Work Text:
The sake flows too freely after work, and Iruma’s always tipsy by the end of it. That’s fine—he doesn’t drive much—and the train’s not too far, just a brisk walk in the cool evening air. Sometimes Iruma’s not ready to hobble off that way. He lets himself out the back instead and leans against the closed door, tilting his head back to sigh, to loosen his collar, to just chill out a bit. It’s a pleasant break. And he can linger all he wants in the alley behind the café—no one ever comes there.
Except when that first fog clears, his brain gaining some semblance of clarity, he hears something low, rhythmic down the end. His head lolls to the side, squinting through the dark. And then he almost laughs, because he should’ve known.
Kiyoi stumbled out not too long ago, flushed and pretty, leaning coyly on his boyfriend—the lucky man that gets to take him home and fuck him. Iruma’s not above being jealous. It’s not that he even likes Kiyoi all that much, not on a personal level. He just thinks Kiyoi’s hot, just his type, and lately when he fucks his own hand, he pretends it’s Kiyoi’s tight ass he’s pounding into.
Hira Kazunari doesn’t have to settle for the lame fantasies. He’s got Kiyoi hiked up against the wall, legs locked around his waist—Kiyoi’s shoes are pressing into his boyfriend’s back with his black dress pants bunched down his thighs. There’s a dumpster between them, but Iruma can still see a sliver of Kiyoi’s bare ass over it. Kiyoi’s got such creamy skin. It look so smooth, soft, his trim body chiseled but his rear-end so full—Iruma’s fingers tighten at his sides, wishing they were digging into that ass. Hira palms it instead, smoothing under to hike Kiyoi higher, and Kiyoi’s pliant for him, mewling into Hira’s mouth.
They’re making out like teenagers. They’re not far off from that, but still adults—old enough to know better than to have sex in some random, public alley. There have to be better places. They probably couldn’t wait. Hira probably spent the whole night staring at Kiyoi’s gorgeous figure, ogling him all show and then the after party—he probably had his hand on Kiyoi’s inner thigh under the table, grazing up near his clothed cock, like Iruma used to try. Except Kiyoi wouldn’t have bat Hira’s hand away. Kiyoi meets every one of Hira’s greedy kisses with his mouth wide open, pink tongue ripe for the taking—Hira takes it, kissing Kiyoi hard.
The sex is hard. Harsh, graceless, merciless—Iruma can hear their clothes rustling and the growing clamour of slapping skin. Hira’s body pitches forward like a jackhammer, hips thrusting between Kiyoi’s spread legs again and again. The thrusts are crude, like the kisses—Hira’s mouthing at Kiyoi’s plush lips like an animal, like a beast, like he’s trying to dig his cock as far in as he can, so he can breed his beloved mate. He grabs at Kiyoi’s hair, Kiyoi’s clothes, and Kiyoi touches Hira back, only for his hands to be snatched away. Hira threads their fingers together and slams Kiyoi’s knuckles into the wall. He pins Kiyoi there, up against the concrete, like some erotic painting in an adult museum. Kiyoi merely moans at the rough treatment, arching up into Hira for more.
A sharp bite to his bottom lip, and Kiyoi winces, head lolling aside, eyes scrunched up as Hira mouths down his neck. Even at a distance, in the darkness of the night, Iruma can make out the scrape of Hira’s teeth—he knows Hira’s leaving hickeys, bruises, all kinds of marks that Kiyoi will have to cover up for their next show. It makes him wonder how much makeup Kiyoi’s already wearing, how much of his body is streaked with his boyfriend’s possessive touch. It’s a pity they don’t have showers in the back to wash off after work—Iruma wants to see it all.
Hira’s the one that gets to. He must be fine, fucking Kiyoi in the dark, in all his work clothes, because there must be other times where Hira has him bare, gets to lay him down in bed completely naked and make slow, grueling love. That must be glorious too. If Iruma had the option, he’d definitely fuck Kiyoi with the lights on, nice and slow, taking in every detail before ploughing in hard. Hira does the same. He groans, “Kiyoi,” in a husky, feral growl.
The breathy noises Kiyoi’s making have Iruma painfully hard. He was already on edge, but that sound tips the scales. Kiyoi looks so thoroughly ravished, and he sounds like it too: like he’s been fed aphrodisiacs all night and no longer has any purpose in life but to house Hira’s cock. Hira licks back up his throat and rasps into his mouth, “You’re so beautiful, Kiyoi.”
He really is. Iruma couldn’t agree more. And he’s glad Hira knows it, that he appreciates how fortunate he is. Kiyoi probably feels as good as he looks, is probably deliciously tight inside, velvety and stifling hot, clenching up with every desperate gasp, the perfect little cock-sleeve—
Iruma shouldn’t be watching. He knows that. There’s a wriggling sense of guilt in the very back of his mind, but he pushes it down, because they’re the ones having sex in public. They’re not even being quiet, not trying to hide away. It’s like they couldn’t resist—like Hira had to have him immediately, and made it an extension of the show: the sequel where Kiyoi’s detective character gets fucked stupid by some crazed stalker in the moonlight.
Iruma has front row tickets, and he hopes it never ends.
Then Kiyoi buries his face in Hira’s, nuzzling sweetly into his boyfriend while he’s fucked like a dog, and he brokenly murmurs, “Kazu.”
It’s so quiet that Iruma barely hears it. It’s so intimate, so painfully full of love, that it changes everything. Iruma remembers that he’s not just watching his pretty coworker get railed by a fan. He’s watching his sensitive friend finally have the touch of a man he’s craved for years. It is wild sex, but Iruma’s seen the way they look at each other, and he knows it’s also making love.
And he shouldn’t be privy to that. His guilt wars with his dick. If he’s honest, he wants to keep watching anyway.
Then Kiyoi begs, “Please—”
And the jealousy compounds the guilt, so Iruma begrudgingly leaves.