Work Text:
It’s like being in a microwave, or so Akiyama imagines; rays of summer sunlight stream through the smudged windows of Sky Finance Sotenbori, reflecting unwelcome off of shiny laminated tile and barren metal surfaces. It’s downright offensive. Akiyama would draw the blinds – if he’d thought to purchase them at any point over the course of the last six months, that is. Instead, he sits sprawled on the cheap fake leather couch in the middle of the room and cooks like a preservative-laden, shelf-stable budget buy from the Poppo on the corner.
(The metaphor hits especially close to home given the sheer number of preservative-laden, shelf stable Poppo budget buy containers and wrappers littering the corners of the room.)
The burgundy jacket’s been off for some time, lest Akiyama braise in his own juices rather than simply marinate. His usual black button-down, damp with sweat, sticks to him, clinging particularly in the underarms. It’s a hard sensation to ignore. He finds repositioning futile – it’s a vicious cycle of sweat, shift, aerate, sweat again but slimier this time.
Some business would be a welcome sight, he thinks to himself, as if the lack thereof springs forth from any source but his own ennui. A distraction from the boredom-induced game he’s playing, counting down the minutes left until sunset (too many, for those curious).
Not a fucking moment too soon, his phone display lights up with a familiar number. Akiyama notes that “business” can, in fact, take many forms.
“Hi, Hana-chan.”
Her response consists of a noise he’s not sure he’s ever heard from her before. Long and drawn-out, somewhere between a groan and a wail, it’s lengthy enough that Akiyama’s sure she’s expelled every trace of air in her lungs.
“Hana-chan,” he tries again, once her death rattle dissipates. “Doing okay?”
She sighs, sounding more like her usual self. “Is it as sweltering in Osaka as it is in Tokyo, Chief?”
His day’s already looking up – Hana’s voice is a balm to his every malady. Or perhaps, in this case, a small electric fan to every inch of his nether regions.
“If we’re talking hot enough to get a tan off the glare from the dial on this safe, then yeah, absolutely.” Akiyama frowns, remembering – “Don’t you have that standing fan next to your desk?”
“It gave out yesterday and its replacement won’t be delivered until Friday,” Hana gripes. Akiyama can hear the change in her position as she moves the phone to her other ear – a fast-paced wobble in her tone tells him she’s using her free hand to fan herself. “And someone was too cheap to get the air conditioning fixed before he went gallivanting off into the Sotenbori sunset!”
Akiyama bites the inside of his cheek guiltily. “Damn. I’m sorry, Hana-chan. I wasn’t thinking about that back in December…”
She huffs a gentle laugh, sending a crackle through the phone connection. “Not totally your fault, Chief. I certainly wasn’t, either. I should’ve checked on that before we hit hot weather. Repairman’s coming tomorrow.”
“And you’re at work anyway?” Akiyama smiles fondly. “Go home – it’s not worth it to make yourself miserable. Work can surely wait until tomorrow, when you have proper office climate control.”
“Shun,” she says too-sweetly, and god, how he loves the sound of his name on her lips – her use of it means that either he’s got some soft, sweet part of her on his tongue, in his mouth, or she’s about to rip him a new one.
Or both.
Unfortunately, the first of those has happened far too sparingly and none too recently (his fault, obviously), and the second is the only one valid at this exact moment. How well he knows his Hana-chan. “Shun, it turns out there’s actually more work to do when one half of the company’s essential operations has, once again, disappeared over the Osakan horizon without so much as a tentative return date!”
Like too many other events in Akiyama’s life, this is something he cannot fix. Like too many other events in Akiyama’s life, this one is borne of impulsivity and avoidance and, perhaps, fear of a number of things and emotions. Permanence. He’s never been one to make roots. Never been one to learn to fix the fan himself, to plan ahead, to show his care.
So, instead, he does what he’s best at (waving off emotional burdens) and smoothly posits a temporary curative: “How can I make it up to you?”
“You can do your job, Chief.”
…He’s not so good at that, either.
Hana’s faults, if she had any, would amount to one thing and one thing only: she has not yet come to the conclusion that she would be far better off without him. She is a healer, a mother hen, blinded by some kind of pitying affection that’s kept her by his side all these years – metaphorically, if not literally right now.
Unluckily for her, but luckily for him; Akiyama enjoys being mothered.
(And, unluckily for her, luckily for him – there’s some part of her, deep down, that enjoys mothering him.)
He hears her sigh. “Chief –”
“Shun,” he corrects her, sliding a damp palm across the front of his trousers where his erection already threatens to blow the zipper. “Go back to Shun, Hana-chan.”
There’s a long silence. It’s more than enough to rock his hips upward against the heel of his hand, slow enough so there’s no sound of sweaty slacks against the leather cushion. Almost enough time to worry that she’s finally decided to be finished with him and his complete and total inability to make anything better.
And then –
“What are you up to, Shun?”
It’s a bittersweet feeling, knowing he’s won only because she knows he’s not good for anything else. Something sick and wanting unfolds in the pit of his stomach.
He'd left Hana long after she’d filled out again, petite underfed curves once again generous handfuls that he'd been lucky enough to clutch in his own wanting grasp twice before having to make his miserable way to Sotenbori. The first of these occasions, after what felt like a lifetime of dancing around it – enough is enough, he'd said roughly, sliding his arms around her waist as they'd said goodnight on a Wednesday evening – she'd reached up to grip Akiyama’s stubbled chin nearly tight enough to bruise with her pretty painted fingertips.
Enough’s been enough for a long time, Chief. Soft fingers had curled around his jaw, into his cheeks, pressing, squeezing his lips together into a fish-like purse. Kiss me, and then take me to dinner.
His yes, ma’am had been lost somewhere inside of her wet mouth, drowned in her satisfied little hum as he held her against the door of their office for a blissful two minutes and thirty seconds, frantically memorizing every inch of her he could manage before obliging her request for a trip to their usual haunt that suddenly held ten times the meaning as before and leaving her an hour and forty-five minutes later with another gentlemanly, chaste kiss on the threshold of her apartment.
Maybe she’d thought then: I can fix him. But she’s smart, so maybe not.
The second time – two weeks later, three nights before he'd left Tokyo – they'd done much less talking and much more of everything else, mostly-horizontal on the office sofa. Akiyama had long fancied himself a boob guy, but it was a quick realization once he found himself on top of and underneath Hana that he would always find each and every part of her body equally appealing. The sounds he'd made while inside of her would have embarrassed him had he been paying attention to anything other than the sounds she made when he sucked greedy purple marks into her flesh, trailing across her belly and inner thighs and underneath her breasts and the lovely little rolls at her sides.
It’s these same sounds Akiyama begins to listen for now, though he knows it's far too early, grasping blindly at anything he can over the phone; any hitch in Hana’s breath as he responds to her question. “I think you probably know the answer to that.”
A quiet hum; he imagines her eyes fluttering closed with the satisfaction of knowing his arousal, of being right (if he should truly be so lucky). “I think I do, Shun, but I want you to tell me with words.”
It's not the first time they've done this over the phone – six months is a long time to be away and obviously it'll be longer still – but it's the first time in the middle of the day. More often he’ll call her when she's tucked into bed for the night; get her to tell him about the pretty little things she's wearing, the toy she's using while they both fuck themselves. The contrast must be sad: Hana in her comfortable, probably well-decorated apartment and Akiyama most often at work (or the pigsty that passes for work) long into the night. Exquisite juxtaposition.
Akiyama doesn't quite have the words for how decidedly it gets him off.
“You want me to tell you I’ve been hard since I picked up the phone?” One-handed, he unbuckles his belt, unzips, makes sure it's loud enough that she can hear.
“You don’t need to tell me,” she replies, that telltale wobble in her voice revealing that she’s fanning herself again. “I know.”
He skips the over-the-boxers shit; the supposedly breathable cotton’s stuck to his skin anyway. Peeling it away from his body, tucking the elastic waistband down underneath his balls, he grips himself bare, skin-to-skin. “You want me to tell you I think you’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, Hana-chan?”
She clicks her tongue in disappointment. “I want you to tell me what you’re doing, Shun.” He can hear the leather office chair squeak underneath her as she shifts. “If you need to tell me the rest, too, well. I won’t stop you.”
He grins and puts his phone on speaker. “Love it when you tell me what to do.”
“Get to it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The head of his cock already beads with moisture; he swipes a thumb through it and touches it to his lips. It’s salty enough to make him salivate. Makes him think of pressing the flat of his tongue against the wet gusset of her panties through her hose, the soft flesh of her mound kissing his hungry mouth. Salty with sweat first, and if he were to pant desperately against her, open his mouth wider, suck – he'd get the sweet-and-salt taste of her want through the layers of sheer fabric (again, should he be so lucky to elicit such a reaction). A reward achieved with effort, so appropriate for a selfish man. “I'm thinking about how you look right now, Hana-chan.”
“And how is that?”
“Put-together. Perfect. Like you could kick my ass without lifting a finger. Too much in this heat.”
She audibly scoffs, but he can hear that precious smile coloring her response, the lovely little corners of her mouth quirking upward. “I really don’t need the smooth talk.” He thinks about the line of her brow as it lowers in fury and triumph when she successfully locks down a client, when she delivers a verbal barb that cracks him in half right down the middle. “You look the same as always, I'm sure.”
“I've already got my pants halfway down my thighs thinking about you.”
“Hmmm.” The smile disappears from her voice, but there’s a heat to the way she hums – a touch of satisfaction at the end. “Like I said, Shun. Same as always.”
True. Even before he'd finally toppled the first domino she'd been the subject of his fantasies for years, whether he'd been aware of it or not. Hadn't been nearly as subtle as he'd imagined.
“Will you – ahh.” He thumbs over the head of his dick again and shudders. “Will you cum with me?”
“That's up to you, isn't it?” she asks in a whisper with sharp edges. “Do as I've asked.”
Akiyama breathes, measured. “I'm thinking about kneeling between your thighs, Hana-chan. Thinking about that and stroking myself real slow. I'm already leaking for you.”
“That's what you want? No air conditioning, no fan, on your knees on the tile floor, Shun?”
“Wanna pull your skirt up to your hips, Hana-chan. I'll lick you until you're wet.” Inhale; take in the thick cloying musk of her. Salt. Tangy and ticklish on the sides of his tongue. “Drag my mouth along the softest parts of you. Can I leave marks?”
She sighs again, almost put-upon. His dick twitches. “If you must.”
That's a yes, of course. And yes, he must. He thinks about her hands in his hair, gripping, pulling; thinks about digging his teeth into her fleshy thighs and laving his tongue over the reddening indents they leave in her skin.
He’s not a good man. He’s not good for her. But he can be good for her.
“What are you doing?” she asks again, breathier this time. “Tell me.”
His response is another question: “Where are you?”
“In the office, at my desk. Doing work.”
Right, right. Doing what she’s supposed to be doing. “I’ll get under your desk, Hana-chan. You can keep working and I’ll work, too, I’ll eat you out.” Press himself up wantonly against her shapely calf and maybe she’ll grace him with some pressure where he needs it. “I’ll do so well for you –”
“And where would that get me? Hot and uncomfortable.” Hana laughs, but it’s humorless and Akiyama knows her eyes are hard. “Tell me what you’re doing, Shun, or I’m hanging up the phone.”
A fate worse than death, not hearing her lovely voice. “Yes ma’am.” He pulls at his cock, ruts into his fist. Spreads that salty pre around, making the slide easier – “I’m, uhhh. It’s hot as fuck in here. Unbuttoning my shirt with one hand –” He gives up a few buttons in, clumsy and lazy, simply yanking it up to reveal his bare stomach to no one but himself. “Even if you’re not thinking about it, I am. Underneath your desk, pulling your pantyhose down so you feel my face on your thighs, feel my mouth. I’m touching myself like I would be if I were there instead of here.”
“Go on,” Hana says quietly.
“I want you, Hana-chan.”
“I know that.” And it doesn’t fix anything, but he’s glad she’s said it anyway.
“What color are you wearing underneath?” Akiyama pants, digging the fingers of his other hand into his balls. “Hana-chan. Indulge me.”
“Nothing special. I’m working. Who do I have to impress?”
He deserves that jab, too. “Please.”
“Beige lycra. No panty lines.”
Just as good as any; he thinks about the stretchy fabric darkened damp with sweat and slick and cream and tightens his grip around his shaft. He wishes he had something of hers to cling to, to remind himself of how she feels against him, to press against his nose and mouth and get off on. Beautiful, fearless Hana, picking up after him, solving his self-made problems.
He’s already in too deep: “What are the chances of you sending those my way?”
It’s like he can hear her blush – a little incredulous, a little incensed. Any reaction is good. “Pervert. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s why I asked.”
“No. Come back to Tokyo.”
Akiyama lets that imperative hang in the air, unsupported, until it deflates and wilts to the ground like an old balloon. He’s a piece of shit.
Instead, he lets his breathing increase in volume alongside the speed of his thrusts into his tight fist. “Hana-chan.” He won’t ask what she’s doing. “I’m going faster. I’m thinking about peeling those down your pretty legs and pushing you – ahh – open, with my hands, and getting my tongue into that gorgeous pussy, and I’m gripping you by the waist and –” He’s close, embarrassingly so; brought to the edge by his own making. “And I can’t hold out, Hana-chan, I’m fucking my fist under your desk and you’re making me so hard and I’m so close –”
“Stop talking,” she says suddenly, harsh consonants spat like blood after a fistfight, and he obeys, and her breathing, too, is quick and rhythmic and he listens and listens and listens and then he can hear it amidst the steady crackling of the phone line: the muffled squeaking of her office chair, back and forth and back and forth, and he cherishes it and bites his tongue and jerks himself to the cadence of it as it accelerates. And then she makes this soft, glottal sound in the back of her throat almost like she’s a little surprised, and Akiyama would know it anywhere and it’s more than enough to push him over the edge, too, spatterings of hot cum landing on his hot bare abdomen and the hot cheap faux leather of the couch as he groans a release he knows he doesn’t deserve.
And it aches, and it aches.
He presses his head into the cushioned arm of the sofa and flexes his tense muscles in a full-body stretch. After a moment, warmly, softly, he says “I miss you” into the loaded silence, and instead of acknowledging it, Hana asks a question:
“Are you coming home soon, Shun?”
Akiyama waits a beat too long to respond, knowing she’ll never believe a yes even if he gave her one, knowing that’s absolutely the right call, knowing she understands him and it’s terrible and it’s a relief because he never has to explain himself.
“I’ll try, Hana-chan.”
Her laugh is loud and shrill and cold and sad. “Okay.”
The line goes dead with a click.
Unmoving, cum drying in streaks across his belly, he watches the summer sun set through the unshaded window.
The room cools.