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It’s 2 a.m. when Katsuki’s phone rings.
He’s alone in a hotel room half a country away from everyone he gives a shit about, so of course he picks it up immediately and says, “Oi, what the fuck? You should be in bed, you idiot.”
Shouto doesn’t answer. For a little bit, no one says anything, and Katsuki can barely make out the noise in the background.
“I think he missed you too much to fall asleep.”
Katsuki tenses. “Hitoshi? What the hell?”
“Keeps saying your name with my cock in him, too,” Hitoshi says evenly. “Rude, if you ask me.”
And—
Oh.
It’s moaning, Katsuki realizes. The sound of a bed—their bed—creaking. Shouto is getting fucked. Hard, judging by the sound of it.
Heat pools low in Katsuki’s stomach embarrassingly quick. “Shouto?” he says. “Sweetheart?”
“Ka—ah, Katsuki,” Shouto whines. “It’s too much. I—I can’t, ah, he’s—he’s so big.”
Katsuki hears Hitoshi’s laughter. “I think he’s going to cry. Are you going to cry, Shouto?”
A part of Katsuki—the soft, ridiculously mushy part that Shouto has become a fucking professional at bringing out in him, the part that misses home already, that wants to be there right now just to see the look on Shouto’s face, the flush on his cheeks, that part—wants to tell Hitoshi to stop being a fucking bastard.
But his cock is rapidly getting harder inside his sweatpants, and hearing Shouto sound this wrecked while calling his name is so fucking hot. Katsuki hates what it does to him, a little bit. Not enough to deny himself, though. Never enough for that.
“Yeah? Did he make you come already?”
“Ngh, he won’t let me. Says—says I can only come after I’ve—after I’ve shown you how good I am at taking it. I just—ah, I just miss you so much.”
“I know, baby,” Katsuki says. “I know, I miss you too.”
“Only took him two days since you left to spread his legs,” Hitoshi says. “Had to fuck him in your sweatshirt because he refuses to take it off.”
Katsuki’s throat feels dry. He imagines it, Shouto wearing his clothes, taking it from behind like a good boy, his cock hot and hard and completely untouched between his legs because Hitoshi is never nice enough to touch him before he does as told.
“Fuck,” he hisses.
“Yeah?” Hitoshi asks. “You hard already? Going to touch yourself while hearing me fuck your boyfriend? He’s so tight. So fucking tight and warm and pliant for me. Would’ve thought you had fucked him loose by now, with how eager he is for it.”
“Wish you were here,” Shouto says, slips it between broken moans, “wish I could have your cock too, Katsuki.”
At this rate, there’s a distinct possibility he’s going to come in his pants like a fifteen-year-old getting his dick touched for the first time. “Tell me what he’s doing, baby,” he says, pressing just once, just barely, against the bulge in his underwear.
“He’s—he’s fucking me. Made me get him hard with my mouth beforehand. God, he’s so deep. I—I can’t.”
“He’s a little overwhelmed,” Hitoshi says mildly. “Aren’t you, Shouto?”
Panted, cut-off little ah, ah, ahs follow. Katsuki wonders if Shouto is trying to muffle himself. If he’s still embarrassed, if he’s got his face pressed into a pillow—into Katsuki’s pillow—while Hitoshi fucks him.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he says, voice rough and cock impossibly hard inside his underwear. “Be loud for me. Wanna hear you.” He could get himself off quick and dirty with the fabric of his shirt between his teeth to hold it out of the way, but this is more fun.
Shouto falling apart is always more fun.
That’s probably why Hitoshi decided to call in the first place.
“You touching yourself already?” Hitoshi asks. “You look so hot doing that. Look good when you’re the one fucking him too.”
He’s starting to sound a little strained. “Did you miss me too?” Katsuki asks, because he can. Because Shouto and Hitoshi like—fuck, love him—enough to feel his absence when he’s not there, to want him there even in the most intimate and vulnerable moments, to think about him when they’re fucking each other—
“A little,” Hitoshi says. Through the strained breathing, Katsuki can still hear him smiling, can picture it, that particular teasing smile that starts off mean but turns so soft if you lean in to kiss him.
“Just a little, huh? Anything I can do about that?”
“Remind me what you sound like getting off?” Hitoshi suggests. “My memory’s gotten terrible these last few days.”
Katsuki laughs, despite himself. “Guess I gotta do something about that.”
“You really do,” Hitoshi says. “Hear that, Shouto? Katsuki can’t keep his hands off his cock because you sound too good getting fucked.”
Shouto moans so fucking loud at that, and it hits Katsuki that Hitoshi must have been fucking him with a hand over his mouth. He wonders what that hand is doing now, if it’s wrapped around Shouto’s neck yet, pressing at the sides.
“Katsuki,” Shouto sobs. “Katsuki, please—”
“You wanna come?” Katsuki asks, pressing more firmly against the outline of his hard cock. “You going to come on Hitoshi’s cock, baby?”
“Yes,” Shouto says, “yes, yes, yes, I—I need—”
“Not yet,” Hitoshi hisses. “Come on, you’ve been so good, just—just a little bit more.”
If Katsuki was back home, he would probably be kissing the salt off Shouto’s overheated skin, brushing his soaked hair off his forehead. He’s always been embarrassingly weak to Shouto’s crying face. It makes him want to rip the goddamn sun off the sky just to give it to him.
Now though, alone in a shitty hotel room and filled to the brim with want—
Katsuki gives in and pushes his pants down his thighs, closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to stare at the ceiling—painted a depressing, flaky beige—and feel the ache grow sharper, so he can focus on the sounds instead. On Shouto’s loud, nearly-sobbing whines mixed with Hitoshi’s quiet noises. On his name, said over and over.
Katsuki’s cock is hard and leaking and when he finally touches himself, it feels like he might fall apart with a single breath. Everything is too much, the pictures inside his head too vivid and at once not enough, and a strange irritation simmers right under his skin. Arousal accompanied by the frustration of reaching, of—of almost, almost, almost, but not quite, not enough, not what he actually wants.
(Because the people he actually wants are currently back home fucking each other on the sheets Katsuki picked out, and that—)
“I’m going to come,” he says. “Holy shit, I’m gonna fucking come.”
He strokes his cock once, twice, and then he’s spilling white over his own stomach. He doesn’t bother to keep himself quiet. A bit pointless, by now.
“Can I—?” Shouto sobs.
Katsuki imagines the way Hitoshi must be kissing him, knows just from the hitch in Shouto’s breath that he’s been shown his merited mercy, that Hitoshi is finally touching him, making him come.
Quiet follows, the sound of breaths steadying, then some shuffling, and Katsuki is content to sit there and listen after he’s wiped himself clean, to fall into something almost like comfort (something like the feeling he gets when he falls asleep last and has a few moments just to appreciate the freckles on Hitoshi’s shoulder or how long Shouto’s eyelashes are when they catch the light).
Eventually, after what could have just as likely been seconds or hours to his exhausted brain, Hitoshi says, “How’s the job going?”
Katsuki hums. “Good. Should be done in another couple of days.”
“Tired?”
“Yeah, so let me sleep, asshole.”
“Mean,” Shouto says. “You’re usually nice after you come.”
“Yeah,” Katsuki says, “but you’re usually both within immediate spooning distance after I come. There’s a direct correlation there.”
“I’m telling everyone we know you said that,” Shouto threatens. Shouto’s threats after you’ve fucked an orgasm out of him are equal to a puppy’s, though. “I’m making t-shirts.’
“Really?” Katsuki asks. “You’re gonna bring the sweet old lady in apartment 22 into our sex life?”
“She did ask about our “angry young man” yesterday,” Hitoshi points out. “I think she just misses you helping her with groceries. Says it’s not the same when we do it.”
“Whatever.”
“Shouto wanted to sleep in your shirt even after he got come on it, by the way. I hope you’re proud of me for wrestling it off him.”
“Very,” Katsuki says dryly.
“Katsuki?”
“Are you two going to let me get the fuck to sleep or what?” Katsuki hisses, but he’s so desperately, irreversibly fond it sickens him.
“We miss you,” Shouto says.
“Yeah,” Katsuki says. “You wanting to sleep in your own come just to smell like me gave that away, halfie.”
“Love you too,” Hitoshi says, just as dryly.
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the call.”
Laughter. “Anytime.”
Katsuki lets a few seconds go by. Neither of them hangs up. He sighs. “Love you too, you idiots. Now get some fucking sleep.”
It could be worse, he supposes. He’ll be home soon, after all.