Archive of Our Own ^beta

The more you look at him, the more you can see it - he’s made for this.

What do you want out of it? What do you seek? Chime the bell and he’ll be there, as perfect as always in a fitted suit, fully buttoned shirt, jacket pressed and tight on his sides. He would throw himself on the ground for you, knees hitting the polished tiles with a dull, trained, sweet thud, the sound of blind obedience.

It’s charming, but it’s never enough. You want him to whimper and jump, to shed layers, for his sweat to roll off his temple and stick under his chin until a tremble will make the drop fall and smear on his chest.

His tears are salty, the opposite of nectar but still the most precious manna that sticks on your fingers. You have a taste before you push index and middle finger in his mouth, making him take them to the knuckle. 

“Ijichi,” You call his surname, sing-songy as he chokes, “are you sure you’ve learned your lesson?”

He whimpers pitifully, mouth too stuffed to answer but still trying to be good: a good boy, your good boy, the sickest puppy the world conceived. His glasses fog and you slide them up to the bridge of his nose, careful to not let them fall. 

Your palm itches as it slaps down on milky skin. His bottom is evenly pink now, chasing the same color of the blush that lights up his face. It travels down, down to his jaw, his neck, down to where his tie is fastened on top of a now crumpled shirt. His jacket lies abandoned at your side.

There’s a quiver in his legs. Another slap, another hand-shaped mark, another shiver - or rather, another wordless thrust of his hips. Voluntary or not, it is too sweet to ignore his chase for friction humping against your thigh. 

"What will I ever do with you?" You tut, fingertip pressing on his tongue. A trickle of drool runs down your wrist and when you take your hand away from his face, Kiyotaka takes a while before realizing that he can close his lips.

There’s not a crumble of pain in the way he sighs. It makes you smile. 

Your nails sink in his hip and he hisses.

"I’m sorry, I didn't mean to..." He breathes, eyes closed as if speaking to a deity would be too much to bear.

It’s not the soft, soft edge of his voice. 

It’s not the way his back arches at the passing of your fingers.

It’s not the flutter of thin eyelashes on dark eyes.

It’s the devotion that kills you.

Never too greedy, never too comfortable, he gives and gives, he bends and pleases, he crawls and cries, light against your body, delicate skin that turns to rose petals at every press, honey from thin lips and coppery salt running down a scratch.

A needy piece of man.