Work Text:
"We're here," the driver says from the front of the black SUV, rousing Kiyoi out of his reverie.
"Mm? Oh, thanks," Kiyoi replies, peering out through the tinted windows as the driver smoothly pulls to a stop at the curb. He positions the SUV perfectly, just outside the entrance to the fashionable, upmarket bar.
When his car door is opened by one of the bar's doormen, Kiyoi steps out and straightens his clothes. He's wearing tight black trousers and a black jacket made of a silky fabric. It has a waterfall-draped front held closed by a tie-wrap belt cinched at the waist, and nothing underneath. Through the open neck the stack of different length necklaces, artfully looped around his neck, can be seen. His ears are studded with pearl earrings and there's a pearl ring on the index finger of his left hand. The jewellery has been provided by Mikimoto, a high-end jeweller who has recently announced Kiyoi as their latest brand ambassador.
With a final wave of thanks, Kiyoi makes his way past the "Private Event" sign and into the bar. Some people might find it romantic having an engagement party on Valentine's Day, but not Kiyoi. He's had a long day at work and would much prefer to be at home where he can relax and be pampered.
When he steps through the door, a wall of heat and noise slams into him. Laughter, raised voices, and the thrum of music all crash together in a single overwhelming wave as people shout to be heard over the din.
The bar is packed, bodies pressed close in the warm light. Conversations overlap, glasses clink, and the air hums with the restless energy of people determined to enjoy themselves.
On a small raised stage to one side, a three‑person band plays—drummer, keyboardist, and a guitarist who sings into a silver mic. Their music is bright and upbeat, cutting through the noise with a cheerful insistence.
Standing just inside the entrance is a waiter holding a silver tray bearing flutes of champagne the colour of sunlit gold. Kiyoi grabs a glass as he passes and takes a sip, wrinkling his nose as the tiny bubbles fizz over his tongue when he swallows. Although he is more accustomed to the taste than he used to be, it's not his favourite drink. Taking another sip, he casts his eyes around the packed bar, its polished brass fixtures and marble surfaces gleaming where they reflect the warm light.
A voice cuts through the noise, sharp enough to catch his attention. “Kiyoi! You made it.”
He turns toward the sound and spots Shirota waving from across the room, standing with a few familiar faces from high school. Kiyoi smooths his expression into its usual cool neutrality and threads his way through the crowd, careful not to spill the champagne as bodies press close around him.
"Hey," Kiyoi says when he joins the group.
"Great place for a party, isn't it?" enthuses Kurata, pushing her glasses back up her nose.
"Mm," Kiyoi murmurs, noncommittally, looking around the bar to see who else is here. His eyes fall on a number of other celebrities dotted around the room.
"Who would have thought that Akiko would be marrying into the Ueno family?" adds Momo.
The Ueno family are one of the two founding families of the Asahi Shimbun Corporation, a media conglomerate, and a cornerstone of Japan's media elite. Kiyoi didn't really know Akiko that well back in school, and doesn't really care what she does now, but the corporation publishes the Asahi Shimbun newspaper and he wants to make sure that he gives the press no excuses for a negative review.
"Did you come straight from work?" Shirota asks.
"Yes," Kiyoi replies. "I've spent the day with the cast doing a script read-through. My driver just dropped me off."
"That sounds like fun," Momo says excitedly, bobbing on the balls of her feet as she talks. "Can you tell us what the drama is about?"
Kiyoi gives a brief summary of the plot, but before anyone can press him for more, the door bangs open. The sudden noise cuts through the chatter, drawing a ripple of attention from the crowd.
Hira stands in the doorway dressed exactly as Kiyoi told him to: long brown trench coat, cream sweater, beige trousers. His hair, which usually falls in a heavy bowl over his eyes, has been styled up off his face exposing the clean lines of his forehead and the strong sweep of his brows. The sight of him momentarily takes Kiyoi's breath away. He takes another sip of champagne in an attempt to compose himself. Why does Hira affect him so much? He's just Hira.
Their eyes meet, and something inside Kiyoi loosens. He hadn’t been sure Hira would come; he was still stammering objections when Kiyoi left the house that morning.
"Oh look, it's Hi Hi." Shirota hides a snigger behind his hand, making Kiyoi frown at the unkind nickname, but he holds his tongue.
Hira weaves his way through the crowd to them. His gaze is fixed on Kiyoi with a look of such intensity it's as if no one else exists, and a small ember of warmth ignites in Kiyoi's chest at Hira's devotion.
"H-h," Hira stammers, and out of the corner of his eye Kiyoi sees Shirota roll his eyes. "H-h—"
"Ginger ale," demands Kiyoi, holding out his mostly full champagne glass and cutting off Hira's stammer.
"Y-yes," Hira manages to say, and as he reaches out to take the glass, a pearl ring that matches the one Kiyoi is wearing flashes on his left index finger. The tips of their fingers brush. It's barely a touch, but it's enough to make Kiyoi's breath hitch.
Hira looks around, a little wild-eyed, as if unsure of what to do with the glass now it's in his hands. In the end he lifts it to his lips and downs the contents in one before turning and stumbling towards the bar, tripping over his own feet in his haste to obey Kiyoi's command.
"He hasn't changed a bit, has he? Did you see he's wearing a ring that matches yours? Like you're some sort of couple," Shirota asks, scornfully.
"I think it's cute how devoted he still is," Momo says, more kindly.
"Yeah, but I think buying the same ring is a bit creepy, don't you?" Shirota counters.
Kiyoi shrugs dismissively, tamping down the surge of anger that floods through him. Shirota is still an asshole. "Who cares? Any sale is good for my brand ambassadorship," he replies, neglecting to mention that the ring Hira is wearing was bought for him—by Kiyoi.
"Well he certainly scrubs up nicely. I don't remember him being this good looking," says Kurata, thoughtfully.
"Mm, he's very stylish today. Do you think he's seeing someone?" Momo giggles. "I can't imagine that he chose that outfit by himself."
Kiyoi's irritation rises as the two girls proceed to comment on Hira's clothes, his hair, his height. He can feel the beginnings of a headache in his temples from where he's grinding his teeth, and when Hira returns with a glass of Kiyoi's favourite ginger ale, he glares at him as if it's all Hira's fault that the girls think he looks attractive.
When the newly engaged Akiko joins them, holding out her hand so everyone can admire her engagement ring, the conversation shifts to wedding plans, but Kiyoi barely hears it. His attention is fixed on Hira, who leans in slightly as Akiko says something in his ear. It's probably nothing, but the sight of their heads close together doesn't feel like nothing, it feels personal.
Kiyoi's jaw tightens and he downs his drink in a few large gulps. The chilled liquid does nothing to cool the heat crawling up his neck.
It's ridiculous. He knows he's being ridiculous. He has no reason to doubt Hira's devotion to him. But when Akiko hands Hira her phone and he starts typing into it, something snaps. Before he realises he’s moving, Kiyoi steps forward, inserting himself between them and cutting off whatever Akiko was about to say.
"Hira," he says, lower lip pushed out just enough to make his displeasure unmistakable.
Hira's dark eyes snap to look at him and Kiyoi feels the weight of his gaze land like an avalanche. He thrusts out his glass, his voice bordering a whine as he points out, "My glass is empty."
Hira reacts instantly, as if the request overrides everything else. He doesn’t spare Akiko so much as a glance before hurrying off toward the bar, weaving through the crowd with single‑minded focus.
Watching him go, a warm, smug satisfaction unfurls in Kiyoi’s chest. It’s petty. He knows it’s petty. He isn’t even thirsty. But the sight of Hira abandoning the conversation without hesitation—choosing him, always him—soothes the raw, restless jealousy clawing at his ribs. He wants Hira’s attention on him. Only him.
Always.
Later, when they're being driven home, Kiyoi can't help but comment, "You and Akiko looked pretty cosy tonight." He's sitting as far away from Hira as the back seat of the SUV will allow, pretending to stare out of the window at the streetlights, but in reality he's watching Hira's reflection in the glass. Kiyoi's eyes flicker over Hira’s face, the dim lighting in the car makes his already handsome features look even better.
Hira shakes his head vigorously. "N-no. She just had a question."
"A question? You were talking for ages, it was obviously more than just a question, and I saw you give her your phone number."
"No, no, no, not mine. Noguchi's," Hira replies, his voice high-pitched and panicked. "I gave her his number. Sh-sh-she wants Noguchi to take her wedding photographs."
"Oh." Kiyoi turns the answer around in his mind, trying to find fault with it, but is unable to. Hira is an assistant to the famous photographer, Noguchi Hiromi, so it's not unreasonable for someone to ask him a work-related question. "She didn't want you to take the photos?"
Hira shakes his head again.
"Would you have, if she asked?"
"No. Only want to photograph Kiyoi," Hira replies vehemently, with no trace of his stammer. He scoots closer to Kiyoi across the backseat and tentatively reaches out a hand, curling his fingers into the hem of Kiyoi's jacket. "Kiyoi is the most beautiful."
Kiyoi nods, satisfied. "Would you like to photograph me when we get home?" he asks slowly, his voice dropping low, meeting Hira's gaze through lowered lashes. “However you want.”
Eyes wide, Hira's mouth drops open, his jaw working a few times as if he's trying to say something, but no sound comes out. He stares at Kiyoi, pathetic hope on his face, his eyes dragging over Kiyoi's features. "Can I?" Hira finally manages to say.
It's Valentine's Day, and Kiyoi's feeling a little reckless. He turns his gaze away, feeling a flush deepening on his cheeks, and nods. Hira deserves a reward for his devotion.
Hira lets go of Kiyoi's jacket and lifts his hand, his fingers grazing Kiyoi's jaw, before tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.
It would be generous to call the brush of skin a touch, but it's enough to make Kiyoi's heart race, his lips parting slightly. Hira grips Kiyoi’s chin, lifting it up to get a better look at his face. Just far enough to let his thumb drag over Kiyoi’s bottom lip. Kiyoi doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just stares at Hira with wide eyes, his chest rising and falling a little quicker than before. Hira tilts his head, studying him, his fingers curling slightly under Kiyoi's jaw. His grip isn’t hard, but it’s enough to let Kiyoi feel it, and electricity crackles down his spine.
"And afterwards, I'll make Kiyoi feel good," Hira whispers, huskily.
The rest of the ride home is a test of Kiyoi's willpower. He keeps moving and shifting in his seat, pressing his thighs together as his mind races unchecked through all the possible things Hira might do to make him feel good.
The list is endless.
Hira just sits there with one hand resting lightly on his own thigh, staring out of the window, seemingly completely oblivious to the storm raging inside Kiyoi. His eyes are unfocused, and Kiyoi knows Hira's already lost, planning the photoshoot he'll soon be doing.
Soon the car starts to slow down. They've arrived.
Once inside the house, Hira rushes off to get his camera the moment he's kicked off his shoes. Kiyoi follows more slowly, taking his time.
The cosy house is cluttered with furniture that's old and a little on the shabby side, but everything is comfortable and spotlessly clean. A vague hint of lemon lingers in the air, as if Hira has spent the day cleaning.
It's the scent of home.
While Kiyoi waits, he opens the large doors to the courtyard and takes a seat on the floor by the opening, staring out at the soft lights that illuminate the outdoor space, once again thinking how lucky he is to be able to live here with Hira.
Click—click—click.
Kiyoi ignores the sound of the camera shutter and lets his mind drift. Hira likes to take candid photographs of him, so for a while, Kiyoi does nothing more than stare out at the garden, absently playing with the chains around his neck while Hira moves around him, taking photos from every angle. It's mid-February and cold, but Kiyoi doesn't feel the chill. The heat from Hira's gaze is all the warmth he needs.
Eventually Kiyoi lowers his hand to his waist, finding his belt. He tugs on the tie, pulling it undone, and lets the front of the jacket fall open to expose his chest. With a sigh, he shrugs it off his shoulders, and lets it slide down his arms, shuddering a little as the cool air sets goosebumps dancing over his soft, smooth skin.
Click—click—click—click—click
Leaving the jacket in a puddle on the floor for Hira to pick up, Kiyoi gracefully pushes himself to his feet and closes the doors. Then he heads into the bedroom, where he waits for Hira to direct him.
Hira's breathing is laboured as he meticulously arranges Kiyoi on his back on the bed, raising his arms and crossing them artfully above his head. Hira checks the position, then undoes the button and zip on Kiyoi's trousers. He pulls them down below Kiyoi's hips, exposing his tight black boxer briefs and the arousal that's swelling inside them.
"S-so pretty. Kiyoi's so beautiful," Hira purrs, licking his lips.
Kiyoi swallows, his cheeks burning. Being unravelled by nothing more than Hira's gaze and a few well-chosen words is humiliating.
Click—click—click.
The air thickens around them, the temperature in the room rising as Hira takes more photos. Periodically he pauses to adjust Kiyoi's position before continuing. Kiyoi feels every bit like a marionette, and Hira his puppeteer.
The poses Hira puts him into are sensual and Kiyoi's thoughts drift towards the erotic. Squirming a little, he trails one hand up and down his heated torso, letting out little sighs. He tucks the thumb of his other hand under the waistband of his boxer briefs and pushes them down a little. The pearl ring will show up nicely against the black fabric.
Click—click—click.
Hira's hand joins Kiyoi's, fingertips hooking over the elastic, and he takes a photo of their matching rings.
Click.
The heel of Hira's palm rests against Kiyoi's hardness. There's hardly any weight, but it makes sparks of sensation fire and Kiyoi arches off the bed, grinding up against Hira's hand, seeking more pressure. But Hira just pulls the waistband down a little further.
Click.
And then a little further.
Click—click.
Kiyoi's insides are coiling as the camera shutter whirrs its syncopated rhythm. He needs to focus on the sound as it stutters, instead of the other type of need that's growing steadily in his gut.
Click—click—click.
"Mm," Hira hums.
For a moment, there is a reprieve when Hira sets the camera down and Kiyoi lets out a long, shuddering sigh. But his relief doesn't last because the next thing Hira does is slide Kiyoi's trousers and socks off, then picks his camera back up. Moving to stand at the side of the bed so he's hovering over Kiyoi, Hira resumes taking photographs.
Kiyoi flings one arm over his face and takes several deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down, but it's no use. Hira might have said he'd make Kiyoi feel good after the photoshoot, but that could be hours and Kiyoi has needs that demand attention now.
Before he knows what he's doing, his other hand is in his underpants, wrapped tightly around his cock, and he's stroking himself.
Click—click—click—click.
Over the sound of the camera shutter, Kiyoi can hear Hira's harsh breathing. He quickens his pace and finally pushes his boxer briefs far enough down his thighs that he can pull his cock free. The cold rush of air makes him gasp.
Click—click—click—click—click.
"Perfect," Hira whispers.
Kiyoi's hips twitch at the praise, and he moans as he thrusts up into his fist, the wetness making the glide easier. He loses himself in the smoother rhythm, in the more sensual tug of his wrist.
Click—click—click.
He tightens his grip and feels the pleasure spreading through him. He's hard, his cock is already dripping. Hira is the one to blame for Kiyoi being in this condition, yet he stands on the other side of the camera taking photos while Kiyoi puts on his shameful solo show.
"Stop," Hira's voice cracks like a whip just as Kiyoi’s about to tip himself over the edge. He grabs Kiyoi's forearm, halting the movement of his wrist.
Startled, Kiyoi lets go of his cock, opens his eyes, and stares at Hira. "Wha…?" He's too dazed to make sense of what's happening.
"Not yet," Hira insists firmly.
"Huh?"
Hira places his camera carefully on the bedside cabinet and grabs the belt from his trenchcoat. He wraps it around the headboard and ties each end to one of Kiyoi's wrists before the fog of arousal can clear from Kiyoi's mind.
Then he disappears.
When he returns he's holding Kiyoi's belt-tie which he uses to blindfold him. The tightly woven fabric plunges Kiyoi into darkness.
"R-red, stop," Hira stammers. "G-g—" He swallows and tries again. "G-green, g-g—"
"Green, go?" Kiyoi interrupts.
The arousal that threatened to overwhelm him earlier has receded, shifting into a different kind of excitement. Anticipation crawls under his skin like an itch.
"Mm," Hira agrees and pulls Kiyoi's boxer briefs all the way off.
Kiyoi breathes rapidly at the thought of being photographed like this, trussed up and helpless. His manager would have a fit if he knew. But Kiyoi knows that Hira would rather die than share even one of the photos he's taken of his precious Kiyoi—
"Green."
"Mm," Hira hums again.
Click—click.
Because he can't see, Kiyoi's other senses sharpen, and he listens intently as Hira moves around the room, trying to figure out what he's doing. Then the mattress dips as Hira kneels on the bed, folding Kiyoi's legs up and out so he's spread wide open, displayed like an invitation.
Click—click—click.
Kiyoi lets out a moan, bucking up, seeking friction yet finding none, but he can't stop the desperate grind of his hips. His moan grows louder.
Click—click,
His cock is leaking again, precum oozing out onto his stomach. His mind blurs with lust, his body so needy it hurts.
There's the snap of a cap, and then something cool and slippery presses at his entrance. It's his butt plug—large, stainless steel, with a pink jewel set in the flared base. Hira presses it gently against him until Kiyoi feels the burn of the stretch. Then, with infinite care, patience, and plenty of lube, Hira works it in.
Each press stretches Kiyoi wider around the plug until, with one final push, it slides fully inside.
Kiyoi groans.
Click.
Hira pulls on the plug, but Kiyoi’s rim clings to it as if it doesn't want to let go, making his breath catch.
Click.
Hira increases the pressure until the plug pops free.
Click.
He pushes it back in, very slowly, pausing at its widest point and twisting it until Kiyoi's body sucks it back in.
Click—click.
"So gorgeous," Hira murmurs.
The words send a warm shiver down Kiyoi's spine.
Before he can react further, Hira's large hands grip his hips and turn him onto his front. The belt restraining his wrists tightens as he moves and Kiyoi can feel the fabric bite into his skin.
Click.
Hira's heavy breathing weaves through the soft clicks of the camera, making Kiyoi's hips twitch. He gasps into the mattress, as the movement gives him a sliver of desperately needed friction.
Unable to touch himself because of the restraints, he ruts against the sheets, grinding his hips down instinctively and groaning at the drag of his cock. He can feel the fabric beneath him growing damp.
Without warning, Hira lifts him by the hips onto his knees. Kiyoi cries out at the loss of friction, bucking forward into empty air and finding no relief. He tugs futilely at the restraints for a few seconds before giving up and gripping the headboard, bracing himself on his knees.
Hira's palm strokes soothingly up and down his spine before pressing firmly between his shoulder blades.
Kiyoi obediently drops onto his elbows and arches his back, spreading his knees wide so his ass is raised. He buries his heated face in the pillow.
Click.
Hira pulls out the plug.
Click.
Then pushes it back in.
Click—click
Again.
Click—click—click.
And again.
Click—click—click—click.
And again.
Kiyoi whimpers, his body jerking slightly while Hira thrusts the plug in and out of him. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, neglected and weeping.
"Hira, please," he eventually begs, his voice breaking. He yanks hard against his restraints. "I can't take it any more. Can you stop…?"
"Red or g-g-g—"
"Green," Kiyoi sobs, pressing his face into the pillow as tears leak from the corners of his eyes. "Green, green, green."
"Mm," a quiet hum escapes Hira's lips.
To Kiyoi, it feels like mercy when the next time Hira pulls the plug out, he doesn't push it back in. Kiyoi can feel himself clenching around nothing.
Click.
Click—click.
He groans.
Clic— the camera shutter stops mid-whirr. After Hira has taken probably hundreds of photographs this evening, the battery in his camera has finally run out of charge.
"Mm," Hira says again, a note of disappointment in his voice as he climbs off the bed. Kiyoi hears him setting the camera on top of the cabinet, where it's safe.
There's a long pause, then Hira returns to his side, carefully helping Kiyoi turn over again with gentle hands. When Kiyoi is on his back, Hira presses something cool to his lips. Kiyoi opens his mouth, letting Hira push a small ice cube in.
When he realises what it is, Kiyoi sucks on the ice greedily, swallowing the water as it melts and it soothes his dry throat. He relaxes into the mattress with a sigh.
The bed dips beside him when Hira sits down, and then he's removing the blindfold from around Kiyoi's eyes. While Kiyoi blinks rapidly against the sudden light, Hira undoes the restraints, rubbing his thumbs gently into Kiyoi's skin. Red welts circle his wrists that will probably last for a couple of days.
Hira's panicked gaze meets Kiyoi's.
"Green," Kiyoi whispers.
"Mm," Hira replies. Then he stands and quickly strips off his clothes. When he's naked he climbs back onto the bed and settles half on top of Kiyoi, his weight pressing him into the mattress. His cock is a rigid line against Kiyoi's thigh.
"T-thank you. Now I'll make you feel good," Hira murmurs, as if he hasn't just spent the last few hours doing just that.
Hira's lips find Kiyoi's, kissing him, mouth hot and greedy. Kiyoi moans into the kiss, letting Hira deepen it, his tongue probing inside.
"Exquisite," Hira says, pulling back long enough to speak.
Moving with care, Hira trails a slow line of kisses along Kiyoi's jaw and down his chest. He pauses to tease at a nipple, teeth pressing until Kiyoi gasps, body jerking as electricity sparks along every nerve. Then he continues on, lips ghosting over Kiyoi's stomach.
Hira's tongue traces the grooves of Kiyoi's sculpted abs, his fingers caress patterns into Kiyoi's sides.
It feels so good, the light touches combined with the harder ones from Hira's mouth.
"B-beautiful," Hira murmurs, reverently kissing the tip of Kiyoi's cock before taking it into his mouth.
Kiyoi groans, hips jolting at the sensation. He feels Hira’s throat relax to accommodate him, warm and velvety. The fingers of one hand twist in the bedsheets at his side while the other comes up to tangle gently in Hira’s hair.
Hira slides his lips up and down Kiyoi’s length in a slow but steady rhythm, and when he pulls back, tongue curling to trace the vein on the underside, Kiyoi lets out another moan.
Sometimes Kiyoi still feels guilty for how easily he lets Hira take care of him. Before Hira, he’d only ever relied on himself. It had been lonelier than he’d realised.
Ever since his mum remarried and started a new family, Kiyoi had spent his life chasing attention. Now he's an actor and lives with someone who looks at him like he’s the centre of the universe.
Maybe Hira’s devotion is a little warped, too worshipful to be healthy, but Kiyoi has never once felt neglected with him.
He hisses as Hira pushes a couple of lube-covered fingers inside him, still sucking at Kiyoi’s length as he thrusts them in and out. The stretch makes Kiyoi gasp, especially when Hira curls his fingers just right.
Kiyoi grinds down against them, sobbing at the overwhelming pleasure.
Hira adds another one, stretching Kiyoi even more, and moves lower, pressing small kisses to the apex of Kiyoi's thighs and around his perineum where the digits are buried deep inside.
Hira slips his fingers out only to replace them with his tongue.
Kiyoi whimpers, writhing on the bed as Hira dips inside, lightly lapping at Kiyoi's sensitive walls before pulling back to kiss his hole with a gentleness that isn't surprising.
Kiyoi’s legs tremble as he strains to keep them spread, grateful for Hira’s steadying hands on his thighs.
"P-perfect," Hira murmurs, slithering up Kiyoi's body to deliver a filthy kiss to Kiyoi's mouth. Kiyoi can taste himself on Hira's tongue.
The kiss doesn't last long before Hira is moving his mouth expertly over Kiyoi's skin as he travels back down, nipping and sucking at Kiyoi's pale flesh and leaving faint red marks in his wake. His hand finds Kiyoi's cock and pumps steadily over it.
"Hira, please," Kiyoi begs. "Please."
The words come out small and desperate.
Hira nods and immediately moves, arranging Kiyoi's knees up and wide while a pillow supports his pelvis. Then he applies a handful of lube to his cock and guides the head to Kiyoi's entrance, rubbing against it.
All thoughts are driven out of Kiyoi's head when Hira pushes into him, brows knitting together in a look of intense concentration. Kiyoi meets him without hesitation as Hira rolls his hips, stuffing more of himself inside him.
"B-beautiful," Hira whispers, brushing some hair from Kiyoi's damp forehead with his free hand.
Kiyoi arches into the sensation of Hira filling him, welcoming the slide of Hira's cock against his walls and the flare of arousal when it brushes his prostate. Hira pushes Kiyoi's legs even wider apart, his gaze fixed on where he's moving inside him.
Kiyoi sees Hira’s eyes flicker longingly toward his camera. The look is brief, but Kiyoi knows Hira's imagining taking a photograph of him stretched around his cock.
"You can photograph yourself doing that next time," he whispers, barely able to meet Hira's shocked stare.
"Mm," Hira agrees happily, angling his hips to press harder against the spot that has Kiyoi seeing stars. Kiyoi clenches like a vice, loving the deep groan that spills from Hira's lips.
"S-so tight," Hira says in wonder.
Kiyoi smiles, his hands at Hira's waist, rising up to meet every thrust of Hira's hips.
Hira's hand snakes between their bodies, curling around where Kiyoi aches the most, and Kiyoi lets out a groan as Hira strokes it in time with his thrusts.
"Hira," Kiyoi whispers, almost delirious with need. "Gonna come."
Hira nods. "Mm."
Bracing himself further on his knees, Hira angles himself to drive even harder into Kiyoi. One hand grips Kiyoi's hip hard enough to bruise, while the other strokes Kiyoi's cock with rapid, desperate movements, his thumb rubbing over the leaking tip.
Suddenly Kiyoi is coming, spilling over his stomach. His release is almost painful in its intensity. A moment later Hira follows, hips jerking erratically, as he presses deep inside him.
Kiyoi shudders, breath coming in small, shallow gasps as Hira rocks through the aftermath.
When he's finished, Hira leans forward to press a few kisses against Kiyoi’s lips. He stays there until he starts to soften, then pulls out, removes the pillow, and gently lowers Kiyoi's legs.
Kiyoi can feel the wetness trickling out and has the insane urge to beg Hira to put the plug back in to keep it there.
Hira lies down at Kiyoi's side, wrapping an arm around him and pulling him close. Kiyoi buries his face in Hira's neck, tired both from the long day and what they've just done, but sated.
They cling to each other for a long while until their post-coital haze gradually recedes and Hira begins to fidget.
"Kiyoi, wait here," he insists.
Kiyoi nods, watching as Hira sits up and rolls off the bed. He returns a minute later with a warm, damp cloth, which he uses to wipe Kiyoi down, swiping it gently over Kiyoi's abdomen, between his legs, and around his abused hole.
After tossing the cloth into the laundry hamper, Hira moves to the wardrobe and returns with a couple of sets of comfortable clothes. Kiyoi allows Hira to dress him in his favourite hoodie and a pair of plaid pyjama pants before following him into the kitchen.
On the stove is a pan of noodle soup Hira prepared earlier. Kiyoi watches while Hira heats it and ladles some into two bowls.
"Eat," Hira says, placing a steaming bowl in front of Kiyoi.
It smells delicious.
Kiyoi stays quiet while he eats. The spicy soup is warm and comforting. He's grateful for the care Hira always shows him in a hundred small ways like this—knowing what Kiyoi wants after a long day at the agency.
Simple things that make Kiyoi feel loved, even if Hira rarely says it aloud.
When they've finished eating, Hira leaves the bowls in the sink to wash later. Then they head to the bedroom, stopping briefly in the bathroom to brush their teeth.
In the bedroom, Kiyoi rifles through his backpack and pulls out a rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper. He holds it out to Hira.
"Happy Valentine's Day," Kiyoi says when Hira finally accepts it.
Immediately Hira tries to hand it back.
"Argh," he wails, startling Kiyoi. "I d-didn't get Kiyoi anything."
"Huh?" Kiyoi frowns. "I didn't buy it because I wanted something in return. I bought it because I want you to have it."
He sits cross-legged on the bed.
Eventually Hira calms down enough to join him, painstakingly peeling back the paper without tearing it.
Inside is an empty photo frame.
When he sees it, his face lights up so brightly it almost blinds Kiyoi.
"I thought you might like to choose a photo to put in it."
"Mm," Hira says, smiling as his gaze flicks toward his camera.
"Maybe…one of me from tonight?" Kiyoi suggests slowly.
He tries not to think too hard about what those photos probably look like.
"Mm." Hira nods vigorously.
Sleep tugs at Kiyoi, and he yawns loudly, stretching his arms over his head. When Hira slips out of the room with his camera in hand, Kiyoi crawls beneath the covers.
Curling onto his side, he pushes one hand beneath the pillow and drifts off to the quiet hum of Hira's printer.
It's still several hours before dawn when Kiyoi wakes alone in bed. He goes searching for Hira and finds him asleep on the lounge floor amid a sea of photographs from the earlier photoshoot.
Hira appears to have printed every single one.
Kiyoi's mouth goes dry when he picks up a couple of the nearest photos and sees the lewd images. But despite the obscene content, they're surprisingly beautiful. Hira really is talented.
Stepping carefully between the scattered photographs, Kiyoi moves closer.
Hira is hugging the photo frame against his chest. Curious, Kiyoi gently eases it from his grip to see which picture Hira decided was worthy of framing.
To his surprise, it's a photograph of their hands, their matching pearl rings on display.
Hira cropped the image so carefully that no one looking at it would realise their hands had been resting on Kiyoi's erection.
"Hira, come to bed," Kiyoi whispers, gently shaking him awake and helping him to his feet.
Hira nods sleepily, letting Kiyoi guide him back to the bedroom and tuck him beneath the covers. He rolls over and immediately falls asleep again.
Kiyoi places the framed photograph on the dresser so Hira will see it when he wakes. He stares at it for a long moment, his chest aching with so much affection it almost hurts.
Then he slips back into bed and presses himself against Hira's back, one arm wrapped around his waist.
Maybe next time Hira can show him the photos from tonight.
Or maybe Hira can take some new ones.