Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11371917.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      モブサイコ100_|_Mob_Psycho_100
  Relationship:
      Kageyama_Ritsu/Suzuki_Shou
  Character:
      Kageyama_Ritsu, Suzuki_Shou
  Additional Tags:
      Age_manipulation, Kink_Meme, improvised_bondage, Paralysis, Humiliation,
      Public_Sex, Discipline/Punishment, Sounding, Mildly_Dubious_Consent,
      dislocation, some_violence
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-01 Words: 3871
****** Walk It Off ******
by GrippySoles_(likeahouseonfire)
Summary
     sex is like exercise.
Notes
     My addition to the shourits Kink Meme! For Pt, who i was randomized
     the gifter to and have been elated ever since! I hope you like it!
     heed the tags you nerds
It’s one of those hot August afternoons that should had been tolerable after a
stint of rain, but instead it made the air heavy and sticky with humidity.  
Ritsu walks laps around the track to cool off after his careful attempt at
sprinting over the one-hundred meter long stretch of wet pavement. He needs to
improve his sprint by five seconds to be prepared for the sports festival, but
it’s fine. Ritsu has time, since the festival was rescheduled to be held in
late September due to the oppressive heatwaves forecasted for this month.
To shave five seconds off this time means over a month of training, three days
a week, and a complete overhaul of his regular routine to make time for it. He
will manage because he is expected to— like all the students in his grade, but
none quite as ‘bright’ or ‘up-and-coming’ as he is. Kageyama Ritsu, current
member of Salt High’s student council, and praised for being one of the highest
scoring students participating in the National Exam, four years in a row.
Everything about Ritsu has two sides to it: one for public and another for
private. His walk could be purposeful with long strides or childlike and
aimless. He could be socially warm and accepting or limited to one person and
self-severing. His attitude could be honorable and controlled or uncomposed and
fitful under the weight of responsibility.
Being in his second year of high school, one would think Ritsu might have
developed a more efficient way to cope with stress.
 “It’s fine,” Ritsu says to no one.
It’s Saturday; the track and field is deserted for now, except for a student
rolling a bin of trash out of the gymnasium in the distance. It’s close to 15:
00; the tennis club has practice in thirty minutes, but he plans to have left
by then. Salt High has a fairly large physical education program, and it’s most
active in the month before the sports festival. Ritsu uses the collar of his
damp shirt to wipe away the perspiration dripping down his temple.
Supposedly there is a positive chemical release from exercising, kinda like
sex. It’s hard to imagine correlating the two. Ritsu’s always secretly loathed
running—  the constant sweating, burning muscles, and chafing skin below the
unrelenting sheet of sunlight. Despite how miserable it might be, he’s willing
to humor the idea, on the grounds that he definitely enjoys sex. For the next
few minutes as Ritsu stretches his legs, he compares the release of endorphins
from exercising to the afterglow of an orgasm.
Just as he’s about to walk off the track, Ritsu feels the sensation of a needle
prick, like a drop of ice water cutting through the salt and sweat on his skin.
Ritsu stops walking, his hair ruffling with ESP and the suspicion he’s being
watched.
His cell phone chimes three times in succession from inside his gym bag on a
nearby bench. Ritsu ignores it and turns his head to the school, classroom
windows whited-out by the sun’s reflection on the glass.Ritsu shifts his gaze
to the groundskeeper’s shed. The building itself is modern but appears to have
not been painted in Ritsu’s lifetime. He stands stupidly at the edge of the
asphalt track, eyes transfixed.
What starts as a casual walk, breaks into a jog as Ritsu nears the shed. He
finds the door’s brass handle, polished and smooth. Every nerve in Ritsu’s body
is alive and firing when he shoulders the door open.
A hand grabs his arm, and another buries into the softness of his gut,
launching him head-over-heels.
The gymnastics mat isn’t quite as forgiving as previously imagined when Ritsu
lands on it. His teeth throb in his head from the impact, and his arms fly out
reflexively to catch himself a bit too late.
“Eight out of ten—  you botched the landing,” a boyish, amused voice chimes in.
Of course Ritsu recognises that voice. He should have known better, known that
Suzuki was calling him with a wave of the hand and curl of the finger. Ritsu
looks up at him through a veil of dingy air.
Suzuki Shou is a boy who cranes his neck when he’s around Ritsu to make himself
look a little taller. One of three people Ritsu’s shared secret kisses with,
two of whom (pardoning Suzuki) have been long forgotten. A boy with a pale
mouth who’s always smirking. Psychic, with callused palms and eyes that flash
like heat lightning. A boy he found out was that way —  much like Ritsu,
possibly because of Ritsu—  and he has been all around and inside Suzuki ever
since.
“Where’d you get the uniform?” is the first condescending thing out of Ritsu’s
mouth.
“What?” Suzuki says. “Don’tcha like it? It’s new.”
The uniform is too large for Suzuki, perhaps a size too large for Ritsu.
Pointedly, his sleeves have been rolled up to his elbows.
“It looks okay.”
“It’s more than okay,” Suzuki corrects. “I think it’s looks great!”  
Suzuki poses, turning to the side like he’s showcasing the slacks that are
cinched high on his narrow waist with a belt. 
“Sure.” Ritsu says. “Why are you here?”
Suzuki glances around the groundskeeper’s shed, brimming with landscaping tools
and outdated gym equipment. It’s musty with mildew and stinks like grass seed.
“What do you mean, ‘why’?” Suzuki can’t quite keep the mockery out of his
voice. “We made a date, remember?”
“No, I don’t recall.”
“Oh… ” Suzuki sighs, “Don’t be so hard on yourself, I’m sure it’ll come to
you.”
“Look, I think I would remember making a date with you,” Ritsu says, dizzy from
laying on his back, and exasperated by this ridiculous boy. “I need to get
going.”
Ritsu begins to sit up but is caught midway in the solar plexus by the heel of
Suzuki’s sneaker. He drops back onto the dirty gymnastics mat like a bag of
concrete.
“I didn’t say you could get up.”
Ritsu’s diaphragm spasms as he chokes on a sour lungful of air. Stepping over
Ritsu carefully, Suzuki squats down at the foot of the mat.
“Hey.”
“What?” Ritsu wheezes. 
“You’re cute.”
Ritsu lashes out with his right leg, hoping to catch Suzuki in the face with
his shoe, but instead Suzuki vanishes and Ritsu only succeeds in stirring the
dust motes floating through the sluggish gleam of sunlight pouring in the grimy
window.
Blushing in frustration, Ritsu rolls onto his stomach and tries to collect his
limbs under himself to make a mad dash for the shed door, still slightly ajar
from when he rushed through it.
“You’re a hard boy to handle,” Suzuki says like it’s some sort of revelation,
materializing out of thin air to reach out with his mental grip and crush Ritsu
back down onto the mat. “Now, what did I just say?”
Ritsu is unable to open his mouth to answer, unable to blink or breathe or move
his body in the slightest. He must look hilarious, laying on his stomach,
outstretched in the position of a chalk outline at a crime scene, but Suzuki
doesn’t laugh.
The mat squeaks beneath Suzuki’s sneakers, and Ritsu feels the familiar weight
settle onto his lower back. Fingertips ghost up Ritsu’s naked legs, stopping to
tug on the fabric of Ritsu’s track shorts.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you wear these before.” Suzuki sounds a little
offended, like he’s been missing out. “No, I’d remember these.”
Ritsu wishes he could close his eyes when Suzuki sweeps his hand under the
shorts and over the contour of Ritsu’s ass, groping his clammy skin. Denied any
other movement, Ritsu’s heart thunders with misplaced excitement and slow
suffocation burning up his lungs. He feels like a small helpless creature in
the hands of a merciless child.
Suddenly Suzuki’s speaking into Ritsu’s ear. “I’ll let you breathe if ya
promise not to try ditching me.”
There’s fingers dancing over the delicate protruding row of Ritsu’s ribs,
gliding under his arms to grope at his pectorals. He wishes he could shiver and
nod—  yes, ok, fine—  but Ritsu can’t breathe, he can’t—
Instantly, like Suzuki can read Ritsu’s mind, Suzuki releases him from the
telekinetic grasp, and all the moldy air in the shed floods into Ritsu.
“You know… ” Suzuki says. Ritsu barely hears him over the rasping of his own
breath.
Four meters of extension cord slaps against the cement. Suzuki twists Ritsu’s
arms behind his back and begins winding the cord abstractly around and
inbetween them.
“What,” Ritsu hisses with his face pressed into the plastic mat. “What are you
doing?”
“Better safe than sorry.” Suzuki says in lofty English, pulling the cord taut
enough to bind without cutting off Ritsu’s circulation. A little wave of panic
ripples through Ritsu, tingling numbly at the base of his skull.
Ritsu attempts to squirm out from Suzuki’s grasp. “Stop, that’s enough! Let me—
”
Searing pain belts across Ritsu’s backside. He yelps, whipping around to see
Suzuki twirling the pronged end of the extension cord in a lazy circle.
“Ritsu, I always thought you were better at listening than this. How would you
like to explain the welts on your pretty legs to your friends at Monday’s track
meet?”
Ritsu imagines the greedy eyes of his teammates on him, whispering among
themselves, silently judging him, and arousal twists in his guts.
“What do you want?” Ritsu spits.
“I want you,” Suzuki says easily. “Now, how’s about cooperating?”
“Why ask? I don’t seem to have a choice.”
“That’s right,” Suzuki says. “In fact, how about you shut up all together.”
Suzuki hums pleasantly. Ritsu’s so tempted to say something snide if not for
the blazing pain striping across his asscheeks dutifully reminding him to stay
quiet.
Ritsu feels Suzuki tug the cord hard one final time before grabbing his elbow
and flipping him over. The front of his shirt is wet and sticking to his chest
in a way that leaves Ritsu with the sensation of nakedness.
He is surprised Suzuki left his legs unbound. Not that Ritsu fancies being
completely immobile, but the fact Suzuki would demand compliance and leave an
obvious loophole, testing Ritsu to see if he will exploit it, makes Ritsu feel
rebellious. He hates that Suzuki finds him so predictable and truthfully, Ritsu
wishes he wasn’t allowed an option.

Ritsu knew from the first time he watched thick, bloated smoke roll from his
bedroom window that Suzuki could do anything he wanted. Ritsu couldn’t refuse
him, because he didn’t have the strength to stop him.  
It wasn’t always this way, not until Ritsu admitted his deepest secrets to
Suzuki, humiliation and arousal fogging his mind in great billowing clouds that
only Suzuki could clear. This boy was born to accommodate the shady parts of
Ritsu, the parts of his dissected brain that screamed to have his autonomy
bitten off in chunks. Suzuki, a boy who likes an unfair fight and allows Ritsu
to be as foolish as he pleases.
Calming himself with slow, steady breaths, Ritsu swallows his panic down and
focuses on obeying Suzuki.
“You know what this is, Ritsu?” Shou asks. 
There’s something small and metal swinging from Shou’s pinkie. It gleams like a
jewel but mimics the style of a grenade pin, which is more than a bit
unsettling.
Ritsu shakes his head slowly, side to side.
“No? Well, you’ll be wearing it,” Suzuki sings, dragging Ritsu’s shorts and
underwear down his thighs, carelessly tangling them together.
For once Ritsu tries to lay perfectly still, but the wild beating of his heart
seems to rock his entire body. Surprisingly Suzuki doesn’t remark about Ritsu’s
half-hard dick, even as he takes it into his hand, giving Ritsu a few quick
strokes that pulls on his foreskin, showing how bright and pink his glans is.
Suzuki pauses to fiddle with something out of Ritsu’s field of vision. Ritsu’s
arms are cramping underneath him, stabbing like knives into his shoulders and
aching in a way he knows will linger.
Suzuki thumbs a cold, sticky gel onto the tip of Ritsu’s dick that immediately
drools onto his abdomen while he coats the metal cork in the same substance.
Ritsu watches, insides curling anxiously as Suzuki toys with his cock again,
swirling the overly lubricated cork over his head.
“We don’t want you to get hurt, do we?” Suzuki says facetiously, exposing a row
of gleaming teeth Ritsu would like to kick down Suzuki’s throat.
“This is called a plug, by the way,” he says, dipping the polished end into the
slit of Ritsu’s erection.
Ritsu’s unsure of what to think until he feels the stretch of it in his
urethra, a faint burning sensation skirting closer to arousal than actual pain.
The kind of heat Ritsu’s felt before, curling in the pit of his stomach over
many a lax evening watching Shou spread over his mattress. Surprisingly, his
erection doesn’t flag but instead becomes harder as the plug is gently
manipulated by Suzuki.

“How does that feel?” Suzuki asks.
Ritsu bites the inside of his cheek, not allowing himself to make a sound as
his legs begin to tremble.
Leaning onto Ritsu’s chest, Suzuki’s face finally betrays the impassive facade
he’s been fronting. Cheeks ruddy, rust colored hair falling into his face and
freckles spattered across his nose like blood on the tennis court.
Ritsu fidgets. There is also Suzuki’s dick, hard and trapped under his clothes
flush against Ritsu’s pelvis. Suzuki watches him closely with jaundiced eyes.
Ritsu makes a sour face.
“What’s that, Ritsu? Speak up,” Suzuki coos, combing Ritsu’s sweaty bangs back
with one hand, and the other snakes in between them to fiddle with the plug,
encouraging its complete girth into Ritsu with little resistance.
Ritsu’s body jerks reflexively in accordance with the penetration, squirming as
Suzuki invades him with no remorse.
Doubtful if Suzuki is giving him permission to speak or not, Ritsu lets a
needlessly ugly groan escape him instead.
“Thats better,” Suzuki says, scooting back to undo the buttons of his (stolen)
uniform, nimble fingers dropping to unclasp his belt and drag his zipper down.
Suzuki ducks between Ritsu’s legs, still tethered together at his ankles by his
shorts and underwear.
“Such a pretty boy,” Suzuki says, the squelch of lube that follows stealing
away any innocence hidden in his words.
Ritsu feels their erections brush as Suzuki repositions himself closer. Ritsu
lets his head fall back onto the mat, certain of what comes next, and does his
best to relax, though it seems unattainable with his arms wrenched behind him
and the unnatural intensity of his erection.
Ritsu’s breath hitches as Suzuki starts working him open with the perfect
amount of restraint but promptly lapses into impatient fumbling so that Ritsu’s
hissing from the sting of it.
No, Suzuki’s personality is rough, just like his hands that Ritsu would never
admit to missing until they’re no longer in him.

Lining up with Ritsu, Suzuki spares him any syrupy consummating words, instead
just pressing into Ritsu’s naked skin, sticky and direct. Every second and inch
seems overly long, exaggerated. Ritsu cannot spread his legs any wider, his
body is shaking from exhaustion and blazing hot.  
“Oh wait,” Suzuki says, pausing to fish his phone out of his pocket.
Ritsu wants to lash out from being edged. He seriously contemplates this,
seeing as Suzuki’s ability of managing his outburst might be limited now that
he’s partially inside Ritsu. He decides this situation is in his favor.
“You jackass!” Ritsu growls. “If you’re not— ”
Suddenly, Suzuki thrusts completely into Ritsu, a jolt of pain and bemused
pleasure stalling Ritsu of his words. His ferocious tenacity seems to bleed
out, and Ritsu’s left stuttering in it’s wake. Suzuki sighs, bending forward
onto Ritsu’s chest again, but harder, bracing on his knees to give himself more
leverage.
“Ritsu,” Suzuki says. And that’s all he says. Ritsu gasps, arms twisting
painfully under the full weight of the two of them, muscles screaming from
being contorted so viciously.
It’s a swift display of power. With other intentions, Suzuki eases off of Ritsu
to begin fucking him properly. Sweat beads on Ritsu’s forehead as Suzuki rocks
into him, deliberately slow. It’s all the same to Ritsu, each dive inside him
feels all too similar to the fullness of the plug.
“You know what, Ritsu?” Suzuki speaks, too soon for Ritsu to prefer. “It’s
almost time for the tennis club to start practice.”
Ritsu physically tenses at the realization, a shudder passes through him and
Suzuki’s thrusts increase in tempo. Suzuki leans close to Ritsu, whispering
wetly by his ear.
“Those students are gonna come pouring out onto the track, Ritsu, they’re gonna
swing the door open and see you laying here—  shaking all over and sweating—
 what do you think they’ll say?”  
Ritsu’s body quakes harder, face hot with embarrassment. He’s dragged into
Suzuki’s narrative, imagining looking down on himself, tied up and being fucked
by a stranger.
“Nnhh— ” Ritsu bites back a moan at the mere thought of being overheard.
“Kageyama-senpai!” Suzuki says in a ridiculing voice, putting extra emphasis on
the honorific and pressing it into Ritsu’s neck with a row of teeth.
Ritsu throws his head side to side until he can feel the baffled blood. He
can’t take much more of this, he can’t—
On cue, the sound of shrill voices bursting out of the school and resonating
across the field causes Ritsu’s heart to leap into his throat. 
The groundskeeper’s shed is situated roughly 40 meters east from the tennis
court, and the students will be walking right by it. Ritsu’s vision is
spinning. What if they hear —  Fuck, the door is still cracked open! Ritsu
thinks, there’s no way someone won’t come by and close it, and it’ll be found
out that student body vice president Kageyama Ri—
Changing his angle, Suzuki rolls into Ritsu, touching the part of him that
causes Ritsu’s blood to boil, and Ritsu can’t help the plethora of noises that
burst out of him. Confused and agitated sounds, stretched thin like gum stuck
to the sole of his shoe.
His arms ache, on the verge of numb, and the curve of his back is as stiff as
burnished wood. Suzuki’s eyes look dewy, still glued to Ritsu like he could
soak him up and wring him out.
“Kageyama-kun is a pervert,” Suzuki says, quieter than the footsteps on the
pavement outside.
Suzuki’s hand finds Ritsu’s throbbing cock, squeezing it adoringly. He pinches
the plug’s ring, gingerly twisting it clockwise and it’s as if Suzuki is
reaching into the nucleus of his arousal, amplifying every sensation.
“Suzu— ” Ritsu starts, but then he’s coming.
Blistering white-hot shards of adrenaline claw through Ritsu’s blood and he
pitches his head back onto the plush mat, bouncing hard enough to rattle his
brain. The orgasms’ undercurrent drags Ritsu’s malleable body into the depths
of a tremor, bubbling from his pores and leaking hot on his stomach. Suzuki
fucks him through its entirety, each dive sending near agonizing shockwaves of
stimulation straight into his guts.
Every bit of tension leaves Ritsu, floating aimlessly on a saline ocean; burned
over an open flame, so he’s reduced to ashes.
He feels Suzuki moving, and then he’s not.

Ritsu blinks, staring up at the shed’s rafters. His breath comes to him in
shallow rasps, extremities tingling in the afterglow of what was easily his
most potent orgasm. Ritsu’s not sure how he should feel about the conditions
leading up to it, but now that it’s over, he’s too exhausted to care. 
“Such a good boy,” Suzuki says, sounding little forced, and Ritsu wonders if
he’s being sincere or not.

Suzuki pulls out and Ritsu grimaces. He feels raw, overused. His clothes are
soiled and will only become more soiled, considering the fluids sluggishly
trickling down his inner thighs. As Suzuki buttons his uniform, Ritsu shifts
uncomfortably, the plastic underneath him sticks like saran wrap to his skin.
Suzuki removes the plug, and hooks his fingers into Ritsu’s track shorts, still
tangled between his ankles.
“Raise ‘em,” Suzuki says, and so Ritsu arches off the mat, allowing his shorts
to be sloppily yanked back up.
“I’ll leave you to getting out of this...” Suzuki waves his hand, “Mess. I’m
sure you can.”
“You better leave,” Ritsu says.
“Hey.”
Suzuki gives Ritsu a once-over, swooping down and kissing him. Ritsu receives
the kiss without returning it.
“See you on Thursday,” Suzuki says.
Ritsu attempts to nod, but it’s lolling.
Just like that, Ritsu’s left with his shorts haphazardly on his hips, jockeying
against the extension cord and sweating like a wax cup.
 
The sun is unfamiliar. Long, gaunt shadows bite at Ritsu’s heels. The turf is a
yellow bruised color in contrast to the fading blue sky. 
The gym bag waits for Ritsu on the bench where he originally left it. Ritsu
scrolls through his text messages, the most recent ones are from Suzuki, but
Ritsu passes over them without reading. Thumbing to messages from days before,
Ritsu reads the texts he sent.
‘It’s getting to be too much.’
‘I need a break.’
And then Suzuki’s reply:
‘What are you doing saturday?’
That’s right, it is Saturday. Ritsu flips his phone shut and glances across the
field to the tennis court where the club is warming up for their matches.
One student stares back at Ritsu from inside the tall chain-link fence, holding
to it with one hand like wisteria, the other with a tennis racket hanging
loosely by his side. Ritsu recognizes him as an upperclassmen he engaged with
years ago, but can’t quite recall his name. It makes Ritsu feel naked, the way
that student looks at him— looks throughhim, like Ritsu’s body is made out of
mesh. Maybe he overheard the sex in the shed, even possibly caught a glimpse of
them through the grody window…
A blush of insecurity crawls up Ritsu’s neck and he decides not to think so
loudly about it. Ritsu cautiously takes a step back, gym bag in hand, and turns
toward the double doors.
Everything feels a little different; distant, like it’s not quite real. Like
he’s not quite real, even though he is tangible and could reach out and touch
the door’s warm, painted steel without it slipping between his fingers. The
public side of himself and the responsibilities he’s expected to uphold, are
dismantled in the air and pushed far away.
And for a moment, Ritsu forgets.
He forgets his grades and duties, forgets how to walk like he’s important with
that nervous laugh and flitting smile. He forgets how his uniform’s starched
collar strangles him, how his classes bore him. He forgets the powder lines of
the track passing under his feet, threading into infinite loops.
Ritsu only feels boneless fatigue and the hum of endorphins, the hurt of limbs
starting awake and the pattern of cord grooved into his forearms.
Ritsu lifts his head and surveys the building. He knows nothing of this school—
 in all of its warped architecture and sun-bleached brick, crowded rows of
blinding bright windows glaring down on him—  except that he’s going into it.
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