#whisperit.

“This is so cute, Daicchan.” A fingertip wormed its way underneath where the band was stretched tight on the backs of his thighs, and he flinched as it snapped back onto his skin. “Did you wear it for me? “No..” His mumble was unconvincing, unintelligible from where he’d pressed his face to his neck, and he only clung tighter when the other hand joined the first in tracing around his thighs, the touch too light to satisfy, sending sparks up his spine underneath his stolen t-shirt. “Don’t lie! You know I love seeing you in white. Especially when there isn’t much else.” Finally, finally, there were whole palms on his skin, cool as he always was. There they rested for a moment, before he was tugging him closer, rocking his hips up just as he turned his head to press a kiss to where Daichi was still holding on, laughter in his ear when he caught his hitched breath.

coming home and he’s in a tiny little jockstrap .... bright white but he’s so tan ... he wld run sooo warm and get a little needy after being alone most of the afternoon #Okay.

it’s easy (it always is) to fall into a rhythm, as soft as the lazy rocking of their hips against each other can get. he likes it too much—so much it’s almost embarrassing, is embarrassing, and he keeps his mouth busy just to avoid making too much eye contact. not that he’s allowed to keep himself hidden for long, when there’s a voice in his ear whining for him to look at me, i’ve missed you all day, and now you’re hiding. he gives in too easily, blames it on the heat, hips stuttering because he can never focus on two things at once when he gets like this. it’s getting dizzying, the fervour that comes from being apart even if it was only for a few hours, and he can tell it’s building up to be one of those evenings where he gets eaten out on the sofa and then they share takeout over the kitchen counter, flipping through the music channels until he can’t keep his eyes open any longer.

but that’s for later—in the moment he’s distracted by the hand skirting up his side, fingertips light, and another dipping underneath the band of his jockstrap. he’s still stubbornly avoiding looking up, but he knows by now there’s a smile on that face, growing wider every time he listens to the snap of fabric back against tan skin. and even if it’s familiar, it doesn’t mean he feels it any less when he grinds down just right and has to bite down to keep any sounds from escaping him. he felt on the edge already, keyed up from waiting and helped along by the hand that drifted down from his waist to ghost over the bulge through white fabric; ignoring his own underneath silky basketball shorts, cool where they brushed against the backs of his thighs. he can’t help rocking up into the touch, unable to keep a handle on the noises when the teasing becomes a grip around the shape of him, stroking up and down as much as the jock would allow. he was sure his nails were drawing blood by now, and then the whispering started.