Play house

Souji is standing by the kitchen counter cutting vegetables.



Dojima is sitting by the table, a case file forgotten in his hands, all his focus on his nephew who’s humming to himself, swaying his hips the tiniest bit to the melody, making the straps of the apron he’s wearing sway a little as well. He can’t stop staring.



He’s hard. He’s been hard for quite a while; it seems to happen automatically these days when he’s home alone with Souji—and he sits with the knowledge he could do pretty much anything he wanted to Souji right now and the kid would go along with it happily.



He could tell him to crawl under the table and take his cock out and give him one of those blowjobs he’s so good at, the ones where the head of Dojima’s cock actually slips into his throat and he swallows around it, making wet little clicking noises and not even trying to breathe. Dojima, despite being in his forties now, comes in minutes when Souji does that.



Or he could just step up behind Souji where he’s standing, shove the cutting board to the side, bend him over the counter and—No. Not fuck him, no. Dojima wants to so bad his balls ache but it just wouldn’t be right. When the time is right he’ll bring Souji to his room—the one place in the house besides his daughter’s room they have yet to defile in some way. Yeah, he’ll bring Souji to his bed and although he’s said he’ll fuck him, he won’t. He’ll make love to him. No matter how dirty or crude or sloppy their little sessions are now, he’ll show Souji how it feels to have a lover focusing all his attention on him, paying attention to every little part of him, from his toes to the crown of his skull, before pushing into him and giving him the orgasm of his life.



Dojima had called it their wedding night. Just thinking of it that way makes his balls ache even more, along with his heart. It’s all so wrong, and he wants to do everything he can to make it as right as it can possibly be.



And when he’s done that, when he’s made love to Souji—then he wants to fuck him. From behind. So hard Souji’s teeth rattle. And he wants Souji to ride him. He wants to see those perfect bangs turn messy as Souji bounces on his lap. He wants Souji to come all over his stomach and chest and he wants him to lap it up afterwards while he’s crouching over him and there’s come leaking down his thighs and—



Souji throws a glance over his shoulder, probably feeling Dojima’s eyes burning a hole in his back. He cuts Dojima’s thoughts off with that sweet, wife-y little smile he’s started to wear in Dojima’s presence. When his lips aren’t rounded into an ‘o’ as he moans, that is, or when they’re not stretched around Dojima’s cock and what the fuck is wrong with him today? Why can’t he just break all the maddening thoughts of his nephew off and focus on the papers in his hand?



But how the hell could anyone expect him to do that when the corner of Souji’s mouth curl into a feline little smirk, one saying ‘like what you see?’ and, really, that’s all Dojima can take.



He gets to his feet and is behind Souji in a heartbeat, wrapping his arms tight around him and telling him to drop the knife and Souji does it without protest, gently putting it down to the side before tilting his head back to lean on Dojima’s shoulder, already breathing faster.



“You look so hot in your little apron,” Dojima murmurs, his lips brushing Souji’s cheek and the shaky sigh he receives in reply is all the consent he needs to slide his hands down to Souji’s hips. He holds them still as he moves his own, grinding against Souji’s ass to let him know how hard he is, and this is new...



They’ve talked about fucking. A lot. He’s teased Souji to orgasm just from talking and adding the tiniest bit of physical stimulation, but he’s never shown Souji he wants it. Not this way. Not grinding against him while nipping at his jaw.



For a second Dojima is convinced he’ll come like this. Not from the stimulation, but from how Souji offers himself up, moaning and doing his best to defy Dojima’s vice grip on his hips and grind back against him. The kid wants it so bad. So bad. And that need is what almost drives Dojima to the edge.



He’s barely aware of his hands slipping from Souji’s hips to his front, his fingers working the button fly of Souji’s jeans open, his thumbs hooking into both boxer briefs and pants and tugging them down to mid-thigh. He doesn’t stop to consider what he’s doing until he’s run a hand up Souji’s erection and he’s got precome all over his palm.



Souji is whispering something, probably repeating Dojima’s name. Dojima loves it when he does, loves the reverence and desperate arousal in his voice, but along with the love a wave of shame follows, for allowing his nephew to all but worship him like this. Dojima has a steady stomach-ache these days, despite Souji being there and making sure he takes his ulcer meds every morning.



As he fists Souji’s cock, he focuses on his words and no, Souji isn’t whispering his name, he’s whispering ‘fuck me’ over and over and, fuck, the kid will be the death of him one day.



He slides his hand down to cup Souji’s balls instead, squeezing to the point of pain, to the point where Souji goes quiet and sort of limp in his grip. “Not gonna fuck you today, Souji…” he says. But he needs to grind—he needs to take his cock out and fuck something and it’s then he realizes what he’ll do. “Not like that, at least.” He lets Souji go and takes half a step back, works his belt and pants open as he takes in Souji’s naked ass, framed by the apron, and his slim thighs. Yeah, those thighs… They’ll do. “Hands on the counter.”



Souji obeys, he always does, and Dojima slides his pants and underwear all the way down, steps out of one leg but lets the other stay bunched around his ankle. He tugs Souji’s jeans down a little more, down to his knees, trapping his legs together tightly and if he had a camera right now he’d have a memory card full of pictures of what’s in front of him, because the scene is so dirty it makes his cock throb.



He presses up against Souji again, his cock sliding between the cheeks of Souji’s ass and the moan Souji lets out is so deep Dojima feels it vibrate against his chest. He works his hips, slow controlled rolls, loving how soft the skin of Souji’s thighs is against his own, how Souji arches his back without having to be told, and offers himself up.



He plants one hand on the counter next to Souji’s, grabs him again with the other, firm strokes up the shaft, each one leading to slick liquid trickling down his knuckles (god, the kid leaks like a faucet when he’s turned on) and he keeps doing it until his hand is all but coated before letting Souji’s cock go again and feeling a shiver run down his spine as Souji gasps at the loss of contact.



Dojima smears his cock with the mess. It’s enough to coat it from base to crown, enough to make it nearly drip. What’s left he wipes off between Souji’s thighs, forcing his hand between them and sliding it back and forth a couple of times before pulling free.



Souji calls his name, hesitation obvious in his voice. He wants to ask Dojima what he’s about to do but is not quite sure the question will be appreciated. Dojima knows that note in his voice well. He thinks it’s sweet—almost pathetic in its submission, but sweet, and he smiles a little as he leans forward to rest his chin on Souji’s shoulder, shushing him softly while angling his cock and tilting his hips.



“Keep your legs together.”



Souji understands then and nods, and Dojima can feel the muscles in his thighs flex as he slips between them, grinding against Souji’s ass for a moment before pulling back again.



“A little tighter, baby.”



He has no idea of where the nick name came from but it feels right on his tongue and he doesn’t regret it. Especially not when Souji whimpers and bucks in his grip before letting out a breathy ‘Yes, Dojima-san.’ and squeezing his legs together, so tight the friction is just perfect the next time Dojima rolls his hips.



He curls his hands around Souji’s hips, down where they meet his thighs, and he pushes as if helping Souji keep his legs together and it works. Souji works even harder; Dojima can feel the tremble in his cock and he groans against Souji’s neck and starts thrusting.



It’s not like fucking an ass, or a sweet, tight pussy, but it’s close enough for Dojima to keep pumping his hips. The feeling of the head of his cock bumping into Souji’s balls as he tilts his hips a little more adds to it, in the end making it an experience of its own instead of a substitute and he keeps groaning, a flood of sweet little names mixed with filth escaping his mouth and driving his nephew wild. Dojima has heard Souji lose himself in pleasure several times before, but he’s never heard him like this. There’s no shame in his moans, no humiliation, no hesitation, and Dojima wonders how the hell Souji will sound when he finally fucks him—makes love to him—for real. Trying to imagine it nearly makes him come.



To take his mind of it, he shushes Souji again, tells him to take it easy, and makes it so very, very hard for him to do that because at the same time he slides his hand over Souji’s cock—on the outside of the apron this time. The stiff fabric must chafe against flushed and sensitive skin but Souji just groans into the hand he’s slapped over his mouth to keep his noises from spilling out.



Dojima squeezes the shaft through the fabric, staring over Souji’s shoulder as he does and smiling at the sight. He’ll have to have Souji cook wearing nothing but that apron sometime in the future, just so he can fuck him on the kitchen table while he looks like this. He suspects it would be glorious.



Souji’s orgasm comes as a surprise, apparently even to himself. His yelp is sharp and loud even through the barrier of his hand and he bucks in Dojima’s grip while swearing like a sailor and clenching his ass and thighs so hard it makes Dojima gasp. It ends with a drawn-out guttural growl and him jerking away from the firm grip around his cock, the fabric now probably unbearable against the head, and back into the cradle of Dojima’s hips, drawing a grunt from him.



Dojima takes the hint and lets go of Souji, the sight and sound and feeling and smell of his nephew coming fuelling his desire to finish as well and he drives his cock between Souji’s tightly clenched thighs (kept together even when he can barely stand—such a good fucking boy) and the head keeps bumping against Souji’s tightly drawn sac and it only takes a minute for Dojima to come as well, smacking his forehead against Souji’s shoulder blade as he hunches down with a strangled shout and coats the insides of his thighs.



It takes at least a minute for Dojima to catch his breath; a minute of eyes clenched shut and his face rubbing against Souji’s back, lips pressing against cotton damp from sweat, leaving little kisses behind; a minute of his hips trembling, occasionally jerking, and fingers digging into Souji’s hips so hard it makes him squirm; a minute before he lets go and straightens up and takes a step back and swears quietly as he stares at what’s in front of him. He can’t believe his luck, can’t believe his misfortune. Not when Souji shuffles around to face him, supporting himself against the counter, and smiles and Dojima knows this kid is one in a million, too good to be true and the one thing in life he wants most that he can’t have.



His stomach aches more than usual but he meets Souji’s smile with a crooked one of his own and steps closer, pressing his lips to his forehead and burying a hand in his hair, and he decides to keep pretending everything’s ok. There’s a dinner that needs to be finished, his daughter will be home in an hour or so and Souji’s got homework to do. Everything’s ok.



Souji brings fingers he’s slid between his thighs up to his mouth and licks them clean. Everything’s as it should be.



Dojima tightens his hand in Souji’s hair and tilts his head back sharply, feeling a shaky sigh vibrate against his lips as he kisses his Adam’s apple. Everything will work out just fine.