Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9186446.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      モブサイコ100_|_Mob_Psycho_100
  Relationship:
      Dimple/Kageyama_"Mob"_Shigeo
  Character:
      Dimple_(Mob_Psycho_100), Kageyama_"Mob"_Shigeo
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Drinking, Underage_Smoking, Drunk_Sex, Hand_Jobs, Reigen_Arataka
      -_mentioned, one-sided_(?)_Mob/Reigen_kinda, Dimple_talking_shit_about
      Reigen, Dimple_is_a_terrible_drunk_who_makes_bad_choices
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-01-03 Words: 4354
****** Sweet Firsts ******
by Gwappo, Motte_(Gwappo)
Summary
     But Shigeo doesn't strip, doesn't move, says, "What are we doing?"
     and, surprisingly, his voice doesn't waver.
     Dimple licks the inside of his own cheek, takes a moment to let his
     sluggish brain process the question. "We're having fun," He says.
     "You're having fun, right?"
      
     Dimple gets drunk in Reigen's office when he isn't there. Mob comes
     by for a visit. Things go out of control.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Shigeo coughs as he enters the office, knuckles white on the doorhandle, nearly
keels over. The room must be drained of all oxygen by now. Heavy lidded eyes
blink slowly as the boy scrambles over to the window, tears it open as
violently as his thin arms will allow.
The abused body sways in its seat, arms draping over the sofa's back to try and
give off a nonchalant air. Shigeo is still coughing, hacking, taking deep
breaths of the mild night air outside the window.
"Dimple," He says, voice raspy. "Dimple, Master Reigen won't like this."
Laughter cuts through the thick, suffocating smoke, but Shigeo does not join
in. Dimple puts an elbow on the armrest, puts his borrowed chin in a borrowed
hand, and, through borrowed eyes, observes Shigeo's face. Ah, Reigen, that son
of a whore. It's always about him, isn't it?
Dimple leans forward, hands coming down onto the coffee table harder than
intended, and shakes another cigarette out of the pack. It doesn't matter how
many he's had in the past two or five hours – it's not his body, after all.
Cigarette resting between chapped lips, his hands scramble across the tabletop
in search of the lighter. It's when long fingers finally make contact with cold
metal that the cigarette is dragged from its resting place, and when Dimple
manages to focus his eyes it's on a blue aura, cigarette floating in mid-air.
Shigeo's still standing by the window, a look of – something, on his face. He's
so hard to read; eyebrows hidden under dark bangs, mouth always set in the same
neutral line. "You should be careful with these," Shigeo says, and merely logic
tells Dimple the kid's trying to express concern.
Ah, sweet Shigeo.
Dimple snags the cigarette back out of the air, puts it between borrowed lips
again and lights the end in a fluid motion. This body's so intoxicating in its
grace, its effortless display of dominance. He takes a deep drag, lets the
smoke sit for a moment before exhaling it out through the man's nose. It feels
incredible.
His eyes trail back to the window, to Shigeo's form still lingering there
uncomfortably. His posture seems rigid, ready to bolt, but he stays. Why,
Dimple's not sure. Shigeo has always been too strange a boy for his own good.
One hand takes hold of the glowing cigarette as the other comes down to pet the
free space beside him. "Why don't you come over here," Dimple suggests. "Sit
down for a minute."
"I don't think that's a good idea," The kid answers. His eyes quickly swipe the
table – the ashtray, bottles, glasses. "Are you feeling alright, Dimple?"
A soundless grin splits the handsome face in half, tongue darting out to wet
dry lips. "Never been better. You should come over here."
His head feels too heavy for his neck to carry, so Dimple leans further into
the couch, takes another long drag. His senses are impaired but he'd hear
Shigeo's light, careful steps from a hundred miles away. It's music to his
ringing ears when they draw closer, closer, then come to a halt right by his
side. Blinking tiredly, he seeks out Shigeo's eyes, sits up straighter to watch
him.
But Shigeo's eyes drift downwards, to that damn table again, and he reaches out
a tentative hand, turns one of the bottles so he can read the label.
The silence makes the ringing in Dimple's ears worse, and he lets himself sag
against the backrest again, too out of his senses to will the body into
alertness. Shigeo's still not looking at him.
"Wanna try some?" He asks to break the quiet.
The boy moves his eyes but not his head and, through this hazy, dizzy feeling,
Dimple can see him clench his hands into fists by his sides. "I think you
should stop."
Another laugh claws its way up the security guard's torso, shakes his form ever
so slightly. "I can take care of myself, Shigeo."
And, ah, he turns around now to face the man with the deep red cheeks, this
stranger in all ways but one. "You're hurting the man's body. It's not fair to
him. You don't know if he has a family or -"
"No family," Dimple interrupts. "No kids, no wife, no friends. He's a sad, sad
man, Shigeo. This is what he does when he's alone. I'm keeping him company."
Shigeo cocks his head to the side. "He didn't look sad when you first possessed
him. Do you even know his name?"
One of those powerful arms itches, and Dimple takes a moment to relieve the
stressor. Shigeo watches, watches, watches.
"Wanna try some now?" Dimple asks again, nodding in the general direction of
the littered table.
Shigeo averts his eyes. "I've tried beer before. I didn't like it."
He wants to ask when, where, why – but the answer hits him like a truck, burns
like a handful of salt in his eyes. Fuck Reigen, that irresponsible bastard.
Instead of getting up to take his anger out on Reigen's 'office', Dimple simply
nods his head at the table again, clumsily lifts a leg onto it to nudge another
bottle with his foot. "What about that one," He says. "Bet you haven't had that
before. But I bet you could stomach it, if you gave it a try."
Shigeo watches the clear liquid slosh around as Dimple's foot keeps nudging it.
The label's facing the other way, but the kid keeps his eyes fixed.
"What is it?" He asks. "I don't think I should."
Dimple grins wider. The boy is so easy, so easy. "Vodka," He tells Shigeo.
"It's stronger than beer. But, no worries, kiddo. It's made from potatoes; you
like potatoes, don't you?"
Said kiddo shuffles his feet nervously, and Dimple watches his Adam's apple bob
up and down with intense eyes.
"It tastes like potatoes? That doesn't sound too good."
Dimple's answer dies in a curse as the neglected cigarette's glowing tip drops
onto the back of his borrowed hand, burns the calloused skin. He shakes out the
stinging hand, kills the remainder of the cigarette in the clear glass ashtray,
and, while leaning forward, spots a bottle of soda sitting on the ground. Must
be Reigen's.
When their eyes meet again, Shigeo is taut as a bowstring, so Dimple tries an
honest smile. He holds up one index finger and brings the soda bottle up with a
flourish. "It doesn't taste like potatoes," He remembers their conversation.
"That's not to say it tastes good. But I can make it delicious." Dimple
unscrews the bottle, takes a clean tumbler and sets it down next to his own.
(Or is it clean? He doesn't recall, doesn't care.)
Shigeo watches his hands as they fill half the glass with sparkling soda, then
add a good swig of the clear, crystalline vodka. Dimple pets the sofa again,
gives Shigeo a meaningful look as he slides the glass over to him.
Time ticks by slowly, loudly on the round wall clock. Dimple intertwines his
hands. He leans back, relaxes into the cushions.
"I don't think that's -"
"Stop thinking," He cuts the boy off. "You've done enough of that. Sit down and
have a drink with me, like a real adult."
Shigeo blinks a few times. He licks his lips, swallows, then sits down. He cups
his tumbler with both hands, as if it were nothing less benign than a teacup.
He hesitates as the glass is mere milimeters from his lips – one heartbeat, two
– and when he takes a tiny sip, the grimace on his face makes Dimple slap his
borrowed knee with laughter.
Shigeo does not take kindly to the loud bellowing, sets his drink back down
with a thud, and Dimple wills himself into silence. He puts an arm around
Shigeo's shoulders, pulls him closer.
"How was it?" He asks, genuine curiosity tinging his voice.
Shigeo contemplates for a moment. "It burns," He says, "when you swallow it.
The beer didn't sting like this. It was bitter and unpleasant, but it didn't
burn my stomach."
Dimple nods in understanding. "Alcohol is an acquired taste," He tells him.
"You'll grow into it. Add some more soda, maybe, to sweeten it up a bit."
Shigeo looks up in surprise but does as he's told. He fills the glass nearly to
the brim, takes another careful sip. His face remains passive this time, and
Dimple ignores the feeling of pride blooming in his chest.
They sit in silence for what feels like a lifetime; Dimple filling his sticky
shot glass and tossing back pure liquor, Shigeo taking slow but steady sips of
his drink. It's not until Dimple reaches forward again, shakes the pack of
cigarettes until one comes tumbling out that they seem to remember each other's
presence. Shigeo's eyes follow slender hands and long fingers as they set the
cigarette aglow, toss the lighter back onto the table.
Dimple watches the boy as he takes a drag, takes care not to exhale in his
direction as if it makes a difference. He extends the hand towards him, offers
the glimmering tobacco. Shigeo's eyes shoot up, pupils blown wide, mouth
slightly open. His face screams surprise, but there's curiosity burning
underneath; sure enough, Shigeo lifts his own hand to carefully accept the
offer.
The cigarette seems too big between his fingers, so crude between tender lips.
Dark eyes dart over to meet Dimple's borrowed ones for the tiniest moment
before Shigeo inhales with vigor.
His body jackknifes; he coughs, heaves, chokes. He's bent over, sliding
forward, and Dimple catches him by the back of his jacket to drag him back up
the sofa.
The kid finally catches himself, swallows hard. He keeps his stare trained on
the floor.
"Yeah, it sucks," Dimple tells him, tone neutral. "That's how it is with
firsts."
When Shigeo starts moving to hand back the cigarette, Dimple leans forward to
light a new one. He watches the boy's reaction out of the corner of his eyes:
confusion, understanding, acceptance. They're all barely there, blink and
you'll miss them, but they're visible in the way Shigeo's shoulders relax ever
so slightly, scoots a bit further up the sofa.
Dimple smokes his cigarette like a man without a care in the world; Shigeo lets
his glimmer and burn for long moments inbetween each drag. He's so careful now,
makes an effort not to cough again, and eventually kills the still-glowing butt
next to Dimple's own, long gone cold.
There's but a single sip left in Shigeo's glass as he exhales the last bit of
smoke and rests his forearms on his thighs. He looks mentally exhausted, and
Dimple silently congratulates himself on a (bad) job well done. He opens his
mouth to comment on Shigeo's bravery, pay him a sincere compliment for having
gone through with these abrupt offers, but the boy beats him to it.
"I was a bit nervous at first," He says. "I've... Only ever smoked one
cigarette before."
Dimple's compliment dies on his lips. Of course. He should have seen this
coming. Fuck Reigen and his hold over this kid. Fuck Reigen and his terrible
morals.
Shigeo turns his head away, cheeks glowing red. He seems embarrassed that
Dimple knows who gave him that first cigarette. That first beer. Really makes
one wonder what other firsts Reigen might have given him.
The couch squeaks as Dimple leans forward quickly, and Shigeo starts. He
watches as his glass is refilled, first Vodka then soda. If he notices the way
the mixing ratio has shifted towards hard liquor, he doesn't comment on it.
So, with borrowed hands, the spirit hands the boy his glass of spirit, who
accepts it wordlessly. He nips at it, manages to keep his face expressionless,
but his body still shakes with the bitter taste of high percentage alcohol.
A thought crosses Dimple's clouded head, and he takes another shot to wash it
away with. But the momentary clarity he has hoped for after tossing back one or
five too many never comes. Instead, it seems to blur his vision even more (how
peculiar) and with it his color perception.
The room is dark, dim, still cloudy with smoke that just won't leave through
the open window. Shigeo, with his dark clothes, dark hair, blends right into
the surroundings. The fabric of his jacket – school uniform, it's a school
uniform – melts into the sofa's dark texture. It makes his skin stand out in
harsh contrast: pale hands, pale face; light complexion in the sickly bit of
light coming from Reigen's shitty desk lamp. He looks unhealthy holding the
sparkling tumbler to his thin, rosé lips.
It's not until Shigeo turns his head to look directly at him that Dimple
realizes how close they're sitting. It's a hand's breadth between their thighs,
Dimple knows, because he slots one borrowed hand inbetween them, and sure
enough it fits perfectly, making nothing more than light contact with both
their bodies.
They don't speak, just watch each other. Shigeo's mouth is barely open in
surprise, and Dimple resists the urge to reach out and touch his lips, his
round, flushed cheeks. Shigeo's eyes drift towards the hand barely touching his
leg. He takes another drink.
Dimple allows his little finger to stroke that black-clad thigh, gentle
movements just for the sake of touching. They're both watching the lazy
movements of his hand as it slowly creeps up to squeeze the boy's leg; it's so
slender Dimple could almost close his hand around it if he tried. But instead,
he lets it travel higher, brush hips and waist through the thick material of
the Shigeo's clothes, searching for skin.
Up Shigeo's arm, over his shoulder the hand slides, until fingertips reach the
short hair at the nape of his neck and gently scratch the roots. He smells so
clean, like fruit-scented shampoo and soap, and Dimple can't help but run his
fingers through that thick head of hair.
But Shigeo tenses and pulls away, and Dimple lets him go. He draws back a few
inches, still close enough to be too close, face bright red and voice too high
as he asks, voice shaky, "What are you doing?"
Dimple, in all rationality, knows they're past the point of no return now.
Shigeo's had more liquor than any 14-year-old should be given by someone they
trust, but it's not the first time he has challenged his liver, abused his
lungs.
What else has Reigen shown the kid?
Slowly, carefully, Dimple lifts a hand to touch those reddened cheeks. He
slides it along to Shigeo's ear, cups his face in a large, warm palm. This
time, he doesn't pull away.
Dimple exhales heavily as he circles a thumb over the kid's lips (even softer
than they look), bites his own bottom lip in anticipation. Shigeo swallows
hard, but never moves away from the hand exploring his face. He lets it caress
his soft skin, skim past his temples to brush back dark bangs.
Their eyes meet again when Dimple pauses to admire Shigeo's unobscured face. He
looks as dizzy as Dimple feels as he slides his hand further, bangs falling
back into place strand by strand, and when he arrives at the back of Shigeo's
head, he pulls him in.
It's slow and cautious at first; there's uncertainty on Shigeo's part, lips
trembling but oh so warm. Dimple doesn't know restraint nor timidity as he
tries to spur him on, opens his mouth to kiss him properly. There's a small
gasp, a sound so tiny he barely catches it, before Shigeo's mouth starts
imitating those movements, presses closer of his own accord. A hand comes up to
hold onto one of his suit lapels, and Dimple's not quite sure if he's swaying
from the alcohol or being pulled in, but by God, he hopes it's the latter.
It's when he coaxes the first sound of contentment out of Shigeo, a purr of a
moan, that Dimple loses all sense of caution and shoves his borrowed tongue in
the boy's mouth, swallows the protest he tries to verbalize.
It takes too, too long for Shigeo to reciprocate this time, but the hand at the
back of his head holds him closer still, and, leaning into the warm body next
to him, he finally tries to keep up with Dimple's pace, his movements. It's
sloppy as can be, teeth clanking and tongues working with different rhythms,
but so satisfying, for Shigeo tastes of sweet, sugary soda, the barest hint of
alcohol underneath, and oh, this is his first kiss, alright.
Dimple brings up his other hand, snakes it around the boy's slender waist to
pull him closer against his handsome vessel; knowing it's a stranger's body
Shigeo is grabbing onto for dear life is a shame, but no less intimate.
They're hot and sweaty by the time Dimple brings his hand up from Shigeo's
waist to the top button of his jacket, pops it without comment. He makes his
way down the row of buttons, never lets go of the boy's mouth, and it's only
when the last button slides free that Shigeo draws back from the kiss,
breathing hard.
Dimple licks his lips, observes his handiwork: the boy's hair is a mess, lips
red and moist, clothes rumpled. He bets Reigen has never seen this before. It's
a nice view, but they can still do better.
So he puts his hand on that slender thigh again, lets the calloused thumb rub
steady circles into it. Shigeo looks up at him with nervous eyes, puts his own
hand over Dimple's but makes no move to push him away.
"You look great like this," he tells the boy, voice hoarse. "Why don't you take
off that jacket? You must be burning up."
But Shigeo doesn't strip, doesn't move, says, "What are we doing?" and,
surprisingly, his voice doesn't waver.
Dimple licks the inside of his own cheek, takes a moment to let his sluggish
brain process the question. "We're having fun," He says. "You're having fun,
right?"
There's embarrassment on the kid's face and Dimple chuckles, leans forward to
press a light kiss to his mouth. He kisses his lips, his cheek, his chin, his
neck. Shigeo tilts his head up, but whimpers as the hand on his thigh gets back
in motion, slowly creeping upwards.
"Are you having fun, Shigeo?" Dimple asks. He licks the side of his neck.
Another whimper. "I – yes, but," Shigeo hesitates. "I'm – nervous."
It's music to his ears, and Dimple leans back up to kiss those soft lips again.
His hand reaches the junction of Shigeo's hip and thigh, and he rests it there
as he says, "Let me make it easier for you."
Shigeo looks confused, opens his mouth to talk, so Dimple cuts him off with
another kiss. "I'll let you choose," He says, kisses him again, "Which way you
want it. I'll make you feel amazing," Another kiss, "If you just let me. I
could call you Shige-chan, how about that?"
There's a slight shift of facial features as Shigeo expresses his predictable
unhappiness, but Dimple just rocks his borrowed body in gentle laughter. "I
could call you Kageyama-kun – that's what your friend Teru does, right?" The
tips of Shigeo's ears glow red, but he remains silent.
Dimple's mouth splits in a nasty grin. "I could call you nii-san."
Shigeo cocks his head. "Why would you do that?"
The sincerity in his voice stings somewhere deep inside Dimple's mind; so
sweet, so pure. He grants the boy another kiss. "I could call you Mob," He
finally offers.
And, oh, he knows he's hit bullseye when Shigeo's face flushes deep red, eyes
shooting off to the side to avoid all contact. Yeah, fuck Reigen, alright.
But this is no time for hatred, for Shigeo's body shudders as Dimple slides his
hand between his legs, rubs the palm over the bulge he finds there. Another
kiss on the boy's neck, his face, the corner of his mouth, and he's gone, gone,
gone, throwing his head against the backrest, eyes closed and mouth wide open.
Dimple observes the stunning display as he opens Shigeo's belt just enough so
he can pop the last offending button, pulls down the zipper. An amused smile
reaches his lips as he spots Shigeo's underwear, the white briefs outlining his
erection so nicely, but Dimple swallows the comment about his tighty-whities to
tug them down instead. Shigeo lifts his hips to slide his pants and briefs past
them, down to his thighs.
The sound he makes when Dimple wraps a hand around him is soul-shattering in
its intensity, so lost, so sincere; he's going to make this boy feel incredible
or die trying.
But possessing a body comes with many earthly delights, such as taking the hand
of somebody else and pressing it to your own clothed dick, share the feeling of
intimacy. Shigeo's hand is trembling terribly but cups him nonetheless, palm
rubbing without aim or thought. There's no technique and there doesn't need to
be, for Shigeo slides his hand up to open the belt, the button, the zipper.
He pauses, at a loss, and Dimple gently grabs his chin, captures his mouth
again. It amazes him how Shigeo seems to find comfort in his kisses, hand
pushing past silky boxers to grab the cock of a man he doesn't know.
Shigeo's hand falters again, maybe shocked by the difference in size, so Dimple
finally moves the hand holding the boy's cock, pumps him slowly and sets free
another one of those delicious sounds, high and breathless.
It takes a few more heartbeats for Shigeo to reciprocate the action, but when
he does it shakes Dimple to the core, makes him shudder in ecstasy.
It's all too much, too much, it's going to end too soon, so Dimple grabs Shigeo
by the waist without further ado, lifts him into his lap. The boy grabs onto
broad shoulders to steady himself, looks up in confusion, and Dimple can't help
but kiss him again, catch his bottom lip between strong teeth.
"This is gonna be good, soo good," He mumbles as he adjusts their position,
sitting up straighter and holding Shigeo closer.
Another question goes unanswered as Shigeo opens his mouth only to let out a
long, breathy moan as their cocks touch, and Dimple loses no time wrapping his
hand around them both, blesses this body for its size. He pumps them quickly,
twists his wrist at all the right moments, pulls Shigeo's head closer to catch
his lips again, swallows his every sound, every strained huff and pleased
groan.
They're panting inbetween kisses, Shigeo rocking his hips into Dimples hand,
scratching the sides of his neck with short, blunt nails, muttering senseless
words into his mouth, barely discernible from moans and whimpers.
It's too soon when sweet Shigeo comes, burrying his face in Dimple's neck, and
the sounds he's making hit Dimple in all the right ways, push him past the
brink. He brings up both arms, crushes the boy's body against him, hands
roaming his back, squeezing and touching anywhere they can reach. He rides out
his orgasm until Shigeo begs him to stop, his skin so sensitive, his soul so
scarred.
They make no move to get up, Shigeo's head still resting between a strong neck
and a broad shoulder, and Dimple does his best to do up the boy's clothes in
their current position. His mind is going a million miles a second but no
coherent thought ever surfaces. It's been quite a night, and he's suddenly so
tired.
Shigeo does not look at him as he lifts his head, rights the buttons Dimple
could not reach. There's a cum-stained t-shirt hidden underneath his uniform, a
dirty little secret well hidden from curious eyes. Dimple lifts a hand to
gently pet Shigeo's hair, righten his boyish bowlcut. He tries to keep the
caresses to a minimum but gives in to the urge of stroking those soft cheeks
one last time.
When their eyes finally meet again Shigeo's back to being entirely unreadable.
"You okay?" Dimple asks, reluctantly withdraws his hand from the boy's head.
Shigeo nods, reaches out to straighten Dimple's rumpled tie and dress shirt,
who pointedly ignores the warm fluttering in his borrowed chest and the view
before him to let his gaze wander the room instead. He inhales sharply as he
spots the clock. "Shit," He says. "Fuck. When do you usually need to be home?"
Shigeo follows his eyes. "Oh," He says. "I should have been home over an hour
ago. My curfew is nine."
Dimple runs a hand over his face in exasperation but keeps his cool as he
finally tucks himself back into stained slacks. Shigeo gets off of his lap; he
stands, staggers backwards, and Dimple catches him just in time so he doesn't
hit the table.
Right. They've both had quite a few.
There's only one right way to end this whole thing, so Dimple contemplates how
to get the kid home safe – but is he really a kid anymore after tonight?
He hoists the borrowed body upright, wavers but a second before he catches his
balance. Shigeo looks up at him, subconsciously leans closer. Dimple pats his
shoulder, then makes his way to the door. "Come on," He says. "I'm walking you
home."
A moment passes before Shigeo staggers towards him, arms whirling to keep him
from tripping, and Dimple catches him with an arm around his shoulders, presses
him close to his side.
One body is going to wake up with all kinds of new knowledge tomorrow, memories
he won't be sure are real or merely dreams; the other body is going to wake up
with no knowledge of what has transpired the night before, what morally
doubtful things he has partaken in; both are going to wake up with a terrible
hangover.
And Dimple, for his part, is going to rest well tonight, knowing none of that
will plague him in the morning.
End Notes
     Please feel free to point out any mistakes, English isn't my first
     language and I'd love to improve!
     Hope you enjoyed, this fic got wayyy out of control and ended up
     being nastier than intended, but the lack of EkuMob fics made me sad,
     so I decided to take these two for a whirl. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
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