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The audition went so well that Kiyoi’s body is singing, or maybe that’s just his boyfriend’s mouth around his dick. He feels so overwhelmed with pleasure that he could collapse on the spot—his knees are already weak, fingers trembling where they’re threaded through Hira’s hair, and his head lolls back against the cool bathroom tile. He knows it’s gross, coming undone in public, but Hira’s hands pin him to the wall and all he does is bite his bottom lip and moan.
His agent couldn’t make it. He asked for that help, that support, because it was a big one, and he didn’t so much ask for Hira to come as demand it. The second the words left his mouth, Hira was nodding, already ready to go, hand in Kiyoi’s all the way over. All of Kiyoi’s nerves filtered into that—he squeezed Hira’s hand tighter and tighter until he was sure it must hurt, but Hira had that fierce look in his eyes like he couldn’t feel any pain while he was in protect Kiyoi mode. Then Kiyoi had a vivid flashback of high school, where Hira beat the shit out of a kid for crossing him, and thinking of Hira threatening the casting director the same way had him biting back a grin. It wouldn’t happen, of course. But just knowing how much Hira’s there for him always makes it easier.
Hira sat outside while Kiyoi recited his lines in exacting detail with an extra flourish of character. They gave him the role on the spot. That’s never happened before. He came out of the room shaking with adrenaline, and Hira rushed right to him, Kiyoi muttered his success, Hira dragged him to a corner to kiss him, praise him, smother him in love—Hira promised to reward him for his victory—and Kiyoi should’ve waited until they got home but had to have it instantly.
That was probably a bad idea, because he was already light-headed from the audition, and Hira has him seeing stars—his toes curl in his shoes and his eyes roll into his skull. Hira’s mouth is so wet, so tight, so hot around him, so perfect—and Hira sets a brutal pace like he just can’t get enough. Like he needs Kiyoi down his throat. Or needs to pleasure Kiyoi, to prove how much he loves Kiyoi. He’s so dedicated: the most doting boyfriend Kiyoi could ask for. Kiyoi’s never had that kind of unconditional support before. Hira gives it in spades. Hira goes the extra mile. Hira comforts him when he fails and treats him so good when he wins.
He’s going to come. He needs to come. They’re cramped inside a floor-to-ceiling stall, but the thin walls are only so soundproof. When Kiyoi hears footsteps on the other side of the door, he almost sobs. He clamps his mouth shut instead, throwing one hand over it to stifle the nonstop noises—he can’t help groaning, whimpering, because Hira doesn’t just deep-throat him but sucks and swallows and hums around his cock—every time Hira’s tongue traces his underside, he thinks he’s going to burst. One of Hira’s hands trails down Kiyoi’s hip, sliding into his scrunched-down underwear, cupping his sac—he practically screams when Hira tugs his balls. Kiyoi never really played with them before, but Hira seems to have a sick fascination with them, like he does all of Kiyoi’s body, and he pays them as much love as he pays Kiyoi’s cock, cradling and stroking and lightly squeezing—the water’s running in another stall, while Kiyoi’s fighting not to hump Hira’s handsome face. Hira keeps looking at him through those thick black bangs, eyes dark and captivating, so easy to drown in. He hopes the wet suction sounds aren’t trickling out; he’s hyper-aware of every embarrassing squelching noise that Hira’s slick lips make around him.
Hira buries his nose in Kiyoi’s crotch, flattening Kiyoi into the wall, and if Kiyoi could, he’d snap for Hira to stop it, to stop being so damn gorgeous and generous and just make him come already. But Kiyoi can’t say a word, so he only glares down at Hira, eyes burning—Hira’s looking back at him and shivers, like he does whenever Kiyoi whispers, “Disgusting,” against the back of his neck after particularly lewd sex.
Hira lets out a muffled moan, and Kiyoi could swear Hira’s trying to say his name. His fingers dig into his cheek, his teeth clenched together. He has to shut his eyes, because he can’t take it, it’s too much—he can’t believe he actually got a big TV role and Hira’s going to see him on the screen every night and salivate over him—
He cries into his hand and explodes in Hira’s mouth. His own racing heartbeat drowns out the running water and footsteps outside. All he knows is searing pleasure, pure joy, a weightless perfection. Hira dutifully swallows around him, which feels amazing; he whimpers as Hira’s movements milk him out. His cock feels so sensitive, and Hira’s fervently worshipping it. Kiyoi slumps down the wall—he’d collapse if Hira weren’t holding him up. Emotionally and physically.
Hira’s still pinning him in place, adoringly mouthing at him. It’s more than Kiyoi can take. He weakly shoves at Hira’s hair, trying to push Hira back, but Hira’s strong and Kiyoi’s broken, so it takes several attempts. Finally, Hira slides away, Kiyoi’s flagging dick dragging over his tongue and flopping out. A trail of saliva trickles out with it—Hira thumbs it off without once looking away from Kiyoi.
He looks like he’s going to say something—maybe profess his undying love—but Kiyoi hurriedly shakes his head, glowering at Hira to demand silence. For once, Hira seems to understand—he moves on to reverently kissing the base of Kiyoi’s cock and tenderly tucking Kiyoi back in. Kiyoi squirms over it, Hira’s fingers so soft and tantalizing even right after an orgasm.
Then his fly’s back up, and Hira’s smoothing the area out. Kiyoi means to push out of the stall and storm away but can’t seem to move. He’s helpless as Hira rises up and almost pecks his cheek. But Hira stops halfway. He runs his tongue over his lips and mumbles, “Sorry,” like kissing Kiyoi after blowing him would be horrible and the mere attempt was traitorous.
Kiyoi makes an irritated noise and grabs Hira’s face, slamming him forward, forcing him into a kiss—his protest is cut off in Kiyoi’s mouth. Kiyoi doesn’t care that he can taste his own salty release on Hira’s tongue. He just wants that tongue in his mouth. And Hira all over him.
Hira doesn’t fight him, and they cycle through several wet, messy, needy kisses, before Kiyoi finally folds against the tile again. Hira stares at him like a rapid fan and breathes, “Congratulations.”
Kiyoi doesn’t say I wouldn’t have gotten it without you. He’s embarrassed to even think it. He feels vulnerable and needs to be held, a shamefully common side effect of sex with Hira. Or any intense contact with Hira. Kiyoi wishes they were at home; he wants to cocoon around Hira and lie there for hours.
But he’s also thirsty and is craving ginger ale. Hira bought him some earlier, but he downed it all before the audition started. He’ll actually need a washroom soon.
“Th... they had to give it to you,” Hira tells him. “You’re beautiful.”
Kiyoi was already red from exertion, so it doesn’t matter that he blushes. He turns away anyway, trying to hide his cheeks in the curtain of his hair. He fumbles with the lock on the bathroom stall, pauses to listen, then pushes out—the washroom’s thankfully empty. The producer hasn’t shown up to withdraw the offer over his public indecency.
He feels so indecent. He finds himself holding Hira’s hand without meaning to. He mutters, “Let’s go.”
Hira nods “Congratulations.”
“You already said that, idiot.”
Hira nods again and squeezes Kiyoi’s hand. Kiyoi feels a pang in his heart and butterflies all over his chest. He doesn’t glance down to see if there’s a tent at the bottom of Hira’s oversized jacket.
They’ll deal with that when they get home, to their home, their bed, which Kiyoi doesn’t want to give up no matter how rich and famous he gets. The receptionist adds another congratulations on their way out, but it sounds so much better from Hira.