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The Smallest Church in Jamrock

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You got your first taste of it when he pinned your wrists to the bed. A sense of something out of joint being put right. At the time, you were too overwhelmed by the newness and impossibility of being with Kim at all to give it any special thought. The wonder that he was pushing you into the bed, kissing you like you’d dreamed of hundreds of times.

The two of you had been in a firefight earlier that day, and you choked out the words in his Coupris 40 on the ride back to the station, hating yourself, knowing you were about to ruin everything good between you. He just pulled the car to a darkened place where the street lights were out, and reeled you in by the tie, his lips bruising against yours.

Actually, maybe the tie pull was your first inkling. Or later, when you tried to kiss him in the office and he put a hand on your chest and gave you a firm push. “No. Down.” Like you were a dog. It was all you could do not to drop to your knees for him right then and there.

But if you really think about it, it might go all the way back to that first morning in the Whirling-in-Rags, when he lifted that eyebrow at you.

It all adds up to… something. You’re sure he feels it too. You’re equally sure it scares him, maybe just as much as leaning across the seat to close the distance between you did. He’s terrified of pushing things too fast, of upsetting the recovery you’ve achieved over the last year. That he would floor it like the speedfreak he is if given license to.

So you consider it every time you kiss, catalog the ways he grips your hair a little too hard. You swear you're going to crack this case wide open, when an actual monster of a case, even by Major Crimes standards, falls into your lap.

The mystery of Kim and what he’s holding back has to take a backseat to doing your actual job. You run yourselves ragged trying to stop an entire district of Villalobos from erupting into all-out gang war, spurned on by the machinations of an interisolarly arm smuggling ring.

You nearly lose him again.

But you don’t. You both survive. You walk into Kim’s apartment together at 23:00, and close the door firmly behind you.

Kim sheds his jacket and hangs it on a hook by the door, then runs a smoothing hand over it, inspecting it for damage done in the line of duty. You imagine his hands sliding down your body, inspecting you for damage. Ensuring that you’re whole. He glances back at you, puzzled to see you haven’t even bent down to remove your shoes.

“Coming in?”

“You’re such a sexy beast, Kim,” you blurt.

He crooks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He’s drawing himself up a little bit. He would not appreciate having that pointed out.

“You were so cool out there,” you say, for perhaps the fiftieth time. “The way you knocked that gun right out of his hand. You didn’t tell me you were a Sam Bo artist.”

It’s easier to gush about that than to cling to him, to face the parts of your brain that are still, even now, tormenting you with the image of him falling backward with a circle of red blooming on his white t-shirt.

He ducks his head like he’s trying to bury it in the jacket he’s already hung up. “It’s really not that impressive. He was literally right in front of me.”

“Yeah, okay, but you made it look so-”

“Cool?” He smiles. He’s trying to brush it off. But he likes it. He likes when you think he’s cool. “It’s been a long week for both of us. Let's just be glad it’s over.”

You close the space between him, and slide your arms around his narrow waist. You marvel anew that this is something you’re allowed to do. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to put your hands on your cop-partner’s waist. “The hardest part was not touching you,” you say.

His gloved palm cups your cheek. “This was a very difficult case for more reasons than that.” He frowns. “Speaking of which. We need to finish the paperwork for it while it’s still fresh in our minds.”

Your heart stutters and stalls at the sound of the word “paperwork.”

“Um, what?” you say. Kim doesn’t usually tease about something as ugly as paperwork, but it’s a possibility.

The smile he flashes is apologetic as he disentangles himself from your arms. “We really need to finish it tonight.”

“Can’t we just slide it under the door in two to three weeks like we always do?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Like I always do,” you correct yourself.

“As the attaché said at the crime scene, this is for the Moralintern. Standard, really, when international arms trade laws have been breached. Our… relaxed approach to RCM paperwork will not fly here.”

You’re getting a sinking feeling in your stomach.

“He will be expecting this first thing tomorrow morning.” Before you can protest, he produces his ledger from inside his jacket. “Personally, I suggest we get through this as fast as possible.”

“Right. Okay. Cool. Let’s whip these little pissant triplicate forms into shape.”

“That’s the spirit, detective.”

“I’m serious, Kim. I’m going to fill the shit out of these forms.” You’re already rolling up your sleeves as you follow him to the kitchen.

“Your enthusiasm is appreciated,” he says, sliding into the kitchen chair. He pulls out a stack of carbon copy papers in cloying pale blue and lays them on the table.

You sit heavily beside him and pull the first sheet towards you. Your pen hovers over it.

“Uh, Kim. What am I looking at here?”

What you see is a byzantine knot of boxes and codes and indecipherable jargon. The footnotes and sections are melding and crawling across the page in eldritch shapes. You pull your eyes away before you sustain serious psychic damage from looking at it.

“Hm?” He lifts his head, already partway through the first box. “Interisolary Firearm Control paperwork. They’re standard Moralintern Control Forms….” He frowns. “Oh. You wouldn’t have seen these before, would you?”

It’s not that he’s forgotten that you’ve forgotten everything from before March. But sometimes he forgets the full scope of what that means. He frowns at the arcane set of check boxes, his lower lip caught between his teeth for a moment. “I can finish these myself.”

“C’mon, Kim. Just show me how to fill these out.” You can’t believe you’re actually pushing to stay on form-filling detail, but such is the power of your feelings for Kim. You would die for this man, fill out Moralintern paperwork for this man.

“I think explaining them would take longer than just doing them myself.” He pushes his glasses back on his face. “You’re relieved of duty, detective.”

Well, shit. It’s going to take him twice as long now.

That would only be true if you both filled out paperwork at the same rate, which you know is a lie.

Well, longer then.

You pull out a chair and sit beside him. Trying to sit still and mostly failing. You watch him work and struggle not to fidget.

“Couldn’t there be some way of making paperwork fun?”

Kim has one arm casually draped over the back of his chair, his other hand flying over the forms. He looks good. “Paperwork doesn’t exist to be fun. It exists to be done.”

“Yeah, but what if we could make it fun?”

He reaches over and puts a single gloved finger against your lip. “No more talking now.”

Your mouth snaps shut.

He straightens and returns his gaze to the papers. But there’s something distracted in his bearing. A flutter of pleasure at the curve of his lips that he’s trying to hide.

He hasn’t dated many men who'd respond that way. But you did.

He gets only partway through the first section before stealing a glance up. “Suppose I’m curious. What would you propose? To make this more fun?”

You really hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Uh… I could give you a handie while you work.”

He snorts, covering his mouth with his hand. “Okay. Well. I believe that would be fun for you.”

“Come on, Kim. It’d be fun for you too. Admit it.” You have seen how he reacts to your big hands on him.

He bites his lip. “It would be distracting. The goal is still to finish the paperwork quickly.”

You consider pointing out that if he cared that deeply about getting the paperwork done as fast as possible, he would not still be engaging you on this point. He would not appreciate it.

“I just want to be able to help,” you say. And you fix him with your most pitiful look. “Please, Kim?”

And then–something possesses you to kneel. It’s a joke. Maybe. Maybe not. The linoleum is hard and cold under your knees. You think of your knees hitting the snow in a hollowed out church before a silent and cold mother of humanism. Something crosses his face as your knees hit the floor. He did not expect that.

He leans back and considers you. There is, some tension in his posture, and he’s fiddling with the cuffs of his gloves. The gesture he makes when he has an idea, but is not entirely sure it’s a good idea. There’s something considering in his gaze.

You get a sense that The Something is in the air between you.

It’s fascinating to watch, the way you can see it all play out–the expressions that he is carefully ensuring do not cross his face. And all the while, you are wilting under his gaze. He’s asking himself, would he? Would he really? Then nods, almost imperceptibly to himself. Satisfied on that point. He did not expect to open this door tonight. But something in him breaks.

Ah, fuck it.

“You know. I do think I know a way to make this more fun.” There’s a wicked grin in his eyes. You feel yourself getting excited. He only looks that wicked when he’s about to destroy you at Suzerainty. “Since you’re already on your knees, detective.” He swivels his hips toward you in his chair, and his legs have fallen apart slightly.

You don’t need to be told twice. You shuffle towards him on your knees, but he holds up a hand.

“Under the table.” He’s tapping his foot slightly. A show of impatience that goes straight to your dick.

Your eyes widen, and your brain positively short-circuits. Fuck yes. You are totally down to give him a blow job while he pretends to do work. You have to duck your head to crawl under the desk, and when you’re down there, you realize fully that you’re the wrong age to be kneeling on a hard linoleum floor, so you remove your blazer and make a nice little pillow of it for your knees to rest on. That’s better! With your knee-pillow in place, you decide that it’s cramped under here, but not uncomfortable. Excitement is pounding out a pulse in between your legs. You splay your hands very carefully across your thighs. You are so ready for this.

He sits down, his knees on either side of you, and carefully moves the seat forward. Up above, you can hear him click the pen, like he’s going back to work. Then his pen starts to move across the page. He really is going back to the form.

Okay, well. Fine. You can blow him while he works. Multitasking is cool with you.

He’s given you no guidance, so, left to your own devices, you observe. One knee bounces in a nervous gesture he’s barely aware of. The only indication, as the pen moves fluidly across the page, that he’s giving you any thought at all. You are taken with a sudden impulse to lean forward and rub your whiskers against his leg, like a dog nuzzling its master. The lieutenant says nothing about the attention his knees are being paid.

You mouth your way up his thigh, then stop, waiting for a response. The only indication he gives that he is even aware of your efforts is the way his legs spread open farther.

Your pants are starting to feel tight. You were so worn out you just went home and collapsed into bed every night this week, which means you've jerked off roughly zero times in the past eight days. You are ready to go. You really want to palm yourself through your new lime green disco pants, but you resist, focusing your attention on his cock.

The light is poor down here, and Kim’s pants are loose through the hips and crotch, but you can still make out the barest hint of a bulge in the folds of his pants. You move with deliberate care toward your goal.

He continues to work away in silence, the movements of his pen diligent and steady.

You bring your face forward, and bury yourself between his legs, breathing him in, the faint scent of him. He’s already half-hard and heavy against the fabric, and you mouth him wetly through his pants, breathing in the soft musk of sweat and precome.

Aside from the soft intake of breath, he makes no move to loosen his fly or even slide his hips forward. He is ostentatiously ignoring you.

Your hands have been patiently resting on your thighs, but you can’t wait any more. You pop open the top button of his fly. His stomach muscles flutter a little at the touch of your hands. He says nothing.

You continue your slow journey down his fly, liberating buttons as you go. You’ve only gotten Kim out of his pants a couple times before. It’s still new enough to make your pulse pound between your legs.

When he’s fully unbuttoned, you fold his fly back, revealing an unassuming pair of boxers and the half-hard cock lazily straining against them.

You lean forward and kiss him through the thin cotton fabric. You’re gratified to see a small dot of precome forming where his boxers strain the hardest. He can feign indifference all he wants, but his cock is clearly as interested in this as you are.

You slip your fingers inside his waistband and gently ease him out.

You didn’t even know you liked dick for months after your amnesia. But it turns out you love dick, or at least, Kim's dick. The look and taste of it, the weight of it on your tongue. You nuzzle it with your cheek, a gesture that elicited a shocked laugh the first time you tried it, the first night you spent together, but now elicits nothing but a soft, weary sigh.

The lack of response from Kim to any of this is… confusing. But he put you under here for a reason, and you intend to follow through. So you bow your head and put your mouth on him. You can feel satisfaction pool in your stomach, lightning dancing on the edges of your vision as you savor the taste.

You start to move your head, but his gloved hand comes down and stops you.


"What?" Which comes out "Wmmph?” when you try to say it around a mouthful of dick.

“I told you. I need to finish these forms. Just keep me warm until then."

You glance up, and he has finally–finally!–torn his eyes away from his paperwork to watch you. His eyes are glittering behind his glasses.

You make a small, questioning noise around him. Your addled brain can only understand one thing–you can’t suck him?

“No distractions. I'll be forced to start over if I make a mistake, and this will take even longer.”

 He’s teasing you. Secure in the knowledge that you will stay put. Suddenly, a lot of things are very clear. The *something* has a form.

You whimper. 

You meet his eyes, imagining the picture you make for him. His partner, his technical superior, under the table, whimpering around his cock, fighting every urge in his body to suck him.

And it turns out you love everything about that. You make an affirmative sound in the back of your throat.

“Good boy.” A momentary pause, then you hear the scratch of the pen again.

And you are left alone with only his cock for company, heavy and hot against your tongue, everything about him invading your senses. He is still half-hard from the attention you already paid him, but he’s softening slowly in your mouth. That, at least, makes it easier to take all of him in, so you focus on that. Slowly, moving forward millimeter by millimeter, you move your lips forward. When they touch his dark thatch of hair, your mouth feels blissfully full with the whole weight and length of him.

He tastes so good, and you have to fight your natural impulse to lick. To savor.

You stare up at him with hopeful eyes, hoping for some acknowledgement of your restraint, but he is bent over his work and doesn't even see you.

The part of you that craves his attention and praise is a bit put out by that. The part of you that likes degradation and being kicked like a dog in the mud is buzzing with excitement.

You squeeze your fists tight, letting the sting of your nails in your palms cut through the need. You are determined to do this right. And you always do better with a clear task in front of you.

When you were wandering around the ground floor of the Whirling, you wonder if he knew even then. Maybe to him, you were an abandoned aerostatic craft in need of a pilot, a machine that needed to be aimed precisely, but will power through obliteration itself if pointed in the right direction.

You cannot do more than hold him, but for the time being, you are content to lose yourself in the subtle scent and taste and warmth of him. As the minutes tick by, everything else falls away here. The case, all of Revachol and Elysium are banished to the periphery of your mind, and the entire restless cacophony is stilled as it hones itself on him. You could lose yourself like this, you think. A blissful oblivion. Maybe that was what he was afraid of. He's afraid of being the oblivion you drown yourself in. 

He would also be the hand pulling you out again.

You are kneeling at a temple. You are its last, truest devotee, a sworn servant and you will kneel as long as it takes.

This close, you’re hyper-attuned to his breath, to the pulse of blood in his veins, to every shift of his muscles. You start to convince yourself you can feel each letters he’s writing, like they’re traveling down his body for you to decode.

Sometimes his cock twitches in your mouth, a soft flutter of interest even the lieutenant can’t wholly suppress, and your own cock, which is painfully hard in your pants, gives an amiable twitch in response. Your fingers itch to wrap themselves around his legs and pull him closer, to feel the surprising firmness of his muscles as they clench around your head. To swallow around him, feel him harden in your mouth.

But that would be distracting, so you don’t.

A movement out of the corner of your eye startles you out of your reverie. His gloved left hand slips under the table. The leather of his fingertips scrapes through your hair, combing gently. You sigh.

If you looked down, you believe you'd see your lungs glowing.

You really could get off from this. The taste of him, the velvety underside of his cock against your tongue and his hand lazily tangling in your hair. The thought sends your mind scattering in a million different directions–you on your knees while he’s standing, on your hands and knees on the bed, bent over your desk at work. The central theme being you taking Kim's cock however he wants to give it to you. 

You want to reach into your too-tight disco pants and touch yourself to the parade of images marching through your head. 

He hasn’t said you can’t. 

But it’s not that simple, some purple-tinged voice in your head reminds you. You start touching yourself, and you will end up jerking yourself off, right here at Kim’s feet. And you’ve jerked off enough times in the last year to know that your orgasms and quiet discretion are not on speaking terms.

Maybe if you just stroke yourself a little?

The warring impulses in your head that have thankfully been quiet while you've been down here now stir to life and have a brief but spirited debate.

Assert your independence by rubbing one out right here on the kitchen floor. Putting his cock in your mouth doesn’t make him the boss of you.

But what if I kind of want him to be the boss of me?




You put your hands behind your back and clasp them together. You don't trust yourself, suddenly, to resist putting your hands on him.

Drool is flowing freely from your open mouth now, with you unable to swallow. You close your eyes and try not to vibrate with want, but a desperate whimper escapes from your throat before you can catch it.

The scratch of the pen against paper stops. The hand that’s tangled in your hair tightens, forcing your head up. He’s leaning back in his chair, looking down at you. At your full mouth straining around him, your eyes sad and pitiful. Your hands clasped tight behind your back, shaking with the energy it takes to resist touching what you want. 

He considers all that, and he smiles. “Having some trouble?”

You moan around his cock. You might be able to muster some dignity if you could speak, but you can’t, so fuck it. You will be as pathetically needy as you, in fact, are.

His hand loosens in your hair, turns into a caress. “It looks like you need some help.”

You widen your eyes eagerly and nod as much as you can without jostling his cock.

"But what should I help you with?" He rakes his eyes up and down your body, struggling to suppress the wicked smile that wants to burst across his face. "Looks like you’re having trouble… restraining yourself.”

He’s definitely smiling.

This is not at all what you asked for. So why are you still so powerfully turned on?

You hear rather than see him reach into a pocket. The rustle of nylon fabric. Then he’s holding something out to you, metallic and clinking. Handcuffs.

God yes. Please. Let Kim handcuff you. Let him push you up against a wall like a criminal, a firm hand pressed between your shoulder blades--

That’s not going to happen, obviously, not in your current position.

He’s not going to force you, any more than he has at any point in the proceedings. He’s merely offering it to you. Seeing what you’ll do. His eyes are unreadable behind his glasses, but his posture is relaxed. Satisfied. Confident. You are reminded that for as uncannily attuned as you are to the lieutenant’s moods, he is also well-attuned to yours. You surprise him frequently with the strange turns of your mind, but in matters of your appetites, your needs, you are very easy to read.

So he is not surprised when you reach for the cuffs, clumsy with eagerness, and take them for yourself. You don't need him to put these on. You’ve used ones just like these dozens of times, and your muscle memory can recall hundreds more.

You bring your hands behind your back again and close a cuff around your wrist. In all those hundreds of times, did you ever do this to yourself? 

You tug against the metal around your wrist, cold and unyielding, and you shiver, electric pleasure humming through your veins like power lines.

You have absolutely done this to yourself before.

You meet his eyes, steady and calm, as you close the other cuff around your right wrist. The fact that he's watching at all, the forms momentarily forgotten, betrays his interest in this. You shiver, realizing how helpless you have willingly made yourself for him, and tug experimentally on the cuffs. Bound, and gagged with cock. His cock.

Something flickers across his face, so subtle and so fast it’s gone before you can catalog it.

His cock stiffens suddenly, hitting the back of your throat, and you swallow in surprise. You stare up at him, as you  both realize what has happened. How much he wants you. He can exercise his iron authority over himself, and you, but he can't stop his cock from twitching as he looked at you trussed up at his feet. 

Color is creeping up his neck, and he coughs, suddenly distracted by the papers in front of him.

You grin at him.

Okay, that was good. But there was something else there. Before you took the cuffs.


He did it to see you do it. He didn’t believe it was needed, even by the standards of whatever game this is. He believes you would have kept your hands to yourself regardless.

Would I?

Who’s to say? He has a faith in your better angels that no one else seems to share. Yourself included, if you’re being honest.

And to the surprise of everyone, you have not let him down yet. You’ve stayed sober for a year, and who expected that? Not even you, frankly. Maybe he’s onto something.

But also…


The lieutenant understands it’s a relief, sometimes, to have the choice taken out of your hands for a while.

After that, the lieutenant does not speak to you. He immerses himself in his work, and you immerse yourself in yours. Savoring every microscopic twitch as his cock tentatively starts to to take an interest in the mouth around it, then loses interest when no further stimulation comes.

It occurs to you that this is an act of will for him too. Not touching for a week has been hard on him too. He does not open himself up to new relationships easily. It has been a long time since he had someone to go home with after a hard case.

All of which is to say, he’s as horny as you are, and he could have gotten off five times over if he’d let you get right down to business when you’d started.

Five times? You have definitely not been down here long enough for that to be a physiological possibility.

Okay, that was an overstatement. But the point is, this is like his cigarette a night. A flirtation with indulgence, where half the pleasure is not giving in. An ostentatious display of control over his body and yours.

You shift slightly on your aching legs, uncomfortably hard from the thought. This entire night is setting new records right and left for exactly how turned on you could get, and you didn’t think you were a slouch in that department beforehand. After a drab and lonely year with only your hand for company, your world is bursting into rainbows at the possibilities before you.

You are stirred from your reverie by the sound of the pen being set on the table, and the shuffle of papers. "Done."

You swear you can hear him grinning above you. Breaking into a smile he doesn't even bother to hide. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” His hand comes down to your hair again. “I’ve never seen you go so long without licking something.”

He’s definitely teasing you. You haven’t licked anything on a case in days.

Your cheeks heat all the same, pride and embarrassment and desire swelling your chest to the point of bursting.

He leans one lazy arm over the back of his chair and looks down at you. “What now? Do you want to get up?”

You pause, and feel your cheeks heat with embarrassment as you realize what the answer is.

“No?” He sounds amused as his fingers brush against your hair. “You don't, do you? You like it down there.”

You nod desperately around him, too desperate for dignity. You are intensely aware of what this talk is doing to his cock, and that drives you to new heights of desire. A satisfied smile is spreading across his face. A little cocky. A little curious.

“I could just leave you down there the rest of the night while I do my crosswords. I wouldn’t even need to do anything else tonight.”

You make a gagged whimpering noise. He wouldn’t, would he? But--if you’re being honest, you'd be into that too, and you know it. The degradation. The want. Prostrating yourself to him. The pull of the something, that pulls taut and tight around your lungs.

That smug smile deepens as he watches you squirm–-he knows you’re into it!--and then he decides to show you mercy. He leans down, his voice quiet.

“Or, you could just suck me off.”

That's all you need to hear. You look at him with desperate gratitude, then your mouth is moving, licking, sucking, trying to do everything at once. Thank god Kim seems to like your clumsy enthusiasm as you lathe your tongue over the head of his cock and suckle his tip at the same time. After a minute, his hand starts dragging through your hair, setting a pace that you are only too happy to follow.

“What if I just kept you down there?” he murmurs. “Whenever I wanted?”

You moan around his cock. You’re not convinced you are good at this, by any objective measurement of fellatial prowess, but you can hear the ragged catch of his breath and the pump of his hips that takes him halfway out of the seat, and it’s very clear that whatever you’re doing, it works for him. He’s fully hard now, and you try to impress him by taking him all the way in, which just results in his cock hitting the back of your throat and you gagging. Tears spring in your eyes, but you don’t stop, too desperate to care, and thankfully, he lets you continue.

You’re fast learning that the one hard and fast sexual constant of your libido is that you like pretty much everything Kim does to you.

You’ve never been prouder of anything as you feel the slight shudder of his hips under you and hitch of his breath. Of all that carefully arranged control starting to unravel.

He’s whispering, half to you and half to himself. “I could keep you under the desk in my office, out of sight. You could suck me off every time I got hard, and keep me warm the rest of the time. If anyone asks, I’d tell them you were providing a vital service for morale–”

His words are spilling out, his fantasies, you’re driving him wild. More to the the point, Kim has fantasies of conduct wildly unbecoming of an RCM officer.

The mere thought is enough to make you melt through the floor, and his voice keeps up, that low, dangerous purr that only those at his mercy get to hear.

It’s all you can do not to fold in on yourself, overwhelmed with desire. You can feel the mess your leaking cock is making of the front your pants. Untouched, neglected and perversely loving it. Meanwhile, your wrists keep trying to come forward of their own accord, jerking against their bonds, having forgotten that you chained them up for him, that you can only touch with your mouth–

He drags his hand through your hair and pulls tight, sharp, and that’s all it takes. Your hips thrust blindly into the air, still seeking a hint of resistance and finding none, but it doesn’t matter because you have his cock in your mouth and his voice in your ears and the building crest of pleasure hits you like a wave. You’re not quiet about it as you come. He holds the back of your head tight and gives one final thrust up out of his chair into your mouth and that’s how he comes a second later. It takes you by surprise, still riding out your own orgasm, but you swallow compulsively, throat convulsing around him as he spills his seed down your throat. Afterwards, he slides out of your mouth, and it feels strangely bereft from the absence. You compromise by leaning forward and licking him clean, your eyes on him the entire time. It takes a great act of will for him to hold you gaze steadily, but he does. He’s a little embarrassed by everything he just said about misusing RCM office furniture, but you can tell by the muscles fluttering at the edges of his lips that he does not regret it.

When you’re done, your own facial hair is a mess, but the lieutenant has been licked clean. He heaves a shaky breath as you at last pull away.

“Kim,” you whisper, your throat raw and your lips numb from stretching. “You're so sexy.”

"I could say the same for you, especially when you're like that." He sounds amused, tender. He likes you as a mess. Which is lucky for you. Lucky for you both, maybe.

Afterward, he tucks himself back in his pants carefully. Neat and collected, like he does this all the time. He has not actually done anything like this before, or not in a long time, and he was not prepared for it. The *Something* he has kept carefully locked away has taken him by surprise too. What it unleashes in him.

Your face feels cold now that it’s not buried between his legs. And you are under a table, swaying uneasily on sore knees, on a disco blazer that stopped being a good pillow ages, your hands still trussed behind you.

You feel a certain post-nut bereavement.

He pushes the chair back, and you feel momentary panic claw at your chest. Is he embarrassed by this? Is he embarrassed by you, the way you knelt and whimpered and begged? Is he going to leave you and take a shower? He’s going to at least uncuff you first, right?

Then he’s kneeling before you, his hands clenching the fabric of your shirt. He is looking at you, jizz-beard and all, with an expression of incredible tenderness.

“I think you should come out from under there now. That was… probably irresponsible of me, to leave you under there so long. Your leg–”

“I didn’t even feel it,” you say, honestly.

You manage to shuffle out from under the table on your knees, until you’re clear of the table and can straighten your back. He slides flush against you, knee to knee, chest to chest. You look down at him, shyly. “That was, uh. Really hot,” you say.

“Mhm. I hoped you’d like that.”

Hoped. Didn’t know, though. He took a leap of faith too, even though it scared him. The *Something* pulls at him too. Has you both by the lungs.

“Ah. Yeah. Well, you were right. How was the paperwork?”

One side of his mouth quirks. “Fun.”

He’s playing with your tie, a cheerful vintage number you recently liberated from a box of crates in an abandoned warehouse.

He takes you by the tie and pulls you in for a kiss. It’s slow and sweet, and when he pulls away, a curious look crosses his face and he leans forward to lick something off your chin. His jizz.

Your soft dick gives a lazy twitch of approval.

“I should uncuff you,” he says, suddenly shy, reaching into his pockets for the key.

“Yeah, probably.” What’s the rush? 

Perhaps reading something of that in your expression, he pauses, and his gloved hand grasps your tie to pull you forward again. He likes pulling you around like that. Likes the way you follow him, and you want to let him lead you. Forever, if possible.

“You’re so hot, Kim,” you whisper.

He draws you in for another kiss.