Wakatoshi is hardly the sentimental sort of fellow, but he can never forget the first time he fucked Tooru. It’s easy to remember, to be taken back to that moment, because Tooru still feels as tight as the first time Wakatoshi had taken him.
He doesn’t know how Tooru manages to make the initial slide so satisfying every single time, but Wakatoshi certainly isn’t complaining.
“Tooru,” he groans when he bottoms out, which always requires a moment of pause.
It’s during this time that he collects himself, reminds himself that he will make his lover cum before he does, because Wakatoshi is a gentleman, after all. It’s a moment of adjustment for Tooru, too,
who bites his lip and grasps his cock by the base, clearly eager to make this good.
And why not? He’s earned it. Wakatoshi makes sure his lover knows it, too.
Every time Wakatoshi pushes into Tooru’s entrance, he murmurs strings of words ranging from filthy to tender, just how Tooru likes it, just the way he deserves.
Tooru will never admit it, at least not out loud, but he craves affection just as much as attention, and the one thing he treasures more than hundreds of eyes on him is Wakatoshi’s devotion.
And so every time he pulls his hips back, he kisses Tooru. Everywhere—his lips, his cheeks, his jaw, his neck—and anywhere that his lips can’t touch, he caresses with the pads of his fingers—his nipples, his navel, his ass—and Tooru whines.
Because, see, the thing is, Tooru loves fucking. He loves the theatrics, learning all the ways he can bend Wakatoshi to his will, pushing past limits and soaring to new highs.
But there is nothing that Tooru loves more than being made love to. Being told he’s beautiful, that he’s been good. Being held like he’s something worth cherishing.
Being fucked so slowly and deliberately that he’s left sobbing, face wet with tears and painted with the desire to be wanted.
And, oh, how Wakatoshi wants him.
“I’ve been good, haven’t I, Toshi?” he smirks, but the facade has cracked, and underneath Wakatoshi sees Tooru, his Tooru, and that yearning to be told—
“Yes.” In. “You.” Out. “Have.” In.
Each word is punctuated with a long, deep thrust, the kind that brushes against Tooru’s prostate dead on and has his throat feeling full, as if Wakatoshi’s cock were hitting the back of his throat, too.
And what a pleasure that would be, to be taken by Wakatoshi from both ends. The thought of it makes him shiver with delight.
He kisses Wakatoshi, deceptively sweet and chaste, before he wraps his arms around Wakatoshi’s neck as he locks his ankles securely behind his lover’s lower back.
Tooru sighs into Wakatoshi’s mouth, “Then don’t I deserve a reward?”
“You do,” Wakatoshi affirms, smiling, “How do you want me, darling?”
The term of endearment makes Tooru chuckle. The sound feels soft against Wakatoshi’s own chest.
“I want you nice and slow,” he says, warm chocolate eyes now a dirty espresso brown. “Then I want you to wreck me.”
When Tooru comes apart, his mouth is parted in a silent cry. Even if he cried with a shout, even if the sound didn’t get stuck in his throat, it’s unlikely that it would have been heard over the harsh slapping of skin against skin, loud and obscene.
Wakatoshi only lets himself get lost in his bliss when Tooru’s cock has spurted its last bead of cum, just as any gentleman should. He doesn’t collapse on top of Tooru, even if a part of him thinks he might.
He lowers himself enough to whisper into Tooru’s ear.
“What shall we do next?”
Tooru grins, noting Wakatoshi’s still-hard cock. There’s a hunger that has saturated every inch and corner of the room. It’s abundant and inescapable, and he and Wakatoshi have never been known to deny their own sexual appetite.
“I’ve got a few ideas.”
/ This is an excerpt from one of the filthiest fics I’ve ever written. Go check it out, if you like what you see! It’s Ushioi x Ushioi ;)
Oikawa as the Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up, and Ushijima who stumbles into Neverland on one strange, unforgettable night.
“Do you believe in magic?”
Ushijima frowns, shakes his head.
Oikawa laughs, proud and pretty.
“Let me prove you wrong, then.”
Oikawa takes Ushijima’s hand in his, small and warm, grip gentle but firm. Bathed in something luminous that Sugawara had called pixie dust, Ushijima and Oikawa start to float, ascending into the moonlit sky slowly but surely, as if they weighed no more than a feather.
Ushijima doesn’t know what to say; things like this only happened in the films his mother sometimes permitted him to watch. Everything about this—this island, this boy—defies logic. But instead of fear, something softer, more tender unfurls in his chest as he gazes at Oikawa,
Wakatoshi has known the realities of arranged marriages from a tender age. His parents’ marriage, as loveless as it is enduring, is one of convenience.
That’s why, when it was decided that Wakatoshi would marry Tooru,
a prince from the House of Aoba Johsai, Wakatoshi knew, more or less, what to expect. He’d been prepared for this. He must be strong for it would be a marriage that is cold, lonesome, and unhappy; they would be partners, but only in the most detached, distant sense.
Except, when Wakatoshi saw Tooru enter the House of Shiratorizawa for the first time, dressed in a variance of blue and green fabrics, smiling at Wakatoshi’s parents like Tooru had known them his whole life,
Wakatoshi is much bigger than every single one of Tooru’s past lovers.
He’s long enough that Tooru feels him in the back of his throat before he even bottoms out, thick enough that Tooru has to use both hands to completely encircle his girth.
Tooru’s mouth stretches obscenely, enveloping as much of Wakatoshi’s cock as he can. And when he smiles, he knows he looks a little insane, debauched, disgusting with how much spit spills from his lips, but he knows, by the way Wakatoshi’s cock quivers, that Wakatoshi /likes/ it.
Ushijima, arranged to be married to a woman he barely knows, meets stunning and single Oikawa, their wedding planner.
The attraction is instant. It’s dangerous, like a lit matchstick in a forest.
To his credit, Oikawa keeps his distance. There is always space between them. But his glances, brief as they are, linger like the touch of a hand that Ushijima aches to hold.
His fiancée and Oikawa are both strangers to him, but Ushijima can see himself loving only one, and it is the person he cannot have.
Wakatoshi’s self-control is slipping, and Tooru is to blame.
“Toshi-nii, you feel so /good/,” Tooru moans as he rolls his hips in fervent, fluid motions that have the older alpha groaning.
Here’s the thing. Wakatoshi had always been protective of Tooru. When they were younger, he found himself playing the part of the knight in shining armor, even when Tooru himself was no delicate princeling and was capable of fighting (and starting) his own battles.
It didn’t matter that Tooru had an older sister who was just as protective. Wakatoshi made it his job to make sure Tooru was happy and unharmed.