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It’s an offbeat domesticity, coming home to a pot boiling on the stove and knowing that it’s a sounding kit, sterilizing. But Keishin is used to the unexpected, with Ittetsu, and so he only smiles at the image--the way Ittetsu peers into the pot like he’s checking on food, the little tune he hums.
The way he brightens when he sees him, comes up to wrap soft arms around his chest, to kiss his cheek. Keishin flusters with the belonging of it, every time.
A little more, tonight. He can’t help but flick his eyes over to Ittetsu’s tiny cooktop, watch the thing simmering away.
He doesn’t know what the greater measure of that belonging is--that he’s got a key to Ittetsu’s apartment, that he lays down there most nights, or that he’s.
That he’s going to let Ittetsu do strange things with his dick.
That he wants it so much, that he’s been fidgeting with it all day, bouncing his knee and chewing the ends of his cigarettes. That it makes something heat and curl within him, the thought of giving over like this.
Giving things to Ittetsu--it’s everything he wants.
But. He steadies himself, leans into the feeling of Ittetsu’s hand in his, the pleasant chatter in his ear. How was your day, have you eaten?
He can be patient for it, let Ittetsu fuss over him first. And he does, heats him up some leftover curry, snuggles at his side while he eats it, curled up under the kotatsu.
It’s comforting, the simple food, Ittetsu sitting hip to hip with him. The way Ittetsu speaks to him, gently, the way he does before they try anything new.
“How are you feeling?” he asks him, a little smile in his tone.
Keishin swallows, half-laughs. “Like I can’t believe I’m gonna let you do this.”
Ittetsu flutters, a second. Keishin catches him glancing, once more, at the stove. “W-we don’t have to! Not at all, if you don’t want--”
But Keishin only shakes his head.
“I want you to,” he says, a little weakly. As long as he has been with Ittetsu, as long as he’s been making love with Ittetsu--it’s never easy to be earnest.
But oh, he wants him to. Shifts his weight around it, the waxing ache. Ittetsu smiles, strokes his shoulder, murmurs if you’re sure.
He is. He remembers the way Ittetsu spoke to him about it, all soft and sweet, heavy with premature praise--you would be so beautiful, he’d said, if you liked it, oh I can’t imagine how you’d look so overwhelmed. Remembers the videos they’d watched, the way the faceless men would tense and twitch, would wring their hands and cry out with the press, the turning of the rod. The way they’d stroke themselves, with light, shaking hands, as if they could bear no more.
Keishin breathes, and settles himself, and finishes his food. Tells Ittetsu, halting, that there is nothing to fret about, that he is all in.
Afterward, they sit a while. Keishin lays his head down in Ittetsu’s lap, against the gentle give of his thighs, and lets him stroke fingers through his hair. Lets him take the hairband out, lets him pet his scalp until all the tension of the day is gone, until Ittetsu is the only other concept in the world.
Until it’s time to get the pot off the stove, and then to shower--Ittetsu goes with him, would have it no other way. He washes Keishin’s back, his breast, his belly. Strokes his cock with soap-slick fingers, just gently, just to take away the tension.
“Keishin,” he sighs, while he has his hand on him, “oh you are so beautiful. You’re perfect, I swear I’ll write a poem about this--”
It’s that, that makes Keishin flush. That makes him flush more, sets him a twitching crimson. “Y-you sure about that?”
“Mhm,” he says, twisting his hand, making Keishin gasp. One fingertip draws over the tip of his cock, circles the opening there. It feels good. Keishin quivers.
“A haiku, maybe. Just for this little moment in time, when you’re being so precious and good for me.” He sounds so righteous when he says it, too, like it’s not just some sweet nothing, like he’ll really go and do it. Like he believes it.
Ittetsu believes everything he says is true, completely, and he clings to Keishin’s dripping back, touches him like he’s proud of him. Whispers permission and Keishin spends, sighing, pressing earnest into Ittetsu’s hand.
He is held until the shaking stops, gentled with easy hands. Ittetsu pets his softening cock, tells him how lovely he is when he comes. Turns the shower off, wraps Keishin in a soft sage-green towel, kisses all the places that he dries. He guides him, tender, to the bedroom, holding his hand even though Keishin more than knows the way.
There’s another towel laid across the bedclothes, the way Ittetsu always does. Keishin likes to think of the way that he does it, the way Ittetsu hums and smooths it out, just incidentally. When he’s out in the world, when life starts to grind him. He thinks of the satisfaction on Ittetsu’s face, when he makes this little thing tidy.
He’ll never admit that this is what he thinks of, those dragging doldrum hours behind the register. But it is, and he lays down easily, pleased.
Ittetsu clambers up with him, leans over him, nuzzles at his cheek. Kisses his face, warm from the shower and coming and what they’re about to do, and murmurs with lips dragging over skin how precious he is.
“You’re adorable, Keishin,” Ittetsu coos, and the words don’t rub him wrong the way they used to. It does not unman him, to be adorable for Ittetsu. “It reminds me of when we were first together, you would make a face like this every time I touched you--oh, do you remember when I fed you that strawberry, from my hand?”
He does, remembers the way he shook, stammered out syllables even as the treat passed his lips. Remembers how he loved it, how much he couldn’t believe that he loved being cared for like that.
“Oh,” Ittetsu sighs, with kisses to Keishin’s ear, his nose, his jaw. “I just want to spoil you, just want to take you apart.”
“I,” says Keishin, as eloquently as he can. “I’ll let you.”
A wide, warm smile, languid like lying in with Ittetsu in the morning. And then Ittetsu is kissing him proper, gentle and wide-mouthed, small hand cupping his cheek. And down from there, over his neck, tracing his clavicle. Kneading softly at his breast--he can feel Ittetsu smile, when one fingerpad plays at his nipple.
And they lay like that, hazy and eased, hands all over. Keishin’s rest on the soft swells of his hips, fingers petting at silvery stretch marks.
He wants to say something, something like Ittetsu says. One of his words, precious, beautiful, the sort of thing that spills so easily from him. But it’s--Keishin lays in a warm fog, his lips loose, and all he can manage is “oh, ‘Tetsu, fuck...”
“My sentiments exactly,” giggles Ittetsu, who takes his meaning as easily as he kisses him, as he strokes across his belly. He presses, just gently, at the softest parts of Keishin, and he whines. twitching muscle firming up against his fingers.
“Aren’t you sweet,” Ittetsu lilts, kissing just under his navel. “Are you happy, Keishin?”
He can only nod, until he finds Ittetsu’s expectant eyes on him, until he stammers out his yes. Is rewarded for it, in the tender press of lips to his soft cock. It makes him shiver, and Ittetsu laughs again.
It’s a thing of unadulterated joy, when he laughs like this, Keishin knows.
“I’ll take care of you,” Ittetsu whispers, for what must be the thousandth time, but it still feels like the wrap of a warm dry towel, warm safe arms.
He takes Keishin in his mouth, then, suckling gently at his cockhead. Laving with his tongue, teasing it around that tiny entrance--oh, it makes Keishin keen. He reaches up to grasp at Keishin’s hand, soft fingers twining with work-roughened ones, to soothe him. To brush the pad of his thumb across the range of Keishin’s knuckles, to say without speaking I have you.
Keishin doesn’t know how long he goes on like that, paying him such gentle attention--just that it must be minutes, that Ittetsu’s jaw must ache by the time he’s nearly hard again. He takes that flushed face in his hands, when Ittetsu draws upward, brings it up to kiss that muscle.
“You liked it?” Ittetsu murmurs, nuzzling Keishin’s reddened cheek.
Keishin is almost breathless when he says he did, and Ittetsu kisses him until he gets the rest of the way there, until he is panting in his darling’s mouth.
He tastes himself. It used to be something that rubbed him wrong, but it’s--the belonging of it--he trembles with it, now.
Ittetsu smiles, pulling back, and there’s a moment like the feeling of falling before sleep, when Keishin doesn’t want him to go. But he is back in a moment, humming his old love song, the sound held carefully between two fingertips.
It is a slender thing, ribbed like a tight string of beads, and it--it is not as if Keishin hasn’t seen it before. Of course, Ittetsu helped him choose it, of course they sat together when the thing arrived, and held it careful in their hands.
He remembers the wonderment of that moment, the curling excitement and nerve--it goes inside? Feels it again, fizzing in his veins, making his heavy breaths hitch.
“If you’re frightened,” says Ittetsu, as tender and serious as a wedding ring, “we don’t have to use it.”
Keishin isn’t. Frightened. Here, with the immediacy of it--it only makes him quiver and twist inside, only makes him want more to give over.
“Y-you can,” he stammers, a fumbling, mumbling pile of sounds, “stick it in.”
A little giggle, a kiss to his brow. Ittetsu parts his lips as if to speak, and then decides against it, going back to kiss his nose, the corner of his mouth.
“I’m hardly going to--I wouldn’t just stick it in!” he protests, soft. “I’ll--I’ll be gentle.”
Keishin half-laughs, when he tells him that he knows. When Ittetsu’s free hand comes to stroke at his hair, the line where his natural color meets the bleach. When Ittetsu’s lips come to rest on his forehead again, because he just can’t keep away.
He wants him. Wants this with him, and with nobody else. Keishin wouldn’t even trust himself to do it, but if it’s Ittetsu--he wants to give everything to Ittetsu.
That hand trails down from the crown of his head, slipping over the coarse hair on his chest, his tensing, twitching abdomen. Slips to the nightstand, slicks with lube. Comes to curl around his cock, stroke him loose-fingered and slow.
When Ittetsu speaks again, his voice is as soft and thick as the mist in Keishin’s mind, and it covers him. “Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” sighs Keishin, and then appends his yes, before having to be told to. It earns him a smile, adoring and round-cheeked, from Ittetsu.
The pad of Ittetsu’s thumb rubs tiny circles on his cockhead, brushes lube over the crown of it, into that tiny opening. He looks him in the eye one final time, questioning.
“I could bring you off just like this,” he sighs, “and you would still be perfect.”
But Keishin--Keishin has only ever wanted to be in the palm of Ittetsu’s hand. He tells him it’s okay, that they can try.
Ittetsu reaches away, for just a second, to stroke the sound with lube.
He returns in almost an instant, hands as steady as they possibly could be. Strokes Keishin once, twice. Bids him, and he is not asking, to tell him if it hurts.
Touches the end of the sound to the head of his cock, strokes it over the entrance there. It’s still warm from the stove, but that doesn’t mean Keishin won’t shiver.
Ittetsu’s jaw sets, sweetly, like he is bound and determined for this to work, and gently--gingerly--he eases the tip of it inside.
“Ohhh,” he whispers, lashes low over his eyes. “Look,” he says, and Keishin does.
It’s something entirely strange, entirely new. It’s a stretch, like the first time Ittetsu worked one finger into him, but it’s--
He doesn’t know how to describe. Just that--”I don’t hate it,” he says, tremulous, low. “Keep going.”
Ittetsu nods with all the care and gravity in the world. Lets the weight of it drag down a little further--it is so heavy inside him, Keishin sighs with it.
It’s only a couple of millimeters in, and already he feels… he feels so much. Keishin bites down on his lip, doesn’t cry out when it presses just the least bit deeper.
He can’t stop himself, though, when Ittetsu draws it out again, almost all the way. He makes a ridiculous sound, pitchy and quavering, but he knows that these are the sounds of his Ittetsu loves the most.
A kiss to his belly, the jumping muscle there. “Look at you,” Ittetsu croons, “look what a darling you are, Keishin, look how perfectly you’re doing. Lying still for me, good boy.”
Keishin’s head lists back against the pillows--it is all he wants, to be a good boy for Ittetsu.
“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers, and the sound sinks in again, as deep as ever it’s been, and then Ittetsu’s other hand is stroking him, if it can even be called that for how barely his fingertips brush Keishin’s cock.
Still it feels so much, and Keishin cannot help a reedy cry. He already goes to pieces when Ittetsu touches him, this is…
Ittetsu looks in awe. Praises spill unfettered from his mouth, he calls him precious, good, beloved. “Look how much you’ve taken,” he entreats him, and even if it can’t be more than an inch and a half, Keishin gleams with the accomplishment.
And then Ittetsu gives the sound a little twist, a slow quarter of a quarter turn, and Keishin can’t do anything other than wail. His fists ball in the bedclothes, he cranes his neck to see his cock leak around the sound.
Ittetsu catches the droplet up on his fingertip, smiles. “Does it feel good?”
Keishin gasps, gathers up the pieces of his breath, his words. “It feels,” he says, hoarse, “so weird, don’t stop, please--!”
He doesn’t stop. Wouldn’t for anything but Keishin’s word, with him lying so sweetly like this. With the tremor in him, seismic, that never seems to stop.
The sound reaches in a little further, draws shallowly out. Dips in again, over and over in Ittetsu’s tender hand until Keishin swears he’ll cry.
It will not be the first time he’s cried in Ittetsu’s bed, not since that one dawn hour when nothing felt real, when Ittetsu denied him orgasm too many times to count--and it gets easier. Simpler, every time, to be the kind of person who can be rubbed raw like this, who can shake and writhe and whimper.
Ittetsu nuzzles at his taut belly, reminds him gently to keep still.
“F-fuck,” Keishin says, all torn apart, “sorry.” But Ittetsu only kisses his navel, tells him it’s alright.
Asks if he can try something--he describes it, tenderly, low-toned.
Keishin doesn’t know how he holds back from coming at the sound of it, the rigid thing within him, the stroke of Ittetsu’s fingers. Doesn’t know how he holds back when Ittetsu ducks his head, soft hair feathering against the raw nerves in his cock, when he wraps his bitten lips around the end of the sound and hums.
Just gently, so gently, but Keishin sobs with it. Overflows completely, spills around the sound--he quivers, fighting down the urge to wrack, to spasm and jack-knife with the severity of it, the way it shakes him.
Ittetsu croons to him, strokes him slight and gentle through it, wrings him dry. Speaks softly, asks him if he knows what a darling he is, if he knows how deep he’s loved.
He does, he does, and he wants to be held in it, to be Ittetsu’s all over.
Maybe it’s a tiny miracle, or maybe he’s just been fucked out of his wits, but he says so. Says that’s what he wants, and Ittetsu beams with pride.
He draws the sound out, carefully, shushing Keishin soft when he cries out. He lays the thing aside, almost carelessly, and is on him in an instant, blanketing Keishin with the soft weight of his body, his cascade of little kisses.
“Oh,” he says, over and over because somehow it has happened, somehow Ittetsu is speechless.
“Oh you were beautiful,” Ittetsu insists, lips laying on Keishin’s cheek, the tiny slackened space between his brows. “Oh you were wonderful, my good boy, my darling.”
Keishin half-laughs, still reaching limply for his breath. “Yeah,” he murmurs, because it is the only word he has, “yeah, fuck, ‘Tetsu we’re doing that again.”
“Of course! Anytime you want, I promise--let me take care of you?” Keishin nods, and Ittetsu shifts him slow into his lap, daubs his sweat-shined face with a damp cloth. “Look how hard you worked for it,” he says, amazed. He wipes the mess from Keishin’s belly, his softening cock, croons over him all the time.
And they lay there, for a while, the washcloth abandoned for the simple clutching of their hands. The warmth of their bodies, the slow syncing of their shuddering heartbeats, Ittetsu’s little hum, and Keishin wonders, wonders why he ever shied from giving Ittetsu everything of himself.