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The stuffy air of the truck’s filled with Shoichi’s favorite smell, that dark, salty musk that almost reminds him of the sea.
...Ha. Leave it to Yuusaku to make a poet out of him. He does like it when Shoichi talks pretty, after all, even when he pretends to roll his eyes or scoff. It’s a fun game—flustering Yuusaku to the point where his walls come down. Knowing which strings to pluck at what time, like now when there are verses in his head and Shoichi decides there’s a much better use for his mouth. He leans toward the practical too, in the end.
Yuusaku is a picture: slumped in Shoichi’s trusty computer chair, knees drawn up to his shoulders, wearing only a binder and a blush as pink as his hair. Still trying to hang onto his composure as Shoichi sucks on his clit, humming happily with the node between his lips before swirling his tongue around it, tracing nonsense patterns that make Yuusaku’s thighs tremble. His cunt’s tight and hot around Shoichi’s first two fingers; when he crooks them, a practiced curl of the digits like he’s beckoning Yuusaku closer, he starts to break, a quiet high-pitched cry spilling from his mouth before he gnashes his teeth and buries his face in the chair’s headrest.
“Aw, baby,” Shoichi teases, “it’s like you don’t want me to know I’m doing a good job.”
“Don’t—” Yuusaku chokes on his words, swallows hard like his mouth’s as uselessly wet as his pussy. Just the thought of it makes Shoichi’s cock throb, and he grinds the heel of his hand into the crotch of his jeans like he’s telling it to behave. He’d eat Yuusaku out just for the sake of it, but his partner loves to repay his favors. For now, though, Yuusaku gives talking another try. “S… smug... piece of—”
“I’m not so sure you want to finish that,” Shoichi purrs, and pumps his fingers harder. A loud groan tears through Yuusaku’s clenched teeth as his walls contract. Almost, Shoichi thinks. “You want to run that by me again? Want to tell me how you don’t even care if you get to cum? Bet you can just finish yourself off, right? When you’re playing with your little cock, who is it you think about, hm?”
“Fuck,” he whispers, “shit...”
“My baby thinks he’s smarter than me.” Shoichi presses the pad of his thumb against Yuusaku’s clit; the friction gets him panting, mouth open, tongue out. “Like I don’t know you use my showerhead to get off every time you stay at my place. Like I couldn’t guess the porn you watch is full of men who look just like me. You’re not as hard to read as you want to be, Yuusaku, not to me, anyway. You’re obsessed. You’re so hot for me it makes you look stupid.”
“Sh... shu...”
He’s still trying. It’s the obstiance Shoichi fell in love with first, after all. "Don’t worry,” he murmurs, and moves aside his thumb to take Yuusaku’s fat clit between his lips again, sucking hard enough to make Yuusaku gasp and buck his hips. “You’ve got me pretty fucking whipped, too.”
“I wanna cum,” he blurts out, the words running into each other. “N, no more teasing, just make me cum, lemme cum so fucking hard, Kusa, Shoichi-san—”
“Call me by my right name,” Shoichi murmurs, “and be a good boy and ask nicely, and I’ll see what I can do.”
There’s a pregnant pause filled with only the sounds of Yuusaku’s desperate, breathy moans and the squishy noises his sopping cunt makes as Shoichi fucks it with his fingers. Then, in a tiny voice that doesn’t belong to him: “Please just let me cum, Shoichi, ca—can I cum? Will you let me cum? I need to cum, please, Shoichi, I need it so bad, it’s so good and I wanna cum or it feels like I’m gonna lose my fucking mind—”
He hums his approval, tongue pressed flat against Yuusaku’s eager little cock. But apparently it doesn’t get through, or he’s making good on his threat, because Yuusaku doesn’t stop. And it’s music to Shoichi’s ears, hearing him beg. “Please, please, I’m so close, I’m so close and I wanna cum and I’ll do anything, Shoichi, pleasepleaseplease—”
“Why don’t you cum nice and pretty for me, then.” Which is all the invitation he needs. His back arches in Shoichi’s chair like a hunter’s bow as he sobs through his orgasm, and Shoichi’s torn between watching his beautiful face crumple and cry and seeing his perfect pussy throb and drool out fluid. He keeps thrusting his fingers as Yuusaku cums on them, around them, relishing in the feel of the same contractions making his precious partner shake and moan and yell.
“Thank you,” Yuusaku manages, “thank you, thank you—”
“That’s a good boy,” Shoichi croons, as he gradually lets up on his relentless thrusts. Yuusaku’s still weeping, soft and vulnerable, and Shoichi thinks he might need him. “Was it good for you, baby? Did you get what you wanted?”
“Mm. Yeah.” He’s starting to come down, it seems like, slowly, his breathing still ragged and wet as he sags in Shoichi’s chair. The bashfulness resurfaces, like he’s not sitting almost totally naked in their truck with his legs still spread wide. “...I. Lost control there, for, for a moment. …Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Shoichi hums, grinning, “just means I did my job.”
Yuusaku turns, if possible, even redder, and rearranges himself more comfortably in the seat. “I’ll do it for you too. Just. Give me a moment,” he says, as he’s clearly still trying to gain a hold of his breathing. Shoichi demurs.
“Later. You’re exhausted and it’ll be a huge mess anyway. I’m already going to have to disinfect in here,” he tells him. He massages Yuusaku’s calves up to his knees, soft hair tickling his palms and fingertips. His mouth twitches with a small smirk. “You can swallow my cock once we’re home and you’re cozy in bed."
“...Honestly,” Yuusaku mutters, with a scowl Shoichi sees right through.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. I’ve got wipes, that’ll have to tide you over ‘til we get home, though by that time you probably won’t be wanting new pants right away anyway.” Yuusaku’s a bit unsteady on his feet as Shoichi rises from his knees and cups his elbows to support him. “...Here’s hoping you didn’t ruin my favorite chair by creaming so hard in it.”
“I can think of several reasons that would not be my fault,” Yuusaku deadpans.
“At least three, I hope?” Shoichi supplies.
A weak shove. “Shut up.”
He steals a kiss instead, which he likes to think is following instructions at least by technicality, and Yuusaku sighs and leans into him and forgets to complain.