(SMUT WARNING)
The email is inconspicuous enough.
Sanemi's brushing his teeth when he gets it, a blink on his phone screen that lights up the bathroom. He opens it once he catches a glimpse of the sender address, leaving the toothbrush stuck in his mouth.
Hi, Shina -
We are reaching out to you on behalf of Hashira Co., a major adult film studio operating in the city.
As per the subject of this email, we are contacting you to inquire about a possible collaboration with our studio. After viewing your recent work, one of our directors has expressed interest in signing you for his next shoot. It is a standard scene, wherein you will star with one of our experienced actors.
Our offer is attached below. Also included are details of the anticipated project. Let us know if you are agreeable.
We look forward to hearing back.
Yours,
Hashira Co.
Sanemi carefully sets down his toothbrush before tapping the file. He's glad he does, because the amount of money printed in bold at the bottom of the page nearly makes him choke.
For an offer like that, Sanemi thinks he might be willing to do anything. Especially now, right after he's finished paying off a mountain of bills and looking at his fifth day in a row of eating instant ramen for every meal.
Porn.
It's good money, once you get over the whole have-sex-with-a-stranger-for-more-strangers-on-the-internet-to-jack-off-to thing. Tuition's a bitch Sanemi can't get rid of, and even the sketchy underground jobs pay well.
So he films porn. Straight porn, gay porn, any porn—nothing he can't stomach once the paycheck comes through. Hell, he's been the teenage pool boy taken advantage of, the straight jock not as straight as he thought he was, the shady delivery boy with loose morals—all for much, much less. This is something he can't afford to turn down.
And to top it off, Hashira's a well-known studio, popular enough that even he's heard of them. As far as he knows, they treat their actors well (which, from the contract, Sanemi fully believes), and the films they pump out aren't bad at all.
After that, the decision doesn't require much thought. Sanemi types up a quick confirmation email, swallowing around the residual mint on his teeth, and sends it off.
It's for the cash, he tells himself. All for the cash.
And now he's here. Standing in front of a modest building just outside the city, ordinary enough to be overlooked. Staring up at it. Counting the bricks. Without moving.
Aware that he's stalling, Sanemi checks his phone one more time to make sure he's at the right place. Looks up and down the street, ignoring the strange looks he's getting from passerby as they walk around him.
Fuck it, he thinks, marching up to the glass door and pushing it open with a sense of finality. He's already here; it'd be a waste to back out now. And, thinking back to the dollar signs on his contract, he'd long decided to take this job.
One step past the threshold, Sanemi's hit with a full-body blast from the AC, excessive like all high-end places are. The floor is polished tile, marbly in appearance and so clean it seems to shimmer under the lights. Framed posters of stills from various movies and photoshoots line the walls, glossy magazines tossed in the center of a small table surrounded by three leather seats. It looks like a real corporation, a far cry from all the studios he's ever been to, and Sanemi would think he walked into the wrong place if not for the countless times he double-checked the address on his way over.
There's—there's even a fucking secretary sitting at the front desk, with one of those fancy bluetooth microphones tucked behind her ear. At the sound of the door clicking shut, she looks up and offers a genial smile.
"Hello," she says, completely unfazed by the dumbstruck look on Sanemi's face. "How may I help you?"
"I, uh—I'm Shinazugawa Sanemi. Here for filming."
The secretary glances down at her computer, taps the keyboard twice, then pushes herself from the desk to stand up. "Ah, good to see you, Shinazugawa-san. Follow me this way, please."
So Sanemi follows her. Down the hall, past sleek black doors with their own goddamn nameplates, around a corner, and down another hall.
The secretary—Kanata, as her name tag says—stops about halfway down the corridor, right in front of a door identical to the ones behind them. With his own nameplate pasted to the front. What kind of fucking porn studio is this?, Sanemi wants to ask, but keeps his mouth shut. Maybe it's better not to ask.
"This is your dressing room," she says. He nods, reaching for the silver handle, but apparently there's more.
"Please take your time getting ready, and let me know if you need anything else. The bathroom is at the end of the hall should you need it. An assistant will be with you shortly."
An assistant? Fucking hell.
Sanemi just nods again, muttering his thanks as Kanata turns to leave. Then he twists the handle, opens the door, and steps inside.
His mouth drops open.
The place is huge, for one. It's clean, too, with shiny counters and a shiny private shower in the corner. There's a two-seater sofa directly in front of him, along with a mini fridge and a smooth coffee table. Adjacent to the wall on his right is a fucking vanity, stocked with makeup and brushes and wipes all neatly stacked to the side. The clothing rack sits right beside it, with the outfit Sanemi's expected to wear for the scene. Although, Sanemi thinks with a grimace, it's probably not gonna stay on his body for long.
Still eyeing the room, Sanemi falls into the sofa and sighs in disbelief when he sinks right into it. It's definitely a hundred steps up from the dingy backrooms he has to use when preparing for regular scenes. He knows he hit the jackpot with this deal and he's going to milk it for all it's worth.
In the time he has to himself, Sanemi rinses off in the shower and changes into the provided outfit. It isn't too different from what he had on originally, given the fact that he's playing the role of himself today—a college student. Though the persona he's assuming will take some effort to pull off, Sanemi's sure he can sell it.
The assistant turns out to be a radiant girl with thick, baby pink braids and eyes like mint. She bounces into the room the second Sanemi opens the door, thrusting her hand forward to take Sanemi's in a vigorous grip and introducing herself as Mitsuri Kanroji from Hair & Makeup.
"Nice to meet you, Shinazugawa-san!" She drags Sanemi to the vanity by the hand she's still shaking and pushes him into the seat. "Let's get to work! Not to say you aren't already very handsome, but I can do wonders for your face in front of the camera!" She winks at him through the mirror. Sanemi's trying to get a word in, but she grabs a brush and a few appliances out of a nearby drawer and keeps going.
"I'm so excited to work with you, Shinazugawa-san! It's been a while since—"
"You can call me Sanemi," he grunts, frowning around the tickling sensation of the brush over his nose.
"Ah, okay! Sanemi, that's an attractive name. Anyway, it's been forever since I've felt this excited for a shoot. You know, this one's gonna be big, I can feel it. So I'm gonna do my best to make sure you look positively yummy on set. Not that you aren't already yummy. Sound good?" Mitsuri beams at him, yanking a comb through a knot in his hair at the same time Sanemi tries to smile back at her. It ends up looking more like a wince than anything.
"Whoa, you okay? You're not nervous, are you?"
Sanemi wants to tell her no, I'm not nervous, you just tore a piece of my fucking scalp off, but she bulldozes through.
"Oh, don't worry, Uzui-san is a great director! He's goofy sometimes, but he's really good at what he does. Believe me, I've been working with him for years, and somehow I'm still blown away every time I see him in action! I'm sure you'll be fine."
Alright, yeah, maybe Sanemi's a little nervous. He's heard of this Uzui guy before, a freelance producer who tends to affiliate with Hashira more than the rest of the top studios. A former actor himself, he quickly became disillusioned with the porn industry and quit to direct his own movies. Charming, boisterous, and unconventional, he's been described as having a vision, something that's gotten him a handful of the biggest hits and best ratings in the biz. But he's also difficult to please and extremely picky about his actors, so Sanemi supposes he should feel flattered to be here right now.
As Sanemi watches Mitsuri work, another name comes to mind.
"Hey," he says as Mitsuri taps her brush against the edge of his chair. She hums in acknowledgement. "Do you know the guy I'm supposed to be shooting with today? His name's—"
"Giyuu?" Mitsuri doesn't look up from her task, but she smiles to herself, a little dreamy. "Yes, of course! Everyone here knows him. When we go out there, I'll point him out to you."
For now, Mitsuri fills him in on Giyuu's background. Sanemi's never heard of him, but apparently there's lots to say. An up-and-coming star blessed with a pretty body and an even prettier face, he's earned a considerable following in the world of porn. Mitsuri has nothing but good things to say about him—he's focused, perceptive, and likes to keep his distance, but she thinks that aloofness adds an element of allure. He's one of Uzui's favorites, who was quite taken with him from the first time they filmed together as co-stars. Since then, he's been a regular recruit in Uzui's projects.
After that, they fall into a comfortable silence, Mitsuri humming to herself as she works. Sanemi zones out, lost in thought as he digests everything she just told him. He's brought back by the clacking sounds of Mitsuri putting all her tools away and closing the drawer with a thud.
"Ta-da! All done," she declares with a flourish, making jazz hands at Sanemi through the mirror.
Examining his reflection, Sanemi finds he doesn't look half bad. "Thanks, babe."
Mitsuri practically squeals, clasping her hands together in excitement. "Of course! Nothing but the best for you. Now, let's get you out of here and onto set. Come with me!"
From his room, she leads Sanemi down the hall and deeper into the building. Shortly after passing the bathroom, they arrive at their destination—a set of heavy double doors.
"They're running a little behind schedule today," Mitsuri says as she leans against one of the doors, peeking inside and nodding to herself before opening it all the way. "Not by too much, though, so we won't be waiting long. Looks like they're just finishing the last shot."
She eases her way into the room, holding the door open for Sanemi and pressing a finger to her mouth as a reminder to stay quiet.
After seeing his private room, Sanemi figures he shouldn't be surprised by the grandeur of the actual set. Still, it manages to shock him, raising his nerves yet again.
It's an enormous space, big enough to hold several different sets. The one currently in use is lit up by multiple standing lights, surrounded by staff and three different cameras that move in time with the action. The other sets, covered by sheets, are indiscernible shapes in the dark.
But Sanemi notices all of this much, much later. What draws his attention first are the two people in the middle of the floor, one crowding the other against the edge of a pristine counter. The head of black hair tossed back onto a strong shoulder, the red mouth open, gasping. The sound of skin-on-skin, then a moan loud enough to linger, soft enough to beckon.
Vaguely, Sanemi registers Mitsuri leaning up on her toes to whisper, "That's Giyuu," into his ear. But the explanation is unnecessary—one glance and Sanemi knows it's him.
" 'm gonna come," Giyuu whines, put out, eyes fluttering when the man behind him presses his hips harder to the surface. "Oh fuuck, I'm gonna come..."
To the average viewer, it seems real. Genuine, like Giyuu's really falling apart on this guy's dick. But Sanemi, who's had his fair share of experiences on set, knows it's acting. Damn good acting, though—everyone under the roof seems mesmerized, locked on the deep arch of Giyuu's spine, the pretty noises he makes. Even the director, who's leaning forward in his chair, chin propped up on the heel of his hand. Even Mitsuri, holding her breath, fists clenched over her breast.
Even Sanemi.
Fuck, he thinks to himself. Then, out loud, "Fuck."
"Good, isn't he," Mitsuri whispers, captivated.
Sanemi can't reply even if he wants to, because that's the moment Giyuu starts to come. He strokes himself through it, groaning lowly, marking the tense plane of his stomach with wet streaks.
Moments after, his partner pulls out, slow enough for the camera to catch it, and spills over Giyuu's ass. Some of it spurts up to the small of his back, the white of it blurring against his skin.
For several long, long seconds, it's silent. Motionless. Just the pulse of heavy breathing and Sanemi's blood roaring in his ears.
Then Giyuu sighs, eyes blinking open almost lazily. That seems to break the spell.
"Aaand, cut!" the director—Uzui, Sanemi realizes belatedly—chimes in. "That was gorgeous, you two. Tremendous work."
With that, the crew bursts into motion, some breaking from the edge of the circle to start rearranging equipment, others rushing forward to offer towels and robes to the two actors.
"Thank you, Uzui-san!" a thundering voice from Giyuu's partner, a tall, well-built man with flaming hair and eyes that burn even brighter. "It is always a pleasure to film with you! And Tomioka-san, who stole the show, as always." He turns his brilliant smile to Giyuu, currently tying the sash of his robe closed.
So that's his last name. Tomioka. Sanemi knows he's staring, but there's something about Giyuu that draws him in. That's the man he's going to be filming with—fucking—in the next hour, and he's only just found out his last name.
Mitsuri, bless her heart, is the one to break him out of his internal crisis.
"I hope you aren't too bored, Sanemi-san!" she says. "Giyuu's a fast one—he'll be ready for your shoot in a flash. Are you still feeling nervous?"
Sanemi shakes his head. "Nah, I think—"
And stops short. Giyuu's looking in his direction, all solemn blue where his eyes pinpoint Sanemi's. They widen a little, as if in surprise, and Sanemi figures it's probably because he's the only unfamiliar face on set right now. It winds him up, having that stare on him and staring right back, something like a challenge. A spell.
Giyuu breaks it soon enough. He murmurs a word to Uzui, then to his co-star, and disappears off set.
"—nemi? Hello? Are you sure you're alright?"
"Ye—" Voice cracking, Sanemi clears his throat and tries again. "Yeah."
Receiving no reply, Sanemi glances over to find Mitsuri up on her tiptoes, peering over the entire room, her mouth pursued. After a moment, she rocks back on her heels, pouting.
"Ah, I don't think Giyuu's agent is here today. I wanted to see if you could meet her before the shoot started. Maybe next time!"
Next time? Sanemi thought this would be a one time thing, but if Hashira wants him back later on, he wouldn't be opposed to it. The pay is something out of his dreams, the provisions border on luxurious, and the people...
"Oh!" Something—or rather, someone—catches Mitsuri's attention, and she quickly waves over a short, slim man with dark shoulder-length hair. Warily, he moves toward them, the too-long sleeves of his black crew shirt swallowing his hands. Only when he's a few paces away does Sanemi realize his eyes are two different colors.
"Hi, Mitsuri," he says. She blushes, a splotch of bright red on each cheek.
Sanemi looks between the two of them, brows inching upward.
"Hi, Obanai!" Mitsuri greets, snapping out of it. "I hope you're well today. How did the scene go? Those last few minutes looked awesome to me!"
"Eh, okay," the guy says, shrugging. "One of the lights was wonky and a newbie got some of the angles all wrong, but I saved it."
"Aww, you're amazing as always!" Mitsuri gushes. Then she seems to remember Sanemi, standing awkwardly to the side, and gestures to him enthusiastically. "Oh, right! This is Sanemi, our guest star for the day. Sanemi, please meet Iguro Obanai! He does a lot of camera stuff!"
Iguro looks Sanemi up and down, unimpressed. "Right," he says flatly, starting to turn away.
"Obanai! Don't be rude!" Mitsuri scolds. Contrary to her disapproval, her blush only deepens, extending down to her neck.
Surprisingly, Iguro turns to face Sanemi again. "Sorry. Iguro, head of photography. Nice to meet 'cha."
"Uh, hey. I'm Sanemi."
"Yeah, I know, dumbass."
"Obanai!"
"Sorry."
The exchange is so offbeat Sanemi nearly laughs out loud.
"Don't make me get Uzui-san," Mitsuri threatens.
"Oh god, please no." Iguro shudders. "That man has been in a weirdly good mood all day. I don't like it."
"He just likes his job!" Mitsuri insists. "I admire his passion."
Iguro just shrugs. "Look, it was nice meeting you, Salami, but I have important shit to do right now. Like my job. See ya." He strolls away before Mitsuri can reprimand him yet again, hands shoved into his pockets.
...and the people are interesting, to say the least.
Mitsuri faces Sanemi, distressed. "Please don't mind him, Sanemi-san! He isn't usually this mean, I promise..."
"He seems to like you well enough," Sanemi says, offhand, smiling to himself when Mitsuri turns beet red again.
"N-no, that's not—!" she stutters, much to Sanemi's amusement. All of a sudden, she lets out a mortified squeak, jumps behind his back, and pushes him forward with a strength horribly disproportionate to her body size. Sanemi lurches and stumbles right in front of none other than his boss for the day, who blinks down at him quizzically.
"U-Uzui-san!! Hello!" Mitsuri peeks around the makeshift shield she's made out of Sanemi's stiff body. "I've brought your star—Shinazugawa Sanemi! Or just Shina! Which is his stage name! Eek!"
Uzui blinks a few more times before lighting up in recognition.
"Ohh, of course!" He takes a step back to give Sanemi a quick once-over. After Iguro's scrutiny and now Uzui's, Sanemi's starting to feel a lot like he's at a horse show. And he's the horse.
"Nice work on makeup, Kanroji. Very flamboyant."
Mitsuri preens.
"Great to finally meet you, Shinazugawa!" Uzui tucks the papers he's holding under his arm to take Sanemi's hand in a firm shake. "We're glad to have you here today. I take it you've went over the script?"
"Yeah," Sanemi says.
"Good, good. Nothing's changed—we're sticking to what you've gone over. You'll top Giyuu, but he's the one running the show. First is oral, then the two positions during the actual sex, which were outlined in the script. But we'll let you know when and how to move, so don't stress. Since you're both clean, we aren't using condoms. We're looking at about thirty-five minutes of footage—five for the intro, ten for foreplay, twenty for penetration. It's going to be about an hour of filming, give or take. Any problems?"
Sanemi shakes his head. He's having some trouble keeping up, but so far it sounds like business he's done before.
It's a fairly simple scene, really—Sanemi's a confused virgin looking to let loose, and Giyuu's the overconfident brat who pops his cherry. They meet at a gaudy party, where Giyuu can't stop eyeing Sanemi from across the room, and the second Sanemi wanders off Giyuu backs him into an empty room and has his way with him.
"Try to stay in character, but feel free to change things up when you're in the middle of it, alright?" Uzui winks. "We welcome creativity here."
"Got it," Sanemi says, head swimming. Uzui claps him on the shoulder with a laugh.
"You're an easy one to work with, man! Get ready—the second Giyuu's back, we're starting." With that, Uzui's walking away to talk with one of the camera operators.
In the time it takes Giyuu to shower and prep, Mitsuri singles out the other crew members and what they're responsible for, sprinkling in her own dynamic comments along the way. She even goes into stories—drama between two exes working in the same room, walking in on coworkers fucking in one of the dressing rooms, when a table collapsed in the middle of a scene.
"Hair and makeup! Tomioka's ready for you!" someone calls out, interrupting Mitsuri's detailed recollection of her very first day on set.
"That's me!" she chirps, perking up. After double-triple-checking that Sanemi's really okay by himself, she leaves to attend to Giyuu.
On his own, Sanemi watches as the room is transformed: the previous set covered and pushed to the side to make space for another, even larger one. It's set up like a typical college party, with one main room connected to a smaller bedroom where the majority of the film will take place. There are about a dozen extras lingering by the main room, already holding red solo cups and talking amongst themselves.
For the nth time this afternoon, Sanemi wonders what kind of over-the-top porn studio this is.
Shortly after, accompanied by Mitsuri, Giyuu walks into the room wearing a silky red shirt and tight black jeans with rips down the side. Like Sanemi, his makeup is minimal, but with special attention around his eyes and cheekbones, which glitter ever so slightly when he turns his head.
Once Mitsuri departs to chat with Iguro (who receives her without issue, despite his earlier claim of having "important shit to do"), Giyuu starts looking around the room. He locates Sanemi easily and heads straight for him, cutting his appraisal short.
"Hello," is the first thing Giyuu says, extending an arm to offer his hand. Sanemi takes it, pushing himself off the wall he's been slouching against and rattling off something similar. "Shinazugawa, right?"
Giyuu's palm is smooth against his. "Yup."
Seeing him up close, Sanemi finally starts to understand why Giyuu's so popular in porn. Mitsuri wasn't lying—he's pretty, with the dark, swooping eyelashes, the innocent mouth, the clean cut of his jawline. The clothes that he's wearing leave nothing to the imagination, but the exposed parts of his skin are soft and fair. Too easily can Sanemi imagine them mottled with bruises the shape of his fingers.
Sanemi would be lying if he said he wasn't affected by just the sight of him standing there, oozing sex, but the way Giyuu carries himself doesn't line up. He holds his arms crossed in front of himself, as if in insecurity. Like he wants to blend into the wall.
"You nervous?" Sanemi asks, hesitant. He can't quite get a read on Giyuu, which unnerves him more than it should.
"No," Giyuu answers. Sanemi believes him; he's probably done this more than Sanemi can fathom. "Are you?"
"Nope," Sanemi lies. Giyuu nods, recrossing his arms and looking off to the side.
Apparently the guy isn't a talker.
"So," Sanemi begins, and immediately regrets it. What are you supposed to say to someone you're about to fuck in front of over thirty people for thousands to watch online? "Was the last guy any good?"
Definitely not that. Shit.
Giyuu gives him a strange look. "Good at what?"
Apparently he's also a little dense.
"Never mind," Sanemi says, relieved.
A thick silence falls between them. Sanemi stares at one of the props currently being wheeled across the room, pointedly avoiding looking Giyuu in the eye.
Then, "Do you mean the sexual intercourse? If so—"
Sanemi chokes on his spit.
"—it was standard. Nothing special," Giyuu says, completely casual. "It's just work. The same thing everyday. You get it, right?"
"I wasn't—"
"Ah, there you are, Giyuu!" Uzui waves at them from where he's sitting in his director's chair, voice ringing through the air like he's right next to them. "We're ready for you guys."
And their trainwreck of a conversation ends there. Giyuu, unperturbed, joins the extras on set, Sanemi trudging after him.
"Last looks!"
Mitsuri scurries forward to touch up Sanemi's makeup, tweaking a piece of his hair and nodding firmly to herself. She wishes him luck, moves onto Giyuu, then follows the last crew members off the set. The main lights flick off, replaced by flashing neon ones that shine bright in the darkness.
"Quiet on the set!"
All movement and chatter grinds to a halt. Giyuu slinks away to take his position.
Sanemi breathes in deep, wiping his mind blank.
"Action!"
The room fills with artificial sound, the extras mingling smoothly and talking nonsense as nearby speakers thump out a generic playlist of mainstream pop. Following script, Sanemi bumps into someone next to him, an apology quick on his lips.
"Hey man, loosen up! Have a drink," the guy shouts over the music, passing a cup to Sanemi.
"Ah—I don't," Sanemi starts, but he's already weaving away without a backwards glance, leaving Sanemi standing there with the cup dangled between his fingers. He puts his mouth to the rim and takes a tentative sip. It's water, cool on his tongue, but he blanches like it's his first drink.
Then he looks up, towards the back of the room. Right on cue, Giyuu's staring directly at him, face illuminated by one of the intermittent lights to reveal his bottom lip caught between his teeth. There's an intensity in his gaze that surprises Sanemi, a complete foil to his former indifference.
This isn't a normal porn set, after all. It's Uzui Tengen's floor, where the bare minimum is knowing how to act and how to act well. Giyuu certainly fits that criteria, and Sanemi's going to do his damndest to measure up.
Gradually, Sanemi strays away from the crowd, doing his best to make it look as natural as possible. Inches closer and closer to the unassuming door leading to the faux bedroom, anticipation rising in his throat.
Out of nowhere, a hand shoots forward to snag Sanemi by the collar of his shirt. He yelps, tripping over his feet as Giyuu pulls him through the door and into the next room. The cameras follow them in; Sanemi can sense one hovering just above Giyuu's shoulder, another to his right.
The door slams shut, Sanemi slams up against it with a force that punches the air from his lungs, and Giyuu slams their lips together to breathe it in.
The music instantly dials down, then fades away completely. Giyuu's all over him, cold hands pushing his shirt up. It takes a beat for Sanemi to catch up, but when he does, he welcomes the stifling pressure of Giyuu's body on his and the hot tongue prying at the seam of his lips.
Sanemi's allowed to breathe only when his shirt is yanked clean off his body and flung haphazardly to the floor. His hair flops over his forehead, mussed.
"I'll make you feel good," Giyuu says, almost a purr. "Let me."
Sanemi stutters, acting panicked as Giyuu slides down to his knees. He reaches for Sanemi's belt, starts to slip it free from the buckle.
"Pause!" Ever the professional, Giyuu immediately stops, pulling his hands away and sitting back on his haunches. "D'you need a few to get hard, Shinazugawa?"
Sanemi licks his lips, evaluating. He looks down, at Giyuu's big eyes, his small mouth swollen red from their kisses. Giyuu blinks back at him without a word.
"No," Sanemi decides. Even if it lacks any sort of emotion, having that pretty face only inches from his crotch is doing wonders for his libido.
"Oho, you hear that, everyone? I like this guy." Uzui chortles. "Okay, okay, let's keep it rolling. Action!"
This time, when Giyuu sits up and tugs Sanemi's pants open with nimble fingers, there's no interruption. True to his word, his cock is hard and heavy where Giyuu pulls it out from under the waistband of his briefs.
"Fuck, you're big," Giyuu breathes. Usually, when that inevitable line comes up on set, Sanemi gets the unbearable urge to cringe. When Giyuu says it, though, it goes straight to his dick.
"Yeah," Sanemi says, voice scratchy. Giyuu's eyes flash up to his, glinting in the dark, then back down so fast Sanemi thinks it might've been a trick of the light.
He teases at first, lapping sweetly at the tip of Sanemi's cock. Mindful of the mic, Sanemi groans out loud and nudges his hips closer to Giyuu's mouth.
Giyuu tsks, licking away the precome smeared over his lower lip. Sanemi, caught on the glossy sheen left behind, is horribly unprepared for the moment Giyuu bobs his mouth down the full length of his dick, nose bumping into the plane of his stomach. Sanemi almost chokes, nails biting into the palms of his hands. Out of all the things he expected from his co-star, deep-throating his cock all in one go was not one of them.
"Fuck," Sanemi spits out, damn near convulsing when Giyuu swallows around him. Every time he pulls off, he tilts his chin back to look Sanemi in the eye with the blunt head of his dick lying on his tongue. Then he sinks down again, all the way, before Sanemi can even catch his breath. The filthy sound of it, more than the feeling, is what has Sanemi's head cracking to the wall.
Oh my god, is the only thing in his mind. Oh my fucking god.
Giyuu seems to be, as those in the industry like to say, a natural cocksucker. The way he takes cock down his throat is smoother than anything Sanemi's ever seen. It's fucking impressive, even for this line of work.
As if sensing his distress, Giyuu lets up a little, relaxing the suction of his mouth.
"We're good on oral, Giyuu," Uzui says, shattering the illusion of the blowjob. "Now take 'im to bed."
Releasing Sanemi's dick with a wet pop, Giyuu stands up and grabs him by the arm. Sanemi barely has the chance to miss the scorching tightness of Giyuu's throat before he's being hauled onto the bed and between Giyuu's legs. With a hand on his nape, Giyuu drags him into a messy kiss, all teeth and tongue, fingers sliding up the back of his neck to twine into his hair. Refusing to lose, Sanemi kisses him back with just as much bite, pulling away only to help Giyuu peel his tight, tight jeans away from his long, long legs.
"You, too." Giyuu shoves at the top of Sanemi's pants with a convincing urgency, and Sanemi listens, kicking them off his feet within the second. When he leans back in for Giyuu's lips, he's halted by a palm on his chest.
(Here, they cut to give Sanemi time to lube up his cock. After a couple minutes, they get back into position, adjust lighting, and resume the scene.)
"Hurry and fuck me," Giyuu orders, the brat. Sanemi's distracted by the obscene color of his lips, bruised from Sanemi's mouth and his cock. "You want to, don't you?"
"Y-yeah," Sanemi stammers out. Giyuu smirks, draws him in closer with the arms he's got looped around Sanemi's shoulders. As much as Sanemi wants to wipe that smug look off his face and wreck him to pieces—hell, he wants to make Giyuu fucking cry—he holds back.
Adding realism, Sanemi fumbles a bit lining his cock to Giyuu's hole. When he presses forward, it opens up to him so beautifully that Sanemi can't help but moan at the sight. He's hyperaware of the camera creeping uncomfortably close, zooming in on the place where he sinks inch by inch into the hot clutch of Giyuu's body.
"Mm, that's good," Giyuu sighs, head falling back. Sanemi watches him carefully as he bottoms out, hipbones flush to Giyuu's ass.
He fucks him slow, a touch unsure, resisting the pull to go faster. Sure enough, roughly a minute later—"Harder, c'mon."
Only then does Sanemi quicken the pace of his thrusts, slinging one of Giyuu's legs over his shoulder and pushing the other out to the side. Part of it is to give the camera a better angle to work with. Part of it is because he wants to see just how flexible Giyuu really is. As Sanemi bends him wider, wider, he's thrilled to discover he can press Giyuu's thigh down far enough to touch his knee to his shoulder. At the stretch, Giyuu arches underneath him, making a show out of it.
And that's all this is, isn't it? Just a show. The two of them are here to put on a show. Nothing more, nothing less.
Fuck that, Sanemi thinks. He'll let Giyuu perform all he wants, but swears to hell and back he's going to crack through that stone exterior.
But for now, he keeps the pace mild and his impatience at bay. With every push and pull of his cock in and out of Giyuu's body, Giyuu does something with his face or body to sell the fantasy. Sanemi has to hand it to him—he looks like a wet dream, writhing around on the sheets and moaning out like that. Even if most of it is fake.
And despite his best attempt to ignore it, Sanemi can't help but notice Giyuu glancing over his shoulder, where Sanemi bets one of the cameras is hovering to capture all of Giyuu's facial expressions.
Sanemi scowls to himself, annoyed. He knows it's good—they must make quite the picture, fucking in this dim, ambient light, Giyuu's pants dangling off one ankle, shirt rucked up to his nipples, spread out like a goddamn meal, but—
(Giyuu's eyes flicker to the side again. A second later, he arcs his neck, gaze going a little smokey.)
—it doesn't sit right with him.
Before Sanemi can do anything about it, though, Uzui cuts in.
"We've got enough on this position, boys," he says. Sanemi grunts, slowing down. Besides a tiny break in his breathing, Giyuu doesn't react. "You two can move on."
"Still rolling," someone in the crew replies, though Sanemi's beyond his ability to pay attention.
Giyuu doesn't waste any time. He shifts his legs higher around Sanemi's middle, knees locked tight, and Sanemi lets him flip them easily, landing on his back with a quiet oof.
"What're you doing?" he asks, faking ignorance.
Giyuu slides the rest of his clothes off his body and tosses them off the bed without looking. Sanemi's hands fall to his bare hips, keeping him steady on top.
"What does it look like? I'm going to ride you." Giyuu stares down at him, the ice of his eyes searing into Sanemi's. "Think you can take it?"
"But—" Sanemi swallows his own words when Giyuu tilts forward, reaching behind him to wrap thin fingers around Sanemi's cock. He jerks it in the loose circle of his fist a few times before pressing the very tip back into his body. When Sanemi's hips twitch up, trying to fuck the rest of it inside, Giyuu's quick to pin them to the mattress. He takes Sanemi's dick torturously slow, sinking down on it with a self-satisfied sound.
Then he starts to move, building a fast, even pace that has Sanemi's head lolling back, face pinching in pleasure. It's a struggle to keep his eyes from shuttering completely, but he manages, if only to continue watching Giyuu bounce on his lap like he was born for it. With every twist of his hips, his cock bobs in the air to rub against his abdomen, a filthy dance that pools hot arousal in the pit of Sanemi's stomach. He doesn't even have to fake any noise as Giyuu fucks himself on his cock, moaning low and dark in between Giyuu's own soft gasps.
"Oh—nnh, so deep," Giyuu murmurs, a sluttiness to his voice that makes Sanemi's cock twitch, eyes all but hidden under the dark shadow of his lashes. "Ha-ah, yeah, fu-uh-ck me..."
But even an expert like Giyuu can't maintain that kind of strain forever. Sanemi waits for him to falter—just the slightest bump in his rhythm—and when he does, he splays his hands over both of Giyuu's hips and drags him down hard, hitting deeper than Giyuu could on his own.
This time, his moan is different from the rest. Not by much—the same sound with a darker, breathier undertone. No sooner does it leave his mouth than Giyuu cuts it off, jaw snapping shut audibly.
Something Sanemi can't quite decipher flits over his face, but it's still a chip in the perfect facade he's created. Because even though Giyuu's the real deal, Sanemi has plenty of experience himself, and like hell is he going to let Giyuu hog the spotlight. They're going to make the viewers horny out of their minds together and they're going to do it Sanemi's way.
He's never felt like this about any of his co-stars before. An all-consuming, burning need to make them lose control. It's risky. Addicting. Sanemi can't get enough.
Against his better judgement, Sanemi chases that feeling, easing into control as he guides the roll of Giyuu's hips. Giyuu must be too worn out to protest, because he stays there, suspended above Sanemi's lap, letting Sanemi fuck into him from below. Seems to like it, too, if the way his mouth goes slack and his cock leaks over Sanemi's stomach is any indication. Seizing on the chance, Sanemi changes the angle just to see Giyuu squirm, teeth drawing blood where he bites at his lip. The shift is enough to rub the head of his dick along Giyuu's prostate with every thrust, a sensation that becomes too much, too fast.
Giyuu makes a strangled noise, eyes flying open. His hand flies down, desperate, careless, all to squeeze his fingers around the base of his cock deathly tight.
Uzui startles. "Wh—Hold on, cut!"
It's difficult, but Sanemi slows the pace until he comes to a full stop, fingers still dug tight into Giyuu's hips. Giyuu exhales, shaky, pupils blown.
"Giyuu? What was that?"
"Nothing," Giyuu manages. His thighs are trembling by Sanemi's waist. "Sorry, I—almost came. It was too early, so I had to stop it."
"Too early, huh?" Sanemi quips, smirking when Giyuu peeks at him from behind the hand hiding his face. "Thought you were a pro."
Giyuu huffs, but stays silent.
"Oh—okay. Well. Let us know when you're ready to start again," Uzui says, sounding a little bewildered.
Nodding, Giyuu lets both hands drop to his sides, eyes closed. He takes a deep breath, holds it in, then lets it out. Does it again. And again. Until Sanemi starts to fidget from the pressure of his cock sitting hard and unmoving inside Giyuu's ass.
That's when his eyes finally open—back to that clear, clear blue. Sanemi makes a face, ticked off. Something about the level of clarity Giyuu maintains at all times makes Sanemi want to fuck it all up.
"Okay. I'm ready," Giyuu says, bracing himself on Sanemi's chest.
"Yeah? Awesome. Roll cameras, and... Action!"
Giyuu sucks in a breath, one that wobbles in his chest as he lifts himself up, up. Sanemi watches him go, something hungry twisting in his gut at the sight of Giyuu just barely holding onto his composure.
Sanemi lets Giyuu ride him like that—a slow, maddening crawl upward, a heavy drop down, over and over. At least until he starts making small whimpering noises, brows creasing, the shadow of a pout on his lips. On the next downstroke, Sanemi rocks up to meet him halfway, the clap of their skin sharp in his ears. Giyuu's mouth falls open, a moan punching out of him like a gunshot. He looks almost pained.
Sanemi revels in it.
"Does it feel good, Giyuu?" Sanemi says, a little crazed. He sits up, sliding his hands up to Giyuu's waist and squeezing to feel him shiver. "Does it—"
"Ohh, yes—feels good," Giyuu gasps out, nearly whining. He's pushing his hands into his hair, playing every part the whore he's supposed to be. "So—uh, fuck—so good."
Sanemi wants him to drop the act. The exaggerated reactions, the armor of his character, the stubborn focus in his eyes—all of it. He wants to peel the mask away, shake off the cameras, and make Giyuu moan his fucking name. Sanemi, Sanemi, Sanemi—again and again until it's the only thing he knows.
Sanemi doesn't care how selfish it is, how unprofessional, and he has the dangerous thought of taking Giyuu home, to a place he can strip the layers of him away and watch those eyes bleed into fog.
He crushes the thought before it spreads. Before it gets too tempting. It doesn't matter how much he wants to abandon this shitty roleplay and fuck Giyuu for real—that's a line he can't cross in this industry. One that a professional like Giyuu would never touch with a ten foot pole.
So, instead of taking Giyuu home, Sanemi does the next best thing—rolling them over. Giyuu stares up at him from the pillow, dark hair fanned out behind him, shock lifting the corners of his mask.
This isn't part of the script, Sanemi reads in the slackness of his mouth. He doesn't care.
"Turn over," he says, a roughness to his voice that betrays his state of mind. Leans up to pin Giyuu with a hard look, expectant.
Giyuu's eyes widen. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, then moves onto his stomach, propping his knees under him.
"Good fucking boy," Sanemi groans, pressing Giyuu's shoulders flat to the bed. Then he bends forward, chest aligned to Giyuu's back, soaking in the warmth of it.
"Earlier, you asked me if I could take it," Sanemi says, barely loud enough for the boom to pick up, "but can you?"
Behind them, Sanemi hears Uzui gasp. There's no call to cut, though, so Sanemi takes it as a sign that he likes where this is going.
Giyuu opens his mouth, "I—"
Sanemi doesn't let him say another word. He pounds forward, all at once, keeping Giyuu from slamming into the headboard with the two hands he has locked around his hips. Giyuu muffles a shout into the pillow, seizing up so tight around Sanemi's cock it's almost too much. He drops his forehead to the back of Giyuu's neck, breath tangled up in his lungs.
"Fuck, relax," Sanemi pants, blinking away the stars in his vision. It's hard to breathe, but he doesn't let up. Won't. "Lemme take care of you."
"Uhh, please," Giyuu whines. Then, quieter, for only Sanemi's ears: "Please."
Satisfied, Sanemi draws back, grinning to himself the whole way. It's a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Sanemi's going to ride the high of it for as long as he can.
So he fucks Giyuu, hard, and ruins him like he's wanted to since Giyuu said hello and shook his hand with that cool, timid voice. Throws the last of his strength into it, flattening Giyuu to the mattress save for his hips, held up in Sanemi's bruising grip.
He's coming apart at the seams, lurching with each of Sanemi's long, raw thrusts. The lube's all but gone at this point, adding a friction that grates at the pleasure, but Sanemi would rather die than stop now. Giyuu seems to be of the same sentiment, biting into the back of his wrist, gasping wetly against the skin.
It makes Sanemi feel a little awed. He did that. Reduced Giyuu to this, a pile of messy incoherence in front of all the people he works with every day.
"Ah, ah—I, nnh, fuck—"
Sanemi eases into a dirty grind, lowering his head to place his mouth over Giyuu's ear. The touch of his tongue has Giyuu flinching, body curving up to push himself harder into Sanemi's hips. Like he's ashamed to want it, yet a slave to the desire for more.
"Fucking slut," Sanemi snarls, really laying it on for this last stretch. "So greedy for dick you can't even think, huh?"
Against the bed, Giyuu shifts his head just enough to look up at Sanemi with a singular eye. It's hazy, unseeing, sparkling with unshed tears. It takes all of Sanemi's willpower not to come at the sight of that face, debauched and begging.
"I'm close," Giyuu whispers, voice all but gone. The pure desperation of it, trembling at the tailend, is what makes Sanemi think it's a warning just for him. Not the overdone dirty talk for the camera—for him.
"You're close?" Sanemi mocks, drunk on the way Giyuu's eyes blur. "You're gonna fuckin' come for me, Giyuu?"
That pulls a whine from him, one that breaks off halfway when Sanemi knots a handful of black hair into his fist and pulls. Giyuu's head knocks up, mouth gaping helplessly as Sanemi forces him upright, away from the bed. Back to chest, so he can taste the rising blush on Giyuu's neck.
"I—oh fuck, I can't—oh, oh, yes, right there, god don't fucking stop—"
Listening to Giyuu babble, Sanemi realizes, feverishly, that without the cameras, the mics, and the script, Giyuu's a noisy fuck. No—a quiet, noisy fuck. He makes continuous noise when he feels good, but it's never too loud. It's maddening to Sanemi, who can hear every hitched breath, every soft whine.
It's hot. Fucking hot as shit. It's almost unfair, how hot Giyuu sounds when he's getting fucked. Sanemi's so riled up that he hardly notices the camera circling in front of them, positioned for the moment Giyuu comes.
Giyuu doesn't notice it at all.
Though Sanemi can't blame him. The fucking's gotten brutal, now that Sanemi knows Giyuu's pushing the edge. There's sweat dripping down his forehead and an ache in his arms from holding this position. He's close, too, only suppressing his orgasm through sheer determination and a vicious need to make Giyuu come first.
When it happens, Giyuu's muscles lock up, so tight it looks like it hurts. All the noise swelling from his throat cuts off, so abrupt it throws Sanemi off. In the stillness, he mouths Sanemi's name—his real one. So clear Sanemi can almost hear it, beating through Giyuu's blood and into his own.
Then he comes, untouched, spilling all over himself and the sheets below. He shudders with the force of it, held fast against Sanemi's chest, lips parting uselessly, without sound.
From their right, "Holy shit."
Less than a minute later, Sanemi follows Giyuu right over the edge, pressing deep and coming inside him with a guttural moan that shakes him down to his toes. Giyuu whimpers, oversensitive, hips shying away. Sanemi just yanks him back on his cock, keeping him pinned as he rides it out.
But as always, he's given little time to enjoy the afterglow. Has to wrench himself out of the mush of his brain to unstick his skin from Giyuu's, sliding a hand over his ass to spread him apart as he pulls out. Watches the camera pan down to where he's holding Giyuu open, clenching around him like he doesn't want to let go.
Once the head pops free, Giyuu lets out a small, hiccuping moan, struggling to stay upright until the call to cut. Sanemi almost whistles at the frame of his own come leaking from Giyuu's hole, dripping slowly down his skin. Instead, he focuses on controlling his own breathing to the point where he doesn't sound like he's fighting for his life. The seconds tick by, slow and ageless.
"...Cut," Uzui finally says, stupefied. Giyuu immediately falls to all fours, gasping.
When Sanemi looks up the crew for the first time since they began filming, he finds them frozen in a stunned silence. Among the throng, Mitsuri is absent, but Iguro's staring at the main monitor with wide eyes.
Uzui, of course, is the first to move. He springs out of his seat, starting a round of applause that the staff picks up hastily.
Sanemi laughs a little, half in disbelief and half in wonder, taking the robe an attendant passes off to him. Next to him, Giyuu scoots to the edge of the bed, clutching his own robe around him like a shield. The strange shadows caused by the bustling staff hide his expression.
"I loved what you did at the end there, Shinazugawa," Uzui raves. "Flipping the tables on him? A flamboyant move, if I do say so myself."
"Nah," Sanemi says, sheepish. "You said to get creative, so." Though creativity was the last thing on his mind, but Uzui doesn't need to know that. Giyuu, on the other hand...
"That I did." Uzui turns to Giyuu then, practically radiating satisfaction. "Giyuu, I thought you told me you couldn't orgasm without direct stimulation," he says, more teasing than accusatory.
Giyuu flushes, body angled away from Sanemi. "I can't."
"Well, you just did," Uzui exclaims, grinning wide enough to split his cheeks, "and it was fucking incredible! Keep it up, and you might even outgrow this little studio."
Little? Sanemi balks, recalling his private dressing room and this monstrous set.
Giyuu just mutters a negative, shrinking further into himself by the second.
"Anyway, brilliant job, both of you. I expected great things, but wow. We'll probably have this uploaded to the site in a couple weeks, so keep that in mind. Other than that, you're free to go." Uzui pauses briefly to signal someone behind them. Then he adds, good-naturedly, "Especially Giyuu—go rest up. I'll bet you're starting to feel it now, with two scenes in a row."
Sanemi snorts, but Giyuu remains unnervingly still. Uzui doesn't seem bothered; having covered all his bases, he leaves them on their own to wrap up the day's production.
Right then, the overhead lights flicker back on, dispelling the shadows covering Giyuu's face. The result is underwhelming—he looks vaguely alarmed, paler than Sanemi remembers him.
"Hey," Sanemi starts, hating how awkward he sounds. Like their first interaction, he doesn't know what to say next. Fuck, he had his dick up Giyuu's ass less than ten minutes ago.
Before Sanemi can come up with anything, Giyuu blurts, "It was nice filming with you, Shina." He stands up too fast, knees wobbling slightly. "You are—very talented."
Something bitter rises in the back of Sanemi's throat. Not even his last name, but Shina.
"I'm sure the final product will turn out great. Enjoy the rest of your day." Without a parting glance, Giyuu walks away, leaving Sanemi by himself on the bed where they fucked.
That's when reality hits him. With the exhilaration of the shoot wearing off, Sanemi realizes just how stupid he's been.
He's just work, in the end. Likewise, Giyuu should just be work to him.
The thing is, though—Sanemi doesn't think he is. Not anymore. Not after what they did, after Sanemi found out he was the first to make Giyuu come untouched in front of the camera, after he took him apart and almost lost himself in the process. It has to mean something, doesn't it?
Doesn't it?
(Sanemi spends too much time in the shower, letting the hot water beat on him until it runs cold. Later, in the lobby, Kanata tells him Giyuu's long gone. Rushed out in record time, apparently, so Sanemi leaves without seeing him again.
To himself, he echoes Giyuu's words: It's just work, it's just work, until he starts to feel numb.
It doesn't work.
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