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Charm Point

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Mitsuru keeps an eye on the clock as the prison duties wind down.

He knows the flow of the work around him by now. Just because he rarely has responsibilities of his own doesn’t stop him from being intimately familiar with the work of those around him, from Kiji’s fluttery fretting to Samon’s brittle determination to Yamato’s idiotic enthusiasm. They all combine into an ebb and flow as predictable as the ocean waves that crash themselves against the walls of the prison around them, until Mitsuru can tell when the duties of the day are easing into the relaxation that comes with evening as much from the feel of the guard room as from the time on the clock. There’s a relief in the air, a sense of dozens of tense-held breaths easing as everyone’s persona shifts into something a little closer to who they really are, when they let themselves just exist. Mitsuru is fond of this time, far more than the tense effort of the morning or the stoic focus of the afternoon; it’s the best opportunity to interact with his coworkers as actual people instead of the carefully constructed facades they are all so inordinately fond of. Normally he would prefer to linger here in the guard room, maybe with his feet up on the desk or his arm slung around someone’s unwilling shoulders to chirp enthusiasm into their ear, to win smiles or scowls or laughs from those around him and unfold his audience into something closer to the real selves he’s infinitely more interested in than their prison-guard personas.

But, well, today he has his sights on something a bit more grandiose.

He waits until everyone is back in the guard room, until the soft of the couches are filled with the slack weight of heavy bodies and the space is echoing with the variety of complaints and laughter and groans from his fellow guards easing themselves into comfort. It’s not until he has a full audience for himself that he stretches over the back of his chair, yawning hugely to make a show of it as he tips himself precariously over the back legs of the furniture.

“Well,” he announces, pitching his voice loud so everyone can hear him even though no one was speaking to him directly. “Long day, huh? I’m going to head back to my quarters and call it a night.”

“It’s barely seven,” Kiji observes, with something between mild irritation and more significant concern on the words. “Are you sure?”

“You know me,” Mitsuru declares as he lets his chair come back down on the floor with a bang that makes Seitarou jump and flinch behind the nearest source of protection; Yamato, at the present moment. “Early to bed, early to rise. It’s important to be up with the sun to stay on top of responsibilities!”

What responsibilities,” Samon mutters from the corner where he is, as usual, sulking like it’s his life’s mission. “Did you even leave the main office today?”

“I’m just exhausted,” Mitsuru says, making an enormous and audible show of his yawn to drown out whatever irritable complaint Samon is offering. “See you all tomorrow!” And he makes for the door, sauntering across the room and out into the hallway so the door swings shut on top of whatever further protest Samon might be able to find, given a little more time to consider it.

Mitsuru is still smiling as he makes his way down the hallway and towards the crossing of the corridors. No one inside showed the least concern over his overdramatic exit; by now he suspects none of them will even think of it again, having written it off as one of his innumerable eccentricities. Their lack of concern leaves him completely unnoticed as he makes his way along the corridor, and down towards that main crossing; and he turns left instead of right, and makes for the main office rather than his own quarters.

He will head back to his quarters, he tells himself as he continues down the hallway with the scuffing pace of his footsteps to track his motion. He just has an important stop to make along the way.

Mitsuru softens his steps as he approaches the main office. This is less because he is concerned about the noise and more because he wants to approach unnoticed, in as much silence as he can manage. There’s still the soft sound of his boots at the floor, and the inevitable whisper of his breathing; but he doesn’t need to be completely silent, just quiet enough that the sound of his approach won’t carry a warning through the barrier of the door before him and into the overlarge space of the warden’s office. Mitsuru makes it all the way to the door without the sharp edge of a shout to greet him or to indicate any awareness of his presence; and then he goes still just alongside the edge of the frame, and turns his head to very carefully press his ear to the crack.

It’s almost completely silent inside. Mitsuru would believe the room to be completely empty, if he really believed that the warden would leave her office until well after lights-out for the rest of the prison. But Momoko spends even more time here than Hajime spends in the guard quarters, and that makes the absolute silence on the other side of the door rather more suspicious than otherwise. Mitsuru waits it out, keeping his breathing level as an idle smile tugs at his mouth, as his imagination wanders into possible explanations for that complete peace; and then there’s an inhale from the other side of the door, a tiny hiccup of a breath that comes out as far more of a gasp than is reasonable, and Mitsuru’s smile breaks into a full-fledged grin across his lips.

He doesn’t knock at the door. Announcing his presence would be entirely contrary to his entire goal in making his way here in the first place; confirmation of his suspicions just makes him more determined to see his plan through to the end. So he instead steps back from the door, composes his face into the darkest scowl he can muster, sets his voice down into a rough edge low in his chest; and then he strides forward at once, pushing open the door and entering the office as part of the same movement.

“Momoko,” he says, his tone hitting some reasonable approximation of Hajime’s for the span of that one word, at least. “There’s a problem--”

Ah!” Momoko shrieks, her voice breaking high and breathless as she shoves back from where she was hunched in over the wide desk in front of her. Mitsuru has a brief moment to appreciate her position -- tipping forward against the brace of the hand she has pressed down between her thighs, cheeks flushed, free hand still lingering at the open front of her uniform -- before she’s ducking her head and fumbling at her disheveled clothes with the open desperation that makes her embarrassment far more obvious than the actual fact of the situation would ever do.

“I’m so sorry!” she wails, pushing so desperately at her hair that she knocks her hat off so it falls forgotten to the floor beside her. “I didn’t know you were--” Mitsuru can see her cut herself off, can see her desperate attempt to collect the dignity of her position back around her like a cloak. She draws her hands up to the desk in front of her, folds her fingers carefully in between each other, clears her throat into deliberately composure. “What I mean to say is. How dare you interrupt me without--” and it’s then that she finally lifts her head, and sees Mitsuru grinning at her from where he’s slouched himself against the weight of the doorway. “You.”

“Momo-chan,” he purrs. “Were you expecting someone else?”

You!” Momoko says again, her voice breaking high over what is apparently too much frustration to allow for any kind of coherency; she reaches out for the doll sitting in front of her and closes her hand into a fist around it. For a moment Mitsuru thinks she actually will throw it at him, regardless of what it is she holds in her hand; but her arm stops halfway through the motion, her gaze jumps up to the tiny imitation of Hajime’s face on the doll’s features, and what was intended as a toss becomes a cradling motion instead as she brings the doll in to clutch to her chest. “I’ve told you to knock before you come in.”

“You seemed like you were having such a good time, though,” Mitsuru protests, unfolding from the door so he can saunter across the span of the room towards Momoko’s crimson face and tense mouth. “I didn’t want to interrupt you in the middle of…” as he lets his gaze slide down the front of Momoko’s uniform jacket and the rumpled front of her undone pants, “...Something important.”

Momoko huffs. “Well you did,” she snaps, with something of her usual fire as she reaches to tug sharply at the belt of her pants. “I have responsibilities in my role as warden. I have to ensure that the prison is running smoothly, after all.”

“Sure,” Mitsuru agrees as he steps in towards the desk and leans in to brace himself with a hand against the edge of it. “Documents. Paperwork. Reports. You’re a very busy woman.” He tips his head to the side, lets his mouth drag up onto the best lopsided smile he has to offer as he reaches out over the desk. “It only makes sense that you’d take some time to decompress after a busy day” as his fingers catch at the still-undone buttons of Momoko’s jacket, left loose to bare the inside curve of her breasts and the topmost edge of crimson lace lining the edge of her bra. Momoko looks down at the weight of Mitsuru’s touch, her facade of anger fading to confusion until she sees the fingers curling into her undone shirt, and sees the expanse of cleavage she’s leaving bare. Then she squeaks, a high, panicked noise of shock, and shoves back and away from Mitsuru’s fingers as she reaches to clutch at her jacket.

“I never,” she starts, fumbling through the attempt to refasten her clothes without at all easing the desperate hold she has on the Hajime doll still in her hand. It’s an effort doomed before it begins, just for the lack of dexterity she’s working with, but Mitsuru is more than happy to watch in any case. Momoko’s as scarlet now as she was when he came in; the color is creeping up her hairline, contrasting sharply with the dark blue of her hair. “I was...I…”

“You were jerking off to everyone’s favorite guard,” Mitsuru clarifies for her, since she seems to be having trouble putting words to that obvious fact. Momoko’s head comes up, her eyes go wide with the start of horrified self-consciousness again; but Mitsuru lifts a hand to wave aside her protests before she can voice them. “You don’t need to be so embarrassed about it. I’m pretty sure everyone’s fantasized about Hajime-chan at least once. God knows I have.” He straightens from his lean over the edge of the table and tips his head back towards the office door. “Just thought you might want to lock your door before you indulged. Or I can keep watch for you, if you’d like. Everyone’s occupied right now but it’d be a shame for you to be interrupted twice in one day.”

Momoko stares at at Mitsuru. For a minute he thinks she’s going to reject his offer of friendly support outright; the set of her jaw says her frustration is still just under the surface, either anger at Mitsuru’s forwardness or simple frustration at being interrupted, Mitsuru isn’t sure which. He takes another step backwards, lifting both hands to offer his palms to her as his smile goes wider. “I’ll just leave you to it, then.”


It’s a sharp tone, harsher and louder than it needs to be, given that Mitsuru is only a few feet from the table and still watching Momoko behind it. More, it carries all the force of her position under the tone, like she’s found a way to gather herself back into her role in spite of her somewhat compromising situation. She hasn’t redone the buttons on her jacket; apparently she’s settled instead for clutching at the front of it to hold it shut, which by rights ought to undermine the dominance in her tone, except that she’s meeting Mitsuru’s gaze without flinching, with her eyes steady on his in spite of the flush still suffusing the whole of her face.

“You should--” she starts, her tone still carrying that snapping, dominant edge; and then she blinks, and shuts her mouth, and Mitsuru can see her expression waver, can see the set lines of her facade tremble and ease as she stares up at him.

“You should stay,” she says, in a far softer tone, and she lets her hold on her jacket go, lets her hand fall to her lap instead. The fabric falls open at once, unfolding from her skin like wings to lay bare the pale curves of her breasts; Mitsuru’s attention drops to them, lingering over the smooth line of Momoko’s cleavage and the color of her bra for a moment before he looks back up to meet her gaze. Her face is still red, still suffused with the embarrassment that’s clenching her fingers in her lap; but her gaze is unflinching, her jaw set on determination that doesn’t waver even as her breathing picks up speed. “I could...use someone to practice on.”

Mitsuru isn’t completely surprised. It’s an offer he’s made before, one that Momoko has taken him up on a bare handful of times: physical satisfaction for them both, plus the advantage of her gaining some of the hands-on experience that she so sorely lacks. And it’s hardly like he’s opposed to the idea; the view Momoko is presenting would be enough in itself to fuel a fantasy tonight, and the possibility of having the reality under his touch is far more alluring than what relief he can stroke from himself.

“Is that so,” he says, reaching to draw his sunglasses off and fold them into the pocket of his jacket. “Conveniently I’m in some need of relief myself.” He cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. “Same agreement as usual?”

Momoko ducks her head, her agreement so quick it’s skirting the edge of open irritation. “Yes, of course.”

“Alright.” Mitsuru tips his head back towards the door, lets his grin drag at his lips. “You want the door locked, or…?”

Momoko’s cheeks color. “Yes.”

“Alright,” Mitsuru purrs, and turns to return the way he came so he can turn the lock on the door behind him. It settles into place with a solid thunk he can feel run all the way up his spine, like it’s putting a period on the anticipation of what is to come, or maybe calling out the start of the indulgence; it swells him harder with heat against the front of his uniform pants to leave his rising arousal wholly visible by the time he turns back around to return towards Momoko’s desk. She doesn’t notice, or at least not to comment on it; she has her head ducked down over the doll still clutched in her hands, is tipping her chin to press a brief kiss against the top of its head before reaching out to set it carefully aside. It makes Mitsuru smile to see -- Momoko is predictable in her sentimentality, however much she may try to hide it from the rest of the guards -- and he’s still smiling when he braces a hand on the surface between them and leans in over the desk towards Momoko still sitting behind it.

“Now,” he says, in his best imitation of Hajime’s gruff tone. “Shall we, Momoko?” Momoko lifts her head to look up at him, her cheeks flushing to color as they always do, when Mitsuru puts on this particular voice; and Mitsuru reaches out to slide his fingers into the dark fall of her hair, and push his hand in against the back of her head, and duck his head to press a kiss to the part of her lips.

It takes her a moment to respond. Mitsuru’s learned to anticipate this, too; Momoko is always stiff with awkwardness for the first few seconds of contact, still and strained like she’s forgotten how to move her body to respond to the gentle weight of Mitsuru’s mouth on hers. The warmth of her mouth, and the soft of her lips, are the only thing that make her clearly not the doll she almost seems to be; but Mitsuru keeps his eyes shut, and keeps his focus on what he’s doing, and keeps working careful friction in against Momoko’s lips. His hand braces at the back of her head, his lips press close to hers; and then he opens his mouth, just barely, and touches his tongue against the part of her lips. Momoko hisses an inhale, the sound sharp and startled against Mitsuru’s cheek; and then her hands come up, her fingers seize into fists at the front of his coat, and she’s surging up out of her seat and into the kiss with all the force of her usual personality. Mitsuru lifts his hand from the desk, reaching out to catch at Momoko’s waist instead, and does his best to steady them both at Momoko presses in against him.

It’s not that she’s a good kisser. Very much the opposite, in fact. Momoko attempts to make up for inexperience with enthusiasm, which, while charming, does not provide her with the foolproof cover Mitsuru suspects she intends. When she leans in to meet him it slides their mouths apart, leaves him licking against more the corner of her lips than the part of them, and she doesn’t bother trying to reorient herself before pressing all the wet of an open-mouthed kiss against the part of his face she’s landed against, which turns out to be far closer to his cheek than his lips. The contact is wet and overheated, slick with the drag of her saliva and sticky against Mitsuru’s skin; but Mitsuru doesn’t pause to call her out on it, just lets his smile go wider and turns his head in an attempt to chase down the give of her lips against his again. Momoko turns her head to meet him, again overcompensating for a moment before Mitsuru can steady her with the hand he has catching at her hair, and even then she opens her mouth wide, licking in against Mitsuru’s tongue with a force that is more overwhelming than it is seductive. Mitsuru matches her as best he can, trying to shift the force of her mouth on his to more of a dialogue than the onslaught it seems; but for the most part his attention is elsewhere, namely on the hand he settled at Momoko’s jacket. He draws his hand sideways, around to flatten Momoko’s clothes against the soft of her stomach; and then up, to the topmost of the buttons still holding the jacket against her skin, so he can catch at the plastic and twist to drag it free.

Momoko doesn’t stop him. Both her hands are fisted into Mitsuru’s hair, her hold on him as desperate and needy as the force behind her kisses; Mitsuru lets her keep the contact, lets her take the steering of his mouth and the kiss both for a moment while he undoes the front of her clothes by another inch to push them right past the edge of the decency they were barely clinging to and straight over into full exposure. The front of Momoko’s jacket comes undone, the tension of it giving way to let it fall open around her chest; and Mitsuru reaches up without looking to slide his fingers into the open collar of Momoko’s shirt and down, to press his hand close against the weighty curve of one breast.

Momoko moans against his mouth, her reaction coming as fast as Mitsuru’s hand presses against her. She pulls away from him for a moment, her cheeks flushed and mouth wet; her lashes are dipping shadow over her eyes, her lips are parted on the pant of her breathing. Mitsuru can feel the shift of her inhales under his palm, can feel the way they draw up to press her breast the closer against the weight of his hand against her.

“Momoko,” he says again, still in that rough tone that makes Momoko shudder, that catches her teeth at the edge of her lip and flushes her cheeks hotter with color. Mitsuru lets his hand slide down, digging his fingers in against the soft of Momoko’s breast to cup under the weight of it, until he’s supporting more than her bra is. He pulls up, urging her free of the lace and up, until she’s falling free of the front of her undone blouse and Mitsuru can look down to see the flushed dark of her nipple drawn taut by the effect of arousal. He slides his thumb up and over Momoko’s skin to drag across the hard point; and at the other side of the desk Momoko moans, her voice breaking over the soft, helpless ache of want as she arches forward into his touch like she’s urging him into more.

“Mm,” Mitsuru says, and it’s his own voice now but Momoko doesn’t protest, even if she notices. He lets her breast go for the moment so he can reach out for her waist instead, so he can bracket her hips between his hands. “Come here.” And he pulls, urging her forward and against the edge of the desk while she stumbles in against the support before she can throw a hand out to catch her weight and steady herself enough to work through the logic of climbing up onto the surface. Mitsuru is happy to help; he slides a hand down off Momoko’s hip to cup at the curve of her ass, to pull to help urge her up onto the flat of the desk between them, and Momoko whimpers and gets herself up against the support so she can crawl forward with more focus than grace. It’s not the most composed she’s ever looked, with her face flushed and lips wet and breasts spilling up and out of her undone clothes; but Mitsuru thinks she looks even better now than her usual composure makes her out to be.

“I’m telling you,” he purrs as he pulls Momoko over the front edge of the desk so she can get her feet back under her and he can step in to fit a knee between her thighs, so he can rock his hips forward to grind the resistance of his erection against the waistband of her uniform pants as proof of his words. “Hajime-chan wouldn’t be able to resist you, if he saw you like this.”

“Really?” Momoko asks, lifting her chin to gaze up at Mitsuru over her. She’s reaching for Mitsuru’s sleeve, her fingers curling onto the fabric like she’s seeking a point to ground herself against; her eyes are wide, her expression soft with the force of that heat so warm in her cheeks. She looks disheveled, rumpled out of any hope of composure, breathless with desire and ready to surrender to the least touch against the expanse of bare skin her undone shirt is showing. She looks delicious.

“Really,” Mitsuru says, and means it. “Kiss me again, Momo-chan.” And he ducks his head as fast as Momoko is turning her chin up and reaching to catch at the back of his neck, pressing his mouth to the wet heat of Momoko’s lips against his as he draws his hands up against the dip of her waist to seek out the front of her half-buttoned shirt. It’s easy to let Momoko kiss him, to offer the still weight of his mouth for her to press over-wet kisses against; and in the meantime Mitsuru is unfastening the rest of Momoko’s shirt, and sliding his hands in under the fabric to skim across Momoko’s stomach, to draw up against the shudder of ticklish reaction to the straining fabric of her bra still cupping the curve of her other breast. This one he lingers over as it is, catching the fabric in his palm and lifting to feel the weight against his fingers, to drag the shift of the fabric across his palm as Momoko gasps against his mouth and arches forward into the pressure; and then Mitsuru lets her go, and draws his hands in under the loose weight of Momoko’s jacket and blouse both so he can feel his way to the clasp of her bra and free the fabric from the need to offer support. It goes loose as soon as he works the metal free, the lacy shape of it falling forward as Momoko’s breasts dip down under their own weight; and Mitsuru draws back again, this time so he can slide his hands up to Momoko’s shoulders and urge her coat back and off her body.

“Let’s see you,” he says. Momoko takes a moment to disentangle her hands from around Mitsuru’s neck; she was clutching against the collar of his uniform, holding as tightly to him as if he really is the object of her affections and not just pretending to be. But it’s easy to strip her coat and shirt off, once she lets him go, and then all that’s left is for Mitsuru to catch at the straps of her bra and slide those forward and down Momoko’s arms. The loss of the fabric leaves her bare for his gaze, all her skin flushed pink with the heat he can see still catching her breathing fast in her chest, and for a moment all Mitsuru has to offer is a low, satisfied groan of appreciation in the back of his throat.

“Momo-chan,” he says, letting her bra slide from his fingers so he can reach out instead for the smooth curves of her breasts, so he can catch and form the give of them to the spread of his fingers. They’re too big for him to hold in one hand, they spill up and over his hold, and he’s dropping to his knees without thinking, without even having to hesitate over his next action. “You’re such a babe.”

“Ah,” Momoko gasps, sounding breathless and shaky even on that one sound. “Mitsu--” and then Mitsuru leans in to press his mouth to the soft curve of her breast, closing his eyes so he can linger over the feel of her skin against his lips, and Momoko makes a startled, overheated sound in the back of her throat and reaches to clutch at the back of his head, to fist her fingers into the dark of his hair. “Mitsuru.”

“Hajime,” Mitsuru purrs, drawing back far enough that he can shape the outline of the other’s name against Momoko’s skin instead of losing it to the heated incoherence of his lips against her breast. “Remember? Hajime.”

“Oh,” Momoko gasps. “Ha--” and Mitsuru can all but hear the blush under her voice, can see the color of self-consciousness spreading out and across the pale skin weighting at his hands. “Hajime.”

“Good girl,” Mitsuru tells her, and then he ducks back in to give his attention to what Momoko is saying over to pure appreciation of the body in front of him instead. Momoko is perfectly shaped for the press of his hands, from the curve of her thighs to the span of her hips to the angle of her waist. And her breasts: heavy in his hands, warm under his mouth, her skin sweet like peaches against the wet drag of his tongue. He presses kisses against the inside curve of them, breathing in deep against the humid heat of her cleavage like he’s trying to lose himself in the give of her body; he thumbs at her nipples, working against the sensitive skin until they stand to sharp points of resistance under the weight of his touch. He can lift the her breasts in his hands, can squeeze so his fingers sink in against the soft curves to leave his fingerprints in fast-fading pink against Momoko’s skin; if he ducks his head up and under he can fit his mouth underneath the weight of them, can suck against the skin, can catch his teeth to nip points of sensation until Momoko shudders and moans with the friction of it, until her skin is marked with bruises rising in the shape of his mouth like a path to track his progress.

“Momoko,” he says, his voice dropping so low into heat that he doesn’t even bother trying for an imitation of Hajime’s tone; from the way Momoko is panting over him he doesn’t think she minds anyway. She’s lost in her own fantasy, her head tipped back and her eyes shut as she gasps for air; Mitsuru wonders if it’s Hajime’s hands she’s imagining, if her fantasy is converting the weight of his mouth and the press of his fingers into the illusion of the other man’s. He doesn’t mind if it is; he still gets the satisfaction of this, of Momoko’s pale stomach trembling on tension and the curve of her breasts soft and heavy in his hands, and that’s more than enough in itself to ache arousal into his cock, to twitch him harder with every breath she takes to push up against the resistance of his hands on her. The thought makes his lips curl up onto a grin, pulls the weight of a chuckle up from the depths of his chest; and he lets his hands slide away and down the curves of her body, following the line of her skin to the waistband of her pants buttoned up around her hips. He doesn’t need to look for this either, doesn’t need the assistance of clear vision to slide the button free of the crisp fabric; he leans in instead to press his mouth against flushed-soft skin again, to weight the outline of wet kisses against the inside span of Momoko’s cleavage while his hands unfasten the button so hastily forced back into place after his intrusion. Her pants fall open as soon as the button comes free -- she didn’t have time to refasten her zipper upon his entrance -- and it’s easy to draw his hands up, to slide his fingers in and under the elastic of her clothing to push down and urge pants and panties alike off her hips.

“You taste so good,” Mitsuru says into Momoko’s cleavage, opening his mouth to weight his tongue against her skin, to let the drag of his tongue piercing slide across the soft curves under his lips. Momoko shudders with the contact, her back curving to arch her forward and into the press of Mitsuru’s lips, and Mitsuru pushes her clothes down to her knees before drawing his fingers back up, slow, so his fingertips catch and drag whispering sensation up across the tremor of heat running through her thighs. He can feel the muscle under the skin jump, can feel the tiny motions of involuntary tension that rise to answer his touch; and finally he pulls away so he can rock back on his heels and look at Momoko before him properly.

She’s wet already, of course; that must have been the case when he came in, and whatever delay has been enforced since then has only stirred her to greater heat. Mitsuru can almost taste her already, can breathe in and imagine he can catch the humid weight of her arousal on his tongue, and for a moment impulse suggests that he get to his feet again, that he unfasten the straining front of his own pants and turn her down over the desk and thrust into her in one slick, satisfying motion. But Momoko’s panting over him, her knees shaking from her long-repressed orgasm, and Mitsuru might be selfish but he’s not so selfish as to deprive her of it now, when he’s going to gain as much pleasure from it as she will.

So: “You’re so beautiful,” he says instead, purring the words into the sincerity they deserve as he draws his hand up and around the curve of Momoko’s thigh, as he slides his fingers into the heat between her legs and up to work his touch against the warm-slick folds of her body. Momoko’s knees tremble, her body flexing as her legs angle wider to give him better access, and Mitsuru presses up higher, shifting his wrist as his fingertips drag across the wet heat of Momoko’s entrance. She’s slick to the touch, all but dripping onto his fingers; it makes him grin, the angled, lopsided one that he knows carries as much force as a promise to anyone looking at him.

“Just like this,” he says, and then he angles his hand up, and presses with his fingers, and slides up and into the heat of Momoko around him. Momoko’s head goes back, her thighs tense; and Mitsuru groans from deep down in his chest, and draws back to take another slick thrust up and into her. He can feel her tensing around him, can feel her thighs trembling with sensation as his fingers press deep into the hot wet of her body; it makes him feel dizzy, like his attention is melting as quickly as he moves, like his rationality itself is disintegrating into the raw, primal satisfaction of Momoko trembling around the stretch of his fingers inside her.

“God,” he says, “You feel so good,” and he leans in closer to press his nose against the pale skin at her hips, to rub in against the soft dark of the curls between her legs. That makes Momoko jerk too, bucks her hips forward as her breathing spills into a whimper past her lips; and Mitsuru presses the angle of his grin in against her, and opens his mouth to breathe against her skin. She’s radiantly warm, tight and wet and so hot he feels almost like he’s burning himself; and then he touches his tongue against her, and licks down and against the soft folds of her body, and he can feel the instant reaction ripple through her to clench tight against his fingers and flex hard in her thighs. Mitsuru’s mouth tugs up at one corner, a grin threatening the easy soft of his mouth; and then he shuts his eyes, and tips his head to the side, and lets himself focus on the press of his tongue to Momoko’s body.

She’s sweet against his lips, wet and warm and trembling until he thinks she might fall, without the support of the heavy desk she’s leaning back against. Mitsuru can slide his fingers up far into her, can feel the tremors that run through her with each drag of his tongue up against her clit; he wonders vaguely if he’s as precise about his movements as she is with her own fingers, wonders if maybe next time he should spread her knees open and talk her through the process of what he’s doing, if maybe he shouldn’t make a gift of a toy for her to make use of for those times she doesn’t have him here to assist her. But that’s for later, a passing thought of little relevance to the present; because in the present he’s on his knees flicking against her clit with his tongue and pumping up into her with his fingers, and Momoko is angled back over the desk above him, her hands braced behind her as she gasps and whimpers through every inhale she takes. She’s not offering any name at all, now, Mitsuru’s own or the one he’s adopted for the aid of her fantasy; she’s just panting, trembling through helpless reaction to each motion Mitsuru takes. He can feel the force of her response tensing around his fingers, can feel the heat of her body wet against his touch and hard under his tongue; and for an unmeasured span of time he sets aside the ache of his own arousal, and the thud of his own adrenaline-fast heartbeat, and loses himself entirely to the rhythm of working Momoko up and over the precipice of pleasure. She’s trembling where she stands, her legs shaking like they’re about to give way entirely; and Mitsuru keeps going, keeps giving her the force she needs and the friction she craves, until her whole body is curving back over the desk, until she’s reaching to fumble her fingers into a fist against his hair.

“Oh,” she whimpers, her voice lower and rougher than it usually is, dropping down octaves as the heat of Mitsuru’s movements surges through her to urge her closer towards the edge, nearer to inevitability. “Oh, god, I...I…” and Mitsuru presses his mouth in as close as he can get, sucks her clit hard between the friction of his teeth, and he can feel the whole of Momoko’s body seize tight around him, can feel the tension that clenches against his fingers and drags at his hair. Momoko gasps an inhale over his head, her voice breaking right back up out of those depths she’s found, and: “Oh” she wails, her voice coming apart in her throat, and her whole body spasms into helpless pleasure against Mitsuru’s fingers. It makes Mitsuru groan satisfaction, far in the back of his throat where he can taste it rumbling over his tongue; and he keeps moving, keeps working Momoko through the shaky-kneed rush of her orgasm and over, until he can’t distinguish the tremor of aftershocks running through her from the shake of exhaustion through the whole of her too-much strained body. He keeps going for another thrust, two, letting the motion slow as he draws back to run his tongue up and against the wet heat of her; and then he slides his fingers free, and pushes himself up and off the floor while Momoko is still trying to steady her balance against the desk behind her.

“Momoko,” Mitsuru says, purring the sounds over his tongue like candy, and he reaches out to slide his fingers into Momoko’s hair, to brace against the back of her head while he leans in to let her kiss the taste of herself off his lips. Momoko moans against his mouth, appreciation or too-much heat Mitsuru isn’t sure which; but he’s reaching for her waist anyway, letting his warm-wet fingers trace against her skin before he pulls away from the damp of her mouth so he can hold to her hips and urge her around to turn and face the desk behind her instead of leaning against it. Momoko throws her hands out to catch herself, her weight tipping forward like she’s falling more than leaning at the surface; and Mitsuru hums in the back of his throat, and draws his hand up and against the curve of her spine while he reaches to unfasten the front of his pants with the other.

“You look so good,” he says, and means it, trailing his hand up against the tremor of Momoko’s back and over the angle of her shoulderblades pressing close to the skin as she holds herself still, as she tries to counter the tremors of heat that Mitsuru’s touch send coursing through her. It’s a good thought; it makes Mitsuru feel electric, like he holds pleasure crackling at his fingertips, like it’s his fingerprints on Momoko’s skin he can see trembling so visibly through her. He lets his hand slide back down, braces his fingers to a grip just at the first outward flare of her hip; and his pants are coming undone, and he’s pushing the too-much weight of the fabric aside so he can slide his fingers down into the open front of them and draw himself free. He’s hard in his hand, as he’s been hard since he undid the front of Momoko’s jacket so he could reach down for the weight of her breasts in his hands; it feels almost strange to acknowledge it now when he’s been so entirely disregarding himself, like the stroke of his hand drawing down to brace against the base of his shaft is bringing his awareness with it, drawing his attention to curl in against the heat low in his stomach and the ache of anticipation twitching so hard through him. It makes Mitsuru groan, a low sound from far in the back of his throat as he steps forward to fit a foot between Momoko’s, to press himself in close against the forward tilt of her body; and then he lines himself up, and thrusts forward, with no more warning than that for either of them.

The sensation is electric. Momoko is hot and wet around him, the slick tension of her body pressing close against long-ignored heat; it blows Mitsuru’s breath from his lungs, turns his groan of appreciation so low and desperate it’s almost a wail in the depths of his throat. Momoko’s head falls forward, her voice breaks over a gasp of heat; and Mitsuru takes a breath, and draws back so he can take another long thrust forward.

“Momo-chan,” he groans, and it’s all him, now, there’s no trace of the Hajime-persona he adopted for a few minutes. Momoko doesn’t seem to notice, or doesn’t mind if she does; from the way her head is hanging forward over her desk and the way her arms are locked out to hold herself upright, Mitsuru suspects she may be lost to anything beyond the immediate physicality of the present moment, of Mitsuru thrusting into her and the tremors of her orgasm shifting from aftershocks into another build, into anticipation given the full shape of heat in her veins. Mitsuru can see her tremble with each movement he takes, can hear the hiss of her breathing coming faster with each rocking motion of their bodies; it clenches the want in him to a fist and tightens his balls close against the base of his cock as he continues moving forward and into the encompassing heat of Momoko’s body around him.

It’s impossible to stay away. Momoko is tipped forward over the support of the desk in front of her, her weight slipping closer to the surface with each panting moan Mitsuru’s movement draws past her lips; and Mitsuru is following her without thinking, without hesitating, his whole body tipping over and in until the weight of his jacket is pressing close against Momoko’s spine, until his lips are almost brushing the dark fall of her hair. This close he can smell the faintly floral scent of her shampoo, that hint of the femininity she shows so rarely in public and Mitsuru knows so well in private; it makes him grin, the appreciation coming easy with his whole body thrumming with the arousal rippling through him even before he ducks his head to press close against the back of her neck.

“You feel so good,” he mumbles, the words more as an offering to the curve of Momoko’s neck than for her to understand; she’s so far past the point of coherency at this point anyway that Mitsuru doubts she’d be able to parse even the overheated simplicity of his words. He presses his mouth to her skin, catches a few loose strands of hair against his lips; he can feel her shoulders shifting against his chest, can feel her body straining with each forward thrust he takes. He braces a hand flat at the table under them, just alongside the inward dip of Momoko’s waist, and lets his hold at her hip ease so he can draw his hand up instead, can trace against the shift of her speeding breath and higher, to the hanging weight of her breasts where they’re almost pressing to the table. Mitsuru groans as he slides his fingers down to curl around the weight, to lift up and take the soft curve against his palm; but Momoko moans, her head angling back at the contact with an immediacy that is as much encouragement as the way her body flexes tight around Mitsuru inside her in a convulsive shudder of want. Mitsuru’s grin goes wider, until the edges of his teeth are catching at Momoko’s skin, and he tightens his grip on Momoko’s breast, digging in hard with his fingers to feel the way the soft of it gives to his hold.

“So good,” he repeats, and catches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, drawing against the skin to tug pressure enough to arch Momoko’s back, to pull a whimper of heat from her throat. She’s shaking entirely now, her whole body trembling underneath Mitsuru’s; but Mitsuru’s balance is going unsteady too, his vision is drifting closer towards hazy white with each thrust he takes. His breathing has caught the beginnings of inevitability, is spiking fast and desperate in his chest; he can feel his self-control giving way like a wall crumbling under grasping fingers, can feel the rise of tension flexing in his thighs and panting in his chest in a way he can only manage to delay for the briefest of moments.

“Fuck,” he gasps against the back of Momoko’s neck, his fingers tensing as his pace speeds, as his rhythm starts to disintegrate. “I’m…” as his words give way to a groan, as his thrusts stutter forward in a reflexive bid for more. “I’m gonna come.”

Yes,” Momoko pants, and Mitsuru can feel her trembling with tension but the word is resonant with sincerity, with absolute certainty in that simple agreement. “Please.”

“Oh god,” Mitsuru groans, and he shifts his rhythm to move faster, to drive forward into Momoko with the full force of his body behind each thrust. Momoko shudders, her body tightens around him, and Mitsuru gasps for air against the back of her neck, feeling his coherency giving way to the raw simplicity of desire. “Tell me again.”

“Yes,” Momoko repeats, and her voice is breaking, it’s purring in the back of her throat and skidding out over the gasp of her breathing and right at this moment Mitsuru is sure he’s never heard anything so sexy. “Yes, please, I want you to come.”

“Inside you?” Mitsuru asks, and he can feel the shift of Momoko’s head as she jerks through a nod.

Yes,” she says again, except it’s not speech at her lips now so much as a wail, the leading edge of a crescendo of heat to urge her voice high and wailing. “Fuck, yes, please.”

“You want it like this?” Mitsuru asks, and it’s rhetorical now but it doesn’t matter, the words are as much to spur him forward as for Momoko’s hearing, as much to urge her panting breathing into heat as because he expects an answer. “Getting fucked over your desk, my come filling you up?”

Oh,” Momoko moans. “Yes.”

“Christ,” Mitsuru says, and he can feel his body tense, can feel the strain in his thighs knot to press him forward, to drive him hard into Momoko in front of him as his breathing catches, as his vision goes hazy with the force of inevitability.

“Oh god,” he says, very calmly and very distantly. “I’m going to come” and underneath him Momoko spasms, her whole body tensing with the force of the orgasm that shudders through her body against Mitsuru’s. Her legs jerk, her back arches, her voice gives way to a moan; and Mitsuru groans, the sound grating in the back of his throat, and thrusts forward to come hard into the tremor of orgasm rippling through Momoko’s body around him. His vision goes white, his attention disintegrates, and for a long moment there’s just the pulses of heat running through him to spill as deep inside Momoko as he can get.

He comes down slow. His lips are still pressed against the dark weight of Momoko’s hair; when he blinks his vision is a sea of blue, the saturated shade filling his whole range of vision before he lets his hold on her go and braces his hand against the desk with enough force to push himself back to upright. For her part Momoko is lying entirely across her desk, her head tipped down so she can rest her forehead against the surface and breathe with shaky intention behind each inhale. It makes Mitsuru smile to see such a perfect echo of his own experience, keeps the curve at his lips as he settles a hand at Momoko’s hip to gently hold her steady while he slides back and out of her. Momoko makes a weak noise against the surface of her desk, something soft and almost plaintive, but it’s not until Mitsuru is pulling his uniform pants back into order that she musters the strength to push herself back up onto her forearms and lifts a hand to push at the weight of her hair in front of her face.

“Are you okay?” Mitsuru asks as he gets himself back into order and comes back in to stand at the desk alongside Momoko instead of behind her. Her hair is tangled into a curtain around her face, but she manages a nod without hesitation before bracing both hands against the desk to push herself to her feet. She looks shaky for a moment -- Mitsuru starts to reach to steady her -- but then she catches her balance, and he shifts his motion to reach for her hair instead, to stroke the weight of it back over her shoulders as he smooths the strands into some kind of order. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, her mouth flushed red from the press of Mitsuru’s lips; Mitsuru decides, not for the first time, that post-coital haze is a remarkably good look for her.

“You should swing by the guard office after you’re cleaned up,” he suggests, tugging through the worst of the knots in her hair to leave it cascading in waves across her back. “Everyone should still be there if you hurry to make a surprise inspection.”

Momoko blinks. “What?” She looks down, then around the room, like she’s trying to figure out where she left the rest of her clothes. “Why?”

Mitsuru hums. “No particular reason,” he says, and ducks down to press a kiss to Momoko’s forehead. “I just have a good feeling about it.”

Momoko looks up at him, the soft of her mouth drawing down into a frown of uncertainty. “Are you coming too?”

Mitsuru takes a step back and waves his hand in refusal. “Nah,” he says. “I already said my goodnights. I just think they could do with some administrative oversight tonight.”

Momoko still looks confused, like she’s not entirely understanding what Mitsuru’s getting at; but she’s pulling her pants back into place anyway, her sense of responsibility overriding whatever questions she might have. “Alright.” She tosses her hair back over her shoulders as she refastens her pants. “I’ll go over there soon.”

“Don’t forget to finish dressing yourself,” Mitsuru suggests, huffing a laugh at the way Momoko’s entire face colors to scarlet in the span of a heartbeat. He reaches out to clap a hand to her shoulder and squeezes affectionate comfort against her skin. “Good luck.” And he’s making for the door, before he can distract himself further with the pink flush across Momoko’s cheeks or catching the weight of her breasts in his hands again before they’re returned to their usual covering.

It is good advice, he thinks as he replaces his sunglasses before unlocking the door and letting himself out. Momoko’s never looked cuter than she does right now; if this doesn’t work to get Hajime’s attention, Mitsuru thinks, nothing is ever going to.