Giyuu wakes to the sun slanting over his eyes and the hollow sound of regret beating in his chest.
He thinks he might have been dreaming. About what, he isn't sure. All he can remember are green fields wider than paradise and an ocean lake and a heat great enough to burn.
His muscles twinge when he sits up, a dull ache below the skin. Absently, Giyuu rubs it away, concentrated at his hips and lower back, and glances at the clock. Even after close to ten hours of sleep, he's still tired. Which, Giyuu reasons, is to be expected.
After the shoot yesterday, Shinobu took them to a nearby diner to "celebrate," as she put it. For the most part, she let Giyuu eat in silence, watching him inhale his food with thinly veiled disgust.
Upon satiating most of his hunger, Giyuu had mumbled, "Did it meet your expectations?"
Shinobu made a face at him, told him not to talk with his mouth full, and sighed, "Yes."
She proceeded to say that it was better than her expectations, in fact, leading her to wonder just what Uzui traded off to the devil for such an uncanny matchup. That she was sure the whole production would run into a wall, unguided and confused, only for it to bloom into one of the best she's ever seen.
And Shinobu wasn't alone in her surprise. Apparently, as Sanemi fucked the brains out of his head, the crew did more watching than working. Mitsuri was in a constant state of shock, close to fainting at one point, eyes saucer-wide. Iguro, who was on the main camera, found himself covered in a heavy layer of sweat. When confronted, he blamed the combination of the sun and his black clothing, too defensive to be convincing. Frozen in his seat, Uzui barely did any directing and talked so little Shinobu grew worried for him. Somewhere towards the end, she swore he stopped breathing.
So, it was a success. More than a success, which was why, after the cameras stopped rolling, Shinobu swallowed her pride and apologized for ever doubting Uzui and his directions. Or lack thereof. Uzui had just laughed, insisting that the true outcome of a scene depends less on his involvement and more on the actors on set. Which is why he's so choosy with who he signs and who they're paired up with. When there's a spark between two stars, it means half the work for double the profit, a foolproof equation that Uzui lives by.
And in Uzui's own words, the moment he put Sanemi and Giyuu together, he "struck gold." Literally. If this film turns out to be just as popular (or even more so) than their first one, the payoff will be incredible.
"Please don't ruin it," Shinobu had said, imploring. "All of us want to keep making easy money."
And Giyuu, so sure of himself, had replied, "I won't."
Now, sitting in his bed and thinking a little farther back, Giyuu can feel the panic start to creep in, lapping away the remnants of sleep.
Success or not, he gave Sanemi his number.
At the time, it seemed like a good idea. The illusion of the day and the intensity of the sex very obviously messed with Giyuu's judgement, skewing it beyond reason. All those hours he spent with Sanemi—talking, fighting, fucking—softened his boundaries and made them pliable as clay, warped easily under Sanemi's influence. During that unscripted scene, it was fine. Necessary, even. Afterwards, however, Giyuu forgot to backtrack, leaving the front door wide open for Sanemi to stroll right into.
Yes, Giyuu's given his number out to his film partners before. But none of them have ever made him come untouched or twice in a row without stopping. None of them told him to let go and saw him at his most vulnerable. And none of them know as much about him as Sanemi does now.
Besides, Giyuu exchanges contact information not to maintain a relationship, but a connection. Two wildly different things that merged into one when Giyuu forgot himself in the timbre of Sanemi's voice as he suggested they "keep up."
So what if they get along? They just have a bit of chemistry, is all.
He should've been more careful. Thought it through. He should've—
On the nightstand, his phone lights up.
Shinobu [1 message]
And right below it:
sanemi [2 messages]
If anyone asked, Giyuu would say he reaches for his phone calmly, not fast enough to knock his alarm clock to the floor. It skids under his bed, leaving Giyuu grappling around the floor blindly until he finds it, pushes himself up, and drops it onto the nightstand.
Back to his phone, Giyuu opens Sanemi's messages first, heart in his throat.
sanemi [7:22 am]: hey. this is sanemi
sanemi [7:26 am]: thanks for a good shoot yesterday. i had fun. looking forward to the final product
It's so simple. Almost business-like, disregarding the texting style. Yet by the time he reaches the last word, Giyuu can feel the rapid thud of his pulse behind his ears.
He reads it again. And again. Before he knows it, he's tapping out a reply.
You [10:04 am]: Good morning, Sanemi. Thank you. I had fun as well.
Glancing over the conversation once more, lip caught between his teeth, Giyuu swipes out of it to check Shinobu's message. It's short and diplomatic, wishing Giyuu a nice day off and reminding him to take care of himself.
Just as he starts typing, he gets a notification. From Sanemi.
sanemi [10:07 am]: hey. gm
Quickly, Giyuu finishes his text, sends it, and clicks on the notification before it retreats from the top of his screen.
You [10:09 am]: Hello. Aren't you in class right now?
sanemi [10:10 am]: nah just got out
sanemi [10:10 am]: wbu what are u doing
You [10:12 am]: Nothing... I just woke up.
sanemi [10:13 am]: yeah? late night?
You [10:14 am]: No. Just... worn out.
sanemi [10:15 am]: oh lol
sanemi [10:15 am]: OH
You [10:17 am]: Yeah. Lol.
sanemi [10:18 am]: u making fun of me?
You [10:18 am]: No... :)
sanemi [10:19 am]: smartass
sanemi [10:19 am]: sorry btw
You [10:21 am]: What for?
sanemi [10:22 am]: wearing u out
Here, Giyuu has to look away from his phone, clutching it harder between his palms.
What the fuck is he doing? Rebuking himself for handing out his number so carelessly, sulking about it the morning after, then flustering over the resulting exchange like a middle school girl with her crush. All within a few minutes.
Giyuu knows it's outrageous and hypocritical of him on several levels, but he responds anyway.
You [10:26 am]: It's okay. I'm used to it.
He isn't lying, at least not completely. It's normal for him to feel tired the morning after a scene, especially those that are more hardcore. (And yesterday's definitely qualities as hardcore.) The amount of exertion required for a typical porno, even one on the vanilla side, is significantly more than what real sex entails. Taking into account cuts and retakes, on an average day Giyuu is expected to spend up to two hours on set, stay hard for most of that time, and rotate through multiple strenuous positions.
Though, if he gets lucky, no retakes are needed, and he can get out in less than an hour. Case in point: Sanemi. Giyuu assumes he should be grateful for a partner who can not only make his job easier, but also enjoyable.
But that's beside the point.
So, yes, Giyuu's used to it. Being worn out. What he isn't used to is the texting right after, the lightness in his chest. The realization that it doesn't bother him nearly as much as he thought it would.
sanemi [10:29 am]: sure u are
sanemi [10:30 am]: ok i gtg
sanemi [10:30 am]: ttyl
Giyuu bites at the inside of his cheek, thinking. With that lightness in his chest lifting him up, up, up, it isn't difficult to make a decision.
You [10:33 am]: Talk to you later
sanemi [1:48 pm]: u can abbreviate u know. like i did
You [2:12 pm]: Yeah I know. Don't feel like it
sanemi [2:20 pm]: maybe i should've given u my email address instead. would've been more appropriate
You [2:23 pm]: Maybe... What is it?
sanemi [2:25 pm]: i was fucking joking
You [2:26 pm]: We can do messenger pigeon?
sanemi [2:27 pm]: no
sanemi [2:27 pm]: shut up
You [2:28 pm]: Okay
sanemi [2:35 pm]: that was also a joke dipshit
You [2:37 pm]: I know
You [2:38 pm]: I was joking too
sanemi [2:40 pm]: ur lucky ur pretty
Giyuu wonders how, even miles away, Sanemi can still make him blush.
From then on, they text almost daily.
Sanemi is usually the one initiating their conversations, but that's just because Giyuu has never been good at it himself. Sanemi doesn't seem to mind, anyway. He sends Giyuu photos of random things in his life—a stray dog that hangs around the entrance to his apartment complex, a snapshot of the sunrise from his window, a lopsided bridge he built out of toothpicks and glue at five in the morning. He asks Giyuu harmless questions about himself and Giyuu does his best to answer them and come up with some of his own.
(Sanemi asks him what his favorite food is. Giyuu thinks about it, then says salmon daikon. He asks for Sanemi's. Turns out it's ohagi.)
Giyuu learns a lot about him. For example, he's partially color blind, the oldest of seven (seven!), and often has trouble sleeping at night. Once, he texted Giyuu at three a.m., seemed to realize how late it was, and told him to forget about it. When Giyuu replied well into the morning, asking about his first message, Sanemi said he had no recollection of sending it.
Sometimes Giyuu catches himself looking forward to Sanemi's texts. Sometimes they brighten the colors of his day and tug the edges of his smile a little wider, so.
So he reads them, and replies to them, and every day they inch closer and closer to the lockbox of his heart.
sanemi [7:09 pm]: hey
You [7:22 pm]: Yes?
sanemi [7:26 pm]: can i ask u a question
sanemi [7:26 pm]: about porn
You [7:29 pm]: Yes
sanemi [7:31 pm]: have u ever done a scene with moon prod.
You [7:32 pm]: Yes
sanemi [7:33 pm]: say yes again and see what happens
You [7:34 pm]: What else am I supposed to say
sanemi [7:35 pm]: don't change the subject
You [7:35 pm]: I didn't, you changed it first
sanemi [7:37 pm]: ok, well, they reached out to me and i wanted to ask ur opinion
sanemi [7:38 am]: should i do it? the money is ok, and it's just oral
You [7:41 pm]: Sure. They won't scam you or anything
sanemi [7:42 pm]: alright
sanemi [7:58 pm]: do u know this nakime chick
You [8:02 pm]: I've never worked with her
You [8:02 pm]: But I heard she's moody
sanemi [8:04 pm]: oh that's fucking great
You [8:04 pm]: Sorry
sanemi [8:06 pm]: whatever i already said i'd do it
You [8:09 pm]: I'm sure it will be fine
sanemi [8:10 pm]: easy for u to say
You [8:11 pm]: Well...
sanemi [8:11 pm]: what
You [8:12 pm]: Nothing
sanemi [8:13 pm]: spit it out
You [8:17 pm]: Just... I've done a lot. And this scene of yours doesn't sound bad. Trust me, I can tell. So I'm sure you'll be fine.
sanemi [8:19 pm]: ok
sanemi [8:22 pm]: thanks, i appreciate it
You [8:24 pm]: Anytime. And let me know how it goes
sanemi [8:27 pm]: ofc
sanemi [1:53 am]: can we talk abt the setting of that last scene
You [1:54 am]: What do you mean?
sanemi [1:55 am]: holy shit ur still awake
sanemi [1:56 am]: i was just thinking about the premise of it. like the monster slaying shit
You [1:57 am]: Oh. You mean demon slaying?
sanemi [1:57 am]: yeah
sanemi [1:57 am]: what's up with that
sanemi [1:58 am]: so u just fight by breathing really hard? sounds liek bs to me
You [2:00 am]: Idk... it kind of makes sense
sanemi [2:01 am]: no it doesn't. also ur abbreviating
You [2:02 am]: OK LOL
sanemi [2:02 am]: stop
You [2:04 am]: Well hypothetically if you breathe really hard, there would be more oxygen in your blood, so...
sanemi [2:05 am]: i guess
sanemi [2:06 am]: thank fucking god we don't actually live in that universe huh
You [2:08 am]: Yeah. I don't think I would survive very long
sanemi [2:10 am]: according to uzui u were doing pretty good
You [2:11 am]: I guess
sanemi [2:12 am]: and why were our personalities so accurate
You [2:13 am]: I was thinking about that too...
sanemi [2:13 am]: when??
You [2:15 am]: Ummm
sanemi [2:16 am]: lol
sanemi [2:17 am]: ur jacket was an eyesore. i'm still not over it
You [2:18 am]: *Haori
sanemi [2:19 am]: stfu abt the haiti i don't fucking care
sanemi [2:19 am]: *haori don't correct me again istg
You [2:20 am]: Nice save
You [2:22 am]: It doesn't matter anyway, it's not like I wore it for long
sanemi [2:25 am]: well if i was watching that vid i wouldn't even be able to jerk off bc that shit would kill my boner so fast
You [2:26 am]: You're so mean 😢
You [2:27 am]: It's not even that bad
sanemi [2:30 am]: alright keep deluding urself
You [2:33 am]: At least I didn't have 'kill' on the back of mine, that's too much
sanemi [2:33 am]: HEY
You [2:34 am]: So violent...
sanemi [2:35 am]: maybe i was just a violent person. u don't know my story
You [2:37 am]: 'Was'? Okay
sanemi [2:38 am]: u know what
sanemi [2:38 am]: im not arguing with u
sanemi [2:40 am]: i need to fucking sleep
You [2:43 am]: :)
You [2:44 am]: Good night
sanemi [2:47 am]: night asshole
sanemi [11:12 pm]: at a party rn and they have the same cups we had
sanemi sent a Photo
You [11:17 pm]: Are they the same? I can't tell.
sanemi [11:21 pm]: for fucks sale
sanemi [11:21 pm]: *same
sanemi [11:21 pm]: *same
sanemi [11:21 pm]: FUCJ
You [11:21 pm]: Take your time
sanemi [11:22 pm]: *sake
sanemi [11:22 pm]: fuck u
You [11:23 pm]: You already did...
sanemi [11:25 pm]: hahaha
sanemi [11:26 pm]: sassy mfer
You [11:28 pm]: So rude
You [11:29 pm]: Are you drunk?
sanemi [11:32 pm]: no
sanemi [11:33 pm]: a little
sanemi [11:33 pm]: this much 👌
In the dark of his apartment, the light from his phone screen shines dim over Giyuu's face. Over his smile, soft and subconscious.
You [11:36 pm]: Enjoy the party, Sanemi.
sanemi [11:40 pm]: u don't have to tell me
sanemi [11:41 pm]: m enjoying it
Giyuu turns his phone off, then places it on the table, face-down. There's something bubbling inside him, starting from his belly and pressing all the way up into his throat. It tastes sweet and airy, cotton-candy light.
This is ridiculous. Sanemi's ridiculous. He's so...
The clock ticks to midnight. Giyuu pushes himself away from the table, ignoring the grating of the chair legs over the floor, and heads for his bedroom.
He's got work early tomorrow, after all.
About a week later, just as Giyuu's returning from a quick shopping trip, his phone buzzes. After setting his bags on the kitchen counter, he tugs it from his back pocket, expecting another message from Sanemi. They've been texting so regularly Giyuu's surprised to find that it isn't him.
Shinobu [4:11 pm]: Check your email for a surprise! 😊
With a sigh, Giyuu tucks his phone away and works on sorting his groceries into the fridge and various cupboards. Then he swings around the counter, grabs his laptop, and takes a seat at the table.
He's done this long enough to have a pretty good guess as to what's waiting for him. Sure enough, he has one unread email with the subject POSTED - HASHIRA 403 SG, forwarded to him, Sanemi, Uzui, Shinobu, and a few addresses he doesn't recognize. It's straight to the point, simply informing them that their film has been uploaded online and providing a direct link to said film.
Before Giyuu can do anything about it, his phone thrums to life. Distracted, he pulls it out again and peeks down at the screen, anticipating another telemarketer or robocall.
It's not a telemarketer. Or a robocall.
sanemi is calling you...
It's Sanemi, clear and plain as day.
Giyuu fumbles at his phone, thumb slipping along the screen in his haste to pick up.
"Oh, hey," Sanemi says, voice cracking through the speaker. He sounds vaguely surprised, like he wasn't expecting Giyuu to answer.
"Hey."
"Have you checked your email?"
Giyuu glances at his computer. "Yeah. The... Our video's up."
"Yeah," Sanemi says, then stops. A stiffening silence trickles between them.
They speak at the same time.
"I'm—"
"I've never—"
And stop again. Giyuu's cheek feels clammy against the phone, sticking uncomfortably, but he doesn't dare remove it from his ear.
"Go ahead," he tells Sanemi.
"Usually, I never, uh... I never really watch my own videos. But I'm kinda curious about this one."
"Okay," Giyuu says. "So—"
"Do you want to watch it now?"
"Together?"
"Uh—yeah. Over the phone."
"Oh." Giyuu adjusts his grip on his phone. He looks back at his computer screen, where the email sits on his desktop, open and unassuming. His cursor blinks back at him in the shape of a question.
And hesitates. Normally, when a new video of his goes up, him and Shinobu find some time to watch it together. Almost like a perverse version of going to the movies with a friend, but more business than entertainment.
But it's not a rule, or anything. And as much as Giyuu will deny it, he's curious, too.
"It's not a big deal," Sanemi interrupts, accompanied by a rustling noise like he's moving somewhere else. "I was just—"
"Sure," Giyuu says.
"What?"
"Sure," he repeats, blood thudding louder in his ears.
"Oh. Okay, I'm, um... Opening the link now."
Giyuu does the same on his end, fingers nervous over the mousepad, and hurries to lower the volume until only the barest sound filters through.
"How are there already views?"
Giyuu scrolls down to the stats. He's right—they've already got a couple hundred hits, only (Giyuu checks the timestamp) twenty-nine minutes after the initial upload.
"Guess everyone's excited," Giyuu mutters. When he returns to the video, it plays a long shot of the field now intimate to Giyuu's memory. Slowly, it pans across, the serene sounds of nature gradually bleeding into the sharper ones of metal against metal.
"You can say horny."
Giyuu exhales on a laugh, reclining until his back meets the wooden one of his chair. "I—yeah. Everyone's horny."
"A-fucking-men."
By now, they're both in frame, centered on set. They fit in well amongst the greenery, the traditional style of their clothing bright under the sun and stirring in the breeze. The aesthetic is more than pleasing to the eye, and Giyuu makes an appreciative noise, moving the phone to his other ear and watching with rapt interest.
Sanemi points his sword at him, mouths off, and the scene rolls into motion.
It looks—good. Surprisingly good, especially for how basic the choreography was. The cuts are clean, the sound effects fluid, blending together seamlessly in one fight sequence. Even with knowledge of the behind the scenes, Giyuu struggles to pinpoint when exactly they swap places with the stunt doubles.
"Nice," Sanemi comments, offhand. "Maybe you guys should consider shooting actual movies."
"I'll let Uzui know," Giyuu says, just as Sanemi topples him into the ground.
"Here we go."
Together, they watch as Sanemi pins him down, manhandles him, and calls him a slut, a whore. As they stare at each other, clashing, Giyuu's voice unbelievably soft, Sanemi's unbelievably hard. As Sanemi strips him with a frightening intensity, putting his hands all over Giyuu's body like he owns him.
Even on the outside, the tension is palpable. If he reached out, Giyuu thinks he might be able to feel it, a pushback against his fingers.
"So, uh. How was your day?" Sanemi asks. It's so out of place that Giyuu takes his phone away from his face to look down at it in bewilderment, porn completely forgotten.
Warily, he lifts it back up to his ear.
"It was fine. I went out to lunch," Giyuu answers, unsure of what Sanemi's trying to do, and strays back to the video.
Just then, Sanemi goes down on him, mouth parting wide around his cock. Giyuu watches his own hands bury into Sanemi's hair, clenching every time Sanemi takes him into his throat. In present time, his hand clenches over his thighs, restless.
"Cool."
When Sanemi slips him a finger, then another, Giyuu barely overcomes the urge to look away. As with all pornos, there's a gratuitous shot of his hole, shiny with lube and dusted with sunlight, opening almost shyly under Sanemi's touch. It's innocent and dirty all at once, a striking contrast against his skin. Giyuu doesn't know how the camera crew does it, but it has the intended effect—his cheeks burn hotter, and from his phone he hears Sanemi's breath stutter.
Then Sanemi climbs back up, puts his mouth to his ear, and Giyuu braces himself for the moment he's been dreading since that day.
Giyuu is used to seeing his "sex face"—the one he puts on for the camera, at least. It's something he's perfected over time, after gauging viewer preferences and his own intuition. It's nothing special, either: lips slightly parted, lids dropped low, a little furrow in the brows. Not too overdone, but far from decent.
Because of this, Giyuu can see the exact moment he lets go. The pink over his cheeks darkens to red, the blue in his eyes pools to hazy mist, and the wall around his inhibitions crumbles to dust. The shift in his expression is slight enough to go unnoticed by the average audience, but it's undeniably there, painfully obvious to Giyuu and the very same person who tore down that wall.
Throat dry, Giyuu asks, "What about yours?"
Now, as his nails bite into his skin even through the fabric of his clothes, Giyuu can see the appeal of maintaining a mundane conversation over the video. It keeps him from getting too immersed, from doing something he'll regret.
"Sorry, I... What was that?"
Sanemi draws his fingers out, hauls Giyuu on top, traps him between his legs. The video cuts briefly, then resumes on the moment he takes Giyuu inside, face twisting.
"How was your day?"
There's the yank on his hair, the incessant insults. The camera pans over their bodies, the sweat on their skin, glistening in the sunlight and rippling with every roll of Giyuu's hips. Everything's golden, shimmering, swaying with the wind and the grass between their fingers.
"Oh, yeah. Good. I had a..."
Sanemi tightens around him, vicious, startling a groan and a shudder from Giyuu.
"...an exam."
A shivering gasp, a throaty moan. Sanemi's head lolls back, then snaps up again.
"How'd it go?"
On screen, Giyuu's eyes fall half-shut, blushing down to his neck. A long lock of black hair spills down to rest by his face, swaying gently.
"Um. Alright, I guess."
The conversation dies there, nipped in the bud before it can get anywhere substantial. Not that it matters, anyway. Giyuu's already forgotten what they talked about and he won't bother trying to remember.
For the next twelve-odd minutes, Giyuu and Sanemi watch themselves fuck through a screen, detached but captivated all the same. Sanemi's just as uncompromising as Giyuu remembers, tussling with him both verbally and physically, periodically interrupting himself with a stilted moan. In time, Sanemi slips, bit by bit, the knots in his expression easing into bliss. Soon after, Giyuu follows him, thrusts going choppy as he reaches climax. His sorry attempt at a warning, left in the final cut, quivers in the air before Sanemi pushes him up and off.
"Shit."
They watch as Giyuu comes for the first time, cock a deep red against Sanemi's, just as flushed. The camera catches all the explicit detail, angled to accentuate the white over Sanemi's skin.
Regardless of what the general public thinks, there's a certain art to pornography, and this is it.
Then it happens. Sanemi throws Giyuu down and his knees apart, spreading him open, so willing. Miraculously, one of the cameras manages to swing back quick enough to capture the moment Sanemi slams into him, forcing his way through the initial tightness. True to Giyuu's memory, there's no cut, and Sanemi doesn't wait for him to adjust before fucking him to shambles.
"Fuck, this is—"
Hot. It's hot, watching Sanemi take him like this—laid bare out in the open, the backdrop of his moans overlaid by the twittering of birds, the rustling of leaves. His hair is stark against the grass, sex-mussed, stuck to his neck with sweat. It doesn't help that the force of Sanemi's thrusts rocks him back-and-forth along the ground, tangling it beyond repair.
He looks ruined. So ruined and so slutty Giyuu would burn in embarrassment if he weren't already flushed head to toe. There's desperation in his mouth, panic in his eyes, warring with both desire and torment. Like it's too much, like he wants Sanemi to stop; like he wants more, enjoys the hurt. Begs for it.
It really, truly looks like he's lost it. There isn't an ounce of acting in him anymore.
That's his real sex face. The one he'd wear to the bedroom, exposed for all the world to see.
At one point, Giyuu catches himself leaning forward, entirely outside his conscious will. When he forces himself upright, Giyuu realizes he's hard, pressing up against the zipper in his jeans. He's hard, watching Sanemi fuck him to tears in the middle of a public park, remembering exactly how it felt to fall apart on his cock.
"You look good," Sanemi says, rough in a way that's more than just static from the phone.
Giyuu bites at his lip, squeezes his knees closer together. Now that he's perceived the physical state of his arousal, it's impossible to ignore. His free hand twitches by his side, then pulls into a fist.
"You, too."
And he does—Sanemi looks just as good as he did on that day, maybe even better through HD video, gorgeous in a way that beats the air from Giyuu's chest. Knife-sharp, with the cruel contour of his eyes and the devastating cut of his jawline.
The editors have cut out any mention of Sanemi's name, but Giyuu's imagination fills in the blanks easily enough. Too easily. It's as if what Sanemi said to him back then has been imprinted into his brain, sealed into his memory. He just has to close his eyes, and the spring sky and the park underneath spills out in front of him. Beautiful, fantastical. Out of reach.
"Giyuu."
"Yeah," Giyuu breathes, understanding Sanemi's intention before he can put it into words. He can read it in the tone of his voice—the same one Sanemi used when he tore a fake uniform from Giyuu's body, when he fucked him down to his elbows on a borrowed bed.
The clink of his belt is faint through the phone, but distinct enough to reverberate in Giyuu's ear. He listens intently, fist creeping into the juncture of his thigh, dangerously close to his erection.
And can't hear anything. The disappointment that billows inside him is horribly unbecoming, wildly out of character. For a fleeting moment disgust washes over him, drowning out the disappointment, before it too is swallowed by a sticky sweet wave of arousal.
Because just the knowledge that Sanemi is touching himself is more than enough. He's fixed on the same video, tempted by the same lust, caught on the same memory. All that, right now, as he's connected to Giyuu through a phone. If Giyuu thinks about it anymore he might combust.
His fist twitches again, before unclenching, slowly, like it pains him.
Giyuu doesn't masturbate often. If he does, it's out of necessity, not indulgence. He can't even remember the last time he watched porn for the sake of getting off.
And now he's turning his phone to speaker mode and placing it parallel to the keyboard. Undoing his own pants and dipping his fingers past the band of his underwear. At the first brush of his hand, Giyuu has to bite his tongue to quell the noise from his throat.
Getting a little worked up while watching one of his films is normal. Good, in fact, since it means he's done something right.
Getting this worked up, however, is far from normal.
Giyuu's lucid enough to recognize this, yet he plows onward anyway, wrapping his hand around the length of his dick and starting up a dry, hasty rhythm. Within the minute, he's wet enough to make every drag audible, clear enough to be heard through his clothes but hopefully not enough to reach his phone. (And wishes, secretly, that it does.)
Sanemi sounds like he's trying to keep it down, breathing too short and irregular, hissing through the teeth. Despite himself, Giyuu doesn't want him to stay quiet—wants to hear him, along with the confirmation that he isn't the only one spiraling from nothing but this muted video and a hand on his cock.
So he bites his lip once, then lets out a moan, soft and lilting. No more than a second later, Sanemi stutters out a similar noise, sighing at the end like it's a relief. It stokes the fire in Giyuu's stomach; makes him gasp, grip himself a little harder.
He's limp as a doll, taking Sanemi's dick like it's the only thing he's good for. When Sanemi reaches down between his thighs, he curves away from it, towards it, whimpering through the strain.
The mic has not only picked up every moan, every pant, every whine—it's also amplified them, ringing hot and heavy through Giyuu's speakers, turned down to their lowest possible volume. There's also the rhythmic slap of skin-on-skin every time Sanemi's hips meet his ass, a cacophony of sound dirty enough to fluster even a two-dollar whore. Even Giyuu, who's sat through countless of his own videos. To think he's been pushed to the point of fidgeting in his seat and jerking off with a desperation more—
Something dark looms on the end of that thought, so Giyuu veers away from it, opting instead to focus on the slick drag of his palm.
"Hah, fuck. God."
The cameras reorient, switching between a shot of his fucked-out face over Sanemi's shoulder and a shot of his fucked-out hole on Sanemi's cock. It's filthy, downright obscene, a view that throws oil on the fire licking up Giyuu's spine.
His hand falters over his cock, then picks up again, the pace too sloppy, too fast. In the privacy of his apartment, though, it's okay. Unscrutinized by the piercing eye of the camera, he's free to do whatever he wants. Whatever he needs. He doesn't have to hold back.
(He should, he should. Hold back. He can't let Sanemi pull him down this slippery slope, where it'd be near impossible to claw his way back up to solid footing. He should—he has to—)
When Giyuu covers his mouth, it does next to nothing in muffling his moans. Sanemi pins his hands above his head, coaxes him to let it out.
(—hold back. Something tells him he's already fallen.)
So it pours out, a litany of half-broken phrases, hitching between every loose word. Sanemi says he's made for getting fucked, and when his hips lurch, eyes drooping low and dark, Giyuu starts to understand why.
Struggling for breath, he feels his body tense up, hurtling towards his own orgasm at breakneck speed. If Giyuu focuses hard enough, he can just barely hear the slick sounds of Sanemi tugging at his own cock, but it's difficult to maintain that kind of concentration when he's about to come. He's having a hard enough time keeping his eyes open and the screen from fuzzing into a smear of color.
There's just one thing that itches at him now, but it's a wanton, sickly idea. In that delirious moment, lost in the fantasy and the film and Sanemi, Giyuu has the wild thought of asking Sanemi to talk to him. He can't, for obvious reasons, but he has plenty of material from their two shoots together to imagine the kinds of things he'd say.
That's how you look, he'd say, when you're gagging for dick.
Or maybe,
Do you wish I was there with you, Giyuu? I bet you do. I bet you're just as easy as you act on camera. Bet you'd let me spread you out on my fingers, fuck you 'til you scream—
Giyuu gasps, head falling back over the top of the chair, pleasure clouding out the uncomfortable pressure of the wooden ridge against his nape.
"You close?"
"Nnh, y-yeah," Giyuu answers, whining a little with each twist of his hand, putting some effort into keeping his hips from lifting off the seat. He's hardly watching the video anymore, content to lose himself in his own touch, the soft sound of his own moaning from the computer, the memory of Sanemi—his hands, his body, his lips. "Mmm, close."
"Fuck. Giyuu. I'm—"
"Please," Giyuu whispers, a breathy, thoughtless thing, and Sanemi groans loud over the phone. Oh, shit—he's coming, Giyuu realizes. Sanemi just came. That simple revelation is enough to heave him across the edge, tiptoeing the line before the plummet.
Giyuu comes at the same time as his on-screen self. He keeps it together long enough to watch his own eyes roll back, back, back, before closing altogether.
That explains the blacking out, he thinks, then lets his orgasm hit. It pulses over him in waves, easy and natural without the worry of acting. Not earth-shattering, but good enough to leave him slack-jawed, head in the clouds.
He bets he looks as stupid as he feels, twinging in oversensitivity, fingers slipping through the come leaking from his cock. Knowing he's alone, Giyuu can't quite will himself to rearrange his face, continuing to stroke himself through the last wave until it starts to hurt. Only then does he drag his hand away with a shaky gasp, flickering back down to Earth.
When Giyuu props his head up to assess the damage, he cringes. He's made a mess, staining the better part of his crotch and the center of his shirt where his wet knuckles bumped against it.
"Hey. Giyuu. You still there?"
"Mhm," Giyuu mumbles, vision still swimming. He reaches for the napkins across the table, moving gingerly to avoid soiling his clothes further.
He's on his third napkin when Sanemi asks, "Are you, uh... Do you want to meet up sometime?"
Giyuu pauses in his cleaning, heart skipping so fast it staggers him.
Yes, he almost says. It's on the tip of his tongue, halfway to reality, when Sanemi dips down to kiss him and the word dies like a candle in the wind.
He watches it without heat, something cold settling in the place under his gut that used to house a fire. He hates the desperate way he clings to Sanemi, leans into his mouth, kisses him back. Knowing that it's all unscripted—all him—just makes it so much worse.
The coldness spreads, dank and vile, and Giyuu closes the tab on the image of their kiss, the almost-fond touch of Sanemi's fingers on his neck. He can still hear Sanemi on the other end of the line, muffled breaths, the calm before the storm.
"No," Giyuu says, but he does. He does. So, so much, and that's the reason why he has to say no.
I want to, he should say, I just can't.
But it's easier this way. Better. So he pushes on, even if it nicks a hole through his chest.
"Um, I'm sorry. I'd rather not. I don't... meet up with the people I work with. Outside of work."
The receiver goes deathly silent. Giyuu strains his ears, but even the sound of Sanemi's breathing has disappeared.
He's beginning to think the call was cut off, or Sanemi's just ended it altogether, when—
"Uh, okay."
—and that's it.
"I'm sorry," Giyuu repeats, unsure of what he's apologizing for. Maybe for ruining the afterglow, or giving Sanemi the wrong impression, or letting it get this far. Either way, it's pointless. Pathetic. It plucks bile to the back of his throat, bitter enough to choke. "I'll see you around?"
"Sure," Sanemi says, flat. "See you around."
Giyuu reaches for his phone, ready to hang up, but Sanemi beats him to it. The call ends with two muted beeps, the tip of his finger hovering above the screen in weak protest. He pulls his hand away, and his phone withers to black.
Idiot. Idiot. Stupid fucking idiot—
Sanemi swears vehemently, the tissues tearing under the pressure of his grip. With a grimace, he bundles them into a ball and wipes too aggressively at the come still stuck to his skin. He made sure to catch most of it in the cusp of his palm, but now it's starting to leak through the cracks between his fingers.
Then Sanemi puts his dick away, leaving his belt undone, and digs the heels of both hands into his eyes. Only when the darkness begins to swim does he pull them away, gasping.
He made a mistake. He'll pin it on the orgasm, the almost-phone-sex they had, and a fuckload of other shit he won't bother unpacking right now, but it doesn't erase the fact that he messed up.
Asking Giyuu out (was that what he did?) was a mistake. He should've seen the rejection coming from miles away, knowing everything Giyuu told him and more. And now he's made it all shitty and awkward and uncomfortable, shoving Giyuu into a position he should've known to avoid.
But a part of him thought that maybe, just fucking maybe, after all the texting, the joking, the flirting—god, the flirting—Giyuu might've said yes. After picking up the phone, agreeing to watch their film together, fucking masturbating with him—he would've said yes.
And that leads him to the ultimate question: If Giyuu is so against fraternizing with his co-stars, why would he do... all that? It makes no fucking sense and it's driving Sanemi up the fucking wall.
In the couch cushions, under a pillow where Sanemi tossed it aside, his phone vibrates.
He whips his head to the side, anticipation shooting up to join the frustration pounding at his temples. With his clean hand, Sanemi digs his phone out of the mess, half-expecting to see Giyuu's name.
It isn't him, obviously, and out loud Sanemi curses his own naivety. What the fuck did he think? That Giyuu would realize his mistake, call Sanemi back, and say—what? Oh, Sanemi, I was wrong; please take me out. I've never once made an exception to my rule about dating coworkers, but you changed my mind.
No fucking way. Despite the storm brewing in his skull, the scowl gouged into his face, Sanemi picks up.
"What?" he says, trying and failing to hold back his snapiness.
"Hey, Sanemi!" It's Masachika, sunny even in the face of Sanemi's broiling anger. "Sorry if you're in the middle of something right now, but... Are you still coming to the library? You haven't been answering my texts."
Of course he wasn't answering his fucking texts. Because he was too busy beating off to his own fucking porn with Tomioka fucking Giyuu and—
Dammit. Fuck it all to hell. He screwed up, big time.
"Sanemi?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you still coming?"
"Where?"
"The library."
"Library?"
"Yeah. We have to work on that partner thing, remember?"
"Oh, shit." Right. Fucking right. "Shit, I forgot. Sorry."
Masachika laughs without blame. "I figured. Hey, we can reschedule if you want. It's no prob—"
"Nah," Sanemi says, shutting his laptop. Now is the best time to get this assignment done without cutting it too close to the deadline, and he needs to do something to take his mind off whatever happened in the past hour. "I'll be there. Give me fifteen minutes."
"Oh, okay. Sounds good. See you!"
"Yeah," Sanemi mutters back, and hangs up.
At the sink, he washes his hands several times, scrubbing soap between his fingers and under his nails. But when he crosses out the front door, bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder, there's still the tacky feel of something dirty stuck in the crease of his palm.
Word count- 7026