[FIC] Inception: be the death of me
JESUS CHRIST THIS IS NOT MY FAULT. I WAS ENABLED INTO THIS. This is shameless porn. I make no attempts to excuse characterisations. sob.
ihu fermine. and you too bronson. cry.
be the death of me
Characters/Pairing: Robert/Saito
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1839
Summary: Robert dresses up as a Japanese schoolgirl. In Saito’s office. The natural progession of things happen, and nothing else. This is all fermine and bronson’s fault.
Saito notices the black thigh-high socks first. Black thigh-high socks that cling onto every line of Robert's legs, and just above that is a glimpse of pale, pale skin. His breath catches, and Saito feels himself slam back against the door, closing it as his fingers fumbled at the lock.
Robert is wearing black, thigh-high socks. In his office. Perched on the chair as if he belongs there, his pale cheeks dusted slightly in pink as if in embarrassment-or anticipation. Most likely the latter, because Robert's eyes are gleaming with the sort of light that tells Saito that his lover knows exactly what the outfit is doing to him.
The socks. Coupled with the too-short grey skirt that just grazed the top of Robert's thighs, creasing where the other man had his legs crossed. The blouse, white as innocence, with a blue sailor collar lined with white. And a red bow right smack in the centre, stretching across Robert's chest and making him look even younger and slenderer than usual. Certainly not anywhere near his thirty-eight years. Saito needs to ask Robert where he had found that fountain of youth, one day.
But right now what occupies his attention is the fact that the bow is the exact colour of Robert's lips right now. God, Saito thinks, and he isn't sure if that's a thought or a prayer. Something between the two? His coherence is rapidly fleeing. Robert is wearing lipstick, with gloss on top, making his lips glimmer in the bright light of the office.
Robert kicks out his legs, uncrosses them and he's vaulting off the table. But he doesn't walk forward, only leans his hip against the edge- and Saito knows perfectly that he's enjoying the gobsmacked expression on his own face. His fingers twitch at his side, and in that one moment Saito decides to screw propriety, screw the questions. He'll find out why Robert is dressed like that later, or even how he had found the outfit. But right now-
Saito drops his briefcase, uncaring of the several very important documents in them, and strides across his office. Robert's smile widens, and he still hasn't said a word-only reaches out and tangles his fingers in Saito's tie, tugging him forward, forward and Saito can only follow. He can only let himself be dragged along, feet following his lover until they two of them are pressed against each other, the table digging into Saito's hip.
"Welcome back," Robert says, leaning in and whispering the words against Saito's ear. Saito can smell the cherry fragrance of his lip gloss, and it makes his head spin.
His lover looks better in that outfit than any schoolgirl Saito has ever seen. He has said once, long ago, that Robert has the power to bring the world to its knees-if he tries hard enough. Now he's certainly trying, and Saito feels his knees weakening, buckling.
"Robert," he gasps the word against his lover's neck, his hand coming up to bury themselves in his hair. Saito cups his face, crushes their lips together as he kisses him hard, smells the cherry so much stronger and Robert's fingers are digging into Saito's suit, wrinkling the material and leaving tiny claw marks all over and Saito does not even bother to pretend to care.
"Robert," he says again, and his hands move down, clench around Robert's waist as he spins them around, slamming the younger man against his desk very important papers and very expensive stationery fly, scattering all over the floor and Saito ignores them all, plants a knee on the table and kisses Robert again.
"You're going to be the death of me one day."
And Robert laughs, a light, terribly happy sound, and he leans forward and licks the lipstick off Saito's lips, his tongue pink and hot and Saito's fingers clench so hard around his hips that he's going to leave bruises. "I take it that you like the outfit."
"What," Saito breathes out, his hands smoothing down, down Robert's chest, waist. "What gives you the idea."
Robert only laughs, spreads his legs, hooks his fingers in Saito's clothes. First, he rips the jacket open, buttons popping slowly, methodically-- then the waistcoat, then shirt inside, uncaring of how much money they are wasting because they can always make more anyway. His hot, hot hands are stroking all over Saito's skin, and Saito throws his head back, breathes. Breathes even as he tilts his head, strokes his hand up Robert's calf, nuzzles his nose and mouth against the long, slender leg and takes in the smell of the wool sock.
"I," Robert says, and his lips are smudged and Saito leans in, forehead against forehead and breathing against his skin. Robert's hands clenches around Saito's jaw, and when he continues his voice is fierce, rough. "Fuck me now, Saito. Now."
"You're breaking character," Saito almost-laughs, his breath skittering, heart pounding and he wantswantswants.
"For the love of-" Robert bites off the frustration, laughs. His eyes gleam and Saito almost drowns in the blue, in the heat. "Please fuck me now, Saito-sensei."
"My Robert," Saito says, and he's shoving the skirt up. There's no underwear, and Saito wonders why he's not surprised even as his fingers tracing against the curve of Robert's ass, dipping in and oh, oh. Robert grins, spreading his legs further and Saito slams him against the table, uncaring of who hears them. He jerks Robert's legs apart even further, lean over him and slams their lips together, kisses him hard as he thrusts into him in one shot.
And Robert is gasping, teeth biting down on his too-red lips, head jerking back and smacking against the wood as he rocks back against Saito. His heels-clad in leather mary janes, why has Saito not noticed until now-dig into Saito's back, urging him forward, faster, and Saito obeys.
He fucks him into the desk, their lips brushing against each other. They're not kissing because that requires far too much coordination, and right now coordination is all focused in the slam of hips against hips, of the heat that clenches around Saito and twines up his spine, in the way his hands are fisting against Robert's skirt, nearly tears against the material. Coordination is in the way he forces his eyes open, sees Robert throws his head back and forth, his hands clawing at Saito's shirt, Saito's jacket, Saito's skin and he's gasping like a drowning man, trying to not make too much noise.
"Saito," Robert says, and the word is a mangled mess, all desperation and need and Saito dips his head down, mouths against Robert's throat, tongues the hollow and Robert's back arches right off the desk, and Saito can feel his scream vibrate in his chest, feel him clench around him and he slams in even harder, until they slide across the desk, before he lets himself go.
Pause. Breathe. The world slows again, and Saito lets his forehead press against Robert's collarbone just a little longer, trying to catch his breath.
"So," he finally says, pulling himself off until he can move forward, staring into Robert's bright, bright blue eyes-less bright now that they are glazed over with the residue of pleasure, still darkened with pupils blown. But still so, so beautiful.
"What's the occasion?"
Robert throws his head back, and laughs, low and throaty.
"Galahad's stocks exceeded Fischer-Morrow's," he says, and his grin is wide enough and bright enough to swallow suns. "And I'm in Japan."
Saito stares at him for a long moment before leaning in, kissing Robert messily, smudging the lipstick further on his own lips, his own jaw, his own face. But he does not even care at that moment.
"My dear Robert," when he speaks again, his voice is hoarse, his tone fond. "You will certainly be the death of me, one day."
But Robert only smiles, as if to say-isn't that the best death in the world?-and cups Saito's face, kissing him again. Soft, sweet, his lips moulding against Saito’s gently, nipping at the bottom one.
Saito can only laugh helplessly, caught so tightly within Robert’s strings, within this heat within them that curls around his nerves. Caught by bright blue eyes that reminds him of everything he has ever loved and everything that he wants, and a heat that drags him along and urges him to take, and take, and take.
And Saito laughs because he has not felt so alive. For forty years he has lingered in his own mind, and he knows how to grow old with regrets, to have everything and yet nothing. He learns that whatever he owns is transient, that the papers, the pens, and even the suit he wears right now matter nothing when compared to the man in front of him.
So he leans back, curls his hand around the small of Robert’s back and tugs him with him. Robert yields, all soft bones and sated eyes, and Saito holds him close, feels his thundering heartbeat against his own chest. He leans back until he’s sitting down on the chair. Robert arches his back, sits against him, and the wool of the skirt is brushing against the tops of Saito’s thighs.
It’s warm right now. In the summer, with the air-conditioning on but the sun still piercing through, heating up the windows and the walls. It doesn’t matter that Robert is wearing far too little, that Saito’s shirt is open to the point that there’s a hint of ink at his sides. Right now the air is warm, the door is locked, and Robert is by his side.
Saito wants for nothing more.
He turns the chair around, a hand on Robert’s waist, until they are facing the one-way window of his office, looking out to the Tokyo landscape. There’s a vague outline of themselves-with Robert’s hair mussed and come dotting his the blouse and the skirt he wears, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright, leaning back against Saito’s torso as his chest rises and falls rapidly, trying to catch his breath. His lips are red still; glossy with saliva-the ultimate image of debauchery, and Saito can’t help but turn his head, kissing the temple. Almost innocent.
Robert snakes his arm around his neck, pulling him close and kissing him full on the mouth. Just moulding their lips together, breathing in each other’s exhale, more of an attempt at keeping the contact between them than for anything else.
“Saito,” Robert says, and his tongue curls around his name until Saito can feel the breath against his skin. “Leave the office early today. Have dinner with ne.”
And Saito looks at him for a long moment. He has appointments lined up, of course, and so many reports to go through, so many emails to reply to and acknowledge. He can see a small pile in the ‘in’ box, even now.
But this is what he says:
“Of course.”
End
This is, I repeat, so not my fault.
ihu fermine. and you too bronson. cry.
be the death of me
Characters/Pairing: Robert/Saito
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1839
Summary: Robert dresses up as a Japanese schoolgirl. In Saito’s office. The natural progession of things happen, and nothing else. This is all fermine and bronson’s fault.
Saito notices the black thigh-high socks first. Black thigh-high socks that cling onto every line of Robert's legs, and just above that is a glimpse of pale, pale skin. His breath catches, and Saito feels himself slam back against the door, closing it as his fingers fumbled at the lock.
Robert is wearing black, thigh-high socks. In his office. Perched on the chair as if he belongs there, his pale cheeks dusted slightly in pink as if in embarrassment-or anticipation. Most likely the latter, because Robert's eyes are gleaming with the sort of light that tells Saito that his lover knows exactly what the outfit is doing to him.
The socks. Coupled with the too-short grey skirt that just grazed the top of Robert's thighs, creasing where the other man had his legs crossed. The blouse, white as innocence, with a blue sailor collar lined with white. And a red bow right smack in the centre, stretching across Robert's chest and making him look even younger and slenderer than usual. Certainly not anywhere near his thirty-eight years. Saito needs to ask Robert where he had found that fountain of youth, one day.
But right now what occupies his attention is the fact that the bow is the exact colour of Robert's lips right now. God, Saito thinks, and he isn't sure if that's a thought or a prayer. Something between the two? His coherence is rapidly fleeing. Robert is wearing lipstick, with gloss on top, making his lips glimmer in the bright light of the office.
Robert kicks out his legs, uncrosses them and he's vaulting off the table. But he doesn't walk forward, only leans his hip against the edge- and Saito knows perfectly that he's enjoying the gobsmacked expression on his own face. His fingers twitch at his side, and in that one moment Saito decides to screw propriety, screw the questions. He'll find out why Robert is dressed like that later, or even how he had found the outfit. But right now-
Saito drops his briefcase, uncaring of the several very important documents in them, and strides across his office. Robert's smile widens, and he still hasn't said a word-only reaches out and tangles his fingers in Saito's tie, tugging him forward, forward and Saito can only follow. He can only let himself be dragged along, feet following his lover until they two of them are pressed against each other, the table digging into Saito's hip.
"Welcome back," Robert says, leaning in and whispering the words against Saito's ear. Saito can smell the cherry fragrance of his lip gloss, and it makes his head spin.
His lover looks better in that outfit than any schoolgirl Saito has ever seen. He has said once, long ago, that Robert has the power to bring the world to its knees-if he tries hard enough. Now he's certainly trying, and Saito feels his knees weakening, buckling.
"Robert," he gasps the word against his lover's neck, his hand coming up to bury themselves in his hair. Saito cups his face, crushes their lips together as he kisses him hard, smells the cherry so much stronger and Robert's fingers are digging into Saito's suit, wrinkling the material and leaving tiny claw marks all over and Saito does not even bother to pretend to care.
"Robert," he says again, and his hands move down, clench around Robert's waist as he spins them around, slamming the younger man against his desk very important papers and very expensive stationery fly, scattering all over the floor and Saito ignores them all, plants a knee on the table and kisses Robert again.
"You're going to be the death of me one day."
And Robert laughs, a light, terribly happy sound, and he leans forward and licks the lipstick off Saito's lips, his tongue pink and hot and Saito's fingers clench so hard around his hips that he's going to leave bruises. "I take it that you like the outfit."
"What," Saito breathes out, his hands smoothing down, down Robert's chest, waist. "What gives you the idea."
Robert only laughs, spreads his legs, hooks his fingers in Saito's clothes. First, he rips the jacket open, buttons popping slowly, methodically-- then the waistcoat, then shirt inside, uncaring of how much money they are wasting because they can always make more anyway. His hot, hot hands are stroking all over Saito's skin, and Saito throws his head back, breathes. Breathes even as he tilts his head, strokes his hand up Robert's calf, nuzzles his nose and mouth against the long, slender leg and takes in the smell of the wool sock.
"I," Robert says, and his lips are smudged and Saito leans in, forehead against forehead and breathing against his skin. Robert's hands clenches around Saito's jaw, and when he continues his voice is fierce, rough. "Fuck me now, Saito. Now."
"You're breaking character," Saito almost-laughs, his breath skittering, heart pounding and he wantswantswants.
"For the love of-" Robert bites off the frustration, laughs. His eyes gleam and Saito almost drowns in the blue, in the heat. "Please fuck me now, Saito-sensei."
"My Robert," Saito says, and he's shoving the skirt up. There's no underwear, and Saito wonders why he's not surprised even as his fingers tracing against the curve of Robert's ass, dipping in and oh, oh. Robert grins, spreading his legs further and Saito slams him against the table, uncaring of who hears them. He jerks Robert's legs apart even further, lean over him and slams their lips together, kisses him hard as he thrusts into him in one shot.
And Robert is gasping, teeth biting down on his too-red lips, head jerking back and smacking against the wood as he rocks back against Saito. His heels-clad in leather mary janes, why has Saito not noticed until now-dig into Saito's back, urging him forward, faster, and Saito obeys.
He fucks him into the desk, their lips brushing against each other. They're not kissing because that requires far too much coordination, and right now coordination is all focused in the slam of hips against hips, of the heat that clenches around Saito and twines up his spine, in the way his hands are fisting against Robert's skirt, nearly tears against the material. Coordination is in the way he forces his eyes open, sees Robert throws his head back and forth, his hands clawing at Saito's shirt, Saito's jacket, Saito's skin and he's gasping like a drowning man, trying to not make too much noise.
"Saito," Robert says, and the word is a mangled mess, all desperation and need and Saito dips his head down, mouths against Robert's throat, tongues the hollow and Robert's back arches right off the desk, and Saito can feel his scream vibrate in his chest, feel him clench around him and he slams in even harder, until they slide across the desk, before he lets himself go.
Pause. Breathe. The world slows again, and Saito lets his forehead press against Robert's collarbone just a little longer, trying to catch his breath.
"So," he finally says, pulling himself off until he can move forward, staring into Robert's bright, bright blue eyes-less bright now that they are glazed over with the residue of pleasure, still darkened with pupils blown. But still so, so beautiful.
"What's the occasion?"
Robert throws his head back, and laughs, low and throaty.
"Galahad's stocks exceeded Fischer-Morrow's," he says, and his grin is wide enough and bright enough to swallow suns. "And I'm in Japan."
Saito stares at him for a long moment before leaning in, kissing Robert messily, smudging the lipstick further on his own lips, his own jaw, his own face. But he does not even care at that moment.
"My dear Robert," when he speaks again, his voice is hoarse, his tone fond. "You will certainly be the death of me, one day."
But Robert only smiles, as if to say-isn't that the best death in the world?-and cups Saito's face, kissing him again. Soft, sweet, his lips moulding against Saito’s gently, nipping at the bottom one.
Saito can only laugh helplessly, caught so tightly within Robert’s strings, within this heat within them that curls around his nerves. Caught by bright blue eyes that reminds him of everything he has ever loved and everything that he wants, and a heat that drags him along and urges him to take, and take, and take.
And Saito laughs because he has not felt so alive. For forty years he has lingered in his own mind, and he knows how to grow old with regrets, to have everything and yet nothing. He learns that whatever he owns is transient, that the papers, the pens, and even the suit he wears right now matter nothing when compared to the man in front of him.
So he leans back, curls his hand around the small of Robert’s back and tugs him with him. Robert yields, all soft bones and sated eyes, and Saito holds him close, feels his thundering heartbeat against his own chest. He leans back until he’s sitting down on the chair. Robert arches his back, sits against him, and the wool of the skirt is brushing against the tops of Saito’s thighs.
It’s warm right now. In the summer, with the air-conditioning on but the sun still piercing through, heating up the windows and the walls. It doesn’t matter that Robert is wearing far too little, that Saito’s shirt is open to the point that there’s a hint of ink at his sides. Right now the air is warm, the door is locked, and Robert is by his side.
Saito wants for nothing more.
He turns the chair around, a hand on Robert’s waist, until they are facing the one-way window of his office, looking out to the Tokyo landscape. There’s a vague outline of themselves-with Robert’s hair mussed and come dotting his the blouse and the skirt he wears, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright, leaning back against Saito’s torso as his chest rises and falls rapidly, trying to catch his breath. His lips are red still; glossy with saliva-the ultimate image of debauchery, and Saito can’t help but turn his head, kissing the temple. Almost innocent.
Robert snakes his arm around his neck, pulling him close and kissing him full on the mouth. Just moulding their lips together, breathing in each other’s exhale, more of an attempt at keeping the contact between them than for anything else.
“Saito,” Robert says, and his tongue curls around his name until Saito can feel the breath against his skin. “Leave the office early today. Have dinner with ne.”
And Saito looks at him for a long moment. He has appointments lined up, of course, and so many reports to go through, so many emails to reply to and acknowledge. He can see a small pile in the ‘in’ box, even now.
But this is what he says:
“Of course.”
End
This is, I repeat, so not my fault.