Work Text:
"How bad do you want it, hm?"
Just like how he has been doing all night, Issei looks down at the man kneeling between his legs, and it should’ve been the other way around. It’s always supposed to be the other way around. Hiro, pink-haired and flushed, is supposed to be the one gasping, clinging, trembling under his touch. But instead, he’s the one shaking.
The sight of Hiro—cheeks warm, mouth still glistening, shirt completely undone like he never meant to wear it in the first place—is too much. He looks divine, like something Issei isn’t allowed to touch.
And the cuffs? They’re hell. They’re what's keeping him from falling apart completely.
He feels the loss of contact when Hiro slowly drags his hand from his thigh. Like a spark going out. Like air leaving the room. Issei swallows thickly, realizing a second too late how long he’d been holding his breath. He’s seconds away from drooling, actually drooling, just from watching. “Hiro—” he croaks, licking his lips. His voice feels ruined. “Baby, please...”
But Hiro only laughs. As if he hadn’t just made Issei come undone with that mouth. As if he hasn't been torturing his lover this whole time.
Then one of his hands disappears behind him, slowly like a performance, and Issei knows exactly where it’s going. He wants to growl, scream, cry—anything to replace the growing heat and helplessness that takes root deep in his gut.
His hole. Hiro’s fucking teasing himself. Touching what should be Issei’s job.
Issei tugs on the cuffs again. Useless. He curses them under his breath, wants to tear them off, wants to throw Hiro down and make him feel.
But Hiro just rests his cheek on Issei’s thigh like he’s innocent. Like this isn’t the cruelest thing he’s ever done.
“What should I do... Issei? I’m new to this.”
Liar. A beautiful, cruel liar. And yet—Issei still can’t look away. Not when Hiro’s other hand travels up his own body, fingers pinching his nipple, breathing out shaky little sighs as he slowly presses one finger in. "You’ve always done all the work," Hiro whispers, voice soft yet dangerous.
"Am I doing this right...?"
Issei wants to scream. Yes. No. Let me help you. Let me take over. Let me love you the way I’m meant to. But all he can do is stare as Hiro's chest rises and falls, breath hitching as a second finger pushes inside. His body trembles under the fabric of Issei’s white shirt—his shirt—and God, he’s so beautiful like this. Skin flushed, hair messy, lips parted, pupils blown wide with need.
This is what Issei lives for.
To see Hiro like this.
To be the reason he looks like this.
Not just desperate—but wrecked. Ruined. His.
“'Cause that’s my job, baby—c’mon—Hiro, please—fuck—!”
Even the brush of Hiro’s cheek beside his cock is too much. It drives him insane. Makes his hips jerk helplessly in the air. He wants to touch. Needs to touch. To bury his hands in Hiro’s hair and kiss the breath out of him until he forgets his own name.
Instead, he watches.
And Hiro is smirking, mercilessly kisses the tip of his cock.
“Always so eager,” he says. “So desperate to make me feel good. Love that for you.”
Issei whimpers.
Hiro tightens his grip on Issei’s thigh while his other hand continues working himself open. But they both know—he’ll never reach that spot. Not with his fingers. Not like Issei can.
And Issei knows it too. That’s why his chest feels tight. That’s why his breath is coming too fast, too uneven. Because he should be the one touching him. Spoiling him. Like always. Like he needs to.
Because he is addicted.
Addicted to the way Hiro gasps when he curls his fingers just right. To the way Hiro’s legs tremble when his tongue slides in, slow and deep. To the moans he makes when Issei whispers how good he tastes.
That’s what kills him now. Being here. Watching.
“...–ushed.”
Hiro blinks.
“What?”
Issei’s voice is rough, dry from pleading. But his eyes—God, his eyes are still soft, as if he's looking at the most precious being. Oh wait, he is.
“You don’t like it rushed,” he says, quiet, like a confession. “You like it slow. And precise.” He watches the way Hiro shivers. “That spot you love the most… You like it when I fuck you there with my fingers.” The handcuffs rattle as he leans forward as far as he can, voice dropping to a whisper.
“You heard me? My fingers.”
Hiro’s breath catches.
“You love my cock, I know. But you melt when I take my time. When I spread you open with just my fingers, my tongue—when I worship you.”
“Issei—” Hiro says, and there’s almost no teasing left. Just need.
“I’ll spoil you all night, baby. Please. That’s all I want. That’s the only thing I want.”
“I– I want to give you pleasure too,” Hiro breathes. “I can’t always be the one who takes—”
Issei groans—pained, breathless. “Jesus fucking christ— Hiro, listen.”
Their foreheads nearly touch. His voice breaks.
“Watching you fall apart because of me—my hands, my mouth, my cock—that’s my pleasure. You really think this is one-sided?” He shakes his head, trembling. “You’ve got no fucking idea how much I need to give you everything. Every single second of it.”
There’s silence. Heavy, fragile silence. Issei watches him—eyes glassy, chest heaving, arms trembling where they hold him upright. Hiro blinks slowly, lips parted. His fingers are still buried inside himself, barely moving now, as if he’s forgotten what he was doing.
And maybe he has. Because this isn’t just teasing anymore. This is Hiro realizing what he’s done. And it breaks something open in Issei’s chest.
“Baby...” His voice softens, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to prove anything. You never did.” Hiro swallows hard, blinking rapidly like he’s trying to stay composed. But Issei sees it. The flush deepening, the way his eyes avoid direct contact for the first time. He’s trembling. His body’s still trying to play it cool, still grinding his fingers in slow circles like he’s in control, but Issei knows better.
“Hiro,” he breathes. “Please let me touch you. Let me take care of you.” His voice cracks at the end.
“I need to.”
And God, it’s not an exaggeration. He doesn’t just want it—he aches with it. Every cell in his body is screaming to hold him, to bury his face in Hiro’s neck and kiss him until he forgets the rest of the world. To fuck him open with his fingers until Hiro can’t remember why he ever tried to do it himself.
Hiro bites his bottom lip. He looks up, finally—and the emotion there? It guts Issei. He’s vulnerable. Pink. Soft. And this time, when he speaks, the teasing’s gone.
“I was trying to... be good,” Hiro murmurs. “Wanted to surprise you. Make you feel taken care of for once.”
Issei’s breath catches.
“Oh, baby,” he says, voice thick. “You already do. Every fucking day. You just have to exist, and I’m done for.”
Hiro lets out a shaky breath, and finally—finally—his fingers slip out of himself. His hands fall to his sides. He leans forward, resting his forehead against Issei’s. “I like it better when it’s you,” he admits quietly. “I always do.”
A sound breaks from Issei’s throat, half a groan, half a prayer. His hips twitch up, desperate for contact, but he doesn’t dare push too far. Not without permission. Still, the moment Hiro’s lips brush against his—barely there, the softest press of mouths, and something in him snaps.
“Keys,” he gasps against Hiro’s mouth. “Please—get the key. I can’t—I need—”
“You’ll be good?” Hiro whispers, smiling just slightly, eyes soft and glittering.
“I’ll ruin you,” Issei promises. “I’ll make you forget how to stand. I’ll make you scream so much you lose your voice. I’ll worship every inch of you until you’re begging me to stop—and I still won’t.”
Hiro breathes out a laugh. Shaky. Shy. And then he moves. He gets up on weak legs, straddling Issei for just a moment as he reaches toward the bedside drawer. Issei watches him, mesmerized by the way his body moves—slow and sensual and wrecked, even when he’s the one in control. He fumbles with the key for only a moment, and then— Click.
The cuffs release.
Issei’s hands fall forward, and for a second, he just sits there, stunned. Breathing. Processing.
Then— He moves.
Hands instantly on Hiro’s waist, gripping like a man starved. He pulls him in, presses his face to Hiro’s stomach, groaning deep as he kisses skin, worships it, tastes it like it’s his last meal. Hiro gasps, threading fingers through his hair.
“Lie down,” Issei growls against his skin, voice hoarse and low. “Now.”
Hiro doesn’t argue. He lets himself be pushed back against the mattress, and Issei climbs over him like a wave breaking against the shore. He trails kisses from his stomach to his chest to his throat, worshipping, tasting, claiming. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, lips against Hiro’s collarbone.
“I think I do,” Hiro breathes, arching into his touch.
“No, baby. You don’t.” Issei’s voice trembles. “You don’t know how many times I’ve thought about this. About spoiling you until you cry. Making you feel so good it’s unbearable.” His hands glide down Hiro’s sides, thumbs pressing into the softness of his hips. He spreads him open like a gift. And this time—this time—his fingers find their place between his thighs. No more pretending. No more teasing.
Issei smiles against his skin.
“I’ve got you now.”
Hiro shudders at the sound of it. Soft, breathless, like a vow murmured against his skin. Issei’s fingers slide between his thighs, and there’s a stillness that follows—not hesitation, but reverence. Like he’s taking a moment to just feel. To remember. To ground himself in the reality that this is finally happening. That he’s finally allowed to touch again.
“God, you’re warm,” Issei groans. He presses his palm against Hiro’s inner thigh, spreads him open wider. “I’ve missed this. Missed you.”
Hiro’s already panting, chest rising in shallow gasps as Issei’s fingers stroke over his entrance—wet from earlier, fluttering, still stretched from those teasing, insufficient touches. Issei slides one finger in. Slowly. Carefully.
Hiro gasps. His back arches.
“I missed this,” Issei whispers, voice thick. “The way you tighten around me. The way you tremble when I push in just right.” He curls his finger—and Hiro whines.
“There,” Issei says, “There it is. That spot you love.” He slides in a second finger without warning, pressing in deep, and Hiro makes the kind of sound that breaks Issei’s sanity clean in half—choked and desperate, hips rocking up, thighs trembling. “You like that?” Issei pants, eyes glued to Hiro’s face. “You like when I take control again?”
“Yes–fuck, yes Issei—”
Hiro clutches at the sheets, head thrown back. Issei watches his throat move as he swallows, watches sweat bead at his temple. It’s beautiful. Overwhelming. Addictive.
“You’re so fucking responsive,” Issei breathes. “You were pretending earlier, weren’t you? Trying to look in control, while all you really wanted—” He presses in deeper, scissoring his fingers slowly, rubbing that spot until Hiro cries out again. “—was this. Me. Touching you. Ruining you.”
“Yes—yes, I did—I need you—”
Issei leans in, mouth trailing open-mouthed kisses along Hiro’s flushed chest, tongue swirling around a nipple, biting just enough to pull another moan from him. His fingers move faster now, deliberate, deep strokes that make Hiro writhe. “That’s it, baby,” Issei murmurs against his skin. “Let go. Let me spoil you. You’ve got nothing to prove. I want this. I need this.”
His fingers thrust harder, curling precisely each time, dragging Hiro higher and higher. The slick sound of it, the way Hiro clenches around him—it’s obscene. And Issei is fucking starved for it.
“I can feel how close you are,” he whispers. “Clenching like you want to come from my fingers alone.”
“I—I might—Issei, I—fuck, I can’t—!”
“Yes, you can,” Issei growls. “You will. I’m not stopping until you break for me.”
He keeps going—relentless, adoring, mouth trailing heat across every inch of Hiro’s body. His tongue dips into the hollow of his hipbone as his free hand slides up to pinch at Hiro’s nipple again, matching the rhythm of his fingers. “Come for me, baby. From my fingers. From me.”
Hiro’s hands claw at the sheets, his entire body going taut, trembling so hard the bed creaks beneath them. Issei watches him break—really break—eyes glassy, mouth open, a cry spilling out as he comes untouched, cock twitching, painting his own stomach with warmth.
Issei groans. He doesn’t stop. Not even as Hiro goes limp, chest heaving, sweat glistening over every inch of his skin.
He slows down—but only slightly—still working Hiro through the aftershocks, gentle now, like a caress. “I told you,” Issei whispers, brushing damp hair from Hiro’s forehead, kissing his temple. “I’m here to give. I’d do this all night. Over and over, until you can’t speak.”
Hiro tries to laugh—tries—but it catches halfway, melts into a shiver.
“You—” he breathes. “You’re so... fucking much.”
Issei chuckles, but it’s shaky, wrecked. He cups Hiro’s cheek and makes him look up, eyes soft but blazing. “And you love it.”
There’s silence.
And then Hiro—finally, honestly—nods.
“I do.”