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When Hira gets home first, he cleans. Sometimes he cooks. He dusts the living room first, because that’s where Kiyoi spends the most time, and then he scrubs out the bathtub and collects old clothes for the laundry. Hira’s happy to do it, at least when Kiyoi’s out, because simply staring at him isn’t an option. It’s good to be useful, in service to Kiyoi. Hira picks all the garbage off their bedroom floor, accumulated from another busy week, adds discarded towels to the laundry basket and moves one of Kiyoi’s new designer bags—a “gift” from a sponsor—onto the bed so he can sweep. In doing so, the bag falls over, which Hira doesn’t think anything of, because it’s not one Kiyoi uses often so should be empty.
Except something falls out. It hits the floor and rolls against Hira’s foot. He stares down at it, horror-struck, because he disrespected Kiyoi’s property. He might’ve broken Kiyoi’s property. He waits for a jagged lightning bolt to lance right through the ceiling and strike him down. His hands fly together, mind spiraling through a prayer—he didn’t realize that’s where Kiyoi kept his flashlights and is incredibly sorry for blasphemously moving Kiyoi’s flashlight and inadvertently dropping Kiyoi’s flashlight on the floor. In his inexcusable defense, he didn’t know Kiyoi had flashlights; whenever he’s needed illumination, he’s always used his phone. Then Hira realizes it’s not a flashlight, because flashlights have glass on the end.
A door opens in the distance—probably the main entrance—Kiyoi must be home. Under normal circumstances, Hira might rush to greet Kiyoi at the door like a lovesick puppy.
But Hira’s brain is broken, because he’s staring at a plastic tube with a plush pink tip that looks disconcertingly like flesh. For a few painful seconds, Hira doesn’t even understand what he’s looking at. Some inscrutable instrument from the gods. Then he remembers some unwanted wanton internet ad that popped up on his phone once. He realizes what he’s looking at. Kiyoi calls his name, and Hira tries to answer but just sort of... flounders.
Kiyoi appears in the doorway. He huffs, “Why didn’t you answer if you were home? I want—”
Kiyoi’s the only thing that could thaw Hira’s frozen brain. He glances over, eager to know what Kiyoi wants, so he can make it happen. But Kiyoi stops talking; he’s staring at Hira’s feet.
He jerks forward. Hira reels back, nearly falling over, as Kiyoi snatches the not-flashlight off the ground and hurriedly stuffs it back into the designer bag. He snaps, “Why did you—!” Only to switch to, “I didn’t buy it! It’s not mine! I met up with some of the old theatre cafe crew after work yesterday, and Iruma gave it to me as a joke—it was some bullshit about how uptight I am or whatever, I don’t know, but it’s not like I asked for it. I didn’t even want it! It was totally humiliating! I tried to give it back, but he wouldn’t take it, and it just drew more attention, so I just put it away to deal with later, and then I—” He swallows. “I...” In the span of a few seconds, his whole pretty face has transitioned from peach to pink to burning red, and it makes him even prettier. Hira loves when Kiyoi blushes. It always makes him swoon. It consumes all his attention and erases all thoughts of whatever they were talking about. Kiyoi insists, “I didn’t use it!”
Hira nods, because it seems like Kiyoi’s trying to tell him something important, and he must appease his king. Kiyoi repeats, “I didn’t!”
“Mhm.”
“I... ugh. Whatever. I’ll just...” He twitches towards the bag, then back, then splutters, “I want yakisoba for dinner!” And storms out of the room.
It takes Kiyoi physically leaving Hira’s presence to break the spell. Hira blinks at the empty doorway and tries to process what just happened. He found something weird. That another man gave Kiyoi. That Kiyoi could’ve used to make himself blush even deeper, but he didn’t; he swears he didn’t. Hira feels dirty for even thinking that, for pondering Kiyoi and a sex toy at the same time, but also can’t stop. Hira has no experience with sex toys but knows they’re meant to make the user feel good, and he would never use one, because his own pleasure’s immaterial, and no toy could ever come close to the majesty of Kiyoi Sou: the only stimulation Hira ever needs. But Kiyoi could use one. Kiyoi deserves all the pleasure in the world. He deserves far more than Hira’s unworthy body. Hira’s always wanted to give Kiyoi more.
Then he remembers that Kiyoi wants yakisoba for dinner and scrambles off to make some.
Dinner is spent in silence, other than the normal ethereal sounds of Kiyoi slurping noodles. They don’t usually talk a lot, but the silence becomes conspicuous, and Hira keeps meaning to ask about Kiyoi’s day but can’t get out the words. Kiyoi usually complains about some coworkers and praises other ones and tells Hira what they’ll do on the weekend. Instead, he’s cutely quiet, lapsing in and out of new fervent blushes and glaring off to the side. Hira keeps stealing furtive looks at him, but that’s nothing new. Hira always stares at Kiyoi. It rarely makes Kiyoi blush anymore, so he must be thinking of something else, like the weird tool in their bedroom.
Hira can’t stop thinking about it. He’s never thought of those kinds of things before. The one time he engaged in sexual activity without Kiyoi, the real life Kiyoi teasing and tempting him and expressly pulling him in, was when he jerked off with his own hand. Just his hand. And Kiyoi’s photo. And he felt so guilty afterwards that he hasn’t done it since. Now he waits for Kiyoi to shuffle up to him and grumble for him to do something. He never thought about Kiyoi masturbating. Putting those two words together short circuits Hira’s brain. He pauses mid-bite. Sauce slides down his windpipe. He chokes. He fully understands why Kiyoi doesn’t rush over to pat his back and make sure he doesn’t die.
He recovers, because if he died, Kiyoi would have to cook his own noodles, and he probably doesn’t know how to do that. So Hira must survive and do it for him. Kiyoi shoves a glass of water across the table, and Hira downs it, cheeks all red like Kiyoi’s.
He doesn’t like the thought of another man giving Kiyoi something like that, even as a gift. It looked brand new, but that’s still bad, the thought of someone buying that for Kiyoi. Hira knows he has no right to be jealous. It’s not like Kiyoi’s his; he can’t own a god. But still. He has so many questions. He doesn’t ask them, because Kiyoi clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, and in the end, it doesn’t matter what Iruma was thinking. What matters is that they have a sex toy in their bedroom that could possibly make Kiyoi feel good and all Hira wants out of life is for Kiyoi to feel good.
It doesn’t occur to Hira that he could use it. He doesn’t want it. He already gets to slide himself into Kiyoi’s tight channel, smooth and velvet-soft, better than any other paradise. But Kiyoi rarely gets to insert himself into anything. He rarely tops in any capacity. He could any time he wanted, but doesn’t, and maybe that’s because Hira doesn’t feel good enough or doesn’t look right or something that the toy could fix. Then Hira’s head snaps up with the wild thought that Kiyoi could have both. Feel the pleasure Hira does and also the normal kind he always chooses. And they could face a mirror, so Hira could see—could watch Kiyoi do it and—
Kiyoi snaps, “Stop looking at me.”
Hira nods and looks at his plate. So many noodles left. He’s not hungry anymore. At least, not for noodles. They probably can’t do the mirror thing. Kiyoi already seemed embarrassed earlier, which doesn’t make any sense, because he’s a perfect being that could never have anything to be embarrassed about, but he also says the mirror thing is too shameful and will only let Hira make love to him in front of one on special occasions.
It’s not a special occasion. It’s a regular Friday night with an irregular extra object haunting their dinner table. Kiyoi picks angrily at his noodles, and Hira makes himself keep eating so he has the strength and energy to serve Kiyoi more.
They finish dinner. A small dessert. Hira brings Kiyoi a can of ginger ale, and Kiyoi games on his phone on the living room couch while Hira does the dishes. He’s just finished drying the blessed reusable chopsticks that touched Kiyoi’s lips when Kiyoi pops up beside him, and Hira nearly jumps out of his skin.
Kiyoi commands, “You can’t use it either.”
Hira solemnly nods. Never. He gingerly puts the chopsticks in the drawer and physically steps back to demonstrate he’ll never ever use them. He hums, “Will never use Kiyoi’s chopsticks.”
“Wh—” Kiyoi’s face scrunches, adorable. “Not the chopsticks, you idiot! The... the thing!”
Hira nods. Yes, the thing. He’ll never use the thing, even if he’s held hostage and ordered to at gunpoint. Kiyoi crosses his arms and glares at Hira as if waiting for Hira to offer some resistance. Hira doesn’t.
Kiyoi adds, “You shouldn’t want to anyway. You already get to... you know... with me. All the time.”
Hira nods. With Kiyoi. Yes. Amazing.
“Whatever, I’ll just throw it out.”
“Mm.”
“It’s not like I’ll ever use it.”
“Mm.”
The stare-off resumes. Hira’s gifted the chance to gaze dreamily into Kiyoi’s dazzling eyes.
Then Kiyoi turns on his heel and storms towards the bedroom. Hira drops the dishtowel and hurries after, curious. Kiyoi plucks the bag from earlier off the mattress, where Hira left it, holding the strange instrument that could bring Kiyoi pleasure. Kiyoi clutches the bag against his chest, spots Hira behind him, blushes again and demands, “What?”
Hira looks at him. At the bag. At the corner of the old-fashioned full-body floor mirror Hira inherited with the old house that’s currently peeking out of their closet from where they hastily put it away after the last rapturous round of mirror sex. Hira only wanted one thing for his birthday, which Kiyoi had to coax out of him like pulling teeth, because it felt so wrong to ask. But he did. And he got. Kiyoi is a benevolent, generous god.
Kiyoi follows Hira’s gaze and splutters, “Absolutely not.” He throws the bag back to the bed and pushes past Hira. Hira tries to follow, but Kiyoi hisses, “I need some air, don’t follow me!” So Hira doesn’t. For the first few minutes.
Then he inevitably gets his camera and takes pictures of Kiyoi reading a script on the balcony by phone-light, because the sun’s setting and not enough to read by and Kiyoi doesn’t use flashlights.
The rest of the night’s a blur. Hira doesn’t know how it happened. One minute he’s floating through fantasies of his beloved Kiyoi while blow-drying Kiyoi’s pretty hair after Kiyoi’s bath, and the next minute, they’re both in the bedroom, with the bedside lamp on and the mirror propped against the closet. Hira sits on the bed, and Kiyoi sits on Hira.
Hira didn’t mean to work himself into the fantasy. He never means to push his wholly unworthy cock inside Kiyoi’s heavenly channel, but Kiyoi sinks down onto his thighs like they’re both right where they belong. It’s not Hira’s place to question. He greedily accepts Kiyoi’s warm body tight around his cock, Kiyoi’s gorgeous figure sprawled out in his arms. Kiyoi slumps back into his chest, head lolling onto his shoulder, mouth open wide with a breathy gasp. Hira devours the vision in the mirror: Kiyoi’s perfect reflection. He traces the lean line of Kiyoi’s exposed throat and watches Kiyoi’s adam’s apple bob with each shuddering breath. One of Hira’s arms circles Kiyoi’s waist, firmly holding Kiyoi on, while the other holds their new toy over Kiyoi’s cock.
The only tragedy is that Hira can’t see that pretty cock, only quick glimpses of the long shaft when he lifts the toy up. It slides along Kiyoi’s length smooth and easy, easier than Hira’s cock inside Kiyoi’s asshole. Hira faithfully pulls the toy up and down, stroking Kiyoi through it. He doesn’t buck up to match those movements. His hips tremble with the desperate urge to thrust up into Kiyoi, to gain friction and fill him deeper, fuck him hard and fast. Hira holds them still. He doesn’t want to dislodge Kiyoi. His focus pours into Kiyoi’s cock and the toy locked around it. He can’t see what it’s doing, what its insides look like as they drag along Kiyoi’s smooth skin and rippling veins, but he can see what it feels like. He can soak in Kiyoi’s reaction. He drowns in that pleasure. He watches, wide-eyed, afraid to blink and miss a single second of Kiyoi being fucked on both ends.
It’s different than usual. It’s always amazing when they have sex, because Kiyoi’s amazing, amazing to know and touch and feel; Hira gently kisses Kiyoi’s shoulders and finds his sweat delicious. He makes the most erotic noises when they make love, but the new instrument’s heightened everything; he writhes and moans and trembles in Hira’s arms like he can’t stand the overload. He sounds completely overwhelmed. The new noises are incredible, and each needy whimper makes Hira’s cock twitch inside Kiyoi’s stifling body. Kiyoi keeps clenching around him, exhilarating and such a threat to Hira’s fierce control. He loves Kiyoi so much and wants to fuck Kiyoi so badly but holds steady with the toy like it’s his life’s purpose, because it is. He has to make Kiyoi feel good. He has to fill Kiyoi’s asshole up like Kiyoi always wants and also play with Kiyoi’s lovely cock the way it deserves. Hira twists the toy and even tries to squeeze the plastic, adding pressure, stimulating every little bit he can. He kisses Kiyoi’s neck, and Kiyoi moans, “Fuck, Hiiiira...”
Kiyoi so rarely says Hira’s name. When he does, it means something, makes Hira’s heart pound. Butterflies flutter all over his stomach. He loves the sound of Kiyoi’s voice and could come from that alone. Then Kiyoi squirms up, lifting a fraction off Hira’s cock, only to drop back down, and Hira actually sees stars.
He murmurs, “Mm, don’t... have to...” but it’s too late; Kiyoi starts bouncing. He’s shaking, whining, slick with sweat against Hira’s stomach so their skin sticks together, but he still jerks himself up and down in Hira’s lap while Hira struggles to keep up. He matches the pace, lets Kiyoi set the rhythm, and makes sure he still manages to get the toy right up against Kiyoi’s crotch. It’s long enough to bottom out, to swallow Kiyoi completely. Hira hates to lose that view but it’s so worth it for the haze on Kiyoi’s face. His cheeks are completely red, his whole body flushed, glistening in the dim lamp light. It feels warm, intimate, and Kiyoi’s insides are fire-hot, his shoulders burning Hira’s chest, his thighs bruising Hira’s. It makes sense to Hira, because Kiyoi’s a star, and Hira was always willing to burn up inside him. Kiyoi mutters something like shut up and fucks himself so hard.
Hira feels stupid. Not just from the sex—he’s been foolish; he should’ve bought toys for Kiyoi sooner. He should’ve been paying attention to Kiyoi’s poor, neglected cock, whenever he made love to Kiyoi’s hole. He’s often used his hand, but he can’t envelop it as completely as the toy. He makes a mental note to buy more things, new things, to do proper research into anything that can show Kiyoi a good time. He can’t leave it up to Kiyoi; Kiyoi’s at capacity; he looks utterly overcome and unable to function, talk, think. He babbles things like, “Please,” and, “Yes!” and garbled versions of Hira’s name and even, “More!” But Hira’s afraid to do that—Kiyoi already looks so overwrought that any more could kill him. He suddenly arches up, grabbing Hira’s arm, digging in his nails, and screaming bloody murder.
It’s the fastest he’s come since the first time they made love. Hira’s dazed by the speed and efficiency. He’s in awe of Kiyoi’s power. He slams the toy down onto Kiyoi’s dick and holds it there, pinning Kiyoi to him, while Kiyoi gasps and shudders. His hole clenches wildly around Hira’s cock, so tight it hurts; it’s dizzying. The only reason Hira doesn’t come too is sheer will power. He needs to have the wherewithal to hold the toy down. He needs to give hold and brace Kiyoi and give Kiyoi the best orgasm possible. He vacantly eyes the mirror, so overcome himself that he can barely take it in. Kiyoi is stunning. His orgasm’s captivating. Hira’s completely hypnotized and sickeningly in love.
Usually, Kiyoi collapses afterwards, and Hira will get to hold him tight and kiss his brow and tenderly take care of him. This time, Kiyoi folds forward, groaning and covering his face. He hides behind both hands, while Hira tentatively pecks the nape of his neck and murmurs, “Thank you.”
Kiyoi elbows him. Not hard, but enough to know he said something weird. Kiyoi’s behaving like he’s embarrassed again, and Hira doesn’t understand, because Kiyoi’s at his peak: the most egregiously beautiful. Hira hesitantly draws the toy off Kiyoi, and Kiyoi squeaks, tensing, a thin rope of white stretching between the plastic and Kiyoi’s rosy pink tip. Hira sets the tube down on the sheets and tries to lift Kiyoi off his lap, but Kiyoi drops his weight and resists—Hira chokes and stops.
Still hiding, Kiyoi mumbles, “Did you... you haven’t come yet...?”
“Don’t need to.”
“Ugh, you’re so ridiculous.”
“Okay.”
Kiyoi grunts a noise of dissatisfaction and elbows Hira again, ordering, “Just... keep going until you come.”
“Mm, but...”
Kiyoi quietly groans, “I can’t believe I came that fast...” like it’s something to be ashamed of instead of something wonderful. He clears his throat, sits a little straighter, and peeks over his fingertips to glare into the mirror. His distracting reflection demands, “Make me come again.” Hira’s breath catches, spellbound by everything.
He picks the toy back up and does as he’s told.
When it comes to Kiyoi, Hira’s willpower is colossal, but he’s only a pitiful human and inevitably gives in. His orgasm seems to wrack a second one out of Kiyoi, and Hira moves like a man possessed to properly milk Kiyoi’s out even while he’s reeling through his own. It’s a crazed, feral mess, that twists through Hira’s whole body and takes everything out of him. Watching Kiyoi, feeling Kiyoi, hearing Kiyoi come is all too much to take. Even the stench of Kiyoi’s sweaty skin and dribbling release makes Hira tremble with pleasure. He drowns in Kiyoi’s essence. Hira can’t believe his luck in experiencing such nirvana. He gives the toy a reverent look before he pulls it off and doesn’t want to put away the mirror. But Kiyoi says he can’t sleep with it still there, that it’s too creepy, so Hira begrudgingly puts it away. He takes the toy to the bathroom to clean. He brings a wet rag back to gently wash Kiyoi. He covers Kiyoi in kisses and lets Kiyoi pull him to the bed and delights in Kiyoi curling up at his side. He pets Kiyoi’s hair and thinks surely he’s died and made it to the astral plain.
They’re both tired. Not just physically, emotionally: seeing Kiyoi’s best performance always winds Hira. Kiyoi must be exhausted. He works so hard and came so hard. Twice. They’re silent for a long while again, but not conspicuous—comfortable. Then Kiyoi mutters, “Maybe... we won’t throw it out.”
Hira’s heart skips a beat. He agrees, “W-whatever Kiyoi wants.”
“I mean it though; you can’t use it without me.”
Hira promises, “Never.”
Silence lapses again. Someone needs to turn off the bedside lamp. But it’s on Kiyoi’s side, and Hira can’t move to it without dislodging Kiyoi. He’s happy to sleep with the light on; that way if he wakes up, he can watch Kiyoi sleeping.
Kiyoi quietly says, “I won’t use it without you either.”
Hira thinks that’s unnecessary. Kiyoi should always have access to his own pleasure. But Hira doesn’t want to argue with his king so simply kisses Kiyoi’s cheek and swears, “I love you, Kiyoi.”