Aizawa is fucking him lazily; almost slow enough that Toshinori wonders if he fell asleep again: forehead pressed between the sharp cuts of Toshinori’s shoulder blades, his warm, moist breath fanning against the valley of his spine.

Every now and then, though, Aizawa will twist his hips; give his thrusts a new angle that makes Toshinori’s toes curl and his breathing speed up.

There are a few drops of blood soaked into the towel he’s dragged across his pillow, though nothing to be worried about yet.

The constant throb of pain in his side is dull, almost as sleepy as their coupling.

Aizawa is mumbling, but it is too indistinct to make out anything – his hands are gentle as they trace Toshinori’s painfully visible ribs, and his lips leave wet little smears when he presses sloppy kisses against his back.

He might not be able to hear him, but he can quite imagine what he is saying, and it is enough to make him want to squirm in embarrassment, pressing his forehead against his arms, and breathing quick and warm into the little space he created.

“Don’t,” he rumbles. He can taste the blood frothing at the corner of his mouth, but the feeling of his impending orgasm low in his shivering belly is more prominent than anything else.

Aizawa hums and lifts up higher on his knees, easily taking Toshinori’s slim hips with him. He can’t possibly reach in to nuzzle his face into the back of Toshinori’s neck, but he makes due by gently biting whatever he can reach; leaving distinct points of dull pain behind that makes Toshinori squeeze down on his cock.