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Against his knees, the bathroom floor is cold and unforgivingly solid. Itome’s bones ache, his ankles creaking in protest with the continued pressure of holding his own weight.
Desperately, blinking away the tears gathering on his lashes, Itome tries to look up, to open his eyes and take in the sight above him.
He can’t.
Can’t even breathe.
His head is starting to spin, fuzzy and drowned in sensation, thrumming, full of his thudding heart and the steady throb of heat pressing against the back of his throat. No thoughts.
As unforgiving as the pressure of tile beneath him, Akemi thrusts forward in a slow, indulgent rhythm. It’s unrelenting, painful; lips stretched so wide that Itome thinks the corners might start to split, skin tearing open.
He wonders if Akemi would stop even then, if he would bend down, would wipe away the smears of crimson with the monogrammed handkerchief he always keeps in his pocket. The scarlet stemmed by soft ivory.
Probably not. He wouldn’t want to get it dirty.
Each time he moves forward, Akemi ensures that the jolt of his cockhead pressing too hard, too deep, triggers Itome’s gag reflex badly enough that he chokes. Muffled around the heavy weight against his tongue, the wet, hacking noises of Itome’s throat constricting can barely be heard.
Still, Akemi hums softly in contentment at the sound.
Usually, he’d be talking, running that dirty mouth of his, tone plain and throwaway, degradation and praise falling from his lips with all the pomp and ceremony of a weather forecast. Ever since they’d stepped into the stall, he’s been silent.
It feels like punishment. The worst kind.
Itome yearns for Akemi to speak, to ground him in the reality that the boy is actually here. Despite his every effort, Itome still can’t gather the focus to open his eyes and check it himself.
He’s always hated sensory deprivation.
In his chest, Itome’s lungs are starting to scream. He can feel heat flushing his face, cheeks turning redder and redder with every second that oxygen is withheld from him.
Talk to me, he wants to say. Please.
Ever since they’d met, Akemi had always been more than capable of filling Itome’s silences. For every shy, self-conscious flick of hair downward, the waves covering Itome’s eyes, Akemi had always been there to ruffle it, push it back, making him show his ‘pretty face’, quote unquote.
Despite his delicate features, soft hair and dainty fingers, Akemi was the first person to ever call him pretty.
He wants Akemi to say it now.
Ignoring the protests of his rattling lungs, Itome pushes his head forward by a centimetre, lifting his tongue up, moving it against the underside of Akemi’s thick dick as much as he can with the fullness of his mouth.
Akemi’s moan feels like a drug injected directly into Itome’s veins, rushing through him like liquid gold, casting him in something dazzling and precious and All Akemi’s. Like he’s a prize: won.
Still, Akemi says nothing. But, his hands lift from where they were hung casually at his sides and instead bury in Itome’s hair, clutching, tightening, fingernails scraping against his scalp.
Itome whimpers, a pathetic, animal sound.
In his head, he hears Akemi’s condescending answer of, “Oh dear, poor puppy. Does it hurt?” The absence of the words is a knife in the gut, ripping across Itome’s abdomen, letting his organs spill out.
He wishes Akemi would eat them. Consume him completely. Then he could see Akemi from inside, mark himself on the curves and sinews of muscle and bone. So that, even if no one else knows, not even Akemi himself, his body will always belong to Itome.
Before he’d been pushed onto his knees, Itome’s shirt had been removed, his trousers shoved down to his ankles. In contrast, Akemi is still clothed, cock simply pulled out from his open fly. But, with the hem of his trousers pushed down below the jut of his hips, Itome had seen the patches of red and purple staining Akemi’s skin.
He doesn’t know who left them.
Movements starting to speed, Akemi tightens his grip, pulling hard enough that the tears brimming in Itome’s eyes finally fall, tracing down his cheeks.
“So pretty when you cry,” the echo of Akemi says. “Such a shame that I’m the only one who gets to see your face like this.” In Itome’s memory, he can see Akemi’s eyes sparking, predatory and possessive as he speaks, as if he thinks it’s anything but.
Akemi’s cock is throbbing, a steady pulse of heat, mirroring the beat of his heart, signalling just how close he is.
Itome wants it. He wants Akemi’s cum down his throat, coating his mouth, so that he isn’t left completely empty afterwards. So that he can keep the taste of Akemi on his tongue for a few more hours.
It’s like Akemi can see the desperation on his face, the need, because, just as he pulls in a sharp inhale, thighs tensing as his orgasm rises to the surface, he wrenches Itome’s head back.
Hot liquid lands on Itome’s lips, his chin, dripping down onto his bare chest.
Only then, does Akemi say off-handedly, “What a mess.”
Itome can’t help sobbing, feeling cold and empty and aching. His chest heaves, gasping as his airways finally open up. His nose is stuffy and blocked, throat sore enough that each panting breath feels like he’s being scraped by razor blades.
Akemi tuts, wiping away the tears before he moves to tilt Itome’s head up with the tip of a single finger.
When Itome is finally able to open his eyes, he’s greeted by Akemi’s smile. Incandescent as liquid neon, a phosphorus burn. Blinding.
“Oh dear,” he says, voice thick with faux sympathy. “Look at you, your face is all red.”
Itome barely suppresses a moan. Hearing Akemi’s voice, so mean, so sickly sweet in its quality, after so long without it feels so good. He thinks that, if Akemi just kept talking to him like that, if he only put his fingers back in Itome’s hair, then he’d be able to cum from that alone.
With his other hand, Akemi pinches at one of his cheeks, hard.
It hurts enough that Itome hisses at the pain.
Akemi laughs lightly at that. “So sensitive,” he comments, practically cooing. “Ready to talk yet, Itome-kun? Are you sure you’ve nothing to say? Nothing you want?”
Itome shakes his head.
Akemi tuts. “Now, now, Itome-kun. Are you sure?”
Pulling in sharp, unsteady breaths, he manages to whisper, “K-Ke-chan…”
“Hmm,” Akemi hums, eyes scanning over Itome’s face in clear assessment, as if hoping that he might look right through skin and bone to see the thoughts displayed beneath.
“Want…” he croaks, throat dry. Desperately, he swallows a mouthful of spit, trying to calm his breathing. His voice is, as always, small, almost inaudible. “Just want… Ke-chan…”
Akemi’s eyes flash. For the briefest moment, something shadows his face, an emotion Itome cannot recognise. Then, it’s gone. Akemi’s smile widens.
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” he asks, rhetorically, fingernail tracing down Itome’s neck, across his adam’s apple. Swiping up some of the cum smearing his chest, Akemi brings the slick fingers up to Itome’s still gaping mouth.
Itome doesn’t need to be told to suck them clean, murmuring noises of delight as he does. It tastes good, half-salted and half-sweet. Akemi is so nice to him, he thinks, so kind. He wants to thank him, to tell him he’s beautiful, to say–
“Gngh– Ah!” Itome chokes, feeling nails scrape against his tonsils painfully.
Akemi just keeps smiling as he says, “Such pretty noises.”
Against his stomach, Itome’s cock pulses and jumps. Pre-cum bubbles at the tip as the praise strikes through him, red-hot and scalding.
“Oh,” Akemi says, looking down at Itome’s straining length as if its presence has only just occurred to him. “Poor thing.” Withdrawing his fingers, now shining with saliva, from Itome’s mouth, Akemi bends down.
Itome keeps his eyes fixed on Akemi’s face, taking in his sharp gaze, his lips caught in a smirk that’s empty of the charm he usually projects. Instead, his expression is something like hunger and fuck, Itome yearns to be eaten.
Looking down, he sees Akemi’s fingers dancing in the air above his dick. Rubbing his thumb against his forefinger, Akemi gathers the layer of spit on his skin together, into a droplet that starts to drip, drooling down.
When the first drop hits Itome’s cockhead, it makes him jerk. “A-Ah,” he breathes, feeling disorientated, vision blurred.
“You know the rules, Itome-kun.”
Moving, Akemi’s hand lands on Itome’s bare hip, wet fingers sliding against flesh. Still, on the jutting bones, the marks left by Akemi’s grip stand proud, deep and purpling.
They rarely face each other when they fuck. Instead, Akemi bends him over, holds him tight, pulls him back, brands the shapes of his fingers and thumb into the hollow dip of Itome’s waist, the curve of his hips, the arch of his shoulders. Everywhere. Anywhere.
All over. However he wants. Akemi can have him. Has had him.
“If you want something,” Akemi continues, rubbing his thumb back and forth teasingly. “You have to ask. Come on, sweetheart. I know you can.” He punctuates the pet name with a harsh press, nail against flesh.
Fuck, Itome is close. Just a little more, a few words, another pinch…
“Look at me.”
Itome’s gaze snaps up.
“Tell me what you want,” Akemi orders, voice firm. He’s still smiling. “Beg.”
Itome tries. Mouth opening, he summons words to his throat, but before he can form them, Akemi scratches down, dragging his sharp nails over Itome’s thigh. Pain sparks through him, flint against steel.
“Ke– Mmph! Ungh…” is all that comes out. Once more, he can’t breathe. “Ple– Ah, ah– Plea…”
“You can do better than that, can’t you?” Akemi’s smile is twisted, eyes flickering with amusement. “Unless…” he starts, tilting his head to the side in mock consideration. “You don’t want anything? Is that it?”
Itome shakes his head in protest, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, trying to catch both his breath and his stray thoughts, gather them up so he can express them properly.
“What– Whatever Ke-chan– Ngh, unh, uh, wants…” he stutters out eventually, writhing as Akemi soothes his palm over Itome’s freshly-scratched skin.
“How precious.”
Itome whines.
“Really, Itome-kun?” Akemi’s lips tilt up even higher, pleased at the response. “Anything I want?”
When Itome meets Akemi’s eyes, he catches the danger flickering in them, but still, he nods. No matter what it is, if Akemi wants it, Itome will give it to him.
People often expect him to be laidback, reserved, perhaps even apathetic, with his tired, low-lidded eyes and expressionless face. But, whilst he’s certainly introverted and low energy, Itome has a heart that bleeds, the bloody mass pinned onto his sleeve, exposed.
When it comes to Akemi, the one he loves so deeply it sears him like a brand, Itome will do whatever it takes to stay at his side.
Even if Akemi doesn’t love him. It’s okay.
So long as they have this.
“Such a good boy,” Akemi praises, so indulgent.
Itome can’t help it, the praise is too much, the stinging of his skin, the humiliation and the pain and the unwavering pressure of Akemi’s observation, gaze as sharp as sewing shears, sinking into him.
He cums. Completely untouched.
“Ke– Aah!” he shouts, losing the name halfway.
The pleasure is encompassing, for all of a brief moment. Frustration quickly follows. A half-orgasm, unsatisfying and uncomfortable, wrenched harshly from his guts rather than coaxed. It’s like being hit over the head by a bat, shocking, painful, leaving behind a dreadful, horrible ache .
“Aren’t you just perfect?” Akemi’s voice is slightly unsteady, but still strong.
A truly wretched noise escapes Itome, something broken.
Everything hurts. His knees. His throat. His thigh. His fucking heart.
Leaning forward, Akemi drags his tongue up from the sharp line of Itome’s jaw, following the path of his tears, tasting them. He hums, as if enjoying it.
Half-mean. Half-tender. It’s all directions.
Itome feels he’s being pulled apart.
Akemi makes him feel so good. Hurts him so much. He can’t decide. Can’t tell.
“Beautiful,” Akemi breathes out. It seems almost unconscious and, before Itome can even process the word, Akemi pushes his still-slick fingers into his hair and pulls Itome into a deep kiss.
The cum that landed on Itome’s chin smears between them, the spit covering his lips slicking their movements, making everything messy and wet.
Shifting, Akemi sits down on the floor and Itome quickly climbs into his lap, straddling him and wrapping arms around Akemi’s shoulders.
It makes Akemi seem small, as he truly is, body held and enveloped in Itome’s embrace, hidden behind Itome’s long limbs and broad shoulders. Even so, even from underneath him, the clutch of Akemi’s hands on Itome’s waist makes him curl into himself.
When their kiss breaks, Itome can barely hold his head up, feeling weak. Rocking forward, he rests his forehead against Akemi’s, his chest warming at the intimacy of the touch.
Akemi’s voice is soft, quiet and fragile the way Itome’s usually is, when he says, “So sweet.”
Itome doesn’t know what he’s referring to. The taste? The touch?
Still, the compliment stirs his insides, turning them molten.
Their hips rub against each other, moving in a slow grind. Against his bare skin, the rough texture of cotton chafes, the sharp pressure of Akemi’s open belt digging into the plush insides of Itome’s thighs. The metal buckle feels cold and uncomfortable, but Itome barely cares.
On the next press, their cocks brush against each other and Akemi huffs out a breath. He’s hard again, Itome can feel it.
“Grind on me,” Akemi says, eyes closed. “Take what you need.”
Itome’s answering moan is embarrassingly loud.
They both groan when the pressure between their hips becomes firm and full. Precum is leaking out from Itome’s cock, easing the slide of skin against skin.
Dropping his head, Itome humps against Akemi with all the clumsy enthusiasm of a virgin, desperate and unskilled. He feels so pathetic like this.
“Are you going to cum again, Itome-san? Just from this?” Akemi teases, voice warm with amusement. “Or–”
“Ngh! Ahh–” Itome flinches as he feels fingers at the base of his spine, probing down to rub over his hole.
“Would you rather cum on my cock?”
Before Itome can respond, Akemi’s fingers push into him shallowly. He starts with two, which Itome takes easily, still stretched from this morning. Still, without lube, it hurts, the rough, stinging kind that makes Itome want to wail.
The pain only enhances the pleasure of Akemi expertly massaging over Itome’s prostate, curling his fingers up in too-fast, too-much motions.
“Unh, unh– Ke– Ke-chan…”
Akemi hushes him. “Settle,” he says, spreading his fingers apart, opening Itome up forcefully. “You can take it. Can’t you?”
Biting down on his lip, Itome nods shakily. Never able to deny Akemi anything. Ever.
“There’s lube in my pocket,” Akemi says, still pressing and spreading his fingers. “Be a good boy and get my cock wet.”
Itome whimpers, hands trembling as he does as he’s told. Looking down at Akemi’s length, he feels the want hook itself deeper inside him. The sachet is slippery in his hands, skin slicked by cooling sweat. It’s difficult to open and, when he does, it spills out messily over his fingers.
When he wraps the wet digits around Akemi’s cock, smearing the streaks of lube over his skin, trying not to waste it, Akemi barely reacts beyond a heavy exhale.
Itome tries to jerk him off, to make a ring with his hand, tease Akemi to the point of needing as much as he does, but his hands are fumbling and clumsy. He can barely think, brain fuzzy with the stroke inside him, the soft scrape of trimmed fingernails against his walls.
“Such a mess,” Akemi comments, looking down at the poor job Itome has done at slicking him. His smile is still wide, bright.
Itome opens his mouth to respond, with what words, he doesn’t know, but the sudden withdrawal of Akemi’s fingers cuts him off.
Quickly, without comment, Akemi grasps Itome’s hips, shifting him forward. Itome’s hands move on instinct and Akemi is soon pulling him down, spearing him on the length of Akemi’s cock.
It’s so big. Thick and long enough that the pressure of centimetre after centimetre feels almost endless. The fullness is indescribable.
Once he’s fully seated, Akemi doesn’t give him any time to recover, to process, to think. He lifts him up right away, like it's nothing, like the long, lithe limbs, the taut muscles that make up Itome’s body don’t weigh a thing.
Fingers tight, nails dug in.
The thrusts are punishingly fast and, in this position, so deep that Itome’s hazy mind goes instantly molten. With each movement, it's like he can feel it sloshing in his skull.
Itome’s never been an academically-minded person, but he isn’t stupid.
But he feels it right now. Stupid and dumb and empty.
Just a thing. To be fucked. Akemi’s.
He’d never thought, before meeting Akemi, that he would love this so much, the sensation of being opened, being filled, being claimed from the inside, marked.
He’d never thought that Akemi would be the one to give it to him. At least at first.
Cute. Small. Wide-eyed. The soft, plump curve of Akemi’s cheeks and the flush pink of his lips. They had always been Itome’s type, small and sweet boys who look like they yearn to be held. Cherished.
Itome has loved that feeling since he was thirteen. Making someone feel wanted and adored. The open vulnerability in their eyes, the way they bend to him, do anything for his praising words, his soft touch.
But, from the first spread of a sharp, slightly sadistic smile across Akemi’s seemingly-sweet face, Itome’s insides had twisted. Inside out.
“Such a slut,” Akemi says, eyes creased at the edges as he grins up at him. “You’re drooling.”
And yeah, Itome is. Saliva is streaming out of his mouth, from the corners and down his chin, dripping down onto Akemi’s uniform.
Moaning loudly, Itome tries to avert his gaze, turning his head away. He wants to hide.
But Akemi tuts and the sound burns through him.
“Look at me, come on,” Akemi says and Itome can’t deny him.
When their eyes meet, Itome cums again. It’s sudden, knocking through him like a baseball bat against his head. His liquid-brain bubbles, boils, evaporates.
Akemi doesn’t stop.
Keeps fucking him, so hard that it would hurt if Itome could feel anything. If he wasn’t floating in an abyss, limp and lifeless and lost at sea. Crashed upon the rocks, summoned by siren song.
The voice in his ear, Akemi’s, as soulfully sweet as a ship-wreck.
—
When Itome blinks his eyes open, there’s an arm wrapped around him, a hand stroking gently over his hair, a warmth deep inside, soothing him.
Sensations come to him in increments, drip-fed.
The last to arrive is the ache, sore muscles protesting as he shifts and feels the pressure of Akemi’s softened cock still stretching him.
Itome isn’t sure when he lost consciousness, but the knowledge that Akemi had fucked him through it, kept using him until he’d reached his own orgasm and filled Itome with cum, has his mind singing with satisfaction.
It makes him happy. Knowing that even limp and loose, nothing but a dead weight in Akemi’s hands, he’d still been able to get his boyfriend off.
“You’re back,” Akemi says; a comment, not a question.
He doesn’t ask if Itome is okay, but his fingers are drawing soft circles over Itome’s skin, the hand in his hair pausing, nails grazing his skull the way one would scratch behind a kitten’s ears.
Itome doesn’t purr, but he wants to.
Instead, he nods shakily, biting down on his bottom lip as he flexes the muscles of his thighs. He needs to move, stretch out his tired limbs and wipe dried sweat from his skin, but he doesn’t want to be empty.
It feels good, being in Akemi’s lap, still full of him.
Against Itome’s desires however, Akemi starts to lift him off. The whine he makes in protest prompts a chuckle out of Akemi.
“Poor thing,” he says, no trace of degradation in the words. “Come on, up you get. It’s time to go home.”
Itome thinks, pitifully, that he’s already there.
“Up,” Akemi repeats, pushing.
When he feels Akemi’s cock slip out completely, Itome feels like crying.
“So brave,” Akemi says, half-mocking but still comforting enough that Itome manages not to start begging. “There you go.”
Mourning the lack of plug, Itome gets slowly to his feet, feeling cum start to drip out of him, warmth sliding down cooled skin.
Akemi helps him get dressed, wipes the trails of slick from his skin and combs tissue-dried fingers through his hair, settling it only somewhat.
It’s domestic. Intimate in a way sex has never been between them.
And, when Akemi takes his hand and pulls him out of the stall, dragging him down the hall and beginning to ramble off his plans for club allocations, like a man tugging on his dog’s lead, secure in the knowledge that, no matter what, the pet will follow, it’s enough.
As long as he’s Akemi’s.
That’s enough.