Work Text:
The phone’s ringing.
Kiyoi understands that for the first time in hours, because he’s just coming to, roused by the obnoxious noise out of a deep sleep. Before that, the blood was pounding in his ears too loudly to hear anything else. Hira’s no longer panting over his shoulder, babbling chaotic nonsense and groaning that he’s so pretty. Kiyoi shivers at the memory, the phantom of Hira’s voice, low and almost feral. He can still feel Hira’s arms wrapped possessively around his body, clawing at his back, holding him in tight. Hira’s grip has loosened, but it’s still there. They’re twisted up in sweat-soaked sheets that feel gross and clammy. Kiyoi’s on his stomach, Hira glued to his spine. He twists his head around to peer across the pillow—his phone’s vibrating on the floor.
It’s half sticking out of his jeans. His clothes are all there in a rumpled, ruined pile. He can see where two buttons were torn off his shirt and a third one’s just barely hanging on. He was wearing a nice jacket but is sure Hira broke the zipper. Kiyoi would be supremely annoyed, except he knows Hira will apologize about a million times and dutifully fix it for him. Hira knows how to sew. His housekeeping skills are rivaled only by his carnal talent; Kiyoi feels exhausted, sore all over, and so thoroughly satisfied.
He tries to reach the phone. His arm flops out, boneless. He’s unusually clumsy, feeling his way across the floor, only the glowing screen to guide him and the muted sunlight straining through their curtains. Their bedroom’s dark, but he can tell the sun’s up outside. Hira’s heavy on him, snoring softly between his shoulder blades, and those lanky arms seem to tighten as Kiyoi twists to reach. His fingers curl around his phone. He only wants to turn it off, to drift peacefully back to sleep, because he can’t think of anything else. His brain’s been rattled out of his skull by Hira’s merciless thrusts. He feels like he’s really been fucked stupid. He doesn’t remember stopping. He must’ve passed out at some point. Every concurrent orgasm came closer to blacking out his vision. His body feels numb. Bruised. Hira’s still inside him. He wrinkles his nose when he realizes that and how weird it feels. Outside of sex, it’s just intrusive. But he doesn’t dare squirm away or elbow Hira off him, because if he wakes Hira up, they might just go again.
Maybe he wants that? He doesn’t know. He feels like he already came enough for a lifetime just in that “one” session. But Hira’s flare ups are always like that. Brutal, wildly intense, like only Hira could be. Kiyoi prides himself on being strong enough to take it. He doesn’t just go to the gym for cosmetic reasons. He needs every last muscle to survive his boyfriend’s ravenous appetite. Their classmates would’ve laughed at that, back in high school—the idea that timid Hira could ever be too much. Then again, they all saw what happened when he finally snapped with the bullies and beat the shit out of one. For Kiyoi. Whenever Kiyoi thinks of that, his cock twitches. It’s trapped against the mattress, limp and spent. His whole stomach’s in a wet patch. He feels disgusting so doesn’t want to answer the incessant ringing.
But it’s Anna. He blinks at the display name. It feels wrong to ignore her. It irks him. Being trapped underneath a sweaty sex fiend, still impaled on a much-too-thick cock, should irk him more. It disquiets him how right it feels. How little he minds being pinned under Hira’s ardour, even when Hira’s unconscious. He wonders if Hira consciously stopped fucking him or eventually passed out mid-thrust.
Kiyoi shouldn’t answer, but his brain’s not working properly, and his thumb hits the green “talk” button.
Anna’s worried voice asks, “Hello?” and Kiyoi quickly dials down the volume so it won’t disturb his boyfriend. “Kiyoi? Are you alright?”
He means to say yes but finds his mouth is too dry and stale and mutters ascent instead, then clamps his other hand over it and swallows, trying to redistribute spit. He wonders vaguely how much of Hira’s saliva he’s swallowed. How many other things. He shouldn’t think of that. His cheeks are red, and he’s grateful Anna can’t see him.
She tells him, “You’re two hours late for a shoot. The agency called me—apparently they’ve been calling you, and a driver came and knocked on your door, but they couldn’t get an answer? They know we’re friends, so asked me to give it a try...”
Kiyoi’s head is spinning. It’s hard to understand her words when he’s brainless—Hira fucked that out of him. There was a shoot. A photoshoot. He had a job. Fury, mainly directed at himself, lances through him—he always strives to be professional and should never have started fooling around with work on the horizon. Except they started yesterday. But he’d been busy doing a commercial over the weekend and hadn’t spent enough time with Hira, hadn’t topped Hira up, so of course Hira was extra hungry and needed a greater meal. He should’ve calculated better. He wants to yell at Hira too, but it’s not like Hira jumped him the way he would’ve liked; he noticed Hira staring and willingly gave himself over. He should’ve checked his schedule first. He feels awful and rasps, “Shit, sorry...” And there’s more to say, of course, but a sudden thrusts drags him across the mattress, and he has to grab the headboard to stop from ramming into it.
Hira groans into his shoulder, shifting up, rearranging their position, tightening the grip around Kiyoi’s middle—Kiyoi grits his teeth and hisses as Hira pistons into him.
He’s still wet inside. Hira always prepares him well and uses too much lube. And Hira already came inside him way too many times. He can feel it caked around his crotch and slicked all down his thighs. It’s mostly dried on the outside, but kept looser in the heat of his body. Hira rocks into him, loosening more up, probably leaking more precum. Kiyoi’s jaw tightens with the effort not to snap. He’s accidentally scolded Hira in front of Anna before. But not during sex.
Anna must hear something’s wrong, maybe misinterpreting his muffled, distressed noises. She asks, “Kiyoi...?”
He has to reassure her. He swallows. His voice is hoarse—he needs water—he needs Hira to kiss him, wet and sloppy, and give him more to drink. “S... sorry... I’m fine. I slept in.”
“It’s three p.m....”
Hira muffles an apology into his skin, probably too garbled to reach the phone, but Kiyoi understands Hira’s weird noises. His whole face is burning. Like his ass. It’s probably bruised an ugly blue-purple. Hira’s hips snap against it anyway, slow at first, warming up, like readjusting to the familiar feeling of fucking Kiyoi from behind. Kiyoi never stutters but can barely get out, “I’ll b-b-be there—s-soon! I just... n-need... um... an hour...?” He’s become Hira. He hates himself. He loves Hira. He’s so mad at Hira, but it’s hard to remember that when Hira’s sliding into him and that big cock just feels so good. He doesn’t understand how it’s hard again. They already fucked so much. He feels like he’ll never be able to move again, let alone hobble out of bed and into the shower. He definitely needs a shower. Three showers. Extra-thorough scrubbing. He needs to rub himself down without Hira there to distract him and soap him up and rinse him off like they often do together because they’re terminally dependent and Hira seems to love taking care of Kiyoi in every way imaginable.
He realizes his tongue’s hanging out of his mouth and stuffs it back in. He hears the doubt in Anna’s voice. “Are you sure...? I can call them back and have them send a car, but if you’re not feeling well...”
Kiyoi splutters, “I’m fine,” because his career is everything and needs to come first, but he’s also gripping the headboard for all its worth and willing Hira not to fuck him any harder, because Hira’s already ramming into him and the bed could start creaking at any second. Kiyoi actually switches to bracing himself against the wall over the bedhead in an effort to keep the frame from hitting it. There are a million grotesque noises anyway—the mattress groaning, the blankets shifting, Hira breathing hard and Kiyoi desperately trying not to. And the squelching, slapping sound of moist skin on skin. At least she can’t smell the musky stench that’ll probably take a month of airing out to dissipate. Kiyoi chokes out, “I’ll be ready in an h-hour. I just need to shower and—” And then he cuts off, slams his face into the pillow, and muffles his scream in it. Hira’s somehow wormed one arm beneath him and grabbed onto his cock, and he swore it was done, but he’s somehow rock hard and twitching in Hira’s loving fingers. He’s actually coming. Again. It shouldn’t be possible, but Hira always knows how to drag the most gut-wrenching orgasms out of him. Hira affectionately pets his cock while he spills all over Hira’s fingers, ruining the mattress and giving himself more of a mess to wipe off his stomach. He’s ashamed of himself. Deeply, horribly ashamed. A few sloppy thrusts and one stroke is all it takes. He’s too easy. He’s pathetic. Hira’s mouthing at the back of his neck and telling him he’s beautiful.
Fuck, he loves that. He’s worried he’ll get hard again. He reaches back to grab Hira’s arm, nails digging into it, but then there’s nothing to stop the bed slapping the wall, and Anna must’ve heard that—Kiyoi’s hand snaps back to the wall. The other’s shaking around the phone. He wants to apologize but is too embarrassed to talk.
Anna chirps, “Oh, it’s Hira, isn’t it?” And she actually sounds less worried. “He’s... hungry, huh?” Kiyoi regrets telling her exactly what his boyfriend is. He regrets everything. “I understand. Don’t worry; I’ll take care of it. An hour, okay?”
Kiyoi, absolutely mortified, grunts a grateful, “Yeah.” He owes her flowers. Chocolates. A million apologies, Hira-style, in a full-body bow. The phone clicks; she’s hung up. He drops it.
He’ll never be able to look her in the eyes again. He doesn’t know how he manages to look his management in the eyes, knowing they’ve been so respectful of his personal life and he still hasn’t disclosed that he’s dating an actual incubus. It’s just too embarrassing. How can he admit that of all the cute, normal girls that like him, he chose the most dangerous, debased, creepy fanboy, one that actually sustains himself on Kiyoi’s sexuality? He literally needs to ravage Kiyoi’s body to function. And he always says he’s happy not to, that he’ll let himself whither away into nothing, glad to have ever basked in Kiyoi’s mere existence. But that’s not enough for Kiyoi, who somehow always ends up all but leaping onto his cock.
A deep, dark, knowingly fucked-up part of Kiyoi can’t get enough of that, how Hira can’t get enough of him, how Hira literally needs him to live. They’re so unhealthy. Kiyoi’s fully aware of that. It’s a massive red flag that he can’t tell his work or family what his relationship’s really like. He shouldn’t have told Anna, but she says she’s been in the industry long enough to know all about rare, underground monsters, and she’s proven a great ally.
Kiyoi needs an ally. He needs a shower. He needs to scrape together some sanity and crawl out of their filthy bed. Hira slams up into his body, shudders against his back, and whines, “Kiyoi,” as he comes for the hundredth time. Kiyoi’s eyes roll back in his head, savouring every second.
There’s barely a second’s pause. No refractory period. Hira immediately starts humping him again, and Kiyoi groans, “Last round. I mean it.”
Hira pants, “L-last round,” and thrusts against Kiyoi’s sore cheeks so hard that the sound’s louder than the phone was.
Kiyoi mewls happily but makes himself snap, “Seriously! I’ll kill you if you don’t stop after!”
Hira hums something that might be agreement and starts peppering Kiyoi’s shoulder in kisses. He breathes, “Will stop,” and, “promise,” and “K-Kiyoi...”
“I have work in an hour. ’S important... gotta... stop...”
“Mhm.” His hair’s brushed away from his cheek; Hira’s arching over to kiss him there. Hira promises, firm, the way he does when he’s in that illusive strong and reliable boyfriend mode, “Stop in an hour. Got it.”
Before then. He needs time to shower. But it hurts too good to stop so Kiyoi grunts agreement and lets his virile boyfriend cover him in apologies and kisses and all the love he needs.