Fashion War
Because a visual disaster of that magnitude necessitates intervention.
Fushimi finds himself on his back for the second time that day and briefly wonders whether his dilemma is divine retribution (the evil, laughing god of which eerily resembles Kusanagi-san) or just pure bad luck. Fushimi suspects sabotage from Akiyama, who may still be sore about that comment on his shirt last week (but seriously, a visual disaster of that magnitude necessitates intervention, so Fushimi considers it his good deed for the day).
Regardless, petty colleagues do no excuse his current state – casually worn uniform messier than what lieutenant Awashima's blood pressure could ever tolerate, the collar wide open around his neck so that not only the sharp lines of his collar bones but also the marred HOMRA pride are visible, more buttons undone than usual (and more getting undone as deft fingers tug carelessly, almost teasingly, at them). Fushimi flinches as those fingers move under his shirt, icy and sticky with some creamy white substance (without a doubt from certain sweets that are not allowed on the job, because his own rules are below Scepter 4's omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent leader).
"Is there not something else you should be doing right now, oh esteemed leader?" Fushimi manages to drawl, though his breath hitches at the end, shuddering from the sensation of Munakata brushing a finger over his right nipple.
"No, I don't believe so," comes the smooth reply, before those lips move to suck at the curve of Fushimi's nape, pausing to smear some more ice cream before long fingers resume their task.
"Captain..." Fushimi bats half-heartedly at his superior's hand, frowning as the creamy fluid stains his shirt. Munakata has better be compensating him for dry cleaning cost, or else he will file a complaint. Or better yet, work even less than usual next week.
"Stay still, Fushimi-kun," whispers the Blue King, hands dragging further down, brushing against the taut skin of Fushimi's stomach (which tightens further at the coolness of his touch) and circling below his navel.
Fushimi hates himself for arching up. And hates himself for switching sides. At least Mikoto-san can be expected to keep his hands to himself (in addition to ignoring his existence).
The floor is cold against his back now, as Munakata takes the chance to rid him of his (stained) uniform shirt. It lies in an abandoned pile next to them with the rest of his clothes. The Blue King does not remove his own clothes, though a silver of toned chest can be seen through the unbuttoned gap at his chest.
Munakata's slender fingers remove Fushimi's glasses for him, though they leave his own untouched. Fushimi is sure that his damned superior gets off from power games, and wonders why he even bothers. He doesn't challenge Munakata's authority that much, does he?
Fushimi hates the shiver of anticipation that runs through him at their unequal states of dress, especially as those same fingers slowly, slowly undo his buckles. With his whole attention focused on the slow edging down of his pant zipper, Fushimi is startled into a moan when lips that were sucking at his collar bones suddenly closes around his nipple, warm tongue pressing firmly down and swirling around the tip.
"...ah..."
The muscles of Fushimi's stomach tighten and he has to force his body down as it, seemingly without his permission, stretches and curls to melt into the form of his captor. His hands clutch the sleeve of the Blue King, and just as he made to move them away, deceptively slender hands capture and force them above his head.
Fushimi absently notes his hair tickling his wrists; what a mess his hair is going to be...
As Fushimi laments at the extra effort he will have to put in later, Munakata wraps a dark blue ribbon around his captured wrists and tugs them snug. Both Munakata and Fushimi knows that he can break those bonds anytime; they also both know that he wouldn't, because Munkata might feel challenged if he did, and Fushimi does not feel up for inconvenient bruises and unexpected visitors today.
"Beautiful, Fushimi-kun," Munakata murmurs (which confirms Fushimi's belief that his captain is not only a pervert but also blind, because who calls a man beautiful?), his hot breath fanning over the side of Fushimi's face.
He feels a hand wrap loosely around his bound wrists, sliding down the sensitive underside of his arm, tracing the curve leading from shoulder to torso, tickling the edge of his rib cage. The hand is cold and Fushimi feels molten ice cream being dripped all over him, mentally groaning at the mess (the captain's weird fetishes usually aren't so inconvenient..).
Then a hot tongue move to clean him, both teasing and meticulous, and Fushimi stops thinking all together.
Blue fire burns him, all cool and pleasant and unpleasantly warm, and unlike his HOMRA initiation, where Mikoto-san's fire devours and blackens the landscape of his heart and being, Munakata's fire simply exists, filling him up and flowing through his veins, a not-quite-there sensation that renders him incapable of doing anything against the invasion but unable to ignore it either. The same blue fire now rises up in his body, making his skin tingle and the places where Munakata touches feel like a thousand nerve endings are responding to the same stimuli (but it's okay, because the blue is cool and nice and Fushimi just wants to drown in it).
Later, Fushimi would grumble that it isn't fair for a person to be able to numb and excite the cells of another to such a degree, and that Munakata should just submit himself to the law and save all his other poor subordinates (because god knows that man must use that as a way check their loyalty to him), but right now he couldn't quite think, couldn't complain, couldn't do anything but feel the blue fire on his skin, in his veins, reaching deeper inside than Munakata's physical body had ever reached.
Fushimi vaguely feels hands over his chest, pinching and twisting and probing in places no other being should, and feels warm swipes of tongue and hand and skin on skin, and the snug fit of their body together, the blend of flesh to flesh until Fushimi no longer knows which limb is his and which is the blue king's. The sensations he cannot pin to one place on his person, when the fire touches all of him and his entire body is burning and drowning in pleasure that he cannot imagine when he is out of Munakata's embrace, out of the fire's control.
He hears himself groan and shudders, flashing back to reality, and he sees Munakata's insanely blue eyes staring at him, his lips drawn up in a smile (and not of the nice variety). He wants to wipe the not-quite-there smirk off his irritating captain's face, but he cannot even lift his arm. Fushimi grumbles mentally as he feels himself being lifted up in strong arms and settled on softer surface, as gentle hands begin to clean him up.
Later, Fushimi finds himself in his room, finally able to stand up and exercise his limbs for their intended function (if only to a limited degree), and he sees himself in the mirror for the first time since the encounter and is barely able to hold back a startled draw of breath (though he should have known. He should have always known, because it's been like this ever since it started).
The pale skin of his neck is no longer white but a canvas of blue and black and red, dotted with sucker-bites and nips and even a blood-smeared mark of teeth, just starting to heal (how on earth did he not feel that?), and now that Fushimi can somehow feel again, he winces at the dull pain spreading through not only his neck and shoulder and chest, because the same devastation claims the entirety of his torso and even his limbs, where the marks are most sparse (just a bruise in the shape of Munakata's hand around his bicep, and the slowly fading imprint of the ribbons that had bitten into his wrists).
Fushimi blinks at his familiar reflection and sighs, wondering why the Blue King never gets tired of the game. He knows Fushimi will wear his collar popped open and his shirt unbuttoned regardless of the decorations on his skin.
Just like he knows that Fushimi finds lieutenant Awashima's horrified gazes a side benefit of their encounters, and that Akiyama's predictable fashion ineptitude is only matched by his predictable retaliation of filing a complaint and citing Fushimi's untidy attire as distraction.
And that come Monday evening Fushimi will find himself knocking on the door of Munakata's private rooms again, because, as he keeps on telling himself, a visual disaster of that magnitude really necessitates intervention.