Kirishima Kei, being both a major figure in the Tokyo underground by proxy and perfectly capable of running Asami's organisation on his own, possessing both a superior intellect and a double major in accounting and actuarial science, is naturally Asami's choice when what he's trying to accomplish is of the utmost importance; but to be quite honest he'd rather Asami had picked the pastry chef from Club Sion or literally anyone else to help him out when it comes to the subject of what to make for Takaba Akihito for Valentine's Day.
"Traditionally," Kirishima swallows the word 'women' before continuing, "people buy chocolate nibs and heavy cream to make chocolate."
"That's too much work," says Asami as he vetoes the easy solution, the one that doesn't require jumping through hoops. "I'm not opposed to the work but Akihito wouldn't like that. He'd overreact."
Kirishima cannot conceive of a thing that Asami can do without Takaba proceeding to 'overreact,' to put it mildly; Takaba reacts like the market to new information about any given security, causing inordinate, unpredictable price swings, but he rather like his balls exactly where they are so he suggests instead, "Maybe you can buy plain chocolate and make truffles? Those are relatively easy."
His boss can sit through mob meetings in Taipei with a less murderous face, and Kirishima is rather unused to this sort of intense scrutiny at work, but eventually Asami relents. "Order the ingredients for me."
How that translates to standing in Asami's kitchen at 12:00 pm on February 14th watching Asami burn chocolate is entirely due to Kirishima's lack of foresight - by not calling in sick by the beginning of last week the moment Asami so much as mentioned Takaba's name and Valentine's in the same breath.
"I was under the impression that you can cook," Kirishima says, with only the right amount of accusation.
This is messing up both their normal sleep schedules so Kirishima's drinking his fifth cup of coffee just about the same time Asami's over-cooking his fifth pot of cream and he's so jittery he's reduced to screeching whenever Asami reaches for the gas knob.
"I can cook," says Asami, who is not looking guilty at all and somehow still perfectly self-assured. "I just haven't worked with chocolate before."
"Then what exactly is this," Kirishima points at a mixing bowl full of softly separating sweet butter and cream, its contents looking quite a bit more yellow than needed, since Asami has browned the butter as though he's making pancakes.
"It's like a roux, isn't it?"
Chocolate is not pub food and butter isn't ghee, and chocolate is most definitely not flour that needs to be whipped into an emulsion, but Kirishima doesn't want to be beaten to death with a hot frying pan by 4pm, either.
He really wants to say store-bought is just fine but Asami doesn't look like he needs humour at the moment.
If a simpler gift is preferable to an elaborate gift when it comes to Takaba Akihito, then this could work. "Maybe even truffles are too much. We have ingredients for a flourless chocolate cake with white chocolate ganache."
Kirishima is nothing but shrewd, and he knows well that they have exactly four squares of dark chocolate left that hasn't been turned into sweet burned roux, plus an abundance of white chocolate because Asami hasn't started working with it; thanks to Takaba's tendency to overshop during supermarket timed sales, the fridge is home to at least eight dozen eggs of varying freshness.
Never one to accept failure but willing to retreat at least in the face of imminent defeat, Asami's eyebrows knit together for a full ten seconds before he sighs and says, "Fine. We don't have much time left. You work on the ganache - I can bake a cake."
Kirishima bites back Can you? just in time.
It turns out Asami can bake a cake after all - he over-whips the egg whites and folds in the chocolate looking like he hasn't used a spatula in twenty years, and his single-layer cake rises and falls like an overly enthusiastic caldera: the top gets cracked all to hell and cracks some more in the freezer (they have no time for the fridge) as it cools too fast; but the satiny finish of warm ganache looks effortless and the finished product is a vaguely cake shaped white thing that doesn't look like work.
The kitchen, however, is a war zone replete with the evidence of their failure(s), and Kirishima is glad of Takaba's intentional blindness, because only an idiot can look at this place and think a battle hasn't been fought and hard won.
Asami only has eyes for the cake though, somewhat shapeless and sitting primly on a cake stand with excess ganache pooling at the edges. He exclaims, "That's perfect. He can't read too much into that."
"You're giving him chocolate today and you don't want him to read too much into it?" Chocolate on Valentine's in Japan is about as subtle as a derailing bullet train, and that's if Asami made Takaba hot cocoa at the end of the day.
He baked a cake.
Takaba can look around Asami's wreckage of a kitchen, the splatter of burned chocolate on the stove, the smell of browned butter int he air, the smattering of chocolate shavings, sprinkling of sugar and flour all over the counter and find a day's worth of effort from a man who usually doesn't step into the kitchen for anything more than coffee. And it looks like Asami is banking on the fact that he wouldn't, and no wonder. If Takaba can overlook walking in the rain at 3am he can overlook anything.
"I can hope," Asami says, grinning. "Akihito's not good with romantic gestures. If I do too much, he'll avoid me for days."
You two need help. Asami gets all his assurance of Takaba's commitment via aggressive stalking, and Takaba keeps disregarding Asami's willingness to jump into fire feet first for him; Kirishima can't pretend to understand their relationship, but from a perfectly logical outside perspective he can only deduce that Asami Ryuichi is enamoured of a wild animal he feels protective of, one he feeds from time to time - but only just the right kind of food otherwise it runs away.
Aloud, he supplies, "That sounds a lot like you've taken in a stray cat."
Asami looks thoughtful for a second before replying, "He accused me of that once. It's still not true."
But any further relationship counselling will have to wait, because Asami's slapping a hand over Kirishima's mouth and shoving him into the walk-in pantry, mouthing the words I'm so sorry about this and shutting the door.
It's dark in there, the only light coming from a slit at the bottom of the door, and as he hears Takaba's faint and cheerful, "I'm home!" in the background, Kirishima's left to cuss silently under his breath at the ceiling.
This is not ideal, Akihito is at least an hour early and the kitchen is still a disaster but Asami is good at making batteries out of lemons; so without a hint of discomfort he decides to stay exactly where he is, calling out, "Welcome home."
Which is just as well, because Akihito's too sharp for surprises and he's walking through the hallway asking questions like, "Do we have a guest? There are two pairs of Italian loafers at the door -" When the sight of Asami in a white shirt two buttons open and sleeves rolled up wearing a panda apron smacks him squarely in the face and he loses the power of speech. "Ahh -"
"Sorry about the mess," says Asami, affecting casual like a pro.
Akihito goes through ten different word shapes with his mouth, covering the five W's and the beginnings of some choice swear words before he gets a sentence out, heading right for an insult, "You can cook?"
"Why does everyone assumes I can't cook?" Asami looks mildly vexed, grumbling. "Of course I can cook. It's a basic life skill."
"You don't know how to run the washing machine," Takaba points out. "You can't tell yen pieces apart without looking at the numbered side and you get confused at a self-serve udon restaurant -"
They could be here all day with Akihito listing all of Asami's uncommon shortcomings, but there's cake to be had, cake that didn't turn out terrible like the rest of his kitchen endeavors and Asami can't wait to see his reaction.
"Okay, that's enough. Come here," Asami says, beckoning Akihito closer.
"What," Akihito says, leery, but he sidesteps a blob of cream and obeys, letting curiosity lead him by the nose, gets just inside Asami's personal space where he looks willing to be caught. It is albeit possible that Akihito's found himself the only clean spot without stepping into butter, but Asami is not one to let facts get in the way when it comes to over-reading the affections of Akihito.
It's easy then to drag him in by the wrist so they'd stand hip to hip beneath the fluorescent lights, to enclose him in the circle of Asami's arms in one fell swoop. Asami presses a kiss to the whorl of Akihito's hair, roots growing in and smelling of baby shampoo (it was on sale) and just a hint of sweat, with the mild sweetness of Akihito's skin that makes his mouth water.
It's a comfortingly familiar hunger, a soft gnawing beneath his skin, and it gets better still as Akihito yields - still shocked over the apron, probably - and rests his hands on Asami's back.
Asami half turns them so Akihito can face the counter with the cake and says, nonchalant, "I made you something." He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of Akihito's jeans, discreetly locking him into place.
Akihito's eyes are going wide, and his mouth's dropping open and Asami's glad he spent his day cooking. He could have shipped a box of chocolate from France from one of the world's famous chocolatiers, he could have flown them both to Paris for the day, but this cuts closer, carves him open wider, and Asami thinks he may have buried himself in Akihito's heart a little.
Although now that he can judge it fairly, and not in the swell of pride in the moments after it's finished, the marginally round lump covered in white ganache on the counter can be anything from fudge to a cake, so he can't even be assed to feel insulted when Akihito asks, "Did you make fudge?"
"It's a flourless dark chocolate cake covered in white chocolate ganache," Asami says, hoping the long flowery description would both make the lump look better and delay the inevitable, but no such luck.
"Chocolate," Akihito says, sounding awed, and it's both fun and nerve wracking to watch the gears click around in his head, the tick tick tick of thoughts nearly echoing off the tiles. "You made me chocolate."
"Yes I did," Asami says, helpfully.
"It's Valentine's day," Akihito says, stupidly, as if Tokyo would allow them to forget.
"Yes it is."
Then Asami's forced to kiss him, because none of this will matter if Akihito dies of a stroke from overthinking and expires in his arms. "Breathe," Asami says, without remorse, after essentially taking away Akihito's right to breathe for a full twenty seconds.
"But I didn't get you anything," Akihito says, his cheeks pink and eyes downcast, looking sheepish.
It's hard to deal with Akihito when he's overwhelmed, when his embarrassment sends him into fight or flight that usually ends in flight, but if good old Japanese courtesy and guilt is what's bothering him and he's able to forget for a moment what chocolate means on Valentine's Day and pause before running for the hills, Asami can totally work with that.
"That's fine. I don't like sweet things," Asami says, dipping down to nibble on Akihito's ear with casual intimacy, his instinct to taste him as inescapable as a patellar reflex. "Except you."
"Ugh you're so gross."
Akihito slaps at Asami's chest with token resistance, his mouth a moue as his hand on Asami's back claws into his shirt. Asami is well-read in Akihito's recondite speech; he can write a book on the subject, on each turn of his head and the varied angles he tilts his chin and the pressure he exerts in his fingertips mid-coitus. 'Gross' ranks up there as code word for embarrassing, too close, his heart may stop, and Asami can either up the ante or back off. But he's just spent hours trying to make chocolate and failing at most of it, and though his past relationships were transactional, something he's been trying to avoid this time around, old habits are hard to break and his efforts are making him greedy, making him want more, wants to fill Akihito with affection until he bursts at the seams.
"Why don't you try it?"
Asami reaches for the chef's knife and cuts out a generous portion. The ganache cuts clean, but the cake is messy with dark crumbs on the dessert plate, and it's likely nauseatingly sweet but he imagines it hanging to the edges of Akihito's mouth, glossy and sticky and asking to be licked off and even sweet doesn't seem all that bad.
"That's a dangerous look on your face." Akihito's studying him too in turn, as Asami leaves himself open and openly staring at Akihito's mouth.
"Eat the cake," Asami says, trying and failing not to sound like a tyrant. "Or do you want me to feed you?"
"I can feed myself," Akihito huffs at him, taking the plate.
Flourless cakes have that paradoxical quiddity of being both lighter and richer, and Asami's pretty sure it's going to be delicious, but it's bordering on agonising to watch Akihito try it when Asami hasn't tasted it himself, so he gets two martini glasses down from a high shelf and pulls two bottles of liqueurs from the cabinet to mix them both raspberry chocolate martinis.
It's too strong for Akihito, too sweet for Asami, a compromise that isn't, that neither of them could love, but it's dry and it'll burn going down - and it gives him ideas.
"This is good. I mean," Akihito's looking equal parts surprised (insulting) and rhapsodically happy (complimentary) so Asami's left to scowl at him over his syrupy martini. And he'd keep scowling too if Akihito isn't inexcusably talking with his mouth full, making it hard for Asami to keep a straight face on, "This is the best chocolate cake I've ever had."
Asami hasn't had his cooking complimented on in about 20 years, so when Akihito does it he can't help preening mentally, heart skipping a beat. But his brain to mouth filter is so expertly maintained that by the time he answers it almost sounds sarcastic. "Really."
"Learn to take a compliment, jerk." Akihito shoots him a glare around a mouth full of cake, rendering any heat of it ineffective. "You have ruined chocolate cake for me. Thanks."
Akihito's skin is so thin Asami's surprised he can hold himself together most of the time, so it's rare that he pokes fun; but he's practically asking for it, saying a thing like that, and it looks like he's on his last bite of cake anyway, scraping his fork at a pool of ganache on his plate. It's the perfect time to slip his hands under Akihito's shirt and to ask, "That the only thing I ruined for you?"
"Why must you be - ugh - you're a walking sexual harassment," Akihito says, admonishing, ganache painting a glossy sheen on his already luscious lips. Asami stares at the shine on them, on the suggestively pale and satiny smear of whiteness on the side of Akihito's mouth and can only marvel at how Akihito can make Asami want him this much.
"I was going to suggest sushi, or maybe beer." Asami raises an eyebrow, smiles meaningfully as Akihito's neck begin to turn a flattering shade of pink. "But your mind's already in the gutter, so why don't you let me help you with that."
Akihito's as wild and untamable as the day they met, but the prickly side of him that everyone comments on, that everyone gets to see, has dissolved into something yielding and soft like chocolate at skin temperature. And most days, he lets Asami sink his teeth into the tender, soft parts of him, underbelly fully exposed.
Like right now, Akihito has a hand braced on the counter behind him, looking up at Asami heavy-lidded and anticipatory with his lips parted and his hips tilted forward in concupiscent invitation.
But of course he's still mouthing off, "That's because you're catching -"
They're about give and take, but it's about giving Akihito exactly what he needs and ignoring what he says he wants, like baking him a cake instead of ignoring Valentine's exists; but his own slice is a bit more complicated, more involved. Asami wants to tease Akihito until he begs, wishes for Akihito to desperately want, as hopelessly lost as Asami feels. Most of the time Asami feels like he's drowning.
He licks across Akihito's lips, over the clipped edges of his syllables, soft and slow with the tip of his tongue; and he sucks on the corners of Akihito's mouth at the sweet smear of ganache, and though Akihito's already opening up with need, he licks into the inside edge of Akihito's lips, the exact kind of slow that burns crimson up his ears and sets his heart to racing.
In the bright overhead lights of their kirchen the gooseflesh on the tops of Akihito's arms is obvious through the sleeves of his thin t-shirt, and the hard nubs of his nipples pushes at the fabric, demanding Asami's touch.
"And what exactly about me is catching?" Asami asks, goes on to weave his fingers into Akihito's hair, tilting his head to better expose the pale column of his throat where Akihito goes igneous at the lightest touch.
Asami loves the way Akihito want him, the way Akihito's arms wrap around his back, fingers turning into claws in the muscles beneath Asami's shoulder blades in tense urgency, and he loves the soft, staccato breaths escaping Akihito's throat as he sinks his teeth into the flesh of Akihito's neck, marking him - all of it delectably sweet.
"You know," Akihito says, scrabbling at Asami's back.
"I'm afraid I don't," Asami says, grinning where Akihito can't see him, in the shadow of the sharp line of his collarbone, passing by to breathe hot on a nipple without tasting, feeling Akihito's hands tighten for a beat with want.
Asami has never been able to deny him anything, so he grazes his teeth over the hard nub of him, laying down an open mouthed kiss that encloses the pebbled skin in wet heat, stroking his tongue across the underside of a nipple through the fabric.
Akihito likes his old t-shirts, worn until threadbare; vintage jeans so thin and tattered and worn-white in places they hug every contour - showing off the round parabolic curve of his ass and the taut muscles in the backs of his thighs. It's comforting to know Akihito likes the familiar and well-loved; that he's a creature of habit beneath the thrill-seeking exterior, just like how Asami has been smoking the same brand of cigarettes since he was 15, how he finishes his outfit every day by closing the clasp of a watch his father gave him for graduation, the links all replaced like the proverbial boards in the ship of Theseus.
Asami scratches blunt nails over the tent of Akihito's jeans, pressing down hard enough to feel Akihito's cock twitch and throb in his hand, and he teases, breathing the words into his chest, "You're hard."
"Whose fault is that," Akihito says, words turning into a hiss as Asami unwraps him, loosening the belt and the button and zipper, pulling down the fabric until he's freed. There's not a single clean counter left in the kitchen, maybe the one he's scraped down earlier, but Akihito's leaning against the exact wrong one - the one with a cake stand and a bowl of half-used up cooling white chocolate ganache.
Asami pulls two fingers through the chocolate and brushes it over Akihito's lips, smears it on white and glossy and provocative, asking, "Do you like it?"
Akihito licks at it and makes an orgasmic, humming sound that's utterly obscene, the kind of sugary shuddering that makes people think chocolate is as good as sex, unconsciously slutty with his doe eyes half closed. His tongue slides between Asami's fingers and sucks them down to get at a bead of ganache between two knuckles.
He's always pointing out Akihito's tendency to go full-mast at the merest touch, but Asami's doing no better, his pants feel tight and he's quite thankful for the camouflaging quality of a heavy apron.
It feels appropriately necessary then, to push his fingers into Akihito's mouth to feel his skin: the soft inside of his lips cold from panting, the rough, hard tops of his teeth and the curl of his mobile tongue twining with Asami's fingers as they reach farther into the back of his mouth, so deep he nearly gags on it, eyes rolling to the back of his head.
"Be a little more rough with me," Asami says, pulling his fingers out just to push them back in in simulated fellatio; the tips of his didactic fingers pushing down on Akihito's tongue, showing him how much his throat can take before it convulses. "When you're in here."
Akihito looks a bit bewildered and dazed as Asami withdraws his fingers, shiny and slick with saliva, managing to ask, "What?" About the same time as Asami slides down to the floor to his knees, pushing Akihito's cock into his mouth.
It's wet from teasing, an angry shade of pink purple, and the tip covered and dripping with precome, so Asami's near attacked by the bitter, saltiness of it the moment he swallows it down; but it's a nice chaser to the sweetness of sucking on Akihito's lips, the taste of white chocolate in the corner of his mouth. He pulls Akihito's jeans down just an inch more - just enough to slide his wet fingers behind Akihito's balls.
It's tight - always too tight when Akihito's standing up, and Asami draws small circles with his fingertips, patient, push his nose against a sparse nest of tight curls and breathes in deep.
Asami's not young, and it's not exactly the first time he's wanted someone, but he's never wanted with such an implacable longing, the ache of it a consistent and relentless background hum; it extends to all of Akihito: the sounds that he makes, breathy and desperate as he begs, his pale, fine skin shivering and startling at Asami's touch, how smooth and soft and thin it feels where it's wrapped over the bones of his ribs. It's even entrancing to watch him breathe as he sleeps.
When Akihito's goes tense and motionless on that razor edge, nearly falling into orgasm, Asami pulls off to mouth at the shaft with open sucking kisses, dragging his tongue lower, over the tightly drawn sac and the juncture of his thigh and hip. It's very mean, and he chuckles at Akihito's whining above him, too shy to ask but too desperate not to roll his hips. He bends Akihito with a hand stroking up over his stomach, over his ribs, until his back is a bow and he's dangerously close to dipping his hair into cake.
Asami takes his martini off the counter and pours a quarter of it over Akihito's stomach, where it can flow over the soft curves of him, pooling in his navel and dripping down the line of his hip.
"That's cold," Akihito complains.
"It'll warm up in a minute," Asami says, and proceeds to show him just how - by lapping up the dry, sweet alcohol with the flat of his tongue.
Akihito has skin like pale rose petals and bruises just as easily, urging Asami to mark him as he follows the sine waves of his abs, pitched low like the hum in his throat, and Asami dips his tongue sharp into his navel, sending Akihito into a full body jolt, his cock jumping against Asami's chest. It's no use resisting anymore, so he slides his mouth open and slicked wet with spit and alcohol up the shaft until he gets to the top and swallows it all down.
Akihito does something unexpected: he combs his fingers into Asami's hair, shocked into holding on as Asami's mouth burns with the heat of vodka, hollowing his cheeks and pushing Akihito's cock to the roof of his mouth, Akihito showing his want as he grows harder a heady, dizzying high. The alcohol warms the back of his throat, foments Akihito's cock in a pool of heat, and Asami pulls away long enough to wet his lips, taking a mouthful of mostly raspberry vodka martini before drinking him down again.
All of Akihito's words are dry and breathy and fragile and clipped at the corners, and when he exclaims, "That burns," and it flows into a pitchy whine, it's the same time Asami finally gets past the tight ring of his ass and slips two fingers in, gritty and rough with drying saliva and the cold burn of alcohol, branding his way into Akihito to mark him from the inside out.
It's scalding where it heats up his lips, tight and painful where Akihito's clutching at his hair, at his scalp, as Akihito thrusts cautiously into Asami's mouth; it's luxuriously slow, it gives Asami plenty of room to show off his skills but it's showing off how Akihito's still thinking too much, so Asami crooks his fingers and leaves fingermarks on Akihito's hip, pulls him in until his nose is buried in the wiry hair at the base of Akihito's cock.
He builds up speed until his mouth is wet, saliva dripping down his chin, and Akihito's balls are slapping into Asami's chin in every snap of his hips. Asami's dizzy on it, gagging for it, thinks maybe the corner of his mouth is split and he tastes blood. But he doesn't care - Akihito's desperate and teary, calling Asami's name and shoving his cock into the back of Asami's throat.
It's hard to breathe and harder not to choke, and Akihito's holding onto him so tight, hands clapped over Asami's ears and it's just so good - overwhelming to be the center of Akihito's attention, a vessel for Akihito's desires.
Akihito doesn't warn him when he comes, but he goes still and mute as his ass squeezes down on Asami's fingers, and his fingertips feel a pulsing beat as Akihito's hips roll to a full-stop, buried deep and spurting out bitter, salty cum. It's overflowing, it fills his mouth and competes with mixed liqueurs and sugar, overwriting the memory of sweetness.
It's lovely the way Akihito makes mewling little noises as Asami sucks him dry, licking at the crown of his cock; and still he's insatiable, softly whining as Asami pulls the fingers out of his ass.
Akihito takes one look at Asami's swollen lips and lashes all clumped together, at the redness seeping through the corner of his mouth, and immediately panics, strokes his hands over Asami's face and apologising; but Asami doesn't want it, wants Akihito to do it again, wants Akihito to wreck him for a day or a week, to leave scratches on his back and a scratchy voice in his throat, a rough sounding baritone deeper than from cigarettes.
Asami rises from his knees and they hurt but it's nothing compared to the ache in his pants, rock hard by now and pushing at the layers of confining fabric fit to burst - which means he really should calm down.
"Shh, I'm fine. You do that for me all the time," Asami says as he wipes his mouth, sounding a lot husky, doesn't add and you love it but Akihito hears it anyway, going fully pink at the cheeks.
It smells like chocolate and sex and evaporating vodka in their kitchen, volatile and explosively sweet. Asami picks up the martini he made for Akihito, and sipping in half an ounce he tips Akihito's head back and feeds him, ambrosial sweet with a hint of bitterness.
Akihito's sloppy still, blissed out and loose and his mouth is sweet enough already, and now it's febrile and scalding hot where they touch yet somehow still never quite enough.
"Turn around," Asami commands, already pulling off his apron and undoing his belt. Maybe his voice is wrecked and that's why he sounds so eager, so harsh, but as he slides his naked cock along the cleft of Akihito's ass, dripping onto him, into him, it's hard enough controlling himself, to not just shove his way in.
Akihito sighs into the touch, jutting out his hips, slack and warm behind his balls; where he's been fingered and wet with it a dusty pink, clenching and inviting, still unbearably tight.
Asami dips his hand into one of the prep bowls, where overcooked sweet butter and cream has been mixed in an attempt of - salvaging a lost battle. It's soft and it's runny at skin temperature, doesn't hold together, but it's fragrant with the toasted nuttiness of burned butter, coating his fingers in a thick sheath, creamy and lubricious, aromatic with vanilla. When he slips them into Akihito the butter melts into his heat, opening up easily to him, and his back curls like he melts along with it.
"What do you want, hmm?" Asami grins down, his mouth a predatory curve and his eyes narrowing, pressing fervent, reverently slow kisses down the soft flowing concave of his spine, mesmerised; how sinuously the hills of his ass merges into the backs of his thighs as Asami crooks his fingers down to find the little knot in him that makes him jump and his knees buckle. "I'll give you anything you want."
And Akihito can never know how much he means it. Asami can always ruin Akihito some more, spoil him some more, let no one else ever be enough.
It's too much temptation watching him like this though: bent over a counter under bright lights, covered in a sheen of cream and alcohol and sweat. Asami licks his lips again, adds a finger to stretch Akihito wide open and presses his lips to the rim above his fingers, where his skin is diaphanously taut.
He throws an arm around Akihito's torso and lifts him until he's on his tiptoes, cradling Akihito's hardening cock in the crook of his arm, in the folded up fabric of tightly woven cotton. The noises that comes out of Akihito when he does this is high pitched, animalistic, he's sobbing and shuddering on it, all his reticence vanishing in an instant. Asami licks across his skin, pushes down and grinds inside with his fingertips, scrapes his teeth softly until Akihito loses all of his words, until his lashes are wet and his cock weeps all over the sleeve of Asami's shirt.
It's painful not being inside him, he's been so hard so long he's getting light-headed, so Asami plays tough and slips his fingers out, fists his own cock to coat it in slick and slides it slow and shallow to tease Akihito, brushing over the rim of his hole on every stroke.
He'll never tell Akihito how close he is, just how hungry and insatiable, and he breathes in near the short brush of blond hair at Akihito's nape as he ruts against him, as patient as if he has all the time in the world, stopping to press his cockhead on the thin, tight skin behind Akihito's balls.
"Tell me," Asami whispers, body bowed over his Akihito, folding him in his heat - the exact temperature Akihito craves. He lies, "I can do this forever, you know."
"You fucking tease," Akihito accuses, jutting out his ass even more, pushing himself against Asami. Asami's grin is every bit strained but it's buried in Akihito's neck so he can't see it. "I want your cock inside me - fuck me already."
A promise is a promise so Asami presses himself in before Akihito's even done talking, forcing himself past that still tight opening - always a stretch, even after Akihito's fingered for hours - and lets Akihito swallow him up, pushing until the skin of his thighs is flush against Akihito's ass, as deep as Akihito wants; and Akihito turns to look at him, his lashes damp and his mouth hanging open like this is a shock that he's taken it all. He grips Asami's cock like a vice and Asami always pauses then, ostensibly letting Akihito adjust but it's so hot in the line of Akihito's heated gaze and so heated inside him that he could lose control right here, and so he stops, and rests, and rucks up Akihito's shirt.
Asami folds his arms around him, runs his rough hands over Akihito's chest, over the peaks of his nipples and down to the swell of his stomach, where he's a little distended from being gouged out by a cock. It's so intoxicating that Akihito has to part like water for him; he could get drunk on it.
Asami breathes deep and waits for the initial burn to fade, so he holds Akihito tighter, turns his head so he can kiss into that glossy, open mouth.
"Can you feel me here?" Asami asks, taking little pecks at Akihito's lips, drinking in that sudden flush of embarrassment like a fine wine; how like him to blush at words like this when they're joined already, so deep in him they make up the same shape. "Feel how you swell up with me when I'm inside you."
"You idiot - stop it," Akihito says, but he has no leeway to hide his face with Asami's arms like a cage, grinding his cock in and in, and Akihito drops his face towards his chest and demands, "Stop talking."
"Why?" And Asami pulls all the way out, pressing his palm down on Akihito's abs to show him how he's hollow now, the flat pane of his stomach smooth to the touch, only to push himself in again. He says, pushing down with his palm so Akihito would have no choice but to feel him, "Look. Right there."
Akihito gasps out, "Oh god," in either abject embarrassment or the sudden pressure against his prostate, chest flushing, which only encourages Asami, who folds his hands over Akihito's cock to push it up against his belly so he can feel it too on every thrust, inside and out.
That's so fucking hot Asami wants to come already, lose himself in the tight, feverish heat of him, fill him up and claim him, paint him so deep he can never leave, can never go without.
Asami holds him tighter, and it's a dirty trick, nearly a cheat; brushing the coarse skin on the sides of his fingers against Akihito's cock, his knife and gun callouses scraping, whipping up and down the shaft as he thrusts harder, punches the head of his cock over that sweet spot inside Akihito in every snap of his hips. It's rough, it must hurt but Akihito's moving his hips to meet him, slaps them together even harder, sure to be leaving red marks all over their thighs and the soft beginning dark blooms of bruises.
Asami is filled with a ravenous hunger - and he wants to hold Akihito so tight there's nothing in his head but Asami, and his body pressed so tightly to Akihito there's no room in his body but Asami's cock splitting him open.
"It feels like you're on fire," Asami says, characteristically chatty, it makes Akihito hotter, makes him burn brighter the more he flirts. "Do you like doing it standing up? You're so tight," unbearably so, "it feels like you want even more."
"I can't take -" Akihito's a mess, openly crying; his legs have given out, he would pool to the floor like silk if not for Asami's hand firm on his hip. His hands slip from the counter and he scrabbles at it, finally finding the edge and gripping so hard his knuckles turn white, "-can't take much more," but belying his words he's growing harder, leaking some more in Asami's hards.
"Yes, you can." It's probably sadistic of him to do this, or because Akihito loves it that he speeds up whenever Akihito raises the white flag; Asami powers into him as he nears the cusp of his own orgasm, like playing with fire - making Akihito take it, biting down on the back of Akihito's neck like a wild beast. They seem to merge in the slapping of skin on skin and the wetness of melted cream, until Akihito sounds pained, until he's gasping in big gulps of air and his body shudders in Asami's arms, spurting between his fingers, and Asami curls over Akihito's back and finally lets go.
Akihito's too dazed to see this, as he usually is - blissed out and tired from coming and coming down, but Asami's as ruined as he is. The snap of his hips is out of rhythm and stuttering with the force of his need as he comes and comes, lost in the grip of Akihito's heat, Akihito's hold on his cock going slack and tight sporadically in aftershocks as he fills up Akihito with his spend, grunting quietly into his shoulder.
His forehead is sheened with sweat, his bangs hang loose over his brows as cognition flows back in, and there's the grassy smell of cum on his fingers and the low funk of musk on his hands, dangerously addictive, and he finds himself unable to let go. He wants to drape himself over Akihito's body, drag him to bed and go another round, make sure Akihito becomes just as addicted, just as insatiable as himself.
"I ruined chocolate cake, and sushi - and beer," Asami says, nipping at Akihito's chin. "And what else?"
"You idiot," Akihito snaps, but he doesn't notice how he's clamping down on Asami's cock like he wants more, making it rather obvious what else Asami has ruined. "Ugh. I'm covered in flour and sugar."
"I'll clean you up." Asami isn't getting an admission today, so he settles for a few more kisses down Akihito's neck, savouring the twitching in his ass at every minuscule movement. "I'll clean you up if I get to mess you up again."
"Just - never speak again," Akihito says, pouting, and Asami smiles and allows it like he always does; he lets Akihito wallow in embarrassment so he can dwell less on how much closer Asami's getting each time, how he's peeling back each layer to get at the chrysalis encasing Akihito's heart.
As he carries Akihito to the bathroom in a tangle of sweet smelling limbs, thinking about how it's worth every minute of his time to bake for him, Asami has a distinct feeling that he's forgotten something.
But it's probably not all that important.
It's February 15th; Asami Ryuichi, being the unofficial heartthrob of every woman who works in the building because they have no idea what kind of awful asshole he is, is the receiver of many hundreds of boxes of chocolate. But since he's taking a day off, he's left his executive secretary to such mundane things, Kirishima Kei is practically drowning in boxes in his stead.
Or, to be precise, Kirishima Kei's office is the redistribution hub of Asami's giri chocolate, where lonely men who didn't get any on Valentine's Day can claim a box or three to make themselves feel better.
Kirishima wishes they would please hurry up already. He's on his third pot of decaf.
Perfume counters at department stores keeps jars of roasted coffee beans because it's supposed to clean the nose of scents so it can start over, but despite having a constant cuppa in his face, all Kirishima can smell is blasted chocolate, so the whole palate-cleansing property of coffee must be a lie. Chocolate brings up other scent memories - cream and raspberry and overcooked butter and dear god he is going to block off the entire week next time this year to save his own sanity.
"You look like you're having an existential crisis," says Daisuke Ito, accounting, who deserves to be demoted to some place less cushy where he doesn't even get a desk.
Ito's here to pick up his annual stack, and while he's doing so has decided that Kirishima looks even more pitiful than himself and the cure is apparently small talk, which is doing the opposite of helping.
Suoh leans on his desk, and being categorically unhelpful, says to him, "Maybe you should talk about it."
"Kazumi," Kirishima says, considering therapy. "Am I boring? Am I so forgettable, that," and he tries to look for a word and draws a blank, settles on a metaphor that isn't, "that you can simply forget I exist the minute you turn around?"
Suoh looks at him seriously, with much gravitas, but Suoh can look at a speck of gum stuck on the stairs with much gravitas so any meaning it may hold is a market correction, zeroing out everything to pre-conversation. But he does take too long thinking about it for anything positive. "No, my friend. Why would you think that?"
"Well, maybe a little?" Ito, who deserves to be in the wetwork division in Fukuoka, where the attrition rate is at minimum 2% per annum, offers a platitude. "But boring is good for your health."
"I am sure," says Kirishima, who isn't.
"You know, everything's better with a bit of chocolate," says Ito, already unwrapping a box of raspberry liqueur filled truffles.
Kirishima stops him just in time. "Not in my office please." He has a feeling that he looks a little crazed; his glasses are hanging askew. "And please don't ever say that to me again."
"There, there," says Suoh, patting him on the back, which does actually help somewhat despite Suoh's complete lack of emotional response. "The guys are going to go to that new martini bar tonight. Drinking always did make you feel better."
Which is the last straw, truly, and Kirishima sinks into his chair and buries his face in his hands. "Just leave me here to die."