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A long week of shoots overseas had had Kuro spent from all the on- and off-roads traveling required in between. Happy to be back on familiar grounds at last, he looked forward to the reprieve of his two beloveds awaiting his presence in private. He figured the brief downtime he’d have, before work would kick back up again, would be best spent at the Hasumi residence, to which they instantly agreed.
Despite the languor on his jet-lagged self, he appeared to still be in high demand. Before he could reach for the shoji doors before him, they slid open almost fast enough for the lacquer to be stripped off. The noise was startling as well, but the voice behind it placated him immediately.
“Kiryu-dono!” Souma sounded at once, before going in for a hug.
A grin graced Kuro’s face like clockwork, his hands and heartbeat swayed by the embrace of their reunion as he hugged him back, and took in the scent of lilac and lily. “Missed you too, buddy,” he replied in quiet.
Like a seasonal bloom, the younger beamed against the warmth. He ought not to cry as if Kuro had been gone for many years. Crammed into collarbone, he was tickled by the return of his musk, hhis breath entwined with air confined. “Truly comforting, you are,” he commented, “a strength most tempering and sweetened, all the same…”
A minute had not yet passed, and they were still standing at the doorway—and not yet past it. At the less-than-subtle attempt at flirting, Kuro fell into a rather sheepish smile. “If yer holdin’ me here, couldya at least let me see Hasumi, too?” His eyes swatted around. “And maybe not let anyone else see us like this?”
The woe of the unwelcomed eye would unsettle them so; there was still yet a place for their addled selves to go. Souma slipped his hands away, and cleared his throat to straighten himself out. There was no apology necessary, when he’d been encouraged to love and be loved.
Kuro’s evergreen eyes were like leaves upon a tree branch, waiting to follow along to the whims of one who’d capture them.
On his own accord, Souma would move about whenever he could, tethered only by the roots of his affections. “Shall I lead you to Hasumi-dono now?” He offered proudly.
“Well, how could I ever say no to that?” He chuckled.
There was a goal in the younger’s mind, to direct his senior’s gaze toward firmer ground, where the three of them could restrengthen their foundations. He took hold of the other’s arm, and began to gently guide him into the house, then through the hall.
Kuro had left his shoes at the door, along with any doubt that he wouldn’t be rewelcomed accordingly. Though his appearance on the premises was planned, Keito had not yet come out to greet him. The two stopped right outside the bedroom when Kuro spoke up about the absence. “Is he alright?”
Souma’s hand stilled on the doorknob. “Oh, certainly! You need not worry,” he reassured him, before letting out an exultant exhale, an excitement expressed in excess.
For his junior to be this giddy yet reserved nonetheless, something must have been in the works. Kuro put his hand on Souma’s shoulder. “Are you alright?” He asked more pointedly.
The samurai simply needed to check himself—a reminder that his recklessness could easily break barrier and bone. “I am more than pleased, Kiryu-dono—and from hereon out, I only wish that your happiness manifests thricefold.” With his affirmative nod, he twisted the handle, and entered the room, his head held high.
Once Kuro stepped in behind him, he spotted on the opposite wall a hanging scroll, unmistakably ornate in size and design. It had the lettering okaerinasai boldly brushed upon it. “Oh.” What a pleasant surprise. Simple but sweet—a little tribute to the occasion.
Souma continued to smile, for there was more to his contributions than just that alone.
Kuro's eyes trailed over toward where he thought Keito would be, to perhaps greet him just as charmingly—over a makeshift table of tea, or with the collection of new literature he’d picked up, or simply holding a freshly snipped rose for his thoughts.
But he was not on the bed.
His jaw fell at the sight of sin below. “O-Oh.”
He was on the floor, naked and gagged, arms bound back, head down and chest propped up by a pillow, ass jammed up by a plug heinously sized for the occasion.
A joyous occasion, it would be. Once the two met eyes—Keito’s more pitiful than Kuro’s—the toy within him twitched, having inched inward at the squeeze.
Kuro’s mouth went dry. It was the horny man’s hello, accompanied by a meager whimper, an irresistible beg for company. His eyes ran drier, until he finally blinked, never a sight to be missed. Before him was a gift long awaited, one that would keep on giving should he claim it for himself to open and explore.
A gift that would keep on giving out to him, as a heinous display for his dutifully preying eyes.
Keito’ straining body and subdued, downturned eyes had the man almost feeling sorry for this shameful, sinful state. But his mind was running ablaze, kicked up by a nudity so blatantly presented that it would be blasé to anyone but their well-connected, curious selves.
Souma saw in Kuro’s expression the urge to help Keito: a selflessness that would be improper in this environment, lest it become selfishness, that Kuro help himself to the man before him instead. His seniors were staring at each other, speechless and in need of a solution.
How Keito was presented on the floor—prone, quiet, and deserving—Kuro could feast like a king. However, he’d just arrived home, and had expected a more reserved reunion; he was no ringleader to have even come up with such a surprise, let alone one for just himself. In mild disbelief over the scene, he turned to Souma. “Did you do this for me?”
Confused, the younger frowned. “Had Hasumi-dono not asked that I place him in this ‘predicament,’ he would not have been able to find himself in it otherwise,” he responded in earnest. “Had you intended to ask me whose idea it was, for him to be prepared this way?”
Kuro didn’t have to ask. He shouldn’t have even wondered. Humored, he snickered, and made a reaffirming sigh. “Glad to know he’s not changed since I was gone…”
The passage of time, if measured, would make any counting man weary; while Souma lived by the sun and moon, Keito lived by the hour, if not the minute. The younger’s revelations about his senior’s particular needs had become reservations, once they’d become overtuned. “In your absence, Hasumi-dono has certainly become bolder,” he added. “He pioneers his preferences in private like no other.” He thought he’d done well to meet them in turn, and put his hands on his hips. “He remains most imaginative, with only our best interests in mind…”
As the two men reminisced upon their indulgences practiced and preached, they stared down at Keito, who looked up at them. He’d draft big pictures to make him feel small, diminished before the stances of his two partners who’d help him paint in the details. Though reduced, he felt full nonetheless, eager to share the love that ought to be held back and repurposed by another man on his behalf.
“Unquenchable is his thirst…” Keito had hit the nail on the head; Souma could still sense his vigor, a flame to be stoked by more wood.
The bound man’s lust, when unshackled and unsupervised, would shoot through the roof until dealt with. “You probably tried to get him to calm down or somethin’ at first, right?” Surely, they weren’t so dependent on each other to try making up for his absence. “...Actually, I’m sure ya did.”
He concurred. “Who am I but to be a man of my word? Hasumi-dono had been in want of you for long, such that my own efforts could not substitute nor suppress.” He continued on, as though providing a prognosis. “Thus, we’ve resorted to this plan ‘B’ for our benefit, and for yours as well.”
Anything could’ve possibly preceded a plan B if Keito had a say in any of those details. “Well, what was the plan ‘A’...?” If he were to heal him on site, he’d have to work with a history, however convoluted.
Plenty of treatment, yet not an ounce of cure. “I had exercised many an attempt to satisfy him by mouth, hand, and body alike.” Ultimately, they preferred the cotton of the bedding over the wood of the flooring, if there was one takeaway. “While the success of our ‘sex’ is immeasurable, it makes for excellent endurance training. I reckon the two of us may have even broken a record,” he ended in jest.
At the very least, one of them seemed fully satisfied from it all. “Is that so…” If nearly every option had been exhausted, he’d have to take the remaining route at hand. “Seems like I’m his last resort, then,” he joked lightheartedly. If Souma had kept to his word that he remain ever so gentle, then Kuro would set them off rough, and stir up a devilish momentum his junior would not dare to mimic, lest he tarnish his own name.
Keito, still stuck in need of his cure, craved that energy. But he scoffed anyway—or huffed, as the gag would have him. Souma was incorrigible to have suggested that they were going at it with each other for that long. It was only a six-hour session, with breaks included—and he’d certainly gone on for much longer, though their recent workload had made their time scarce.
Whatever Keito endured in order to cope didn’t seem to be enough, if he was presented to Kuro like a sex dummy, ready for yet another go. The offer was hard to pass up. “So, it’s my time to practice on him, then, huh?”
“How else shall a man exercise his wanton needs?” Souma replied. The rope around Keito seemed to have heightened his lust, rather than hinder it—intentional by design, which he played into, never to disappoint, understanding the solution today would not be him, but his other senior instead. “Kiryu-dono, it is precisely your absence that had unsettled him to begin with,” he said with teasing pomp.
He followed up accordingly. “Well, then I’ll have to resettle him, and get ‘m straightened out.”
Gesturing politely toward Keito bound on the floor, he beamed. “Please, go right ahead; do pamper him at last.”
“Oh, I will…” After he approached Keito, he bent down onto one knee at his head, looking down at him pressed onto the pillow like he were to be punished for being.
Kuro’s figure cast a shadow upon him, his own eyes granted a rest from all but the man’s attentive gaze.
“How wouldya like yer insides? Scrambled?”
His eyes widened like he were being called over for a meal. But he wasn’t to respond, given the gag and bind. Subserviently still, he avoided giving the childish nod, and hoped to hear Kuro’s own answer to the question.
A week of work, only to come back to mere helplessness he’d been tasked to resolve. He was more than happy to do so for both their sakes, as a refresher and reminder of their bond. Stuck to Keito’s forehead was a strand of hair, which he brushed aside and tucked behind the ear. “Oh, but yer so delicate…” His lover had gotten warm, the heat prolonged by mere wait having spread across his face, until he was pink. “How could I ever hope to fix you..?”
Keito regretted not giving the nod; the tease had gutted him with more than he could stomach. Before he could react, however, he winced—his glasses were being gently pushed up.
Kuro leaned into said ear, lips near lobe. “Can’t let these pretties fall off while I fuck ya, yanno…”
Refusing to look him in the eye, he wheezed nonetheless, under the beck and call of a man who could do so much with so little, and with a kind smile on his face as well. His frames were durable enough, but he’d love for them to fall by bucking alone—to be forced to feel Kuro inside him, and see nothing but stars with his name on them.
Rekindled flames required friction. Kuro let them simmer as he stood back up. “How long’s he been like that?” He asked Souma.
Keito himself didn’t know; it’d been ages of toiling and writhing before he could no longer feel anything but the constraints of his own state, trapped in agonizingly tense thought with little recourse, lest he give up his ambition to simply be railed.
Souma pondered the question, counting in his head and mouthing a few lyrics in tempo.
Twisted, it was, to be subjected to the sound of their art, sweetened by its presence, salted by the stillness forced upon him.
“I reckon a mere thirty minutes’ time had passed,” he answered him calmly at last.
“Oh.” Kuro almost shrugged. “That’s not bad.”
Keito’s forehead was getting sweatier.
“Tell ya what,” he began suggesting to Souma, “since you’ve been good waitin’ on me, you should get to pick what you want me to do.” He moved behind Keito, then kneeled again, before putting his hand on his hind, as though it were an armrest. “Sound good?”
The touch had Keito frozen. Though he wasn’t being pushed down on, he was being propped onto nonetheless, an item to be used as mere support, and not one worth being paid attention to.
Humored by the offer, Souma pushed back. “The option solely belongs to you, Kiryu-dono.” He’d already exhausted his fair share of choice. “Your generosity flatters me so, but it ought to be exercised elsewhere for our mutual benefit.”
“Well, alrighty…” While he hoped to be a proxy for his two companions—to love and be loved at a distance—being the linchpin of both men’s desires would work just fine, if he could pick and choose how he wanted both to be sewn onto his skin. He smiled, and began to graze Keito’s lower back.
The contact remained gentle, agonizingly so—glass to be wiped, soon streaked to be shattered.
Keito was sturdy; that was all Kuro would need to know before he could build themselves anew. He started not with the first brick, but with the removal of an obvious foundation set in stone.
Souma watched him pull the buttplug out slowly, seeing the flash of a widened eye from Keito at the apex of its width, followed by the wilt of his expression once it was fully out. “Ah,” he chimed in. “He’d advised me…”
Kuro clocked it immediately; there was cum on the insert. “Yeah?” What a freak. He grinned. “Hasumi, you shouldn’t’ve…” He set the toy down, and placed both hands onto his ass, thumbing at the moistened entrance.
The palming at his rear, coupled with the red on his face, didn’t help his case, that that was exactly what he’d asked for Souma to do to him—almost begging, as if he wouldn’t comply with every fair request he’d make. At the absence of girth, he clenched and felt a twinge of freedom, however temporary it would be, before he was to know his place in someone else’s hands.
Souma tended to pack light; no white had come out at the squeeze. Unsure how much there was left for him to work with, Kuro would have to check by at least sticking a finger inside.
Two fingers entered Keito, who droned airily at the slow but steady entry, lips twitching against the rubber. His partner was audacious to be unwaveringly impatient, brave enough to boldly proclaim at the onset of knuckles gone deep—
“Oh, he feels pretty prepared, actually.”
Of course I am. He would’ve tutted if he could.
“Thanks, Kanzaki.”
“A-Ah, you need not flatter me for another man’s idea…”
Keito agreed; he knew himself well enough that he could function as a harlot—caged only by his own standards in the day—that kept him on his toes for display at night. Wanting to be let loose, he squeezed at the hand having stilled, until he immediately flexed his feet at those fingers having curled straight into his walls.
The noise made was a rare sound, so Kuro kept probing for more.
He couldn’t do much else, grumbling and clenching in addictive resistance, the gag obscuring all but his furrowed brows and pinkened face while he basked in the repeated beckoning of his insides.
Like clockwork, the squirming came eventually, to which he reined in with a tug on his binds. “You made him real sensitive, too.” It could not have been by mere wait alone.
“Indeed!” He’d serviced him well, and smiled proudly upon the sight of his two seniors satisfied. But his abstention from lust was becoming difficult, now that it had doubled with both of them in sight. “Might you need me once more?” He asked expectantly, with a hint of excitement in his voice.
Kuro was not one to say no to a clearly eager junior. But Souma was his junior, and more importantly someone he could personally advise on a better idea, especially since their other lover was out for the count. “I’d like ya to hang back for a li’l bit, if ya could.” He’d been granted control for a reason, and had to prove he could exercise it well. “I wanna have you watch ‘m scream for me first.”
The junior hadn’t done that before. “Certainly,” he said, tempered by the promise.
For a gagged Keito to scream—not the most alluring thought, to be spoiled on what he ought to do next—he’d have to steel himself for whatever could elicit something truly unscripted. When he realized again that he couldn’t do much to help himself regardless, roped up to be railed, he calmed.
Souma could see the subtle, self-affirming smile on his face.
Kuro was supposed to untangle Keito elsehow. But he assessed his physical state nonetheless, pulling on his bindings, and feeling the taut rope provide concerningly little slack. That probably wasn’t Keito’s idea. “Kanzaki, you know he’s more of a fan of some hope sprinkled in there…”
When the younger would work wonders in one department, he’d miss the mark in another. Lest he be burdened by an error, instructions provided to him ought to be less abstract, and more literal. “Forgive me for my misunderstanding, Kiryu-dono,” he began, “but Hasumi-dono had requested that I bind him, such that he would dare not ‘successfully untie’ himself in your presence.”
“Well…” That could mean anything, from Keito being unable to escape and tie up a playful Kuro right back, to something more morally risqué and a little unsettling to the body and soul, for having denied him a “basic right.” He’d make sure Souma learned from the mistake. “You’re not supposed to tie him up that seriously—or, well, not seriously at all, actually.” For him to learn the ropes, he worked to loosen them, opening up a gap of space between the other’s wrists. He watched Keito flex them before he grabbed onto the slack, ensuring it could still be taut under his supervision. Good for the hands, and good for the soul.
He let out a great sigh, though the gag made it less relieving by design. Beholden to his man above, he continued to spare no reverent thought for anyone but him and his idle mercies, which made him more accustomed to his place. Hands which could grant both peace and punishment opened his eyes to every possibility that would bind the two of them, sentiments no rope could ever replicate—only rebound.
Souma was impressed by the fix; the substitution of thing with person sharpened the experience, made it more cherishable. But he was sorry as well, for having simply stood by. “You shan't correct my misdeed for me, Kiryu-dono; practiced is the man who works with his hands.”
It wasn’t a big deal. “Well, now you know,” he attempted to placate. “If you want, I could show you the difference of what I just did so you could feel it yerself. I’d just have to tie ya up first.”
“Please do not,” he answered with a shake of the head. There were many places the samurai would be willing to tread, and other places he knew well to retreat from before entry.
In the moment, Kuro had forgotten of those exact preferences. “Ah—right. Sorry.”
“It would be more appropriate that you carry onward, and teach me how you would expend Hasumi-dono’s body instead…”
With half the puzzle put together for him, he’d complete the rest of it with both wit and strength. He reached under to fondle at the other’s groin. “A little hard, now, are we?” He asked with a sly lilt.
If not for the discharge and near-numbness, he would’ve yelled. If not for the other arm wrapped around his chest to hold him tight, he would’ve bucked. Instead, he let Kuro stroke him slowly—too slowly for the endeavor to do anything but make him croon for more speed and more skin.
Not often would Kuro be pressing up against a fully nude Keito fully dressed. It was too perverse, and he started to feel a little hot under his clothes. Wishing to substitute this heat for one borne by friction, he inched back and began to undress himself, taking off his top, then moving to loosen his belt.
The clinking of the buckle had Keito perked up and mouthing off a sentence muffled and largely unintelligible, if not a little whiny.
But the backing of that man’s ass toward Kuro’s crotch spoke for itself. With a chuckle, he continued on by pulling down his pants but only partway—protected only by his boxers—as he let the belt hang loose, grabbed onto Keito’s hips, and grinded himself gently against his ass.
The buckle smacked lightly against his thigh, a cold touch to deem him a thing to rush, a bell for his thoughts to turn to hush. Feeling the bulge brush up against his entrance, he let out a few shaky exhales, slight moans in agreement.
Through the opening in his boxers, Kuro pulled out his dick, and gave it a few strokes.
Whatever that could suffice as lubricant left inside Keito might be canceled out by Kuro’s length and girth alone, if not for the plug that’d sealed in the fluids beforehand. The toy was still on the floor; Souma ought to give it a wash. Once he stepped closer, however, Kuro halted him.
“Oi. No helpin’.”
“Ah—...” His senior seemed unusually peeved, for having been faced with an opportunity most exquisite and thorough. Perhaps that was why he ought not to interfere, and potentially mar it. He took a step back, remaining quiet, understanding that the circumstance of his own doing would leave him with little else to do but to simply watch Kuro end things his way.
Though Kuro was curt to have cut Souma off, Keito was greedy to have had this scene set up in the first place, made to be breached twice by different men. “What a slut,” he sneered. Self-indulgence was a sin to be reckoned with. “You’re lucky I’m here to fix you.”
Keito didn’t ever have to be reminded to focus on Kuro, when they were like this. But he’d like to be reminded, over and over and over. His predicament had never felt so freeing, being given no choice but to listen and obey.
Deviance was a devil to be played, a mind to recapture and subsume. Souma watched Kuro tug on the rope to have Keito’s body flex into it; knead into his sides to hear him hum sounds of relief; and whisper words of peace laced with a hint of doom.
Not real doom; tested, Souma was to be as well, to witness supposed “shame” put down his senior, and pull up their spirits. There was no wrong idea to be etched, no deep cut that could not be healed by their bodies in motion. They could play with these tenuous, superficial ties because they were grounded by their true knots interwoven to keep them tighter. Souma stayed put, and watched his birds fly.
Keito heard him pull over a chair, his own desk chair. Naturally, there would be nothing else for his junior to do but watch and learn from his circumstance—simple and straightforward, it would be, to be made witless and helpless for the sake of their own enrichment. Two peas in a pod, soon to be burgeoned by a third.
All work and no play, or so Souma would say, if not for the tightness in his pants, an attraction once fleeting, now here to stay. “Kiryu-dono, do treat me well as I rest,” he uttered eagerly, “and be a sight for my sore eyes…”
Kuro would do anything to appease him, who would want nothing more than to see him happy as well. Whenn he lined up his tip to Keito’s entrance, he felt the wetness of his hole grace him smoothly, a greeting terribly moving. “Shit, yer beautiful...” Their tastes intersected at the touch, their interests overlapping, as they leaned into the exhilarating comfort to be found in their common thread, that the leader be satisfied to no end.
To no end meant Keito could be greedy. He was greedy, continuing to inch himself not-so-subtly toward Kuro, itching for the scratch. Soon came a tut, followed by a spank on the ass.
“I get to have you, not the other way around—got it?”
He stifled a moan, before the hand returned to soften the sting with a short and sweet palming.
“Nice or not, you’re mine either way,” he carried on with confidence. He licked his lip, then held onto Keito’s hip while he began to push the rest of himself inside him, letting the slicked walls welcome his entry at a swift but gentle pace. He’d missed this, the way his lover’s bound hands reacted—the twitch of the thumb, and the curl of the fingers deeper he went. Once he bottomed out, he relaxed, and let out a long sigh. “You’re perfect, takin’ me in like this…” Another man’s dick, another man’s day, to spent going to town on a pony who’d only know one trick.
To stay put, and likely struggle to—the first thrust came like a clap, and had Keito huffing, his breath caught up in a second thrust, followed by a third to whip him up into shape.
Souma couldn’t help but hum in thought. Kuro’s smacks of the crotch riled Keito up precisely, a muscle memory resistant to mere time away, a force that had started off strong enough to have Keito’s toes flexing and his ankles bending. He’d earned a front-row seat to a theater of deviance.
One quick glance at Souma for security’s sake let Kuro know that they'd done the right thing. His junior’s smile sweetened him sick—but he’d yet to be sated. He continued pounding, along to the rhythm of those small, whiny sounds ahead of him that filled him with the urge to squeeze and wrench out more and more.
Keito’s body, to be treated like a game corner machine: his ass slotted into repeatedly, his lever pulled and cranked, his bindings latched onto as support for the fragile or frustrated to make their amends.
Already, Kuro felt like a winner. He knew who was addicted to the spree, and when he stopped to pull out completely, he listened for the muffled whine from below, and watched the anus pucker in his absence.
It was rude; it was ridicule, only to be blamed on himself, for trusting his partner to lead him astray in times of hope, and have them know loss before their reunion.
They were right there. Souma’s heart, toyed with by spontaneity. Kuro’s digits pressed into Keito’s rear like it were putty; Keito writhed for them, wishing to be shaped. The junior wished for every force aching from within them to be relinquished at once: for his seniors to continue rutting, and for him to calm down his own addled heart and, by virtue of his witness, his own saddled erection.
Keito’s roundabout way to be rewarded would be performed with intent—for him to be tested on, like a new glove to be refitted, before he’d soon be broken into. When the side of Kuro’s length pressed up against his hole, he froze, taking in the feeling of the warm girth against his two cheeks. He resumed breathing, and let out a shaky sigh.
At Keito’s attempt to close around it with the squeeze of his legs, Kuro hummed, then humored him. “You miss me this bad?” He asked coolly. ‘Course he does. He then directed his tip downward brushing it up against the entrance. I missed you, too. He almost bit his lip. “I wanna hear you say it.”
As if he hadn’t been communicating this whole time, tied up with his ass in the air for Kuro to greet him in return. Only a sudden, brazen display would only reconnect them like magnets.
And Kuro snapped; he bent forward, and let his dick stay pressed up against Keito’s hole on its own, as dug his hand into the back of Keito’s hair, and grasped at his scalp. “I said answer me.”
A full, bellowed whine came out of him, his ears reddened like cherries. There was so much that could be done to him, so much he could endure, should he continue to let Kuro have his way. Rejuvenated by his own vice of nonresponse, he craved to be toyed with for his reward, to be filled up and loved by a man meant to use and abuse his insides.
But Kuro loved the rest of him, too. Though Keito was much more than some hole to him, the uninterrupting gaze from his idle junior suggested otherwise, the way he stared on like he needed it for himself, too. His quick glance toward him had almost stripped away his own façade of cruelty, softened by supervision.
Yet the younger remained unwavering, and interested. It must continue; he’d set up their escapade. He made a small, humbling giggle, and spoke of its art. “Should Hasumi-dono’s moral excess be a regression, of two steps taken back, then we ought to stride alongside him through these flames, and take three steps forward.”
Wisdom in weariness—though Keito’s face ran hot, he would only be soothed by the skill to heal all they’d taken on in their own devotion to each other, however dark, dirty, and depraved.
Listening to his scant breaths, Kuro watched his ass wriggle just slightly, and decided to counter the gesture with a bigger one of his own.
The gift of cock was free, and was now inside him again, stuffing him in a renewed force that had him hitching and heaving while it slid in and out of him faster than before. Reinforced by the tight hold, he smiled—or grinned, as the gag would solicit, eyes downturned and soppy while he eked out noises melding together by drool.
Kuro’s efforts to break into Keito were seamless, and slick. Souma commented quietly to himself. “He makes for a wonderfully workable body to practice on, particularly when I assist firsthand…”
The rhythm and grip on Keito’s sides gave rise to a raging sort of comfort to be centered squarely on Kuro’s own groin. “Yeah,” he panted in agreement, grateful for the prep work. The moans becoming drones were the sign of an engine kicked back up, to be put to use whichever way he wanted. Maneuvering, he caught Keito’s wrists, which flexed in their bindings with every smack that jittered them. “Lemme hear you beg, beautiful.”
The junior could not only hear him do so, but see him, too: the rolled-up eyes that saw naught but the blur from the bucking; the loosening of his shoulders as the center of gravity shifted from his core to Kuro’s sturdy back; and the curl of the fingers and flex of the ankles to thrusts timed sporadically to tease and torture.
Souma saw his glasses begin to slip from the pounding. Instinctively, he stood up to approach him to help them from falling.
Kuro had already heard the nosepads clicking against the frames. He knew what Souma was about to do.
The loud voice stilled him.
“Don’t touch him,” he said with a snarl. “He’s mine; back off.”
Taking no offense at the improper address, he only smiled at his seniors gone rogue, and obliged as such, returning to his seat. Exercising restraint in both their favor was arduous, taxing as its own trial.
From those harsh vows, Kuro sped up, and started to slam harder into Keito.
Possessiveness borne by greed, or perhaps by the simple feeling of having missed each other—whatever it was, cheapened Keito’s glasses by comparison. He’d let Kuro’s brute force and rhythm knock them off any day, even if that would mean he would never see release.
Selflessly beautiful; not often would Kuro be allowed to raw him out without much care, for whether the man could cum from this angle of dick lodged into him. He focused as he fucked, avoiding Keito’s best spot, to keep going at his behest.
To be rawed for all he was worth, reduced to use, Keito continued to let his insides be plunged into, crooning, leaking, straining, and grinding.
Kuro couldn’t be more thankful for the gift of a big break deserved. His communication best by touch, he grasped at his hips and rammed, letting his haphazards grunts fall into sync, then out of it, then back into it again, as his cock did the same without rest, until he landed himself back into rhythm on all fronts, with the speed, precision, and the need to bring himself—and just himself—closer to orgasm.
Drilled into direly, Keito had long lost his grip on him, his walls frictionless as his grip on reality itself slipped from his mind, addled only by the wish to let himself fizzle out, and become mere dust upon every inch on Kuro’s skin that grabbed and groped.
Speechless and blinkless, Souma watched a curse fall out between gnashed teeth—a “fuck”, searing and misshapen—as the man shut his eyes, blinded to the spark that shocked him into slamming wildly, before a heated half-snarl slipped through the saliva past his lips.
His final thrusts, Kuro centered himself onto through the curl of nail on hip, his voice rambling, muffled by every smack of the crotch, his shaft grounded and magnetic—electrifying, transcendent—toward heavens etched only in Keito’s name, the man he was irrevocably sworn to do and do in by denial. In his lapse of control, he could not yell, but growled instead, as his body bucked, then buckled, as drool dribbled down his chin, his cum released in spurts inside Keito, who squeezed him out line by line in whimpers while he grunted and gasped, until he could feel himself thickly wet, and entirely whole again. Stitched up by clarity, he let go.
Keito, steered away from the brink of bliss, stayed incomplete, a nail driven into his coffin as Kuro pulled out. Used, he did not break from overuse. Despite the humiliation to suppress him, he’d only come to accept himself as is—greeted, diabolically memorably—for Kuro’s sake.
“Shit.” He groaned, and wiped off the drool from his mouth before he thumbed off the fluids from his own dick. So needy, but selfless.
The two didn’t have to be that way. The unbalanced scale left much to be desired to Souma, who believed the scene needn’t end so soon. Even so, what would've been Keito’s annoyed expression at plain rejection was, in fact, exultant instead, delivered in the soft crooning through the gag. He watched the senior squeeze out some white, and drip onto the floor below.
Restabilized at last and controlling his breathing, Kuro palmed at the other’s ass. He then looked at Souma with a renewed gaze. He had to take things slow. “Do you know how to brew some tea?” He asked him casually.
The junior perked up, humored by the basic ask paired with Kuro’s fervor yet to be extinguished. “I am acquainted with preparing tea by electric ‘ketoru’, if that is what you need.”
“Yeah. Couldya make a cup for him?” Feeling up and down Keito’s side, he tried to comfort him in their supposed calm, then made a snarky face. “He’s gonna need it after I’m done with him, yanno.”
An ever-exciting premise for Keito, who continued to dread and dream for the end, or the lack thereof.
Souma’s eyes shared that fire; the chair squeaked as he leaned upward. “You and Hasumi-dono are to continue?”
“Yeah, ‘course; ’m not a dick.” He had a man to please to finality, and would keep the request short and simple. “Go brew us one cup, will ya?”
Souma paused midway standing from his chair. “Merely one?” He asked, before offering a clearer solution. “Shall I prepare two instead?”
“Ah, well…” He thought the idea had been easy enough to follow without question. “If you want one, have yerself at it.”
But the intent had been to serve his seniors, who had toiled and rutted—and not himself, who had simply overseen the action without sweat. To disagree over the consideration, however, would be unseemly. Kuro worked to be an intentional man, and he ought to respect that growth. “Certainly, if you insist…” The kettle could only hold two cups’ worth of water, anyway; he ought not to tarry for a third in the midst of ongoing intercourse.
“I’ll wait for ya, but no rush; do what you want.” He had a sly look about him. “You can pick any of the mugs he has; plating doesn’t matter either. And if ya find yerself bored while waitin’ for the water, just grab an orange from the table or somethin’.”
The weight of a supposed wait—no play or decorum, just nothing at all—peeved Keito, who itched to object.
Souma cracked open the door, and felt the draft of air enter to cool his head. He looked back at them. “Hasumi-dono’s home holds everything, after all; I ought to take my leisure to appreciate it.”
Keito stared up at him. It was his house and his stuff. Even if everything had a purpose in practicality—if not to be displayed and prayed to instead—those things were not to be referred to so lackadaisically as to suggest he lived a carefree, reckless life.
“Of course it’s got everything,” Kuro responded brightly, before yanking on the rope on Keito, and causing him to grumble. “It’s got my favorite thing to boss around and fuck whenever he wants, too. Ain’t that neat?”
“Perhaps…” Souma hesitated to nod along, but ultimately agreed, and did so with a tempering smile. To not embarrass Keito further—those eyes returned upon him like daggers—he kept quiet about his own examples to share, and promptly exited the room.
The click of the door had never been so relieving for Keito, yet foreboding all the same, when left alone with a man who he’d allowed to do anything and everything to him at the drop of a hat. Dangerous, they were, to be waiting, instead of acting, splayed for only the mind’s eye. As his heart calmed, it occurred to him that he couldn’t necessarily proceed, either; being stuck downward for ages had caused his arms to go numb.
Careful attention was needed on his body regardless, as Kuro worked in their reprieve to massage him. However, at the pressing of his thumb into the lower back to help loosen it up, his lover let out a gagged yell, and then froze.
A pang of fear, immediately displaced by soothing.
“It’s okay, I’m here…” Keito had been tense, sore for ages. For Kuro’s touch to have elicited this level of pain hurt him as well. Rectifying it with gentle presses, he waited until Keito could relax, before he tutted and bent over him to make his consolation better heard. “Looks like you need a little more work done on you to fix that body of yours,” he whispered into his ear.
Chills running down his spine, he was reminded of the coldness in his arms and hands. Kuro was angled above him, the hand propped onto his bindings. Keito blindly reached for said hand and tried to respond.
The cold clawing against his knuckle was a death grip, those nails digging his grave should he ignore it. “Woah, hey—” He sat up, and saw that Keito’s downward pose had turned into more of a slouch. When he went to hold onto the hand in meager amends, he felt how frozen it’d gotten. “Oh, sorry; didn’t realize ya went numb.”
Though thankful, Keito didn’t expect help to come in the form of a proper pull on his body to become entirely upright. He let out a sound of confusion, repositioning his legs in front of him—carefully, as to not knock over the pillow, his only lifeline—as he laid back against Kuro’s embrace, and sighed. The tingliness in his arms began to fade away, displaced by a warmth eventually returned to the tips of his fingers. He had only a moment to recenter himself, before Kuro reached around to close a hand around his dick.
Naturally, there was a buck into the fist. “So?” He said with expectancy, voice gravelly. “Besides the tingling… how’dya feel ‘bout all that?”
He now preferred less assistance, and more persistence to have his body be pounded into again, to still be used as well of ink. While Kuro thumbed at the leakage, he sat quietly, and had incidentally smeared some white onto his pants. At the lick of the lobe, he squirmed, and he dug his heels into the flooring.
This close, Kuro could hear him breathe, a whistle of the nostril in one wheeze. “Ya liked that, didn’t you, being fucked like I don’t care.” He pouted. “But I really do, yanno.”
Of all the things that had been done to him, an honest, cheesy admission of faith had Keito indignantly red and grumbling.
Fine. He crept a hand into Keito’s scalp and pulled, eliciting the flex of the back and a haphazard moan, before giving his hair a good ruffle. “Since you were so good to me, I’ll make ya a deal.”
Hot air brushed over Keito’s ear, the voice sweeter than honey, darker than chocolate.
“I’ll take off this gag of yers, if you promise to only say my name from now on.”
As if Keito hadn’t been trying to; the offer fell short of expectation—seemed lame, almost insulting. He shook his head. Everything before then had worked just fine; why change now?
Kuro held back from being saccharine. “C’mon… what're you scared of?” His voice fell deeper, and became more imposing. “I thought you liked me.” He swiped over the strands of hair stuck to his lover’s forehead, then chuckled. “Fine. Have it your way, then. I’ll have mine as well—!”
Keito had given up the chance to argue once he was hoisted back onto his knees, his chest weighed back into the pillow as sweat redirected back up his temples, bangs swaying toward the floor. Immediately, a few fingers plunged into him, causing him to wriggle, squeeze, and whine.
“How much is it gonna take before you’re full, huh? Greedy fuck.” Flexing, he scissored and inserted along to the squirming he tried to suppress with a hand latched onto the hip. “Thought it was already easy to get me to cum. Now I gotcha trapped for another.” To have him for free, at their own will—the second invite refreshed him. When he pulled out his fingers, he began to stroke himself with the excess, shallowly enough to work up a firm erection again, before reinserting himself fully.
Kuro’s near-silent, airy moan upon entry had Keito reeling. They’d promised every gesture would harbor the sweetest of intentions, however bitter their impact. When he’d speak with his head, Kuro would speak with his heart, their dicks inevitably aligned to match till red. Should they switch, a new spark would give way to attitudes most brutish yet caring.
“How long’s it take to brew some tea?” He harked. “A few minutes?”
Yes. He wished it’d take longer; Souma had to have been finished by now.
Kuro dug his hand into the back of Keito’s hair again, and pushed down as he began to pound. “I’ll make you spend every moment of it screaming for me,” he sneered.
He made a slight upturn of the lip; decadent, the line was, downed smooth like liquor, lava to burn holes soon to be patched up. Senses well satisfied, he moaned, his voice depressurized and gaudy.
There was another squeeze of the anus, and the stretch of the bindings, before a knuckle at the door had the two pausing.
Following the slow unlocking of the door was its gradual swing open by Souma’s free hand. He held onto a single mug, filled up uncomfortably to the brim, steam as thick as incense.
Normally, their junior would be adept with the basics of his own balance, but the hesitance intrigued them enough to simply keep staring.
“Forgive me—I’m having difficulties walking at the moment…”
The man was erect, probably hard enough to sway his center of gravity forward along with the cup itself. Kuro watched him place it down carefully on Keito’s desk, before swiftly turning the other way and exiting to go grab the second.
The door had been left open. Keito, able to see into the passageway and down the hall, froze, as it dawned upon him that Souma was anything but unintentional with his act of taking it easy, one thing at a time.
Perhaps it was good that Keito opted to keep the gag on, if it meant Kuro could continue his lead, and thread the balance between having them be noticed, and having them think they could be noticed. At one big thrust that came like a thunderclap, he elicited a gurbled gasp and exhaled moan, before Kuro pulled out of him completely.
Once Souma entered and shut the door with his tea in hand, he made his way to his seat, and settled down right back in front of them. His cup cooler than the other sat upon the desk, he gave an eager nod, and awaited their resumed activity.
To have and have not; Keito thirsted for something so recognizably tangible: to be warmed by fluid served. Once Kuro reentered him, he uttered a whimper, and watched Souma take the first sip.
His senior’s downturned eyes could shatter glass, a look that could kill his own erection, if not for the arousal present and heightened by gag and bind. “Rest assured, Hasumi-dono, your cup will still soothe you, should you ‘finish’ at last,” he said.
He hoped that would be the case in due time, having been hard long enough that he’d dripped the equivalent of his own load on the floor across the span of his time spent kneeled on it.
There were better things to taste; the tea would have to wait. Kuro grabbed himself a fistful of hair. “It’ll be ready when I say it’s ready,” he growled.
The grip was gratifying, to be told he had no say.
Kuro would still speak for him instead, and reached under to stroke him again at a faster tempo.
Threatened to be ended early, he grumbled, relenting that it would be better to scream Kuro’s name uninhibited, and wriggled in cognizant effort to take back his mistake to stay in relative quiet.
Kuro knew, and kept on pounding anyway while he stroked. The whelps became brittle and low the deeper he drove himself into him, until the latter began to drone. “Fuck, that’s right…” Bent over him, he got sweatier, the blood pooling toward his head having made him delirious, his weight on Keito careening toward total collapse of both their frames.
They needed a different kick, a balance to the madness to keep themselves sated. Kuro opted for his own spin: quickly handling the strap at the back of Keito’s head, he unlatched the gag from his mouth, then pounded harder.
Souma watched the ball and strap fall to the floor with a soft, wet thud as Kuro pulled the other senior’s body up, wrapping his arms around him, thrusting upward, smattering kisses all over his neck.
Folding over his instant freedom, Keito whined and writhed, flustered beyond belief at his insides prodded newly, his gift of fresh breath spent speechless while Kuro groped and angled himself such that his cock grazed repeatedly into Keito’s prostate.
“I love you so much,” he whispered, suckling at the sharp groove of the jaw just below his ear.
The jugular—his skin ran hotter than blood, his moans decadent and dark as his back flexed and scrunched, until he began to wheeze, unable to process the speed at which he melted into Kuro’s arms.
“Say my name or I’ll stop,” he muttered.
He’d caught his breath before it’d be spent on a heave. “Ki—ryu—”
He didn’t want them to end, either. Pushing Keito back into downward position, he groaned in resistance to his searing urges, and began to rut into him to reclaim his pace. “Say it again,” he snarled.
Wriggling and squeezing, Keito paid no mind to the saliva dribbling onto the pillow cushioning the impact of every buck. “Kiryu!” He muffled.
“Fuck!” He hissed in renewed fervor.
Though Souma had long finished his drink, he still found himself thirsting, his mouth agape at the sight turned incredibly salacious, his body in need of a warmth greater than that of tea for personal nourishment.
To have the junior stay watching for longer would only be good; it was the very least he’d deserve, for indulging in Keito’s idea turned into remarkable reality. In gratitude, he tilted his head toward him, and mumbled out a phrase. “Thank you—”
Keito wouldn’t be this grateful and direct to Kuro when dicked down this hard. With a spank and sneer, he shut him up before anything else could be uttered. “I said say my name only.”
He was thankful for Kuro as well, for helping sandwich him between pleasure and pain in his dream to be ruined by both. “Kiryu…” Reveling in the sting upon his ass clapped, he was reduced to a reverent sigh. “I love you,” he replied in the softest whisper.
“That’s right,” he responded with a wicked grin, palming at reddened skin while he continued to drool. He wouldn’t leave a true mark upon his lover’s body or soul—only memories of times well had, of their hearts spilled and scooped back up, reassembled into something weaker and weaker till their cores would turn to dust.
The churning of his insides jammed by cock, had clouded his thoughts, clouded his glasses. To have made them fogless would be futile; enamored by their weights slapped together, he couldn’t sense anything but the greed of skin on skin creeping into his veins. He wriggled out a moan when Kuro’s hand wrapped around his cock. “Please!” He began to buck. “Kiryu—! Please!” He bellowed, his restraints stretched by bodily begging.
There was more than enough natural lubricant for Kuro to fondle him however which way he wanted while he thrusted.
“O-Oh, Kiryu!” He needed it, needed him, hot and heavy upon his gut and groin, to grant him relief thoroughly everlasting.
Upon Souma’s twisted tongue still remained a certain taste he was unable to wash out with tea or tut, a salacious speech stuck in his throat and sights never to see the light of day, should he continue to stay put. At the next thrust and whine, his chair squeaked back and against the floorboard.
Keito had no bone left in his body to mutter anything other than his partner’s name buried amongst pleads. Lust overblown by the promise of bliss out of his grasp, he craved and crooned. Losing the gag paled in comparison to a begging nonetheless elicited, which had only gotten louder. He had nothing left to ask for, nothing he hadn’t already begged for with his arms bound and an ass stuffed by cock.
A part of Kuro wished Keito would say something else—maybe a compliment, or even a snide remark out of self-preservation, despite the fact that he was being drilled into devoutly. But another part of Kuro was happy, giddy that he’d successfully shamed him into relative dumbfoundedness instead, the kind of shame that made his lover pucker, curl his toes, and pant his name, over and over.
There was a third option to make a reality, as Souma approached the two, and kneeled down on both legs to greet them.
They froze, seeing their junior entirely nude and sitting on the balls of his feet, as though he were about to pray.
“May I join you?” He asked expectantly, customarily.
Of course, three erections were better than two; everyone needed to be soothed. Kuro said not a word until he pulled Keito up—dick still inside—and kicked the pillow away, before continuing to pound upward and into him. “Have at him,” he grunted, holding on lightly and letting him bounce freely. “Shit—” He bit his lip. Keito moved like a spring. He latched on harder. “Jack him off for me.”
Keito had no time nor room to process himself being treated like a toy, once Souma moved in and shut his mouth with his own, their tongues immediately entwined as the junior felt up his abdomen from the bottom, catching and smearing upward the discharge. He parted, licked the rest of it off his hand, then spit onto it.
The older could only eke out a syllable before he saw it be slathered all over his cock. “Kan—zaki—!”
With Kuro’s bite of his shoulder and Souma’s kiss to silence him, he found himself stretched thin: torn incomplete, his body was to be brought to completion on their terms.
The junior, keeping him sealed, heard and felt everything but speechlessness; semblances of words and phrases muttered and muffled by tongue and lip heightened under the duress of a shaft stroked aflame. Adding to the cacophony, he slid his own dick into his palm as well, and began droning into his senior’s mouth.
Even while Keito voice was overrun, Kuro still understood every rise and fall: the quick affects of “please” and “more”; likely the beginning, middle, and end of a mantra; and at least one that came out more as a sore, half-hearted apology instead, baked into throaty rasps.
That was all Keito was while he breathed their air—devout, and dearly in need of their dicks.
Kuro's legs burned under the weight of both the others’ bodies while he persisted to get his fair share of bliss bestowed upon him. Unable to belay gratitude beyond his grunts and growls, he began bouncing harder, and let Keito’s writhing wrists against his chest guide him, until the fingers scratched to beckon—and tickle, as he laughed—before he leaned forward, huffing and heaving for his reward within reach.
Freedom, in the form of pounding against his prostate, a power relentless and unforgiving. Unable to lean back against Kuro’s ravenous weight, he began whining and begging.
Burdened by stances that could topple, Souma pushed back in equal measure, giving himself enough room to feel, sweat, and stroke. Working off their lengths increasingly fast, he pressed his other hand onto Keito’s chest in loyal resistance, feeling a heartbeat pulse just as quickly, while said arm became coated by the drool freed from their mouths intermittently by breath. Deliriously, they danced in delight, weaved through the sloppy twirl of their tongues and the rogue clacking of their teeth.
Hope from both fronts had him begging despite the silencing, bucking despite the wrangling. Their forces were rewarding, and dishonorably so—a depraved symphony of sin and sickness to be cured only by the health of men on man. His cravings, sat deeply in his soul, were worn down to bite-sized pieces—lapped up, devoured, then returned to have him frayed and in need of another repair. The battering and jerking from both men spurred his wishes, which culminated into a twitch of his body, followed by a seizing of his thighs, before the rest of his form crumbled at the last crack, as he bellowed deep from within, and yelled, spilling and writhing against the two men who grabbed on to help him, and then themselves.
The squeeze of those insides had Kuro grasping for leverage, grumbling against hot skin, sputtering a moan as he released and shot up his ass, while Keito’s spurts had Souma catching them with his hand turned spastic around their dicks, doing himself in as he gasped and groaned into his orgasm. As heathens strengthened by consummate vice, they nearly harmonized uncaging themselves. By the time they’d come to a still, they were huffing, twitching again, and blinking merely a few times, blinded by the sum greater than its parts glued together by sweat and stain.
Keito awoke to his senses to a Souma already cleaning him up from below—not with a towel, but with a tongue. He squirmed at the other’s lips parsed over his folds. “Don’t—don’t suck it,” he said scantly, half-scornful.
After stretching his legs, Kuro grunted. He struggled to lift Keito off of him, but needed him elsewhere for recovery. He eventually slipped out from under him—spilling his own fluids onto his pants—and moved his lover onto the bed, before looking down and cursing at the sight of his bottoms drenched. “Ah. Well…” He pulled his pants back up haphazardly, then waddled over to the dresser to fetch Souma a proper means for wiping.
The junior caught the towel, folded it up lengthwise, and placed it across the tired senior’s forehead, before continuing to lick at the excess.
Keito pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a much-needed sigh, fully uninhibited at last. He’d become too exhausted to care for the now-soiled state of his bedsheets.
Once Kuro made his way back to the bed, he watched over him, waiting for any need for his aid.
The man could only stare back blankly, until he noticed the mess made on Kuro’s pants which caused him to frown.
Gracing Keito’s face was an expression too languid for him to understand it, until he realized he’d leaned against the mattress with his pants still on.
No outside clothes on the bed, was the rule.
He backed away, then decided to strip them off instead.
What?
After kicking them off his ankles, he climbed onto the bed nude, and pressed his forearm into the mattress on the side opposite Keito, before he leaned in closer.
Frowning harder, he pushed back, palm firmly against Kuro’s collarbone.
“Not gonna do anythin’ to ya,” he affirmed, allowing the hand to slip away slowly, before he puckered out his lips and lowered them toward Keito’s.
To the truce offered humbly, he let their mouths touch faintly, then faintly again. Once they parted, he smiled serenely. “Welcome home…”
He laughed; the line was cheesy. “I feel like I should be sayin’ that.” He’d raptured Keito to see the stars before his descent back down to see who the real Kuro was. After lightly pinching his lover’s cheek, he got off the bed, and began to pick up his pants off the floor.
“No,” Keito moped. “Stay with me.” He tutted. Souma’s presence, now gracing him through a seat by his side, would not be enough.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere; just cleanin’ up shop before I join ya again.” He’d made the mess, after all. While laying his folded-up clothes down onto the dresser, he noticed the empty cup on the desk. “Oh, Kanzaki, did you give him the, uh…”
The junior had already beckoned for Keito to sit up and take the full mug off his hands. Even though he’d prepared it to be at the right temperature at the right time—neither scalding nor lukewarm—his senior’s glasses began to fog up anyway. “Ah, hold still…”
Not often Keito would doff his glasses, if he could simply wait for his food or drink to cool down, and not often would he let someone take them off, either. Souma was a special exception. He merely winced at the attempt, should the arm of the frames be dunked into the drink.
They were safe. “Please, proceed,” he continued, brushing away a strand of hair covering an eye as he watched him take the first sip. Once his senior relaxed his shoulders, he tilted demurely. “May I know your thoughts?”
Well steeped, with not a hint of bitterness or lack or flavor; Keito was impressed, and could see that same pride on Souma’s face, however blurry it was. “It’s perfect,” he said, before going in for another sip.
The smile turned into a grin, and a happy join of the palms. “Ah! Hereforth, let me prepare and serve you this on every occasion we are to rut!”
He choked on his drink, and could hear a snicker at the back of the room. “Not like that—” He began coughing, as Souma held firmly onto the cup. “Not every time—please—” The last thing he needed was to draw a subconscious association between his beloved tea time and his beloved sex time.
“Finish your drink and lay down,” Kuro interjected from afar. “Don’t get a headache.”
Quietly, he did as was recommended—and quickly, as to prevent any more quips, unintentional or otherwise, from causing him another problem. When he lowered the mug down to his lap, Souma took it from him, and kissed away a stray drop of liquid that’d almost fallen down his chin.
“You must be tired.
Sheepish and blind, Keito moved to simply lay down, and close his eyes.
When the two men climbed onto the bed, the air stirred his goosebumps, weighed down by the sinking mattress. He’d fall asleep on it, if not for the sweat sticking onto every inch of his clothesless body, and now into the sheets he’d have to wash. The dirtied cover would stay as long as he would—increasingly bothered by the idea of imperfect rest to end their escapade, he sat up once more.
Kuro watched him scurry off the mattress and snatch his glasses off the nightstand. “Oi.” He sat up just as fast. “What’s the hurry?”
“I’m going to go shower,” he said briskly, opening the dresser and grabbing two sets of clothes—one for the way there, and one for the way back.
“Can’tcha stay a li’l longer?” He pouted. “I just laid down next to you…”
He sighed. “I already have stayed for longer.” The sex had taken ages, through no one’s fault on their own. He was spent to such a degree that, instead of deciding to stay, he’d opt to refresh himself in quiet, lonesome introspection. Once he finished buttoning his shirt, he realized he’d put on the wrong one of the two, and would have to unbutton it again. Perhaps he’d become so exhausted that he couldn’t think properly anymore, and would truly need to rest his head again, above all else.
Souma encouraged him to follow through regardless; the pitiful exasperation on his senior’s face stirred him to go assist.
Things were easier when done doubly. “Thank you,” he spoke softly. His junior remained graciously helpful, even all he’d asked him to do—or not do to him—for his own benefit. The time for selfishness was over. “Plese clean up Kiryu as well,” he suggested.
When Souma glanced back at said man, he waved away his gaze, sitting spryly on the bed.
He was calmed, quiet, and somewhat already clean. “I’m fine—nothing a wash won’t fix. Just come back here once you’re done so I can massage ya for yer troubles.”
As deferential as Kuro was, Keito admired his will to be selfless, still, even after all that pounding. Off the bed with his glasses on, he noticed more stains on the sheets, shook his head, and sighed. Kuro’s foot touching a dark spot, in particular, had him irritated. “Well, make sure you’re clean before you touch me again.”
He raised an eyebrow, and sat back on his elbows. “Me? Dirtying you?” He let out a laugh. “Danna, you should take a good look at yerself in the mirror first before ya start smack talkin’ me.”
Shy, he refused to look inward, and stood tall. “I didn’t mean it in the psychological sense—” Souma smiled at him in a reserved but cheeky manner. It was a moot point; Keito relinquished it with a tut. When the younger suddenly patted his head, however, he froze to stare at him, shoulders up and ears turning pink.
A range of emotions, all unequivocally excellent throughout the day. “Hasumi-dono… your performance was rather inspiring—and rather commendable, if I may describe it that way, standing before you.” His compliment, sheathed in want of further excess, bordered on cooing.
Rarely would Keito witness his junior act so enlivened in such a blatantly perverse way—presumably unintentionally, now. He wouldn’t take back from him those lessons he’d taught.
Cupping the other’s cheek, Souma continued, renewed by the warmth. “Enriched, I am, by your endurance; it is only right that I return the favor and help strengthen your form for the next time we are to dance.”
He blushed harder. “No, please—that won’t be necessary.” He’d already gotten his fill, thrice. “Redirect that favor to Kiryu.” Heavens knew they were the ones who had the most stamina, not him.
“Oh?” He’d finished tying up Keito’s shorts, and turned to Kuro, who continued to sit peacefully. The topography of his senior’s abs were visible, even when slouched. He swung his head back to Keito. “His core for ‘choreo’ is already impeccable; your need for my assistance, dearly, remains unmistakable.”
Deviance, to be overriden by innocence at the end of the day; the senior ought to have known better than to believe Souma acted in the inverse. “Well, however true that is,” he replied, “we’ll revisit that later. Please just focus on yourselves for now; you need the rest as well.” Grabbing the two empty cups from the desk, he then walked toward his door. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said promptly, ears burning, before exiting the room.
The it, Souma suspected Kuro had in mind as well, if they were both of sound mind. “Kiryu-dono, how is your stamina?”
“Huh?” He thought Keito asked him to drop the talk. Unless… “Are we talkin’ sex, or…?”
His intentions had always been clear, at least to himself. “Is one’s devotion to ‘dance’ and ‘sex’ not practiced by both body and soul in the same vein? Should these two passages of love to oneself and others not be considered one in the same?”
Philosophical specifics were not worth arguing when the two of them were naked. “I’m sure Hasumi could talk more ‘bout that, and maybe advise ya on separating the two, honestly, but…” They’d sidetracked from the point—something he’d like to have dulled into blunt cravings again. “I think I could use some of your love, now,” he answered playfully. He hadn’t gotten much of any from him, compared to all that had been offered by Keito.
For one’s expectancy to be met with clarity—Souma could not be happier entering the arms of his senior welcomed home twicefold. Kneeling over him and shifting his weight into the embrace, he listened for the familiar creak of the bed that came on the dot, what he hoped would set the tempo for their new movements to be performed with empowering dignity. “Shall we begin this endurance training of ours?” He asked kindly, cupping Kuro’s jaw with both of his hands.
The junior’s bangs tickled his face. He pulled him down gently, then kissed him on the forehead. “That’s a good idea,” he replied, and took Souma’s hands into his own.
Their gazes were soft and tender, their fingers entwined, skins warmed by breath and body alike while they let their heartbeats still. For Souma to have missed it all, he would’ve had to have forgotten even a fragment of it, otherwise etched into his soul. “You truly never left us, Kiryu-dono—”
“You know I never will.”
“—as your essence is just how I remembered it.”
He cradled his head to bring it closer, until their noses touched, and he placed another peck, this time upon the corner of his lips. “If you’re always here to welcome me back home, then I’ll never complain.”
They could feel each other’s pulses. Souma leaned in. “Should that be the case, then I ought to grace you in gratitudes greater than that of your return alone…” His whisper melted into a mutual kiss, from which they parted, and began to hum in each other’s presence—the kind of quietude the birds would nest in before they would sing to seek company and bear new beginnings. “Twigs, sticks, and stones…” While he whispered, he traced patterns along Kuro’s chest. “They know not of their weight until assembled for nature’s matings.”
That natural playtime was calling again for the two men, whose wood awaited the build for a stronger home. Offering to lay the foundation, Kuro cocked his head.
Eagerly, Souma awaited the next step.
“How long’s a shower take?” He grinned. “Fifteen minutes?”