori whispered it above him, needy, reverent, and in the same breath pinned him in half, knees by his ears. Liquified by the arousal and the heat and the cock buried in him, his body complied and he moaned as Toshinori slid even deeper and pleasure wracked his insides. They locked lips as if dying for air and Shouta was thankful for it – beyond the carnal satisfaction of Toshinori's tongue filling his mouth in dizzying thrusts, it muffled his sounds as Toshinori slammed into his ass, so he could whine and cry and yes and yes as he went over, fizzling at the ears and clenching down as his dick pulsed and cum painted his chest with every thrust of Toshinori's thick cock.
Still Toshinori fucked him into the mattress with wet sounds, sweat dripping from his chin and nose and eyes burning tender blue. Just as Shouta began to beg from the heat and pressure, Toshinori hissed and threw his whole weight onto his knees, slapping into him so hard that Shouta saw stars and felt him cum.
Toshinori stuttered to a standstill atop him, gasping in the muggy air. It reeked of sex, and hard sex at that. Shouta was happy to do nothing more than groan in mingled pain and pleasure as Toshinori dragged his sticky cock out and pushed it deep again as if in a trance. Shouta shivered with relish to feel his raw and ruined insides twitch around Toshinori's slippery girth as if in an attempt to hold him in.
Any way, any time, as long as he never stopped. That was all he wanted.
But that wasn't all. Because he didn't want to stop any part of this. Ever.
“Is it what you wanted?” Toshinori rasped when he caught his labored breath, thin mouth twitching into a dazed smile. Was he a mindreader? Shouta just nodded, wincing as Toshinori pulled out and pulled away, helping him unbend himself again. Without the lubrication of endorphins, parts of him popped and cracked and, shit, he would probably need to soak this out in the tub or there would be hell to pay tomorrow. Fuck.
“Ah. My god,” Toshinori sighed and hissed, straightening himself out in that fussy way he had. “Fuck. You are ...”
Shouta looked around blearily as he trailed off, but Toshinori didn't actually need to finish his sentence.
The options were obvious – a mess, a slut, garbage, ridiculous – but the unwavering tenderness shining from the older hero's shadowed eyes was enough to make Shouta turn away in the quiet of his swampy apartment like a blushing schoolgirl, his heart fluttering in his chest. After a moment, he grabbed Toshinori's hand and kissed it, like a consolation prize, or maybe a promise to accept that look, and everything it said, later.
Then he reached out and propped the fan upright and turned it on, sighing loudly as the cool air gushed over his flushed skin.
“Makes you wish for typhoons,” he grumbled, picking up their evening right where they'd left off, plus an orgasm or two.
Toshinori knew it and chuckled, folding a huge hand around the back of his slippery neck and pressing another kiss to Shouta's temple. He smelled like skin and sex and safety, and Shouta didn't resist the extra cloying stickiness that came with the touch, or try to spare his co-teacher's white button-down. Toshi was hot, sweaty, gross, and undeniably home.
“As long as we're sheltering in place, I wouldn't say no to catching up on grading, if I'm honest,” Toshinori admitted, already petting him again for no reason at all. Even though he was sweaty, and objectively unpleasant, and covered in cum. When Shouta blinked up at him, wondering at the older man's very existence and the logic lacking between them, Toshinori tilted his head and gave him a sweet, thoroughly spent smile.
“Shower?”
“Shower,” Shouta agreed, then smirked, snaking his fingers into the front of his co-teacher's open fly. “Dirty old men need to get clean.”