Work Text:
Tsurumi is furious.
Usami is bent in seiza before him, blood spattering onto the seam of his trousers. It’s all he can taste, copper and slick and hot, dripping from his nose onto his split lip, oozing down his chin. His body is still burning alive with it, a thick, racing thrill that coils around him until he can hardly remain still, hardly keep his aching face from splitting into a wicked grin. He resists. His bruised knuckles are clenched at his knees. His pulse pounds in every wound.
It happened in an instant. A single, gratifying, exhilarating instant; Usami’s knife bit into the flesh below Ogata’s shoulder. Ogata’s bedpan had slammed into him, again and again, and Usami had merely held on, merely twisted the knife until the blood bubbled up and stained his pristine robe crimson, until Usami’s fingers were slippery and black with it, until Ogata’s nostrils flared and he breathed hard and fast through his clenched teeth, until Usami could see the white rimming his black irises, until the other men rushed into the room and pried them apart–
It’s drying on his hands now, cracked and brown, and Usami wishes he could taste it, wishes he could wrap them around his face, his cock, still straining against his trousers, wishes, wishes–
Tsurumi clicks his tongue, once, clean and crisp. Usami’s shoulders could cut. His gaze shoots upwards anew. Tsurumi’s eyes are lightless, the headplate shadowing his face until it looks like a skull– orbitals, cheekbones, chin. “Superior Private.”
Usami could shudder at those two words. His nails carve into his palm instead.
“Explain.”
There is no warmth to Tsurumi’s voice, none of his decorous eloquence, none of the affectionate lilt that Usami knows is just for him– there is nothing. His syllables are clipped, cold, and he stares down his nose at Usami with a jaw set so firmly Usami can see the cords of muscle. His hands are folded in his lap, every tendon standing at attention. His knuckles are white.
Usami’s cock strains.
“I stabbed him, sir.”
Because you praised him, sir. Because I got jealous, sir, because I hate the way you look at him, because I hate how he thinks he’s special, because he told me I’m cheap, sir, and I’m not, I’m not, I’m not-
“You stabbed him.” Not a question- a statement. It would be humiliating if Usami possessed humility.
“That’s right, sir.”
Tsurumi’s nostrils flare. His hands twitch. Each action shoots through Usami, liquid and hot around his groin; he almost makes a senseless sound of want. That cord bulges as his head turns to the side and Usami’s eyes obsess it.
Tsurumi is going to scold him. A shiver of pleasure is already building at the base of his spine. As if his day couldn’t get better; he’s buoyed by the cotton-stuffed haze of it all, as permeating and as sweet as the glow after an orgasm. He can still feel the pinch of Ogata’s waist beneath his thighs, can still feel the slam of the bedpan, can still feel the heat of his pant on his hand...
He twitches his nose, just to make the pain ricochet. The dull resonance of it shoots low. His fingers curl.
Tsurumi’s hand grips the armrest of his chair. Usami’s eyes dart there instead, dragging over every pronounced vein and knuckle, and he can almost feel the vice of them wrapped around his throat instead, or his cock– and this time, a tiny whimper does work past the knot of his throat. He knows how powerful Tsurumi’s hands can be. He lowers his head, raising his gaze. Pleading.
Tsurumi does not react. He stares out the window where Ogata must be running now, Mishima in pursuit; in the chaos of it all, he’d managed to escape. Tsurumi’s voice is tightly controlled. “Are you aware of the position this puts me in?”
And Usami has an idea, but it had been worth it, and Ogata had deserved it, the bastard- he’s the cheapest one, he is- and a shudder of glee works up Usami’s spine again. Ogata is staggering through the wilderness, and the muscle of his shoulder is ruined, and he must be clutching it and panting, and the blood must be streaking his abdomen and gushing over his useless hand and-
“Usami.”
Each syllable slices through his daze into the meat of his mind. The fog that swaddles Usami suddenly thins. He’s aware again of the room, of Tsurumi before him, of the hardened sculpt of his features, and Usami has never seen him like this. Irritated, yes, and frustrated, and shocked, but angry… It’s a living beast looming over him, formidable and terrifying and unbearably arousing. Usami swallows hard.
And instead of wrapping around Usami in its endless, indulgent intimacy, the use of his name is a barb that punctures him and works deeply into his muscle. Tsurumi is disappointed in him- truly disappointed- and not only as a soldier, but as an individual. As his friend.
The room is no longer so warm.
“Do you have any idea of how this makes me look?” Tsurumi’s tone is almost polite, but his blunted fingers press into his desk until the tips turn white. “My own men, trying to kill each other?”
Sweat licks a frigid tongue down his back. But the way Tsurumi is looking at him- down the bridge of his nose, dark eyes narrowed- is so deliciously raptorial that his head spins. He tries to formulate an adequate response, but he can’t part the heady heat clouding him, infiltrating every vessel of his mind. If he inches just a little closer, he could even feel the warmth radiating off Tsurumi on his bruised cheek- could even be close enough to hit- and he deserves it, doesn’t he? His lips part, breath coming quicker. Tsurumi clicks his teeth again.
“I’d hoped you could behave, Superior Private, because I need you to remain alongside me. Was my assessment incorrect?”
Usami’s rocks higher on his heels as he shakes his head sharply. But it sounds so nice when Tsurumi speaks like that, each word a well-honed blade– “No, sir– never, sir–”
“Do you intend to complicate things for me, Superior Private?”
“Never, never, sir-“
“Ah, but that’s what you’ve done.” Tsurumi’s palm flattens against the desk. Usami flinches slightly, as if it was his face that was slapped. He wishes it was. But Tsurumi turns with a roll of his neck, tracing the skyline once more. “Another mess of yours to clean.”
And this cuts into Usami more efficiently than anything else, and his whimper is a whine this time. Tsurumi couldn’t mean it. He can’t- this is different– the sacred, beautiful cord that twines them together is nothing like this. Nothing like something- someone- so miniscule. Surely, Tsurumi knows that. Surely, he does, but his face is impassive, and his inscrutable eyes are searching for that very someone, and a hot pulse of envy threatens him. But, no- it couldn’t be- it couldn’t. Not for Ogata- not for that walking gun- Usami has always had far more utility, far more fidelity, far more appeal–
“Stand.”
Usami rockets to his feet so quickly his dazed brain fills with snow. Tsurumi remains sitting, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled, and somehow Usami feels only more pinned, only more exposed. Tsurumi’s gaze is on him now, and Usami’s existence narrows to that singular sensation, hot and erotic as a brand. His mouth dries. He can feel his pulse hammering in his throat, in his fingertips, beneath his waistband, skipping, skipping, leaping to life beneath that exquisite attention.
Tsurumi leans on one hand. His gaze burrows under Usami’s skin until he’s burning with it. It’s all he can do to keep from panting. “Do you know the trouble I’ve gone through for you?”
“Yes, sir,” Usami says, though it’s always been a labor of love, hasn't it? It’s what had intrigued Tsurumi in the first place; Usami’s volatility, his unerring devotion. It’s what makes him stand head-and-shoulders above all the inferior men surrounding them. And hasn’t Tsurumi always enjoyed that? Affectionately exasperated on occasion, perhaps, but always affectionate…
“Do you know why I do so, Superior Private?”
Because Usami is special– because of their bond– because Tsurumi had seen his potential, had believed in him- it would be an awful waste if someone as interesting as yourself ended up being destroyed… But with the way Tsurumi is looking at him, tension tightening each tendon, Usami isn’t sure it’s the answer he’s looking for. And that’s just what makes each interaction with Tsurumi so very thrilling; the uncertainty, the intoxication, the sense that Usami is always dangling from the precipice, Tsurumi always one step ahead. Usami sways slightly.
“Superior Private?”
“Because-” because I’m special, because I’m your number one, because I’m your most valuable piece, because- “because I could be useful, sir.”
Tsurumi’s mustache twitches. Usami doesn’t know if he wants to smile or snarl. “Useful.” He draws out each sound, letting them drip from his tongue. Usami has to clench his teeth to keep from shuddering. “Is this being useful, Usami?”
And oh , the way he says it– ripe with condescension, sweet like he was talking down to a bad dog, so low the syllables almost purr in his throat- and Usami’s knees nearly buckle. He almost staggers just trying to keep upright. It takes a few tries before he’s able to speak, and even then the words waver. “No, sir, it isn’t.”
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Usami hangs his head, even as his eyes swing upright, fixed to the cut of Tsurumi’s boots, the swell of his thighs. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’re sorry?”
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”
Usami hangs lower until he’s nearly bowing, until his head nearly grazes Tsurumi’s lap. His entire body feels hot, hot with it, feverish and slick. They’re so close like this. If he just pushes forward a little farther, he could press his face into the seam of his trousers, and then–
The toe of Tsurumi’s boot suddenly swings off of his knee and presses- hard- where Usami’s erection strains against his pants. Usami’s breath catches. His shoulders shoot up, pulling him just upright enough to see the inkbrush of Tsurumi’s mustache, the edge of his smirk, the white of his teeth as he speaks, each word aggravatingly saccharine, coiling around Usami until he’s breathless.
“I can’t help but think you aren’t being contrite.”
Usami sinks lower, lower, until the motion causes Tsurumi’s boot to shift. A reedy sound escapes the back of his throat. He’s sure he could come just from this- just if Tsurumi pressed again, just if he rut against the sole, even once- but Tsurumi remains steadfast, and Usami remains bowing, so close to Tsurumi the bite of his scent saturates his tongue. Another apology is building on it, but it swims in his mouth unuttered. If he opens it, he’s afraid he’ll drool, right onto Tsurumi’s thighs.
“I think,” comes the voice from above him, dark and rich and worming into Usami’s brain, “such misbehavior warrants discipline, don’t you?”
Discipline. He isn’t going to be scolded, but disciplined– and Usami is so eager he begins trembling. He nearly bolts upright in his impatience. He tenses every muscle to remain. His yes, sir gets lost in the tangled weave of his throat, but doesn’t trust himself to speak, anyway.
And Tsurumi doesn’t give him a chance. His hand hooks into Usami’s belt and drags him forward until he knocks against Tsurumi’s desk, and then a palm is pressing into the flat of his back. Usami swallows hard. His gaze skitters over the paperwork, the envelopes not yet opened, every important name and seal, and he looks toward Tsurumi, looming just in his periphery. “Sir?”
“Is there a problem, Superior Private?” Tsurumi presses harder until Usami has no choice but to move forward, hips knocking against the wood, digging uncomfortably into his groin. “Bend over.”
Usami falls more than he bends, light-headed and flushed from the perfect cadence of those syllables, and he crashes against the wood, chin slamming against it. The pain ricochets through every cooling wound until his face is hot and alert with it anew. Every pulse of it is as potent and stimulating as a climax, and he shudders despite himself, his thighs tensing uselessly, erection trapped between his uniform and the unforgiving wood. And like this, with Tsurumi’s hand on his back, with Tsurumi’s indomitable presence pressing behind him, it’s almost a simulacrum of the kill, the congress–
In one fluid movement, Tsurumi undoes Usami’s belt and tugs at his pants until they sag around his ankles. Usami’s breath stutters. Every part of him is bright and alive, goosebumps crossing his flesh. There’s something so impersonal about the act, directly adjacent from the door; anyone could walk in and witness this. The idea of it saturates him until his breath is fogging the wood and he’s white-knuckled around the lip of the desk. Let them see- let them know Usami is the one receiving this peerless pleasure…
And then Tsurumi’s knuckles are dragging over the curve of his ass. Usami’s entirety ratchets up; he raises on his toes, just to lean into that sacred touch. Filed nails press into the dip of his waist, hook beneath the edge of his fundoshi, trace the cotton until it meets the cleft of his flesh, and Usami whines again. His skin is branded where Tsurumi touches, he’s sure– he could trace every line, every imprint Tsurumi has ever bestowed upon him. He was crafted for this very purpose.
Ogata is stumbling through the wilderness, bleeding out of his shoulder, and Usami is here, bent over Tsurumi’s desk. His chest contracts in one explosive, victorious exhale.
And then the sensation is gone.
A needy keen twists out of him; Usami leans up further, further, until he’s nearly prostrated with his bruised cheek plastered to the desk and his ass as high as he can raise it. Like this, Usami can just hear the rustle of Tsurumi’s skin, can just catch his wrist rotating in the edge of his vision. Anticipation pools low in him, shoots high to addle his brain. He can scarcely pack air into his greedy lungs, as primed and impatient as he is. His hands ache from how tightly they’re clenched.
And then Tsurumi’s voice wafts around him, intimate in its softness. “Tell me, Superior Private– what are the qualities of an excellent soldier?”
“Ruthlessness,” Usami says immediately, even as he prostrates himself further, taunting in his boldness. The motion causes each aching bone to press further into the desk so wonderfully his eyelids flutter. “Loyalty. Utility.”
“Go on.”
And Usami could groan with how desperate he is, legs trembling from the effort and his neediness, but he forges past it all, brow contorting with the effort. Each word is reeled in from a thick, viscid murkiness, chewed over before he manages to force them out. “Intelligence. Resilience. Decisiveness.”
“Is that all?”
“Discipline-” And Usami contorts, contorts, but his spinning, spinning head is little use. “Endurance-”
“And?”
“And-” his breath is humid and damp against his shoulder. He wets his lips, swallows hard, watches Tsurumi flex his hand, watches the beautiful fold and twist of each muscle and tendon. Hit me, hit me, hit me, hit me- “and-”
“Really, do think about it.”
And Usami thinks, but all his brain can conjure is the heat of Tsurumi’s body, of his hands, stroking him and hurting him and using him and- a desperate, shaky sound is all that escapes. Tsurumi waits for a long, agonizing moment. And then he tuts. The gleam of his nails catches in the light.
“What a shame. You’ve forgotten something crucial, Superior Private.”
And Tsurumi’s palm cracks against him at last, so fast and so hard Usami is jolted against the desk and pain shoots through him until his vision prickles. He gasps. His face is shoved into the desk from the recoil; his skin screams.
“Obedience.”
Usami can hardly breathe through it, still buzzing in every extremity; his palms are slick and slipping on the desk. There’s a whisper of skin and fabric as Tsurumi stands. His silhouette blocks out the light from the window, casting a long shadow over Usami, and all Usami can do is crane his head, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, his expression. All he can see is the edge of ivory, so very white against his raven hair.
“Superior Private,” Tsurumi says, and Usami’s gaze is glued where the light paints the edges of his features, shifting as his mouth moves. “Can you explain why obedience is such an important trait for a soldier to have?”
Like this, Usami can no longer see Tsurumi’s hand, only the vague, dark shape of him, can no longer anticipate the strike until it’s landing, and every part of him is burning. He wants to push higher, but his legs have met their limit, and he’s aware of every muscle and tendon in them as they strain to maintain his posture. He wants the sweet ache of it– needs it– needs to split himself open, lay everything bare, let Tsurumi reach inside of him and curl around his very essence and squeeze and squeeze until he bursts from the force of his love–
Tsurumi spanks him again, stiff-wristed and merciless, and Usami jumps, a strangled sound choked in his throat. Directly over the first, stinging even worse, and Usami can only imagine the bruise that is beginning to bloom across his skin like a darkroom photograph. He wishes he could see it, wishes he could watch the blood rise to blush the surface, could see it clot and turn dark and beautiful–
Tsurumi’s voice caresses him again, low and so unassuming anyone else might have missed the edge of steel.
Anyone else.
“I asked you a question.”
And Usami wracks his brain, but the pain-bright haze is so complete it’s all he can think about, overshadowed only by the ache of his cock. His hand is so close that he could merely push the fundoshi aside, but Tsurumi would be so displeased with him- and the thrill of his wonderful fury is so tantalizing he nearly wrenches his hand free of its clasp, nearly-
And Tsurumi steps back, and daylight spills across Usami again, and the loss of his attention is so unbearable Usami rocks back on his heels instantly, babbling desperately.
“Because- because we’re useless without it- because we exist to obey- because you depend on it- because– because–”
“Very good, Superior Private!” Tsurumi’s fingertips appear again, trailing up the range of his spine, and even through the fabric of his uniform it sears against him. His senseless voice catches high in his throat. “Yes, you’ve put it quite well. Which would make you, using your own words…”
Tsurumi’s hand lifts.
“Useless.”
Whack!
The word hisses between Tsurumi’s teeth and sinks into Usami, each syllable stabbed into his skin with his slap, far more painful than anything his hand could wreak.
“Insubordinate.”
Whack!
“Unreliable.”
Twice, on both sides, whip-quick. Air whinnies out of Usami’s lungs. His vision is slick and blurred, and it hurts– the pain bakes into him- but it’s dwarfed by the nettle sting of Tsurumi’s words. He wants to object, but his tongue is thick in his mouth, his breath too choked to give shape to more than a choppy, pitchy gasp.
And then Tsurumi steps back again, cordial as he curls each finger individually, shakes out his hand. “It sounds like you have a wonderful grasp of the concept, Usami. Certainly, then, you can supply me with a satisfactory explanation of the extreme circumstances that must have led to your disobedience today?”
A chill trickles down Usami’s spine, and it’s wonderful the way his shame mixes with his arousal, shooting high to bow his neck and shoulders, so low he can’t help but shift his thighs. He knows there is no satisfactory answer, and the promise of Tsurumi’s disapproval is as beautiful and erotic as a wound. He aggravated me, sir- he provoked me, sir- I couldn’t help myself, sir- and all of it would fall so very flat beneath Tsurumi’s judicious eye. Yet the thought of disappointment- true disappointment- stills Usami to the point that even the cloying heat fogging the machinery of his mind dampens.
And then Tsurumi speaks again, each clause clear on his fine-tuned tongue. “I’m waiting, Superior Private.”
And he can’t win- he can’t- and when Tsurumi’s shadow shifts again Usami’s breath chokes like a sob on his desperation. “He told me I was cheap, sir, and I’m not, and I couldn’t stand it, sir, I couldn’t let him, I couldn’t-”
Usami is cut off by another slap, so hard it feels like needles are being pushed into his skin, and it’s like he’s being cracked in two; his chest convulses so tightly he can’t pack in another breath. His hands are trembling now, and his throat burns, and tears prick at his eyes that aren’t only from the pain. Tell me he’s wrong. Tell me he’s wrong. Tell me-
“Unfortunate as that may be,” Tsurumi says, and Usami could crumple, it cleaves into him so efficiently, “you should know better, Tokishige.”
And oh, his name, his name— here is Usami’s true punishment. Here is his failure- not in provoking Ogata, not in goading him, not in stabbing him- but in failing to consider how it would impact Tsurumi. Usami is bowled by his selfishness. He exists to be useful to Tsurumi, to fit as a tool into his well-formed palm, and hasn’t he always prided himself on how snugly they slotted together? Hasn’t he always strived for excellence in his hand?
Hadn’t he?
Something stirs behind him. A metallic rattle. Usami cranes his head, but he can see nothing but the edge of Tsurumi’s shoulder and the window behind them. Then, heat and force and presence leaning over him, so intense it’s as if Tsurumi is laying across him, and the caress of his breath on his ear is so physical Usami shudders.
“I’m afraid,” Tsurumi murmurs, utterly cordial, “that you aren’t showing improvement, Superior Private.”
Something whips against him and a hot flash of pain shoots through Usami and whites out his brain. His legs are gelatinous; his stomach clenches uselessly. It lances into him and twists, driving low into his abdomen, tight around his chest, and Usami’s inhale stutters. Not a hand, but something flat and utterly, cruelly efficient, and Usami knows the bite of leather against his flesh even before the second strike from Tsurumi’s belt lands. Usami rocks against the desk from the force of it. The pain percolates his groin from the collision, too, and his ass burns – he won’t be able to sit properly for days.
“You have to understand,” Tsurumi says, dragging the belt up Usami’s ravaged flesh, and a symphony of broken sounds follow it, “the position this puts me in.”
It cracks again and Usami yelps-
“You do know how I hate dealing with Central-”
Harder- every ounce of odium delivered in one swift strike- and Usami nearly slips from the desk altogether-
“And now I will have to answer for your mistake-”
Twice- and Usami’s reduced to whimpers-
“So, certainly,” and the words almost cooed, and they’re agonizingly sweet, “you have to understand what you’ve done.”
Contrition- true contrition- is squeezed out of him like molasses from a rag. He’s shuddering, breath hiccuping, face ugly and contorted, and he doesn’t realize he’s crying until his face is hot and slick.
“I’m sorry, sir-” and he’s stuttering, tripping over the syllables, convulsing in his throat. “I’m sorry, Tokushirou–”
Tsurumi’s hand appears on his ass again, feather-light and massaging, and it would be pleasant if his flesh wasn’t so abused; Usami merely whimpers again, even as he pushes into it.
“That’s better.”
It’s loving, the way his thumb rolls, the way it digs into the worst of his bruises; Usami, deliriously, wants him to make it worse. To push and push until his flesh is black and bloodied- until he never returns to how he was before–
And then that hand draws up, and something cold and wet splatters against Usami’s back, and Usami is in such an agonized daze he doesn’t recognize what it is until two fingers slip beneath the cut of his fundoshi and press against him. His breath ratchets in. They’re cold as they circle, press, tease and tempt him, and he’s making tiny sounds in the back of his throat, hips wiggling on instinct. When the first finger pushes inside his entire body stiffens, arousal coiling and solidifying anew in the depths of his stomach.
Yes– any touch from him, cruel or gentle, and Usami would take it with gratitude; his skin was sculpted for this purpose, he’s sure. And this, this– to be touched so sweetly, to be spoiled -
“What,” comes Tsurumi’s voice from a distant place, “exactly are you sorry for, Superior Private?”
Usami is so lost in it all that he doesn’t comprehend Tsurumi’s words until his hand slows, and his brain snaps back into place at once. “For- for making things more difficult for you- for hurting one of your pieces- for interfering with your plans-“
A second finger joins the first, impatient and stretching, and Usami doesn’t know if he’s being punished or rewarded. “Will it happen again?”
“No sir- never, sir-“
Tsurumi’s voice is sweet, sweet. “Don’t lie, Usami.”
Usami feels tiny, pathetic, dissolving. The truth of it sticks in his throat. It strangles his syllables, wallowing in shame, aches around his cock. “I can’t help myself, sir.”
“Yes,” Tsurumi murmurs, “It’s only your nature– you’ve never been able to, Tokishige.”
And he says it with such doting affection that Usami convulses, a sob smothering him, and it’s like he’s absolved. Even this– even this can be forgiven. And when the third finger demands entry, the pain feels sacred, the pleasure ascendant. What an honor it is to receive either, to be privy to this, to know Tsurumi- all the covert, subtle little movements, true intentions hidden somewhere far beneath his impenetrable eyes- but not to Usami. Usami is always there, always watching, always peeling back the layers of his artifice. Polishing every sacred syllable that falls from his tongue and extracting the meaning, gorging himself on every precious secret unveiled– oh, how wonderful it is to be Tsurumi’s number one.
It permeates him, heady and lovely, until every part of him is warm and he’s melting into Tsurumi’s hand, his voice pitchy and kittenish. He arches back into it- always wanting, always needing, more, more- until he brushes against Tsurumi’s hips and feels an unmistakable hardness. That permeating warmth turns into a burn and suddenly he’s breathing hard and fast, hands trembling anew, and he rocks back on his heels.
“Sir-“ He prostrates himself further until he’s flush against him, “sir—“
Tsurumi’s fingers curl and Usami’s spine liquefies with the rest of him; his neglected cock twitches uselessly. Tsurumi’s voice is conversational even now. “Certainly you aren’t about to ask me for something, Superior Private?”
“Please,” and it’s all Usami can say, pathetic and pleading, “please- please- please-”
He’s feverish, delirious, desperate with want. He thinks of his flesh, of the organs contained just beneath that fine weave of muscle, of all the space within his viscera; all of it, he wants to hand over. All of Tsurumi he wants to feel there, filling him, devouring him– all of it, he wants in return- to gorge himself on Tsurumi until his stomach aches with it. He needs it, so desperately he’s scrabbling at the edge of the desk, all but grinding against Tsurumi, fucking himself on his fingers, and his pleases are only all the more obscene.
“Superior Private,” Tsurumi says, stepping back and retracting his hand, and Usami whines from the loss of it, keening and wanton. There's a shuffle of fabric behind him, a metallic clink. "It’s absurd you think you’re in the position to demand anything.”
And then in one swift, punishing movement Tsurumi is inside of him.
The discomfort of his fingers is nothing compared to this; Usami’s hands curl around the edge of the desk, voice struck silent. He takes his breaths in short, measured spurts, knowing it will abate when Tsurumi is fully sheathed, yet the ache of it still streaks up his body in hot bursts. Tears prick the corners of his eyes. He can imagine Tsurumi’s cock slipping into his flesh, settling within his viscera, prodding into the space just below his navel, and he’s delirious with it. He tries so desperately to split himself open, to absorb him, to be defiled and sanctified beneath him.
If Tsurumi was a beast, Usami would want to be the prey pinned beneath him, the lamb sacrificed on his altar; for his blood to be sucked out of him as sustenance and his flesh peeled back from his bones like the petals of a rose. Tsurumi could drain Usami of all of his love, and Usami would give himself willingly until he was merely a husk, a corpse, and Tsurumi would resurrect him into something greater, immortal, worthy - he’s already done it once. And Usami would give himself again, and again, and again…
Tsurumi’s hips are flush against his now. Usami is so full he can’t breathe past it. All he can feel is the honor, the privilege, the utter accolade of being the one bestowed with this, of being so very loved, so very lucky– and his malformed heart can’t swell to contain the force of it, bleeding into and out of him like death, like an orgasm-
And then Tsurumi starts to move. It’s rough, punishing, and when their hips snap together the dormant ache of Usami’s earlier disciplining snaps to bright and scalding awareness until each thrust is a brand. Usami’s voice is falling from him unbidden; he’s slack, gelatinous, spilling over the edges of the desk.
And this- surely this is heaven. There’s something sacred in the carnal violence of it, Tsurumi’s blunt fingers biting bruises into the edges of Usami’s waist, in possession and consumption and consummation. In the utter surrender of it all– in the submission, in the immolation, in the flagellation. Tsurumi is piercing himself into Usami, driving through skin and muscle and bone, and Usami gives himself over to it; he’ll do anything if it means that Tsurumi’s essence will bleed into him, will tear so deeply into Usami he’ll leave a fissure. And this is just what Usami deserves, what he was created for– to be tamed, to be degraded, to be kept with his forehead kissing the floor- if it is only by Tsurumi’s hand.
How delicious it is, to be pinned with no chance of escape, to be capable of only surrender. Exposed to the fangs of a predator, black-eyed and white-teethed, and Usami rolls over and bears his soft underbelly for the taking.
Each time Tsurumi bowls into him, he’s shoved against the desk, his still-clothed cock straining, and all Usami can think of is that there, just beneath where his stomach meets the wood, Tsurumi is inside him, inside him, inside him, inside-
His blood boils and curdles in his veins like blackberry jam, and Usami remembers the preserves they used to create on their farm, remembers his childhood shock at how something so bitter could simmer down into something so very sweet– and that’s what Tsurumi does to him, boils him until he draws all the poison out of him, distills him until he’s pure and clean again–
Usami can’t see him now, can’t see the lovely flush of his skin, the gleam of his perspiration, the thick of his hair as it unfurls from its hold and falls along the edges of his headplate. If only he could; if only he could wrap his thighs around the cut of his waist and draw him closer, closer, until they could never be parted, until they melded into each other altogether. He can hear Tsurumi’s breath, low and labored, can feel the need in his strokes, in the nettle-sting that splits through Usami each time, and being used is such a loving thing. It’s Usami’s highest purpose– to be ripped apart by him, to be devoured, to be a feast for Tsurumi instead of the maggots, to sustain and nurture him– and Usami would only pray Tsurumi would enjoy him, would try to make himself all the more succulent, all the more sustaining. He can’t imagine a greater honor.
Usami only knows how to love with a desperate, guileless devotion, after all. From the very beginning, he’s never had another option. If only Usami could melt his flesh so his hand could dip and feel Tsurumi driving into him, just to have all of him. His own hips move in tandem. His voice is stuttering now, heat pooling and building bright in the breadth of his abdomen, right where his body clings to Tsurumi. Greedy, greedy- just like the rest of him, it doesn’t want to let go. Tsurumi must feel it, too, for his hand suddenly presses down hard on the small of his back, shoving the air out of Usami’s lungs.
“Usami,” Tsurumi says, and it’s so indulgent, so permissive. “You can’t be thinking of coming, are you?”
“Yes, sir-” and he’s so close- “please, sir-“
“And make a mess of my desk?” Tsurumi cuffs him, right over the crisscrossed bruises, and Usami cries out at the metallic zing of pain. “Absolutely not.”
Both hands grip Usami’s hips tightly now as Tsurumi fucks him mercilessly. Usami is lightheaded from the pain, dizzy from the liquid pleasure of it, senseless from them both, and all he can do is hold back the desperate urge coiling around him with a vice-grip. Every tendon and muscle in his body tenses, tenses– he can’t disappoint Tsurumi a second time. He’s a staccato mess of sounds, shaking so severely he can’t even hold onto the desk anymore, and the obscene collision of their flesh is a punishment of its own. A desperate, frustrated sob works out of his throat. He’d been hard since Ogata, painfully so since Tsurumi first began paying attention to him, and now it was torturous–
And Tsurumi’s own voice catches, low in his chest, and Usami can feel the pulse precluding Tsurumi’s orgasm, and he’s too far gone to even beg, clawing at the edges of the desk. He needs it– needs to feel him, hallowed and sacred, settling viscously into the hollows of Usami. If only it could be a part of him forever– if only some part of Tsurumi could bleed into Usami permanently, not melding with him, but remaining as a separate entity, as a parasite. Usami would cherish it, he would nurture it- the most perfect, precious part of himself, tucked away and cosseted forevermore. It almost feels that way, Tsurumi’s forearm shoving his face into the desk, his breath heavy and hot against him, his cock still pulsing within him, and Usami tries to drink it in, tries to preserve it forever, tries to tattoo each sensation and emotion and thought into his mind and flesh.
But then Tsurumi pulls out, and Usami’s desperate voice scrapes his throat in another sob, and he tries to fuck himself back onto him fruitlessly. He can hear the slick of Tsurumi’s skin, the muffle of his moan, and it’s exquisite, it’s so agonizing. Usami would drop to his knees and offer his tongue if his body was obeying him, and he urges it to move, move, but then Tsurumi comes, falling against Usami’s ruined backside and streaking the back of his uniform, hot and wet and clinging to his skin. Usami’s frustration is a petulant, whining thing, working out of his greedy throat. His fingernails ache against the wood. But it’s over; there’s nothing more for Usami to take, and he’s left wanting, and wanting, and wanting all over again.
For a long moment, the only sound is their ragged breathing. And then Tsurumi straightens, and Usami can hear the clink of his belt, and his voice is modulated and even once more.
“That will be all, Superior Private.”
Coming down is excruciating. Like he was ascending and was harpooned and dragged down to earth, like glass is being pushed into every pore, he’s aware of the bite of the desk again, of his burning muscles, of his tortured skin, of his aching, unfulfilled cock. He flattens his feet, finally relieving his calves, and the moment his heels touch the planks he crumples. His knees slam against the floor, his heels pushing so painfully into his abraded skin he gasps. But if Tsurumi notices, he doesn’t react; he’s retreated somewhere far in Usami’s periphery. Usami retrieves his pants, struggles to fit them over his erection, fights with the clasp with trembling hands.
“Thank you, sir,” Usami says hoarsely. Tsurumi, facing the window, does not respond.
The door clicks behind Usami. He walks, cum-stained, hard, and disheveled back to the barracks. It swathes him like a trophy. He feels like he’s floating, drifting through the building past inferior soldiers, and a grin is splitting his cheeks by the time he clears it. If only they could see every mark Tsurumi lovingly left behind, the wasted flesh chafing against his uniform pants. If only they knew.
The barracks are empty, but it wouldn’t have mattered either way– Usami is clawing out of his clothing the second the door shuts behind him. If only he had a mirror and could admire Tsurumi’s beautiful handiwork in full; he merely rakes his hands over the bruises, dragging his flesh forward so he can see where it begins to flush and darken. His breath quickens anew. It would hurt for days, and with each bright spear of it, he would remember how lucky he is–
And his jacket– his jacket–
Usami slides to the floor, reverent hands trembling as he searches, and there, streaking the back– Usami’s fingertips hover, ripe with indecision, and he wets his lips. He can feel his pant buff back off the fabric, hot and humid against his face. And then he buries his face against it, pressing hard against his nose to make the pain ricochet, and inhales deeply. It’s criminal, the way it lacks the fullness of Tsurumi’s scent, and yet, and yet– his tongue darts out and then drags, and any remaining dreg of endurance evaporates the moment it permeates his mouth and his hand is tearing past his fundoshi, finally releasing his cock, and his hand curls around it in an instant. He rocks back on his heels and it hurts so badly he’s breathless, and he sucks and sucks until all he can taste is cotton, and he barely manages a few furious strokes before he’s spilling over his fingers. It rips through him after so long denied, as pure and lovely as viscera staining the snow, and Usami doesn’t know if he’s ever felt so high.
By the time he’s dressed and reporting for duty, he’s already formulated all the ways he can spark Tsurumi’s ire anew.
It’s only his nature, after all.