“It’s late”, Yukimura says.
Sanada looks up; he had not heard Yukimura open the heavy door. Yukimura glides, past the executive desk and past Sanada sat behind, to stare out the tall windows into the endless city. Sanada notices, suddenly, that the night has bloomed outside his cognizance.
Sanada’s fountain pen clinks against his desk. “There’s trouble with the shatei-gashira”, he says.
“Isn’t there always?” Yukimura replies, as if the shatei-gashira are not violent men forever on the verge of factional war. The speckles of light from the window illuminate his profile, making his cheshire smile stark and imposing. “It’s late,” Yukimura repeats, the words softened like an echo.
“I have to go over these numbers,” Sanada says, but he’s already lost track of where he was.
“The kumichou is telling you to take a break,” Yukimura says. He moves closer, turns Sanada’s chair to face him. “Let me take your mind off it.”
Yukimura leans in like he’s done ten thousand times, arms bracketed so Sanada sees only the man he’s sworn to in innumerable ways. The kiss comes slow, coaxing at first. Sanada reaches up; one hand in the waves of Yukimura’s hair, turning his mouth to Sanada’s; one hand against the fabric of Yukimura’s suit, trying to bring him closer.
Yukimura breaks the kiss, pulls back the slightest distance. Their breaths mingle. So close, Sanada thinks he could be consumed by the hunger in those eyes. “My hard-working waka-gashira deserves a reward,” Yukimura murmurs, and moves Sanada’s hand around to cup his bottom.
Sanada shifts to get a better grip and fingers bump against something hard. With a rush of adrenalin, he yanks Yukimura down into a dirty kiss and presses tight against the plug hidden by the soft wool of Yukimura’s trousers. Yukimura gasps into his mouth.
“Is this what you wanted?” Sanada says, nudging the plug again and again.
“Yes,” Yukimura says, riding back into Sanada’s hand.
“I must serve my kumichou as he wishes,” Sanada says. He lets go of the plug to haphazardly sweep his desk and with one swift move he lifts Yukimura onto it. Yukimura moans as he lands, arching in a way that must be driving the plug deeper into him.
“You do,” Yukimura says, still shifting. Sanada hears the order finely weaved in.
“I apologize for neglecting my duties,” Sanada replies, and slips off Yukimura’s suit jacket. It leaves Yukimura’s white shirt shining with reflected city light against the dark of the office.
Sanada makes quick work of Yukimura’s tie so he can worship at the sakura atop Yukimura’s collarbone, and as he opens up Yukimura’s shirt, he traces the design downward with his tongue.
Finally, the last button comes loose, and he nips at the delicate edge Yukimura’s navel.
“Don’t tease,” Yukimura gasps. “That’s my job.”
Sanada hums, and reaches to jab the plug further in.
“Sanada,” Yukimura pants, and Sanada relents. The belt comes off in a practiced motion. In unspoken coordination, Yukimura leans back onto his elbows and lifts his bottom up invitingly as Sanada’s reaching to tug off Yukimura’s trousers.
Yukimura smirks. “Like it?”
Sanada stares. There’s lace panties low on Yukimura’s hips; in the barely lit office Sanada can see a hint of royal blue on the intricate fabric. Yukimura’s cock and plug are both jutting out, stretching at the thin fabric.
“You’re perfect,” Sanada says fervently, diving in to lap hungrily at the base of Yukimura’s cock through the panties as he grasps the plug. He moves his tongue up, thoroughly laving every knot and hole in the lace, until he’s playing with the hem of the panties, licking Yukimura’s sensitive skin one second and pushing lace into it the next.
Yukimura’s gasping in time with thrusts of the plug, pushing at Sanada’s hand below him and Sanada’s mouth above him. “You’re still teasing,” Yukimura manages to say.
“If you say so,” Sanada says, and envelops the head of Yukimura’s cock. He tongues at the foreskin for a while, but Yukimura insistently pushes him down until he finds his lips brushing the panties’ frilled hem. He gives one last good suck before he forces himself back up so that he can use both hands to rip the underwear off.
With a loose unbuttoned shirt framing his delicate tattoos and jutting cock and lit by the sparkling night, Yukimura is ethereal. He looks nothing and everything like one of the most powerful and harsh men in Japan.
Sanada dives down. Yukimura meets him in a ravenous kiss. Sanada’s hand drifts to toy with the plug again, but Yukimura pulls back and bats his hand away. Instead Yukimura pulls it out with a squelch of lube and tosses it away.
“Fill me,” Yukimura says, tilting his head coquettishly and playing with a nipple. With a sudden twist of his torso Yukimura plunges three fingers knuckle-deep into his hole, lube dripping out onto the mahogany.
Sanada struggles to undo his belt. He barely gets his zipper and briefs down before he’s yanking Yukimura’s fingers out and pulling him closer so he can slam in.
“Finally,” Yukimura sighs. He puts his arms and legs around Sanada, and levers himself to meet every thrust forcefully. Sanada has to clutch the far edge of the desk to keep them both on the desk.
Yukimura has a hand on his own cock now, fast strokes in time with his inner muscles tightening like a vise on Sanada’s cock. It makes Sanada rams in even harder, chasing as the man below him commands.
“Come,” Yukimura orders. Sanada’s body instantly obeys, filling Yukimura’s tight heat with his seed. Yukimura’s hole pulses around Sanada’s aftershocks, and Sanada has to pull out through Yukimura clutching him tight.
Yukimura is handing him the plug. Sanada works in back into Yukimura’s now wetter hole, as he takes over pleasuring the man’s cock. Sanada’s removing nearly the whole plug before he pushes it back in, and every thrust more lube and come spill out from Yukimura onto his hand and desk.
There’s a pool of precome glistening below Yukimura’s navel, and Sanada leans to nose at it, licking any patch of skin he can reach and the cock he’s still stroking zealously.
Yukimura lets out a hitching gasp, and Sanada jams the plug in hard as Yukimura comes over his other hand and face.
Sanada collapses back into his chair. Yukimura lies languidly on the desk, propping himself on an elbow. His shirt drapes wide open, displaying tattoos decorated with come; his legs are splayed so that Sanada can see the plug covered with come.
“Come here,” Yukimura says. Sanada lifts himself out of the chair again. Yukimura cups his face and wipes at the come with a deliberate thumb, smudging it to cover his cheek.
“You look good like this,” Yukimura says. “Mine.”
Sanada turns into the hand, kisses the inside of Yukimura’s wrist. “Kumichou.”