Title: In the Details
Characters: Midorima/Takao
Summary: In cosplay, attention to detail is of utmost importance.
Notes: Adult for smut. Pretty much a PWP, because I saw this picture on Tumblr and, uh, temporarily lost my mind. When I regained it, this is what I had perpetrated. 1977 words.


In the Details

"You must be joking," Shintarou says for lack of any better response in the face of what Takao's wearing.

The way Takao smiles at that reminds him of nothing so much as the way Kise would smile when he was trying to wind someone up. It sets off warning bells in the back of Shintarou's head, but he can't spare enough attention for those, not when Takao is smoothing his hands down the front of the dress (so much pink, and there's something about how it's cut that creates the illusion that Takao's waist nips in a bit between his chest and his hips in a way that Shintarou is not at all comfortable with). "I told you that I was going to get a costume to match yours," he points out.

There's a pink cap sitting on top of his head, the same shade as the demure little uniform.

"I'm dressed as a doctor," Shintarou manages to say, though it sounds strangled even in his own ears, probably because he's grinding his teeth so hard. "A doctor."

"Exactly!" Takao practically chirps it. "You're a doctor and I'm your nurse. It makes perfect sense."

It doesn't make any sense at all, Shintarou wants to say, despairing, but Takao turns around and leans over to pick up his bag. The dress pulls tight and rides up, showing the tops of the stockings he's wearing, sheer black things that highlight the sleek shape of Takao's legs. Everything Shintarou would like to say right now—complaints about Takao's obvious insanity, his opinions of school festivals and cosplay cafés, bitter sorrow that the day's horoscope for Cancers had falsely promised unexpected pleasures rather than the more accurate soul-searing trauma—disappears in the static of white noise that crackles between Shintarou's ears.

The pen in Takao's breast pocket slips out as he leans over and lands on Shintarou's bedroom floor. Takao mutters something annoyed and bends over even further to retrieve it. The dress rides up farther, establishing two definitive facts that shake Shintarou's faith in the intrinsic logic and goodness of the universe.

First, the stockings are edged with fine black lace and make Takao's legs look longer than they actually are.

Second, Takao's underwear is as pink as the nurse's uniform itself. Pink and satiny.

Shintarou sits down, not entirely of his own volition, and he's just lucky that his bed is there to catch him.

"We'd better get going, there's still some setting up to do," Takao says as he straightens back up and slips the pen back into place. "Just so you know, you're walking today and not—" Shintarou doesn't find out what he's not going to do because Takao actually looks at him then and stops mid-sentence. His face goes through several expressions in quick succession. At first he looks confused, which turns to concern briefly before it shifts to something else, puzzlement or maybe disbelief, and finally settles on amusement. "Everything all right?"

Everything is most assuredly not all right. Shintarou opens his mouth to say so, but what comes out is something else altogether. "Are you wearing panties?"

In a sane universe, Takao would look embarrassed. This is not a sane universe, because he grins instead and lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Can't go commando. This is a rental."

Shintarou can feel his brain attempting to shut down in self-defense, or something. The heavens know that he tries to protest that gift of too much information, though it mostly comes out garbled and incoherent.

Not that it matters. Takao is still grinning. Grinning and dropping his bag to the floor again. "More importantly," he says, "were you looking, Shin-chan?"

"You flashed me!" Shintarou says as Takao takes a long step that brings him away from the door and alarmingly close to the bed. "I couldn't help seeing!"

"A gentleman would have averted his eyes," Takao pronounces, which is ridiculous on so many levels that Shintarou doesn't even know where to begin. Lucky for him, or not, Takao doesn't give him the time to figure that out. He stands over Shintarou, hands on his hips, and grins down at him. "Like what you saw?"

"You're right," Shintarou says loudly, over the sound of his pulse pounding, "we should get going. We don't want to be late."

Takao flaps a dismissive hand and sets it on Shintarou's shoulder when he goes to get up. "There's no rush." He's still grinning, an unholy light in his eyes. He's close enough that an alarming amount of Shintarou's vision is taken up with pink. "You didn't answer my question."

"It was a stupid question," Shintarou says, leaning back, away from Takao and the frankly disturbing uniform and wishing desperately that he had decided to pick anything other than a doctor for his costume.

Trying to retreat is as grave a tactical error as the choice of doctor cosplay. Takao slides a knee up onto the bed and leans over him, still grinning. "You're avoiding the question." He all but lilts it as he swings his other knee across Shintarou's lap. "Did you like it?"

"Absolutely not," Shintarou lies. "Don't be disgusting."

"You're lying," Takao sing-songs, walking his fingers up Shintarou's tie and hooking them behind the knot, keeping him from pulling away any farther than he's already gone. "Aren't you." It's not a question. Not really.

"We're supposed to be helping set up for the café," Shintarou says, adjusting his glasses. "Stop screwing around and get off me."

"They're more comfortable than I expected them to be," Takao tells him, not letting go of Shintarou's tie, because he's a bastard with a horrible sense of humor and no boundaries whatsoever. "Kind of soft. Slippery. Feels nice, you know?" He wriggles, perhaps in demonstration. "I could maybe get used to this."

"There are so many things wrong with that," Shintarou says, and tries not to notice that the dress is riding up again, showing off the pale skin of Takao's thighs. "So many things, I don't know where to begin."

"Don't knock it till you try it." Takao is leaning closer now, his voice dropping, turning low. Intimate. "They're not feeling very stretchy, though."

What is that even supposed to mean—oh. Oh.

Shintarou looks down in spite of himself and all his best intentions, Takao's laughter huffing warm against his cheek, and realizes that he's lost this game at the same time he sees that—there's actually nothing to see, just the rucked-up folds of the skirt and the tops of the stockings and Takao's thighs spread across his lap. Fuck. "I hate you so much."

"No, you don't," Takao says, and then, "Want a better look?" He reaches for the hem of the skirt without waiting for an answer and pulls it up around his waist, and—those are definitely panties, pale pink and silky-looking and showing the outline of Takao's cock very clearly where it presses against the front of them. Shintarou's mouth has run dry while he stares at the obscene shape it makes inside the silky fabric.

"So," Takao says, "wanna play doctor?" He's hard already, or getting there at least—his cock is straining against the panties, filling them up in ways they were never meant to be.

Midorima Shintarou is many things, but even he can admit that he's only human. "When we're late, I'm blaming you," he tells Takao, and sets a hand on his thigh.

"Sure, whatever." Takao leans forward and kisses him then, warm and wet, and Shintarou's really just grateful that Takao's apparent need for cosplay authenticity hasn't extended to wearing makeup to match the nurse's uniform. The panties are just as silky to the touch as they look; Takao laughs against his mouth when Shintarou runs his fingers over them edge of them, following it over the curve of his ass. "You do like them, huh?" he says as he slides his fingers through Shintarou's hair.

"Shut up," Shintarou says as he smoothes his fingers over Takao's cock, palming him through the slick fabric. Takao does, after a fashion: he groans and muffles it against Shintarou's mouth while Shintarou fondles him, stroking him and squeezing him slowly until Takao is shifting back and forth over his lap, rocking his hips in short, jerks. He groans again when Shintarou tugs the panties down, just far enough that he can get his fingers around Takao and stroke him properly. Shintarou works him with the sharp, precise strokes that Takao likes best, until Takao swears and presses his forehead against Shintarou's shoulder, shaking against him as he comes.

He makes a hell of a picture like this, with that stupid dress hiked up around his waist and those ridiculous panties pulled down just far enough, flushed and undone.

It's too much to hope for that Takao won't notice that he appreciates the sight. Takao's too good at reading him, always has been.

This time is no different. When he raises his head, he's smiling. "So," he says, voice pitched low. "You convinced yet?"

Convinced of what, Shintarou doesn't say, because Takao's already climbing off his lap, moving loose-limbed and easy and looking like something out of a bad skin magazine as he slips to his knees. The hat's still on his head, though it's knocked askew, and the uniform is all rumpled now, showing the wrinkles where it's been pushed up. None of that matters, or maybe all of it does, when Takao reaches for his fly and undoes it.

"Are we still playing doctor?" Shintarou asks, or tries to. He's not sure if that's what comes out of his mouth when Takao sets a hand on him, pumping his cock a couple of times before he leans in and wraps his mouth around Shintarou and starts sucking. Shintarou knocks the hat off him when he reaches for him, but that doesn't even slow Takao down. All Shintarou's world narrows down to Takao's mouth on his cock, the stroke of Takao's tongue and the wet pressure of it as he sucks harder, and the vibration when he hums thoughtfully, and most of all the way his eyes are laughing when he looks up at Shintarou.

Shintarou crams his fist against his mouth and gives up, groaning as pleasure crests and breaks over him like a wave. It leaves him panting for breath after when Takao finally pulls away, quiet unfurling inside his skull in the aftermath of that. Takao lets him be while he stands and shimmies the panties back into place with something like complacency. He mutters to himself while he straightens out the uniform, brushing at the wrinkles in it, and finds the hat where it's bounced to a resting place under Shintarou's desk. He uses the mirror on Shintarou's closet to put it back into place, face screwed up with concentration. Shintarou watches him with something that feels like contentment, or maybe just complacency, until Takao apparently decides he's restored himself as far as is possible and looks at him again.

He laughs, Shintarou doesn't know why, and claps his hands together. "Put that thing away, Shin-chan. We've got places to be."

Oh. Right.

"I still hate you," Shintarou says after adjusting himself and his costume, but when Takao holds a hand down to him, he allows himself to be hauled to his feet.

"Sure you do," Takao says, scooping up his bag. He slants a glance Shintarou's way. "You think maybe I should keep this uniform?"

"Please die," Shintarou tells him, meaning every word of it sincerely.

"So that's a yes," Takao concludes. He laughs all the way out the front door while Shintarou tries to administer the smacking he so clearly deserves. And Shintarou is very careful not to notice that he never corrected Takao's misapprehensions.

He's many things, but he's not stupid, after all.

end

Some people enter a new fandom by writing thoughtful, reflective meta and/or character studies. Apparently I make my entrance via smut. Go figure.

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