Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4778942.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      ダイヤのA_|_Daiya_no_A_|_Ace_of_Diamond
  Relationship:
      Sanada_Shunpei/Todoroki_Raichi
  Character:
      Sanada_Shunpei, Todoroki_Raichi
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Relationship, Semi-Public_Sex, Dom/sub_Undertones, Dirty
      Talk, No_Plot/Plotless, Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Shower_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-10-06 Words: 2712
****** Contradiction ******
by tastewithouttalent
Summary
     "It’s in the aftermath of all that adrenaline that Sanada finds his
     favorite side of Raichi." Raichi is a walking contradiction and
     Sanada likes to see both sides of him.
Sanada learns quickly that Raichi is best right after baseball games.
Before them he’s too tight-wound, with his eyes wild and unfocused, with his
mouth drawing into a grin as manic as it is delighted. Sanada can’t talk to him
then any more than he can usually get coherency from between Raichi’s
desperately devoted “Sanada-senpai!”s or the glaze of abstracted idolization in
the other’s dark eyes, and he’s never enjoyed wasting his time on a pointless
pursuit. Besides, he has his own concerns to think about, reflections on the
flow of the game to come and the imagined pattern of a baseball pressing
against his palm to hold like a premonition. So he leaves Raichi to his too-
loud cackle, and indulges himself in the focus needed to center himself, and if
they speak at all it’s in cheers from the dugout, yells that neither of them
hear for their focus on the moment at hand.
But after...it’s in the aftermath of all that adrenaline that Sanada finds his
favorite side of Raichi.
“Raichi,” he says now, breathing the name against the other boy’s ear and
watching the way Raichi shudders helplessly under the spray of the locker-room
showers, the way the water does nothing at all to rinse away the flush staining
his cheeks, his neck, the back of his shoulders, the way anticipation floods
his veins with heat that needs no further encouragement. “What do you want me
to do to you?”
“Sanada-senpai” Raichi chokes, sounding like he’s fighting for every syllable,
like he’s forgotten how to speak between the breathless coughs of laughing and
the growls of threats he’s aimed at the other team. His eyes are shut, Sanada
knows without looking, his head tipped up and back to strain his throat into an
agonized harshness; Sanada looks at his shoulders instead, watches the strain
of effort working along the line of his back as Raichi’s bracing hands against
the wall tense, his fingers curling like he’s trying to drive his hold straight
into the tile to hold himself steady.
“That’s not an answer,” Sanada points out. Raichi’s feet are wide apart
already, the stance necessary for him to keep his balance on slippery tile with
legs shaky from the exertion of the game. Sanada reaches out, fits his fingers
into the shadow between Raichi’s thighs, lets the tremble of the other’s
reaction shiver up his arm and prickle anticipation down his spine. “Are you
going to tell me what you want?”
“Hhh,” Raichi whimpers, head dropping forward like he’s forgotten how to hold
it up. Sanada’s pretty sure Raichi’s not seeing anything but he steps closer
anyway, reaches out to slide his other hand around the sharp edge of Raichi’s
hip and spread his fingers wide over the other’s stomach, just to give Raichi
something to look at.
“Want me to tell you instead?” Sanada offers, as he always knew he would offer,
because he can hear how hard Raichi is breathing and can see the tension in his
shoulders and knows, as they both know, that this was always waiting for them
at the end of the game.
“Yeah,” Raichi manages. “Sanada-senpai.”
“Mm,” Sanada hums, just to taste the vibration on his tongue, to give the flush
of power in his veins time to settle and cool into something manageable instead
of the first hot surge of desire that tells him to grab, to bite and claw
and take as if he’s the one gone raw and wild from the field. The spray of the
shower catches at his fingers, skids down the skinny line of Raichi’s spine,
and Sanada presses harder with the hand bracing Raichi’s stomach, fits spread-
out fingers into a hold as his other hand draws up, up, up, along the quiver in
Raichi’s thighs to the tense heat at his entrance.
“You want me to touch you,” Sanada says, watching the door to the showers with
only half his attention on the possibility of being interrupted, only whatever
is left after the friction under his fingers and the splash of the water have
claimed dominance over his attention. He pushes with one finger, threatening
friction without enough force to follow through, and Raichi gasps something
wordless and loud, a tremor of response given shape into sound. “Here,” Sanada
says, then lets his hand bracing Raichi’s stomach slide down, until he can
stretch his little finger out and bump the base of Raichi’s flushed cock, a
glancing impact that still makes Raichi choke and shake with the suggestion.
“And here.” He tilts his hips in, fits his cock against the edge of Raichi’s
hip, and Raichi gives up some garbled sound, words torn to shreds over the
tension in his body until they’re nothing but noise.
“You want me to fuck you,” Sanada says, deliberately drawling out the rough
edges of the consonants, turning them into something hot enough to shudder
reaction through Raichi like a touch. “You want to come while I’m fucking you
up against the wall, right?”
“Sanada-senpai,” Raichi moans, hips working backwards like he’s trying to fuck
himself on Sanada’s fingers, and moving will ruin any chance of coherency but
Sanada doesn’t really need Raichi coherent anyway. He tilts his wrist into an
angle, pushes one finger carefully inside the other boy, and Raichi makes a
shattered sound, a growl dissolving into a groan as Sanada presses inside him.
“You don’t want to wait,” Sanada says, drawing back to ease forward again,
holding Raichi still against him to keep him from moving too fast and
disrupting the necessarily slow rhythm. “You want it right now, right here,
before we go back home, don’t you?”
“Sana--” Raichi starts before Sanada turns his hand, pushes in deep to arch
Raichi’s back into an involuntary curve, to tilt his head back on a startled
bark of sound. “Ah.”
“You should be quiet. Anyone could come in,” Sanada says, and he doesn’t think
Raichi’s really listening to his words but it hardly matters, not when this is
more for him than for anyone else. “What would the others think?” He draws his
hand back, sucks against his fingers for a moment for a little more
lubrication, and Raichi growls, raw and desperate and shaking for it, trembling
like Sanada’s hold is the only thing keeping him upright.
“You pinned up against the wall,” Sanada suggests, painting the picture in
broad strokes as he reaches back down to stretch Raichi open around a pair of
fingers, the force enough to jolt a tremor through the other boy and twitch hot
through his cock at Sanada’s fingertips. “Me behind you.” He ducks in close,
kisses wet off Raichi’s shoulder, and Raichi moans, dips his head in submission
to the water and the kiss at once as Sanada’s fingers thrust farther into him.
“We might not even see them right away,” he suggests, and Raichi is opening up
to him, gasping lungfuls of air gone audible and wet in the humidity as his
shoulders shiver with tension, his legs quaking with each thrust of Sanada’s
fingers. “It could be minutes of them just staring at me fucking you. Hearing
the sounds you make.” A thrust, a twist, and Raichi arches again, demonstrates
Sanada’s point with a groan that spills up from his throat as liquid as the
water around them. Sanada’s breathing faster, fighting for enough air from the
damp hanging around them and the heat in his veins, but his hand doesn’t slow,
the pace of his movement set by instinct rather than conscious effort.
“But you want me to fuck you anyway,” he says, certain enough to strip any
question from his tone as he draws his fingers back and brings his hand to his
mouth to lick damp across the calluses on his palm. Raichi is gasping, sounds
like he’s choking, like he can’t suck enough air from the space around him, his
hair wet and plastered to his face until all Sanada can see of him is the wet
slackness of his mouth, his inhales dropped into unconscious effort as he
braces against the wall. Sanada slicks his palm over himself, steps in between
Raichi’s wide-open stance, and then he has to lean in close, brace his hand on
the cool tile between Raichi’s and let his hold against the other’s stomach go
so he can steady himself instead, brace his fingers against the base of his
cock as he looks down to line himself up.
“Don’t you,” he says instead of asks, bumps the head of his cock against Raichi
so the other boy shudders and moans frantic incoherence. Sanada can feel the
ache of anticipation pooling low in his stomach, can see the adrenaline of the
game shivering in Raichi’s shoulders like an explosion waiting to go off, and
he knows, knows in the prickle under his skin and the tilt of Raichi’s hips and
the breathless, shared gasp of their breathing in the air.
But still.
“Tell me,” steady, certain, a tone that leaves no space to run, that hems
replies into refusal or acceptance without a gap in the middle. “Raichi. Do you
want this?”
“Sanada-senpai,” Raichi chokes, his tone lurching on desperation, fingers
dragging over the tile. “Please.”
“You have to tell me,” Sanada says, as unmoving as Raichi is trembling. “Is
this okay?”
“Sa--” Raichi starts, stops, chokes on the name like it’s costing him
coherency. There’s a pause, a deep breath, and then, in a rush: “I want.”
“You want me to fuck you?” Sanada says, repeating just for the slur of the
words on his tongue. He tips his hips forward, lets himself slide an inch into
the heat of Raichi’s body, and Raichi groans, long and low and so drawlingly
loud Sanada has a flicker of concern that they actually will get caught, that
one of their teammates will hear, that the door will open and the excitement of
possibility will collapse into the panic of reality. But Raichi is shivering,
is blurting “Yes” with fire on the word, and Sanada doesn’t think of stopping
the steady-slow thrust of his hips as he slides into the other boy.
“God,” he says, spilling the words to catch heat on the water in the air,
tipping himself forward to breathe hard off Raichi’s skin. “Raichi, you feel so
good.” He’s moving slow, finding a gentle rhythm to his motion, but Raichi is
gasping anyway, choking on the water in the air and shaking like he’s coming
apart, whimpering something half a groan and half appreciation against the
weight of the humidity. Sanada kisses his shoulder, drags his teeth over the
unmarked skin, and Raichi trembles with some suggestion of his usual fragility
as Sanada draws back to thrust in again, deeper this time, urging Raichi’s body
out of the mid-game tension that is still thrumming under his lips.
“You’re so good,” Sanada says, even though Raichi’s not listening to him; it’s
the tone that matters, the soothing certainty of his voice, and then he reaches
out and around, slides his fingers down the trembling taut of Raichi’s stomach
as slowly as he can bear. Raichi keens as Sanada’s fingers dip down to his
hips, as Sanada’s touch skims the base of his cock; Sanada kisses him again,
wordless comfort hot on his lips, and drags his fingers up slow so he can feel
the way Raichi tenses around him at the touch.
“Good,” he says again, pointless and incoherent, tightens his fingers against
the resistance of Raichi’s cock. Raichi chokes off a sound, a weird broken
noise, and Sanada shifts his grip, feels the texture of the other’s skin
against his baseball-callused hands, reaches for the gentleness required from
fingers deliberately strengthened for pitching. Raichi groans when he slides
his thumb in against the head of the other’s cock, does it again when Sanada
tips his hips back to thrust in deep, and Sanada can feel his attention failing
him, his awareness of the door and the heat and even the wet of the shower
fading away as the slow slide of his hand over Raichi’s length and the rhythmic
thrust of his cock into the other boy’s body fall into perfect harmony.
Raichi’s rocking back, thrusting forward, caught between the two sensations and
clearly unable to pick a preference, and Sanada can’t quite catch his breath
for the warm in the air, for the purr of a laugh that keeps spilling against
the strain in Raichi’s shoulders.
“You’re so good,” he says again, punctuates with a thrust that fires electric
up his spine and jolts Raichi into another moan, this one enough to catch an
echo off the tiled walls. Sanada’s arm is aching from the force of holding
himself up, but Raichi is shaking, trembling as if he’s about to step out onto
the field, hot with the adrenaline that turns him into something wild and
fearless instead of the shy creature Sanada usually knows. But they’re both
Raichi, the manic determination and the shaking nerves, and Sanada has them
both right now, framed in the shadow of his shoulders and trembling incoherent
whimpers to the tile around them. “Raichi, you’re so good” and he strokes up
hard, tightening his fingers with the confidence of conviction, and Raichi
jerks, wails a broken startled sound and comes so suddenly even Sanada is
surprised. He’s gasping for air, sucking in liquid and water alike in coughing
desperation, and Sanada can feel the pulses of orgasm tighten around him, the
pleasure wringing itself out of Raichi’s body to leave him drained and shaky
and exhausted. Sanada keeps moving through it, fucks Raichi right through the
trembling waves of heat, and by the time Raichi’s tension subsides into
boneless languor all Sanada has to do is catch his hold at Raichi’s skinny hip,
brace him in place against the last of his thrusts, and he slides over the edge
himself, the air in his lungs going incandescent and Raichi’s name on his lips
like cinnamon, sweet and spicy enough to burn.
He pulls back sooner than he’d like to. Sanada prefers to linger close, to let
his afterglow bleed Raichi out of his own superheated warmth and into something
closer to ordinary human temperature. But Raichi is shaking himself into
dangerous footing, and aside from the risk of getting caught they have to get
back to the team and to the bus that will take them home. So Sanada eases back,
regains his footing so he can catch Raichi’s hips between his hands and lower
the other boy down to the floor of the shower and away from the threat of
complete collapse. Raichi is too shaky to protest Sanada washing him clean, at
least with anything beyond a whimpered “Sanada-senpai” that Sanada is perfectly
content to hush to silence with a kiss against Raichi’s damp lips.
The rest of the team is nearly ready when they emerge. The warmth of
satisfaction fades into the excitement of packing up the equipment, the first
and second and third check that they have everything and everyone, and the next
time Sanada has a moment to think the bus is pulling out of the parking lot,
the space inside filled with boys and equipment and the chatter of voices
tangling over each other to form a warm web of conversation. And there’s Raichi
at his side, tucked between the view of the window and the relative barrier of
Sanada’s shoulders, tipping in to press his head against the other’s arm and
subside into the shy silence so different from his on-field persona.
Sanada shifts his arm to fall around Raichi’s shoulders, fits his fingers into
a hold on the other’s arm. Raichi doesn’t look up, even when Sanada takes
advantage of the high seat backs to ghost a kiss at the top of his head, but
Sanada doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s flushing crimson at this
indication of affection, embarrassed now as he wasn’t even stripped bare and
stretched open in the showers. Sanada smiles out the window, gazes at the
scenery going by without seeing any of it for the warm press of Raichi against
his side.
He has always liked the contradiction.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!