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They only catch a few hours asleep before Satomi is up again, solar plexus aching, skin slicked in sweat. It's not the traffic that wakes him, though it's part of why he couldn't possibly nod off again. It's Kyouji's wandering hands, feeling him up amid his mess of hectic, fragmented dreams. In all them he's chasing a towering silhouette through a crowded train station, just out of reach, too far ahead to grab by a coat tail.
The touch is idle, maybe even subconscious, but it feels too good to sleep throug. "Hi," he says stupidly.
Kyouji's hand goes still on on his ass. "Sorry," he says when Satomi squirms, arches his back just enough to push himself into his palm. "I was gonna let you sleep, your little snores are so cute. But I can't keep my hands off."
"I don't want you to keep your hands off," Satomi mumbles. His mouth is sour with come and sleep. He wants to get up and brush his teeth, he wants to be fresh and minty and clean but not more than he wants to never leave this bed. Kyouji doesn't seem to mind— he kneads his ass and kisses him, tongue sweeping his dirty mouth as he groans like he wants his morning breath, last night's sex, those meager hours of shitty sleep. Someone lays on their horn outside, a bleat like a dying animal in a storming harbor. Then long fingers creep into the sweat damp crack of Satomi's ass, and his stomach plummets, ears ringing so hard he can't hear traffic or dying animals or anything else save for his own blood.
The kiss turns ravenous, he sucks Kyouji's tongue like he sucked his dick. Just as his vision goes staticy from lack of oxygen, they detach with a wet sound. "It's the perfect size," Kyouji says, squeezing again, relentless. "For one of my palms. Feels like fate or something. I really should stop feeling like this is fate."
Why should you stop? What if it is fate? Satomi thinks but does not say aloud because he knows how young and stupid it would sound. Knows that Kyouji would tease him, patronize him, call him kid. He mouths over his collarbone instead, writhes in his grip just to feel friction between their bodies, that broad palm making fists in his seat. "Do you want to fuck me?" he asks, heart tripping. He wants to be fucked, wants Kyouji inside him, at the same time he's so scared of it. Scared it will hurt, but not so much as he's scared it will feel so fucking good he won't recover: body left in perpetual absence, a throbbing ache around a Kyouji-shaped hollow once it's all over. Always wanting, always incomplete. Even more than usual.
Kuouji's laugh is muffled against the corner of his mouth. "You don't even know how bad."
"Then tell me," Satomi murmurs, shifting, trying to get Kyouji to touch him deeper, at his core, his hole. "Tell me what you want."
Kyouji pushes the thumb of his free hand into Satomi's mouth, lets him suck it, stays infuriatingly fucking silent as gropes and squeezes and fucks the slack pad of his tongue. Then, he lets go, sighs. "get on your stomach," he says. "And I'll show you something I've thought about way too much. Every goddamned night. My bedtime story to myself back in Osaka after I met you."
Satomi does as he's told, rolling over and pillowing his head on his folded arms. Dawn filters in, puts its dove-grey fingers all over his skin as Kyouji turns the sheets down, exposes him, stares at him. He feels very naked there. Skin shivering into gooseflesh without the sheet to hide behind, Kyouji's eyes dragging over him before he whistles, reaches out, palms the heft of his ass again. "I still don't think you get it, Satomi-kun—what a dirty old man I am," he murmurs, dipping down, breath hot on the small of Satomi's back, teasing and unbearable.
Then show me, show me, show me, Satomi thinks, parting his thighs to open himself up, offering his body up to anything, even if it hurts. Still, he's unprepared for when it does come: not hollowing, or coring, or fucking, but something he has no name for, because maybe he is too young.
Kyouji kisses his way down to his crack, then parts his cheeks like he is splitting a ripe apricot with his thumbs. Then, he does the impossible, and kisses the pit of him.
Satomi cries out, thighs trembling. Too-slick, too slippery. Kyouji's tongue comes out to swipe over his hole, lap the sweat and funk and filth from him, groaning as he does it. The sound reverberates through his bones, undoes a deep seam inside of him. His cock is suddenly so hard, beading fluid into his dirty sheets.
"God," Kyouji says, pulling back with a smacking sound to rearrange himself, really drop down and zero in with the whole of his body between Satomi's parted thighs. He wrenches him open with his palms and digs deeper, makes out with his hole with that same desperate, ravenous fervency with which he first kissed his mouth. "You still tastes like puberty sweat."
Shame and desire twine in Satomi's gut, too related to ever extricate from one another ever again. "Is that—is that a good thing?" he asks, making fists in his bed clothes, feeling like if he doesn't hold onto the world, he will fall off of it and into the infinite void of space.
Kyouji laughs against him, the vibration unbearable. "It's so good, which makes me very bad. This is what my car smelled like, after I dropped you off. You stank up my passenger side, always sweating, always so nervous, all those hormones. I'd jack off, face in the upholstery. Thinking of this."
Overwhelmed, Satomi can't do anything but grit his teeth, brace himself against the onslaught coming from Kyouji's mouth. Truths, spit, curses. Tongue petting over his hole soft and flat before tensing into a point to push inside, rent him open. He gasps, feeling some primal resistance crack and disappear. He's done this with his own fingers at night, thinking of Kyouji. Touched himself inside, inched past the tight ring of muscle to feel his own heartbeat. The reality is so much wetter. Wet like blood, like tears. Kyouji's drool dripping down his crack to his balls, soaking his sheets.
Kyouji pulls back to rub circles into the licked muscle, sinking in with a nervy stretch. "No one's touched you here yet? This is all mine?" he asks, hooking a finger against Satomi's walls, wrenching out a burning pang of sensation.
"Fuck off," Satomi grits out. "All of me is all yours."
Kyouji hums and presses the finger deeper, makes a satisfied ahh sound when Satomi yelps, whimpers. Same sound he makes for pork buns, for juicy soup dumplings. Something so delicious he gets that stupid, blissed out face. "You're so hot inside Satomi-kun," he hisses. "A furnace. The fucking sun."
Knuckles catching, another finger pushed alongside the first. It feels so dirty—not just theoretically but literally. Satomi is not empty, Kyouji is moving things inside him and fucking them back into him and he can tell with that familiar pang of shamedesire that he wants him like that, unpurified, unrefined.
Satomi tries not to mind—it's easier to let go, this way. Lean into his own gurgling stomach and leaking cock and base, human responses to letting this dangerous, infuriating in his forties finger his filthy ass open if he reminds himself Kyouji resides here, in the gutter. In sin, in vice, in shit.
So he arches his back, he spears himself on Kyouji's fingers, ruts into the bed and lets his body make embarrassing noises. Kyouji is hard against him, the burning line of his cock trapped against his straining hamstring. That's all that matters—Kyouji is turned on too, Kyouji wants him back. "Please," he pants at some point, when he feels like he might implode. "Please, please, just—"
"Just what?" Kyouji asks, withdrawing his fingers to wipe them on the sheets before manhandling Satomi onto his back. Then he bears down on top of him and kisses him rough and wet. Hands on his thighs, pushing Satomi's knees to his chest to fold him in half like origami, like a love letter. His cock lays thick and hot on Satomi's gut, almost entirely covering his own erection, dwarfing it. "Fuck you? Do you think you can take it?" he asks, taking himself in hand and lining it up, accessing how much of Satomi's body it covers, how much space it would take up inside. "I don't know if I'll fit in Satomi-kun," he breathes, slapping his stomach with his cock. "It will be all the way up in your belly."
"I don't care, I want—please," he whines, beyond dignity, aching with sleeplessness and desperate, starving want. He loops his arms around Kyouji's neck to tug him down, kiss him, suck his tongue again in desperate little pulses. "I just—I want you inside."
Fingers back, prodding at his hole, slipping in deep with a single fluid motion to punch out a reflexive moan. Satomi lets his head fall back, shivers as Kyouji attacks his neck with his teeth. "There's so much I want to do to you," he tells him, lips against his pulse. "I want to make you cry—but I don't want to hurt you. So you've got to tell me if it starts to hurt."
"I'll tell you," Satomi lies. He doesn't know how to explain—Kyouji already has hurt him. He's already hurt. The emptiness hurts worse than any stretch ever could, he wants his body's pain to match his heart's. "There's lotion on the bedside table."
Kyouji's slides out of Satomi's ass again and helps himself, using his dirty index finger to deposit a dollop in his palm, leaving a faint brown fingerprint on the plastic plunger. "Is this what you use to jack off?" he asks conversationally as he slicks his own erection before he smears the remainder on Satomi, making his hungry hole wetter, stickier, sloppy. "Is this why your pretty cock is so moisturized? Why it smells so good?"
Shut up, Satomi thinks, scrunhing his eyes tight so he doesn't have to look at how unceremoniously Kyouji is touching him. He's on the brink of falling apart—hole twitching, begging, sucking Kyouji's knuckles as he just sits there, talking and talking like this isn't special, like this isn't the end of the world. "Hello, earth to Satomi-kun," Kyouji drawls, ripping him back down to reality as he drives his fingertips into his prostate, making him shudder and gasp. "Still good?"
"Yes, I need you to fucking. Just. Do it, please," he begs, reaching down and taking Kyouji's cock in hand, guiding it towards himself. The head wetly kisses his winking hole and they both make a sound. "I can't wait anymore. I'm so. I'm so so so tired of waiting."
But Kyouji is terrible so he draws it out longer. Leans forward, looms over Satomi, crushes his body as he pushes in centimeter by aching, agonizing centimeter. It hurts worse this way, Satomi thinks, but that's familar, somehow. He's never been brave enough to rip a band aid off in one go or jump into an ice cold pool. He's always taken it too slow, too cautious one toe at a time, painstaking bit by bit. Tears spring to his eyes—Kyouji is thick. It's like being turned inside out, broken open. His stomach lurches, air escapes him. Kyouji licks his mouth the way a cat licks milk, drinking him in, sipping as he settles in deeper. Breaches him wider. Cants up to put his lips on Satomi's ear and say, "that's the sweetest pussy I've ever had."
Satomi hates that this hurts him somehow, too. "It's not a pussy," he grits out, tears leaking in trails down his temples and into his hair, his pillow case.
A dry, breathless laugh from Kyouji's grin as he licks sweat from his hairline. "A stickler for anatomically accurate dirty-talk? I should have guessed. Fine. Satomi-kun has the sweetest. Fucking. Asshole," he clarifies, punctuating each word with minute punches of his hips. "I love your asshole. I could eat your asshole every morning and every night and still want more. How's that?" he taunts.
Satomi tries to say I hate you but what comes out is a muted, wordless unnnh. The circuit completes itself and Kyouji slides home, bottoming out, totally sheathed inside him. Satomi can feel his balls slapping against his taint, feel the big crown so deep. Touching his spine, touching his shit, touching his guts. With the pain come a peace that eclipses his body. For a maddening moment he thinks he might be ok, actually. Thinks he can survive this whole thing if he's like this all the time: ripped open, full to the brim. Reduced to a receptacle for Kyouji's cock. The last four years make sense at least, here. It's ok to be so gutted if he is literally so gutted.
Kyouji is just staring at him, breathing all over his mouth and telegraphing his every micro-expression: the flutter of his lashes, the steady drip of his tears. All the while, refusing to fuck him, just throbbing inside his asshole while looking at him the way a tourist might stare at a famous painting. "You are so beautiful all the time, but especially when you cry," he says, thumbing up the wet from his cheek and licking the salt like it's caviar. "It almost makes me feel better about how sad I make you."
"I'm not sad," Satomi hiccups, breath coming out in strangled bursts as he adjusts to how maddeningly full he feels. "I will be if you don't actually fuck me, though."
"Has anyone ever told you that patience is a virtue?" Kyouji whispers. "Remember—I'm old. You have to slow down and let me catch up."
Catch up. What a joke, as if Satomi is the one far ahead. That is not what it feels like—Kyouji is the one shimmering in the distance, eluding him while he chases.
He wipes his face on Kyouji's shoulder, mashes his own nose. Cartilage on muscle-wrapped bone, sweat on sweat. Kyouji's smells like nicotine, tobacco seeping from his very pores. Satomi licks it up, rocks his hips, the white-hot burn of his insides dulled to a deep, delicious ache now. "Please," he whimpers. "It doesn't hurt. I want you to make yourself feel good in me. I want you to come."
"I feel so good in you," Kyouji purrs. "If that's all you want, mission accomplished." But the smugness falters as he pulls out and slams back in, finally giving Satomi what he wants. It must be what he wants, too, because he chokes out a groan, trembling on top of him, sweat dripping from the ditch between his pectorals onto Satomi's heart, salt in an open wound. He ducks, sits back on his thighs, wincing as he adjusts to thrust with more power. Satomi feels like a pressed flower beneath him. Something once living crushed, flattened into a perpetually beautiful but terribly fragile husk. Dead.
Please is the only word he remembers, it falls out over and over again as Kyouji holds himself up with a quaking arm and begins to actually properly fuck him. Blizzard white vision, breath that just won't come. It hurts so good. A fire in his guts, a deep burning pleasure like a shot of hard liqour on an emoty stomach. He rolls his face against the pillow and sobs, body flickering helplessly along Kyouji's shaft.
Kyouji pushes his knees back further, splits him so he can stare down at the filthy place their bodies are joined. "God, god, Satomi-Kun, that perfect asshole," he marvels. "So sloppy around me. I'm in love with that hole, and it's in love with me. Sucking me down, cant get enough."
"I am in love with you," Satomi admits through the haze of tears. It distorts the room, distorts Kyouji, makes him look like the devil all big and beautiful with horns on his head, backlit in dawn. He's glad he's not wearing his glasses—he doesn't think he could take ths image in clarity. "I love you. I love you so much I—"
Kyouji covers his mouth with his palm, like he doesn't want to hear that. Like he only wants to hear the messy, obscene sound of his cock pistoning in and out of Satomi's body. Slapping skin, his own grunting, Satomi's strangled keens, the wet of their combined fluids.
So this is what fucking is. This is what it is to be fucked. Taken apart molecule by molecule and rearranged around a core of pleasurepain. Desireshame. Kyouji isn't even particularly good at this—he can't keep a rhythm, he has to keep stopping to catch his smoker's breath or adjusting position to save his old man back. He keeps building in a maddening crescendo without ever climaxing or driving Satomi to climax, and still, amid all that imperfection, Satomi is forever changed. Tears fucked up from his sinuses, shit fucked up from his guts. This man he loves and hates loving crouched over him, praying into his ear, telling him how perfect his dirtiest hole is, asking him if he hurts, if he's ok. This isn't even close to the worst thing you've ever done to me, Satomi wants to scream at him. You think I don't understand but it's you who doesn't understand. I need you deeper. I need you all the time. I need you forever. I need you. I need you. I need you.
It's too much to take. He reaches between their bodies to touch himself, stroke his cock as Kyouji fucks him. It makes Kyouji groan, makes him press their skulls together and stare down at his working hips, Satomi's slack pathetic body and leaking piss slit and that hole that's taking him without any resistance . "That's it," he murmurs. "Make yourself come on my cock, baby."
Baby. Not kid, kiddo, Satomi-kun. Yet another, brand new patronizing diminutive, another reminder of their age gap, the yawning chasm between their worlds. It makes Satomi feel small and pitiful. It makes him feel ashamed and desired. It makes him come.
Kyouji drinks his moans down, fucks them out in staccato bucks to swallow, one by one. Satomi's body loses control as he finishes, insides spasming madly along Kyouji's length, milking him, wringing him out so h comes, too. A hot dirty gush in Satomi's guts that leaks with subsequent thrusts, bubbling out of him into a viscous slick between their bodies. Satomi has never felt more unclean, or more complete. never felt more desire, or more shame.
The next few minutes are a blur. He lies there with his teeth chattering as Kyouji pulls out, kisses him, then disappears into the bathroom before emerging with a washcloth and wad of toilet tissue to clean them up. It's humiliating—having his ass wiped like a baby on a fucking changing table. Baby. The word even more horrible, now that he's come.
Once he's clean Kyouji pins his thighs to his chest and buries his face back in his ass, tongue-kissing his swollen, stinging hole until Satomi finds the strength to wriggle away. "You're disgusting," he rasps.
"So you finally admit it," Kyouji says, falling back into bed beside him, kissing him with a dirty mouth. "I've never claimed to be anything else!"
Satomi hangs on, shakes, wipes his wet face into Kyouji's hairy armpit. He's already devastated by being empty, grieving that their bodies have been separated. He wants Kyouji back in him, he wants to be called baby every morning, every night, he wants to sleep through traffic and disappear into tattooed arms and be run over by a fucking bus so he never has to say goodbye again.
Kyouji kisses the top of his head, which feels like something a parent does to a child. Then he reaches down to strokes the puffy rim of his hole, which does not. Satomi whimpers, backs his ass up into the span of his palm again, trying to fit any part of their bodies more snugly.
"You know how crazy-making it is to fantasize about something and then, when you get it, it's even better than your sicko wet dreams?" Kyouji says, pressing his finger deeper, popping easily inside because Satomi is still so spit-wet and open.
"Yeah," Satomi admits. "I do."
"We're so fucked. I'm so fucked. Your perfect little asshole is so fucked, it's taking everything in me not to crawl down there and suck on it some more."
"You can," Satomi assures him. "Do whatever you want."
"There won't be any of you left," Kyouji tells him. "I'll eat you alive."
"Eat me," Satomi says. Until I'm not alive anymore. Then, because he hasn't thought about it much until now and is newly curious since Kyouji called his hole his pussy, "I'm not the first man you've been with, am I?"
"Hm," Kyouji says, letting his hand drift up and down Satomi's ass cheek. "It's complicated. Some would say no. Some would say yes. Some would say I still haven't been with a man—you're a boy, Satomi-Kun."
"Ok— what would you say?" he presses, irritated.
"You know about the ladyboys in Thailand?"
Satomi's guts clench. "Yeah."
"I've taken lots of trips there, with the boss. He loves the ladyboy shows. They sing and dance, you know, it's basically karaoke. Anyway—I've had plenty of nights with them. Some of my brothers think that's no different than having a woman, but to me, it's different. They have cocks, you know. You can't change that."
"So—only Thai ladyboys?"
"Mmhm. I've never been opposed to more, with other men. It's just not something that happens for a guy like me, though. Not in my world," he explains. "Which is one of the two hundred reasons why you and I need to be very careful." Then he rolls over, cups Satomi's face between his palms, thumbs over his tear tracks. "It doesn't matter to me that you're not the only cock I've ever sucked—you're the only person, man, woman, ladyboy, boy—that I have ever loved. That's what's fucking me up."
"You, too," Satomi confesses. "For me."
Kyouji laughs a sad, shaky laugh. "That's no big feat, kiddo. You're eighteen. I'm all you've ever known, I took your only chance at growing up normal. You had no choice."
Satomi is quiet—it does feel like that. Like having no choice, like the days spent enduring Karaoke hell in the bitterly cold air-conditioning of Karaoke Heaven listening to Kyouji butcher Crimson over and over again indelibly changed him. Stole his voice. Erased every other future in favor of this one. But at the same time, that feels right, somehow. Like he was always meant to be left here in the gutter for Kyouji to find, fuck up. Fall in love with. "I don't care," he decides on. "It doesn't make the way I feel any less real."
Kyouji only hums at that, reaches down again, parts the apricot to touch this thing that is his, and his alone. The pit. It stings—Satomi closes his eyes, and soaks up the hurt.