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Kyouji had thought that he wouldn’t be seeing the kid anytime soon after their Christmas date; whatever spell it was that had been tying Satomi to him had broken and either Satomi would text him or he wouldn’t and Kyouji would let whatever happen happen and he’d be fine with it, like he’s been fine with everything else.
But Satomi texted 3 days later, still in Osaka, and wanted to get dinner again and well. Satomi just didn’t quit, was the thing. So here they are, a few months later in Tokyo, at a hotel two blocks from the restaurant they’d met at for dinner.
Kyouji’s on the bed, back against the headrest and legs spread wide enough for Satomi to sit between them with his own legs folded under him. They’re sitting there in their skivvies, both hard, but it hasn’t escalated past Satomi looking and touching. Kyouji isn't going to do anything other than sit here all night with his hands at his sides and let Satomi catalog every inch of ink, every hair, every mole on his skin if that’s what he wants to do.
Satomi looked so handsome tonight, sitting across from him at the restaurant, that shy smile on his lips that Kyouji had wanted to lunge across the table and kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Pinch his cheeks while he was at it, ruffle his hair. He’d had a lot of conflicting thoughts at that moment. Mostly it just felt good to be smiled at by Satomi.
Well, he isn’t smiling now. Not a trace of that shy, fond expression; but he doesn’t have his usual sour look either. This is a bit scarier than either of those. Satomi’s looking at him like a cat about to pounce on a mouse.
Satomi inspects his irezumi, tracing it with his fingers. Eyes dark and fascinated, and the kid hasn’t even seen his back yet. Wait till he gets an eyeful of that.
Maybe he just wants to look. That’s better, actually. Satisfy his little curiosity and they can both be merry on their way.
Even then, Satomi will still probably regret this. He’ll probably regret ever meeting Kyouji. It’s okay—it’s not like Kyouji hasn’t had the same thing said to his face by plenty of girlfriends in varying states of unhappiness.
It was always easy for him to leave when things got hard.
Are things hard with Satomi? He doesn’t know. They haven’t done anything. It’s not like the kid wants to really be with him. He’s just curious, and horned up like any other eighteen year old. It’s too easy to say yes to him. Easiest thing in the whole world. Easier than saying yes to an order from the boss. That’s an automatic thing, no choice in it really, which of course was part of the draw.
“Did it hurt to get tattooed here?” Satomi pushes his thumb into Kyouji’s nipple, darkened with ink.
Kyouji breathes out, hard. Nerves fire, sending sparks of sensation from his nipple down to his dick.
“Kinda,” he says cautiously, wary that Satomi’s gonna use this next little bit against him. “It’s a sensitive place, ain’t it?”
The pain there had been sharper and harder to ignore. But it was over pretty quick and afterward, Kyouji liked the look of it, his nipples disappearing into the dark, rolling wind blowing across his pecs.
“I don’t know,” Satomi says. “Is it?”
Right, right. Virgin. Still, hadn’t he messed around with his own at all? Kyouji can’t fathom how Satomi could have such cute little nips himself and not want to roll ‘em around when he was jerking it.
“Sure,” Kyouji says. “It’s uh, an erogenous zone.”
Satomi rubs his thumb over the pointed protrusion and Kyouji closes his teeth over the sound that fights to make its way out of his mouth.
“Yeah, for girls.”
Kyouji chuckles. Damn, kid has a lot to learn. “Well, ya know Satomi-kun, thing is, some gu—”
The rest gets lost to the strangled sound that does manage to escape as Satomi pinches his nipple and pulls on it.
“Fuck,” he practically yelps. “Warn a guy, would ya?”
Satomi stares into his eyes, his pupils dilating. Kyouji’s reminded of that crazy, focused look cats get right before they pounce. Oh boy, he’s in trouble. Silly of him to think he’d be the one with the toy and not the toy himself if he ever found himself in this situation.
“Does it hurt,” Satomi breathes.
“N—no. Feels good.” Of course it hurts; but that was what made it feel so good, wasn’t it.
Satomi gives him another experimental pinch, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together and Kyouji groans, low and honest. Didn’t have it in him to pretend otherwise.
His nipples are hard, poking out towards Satomi like divination rods, his areolas drawn tight, little pebbles in the dark inked skin.
Satomi tugs on them, a direct line down to Kyouji’s cock. Nerves firing, a line of heat. He stiffens a little more, filling out the front of his briefs.
“You like this,” Satomi says. Is it a question? It doesn’t sound like one. Sounds like a test, and Kyouji’s failing it.
“Yeah.” Kyouji fights the urge to grip the sheets. “Told ya it feels good.”
Satomi keeps playing with him. Taking control of him like this, well it’s making him feel turned on and fuzzy. He always liked when girls got on top or got a little bossy with him and he likes it about a hundred times better when it’s Satomi. That’s the problem, isn’t it? He likes everything better when it’s Satomi.
“Did your boss pick it out.” Poking the sake cup on his shoulder.
“Yeah. That’s kinda how it works. Pretty funny tattoo for a teetotaler, huh?”
“Not really. I know what it means.”
Satomi darts his head forward and sucks on the sake cup. Like he’s trying to suck up the liquid out of it, take some sake for himself, drink from it. Sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and then licking over it. He licks down to Kyouji’s nipple and sucks it in his mouth.
It’s a jolt of sensation for Kyouji. The warm wet mouth, the suction, the soft lips that feel a hell of a lot plusher on his nipple than they look.
“Fuck, Satomi-kun,” Kyouji groans.
Kyouji's hands are itching to do something; grab the back of Satomi’s head, pull him hard against his chest, work his other nipple and get some sensation going on the other side, palm his cock and start stroking it through the fabric. He keeps his hands where they are.
Sudden, sharp pain as Satomi bites down on his nipple and Kyouji flinches, grabbing the duvet and fisting at the fabric until he can’t keep quiet and a harsh whine makes its way out of him.
“Too hard,” he gasps. “Satomi-kun, too hard, too hard—”
The clamp of teeth releases and Satomi’s licking him again, soothing laps of his tongue. Kyouji shudders, the change in sensation making his dick jump in his skivvies.
Flicks of Satomi’s tongue, diddling his sore nipple.
“Please,” Kyouji says, voice on the wrong side of shaky. “Please, Satomi-kun.” He doesn’t know what he’s pleading for. More or less or nothing at all.
Satomi finally takes mercy on him and releases his nipple from his wet mouth, leaning back. Kyouji takes a deep breath, relieved at the reprieve and wary of what’s next.
He was right to be concerned because Satomi starts stroking the tattoo of his name on his arm. Little circles, testing it, feeling for raised skin.
“Did this hurt?” Satomi asks.
What did he want to hear—the truth? That it had felt like getting stabbed in the heart with every stab of the needle? That looking at it never stopped hurting, but the idea of not having it there anymore hurt worse?
“Boy, you wouldn’t believe how much it hurt, Satomi-kun.” Kyouji draws his eyebrows up toward each other and looks up at the ceiling. “The boss didn’t go easy on me at all.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have lost then.”
Kyouji thinks about how much he should say. Talking about that time still feels off limits somehow, even though Satomi seems to have gotten over his own aversion to referencing it.
“I didn’t mind. Kind of worth it ‘cause I finally got to hear you sing for me." Kyouji would do it again if he could, let the boss tattoo all over him if it meant he got to hear Satomi sing for him again.
Satomi looks at him, frowning. “That was the contest you lost?”
“Yeppers. You sang my song, didn't ya? Had to sing one of the others, from your list, after all. I thought I did okay but the boss thought different. Guess he thought gettin’ my car rammed into wasn’t enough sufferin’ for me that day.”
Satomi's expression goes cloudy. Uh oh. That scary look Satomi was sporting earlier was somehow less scary than this.
“I’ll get it removed,” Kyouji says quickly. “Just haven’t gotten around to yet.”
Truth be told, he hasn’t so much as looked into it. You just don’t erase what the boss gave you. He’d planned on just keeping it covered around Satomi, if he ever saw him again, and let him think what he was gonna think. Of course, that was all out the window now. How was Kyouji supposed to know he’d be nearly naked in a hotel bed with Satomi just a few months later?
Satomi presses his thumb harder into his name. “I don’t want you to anymore.”
Kyouji looks at him, his mind working overtime to make sense of him. Satomi gives him whiplash. He’s all over the damn place—but could you blame him? He’s just a kid, he doesn’t know what he wants.
“It’s no problem, Satomi-kun. ”
This is evidently the wrong thing to say. Satomi digs his thumb in, tightening his grip on Kyou’ji’s forearm, making him wince. Kid has a stronger grip than it looks like, with those slim fingers and noodle arms.
“Okay! Ouch, that kinda hurts. Hey, I’ll do whatever you want, okay? Besides, I really like it, you know?”
Satomi loosens his claws just a bit.
“I like havin’ you name on me. Kept me company all those years without you.”
This was the right thing to say. Satomi’s face relaxes into something a little less intense and more like his usual moody countenance. Kyouji pulls his arm up, Satomi still hanging on to him, and kisses the tattoo and Satomi’s thumb with it. “See?” Kyouji says, his lips quirked up at one corner in the biggest smile he thinks is safe to get away with.
It subdues Satomi for the moment. He rubs his thumb over his name, staring at it, and then pulls his hand away.
Downcast eyes trace over Kyouji’s stomach, looking at the trail of hair that winds it way from under the waistband of his underwear and up to his belly button. A cat inspecting his prey before eating it whole, head and all.
Satomi strokes a finger down the trail, down the sensitive skin under Kyouji’s belly button and his abdomen tenses, an involuntary flinch. Satomi hooks his finger under the waistband and pulls.
“Hey, you don’t have to do that,” Kyouji says. “You can uh, you can jerk off on me or something, whatever you want, but you don’t need—I don’t need—”
“I want to see it,” Satomi says firmly, and Kyouji doesn't have it in him to keep protesting.
The downward trajectory of his waistband continues, two hands now, revealing his pubic hair and then the fat base of his shaft as Satomi unwraps him like a present. Satomi’s eyes are big and sharp behind his glasses, focused on the slowly unfurling length of him. Kyouji’s waistband catches on the ridge of his head and for a second it’s so quiet he could hear a pin drop. Kyouji feels crazy, because why are they both holding their breath for this? And then Satomi tugs a little more and his cock is out, too heavy to spring free but with a valiant bob upwards anyway.
Satomi doesn't say anything, just keeps his attention fixed and Kyouji feels helpless, pinned down by the weight of his gaze. The longer he looks without passing judgement, the more naked and exposed Kyouji feels. Maybe Satomi doesn’t like it. Maybe he thinks it’s ugly. Maybe it’s good if Satomi is disgusted by it.
“Can I touch it?” Satomi says, finally wresting his gaze away and fixing those big eyes on Kyouji.
“Fuck.” Kyouji briefly lifts his moratorium on letting his hands go anywhere other than on the bed on either side of him and scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, okay. Yeah, Satomi-kun, you can touch it.”
Where the fuck was his self-control? Somewhere back in that karaoke booth, along with his sanity.
Long, slim fingers on him, pulling him up and encircling him, and Kyouji’s hips buck up without his permission. A sound comes out of his throat that he didn't know he would make, and there it is, the stuff of his fantasies and nightmares, Satomi’s hand wrapped around his cock.
He has to close his eyes, just for a minute.
The warmth of Satomi's hand on him, a loose grasp drawing up to his head and then back down, firmer now, and stroking again. The pressure’s still too light, and the motion too slow, and still Kyouji throbs. He's thought about this so many times and now here he is, getting a handjob from Satomi with his eyes closed. He opens them.
Satomi’s bottom lip is tucked under his front teeth and his nostrils are slightly flared, breathing just a little fast through his nose. His wrist bent, his hand working, slow strokes that seemed like teasing but aren’t teasing at all, he knows that now. Satomi wants to figure him out.
Well, he’ll have to do that on his own; Kyouji isn’t going to tell him, isn’t going to say what he likes or what feels good, because Kyouji shouldn’t be allowing this at all.
“Is it good?” Satomi asks, predictably, looking up at him.
Kyouji nods, swallowing thickly.
Satomi releases him from his grip and Kyouji lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Satomi braces himself on Kyouji’s shoulder, slings one leg over his hip and then the other, and straddles him. A lap full of boy, cute little ass that Kyouji used to let his gaze linger on a little too long when it was filling out a school uniform, settling on top of his thighs.
And the rest of him: Narrow chest with that divot in his sternum, shoulders so bony they look like the articulated joints of an action figure; long slim neck and a jaw that gets sharper every time Kyouji sees him; cute little button nose and big, big eyes behind his glasses, the lenses too flimsy a barrier to keep Satomi from staring straight into the depths of his soul.
Kyouji’s hands twitch beside him.
Then Satomi’s gaze breaks away and he reaches for his own waistband, and pulls out his cock.
Normally he's got a great poker face, but Kyouji can’t help the breath he sucks in. He doesn't want to like Satomi’s long, slim dick with its red weepy head poking out of the foreskin, but he does. He doesn’t want his own cock to stiffen a little more at the sight of it, but it does. He doesn't want to think that Satomi’s bigger than he thought he’d be, but he does, because somehow he'd still been picturing a fourteen year’s dick all this time.
Kyouji inhales sharply again as Satomi’s fingers wrap around him once more. Satomi still has his other hand on himself; ambitious kid, gonna jerk them both off at the same time? But instead of stroking one in each hand, he brings their cocks together, shaft against shaft, crossed like two bokken. He rubs them against each other, opposing motion, converging and separating at the tip.
“Sword fighting,” Kyouji croaks. When did he lose his voice? When had he gone from sounding cool and collected to pleading for mercy to now, apparently, wrecked?
“What?” Satomi barely glances at him. He’s too busy watching himself make their cocks duel.
“Like kenjutsu.”
Satomi fits the head of his dick against Kyouji’s.
“Shit,” Kyouji says. The sight of it’s fucking him up, the shiny skin of Satomi’s head, their slits pressed up close, drooling on each other, commingling their precum. He wonders if any of his pre is going in Satomi’s slit, or any of Satomi’s in his.
All the times he jacked off to any number of sinful, if not downright illegal things he could do to him, this specific configuration was never in the running. But it turns out real life is a hell of a lot dirtier than Kyouji’s imagination. Turns out he’s a lot more turned on by being cock to cock with Satomi than he ever considered; then again, he hadn’t really considered it all.
Satomi shifts his hips back and angles their cocks so they’re pointing at each other. He holds Kyouji’s in place and rolls his hips forward, dragging his cock along Kyouji’s shaft. Rubbing the heads together, Satomi’s glans, flushed and exposed, kissing Kyouji’s, swollen and half covered by his foreskin. Satomi slides his fist from the base of Kyouji’s cock toward the tip, tight enough that the foreskin bunches, covering his cockhead until it’s puckered up against Satomi’s.
Another pull and then his foreskin is enveloping the head of Satomi’s cock, taking him in, like there was always enough room for him there. He’s everywhere else inside Kyouji, can’t get him out; why not here, too?
Wet sounds as Satomi rocks his hips, mashing their cockheads together, fucking them up against each other, sheathed by Kyouji’s foreskin. Slipping and sliding until Satomi slides right out and he pulls on Kyouji's cock from the base again, gathering more of his foreskin up, and gets back inside him.
All the shit that wants to spill out of Kyouji’s mouth right now—look at ‘em kiss, c’mon and take what you need, you like fucking my cock?—held back as tightly as Kyouji’s fists gripping the sheets on either side of him.
Satomi's eyes are all blown out with arousal. He exhales hard and Kyouji wonders what kind of sounds he’d be making if he wasn’t keeping his throat as closed as Kyouji's is.
Satomi gets their shafts lined up alongside each other again, held in his loose fist, and ruts his hips forward. His face is red, gone from cutely flushed to desperately blotchy. His eyes are wet and shiny and Kyouji knows how quickly he can start leaking from there too.
Kyouji spits in his hand and takes over.
Two strokes and Satomi cums, bucking his hips forward into Kyouji’s hand, a strangled groan that sounds more like it hurts than feels good, and maybe it does; maybe it hurts him as much as it does Kyouji, because now that Kyouji’s had this, he knows what he'll have to give up.
Kyouji keeps going, keeps stroking, Satomi’s harsh breathing shifting to overstimulated whines. Just a little more and then he cums all over his fist and Satomi’s cock and for five or ten seconds it’s just them, it’s always just been them, and everything he's ever wanted with Satomi comes out of him alongside a few pathetic pumps of jizz.
It’s quiet, for a minute; then Satomi is pushing his hand away and clamboring off his lap. He sits with his legs folded under him, hands on the bed, breathing like he’s just run a marathon, or maybe it’s that he’s been trying to run away from Kyouji.
“Hey, don’t get weird on me.” Kyouji says. “Satomi-kun. Hey.”
“Do you like me?” Satomi says, staring at the duvet.
What does it matter? It won’t change things. It can’t change a single fucked up circumstance of theirs, not the twenty-five years or that they’re both men or the family Kyouji can’t just leave like the one he was born into.
“‘Course I like you.”
“Then hug me.”
Satomi still doesn’t get it. If he hugs Satomi he won’t want to let go, and he can’t hold on to him.
Kyouji reaches for him and stops halfway, wipes his hand off on the duvet, and then puts his arm around him and pulls him toward him. Satomi comes awkwardly, fitting under Kyouji’s arm and against his side. It’s a half hug, an echo of the one Kyouji gave him months ago, except this time they’re on a bed in a love hotel with their spent cocks hanging out of their underwear and the absurdity of it makes Kyouji want to laugh until he cries.
He doesn’t do either one.