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Outside, the moon shines, its gentle rays cancelled out by the harsh lighting in the crowded train compartment. According to the weather report, this summer is expected to be the worst to hit Japan in a while. Koutarou can see that as sweat beads down his body. He’s glad he wore a thin t-shirt and sweats to make the trip. He would rather be flamed for his fashion choices than stew in his own perspiration. A jacket hangs low on his body; a cap covers his trademark hair enough for him to blend in with the crowd. His backpack is slung between his legs so Koutarou can brace himself in case the crowd gets worse. He’s got twenty minutes of this, and Tokyo has prepared him well enough to deal with crowded trains.
Koutarou realises, five minutes after he managed to board the train, that he might have underestimated Osaka’s rush hour. The crowd presses into him, but he holds his ground, shuffling around until he’s facing the glass door. He catches glimpses of the life that people lead; it’s easy to imagine the cicadas chirping as the neighbourhood kids race amongst themselves to buy shaved ice and popsicles. Next to him, salarymen talk on their phones, students excitedly chat about their classes being over, couples flirt; he hears complaints, commiserations, confessions. People make date plans, schedule meetings, organise a group trip; they continue with the mundanity, focusing on their life, entrenched in the routine of the evening commute.
Too entrenched, if he’s being honest.
If anyone had the heart to look outside their bubble, they might see what’s going on. If anyone bothered to linger on Koutarou’s hunched posture, they might be able to parse together what’s happening to him. They might feel disgusted and offended enough to raise their voice. They might yell and cause a scene and put a stop to it.
But no one does, and Koutarou resigns himself to his fate.
After all, hopping on the train the second he touched down on Shin-Osaka during rush hour—all because Tokyo emboldened him—might have been a bad idea. A good idea had it been any other person; a sound one, even. Acceptable. Understandable. The standard affair. But with Bokuto Koutarou’s never-ending stream of misfortune, a simple commute refuses to stay a simple commute.
When he set out, his itinerary had been clear, and dare he say, flawless: he gets off at Shin-Osaka, catches a train to Tennoji, gets a hotel close to the park to spend the weekend as he house hunts, and welcomes his life as a newly minted V. League player with a six-pack of Asahi. If the gods cared, nothing would throw a wrench in his very humble plan. If the gods cared, he could have stood all the way on his train ride without any problems. If the gods cared, he wouldn’t be squirming as hot breath fans where sweat beads on his nape, the heat of the summer leaving Koutarou’s pores working overtime. If the gods cared, he wouldn’t be getting felt up by a creep in a crowded train, with no place to escape to or no one to turn to for help.
The glass doors don’t let him catch a glimpse of the culprit’s face; a black face mask obscures most of him, but the man has a few centimetres on Koutarou, who’s a professional volleyball player. He’s built, too—if the muscles holding Koutarou in place are any indication. His hold tightens with each second, breath quickening as he leans into Koutarou’s space. He tries to shake him off, to put distance between their bodies, but fails. The packed train and the ever-moving crowd only push them closer, making it so that Koutarou feels the man’s cock—thick and hard—twitch, rubbing against his ass with each jostle of the crowd.
“Hey,” he bites out. He tries to keep his voice steady, not letting the other know how scared he feels. “Hey, cut it out! Stop—”
The man seems to not hear—or he just doesn’t care. His hands squeeze Koutarou’s ass through his flimsy sweats, feeling out the soft muscle. The announcer says something, but Koutarou can’t hear it over the roaring in his ears. Koutarou struggles in his hold, but the man doesn’t budge. He’s plastered to Koutarou’s back. Big hands slide over his t-shirt, appreciating the muscles Koutarou put effort into. This is not what he spent all his life making his body look perfect for. The glass doors fog up. The chatter around him fades away. Fingers dig into Koutarou’s ribs, the notches of his spine, the dip of his back, stopping short of the waistband of his sweats. They tap against the elastic, slipping underneath, and Koutarou stiffens.
He can choke him out. Any other day, Koutarou would retaliate. And as the man’s touches grow more daring, he should. No one would blame him, no one would think him wrong. Self-defence is a valid excuse. But the longer they stand there, the man’s erection insistent and demanding on his lower back, the more Koutarou realises there isn’t much he can do—not when the man has a finger tracing the outside of his asshole.
“Don’t. Please,” Koutarou begs, but the man refuses to stop. His fingers are cold and rubbery, not skin-like. It slithers around his crack, massaging his rim and perineum, the sensation wrong, almost clinical. Koutarou wonders what’s happening. The texture of the man’s skin becomes the least of his concerns when the thick finger tracing his hole breaches the tight pucker, dry and rough as it pushes all the way into the tight channel. “Fuck—” Koutarou’s breath catches as the finger prods around his walls, experienced and persistent, searching for the spot they both know will rid Koutarou of his senses and inhibitions. “Stop,” he tries again. Another joins, and Koutarou bites his tongue from the pain. The stretch burns without anything to ease it. Not that all the lube in the world would make a difference when you don’t want this. “Don’t do this—”
His words go unheard, again.
Koutarou’s comfort clearly does not matter to the man.
On the other side of the train, doors open and more people pile in. Another stop. Koutarou’s front presses against the window, his sweaty forehead resting on the glass doors for reprieve as the man continues to fuck his fingers in and out of Koutarou’s ass, feeling around his warm walls. He needs to get out. He needs to get off at the next station. He needs to alert the cops—
The man taps his fingers against something, and Koutarou jolts, an unfamiliar pleasure coursing through him. His dick throbs; his stomach tightens. The reactions terrify him, his body responding to the stranger’s touch. He shudders as the man keeps assaulting that area, not worried that the sounds that he’s pulling out of Koutarou might expose him.
“Look at you,” he whispers, leaning in and pulling Koutarou’s face up, letting him see his reflection on the fogged-up glass door. All the evidence of what he’s been trying to ignore stares back at him. The man’s tall and broad enough to cover what’s happening from the other passengers, but Koutarou can see, as clear as day, the flush creeping up his body. The pebbled nipples. It looks like him, sure enough, even if it doesn’t feel as good as it should.
At Koutarou’s shocked expression, the man chuckles darkly. A beast lurking. His huge hand slowly makes its way down to Koutarou’s cock, which is diligently filling out in response to the man’s ministrations. Lithe fingers cup his length, fondling the tent in his pants through the thin fabric as he watches helplessly. When he set out for Osaka, Koutarou was looking forward to new adventures. This was not part of it.
With his hand splayed across his front, Koutarou realises the source of the texture from before: he’s wearing gloves. Pitch black; dark and deep on his white shorts. The contrast looks indecent, a spread from a fetish magazine. Erotic and sensual, in the correct context. Koutarou’s traitor of a dick pulses, pushing a drop of precum against the crotch of his pants. It wets the spot, and the man grunts into his ear, his arousal not muffled by the mask. The hand is quick to bring Koutarou into full hardness. His erection throbs, hurts, as the man’s grip refuses to ease, almost bruising as he smears the precum around, chafing the sensitive flesh with each mean tug. His hand moves in tandem with the fingers lodged in Koutarou’s hole; any attempt to squirm away from the man’s digit only pushes Koutarou’s dick back into the punishing hold.
It’s maddening.
After what feels like ages, his grip around Koutarou’s dick loosens. He pulls his hand away, rubbing the dirt onto Koutarou’s sweats before sliding it up his body, feeling out the ridges of his abs, all the way up, until he can knead Koutarou’s pecs. Koutarou knows his chest is a little too big. His friends poke fun at him at times, but Koutarou loves how good it looks. But all his effort to stay in shape was clearly not to have a stranger grope Koutarou’s chest like they’re tits. He makes a sound in his throat; weak and weary, his displeasure clear. His protests do nothing. Koutarou wonders how much longer he has to put up with this.
The man flicks a nipple, pinching the soft bud until it stands proud and visible through Koutarou’s thin t-shirt. He catches another glimpse of himself, and it unravels him. He looks ruined. The flush has left him splotchy and sweaty; his eyes are half-lidded; his nipples poke through his shirt almost obscenely. The man has pulled Koutarou’s sweats down just enough for the jut of his pelvis to be visible. He’s horrified by his appearance, looking every bit a slut who gets off to men treating him with no regard for his comfort or safety. If anyone caught them, no one would believe that the man forced himself onto Koutarou; no one would consider him a victim when he looks this whorish, his face screwed up in pleasure, even as fear courses through him. Koutarou’s eyes water. His breath stutters when the fullness in his ass disappears, the fingers dislodging him and leaving him gaping.
The announcement lets him know he’s nearing Namba. He’s still got ten minutes to get to his stop, and if he endures this until then, he’ll be free.
Koutarou’s relief does not last long.
The man’s hand trails up, resting over the exposed sliver of skin by his hips, massaging the muscle there. Koutarou shivers, goosebumps erupting all over, as the man maps out where he’s sensitive. His ass twinges from where the man was abusing his tight hole. Each passing second fills him with dread. He should have taken a morning train. He should have flown here. He’s got more than enough money to spare. He fears the man’s next action. His fingers tap out a distorted melody, inching their way into Koutarou’s pants and palming his cock. He’s fully hard now—there’s no denying it. Especially as the man grips the length again and pulls it out of the confines, caressing Koutarou’s cock almost reverently in his gloved hands.
He’s leaking.
Koutarou hasn’t been this wet in a while; his dick is an angry red and leaking all over the stranger’s hand, and it feels so wrong, but he can’t even stop him. Protests die on his tongue. He just wants to get this over with.
“Pretending that you don’t want this when you’re two seconds away from panting like a bitch. I’m sure if you had a cunt, you’d be dripping all over my hand right now.”
“Please, stop. I don’t want this—”
“Are you sure?” Koutarou’s cock twitches, eager as the man finally fists the length, smearing the copious precum all over the length. “Your dick seems to disagree. It’s so big and thick but useless on a bitch. Why do you need it when your ass sucked my fingers in? Was it that starved for cock? I could stick it in you and your whore ass will take my cock in without a single hitch.”
He’s lost track of which station they’re at, but Koutarou knows he has to get out. He can deal with the aftermath later. He needs to get out. He looks around frantically, his eyes widening when he notices the guy next to him. He’s not plastered to the window like Koutarou is, but he’s stuck to his spot, too. His pretty grey eyes widen in concern as he takes the situation in, and Koutarou tears up. The man behind him seems to not care that he got caught, his grip tightening around Koutarou’s dick. He yelps.
“What do we have here? You’re enjoying our little audience? God, you’re such a slut,” he grunts, rutting against Koutarou’s ass. “He’s pretty, isn’t he? Think he’d want to stick his dick in you?”
“Help,” Koutarou mouths, hoping the man calls for authorities, but nothing happens. He looks just as shocked by the events unfolding in front of him. “Please—”
Just then, as if the heavens took mercy on him, he hears it. The announcement for his station. Koutarou doesn’t know how he manages it—whether the man’s grip around him eased, or the flicker of hope that he’s almost free of this hell gave him a burst of strength—but he frees himself from the man’s hold, letting the crowd drag him out of the train, not caring about how debauched he looks. He stumbles onto the platform, gasping for air. Everything in him reeks of disgust, and he worries someone might catch on. Luckily, his jacket and cap come in handy and conceal much of the damage. Rush hour works in his favour as well; no one seems to care about Koutarou’s appearance as they hurry out of the station, eager to get home. Koutarou follows the motion of the crowd, hoping to blend in until he makes his way out of this hell.
.
.
.
The night air is cool against his skin as he crumbles against a bench.
His body throbs all over. Koutarou wants to retch. The man’s hands and his voice needle their way into his brain, embedding into his skin, making him feel every bit the whore he told Koutarou he was. He shakes; he fights the urge to cry. His mouth feels too dry. He should drink something. He should eat something. He should get a taxi and get the fuck out of this place and find his apartment and scrub himself raw. Anything to stop feeling so wrong. Anything to forget the man and his touch. Koutarou takes a deep breath, only to flinch when a cold bottle is pressed against his nape.
He jolts up, alarmed. “Fuck—”
“Sorry.” It’s the pretty man from earlier. Grey eyes and a tired smile. He seems to be out of breath, but he’s holding Koutarou’s bag in his hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but you left your bag on the train and I wanted to give it back to you.”
“Thank you,” Koutarou mumbles, taking the bag from the pretty man.
“I wanted to apologise for not helping. I should have done something. I should have. I’m sorry—”
“That’s alright,” Koutarou manages. “There wasn’t anything you could have done.”
“I could have screamed or hit him with my briefcase. I couldn’t. In that moment, it was as if my entire body—”
“Froze up?”
“Yeah,” he shudders, guilt clouding his eyes. “I followed you out since our stop seemed to be the same. You were shaken. I mean, you left your bag behind. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” He offers him the bottle of barley tea. The bottle is cool against his skin, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “I got you something to drink, too.”
“Thank you,” Koutarou says, opening the bottle and taking a sip. The cold liquid offers him clarity. At least someone understood his turmoil and decided to check on him. For all the fear he felt, the stranger’s kindness acts as a remedy. “This was not the best first impression to have of Osaka.”
“Are you new here?”
“Yeah, I just moved today for a new job. I’m from Tokyo.”
“Me too… God, now I feel worse for not helping you. Do you have anyone you can reach out to?”
“Nope,” Koutarou enunciates. “Got no family or friends. I need to find a hotel and sort stuff out. My luck turned out pretty bad, didn’t it?”
“Indeed. Please allow me to make up for not being able to help you when you needed it. I can get you dinner, or something? I feel horrible—”
“Don’t worry about it. That’s too much to ask of a stranger. You got me barley tea, made sure I didn’t lose my belongings, and checked up on me, which is more than enough. I would feel bad if I kept you any longer.”
“I insist. At least let me drive you back to your place. You said you’re looking for a hotel?”
“Are you sure?”
“Again, I insist. This is the least I can do to ease my guilt.”
“Thank you.” Koutarou means it. The man’s kindness is a gentle salve; he smiles, a tired grin that hopefully doesn’t come across as desolate as he feels. He falls into step with the man as he follows him out to the parking lot. “I’m Bokuto, by the way.”
“Keiji,” the man replies. “My name is Akaashi Keiji.”
“So, do you work in Osaka, Akaashi-san?”
“Oh no, I work in Tokyo. I’m visiting a few friends here for the summer.”
“You took the Shinkansen during rush hour right after work for a few friends?”
Akaashi laughs. It’s a pretty sound. Koutarou’s heart rate steadies the longer he listens to the other man. “Maybe they’re not just friends. We’re working out a few things.” A pretty red blush colours Akaashi’s face. “So, do you have any place in mind?”
“Preferably near the park. I still need to get my laps in, even as I look for a place.”
“I know just the place,” Akaashi says. “Is the barley tea helping?”
“It’s perfect. I feel so much better now. And sleepy, too. I think I’m already wiped out.” Koutarou stumbles, tripping on air, but Akaashi catches him just in time. He’s solid for being so thin, supporting Koutarou’s frame in his arms without much effort. “Very sleepy,” he yawns. The incident seems to have depleted all his energy, and Koutarou sways, struggling to focus his vision. “Fuck—”
“Is that so?”
“Mmmh,” he tries to say, but his words turn into rice gruel. They stick to the roof of his mouth, leaving his words slurred. “I never get this sleepy.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Akaashi mutters as they near a sleek black SUV. Too big for someone of Keiji’s build, but Koutarou doesn’t judge. The bigger it is, the more room there is for him to curl up until he gets to a hotel. At the promise of sleep, Koutarou’s eyes slip shut against his will. He forces them to stay open when he hears the sound of a door opening, which makes no sense because Akaashi is still holding onto him with both hands, supporting Koutarou’s bulk, which is no easy feat.
“Hey,” Koutarou mumbles, trying to get his mouth to work, “what’s going on?”
There’s no answer, but Koutarou crumbles against Akaashi as they round the SUV and get to the trunk of the car. Hairs rise on the back of Koutarou’s neck. Something isn’t adding up. He should be climbing into the front seat—but instead of the doors, Akaashi opens the trunk, propping it up one-handed as he lugs Koutarou closer. He anchors his feet and struggles in Akaashi’s hold. There’s no resistance, and Koutarou tries again. “Hey, what are you doing?”
“And ruin the surprise?” Another pair of footsteps joins them, a familiar voice cutting through the haze in his brain. “You ran away before we finished having fun—”
“How’d you— How did he get here?” Koutarou turns to Akaashi, but the words die in his throat as Akaashi leaves Koutarou to balance unsteadily against the trunk, letting the masked man pull him in for a hug.
“You like him, baby?” Akaashi asks the man, removing the black mask that was covering his face. Their lips glide against each other’s in a familiar dance, and everything in Koutarou tells him to run away. He tries, but his body stays rooted, dead weight even to him, and the duo turns to him. “You shouldn’t let your prey run away so easily, you know? What if he’d gone to the police instead?”
“I knew you’d find him for me,” the man answers into the kiss. “Plus, he wouldn’t have made it far if he fell right into our trap. Guess he isn’t that smart.”
“True,” Akaashi faces him, a sneer on his face. “Did they teach you not to accept food from strangers?”
“Hey—” Koutarou tries to scream, but the sound dies in his throat, and the world turns black.
.
.
.
The sound of traffic sneaks into his ears; the ground beneath him shifts with each second. Music surrounds him, heavy bass and guitars that make his heart hurt more. He’s lying on something solid. The coarse fabric around him makes his skin itch. The summer heat makes sweat bead up all over him. Koutarou squirms—his limbs feel heavy; his head still stuck in the haze. He tries to turn around, but his body refuses to cooperate.
Cold air hits his skin in intervals, leaving goosebumps where sweat pools. Sometime in his unconscious state, he was stripped of his clothes and forced to curl up in the cramped space. He tries to shimmy, but he gasps, struggling to breathe as he realises exactly where he is. He’s stuck in the fucking trunk. He’s in some lunatic’s trunk with his hands tied up and buck naked. He tries to flex his hands, recalling the tutorials he once saw on how to free oneself if you get kidnapped. But no luck. The bindings are tight enough to prevent him from finding a way to manoeuvre out of it. Everything in him hurts.
Koutarou shuffles, winching when his ass throbs, filled to the brim, a splitting pain that registers as he slowly comes back to his senses.
“Hey,” he shouts, “let me out!” He doesn’t know if the creeps can hear him over the music, but the song changes to something grittier. A v-kei track he’s heard before, the volume rising as if to drown out his cries. “Let me out, you fucking perverts,” he yells. “Fuck. I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go. I know you can hear me—”
As if on cue, the fullness in him comes to life, and Koutarou screams. The vibration is painful, jabbing against his prostate with no lenience. It thrums insistently, forcing his body to succumb to a pleasure he never wanted.
.
.
.
“He’s pretty,” Keiji says, in a Keiji-way, sultry and low even as his expression looks uninterested. He’s sexy when he goes along with Kiyoomi’s plans. “Such a pretty boy—”
“Not as pretty as you,” Kiyoomi says, his hands gripped around the steering wheel. He had been pretty, which is why he knew he had to get him when he saw him standing by the station. Keiji loves him enough to go along with his plans, loves him enough to drug unsuspecting pretty boys so Kiyoomi can fuck them to his heart’s content. “Prettiest boy I know,” he whispers, the pulsing music making his cock throb. Rock isn’t his area. Kiyoomi prefers Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky over whatever rock band Keiji loves to keep underneath his well-maintained salaryman image.
“You flatter me,” Keiji hums. Kiyoomi had handed him the remote. More power than any man should possess, and he plays with the settings, delighting in not knowing what it’s doing to the recipient. “What should we do to him when we get him home?”
“Whatever we want, baby. I just need to ruin the pretty skin. Do you think my canes can leave marks on his skin? Maybe I can use my whip on him. Something sharp and with a sting to tame an unruly dog.”
Keiji moans, the image Kiyoomi paints making his cock twitch as well. The boy is pretty: golden skin, big eyes that will tear up so nicely, hair the perfect length to grab. He wonders whether Kiyoomi will even make time for him if he got a new hole to bury his cock into. He’s not jealous. Kiyoomi has his toys, and he has Keiji. He’s not replaceable. But this time, he wants a piece. He places the remote on the dashboard and turns to Kiyoomi.
“Maybe we should leave him like this— Leave him hard and leaking and stuffed, so we can fuck him whenever we want. It’ll be nice to have a warm and ready hole at your disposal.”
Keiji’s taken off his coat and loosened his tie. The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, letting Kiyoomi catch the ink he hides from everyone. From the back of the car, the boy screams, and Kiyoomi’s cock twitches, impatient from being denied release over the past hour while he chased after the boy. But the wait was worth it, he thinks, even as his cock purples uncomfortably, pressing against his zipper, begging for something more. Keiji seems to notice as well. He places a hand on his knee, sliding up his knees with serpentine grace, his palm cupping Kiyoomi’s erection. “Kiyoomi,” he breathes out, sexy as all hell as he grinds his palm over the hardness, asking for permission. At Kiyoomi’s nod, elegant fingers pull down his zipper, taking out Kiyoomi’s cock with finesse.
“You wanna fuck him, too?” Kiyoomi asks.
Keiji’s actions betray his deadpan expression and his monotone voice. He pushes down Kiyoomi’s pants with urgency, gripping his dick and fisting the length, letting go to rearrange himself. Kiyoomi is forever grateful for getting a bigger car as Keiji manoeuvres himself onto his knees on the passenger seat, wet mouth letting out hot puffs of air as he breathes in the scent of Kiyoomi’s dick. “Can I?”
“What’s mine is yours.”
A glob of spit falls onto the leaking head, cold on his overheated dick. Keiji leans in, swallowing him whole in one go, letting Kiyoomi hit the back of his throat, earning him a throaty growl. Kiyoomi’s hand tighten around the steering wheel as he tries not to buck his hips into the wet heat. If he wasn’t driving, Keiji wouldn’t be able to pull back until his throat is bruised from Kiyoomi’s thrusts. He wants to fuck his mouth; Kiyoomi enjoys watching him choke on his length, and Keiji loves when his mouth is used, but Kiyoomi controls himself. He focuses on the road, moaning when Keiji swallows around him, pulling back up to mouth at the head, the motions he knows Kiyoomi is a sucker for.
“God,” he grunts, “your mouth feels so good, Keiji. So warm and wet. I wish I could make you choke on it.”
Keiji groans against the length; he’s always been a sucker for words. He bobs his head, tongue flat against the underside before wrapping it around the sensitive slit, tongue dipping to gather all the precum. Pretty. Kiyoomi loves pretty things like Akaashi Keiji.
“You love how I taste?” At Keiji’s grin, Kiyoomi groans, pushing his head back onto his length, his other hand gripping the steering wheel tight. “We’re almost home, Keiji. Make me come before that, and maybe I’ll just let you fuck him before I stick my dick in his sloppy hole.”
That seems to rev Keiji up; he picks up his pace, determined to get his prize. Their house is another ten minutes away, and if Keiji has his way, Kiyoomi will be thoroughly milked by then. Kiyoomi doesn’t hold back his moans, content to enjoy the warm mouth worshipping his cock. He untangles his fingers from Keiji’s curls to change the song on the station, but Keiji nips at the vein on his underside, and Kiyoomi groans, his hand slipping on the stereo; the music lowers.
The sudden dip only makes the boy’s screams louder. His sounds are a concerto; they’re music to Kiyoomi’s ears. His cock twitches, drooling more precum onto Keiji’s mouth. At Keiji’s pleased hum, Kiyoomi turns the music off, letting the boy’s cries take centre stage; the pained shouts and whimpers are more than enough. And because he can, Kiyoomi fishes for the remote on the dashboard and toys with the settings that are sure to make him thrash in the confined space, his body a slave to whatever Kiyoomi subjects him to.
“Do you think we should invite your colleagues, too?” Keiji’s hoarse voice breaks Kiyoomi’s trance. It pulls his attention back to the man mouthing at his balls, who seems to have shimmied his slacks down enough to fist at his cock, already hard and rearing to go as the boy’s screams of pleasure and pain resound around them. “I know a few of them would be pent up and can do with something other than an onahole—”
“And you’re okay with sharing?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Keiji smiles, the only warning he gives before he deepthroats Kiyoomi. He knows he’s lost when their driveway comes into view, Keiji’s mouth too experienced with making Kiyoomi bust his load to put up a fight against. He shudders from the orgasm as he pulls into the garage, flooding Keiji’s mouth with his release. Keiji moans around his cock, careful not to waste any drop. He sits back on his haunches, leaning in and spitting the cum back onto Kiyoomi’s spent cock, licking it clean with a flourish.
“You promised,” Keiji grins. “I got dibs on his hole.”
Kiyoomi can’t find it in himself to complain.
.
.
.
The room is a warm gold when Koutarou comes to.
The soft sheets surround him; the violin symphony he has no idea about keeps playing. His hands are finally free. He stretches his muscles, getting his body to move a bit. His entire body feels heavy; he’s sore all over, but pleasure thrums through him. The marks on his wrists glisten from arnica gel, and so does the rest of his body. From the looks of it, they slathered cocoa butter all over him after cleaning him up, not willing to take any chances. Koutarou turns to his side, and sure enough, Keiji’s looking at him, his eyes soft and smouldering.
“How do you feel?” He asks, and Koutarou can only moon at him, his brain still stuck in the clouds. He snuggles into Keiji’s chest, lips pressing against the tattoo there, groaning at the way the even his scent leaves him lightheaded. “Was it good?”
“It was amazing,” Koutarou moans, breathing in Keiji’s musk. “Where’s Omi?”
“He’s making you something to drink and preparing something to apply to your joints. He thinks the ropes were too tight. You know he doesn’t skimp on aftercare—”
“I’m fine,” Koutarou mumbles, “I’m intact and present.”
“Bokuto-san—” Oh, that hasn’t been used against him in a while. Koutarou preens, stretching in bed, twisting, all feline coyness. If Keiji’s breathing hitches when he turns over onto his back, wiggling his butt a little, he recovers fast. “We fucked you thrice, cleaned you up, and took a shower while propping you against the wall. You didn’t even budge— I know you wanted the scene to be intense, but you know how Kiyoomi is. He might not show it, but he was worried he stepped over the line.”
“He always is.”
“When it comes to you. And, so am I.”
Koutarou holds his tongue as the bedroom door opens. Kiyoomi walks in, Koutarou’s coffee mug in his hand. When he sees that Koutarou is upright, he places it on the table before pulling him in for a hug. It’s easy to melt against Kiyoomi’s chest; it’s easier to understand that he needs this more than Koutarou. This scene did get a bit too extreme. Even with all his complaints, Koutarou understands why Kiyoomi needs to do this. He needs to care for him and treasure him; he needs to pamper Koutarou to make up for all the things he says mid-scene at Koutarou’s behest.
Once he’s settled down, he picks up the glass and thrusts it onto Koutarou’s awaiting palms. “Drink,” he orders, and the timbre of his voice is just right. If his body wasn’t weighed down by what he unleashed on it earlier today, Koutarou would be on his knees already. “Your sugar levels need to be fixed.”
Koutarou pouts as he takes a sip. “Why does it feel like I’m the only one who had fun?”
“You aren’t. We enjoyed it. But that doesn’t mean we can’t worry about a potential sub drop.”
“Is that why you got me hot chocolate even though Meian banned sugary foods until the end of the season?” At Kiyoomi’s huff, Koutarou smiles. “Thanks for doing this.”
“The hot chocolate or the fact that we went along with your crazy plan?” Keiji asks from his spot.
“Both?” He takes another sip, and Kiyoomi slathers a cool gel onto his thighs, massaging the muscle. “Was it okay for you, Omi? I know you hate being in crowds.”
“I’m fine,” he murmurs, focused on working his hands on the rope marks on Koutarou’s skin. “Before you think you forced us into it, we did it because we wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Well, you rarely ask us for something,” Keiji answers. “And as your partners, it’s our duty to make sure you can enjoy these things without judgment and worry.”
“So, does that mean we can do it again?”
Kiyoomi leans in, licking away a dollop of cream from Koutarou’s cheek. “Drink your hot chocolate and sleep.”
“I’m taking that as a yes.”