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     “Stop smacking my hand.” Shōta grouches, cheeks a little pink and voice a little heavier than normal. Hizashi huffs, having a hard time keeping his voice down; he is tipsy off his first finished beer and heading into drunker territory with this concoction Nemuri has placed in front of him, now half full, while Shōta is many, many beers deeper and quite drunk.

  “Stop trying to unbutton my pants, then,” He says, loud enough to draw attention from a few patrons. Nemuri laughs at something Fukukado says, and Maijima looks on the verge of passing out. “No, I want in them.” Shōta says with a laugh, a muscled arm blocking Hizashi against the booth and his other hand flicking the button and pushing inside.

  Hizashi yelps, shoving Shōta’s arm away and flushing dark when a large, rough hand squeezes his dick. “Aizawa Shōta,” He hisses, gaining another laugh. “Aizawa Hizashi,” He parrots, grabbing Hizashi by his hips and pulling until Hizashi sits on his lap. He is stuck there once more purely by Shōta’s ability to hold him down with his strength.

  “Oh so I’m, hey! Stop it,” He says, arching away from the fingers flicking the piercing through his nipple. Nemuri rolls her eyes when she catches sight of them. “Handsy boys don’t get their drinks paid for.” Shōta places his chin on Hizashi’s shoulder, ignoring his squirming in favor of rolling one of the piercings in his dick beneath the table. “Don’t watch, then,” Shōta says simply, shoving Hizashi’s hips to keep them under the table while she waves her hand in dismissal.

  Hizashi whines softly, managing to keep his volume down for a moment longer as Shōta’s hand makes its way into his underwear, his husband’s legs twisting around his own pair beneath the table to keep them still. His palm begins a slow exploration, stroking over the piercings and up to the damp head of his cock, using the leverage he's got on the taller man to grind through their layers of jeans.

  Shōta’s other hand pinches harsher, making Hizashi jerk his legs and nearly let out a loud noise. He purrs in Hizashi’s ear and makes his thighs tremble, even when he hangs his head forward to hide his face from those at the large table, the large booth the lot of heroes takes up in the back of their usual bar, Hizashi can’t stop himself. His hips jump when his cock is finally hard and Shōta squeezes it, then tugs the voice hero’s hips back down. He can feel the hard line of Shōta’s own dick on his ass and he wants to be noisy or to just leave Shōta’s lap.

  He’s a terribly handsy drunk and Hizashi is too near joining him to care as much as he should with coworkers and friends so close. The rough palm slipping down his cock, twisting his piercings and teasing the head, it’s good . The stinging on his chest burns beautifully, and Shōta seems extremely pleased. “Everyone is around us, ‘Zashi, just.. watching me touch you. They think I’m groping you a little.” Hizashi creates a thicker curtain with his free hair, eyes squeezing tight as he tries to pull his thoughts together enough to keep his quirk in check.

  Shōta’s hand leaves his shirt to unzip the jeans fully, pulling his cock free from his underwear and into the cool air of the noisy bar. Hizashi hisses, jerking and pressing back onto Shōta’s chest. “Put — Shōta , don’t!” He laughs lowly, his fist tightening and speed picking up.

  “What? Don’t pull your cock out?” Hizashi whines, peering from his hair to gaze across at the people with them. The only ones who are not even tipsy would be Tensei and Yagi, but they’re speaking animatedly to each other. Nemuri catches Hizashi’s gaze and he snaps his eyes back down, bucking into Shōta’s heavy fist and listening to the other man's quickening breath.

  “That’s it. Let me get you off in front of everyone. I want to fuck you here, ‘Zashi-baby.” Hizashi’s swimming head rings pleasantly with his husband’s pet name, his dick twitching and leaking onto Shōta’s hand, pumping fast and squeezing harsh. “Wanna fuck you right here, so bad,” He repeats, jerking his hips up and growing breathier. Shōta brings a hand up to the bar table and grabs a napkin and buries his smile in Hizashi’s trembling shoulder, placing the napkin just in front of the head of Hizashi’s cock.

  He grips tight and rolls through the next stroke, “Are you going to come in public, in front of everyone, 'Zashi? Just for me,” Hizashi pushes his hands over his face, biting at his skin to keep his volume down, body jumping into Shōta’s touches until the wave finally crashes, Shōta’s name whimpered from behind his palms, eyes rolling and drool spilling down his chin. Flashes of heat ripple through each movement of his husband's unforgiving fist, deep voice overcoming the sound of the public around them.

  Shōta balls the napkin up and sets it next to them on the seat, pushing Hizashi back into his pants but leaving them undone. He twists his husband effortlessly in his lap, tipping his crimson face for a kiss.

  “Now me,” He says, tongue between his teeth as he guides Hizashi’s hand to his extremely obvious erection, even as his thighs tremble with the haze of pleasure, mind still reeling. “Everyone already knows you just got off. They know you’re about to get me off too. That you’re willing to do it anywhere for me,” Hizashi groans, tipping until he can bite at Shōta’s neck, pushing his hand across Shōta’s jeans until he manages to blindly get inside, palm squeezing and rubbing at the throbbing outline of his husband’s erection.

  Shōta’s groans are low and heavy, just like they always are. The noises are almost lost to the sound of Nemuri’s high, loud laughter that Fukukado only adds to, to the noise of Kan’s drunken rambling and others along the curve counting down to take a shot.

  He instead focuses on getting Shōta off, on stroking his cock from outside his underwear; his heart pounding with the way someone outside their group passes by their table. He pauses, but knows his body, how tightly he is pressed to Shōta, blocks out the sight from the outsider’s view. He lets out a soft oversensitive sound into his husband’s ear and pushes his hand inside his underwear, stroking his slim fingers across the silky skin covering the head of his wet cock, gentle when pushing it away and rough when getting at the sensitive head.

  Shōta bucks into the touches, eyes fallen shut and lip between his teeth. It takes him no time at all to come, to coat Hizashi’s hand and the inside of his own clothes arching through it and letting a low groan slip past his teeth, bloodshot eyes fluttering open and a dirty grin spreading onto his face.

  “Thanks, ‘Zashi.” Hizashi snorts, face still heavily flushed and hand fumbling for a napkin for a moment. He unwraps it to wipe his own hand while Shōta’s busy themselves holding his ass, purposely too tight. “Shōta,” Hizashi grumbles, dazed mind coming together as a second tissue joins the booth seat.

  “What?” His smirk says he knows what. Hizashi rolls his eyes and pouts only a little, accepting a kiss from his handsy husband. “Wait until we get home is what.”