Name/Theme: 282. Darkness becomes you.
Fandom: Tiger & Bunny
Summary: Kotetsu and Yuri desk sex.
Somehow, they make it to his desk.
Yuri isn't sure how it happens, really. Talking about his job, Kotetsu's work as a hero, stupid, mindless things, all while Yuri is trying not to rake his eyes up and down Kotetsu's form like some lecherous thing and imagining how warm and firm and good that tanned skin would feel. He's trying not to think about how good Kotetsu smells, like something bright and citrus and yet surprisingly mellow at the same time, an undertone of heady musk and crackling leaves of outdoors and no, no, no, it's already engrained in his senses and it isn't going anywhere.
So talking turns to this and Yuri doesn't give a single damn.
His lower back aches as it's shoved into the side of his wooden desk, a teapot overturned and paperwork scattered. Kotetu's broad hands are wrapped around his hips, dragging him close with one hard, sure yank and tug, and Yuri groans into the other man's mouth as a well-muscled thigh is pressed between his legs, grinding into his groin and making him arch.
He wonders, as Kotetsu's hands splay over his ribs, yank at fabric and leave him gasping as it's shoved open and aside and those worn hands are on the pale, pale pallor of his own skin, how different this would be if Kotetsu knew who he really was. Even better if the man knew he was Mr. Legend's son – it'd be like fucking a part of history, wouldn't it? He almost laughs into Kotetsu's mouth, only to find himself silenced by the press of the hero's tongue, hot and slick and sure against his own, and his own hands swing up, burying into dark hair, raking down his neck, clawing into his back.
Before he's hoisted onto the desk itself, agile hands are clawing open his belt – yanking down his pants – leaving them hanging about one long, lean leg and Yuri is panting with the friction of Kotetsu's body dragging against his own, bare skin, the rough snagging of cloth enough to make him hiss and arch. Kotetsu's mouth his own his throat, then, one hand wrapped up in the waves of Yuri's hair to wrench his head back – to use that hold to keep him in place as he pulls out his own cock.
Lube is fumbled from somewhere – a drawer, maybe, Yuri doesn't see, doesn't notice, doesn't care, and he whines as Kotetsu's long fingers are pushing into him, slick and perhaps too-cold with that slickness. He squirms, thrashes – tries to drag a leg up and plant it on the side of the desk for some kind of leverage, but Kotetsu doesn't give him a chance with how those fingers work him, twist within him and leave him eventually just groaning and lying back, letting the digits fuck him when he'd much rather have more.
Finally, finally, they pull out – Kotetsu's cock against him instead, hard and thick as it shoves its way inside of him, and Yuri's breath hisses out through clenched teeth to keep back anything further incriminating of how much he loves this. He splays himself back over the desk as Kotetsu's hands fall to his hips once more – dragging him down onto his cock as he shoves himself forward, and Yuri pants openly, the only sounds he allows muffled, strangled whimpers.
Kotetsu is good at this. Yuri takes sick satisfaction in knowing how good, and it's because he knows that others don't. How many others pine after this man that won't have him? His legs clamp about Kotetsu's waist, possessive and needy, wordlessly begging for more, and so Kotetsu bends over him, digs a hand into the expensive wood of his desk, scrunching papers and scratching wood as he just fucks him, holds him down and marks him with an ache that will last for days and marks and bruises over a pale throat that Yuri will hide no matter how much he wants others to see.
And Kotetsu comes first like that – burying himself deep into Yuri's form for only a moment longer before he pulls out, spills himself messily over the other man's thighs, another, far more primal marking that leaves Yuri shuddering, clutching at the side of the desk and clamping a hand over his own mouth to stifle his voice as he, too, follows not long after, not even needing a single touch when he comes messily on his own stomach.
Afterwards, Kotetsu's voice is warm and low against his throat, his beard scratching at abused skin but somehow soothing all the same, and Yuri feels like stretching and purring like a cat and never letting this end.
It's a pity that he wakes up not long afterwards, sticky and feeling like some depraved teenager with equally depraved fantasies.
He doesn't look forward to explaining to his senile mother why he's washing his sheets. Again.