Oofuri, "Dirty," Abe/Mihashi, PG-13
Second commission for shirono! The prompt: " Abe has left one of his shirts in the locker room, Mihashi can't help but to smell it and jerk off after everyone else has left. Or have they? (Um, no, Abe came back for his shirt. Just to be clear, lol. They don't have to do anything, Mihashi just needs to get caught.)"
I can't seem to stay within my own word-count restrictions with these prompts. This should definitely bother me more than it should (note: it doesn't bother me at ALL).
I hope you enjoy it, dear! ♥
Dirty
by mistr3ss Quickly
Abe's halfway home, distracted with a new pitch-calling strategy he's working on, before he realizes he's left his jersey behind in the clubhouse at school. Only realizes it's missing because it starts to rain and he has to dig around in his bag for his umbrella, doesn't have trouble finding it because his jersey's not there to get in the way.
He almost doesn't go back for it. Almost lets apathy drag him home to his mother's home cooking and a hot bath.
But Momokan will fuss at him if he's wearing a dirty jersey to practice, and if it gets moldy, thanks to the rain, he might get sick, and if he gets sick then Mihashi will undoubtedly have a panic attack and drive everyone crazy, and since Mihashi's his responsibility as catcher, he can't let that happen, so he turns his feet towards school and retraces his steps, grumbling epithets into the rain as he goes.
His shoes are wet by the time he reaches the baseball field. Wet enough that his socks are squishing water between his toes. His stomach's growling, protesting the delay between practice and dinner. His hand's cold where he's holding the umbrella, fingers aching no matter how loosely he grips the handle. Doesn't make him feel very charitable when he notices the light's still on in the clubhouse, makes him downright grouchy when his brain goes through the list of likely culprits and concludes that Mihashi's mostly likely at fault because Mihashi was the only one still there when he left, looking a little dazed from the massage Abe had to give him since he had, yet again, pitched too much and stretched too little, as if damaging himself were something other than a big deal.
He makes a mental note to box Mihashi's ears for it later when he's certain Hanai isn't around to fuss at him for being a bully. Shoves the door open with all the irritation he knows he'll have to shed before he talks to Mihashi, unless he wants his pitcher to be nothing more than a terrified mess of stuttering nonsense for a solid week.
He's not expecting said pitcher to be in the clubhouse, still. Does his best to convince himself that he'd've shed the murderous glare before opening the door, had he known Mihashi was still around. Figures it's a moot point anyway because it's too late for him to do anything about it, once the door's open and Mihashi's spotted him, frozen on one of the benches in the middle of the room, his mouth moving soundlessly already in a stutter.
Abe sighs and leaves his glare where it is, crosses his arms over his chest.
"What are you doing here?" he says. His voice is loud in the empty room. Commanding. Maybe even a little bit scary, he has to admit to himself, watching Mihashi recoil. "It's late. You should be home already. Need your rest if you're going to pitch well."
Mihashi nods jerkily. "S-sorry," he says. "I'll g-go soon."
He's hunched over. Has been since Abe walked in. Hasn't turned around fully, his neck twisted at what looks like a painful angle.
Abe feels the glare come back full force, but he's too busy worrying over his idiot pitcher to care. "Are you hurt?" he says, crossing the room in three strides. "Sick? Do you need me to walk home with you? Get you something to drink? Eat?"
Mihashi freezes, eyes so wide they've got to hurt. Manages, after a few false starts, to shake his head, which looks weird to Abe for all of three seconds before he realizes that it's weirder for him to not expect Mihashi to shake his head unless first given a signal to do so.
"I'm f-fine," Mihashi says. "J-just getting ready to go h-home."
His bag's at his feet, zipped up and everything. He's got his jacket on. School uniform on underneath.
Whatever. Abe couldn't care less, as long as he's not damaged. He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. "I'll walk with you," he says. "Let me grab my jersey and we'll go."
Mihashi makes a noise, at that, so similar to that of a mouse being trodden on that Abe thinks for a moment that the clubhouse might have a rodent problem. He turns to ask what on earth his pitcher's problem is, but the sight of his jersey rumpled up in Mihashi's hand silences his questions, replacing them with a different set once his brain's unknotted itself.
"I'm s-sorry," Mihashi says, before Abe can get a single word out. "I was g-going to wash it afterwards, I p-promise!"
It's dirty, sure, but not that dirty. Abe almost defends the state of his garment before his brain hits a snag, reeling a little as he backtracks and thinks about what Mihashi actually said.
"Afterwards?" he says.
Mihashi makes the scared-mouse sound again. Doesn't answer Abe's question. Starts folding the mud-streaked jersey instead, his hands shaking so badly that the folding job looks more like a mess than anything else. Abe sighs and rolls his eyes, goes over to kneel in front of his distraught pitcher. Takes the jersey away and folds it himself, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind telling him that it's stupid to fold a shirt that's dirty and headed for the laundry pile. It's important to Mihashi, for whatever reason.
"There," Abe says, once the jersey's folded. "Now. Let's get going before the rain-"
He stops, his train of thought completely derailed. Stares at Mihashi. At Mihashi's lap, no longer covered by his jersey. At Mihashi's pants, which are not zipped. Mihashi's boxers, open at the fly. Mihashi's penis, which is out, soft and small and resting dangerously close to the zipper of Mihashi's pants.
It takes a considerable amount of effort, but he manages to tear his gaze away from Mihashi's cock, looking up at Mihashi's face instead. Finds Mihashi staring at him, teary-eyed and trembling. Obviously awaiting the scolding Abe would so dearly love to give him, if his brain were at all functioning.
"Oh," Abe manages, after what feels like way too long a pause. "You, um." You were jacking off into my jersey seems far too blunt, too obvious. Too embarrassing to actually say out loud, even in the empty clubhouse. "You shouldn't do that here," he says, instead. "It's cold and damp in here, you might catch cold. And don't do it into dirty clothes, you might get sick."
Mihashi goes rigid and nods hard enough to give himself a concussion. Abe rolls his eyes. Hesitates only a second before shoving his jersey into his bag. It's been in there before when it was dirty. Just not ... not dirty like that.
"I d-didn't-it's not m-messy," Mihashi says. "B-but I'll wash it for you. I-If you want."
A sudden, graphic mental image overwhelms Abe's brain, an image of Mihashi taking his jersey home and masturbating into it. Mihashi arching and trembling with pleasure, for once. Licking his lips once it's over. Looking pleased with himself as he washes the mess of semen off the dirt-streaked cotton.
Abe clears his throat and decides it's a side-effect of hanging out with perverts like Hanai and Tajima that he's starting to have weirdo fantasies. "That's all right," he says. "I'll take care of it, needed to wash it anyway." He puts his hand under Mihashi's elbow, pulls until Mihashi gets the idea and stands, stooping a little to pick up his bag. "You bring an umbrella with you?"
Mihashi freezes. Abe doesn't even wait for the stuttered apology.
"I have one, come on, we can share," he says. "Walk close to me, I don't want you getting sick."
Mihashi obeys immediately, gluing himself to Abe's side. He's warm. Smells like sweat and earth. Abe puts his arm around him, keeps him close. Wonders if his shirt will smell like Mihashi when he gets home, finally.
He consoles himself, when that particular thought starts to really freak him out, that he'll probably be too tired to do anything but eat and bathe and sleep by the time he's gotten Mihashi home and walked home himself. That it's just hunger and exhaustion ganging up on him, making him think like a pervert.
Besides. He's pretty sure Mihashi's smell is on his jersey. Won't need to wash it immediately, if he doesn't want to.
The thought lodges itself in his brain and bothers him to no end, all the way home.
Word-count: 1,428
I can't seem to stay within my own word-count restrictions with these prompts. This should definitely bother me more than it should (note: it doesn't bother me at ALL).
I hope you enjoy it, dear! ♥
Dirty
by mistr3ss Quickly
Abe's halfway home, distracted with a new pitch-calling strategy he's working on, before he realizes he's left his jersey behind in the clubhouse at school. Only realizes it's missing because it starts to rain and he has to dig around in his bag for his umbrella, doesn't have trouble finding it because his jersey's not there to get in the way.
He almost doesn't go back for it. Almost lets apathy drag him home to his mother's home cooking and a hot bath.
But Momokan will fuss at him if he's wearing a dirty jersey to practice, and if it gets moldy, thanks to the rain, he might get sick, and if he gets sick then Mihashi will undoubtedly have a panic attack and drive everyone crazy, and since Mihashi's his responsibility as catcher, he can't let that happen, so he turns his feet towards school and retraces his steps, grumbling epithets into the rain as he goes.
His shoes are wet by the time he reaches the baseball field. Wet enough that his socks are squishing water between his toes. His stomach's growling, protesting the delay between practice and dinner. His hand's cold where he's holding the umbrella, fingers aching no matter how loosely he grips the handle. Doesn't make him feel very charitable when he notices the light's still on in the clubhouse, makes him downright grouchy when his brain goes through the list of likely culprits and concludes that Mihashi's mostly likely at fault because Mihashi was the only one still there when he left, looking a little dazed from the massage Abe had to give him since he had, yet again, pitched too much and stretched too little, as if damaging himself were something other than a big deal.
He makes a mental note to box Mihashi's ears for it later when he's certain Hanai isn't around to fuss at him for being a bully. Shoves the door open with all the irritation he knows he'll have to shed before he talks to Mihashi, unless he wants his pitcher to be nothing more than a terrified mess of stuttering nonsense for a solid week.
He's not expecting said pitcher to be in the clubhouse, still. Does his best to convince himself that he'd've shed the murderous glare before opening the door, had he known Mihashi was still around. Figures it's a moot point anyway because it's too late for him to do anything about it, once the door's open and Mihashi's spotted him, frozen on one of the benches in the middle of the room, his mouth moving soundlessly already in a stutter.
Abe sighs and leaves his glare where it is, crosses his arms over his chest.
"What are you doing here?" he says. His voice is loud in the empty room. Commanding. Maybe even a little bit scary, he has to admit to himself, watching Mihashi recoil. "It's late. You should be home already. Need your rest if you're going to pitch well."
Mihashi nods jerkily. "S-sorry," he says. "I'll g-go soon."
He's hunched over. Has been since Abe walked in. Hasn't turned around fully, his neck twisted at what looks like a painful angle.
Abe feels the glare come back full force, but he's too busy worrying over his idiot pitcher to care. "Are you hurt?" he says, crossing the room in three strides. "Sick? Do you need me to walk home with you? Get you something to drink? Eat?"
Mihashi freezes, eyes so wide they've got to hurt. Manages, after a few false starts, to shake his head, which looks weird to Abe for all of three seconds before he realizes that it's weirder for him to not expect Mihashi to shake his head unless first given a signal to do so.
"I'm f-fine," Mihashi says. "J-just getting ready to go h-home."
His bag's at his feet, zipped up and everything. He's got his jacket on. School uniform on underneath.
Whatever. Abe couldn't care less, as long as he's not damaged. He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. "I'll walk with you," he says. "Let me grab my jersey and we'll go."
Mihashi makes a noise, at that, so similar to that of a mouse being trodden on that Abe thinks for a moment that the clubhouse might have a rodent problem. He turns to ask what on earth his pitcher's problem is, but the sight of his jersey rumpled up in Mihashi's hand silences his questions, replacing them with a different set once his brain's unknotted itself.
"I'm s-sorry," Mihashi says, before Abe can get a single word out. "I was g-going to wash it afterwards, I p-promise!"
It's dirty, sure, but not that dirty. Abe almost defends the state of his garment before his brain hits a snag, reeling a little as he backtracks and thinks about what Mihashi actually said.
"Afterwards?" he says.
Mihashi makes the scared-mouse sound again. Doesn't answer Abe's question. Starts folding the mud-streaked jersey instead, his hands shaking so badly that the folding job looks more like a mess than anything else. Abe sighs and rolls his eyes, goes over to kneel in front of his distraught pitcher. Takes the jersey away and folds it himself, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind telling him that it's stupid to fold a shirt that's dirty and headed for the laundry pile. It's important to Mihashi, for whatever reason.
"There," Abe says, once the jersey's folded. "Now. Let's get going before the rain-"
He stops, his train of thought completely derailed. Stares at Mihashi. At Mihashi's lap, no longer covered by his jersey. At Mihashi's pants, which are not zipped. Mihashi's boxers, open at the fly. Mihashi's penis, which is out, soft and small and resting dangerously close to the zipper of Mihashi's pants.
It takes a considerable amount of effort, but he manages to tear his gaze away from Mihashi's cock, looking up at Mihashi's face instead. Finds Mihashi staring at him, teary-eyed and trembling. Obviously awaiting the scolding Abe would so dearly love to give him, if his brain were at all functioning.
"Oh," Abe manages, after what feels like way too long a pause. "You, um." You were jacking off into my jersey seems far too blunt, too obvious. Too embarrassing to actually say out loud, even in the empty clubhouse. "You shouldn't do that here," he says, instead. "It's cold and damp in here, you might catch cold. And don't do it into dirty clothes, you might get sick."
Mihashi goes rigid and nods hard enough to give himself a concussion. Abe rolls his eyes. Hesitates only a second before shoving his jersey into his bag. It's been in there before when it was dirty. Just not ... not dirty like that.
"I d-didn't-it's not m-messy," Mihashi says. "B-but I'll wash it for you. I-If you want."
A sudden, graphic mental image overwhelms Abe's brain, an image of Mihashi taking his jersey home and masturbating into it. Mihashi arching and trembling with pleasure, for once. Licking his lips once it's over. Looking pleased with himself as he washes the mess of semen off the dirt-streaked cotton.
Abe clears his throat and decides it's a side-effect of hanging out with perverts like Hanai and Tajima that he's starting to have weirdo fantasies. "That's all right," he says. "I'll take care of it, needed to wash it anyway." He puts his hand under Mihashi's elbow, pulls until Mihashi gets the idea and stands, stooping a little to pick up his bag. "You bring an umbrella with you?"
Mihashi freezes. Abe doesn't even wait for the stuttered apology.
"I have one, come on, we can share," he says. "Walk close to me, I don't want you getting sick."
Mihashi obeys immediately, gluing himself to Abe's side. He's warm. Smells like sweat and earth. Abe puts his arm around him, keeps him close. Wonders if his shirt will smell like Mihashi when he gets home, finally.
He consoles himself, when that particular thought starts to really freak him out, that he'll probably be too tired to do anything but eat and bathe and sleep by the time he's gotten Mihashi home and walked home himself. That it's just hunger and exhaustion ganging up on him, making him think like a pervert.
Besides. He's pretty sure Mihashi's smell is on his jersey. Won't need to wash it immediately, if he doesn't want to.
The thought lodges itself in his brain and bothers him to no end, all the way home.
Word-count: 1,428