USSTRATCOM was hell, and brutal training made many recruits desperate to blow off steam. For you? That resulted in earning the title of barracks bunny.
But Leon? You liked him too much to reduce him to a notch on your belt, so you avoided him as much as you could since he caught on. Easier said than done being Krauser's top two recruits.
And Krauser? Nothing got past him. He knew exactly what had you both distracted, and he knew how to fix it.
ao3 ⌖ wc: 14.5k ⌖ insp
part _ of three’s company
tags: Leon Kennedy/Reader/Jack Krauser, m/f/m smut, cisfem!reader, mostly leon/reader but also spitroasting, repressed feelings, p in v, creampie, degradation, slut shaming, begging, orgasm denial, cockdrunkenness, overstimulation, hair pulling, voyeurism, krauser backseat gaming from the cuck chair, krauser is a sadist, boot kink, dacryphilia, corruption?, slapping, choking, knife play, extremely dubious consent/noncon (reader enjoys/is non-resistant but the dove is in hospice, you’ve been warned)
a/n: I would like to apologize to feminism and also to god. wc is like 80% spice
Personal lives are nonexistent for the poor souls who train at USSTRATCOM; in fact, they’re outright forbidden. But the human will is a stubborn thing, and experiencing constant, extreme conditions makes many recruits willing to do extreme things to fulfill any personal desire at all. Whether it be sneaking a book to their bunk or rubbing one out in the showers, there’s only one rule: don't get caught.
But none are more stubborn than you and Leon Kennedy. It's why you’d each survived the experiences that landed you in military custody in the first place. You’re too stubborn to fail, too hard-headed to die. At least that’s what Krauser always says; that that’s how you both so quickly rose to be his two most-promising recruits
But being on Major Krauser's pedestal came with crippling pressure to keep ahold of his fickle approval. Every trainee lives under his constant scrutiny, and no slip-up is too small to go unnoticed. And his attention, good or bad, isn't something anyone wants to have.
Krauser stated his goal explicitly on the very first day of training— "I will break you" —and he makes good on that promise every single day. Those who he sees as weak are given extra drills and rounds in the fighting ring until they puke from overexertion, and those he believes in are pushed past their limits, resulting in the exact same end.
So to say that you’re stressed would be a laughable understatement, and you blow off steam in equal measure when you can. And since you’re constantly reduced to nothing but a primal instinct to survive, your vice of choice is somewhat primal as well.
You’re a classic barracks bunny. Sue you for having needs, but there are worse things to be. Besides, all female recruits are on a steady diet of birth control, so the number of risks are relatively few.
Leon, however, didn’t exactly seem to approve. He never brought it up, but you once locked eyes with him as you snuck out of the men’s barracks, and it didn’t take a genius to guess what you’d been doing there at such a late hour. He’d never make you feel bad about it, and you hardly had time to dwell on it in the scarce minutes of the day not spent training or sleeping, but you were sure you caught a sour look of disapproval in his eyes.
You and Leon were once as close to friends as anyone could be in a hellscape like USSTRATCOM, so if you’re being honest, yeah, you’re a bit embarrassed that he’d caught you like that, and you haven’t been able to fight off the pangs of guilt you feel in his presence now. So although the topic has gone untouched, it's been a little tense between you ever since; just enough to notice but not enough to address.
Besides, the kind of tension is the only thing that’s new between you and Leon. Tension sprouted within the very first days of group training and had grown ever since, and other people noticed, too. They all chalked it up to being competitive rivals, but it was anything but that.
You have the fattest, most hopeless crush on him ever. Hell, you’re one bad day or BOW incident away from admitting that you’re in love.
That’s what makes you feel so guilty about the subtle glint of disappointment you keep finding in Leon's gaze now. Wondering what he thinks about you makes you beyond anxious, and you doubt you'll ever have the time or courage to find out.
There’s a reason you sneak off into nearly everyone's barracks but his, after all: you like him far too much to seek him out for a quick and dirty indulgence. Leon means far more to you than a notch on your belt, and you wouldn’t be able to stand it if you put yourself in a position where he categorized you as a hookup and nothing more.
But what cuts the most? Assuming he feels disappointed in you might be wishful thinking. He most likely thinks you’re a whore, that you’re reckless and irresponsible, probably shares all the typical judgments you know get whispered behind your back.
Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if he hates you with how he’s been acting cold.
So despite how much you want him and how often you imagine his face while someone else is balls-deep inside, you’ll never invite yourself into his room, much less admit your feelings for him. Plus, it’s kind of comforting to pretend sleeping around will help you get over your crush.
But your vice of choice has more consequences than those of emotional repression. You have to sacrifice a non-insignificant amount of your already scarce sleep hours to sneak around— and today, the exhaustion has finally caught up to you.
Your aim isn't as sharp, you don't anticipate the most obvious counterattacks, and you’re all-around slower on your feet. Careless mistakes that are totally unlike you, big and small. And no matter how hard you try to muster your strength and focus, dammit, you just can’t stop fucking up.
And none of it got past Major Krauser. That results in him keeping you late for after-hours training, but he isn't one to make a recruit suffer alone. Knowing you’ve dragged someone else into it is a part of the punishment in itself.
So naturally, being the top two recruits, he chose Leon to join you. Just your fucking luck.
That's how you find yourself here in the indoor ring somewhere after 23:00 hours, the air pushed from your lungs as you crash back-first onto the floor with a knife against your throat for the umpteenth time in a row.
Krauser is seriously a sick bastard for making you spar with sharpened weapons, by the way, but that isn't breaking news. Just another "privilege" that comes with being his top recruits.
Leon never goes easy on you, either, but this feels different. Like he really does hate you and is taking his frustrations out with each painful blow to your body. The idea doesn't help you focus, and it isn't long before another miscalculation sends you back against the ground, staring at your tired eyes in the reflection of a knife that would've gouged them out in anyone else's hands.
"You're tired. It’s pathetic. You think the enemy will care that you didn’t get your beauty sleep?”
“No, sir,” you reply through a wheeze as you try to recover your breathing.
“Again.”
Despite your screaming muscles and the tiredness clouding your head, you stand up at once. You make yourself small as you shift your weight between your feet, poised to move wherever you’ll need to. As your combat knife shines in the gymnasium lights where you hold it in front of you, raised within your fist, you look Leon dead in the eyes and gear up for yet another fight.
“Go!”
Leon beats you to the opening move. You dodge to the side. For some reason you put your fucking hand out to block him, and it does nothing to stop his knee from reeling straight into your gut.
You cough and sputter but remain on your feet, stepping back to create a touch of distance to calculate your next move. But you’re more tired than ever now, and your body can’t keep up with your brain.
As riled up as Leon is, the late hours are getting to him, too.
In a second, he came at you again with a strong left hook. Too stong for an opening blow, especially with a fist instead of his weapon. At last, you see an opening for attack.
You use his momentum against him, pulling him through by the wrist. He twists sideways to stay upright, and needing to adjust your own balance, you send a sharp kick onto his back. Your eyes widen with adrenaline as it lands just as harshly as you intended; the upper hand finally seems within your reach.
Or not. He hooks an arm around the back of your knee while your other leg is still mid-kick, and with nothing more than a shove to your chest, you’re on the ground again, pinned in the exact same position as before.
You blink once at Leon who’s looking down at you with a similarly confused expression. Although you both fit the title, ‘rookie’ has long since been exclusively reserved for Leon. But you were the one who was called here tonight to be punished; why was Krauser drilling him?
Your knit brows turn to widened eyes as Leon attempts to rise but is stopped by a boot on his back.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind, pretty boy?”
It’s clearly a trap question, and the pet name is laced with anything but admiration. Leon purses his lips and opens them as he attempts to think of an acceptable answer, but he’s obviously at a loss. You wonder what sadistic plan Krauser has in store as he awaits Leon’s response, and you grow somewhat fearful for the younger man.
Though he speaks with a sure tone, Leon only manages a single word, like he thinks he can get around it by gathering more information first.
“Sir?”
Krauser adding weight to his stance on Leon’s back is all it takes to know it didn’t work.
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“No, sir,” you and Leon say in unison.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Krauser spat in your direction.
“Then tell me,” Krauser continued, his attention returning solely to Leon, “why you’re face-to-face with what’s distracting you, and you can’t tell me what it is. Do you think I haven’t noticed?”
You get halfway through the thought of “noticed what?” before Krauser pushes Leon down further, so close that the wispy ends of his bangs brush against your cheekbones. You gulp against the knife that still hovers over your neck, but the sharpened edge doesn’t make you feel nearly as nervous as whatever the fuck is happening right now.
You’re used to being in close proximity with Leon in training, but this is entirely different. It’s intimate. Uncomfortably so. It makes your head spin too fast to think about what Krauser just implied.
Instead, your attention is preoccupied with avoiding Leon’s eyes like you’ve been doing for weeks now, but with him this close-range, he’s everywhere, so close that your eyes threaten to cross. You can see every pore on his nose, the moles that constellate his neck, the lines in his forehead where he’ll have wrinkles in ten or so years.
God, he even looks good this up close and personal. Every detail makes your heart skip and your ears get hot, even in a nerve-racking situation like this. Even when you look away from his stupidly beautiful face, all you can see are his biceps straining as he holds himself over you, flexing against his shirt as he holds himself up against Krauser’s unyielding boot.
Your adolescent anguish is cut short by Krauser’s attention returning to you.
“That’s why you’re so tired today, isn’t it? From being in this position?”
Oh. Oh no.
A cold wave shoots through you as you realize what all of this is really about. Of course word got around about your late-night escapades; you just didn’t think it’d find its way to Krauser unless he caught you in the act. You now know what a fool you were for ever thinking that.
Krauser and Leon are by far the last people you're ready to address it with, and Krauser just had to bring it up while he keeps you pinned inches beneath the latter.
It has to be some kind of divine punishment. This is the absolute worst-case scenario. Far worse than you ever could've imagined. The only place to hide is behind the refuge of your eyelids, so you squeeze them tightly shut.
Krauser keeps on twisting the metaphorical knife with a devious laugh that rumbles in his chest.
“You’re awful quiet, rookie. Not gonna defend your lady’s honor? Or, don’t tell me… are you the only one she hasn’t fucked?”
Your heartbeat turns into a war drum that threatens to beat through your ribs. You're sure Leon can feel it thrum in the air between you. You pray to god in all his mercy to open the ground and swallow you whole, but no such thing will happen.
Leon, however, is praying to a wrathful god to smite Krauser where he stands. He can’t handle it. The humiliation, the intentional offensiveness. The stunning accuracy. Being confronted with it in such a demeaning way. He could maybe take it on the chin if it'd only been about himself, but Leon has long since become protective of you, and he carries your degradation as if it's his own. It's the perfect setup to make him seethe, and Krauser pushes him further with every syllable.
“I asked you a question. Have you fucked her or not?”
Leon’s chest becomes thick with heat as his rage dials up to a fever pitch, nostrils flaring and knuckles whitening around the combat knife. It's hardly at your neck anymore, but you're keenly aware of it.
You're beyond uneasy, but you can’t do anything. You can’t move except to squirm, you don’t have a white flag to raise, and you don’t dare speak out of turn. Anything you say right now won’t be helpful anyway; you’re ultimately the reason you three are here, and any attempt to deescalate would absolutely be thrown right back in your face.
You scream internally to Leon as you see his anger dial up to ten, hoping he’s close enough that if your thoughts are simply loud enough they’ll be able to reach him.
Don’t put yourself on the line for me, you think over and over. But telepathy doesn’t happen to be a weapon in your arsenal, and Leon seldom possesses the ability to bite his tongue. So however reckless it might be, he tries to change the subject by steering it towards an argument.
“Go fuck yourself, sir.”
You wince as you prepare for Krauser to skin him alive, but to your surprise, he doesn’t take the bait. Leon avoiding the question is answer enough, so Krauser coolly clicks his tongue, and his level-headedness makes the situation all the more terrifying.
“Just as I thought. Is that why you threw all those haymakers? Want to keep pinning her down just to get a taste? You know damn well that won’t work on the field.”
It’s insane, the way Krauser can tie anything back to training, but his words hit right where he aimed them, and it’s Leon’s turn to be unable to face you as he tries to keep his cool. Tough work, since Krauser’s on a roll.
“She’s obviously easy; why haven’t you just asked her, Kennedy?”
Leon’s jaw sets tighter.
“Afraid that she’d reject you?”
Krauser hits a bullseye. It’s all too clear now that humiliation is Krauser’s goal, and neither of you can leave without it being shoved down your throats. Watching Leon reel between emotions is giving you secondhand whiplash, but it’s only a few seconds before he grits his teeth and lets go of his dignity.
“Because I—” he swallows hard, “I like her, sir.”
The confession hits you like a battering ram, and for a moment, the room is so quiet your ears ring.
He doesn’t hate you. He likes you. A part of you could cry you were so happy, but with the situation at hand, how could you possibly be content? It brings on a wave of emotions that surfaces all the ones you’d been shoving down for months.
Feelings like that are impossible to foster in a hellhole like this. Sleeping around is one thing, but romance? What could even come of it being mutual? For those reasons and many more, you’d accepted it being hopeless a long time ago. And now that Krauser knew— and had apparently set this all up because he’d known for a while— you were now sure that he’d brought you here just to murder your dreams in cold blood.
So there you and Leon lay on top of each other, no warmth or sweetness about it, faced with each other as symbols of your failures to cope. All you can do is wait for Krauser to rip your hearts out and incinerate them so they’ll never distract you again.
“What a goddamn sweetheart,” Krauser tuts, shaking his head. “You’re too soft. And you’re letting it get in the way instead of taking the clear fucking solution.”
The air goes still as you brace for whatever twisted “solution” he might have in mind, mentally preparing to run drills until sunrise or engage in some sick psychological simulation where you’d come to hate each other. Either would be perfectly up Krauser’s alley.
You were once again a fool to think you could predict him. You never would have expected what happened next.
He crushes his boot into Leon's lower back until his navel is fixed solidly against your center. Hissing at the sudden contact, Leon swiftly pushes away as much as he can, but it isn’t much; although you aren’t quite face-to-face anymore, the Major’s full bodyweight keeps Leon’s lower half trapped flush against you.
Startled astonishment washes over your face as you realize what exactly it is you feel pressed against you: at some point during tonight’s training, Leon got hard. You hadn’t noticed, but Krauser apparently did.
Oh my god you feel like an idiot. You were too distracted by your fucking feelings to notice that he was hard. What the actual fuck.
You’re trying not to panic. You’re exactly where you want to be, but it’s in the least conceivable scenario possible. You scan Leon’s face wildly to find some sort of confidence in him that you can hold onto, a muscle memory of the looks you’ve often exchanged to get through training, but he’s just as frantic as you are as he tries to stay still, to not move an inch against you.
Leon is very keenly aware of the fact that you didn’t ask for this, haven’t said that it’s okay, and the shame he feels at his exposed arousal sits like a death grip around his neck. He has no reason to think you were even interested in him; you hadn’t said anything since whatever the fuck this is began— and if you didn’t want it, what could you even do about it? It felt like a noose around his neck, and Krauser kept dragging him by it, tightening the rope with each syllable he spoke.
“Close encounters really do it for you, huh? You like holding a pretty girl down, feeling her struggle against your cock? Maybe you’re not such a boy scout; you’re more like me than you think.”
Any thoughts you had about his statement went in one ear and out the other as Krauser moves his heel to rut Leon back and forth against you, grinding his cock smoothly and firmly against your clothed cunt. You nearly choke at the electric current it sends rushing through your core.
Even though Leon isn’t moving on his own accord, even if the inner war he’s waging against himself is written all over his face, he’s pressed so staunchly against you that you feel every twitch of his cock as it grows harder.
It shouldn’t send a rush of thrill through you, but it does.
You bite your lip as another ebb of downward pressure increases the friction and makes the feeling too bright to ignore. Just as Leon can’t help his body reacting to yours, you’re resistless to the way you unconsciously arch into him.
“Don’t be so shy. Look at her, she likes it.”
That makes Leon finally look at you head-on, and your face floods with a blush so hot it burns, because it’s undeniably true. You did like it. It felt good. A mental hell alongside physical heaven, but heaven nonetheless.
His hips grind into your core again—shaky, but this time of his own volition— before he raggedly whispers, "Do you…? Do you want me?”
You struggle to keep the intensity of his gaze, but you know what he’s really asking for: the truth. You try to show as much surety as you can as you nod your head against the padded ground, sharing it like a lifeline.
“Y-yeah. Yes.”
Krauser interjects with an eye roll and his trademark condescension. “You’re still too goddamn soft. You still have a knife in your hand, for god’s sake, that’s all the permission you need.”
Twisted fucking bastard, Leon thinks, his grip tightening around the hilt of the blade where he holds it beside your head. He stares straight into your eyes with an intensity that says he isn’t readying it for you. Your gut churns all the same.
Luckily for you both, the major moves on from it. His boot leaves Leon’s back and he shudders in relief, exhaling deeply as he’s able to part his body from yours.
It’s a short-lived reprieve as a broad shadow falls from overhead. Krauser looms from above with menacing casualness, thumbs hooked in his belt loops as he cocks his head in amusement.
"Go on, then. Kiss her."
You freeze in place and watch Leon as you remain stuck under him, breathlessly waiting to see if he takes the opportunity, heart pounding as you wonder if he should.
Leon hardly pauses. An order is an order, and he’s getting used to that, as unconventional as they may be. He huffs, leans in halfway, and then retracts another inch; knits his brows together and shakes his head, either deciding against it or shaking off his last bits of resistance. You couldn’t tell which, at least not until he suddenly closes the distance.
It's the gentlest kiss you've ever received. His plush and impassioned lips skim lightly over yours as he still struggles to take what he so clearly wants. And god, you want him too, and you lift your chin in an attempt to press your mouths closer together, but it’s no use; he retreats just enough to leave you attached by the cupid's bow and a brushing of noses.
Krauser is less than impressed by the soft display. Gripping Leon by the crown of his hair, he admonishes, "I said kiss her, rookie," and all but crushes his face into yours.
You inhale sharply as Leon's lips fuse together intensely with your own. He twitches in surprise, grinding into you again inadvertently. The friction evokes a needy rasp from him, lips parting from the sound just enough for your tongues to meet— fleetingly at first, then reckless and deep as passion wins out against restraint.
Leon grinds again, this time with intention as you start to melt into each other, having nowhere to go but further into each other’s bodies. Krauser's hand leaves Leon's scalp as he becomes pleased, finally, with his energy. He circles like a shark as he keeps a watchful eye.
Leon becomes more intense as he gains full room to move on his own, like the levee broke for his desire to surge violently and freely, a desire that’d been held back for months of anguish.
The knife he’d held became forgotten on the ground as his hands grasped for you without instruction, shakily at first, then fervently all around you. His calloused fingertips run across your jawline and down your neck before roaming to your breast, but he doesn't squeeze, not until you arch to push into him yourself.
It instantly gives him permission to squeeze your flesh firmly, and every movement suddenly becomes urgent. Your tongues clash sloppily, his stiff bulge ruts back and forth against your core, and you can’t help but clamor for him in turn— your thighs hook tight around his waist to pull him further in, to help you relieve the growing pressure between your legs as your head becomes thick with need.
You nearly forgot Krauser was there at all until he speaks again with a gruff and low tone you've never heard from him before.
"Good. Keep going.”
You can't deny that someone else being in the room turns your brain somewhat mushy. In fact, it turns you on. You're adventurous, sure, but that's a shocking revelation even for you.
More shocking than that, the third party is your major, and he's telling Leon what to do as if he's giving normal orders. Those are ideas you'd laugh yourself sick at half an hour ago, but now here you are, and you feel your underwear slicken with each directive word and the ache to be permitted more.
But unbeknownst to you, that's the first of many things Krauser will awaken in you tonight. Right now, you don't even know how far he plans to take this. But you've spent months being primed to do whatever insane things he demands, and what you do know is that you'd do just about anything to earn more of the young man on top of you. So ever the good soldier, you let your commander lead you wherever he sees fit, and Leon does just the same.
“Take her top off.”
The cool gymnasium air contrasts with Leon's warm hand as it drags your shirt up your torso, leaving goosebumps in its wake as you shuffle to allow him to lift it over your head, lips parting only as long as they need to. Your top becomes discarded somewhere on the floor, forgotten before it lands.
You tremble under Leon's touch as he roams the soft curves of your stomach, gliding upward until he traces the top hem of your sports bra. He hooks his fingertips under the hem and pauses with trepidation, resting his forehead against yours as he bucks into you. By the look on his face, his trousers are becoming a painful confinement.
Leon waits for permission or to have the rug pulled from under him and be told this is all a sick joke, until Krauser gives the former. Just not before making him sweat first.
“You wanna fuck her, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” Leon shudders while looking down at you, relishing the slightest touch he currently has on your body.
“That’s ‘yes, sir.’ How many times have you jerked off thinking about it?”
Leon gulps before answering, feeling every ounce as humiliated as Krauser intended him to.
“T-too many to count, sir.”
“Then take it off.”
It crosses your mind that no one’s asked if you’re fine with being stripped in front of an audience of two, but you’re not exactly apt to complain about Leon getting you naked.
Leon fumbles briefly with the tight elastic band before it’s whisked over your head and added to the growing collection of forgotten garments on the floor mat. You turn your head to the side, shying away as Leon takes in a full view of your nipples as they pebble in the cool air. But when you look to the side, your gaze lands on Krauser.
“Mistake” is your first thought. “Was it?” is the immediate second. All you know is that he’s leaned coolly against the edge of the arena rubbing his thick bulge through his pants as he watches intently. The sight makes you feel like you’ve caught on fire, and you quickly look away.
You have no more time to dwell on it as Leon pinches your nipple between his index finger and his thumb, rolling it between them with a reverent sigh at your reaction, then pulling it up and letting it drop. He repeats it on the other side, and your thighs clench around his hips as the stimulation goes straight to your core.
You can barely stand the teasing, and your hands find their way underneath Leon’s shirt. The feeling of his taut abs does nothing to quell you, though. It only drives home that the current sensations you’re being afforded aren't anywhere near enough. But right as you feel like you’re going mad, it all comes to a stop.
“Sit up, rookie.”
You whine as Leon does as he’s told, your hands leaving the heat of his stomach as he sits back on his haunches, , still with the exception of the labored rise and fall of his chest, his hands clasped behind his back, and your spit still wet on his lower lip. You’re left deprived of all touch, breathless and exposed, brows twisted up with neediness as you wait.
Krauser’s heavy and measured footsteps towards you are menacing. You don’t dare to look until he comes into view on his own, and from the steep angle up that you have, the large tent in his pants is imposing. It nearly obstructs his face as he stands directly over you.
“Pretty…” He hums as he appraises the skin that’s been exposed on you so far, and it’s perhaps the first kind thing he’s ever said to you. It sounds foreign in his voice, but then he goes right back to his usual demands. “Strip down, all of it.”
You hesitate for a brief moment before sitting up and unlacing your boots with shaky hands, all too aware of the eyes on you as you discard them and lay back down to fumble with your belt and zipper. It feels all the more exposing to be undressing yourself as opposed to it being done for you somehow, and you try to push away the feeling of awkwardness as you raise your hips and push your bottoms down in one go. You keep your knees together as much as you can as you foot them off of your ankles and kick them away beside you, and rest back down, now totally bare.
The cold air is nothing against the heat of their gazes as you lie there totally bare, awaiting the first touch. It comes from the rubber of Krauser’s boot as he parts your legs with it.
If Leon weren’t already on his knees, he would’ve fallen to them right then and there. He practically salivates as your pussy is revealed before him, and every nervous twitch of yours makes your wetness glisten in the fluorescent lights. His hands flex where they’re clasped behind him, and his throat tightens as his cock becomes painfully hard within his pants. Still fully clothed, he feels hot, far too hot, as the first traces of sweat begin to form on his skin from the sheer effort it takes not to dive into you.
Krauser hums at the sight of you and takes the toe of his boot to the soft crease where thigh meets ass, and lets the rubber press onto your flesh to pull your cunt open to them. You whine as you feel your slick pool out as your opening flutters for touch.
“Look at that,” Krauser muses. “No wonder everyone wants a taste. A pussy like that is just begging to be ruined. Isn’t it, Kennedy?”
What is Leon supposed to do here? Say he doesn’t want to ruin you for anyone else? It’d be a bold-faced lie, and he’d agree with just about anything Krauser says right now if it lets him get what’s being dangled right in front of him.
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Your cock even big enough to ruin her? Or is that why you haven’t gotten with her?”
For perhaps the first time in Leon’s life, he suddenly feels unsure. He’s never been insecure about his size before, never had a reason to be. He knows he’s well-endowed. But the major always has impossibly high standards. What if this is no different? What will happen if he doesn’t meet them now?
Leon gulps before answering with a shaky breath, although he tries to sound more sure. “Yes, sir.”
“Let’s see it then.”
Leon nearly gets cold feet, but seeing you spread before him is enough to throw his modesty to the wind. His fingers are clumsy in their quickness as he undoes his pants just enough to get his cock free, and he hisses at the contact of his fingers pulling it out by the base. He can’t stop himself from pumping it once between his fingers, but it takes nothing more than a disapproving glance from Krauser for him to put his hands back at his sides.
His fists become white-knuckled as his hardness hangs obstinately in the air. It’s framed by his still-on t-shirt falling over his navel, the waistband of his briefs sitting snugly under his balls, and his cock springing free between his parted zipper; not much skin is showing, really, but it’s all the more lewd a sight for it.
“Oh, shit,” is all you manage to breathe out.
Short, dark blond hairs silhouette the base, and his tip is an angry pink as it begins to shine with the emergence of a clear bead of precum. It hangs heavily in the air, jolting up once as he bites his lip in arousal, and you catch sight of the coursing vein that runs up the side. He’s long and so thick in girth, and your toes curl at the thought of him trying to fit it all inside of you.
God, what a fool you’ve been for jumping between barracks for sex that was often unsatisfactory and only a means to an end. All this time, you could’ve had Leon instead.
It’s an undeniably captivating sight, even for Krauser, who inhales through his teeth as he too takes it in with his eyes. But still, he isn’t one to give his praise so easily.
“Not bad. Let’s hope you know how to use it.”
You whine in surprise as Krauser suddenly fixes the toe of his boot into you and slowly circles around your clit, and Leon grimaces as he tastes copper from how hard he bites down on his lip.
“Because if you don’t,” Krauser taunts, “I’ll have to take over.”
Your pulse soars at the prospect, fear and arousal intertangling into one. Whether or not that’d happen lies entirely with Leon, but it could very well be a trap; the same as being told that training could end early if you do well enough, but no one can ever do well enough for Krauser. He gets too much sick pleasure in dangling hope over your head, fully knowing you’ll never reach it and enjoying watching you struggle to anyway, and this situation is no different.
A moan leaves your parted lips as Krauser presses his boot more firmly into your clit and rubs it left to right. He chuckles thinly at your response.
“She really is easy, soaking just from my boot. Fucking filthy.” He glides it up and down to literally rub it in, making your legs twitch as he presses into your clit, then looks at you and nods towards Leon. “You like what you see?”
“Mmhm,” you nod needily through pursed lips as you tremble under the crude ministrations against your pussy your eyes still fixed on Leon’s increasingly leaking cock.
He lands a soft kick to your clit, nowhere near enough to hurt, but enough to feel the threat and a sharp jolt of pleasure up your spine.
“Yes, sir,” you correct yourself breathlessly.
He spreads your slick a little more, purely playing with it now as he addresses Leon again.
“Don’t let it go to your head. How many cocks have been in here just since training started…? Bet this whore could cum just from my goddamn boot.”
Krauser finally steps back, leaving you shaking and untouched yet again, your lips pressed into a thin line as you pray the question remains rhetorical. It does, at least for you.
“But you don’t mind, do you, Kennedy? You like her enough that you’re alright with sloppy seconds? Thirds? Twentieths maybe..?”
Leon's chest flares. Your body count has never once factored into his envy. He just wants you— evidently, by any means necessary. And you being degraded like that? It stokes his anger all over again, and he once again fails to bite his tongue, the contempt clear in his tone as he speaks through a snarl.
“She’s the whore? You’re the one treating your recruits like a harem, sir.”
Krauser seizes Leon by the bangs, making the younger man yelp as he’s yanked forward by the hair until he’s on all fours in front of you, his face inches away from your cunt. Leon hisses as thick fingers pull viciously at his roots and shake his head in front of your center like a cruel owner admonishing a dog.
“Shut your goddamn mouth— put it to good use before I fuck her and make you watch.”
With no precursor at all, Leon is shoved face-first between your legs. You gasp in shock at the suddenness; with no prior warning for him to begin with any sort of finesse, he lands against you with panting, parted lips, his nose is squished down from the position, pressed just beside your clit.
It takes Leon a second to collect himself, though he does so as quickly as possible once he wraps his mind around his position, nose deep in the part of you he’s been starving for the most.
Krauser continues to hold him there harshly even as he begins to lap frantically.
“Where’s all that snark now, huh?”
Leon doesn’t answer— Krauser doesn’t pull him back for him to be able to— instead he moans hard at the taste of your cunt.
Your folds wetten with Leon’s spit as his face collects your arousal, and you whine continuously as he sloppily makes out with your cunt. Being constantly pushed into you makes each stroke of his tongue press firmly wherever it lands around and within the whole of your cunt. It drags up and down, drawing quick and sloppy circles around the expanse of your vulva and the soft skin between your lower lips, flicking over your clit at the top and darting fully into your hole at the bottom.
It’s so vulgar and divine, but it’s too intense too suddenly, and your thighs clamp down around Leon’s head. Krauser just presses him in even further and Leon sucks your clit in compliance, flicking his tongue against the bud inside the vacuum of his mouth, and you yelp and tense your legs harder around his face. But Krauser still has one hand free, and he uses it to hold you open by the knee nearest to him, and despite your whining efforts, his grip is far too strong to budge free of.
You groan in relief as Leon moves on from his onslaught of your clit and dig your nails into the padded floor as he assaults the whole of your core instead, all while Krauser keeps your legs spread wide for him.
The wet sounds of his tongue along with frantic moans from you both fill the room as you reel towards your seventh heaven, and Krauser can tell— of course he can. It’d be obvious to anyone that you’re on the brink from the way you increasingly arch against the floor. But the absolute sight of you isn’t the only thing that makes it obvious; you’re finding it increasingly difficult to muzzle yourself and you mumble pathetically between labored breaths.
“I– ah, ahhh, Leon fuck— oh-hh…”
And it’s borderline petulant the way you whine when Leon’s mouth leaves you all at once. Your head shoots up in shock at the loss, looking to see what caused your release to be denied, but nothing had happened except for Krauser’s cruel whim.
You’re equally shocked to see the look on Leon’s face. Still on all fours and held back by his hair, his mouth is swollen, pink, and shining with slick from the bridge of his nose to the cleft of his chin. His moans are light as if he’s breaking fever and his eyes are half-lidded like he’s drunk. His cock hangs neglected between his legs with a thick string of glossy precum connected from the head to where it’s dripped down to the floor. But the most shocking of all is the faint smile that pulls at the corners of his puffy mouth as Krauser pulls his hair a little tighter.
‘How’s she taste, huh?”
“Incredible, sir.”
“Yeah? You taste any cock still in there?”
Leon’s nostrils flare and his mouth opens into a snarl, but before he can spit whatever insult he has in mind, Krauser yanks his head back painfully and growls.
“Better watch that mouth, kid, or you’ll be eating my cum out of her next.”
Krauser sends him back on his knees with a shove to the head and then rises to stand again, jostling his hard-on thickly through his pants as yet another threat. “Or maybe I’ll shut you up another way, eh?”
The silent grimace on Leon’s face is much to Krauser’s amusement as he berates him with a smile, still stroking his bulge.
“That’s what I thought. Fucking ungrateful. I let you eat her out and you’re acting like a damn brat. You think I should let you fuck her? Huh?”
Swallowing his pride, Leon answers. “Please, sir.”
“That’s what I thought. Beg.”
That’s a demand Leon is a touch too stubborn to easily do. He clenches his eyes and grinds his teeth, still reeling from the lack of touch, and twitches restlessly as the words struggle to come.
But Krauser is impatient. He expresses it through a dull backhand to Leon’s cheek.
“That’s an order, Kennedy.”
Although the slap is ultimately harmless (and could even be considered kind compared to the many blows you’ve both received from the major throughout training), a sense of fear shoots through you. You suddenly realize just how badly this could end if it goes south. You’re still keenly aware that this began by sparring with real knives, a testament to how insane your instructor truly is.
But your wires are well and truly crossed, and although you tremble on the floor, it all feels thrilling just the same. You’re just as sick as Krauser, maybe, the way you ache for Leon to submit so he can give you what you need. Luckily for your throbbing heat and unluckily for Leon’s dignity, he complies.
“Please,” he begins through his teeth, “let me fuck her, sir.”
“You can do better than that. You’ve wanted this for how long…? Let her hear it.”
Your breath hitches at the thought that Krauser has seen what you couldn’t all this time. It’s reinforced by the way Leon hangs his head and his brows change from being knit with anger to upturning in a pained plea as he speaks straight into you.
“Please let me fuck her, sir. Wanted to for so damn long, I—” His cock twitches in the air as if to attest to it being true. “Wanna show her why she doesn’t need to sleep around, that I’d treat her better than all of them, that I am better. Tasted so good, she’s so— I just— fuck, I’d do just about anything, major, please.”
Leon looks up to search for a sign it’s good enough while you do a double take at such lewd words coming from his lips.
In a change of tone, Krauser speaks low and deliberately to the young man.
“You’re going to do exactly as I say. And I mean exactly. If not, I'll take over. You won't get to cum and I’ll make sure she never sneaks off into your bed. Understood?”
Leon nods rapidly and whispers the affirmative under his breath. Krauser nods once and turns around as he gives his first command.
“Take your shirt off and pull your pants down enough to do the job.”
As Krauser strides away, you and Leon shoot a look at each other behind his back. It’s perhaps your first unobserved moment of eye contact the entire day, you realize, and the brief moment seems to expand into something big and desperate and warm, like something that’s just yours. Then Krauser’s heavy steps land in the room and urge Leon’s hands to move.
Your eyes float down over his cut figure as his clothing finally joins yours on the floor. You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, sure, but never with the opportunity to stare, and certainly never with his pants around his thighs.
Your knees subconsciously part ever so slightly at the whole of him; his ashen hair unkempt and askew from Krauser’s disrespect to it, the valleys and peaks of each muscle on his whole torso and arms, and the kind of cock you thought only exists in porn you have to pay for—all of it flushed pink with pent-up desire for you and you alone.
The abrasive whir of a zipper steals your attention. Your eyes flick to the side and you see the major lean against the wall at the edge of the combat ring, pulling his own cock free as he settles in to watch. You feel like you see something you shouldn’t have for some reason, even though you hardly see his dick at all— and you yourself are naked and dripping on the floor, how can you still be embarrassed? Still, you immediately look away with your heart hammering in your chest.
“Kneel between her legs. Don’t touch yourself.”
You part your legs to make room and the flush spreads up from Leon’s chest to his cheeks as he shuffles forward on his knees. He winces as the head of his cock grazes hot against your folds, but he doesn’t dare to do anything about it.
“Slap it with your cock.”
Leon shudders as he holds the base and brings his head down onto your plump clit twice, pauses briefly, and then does it again and again at Krauser’s encouragement. Wet plap plap’s fill the room along with the sound of you sputtering at the teasing.
You fight the urge to curl your hips to get him to push it in; you know he won’t and can’t until he’s given the go-ahead. But it’s torture for you both as Krauser gives him no further instruction for minutes. Only when you both strain and cry out like you’ll break does he give his next demand.
“Stop.”
Not the one you want. Leon’s hands claw into his thighs to keep them fixed away from himself, and you feel hot all over as the head of his tip rests heavily on top of your clit.
Tense and restrained, you push your luck and start grinding against it, careful not to move to much to avoid detection. But if nothing else, Leon’s whine gives it away. Krauser doesn’t seem to mind.
“What a cock-whore,” he says through a devilish smile as he strokes himself leisurely. “She’s just dying for it. You still sure you can satisfy her?”
Leon can only moan and nod in response, and for once, the lack of formalities is accepted.
“Put it in. Stop when you bottom out. Let’s see how much she can take.”
As sadistic and unorthodox as Krauser’s methods are, the results of them are undeniable in the way Leon follows his orders at once.
He rests a hand against your thigh, his thumb rubbing up and down on the soft skin soothingly, as his other guides his shaft towards your entrance. You hold your breath as it notches there, and he wastes no time before he steadily sinks in with a hiss.
“Good god, you’re tight,” Leon chokes out as the head slips past your entrance.
You nearly wheeze as it does, your nerves on fire as they’re delivered the feeling they’ve endured all the torturous teasing for. The long shaft of his cock is hot against your walls and heavy as each new inch settles in, his girth burning the tight tissues of your entrance as they try to accommodate it. Despite the struggle, you keen into him, all to eager to take more, totally forgetting that when he gets to the hilt, he’ll stop.
Three long, tempered drags of his cock and he’s finally flush inside of you. His eyes roll back as he stills there, breathing harder than ever as he fights against thrusting instinctually. Your legs twitch as you sit with the feeling of his fat tip flush against your cervix, your walls hardly accommodating the whole of his dick, at least not yet, and Leon squeezes your parted knees with a frayed and empathetic look.
“Oh, oh f-fuck…”
Leon wants—needs— more just as much as you, if not more than, but he tries to focus on enjoying what he's presently afforded, and tries not to so much as think about how close he feels to cumming entirely too early.
“Enough sniveling— fuck her hard.”
Leon feels a pang of regret. He'd thought of this moment so many times before, ran through it like a waking dream on lonely nights spent lying awake in his cot. He’d always imagined starting slow, making you cum on his tongue and fingers before he entered you gently to hear your pretty breathless moans; to cradle you in his arms as he rocks into your perfect cunt, to hold you tight and kiss you all over—
—But that never happened, and while he dreamed of making love to you, you were busy getting railed in another recruit's room. Sometimes within earshot.
It’s an easy command to follow; he'll take what he can get.
Leon withdraws almost entirely before snapping in to the hilt. You cry out as he crashes powerfully against your cervix and fills every sweet spot all at once, acute pain sitting right alongside the overwhelming pleasure as your cunt stretches to its limits around him.
“Oh f-fuck, Leon—"
You cry out as he does it again with even more force this time, crashing into you so brutally that you slide back on the mat, but he just grips your hips to pull you back to him to continue.
With each new punishing thrust his navel smacks loudly against your center, and you desperately grasp at his wrists to hold on as you take it, moaning feverishly until your body adjusts to accommodate the brute impacts he delivers. When you do, it leaves only a fierce and overwhelming pleasure, and you arch off the mat like an animal in heat, writhing into and away from the intensity simultaneously.
He develops a rapid-fire rhythm he grunts in time to. It takes so much effort to take that you quickly become covered in a thin sheen of sweat that has you sliding back on the mat all over again.
“Grab her wrists and pin her down.”
Leon does it instantly, nailing you in place with an iron grip, your wrists fixed on either side of your head. It brings a new angle that has his cock beating mercilessly against your inner sweet spot, and with your ability to move being limited, you moan shamelessly as you take the bombardment.
He can’t keep himself quiet either, though he tries— he babbles through wet lips and grinding teeth as his eyes roll back in his head.
“Oh fuck, baby. Your pussy’s so perfect, god…”
Every time you twist in pleasure he hits a new spot that makes you see stars, and when you push against his hands, the fact that he so easily cages you in makes it all the better. But sweeter than anything, him pinning you down makes you face-to-face with him again.
The faces he makes are plucked straight from euro porn, full of lust as his expression contorts with every wanton moan. His full lips are a plump and rosy pink, occasionally being wetted by his tongue flicking over them mindlessly as he works; his blown pupils making his eyes a darker, oceanic shade of blue that you ache to drown in.
You tip your chin up to try and kiss him. God, how you want to kiss him again. And you're so close together, if you could just—
He looks at your lips and slowly closes the difference, and then—
Krauser barks your name, and you're yanked right out of your immersion.
“Look at me.”
You hesitantly turn your head away from Leon and towards your major. Your throat feels thick as you do, and your mouth goes dry as you see what, in the back of your mind, you knew Krauser has been doing the whole time.
At some point he's taken his shirt off and he stands bare-chested some five feet away, leaning against the edge of the fighting ring with a wide stance, his posture emphasizing the sheer broadness of his build. He's pulled undone his pants enough to pull himself out and nothing more, and now you know that truly every inch of him is imposing as he strokes his large cock with a strong, persistent grip.
Even sheathed in his big hands, it looks fucking huge. Perhaps equal in length to Leon, maybe an inch shorter, but absolutely formidable in girth and decorated in thick, bulging veins. Your breath hitches as you watch him tug hard up the length of it, squeezing out a bead of precum before smearing it slowly back down his length.
Your eyes flit between Krauser’s face and his cock, each one too imposing to settle on. He smirks like he knows the look in your eyes, like many people before have cowered in fear at his size, like he enjoys the terror that flashes in your gaze.
“Tell me what you think,” he tells you, holding his cock up by the base as if he’s arrogantly raising a weapon.
You struggle to speak with Leon holding your jaw tight in his hands and his cock striking the deepest parts of you— I mean jesus, it’s hard to even think coherently with how he’s rearranging your guts. But you don’t want him to be stopped more than you feel queasy, so you attempt it.
“I-I… you’re– oh– uh, ahh, big, and—”
Mercifully, perhaps, Krauser interjects with a ragged chuckle. “Cock-drunk already, huh? Try again. Come on.”
You completely and totally are, and it becomes twice as difficult to speak as Leon puts more weight into his hips, forcing your legs wider and barraging his cock at an even deeper angle in, like fucking you harder is all he can offer to distract you in the event you're watching something you didn’t want to see.
Do you want to see it…? You really don't know. You'd never looked at your instructor through this kind of lens before, and only were now because you were being forced to.
You try again, blubbering through the drool that trickles down the corner of your mouth and onto Leon’s fingers.
“You’re… it’s… oh—”
The air is pushed from your lungs as Leon sends his next thrust into you with aggressive force, sending your head tipping back as your eyes roll and a loud, wet smack echoes off the gymnasium walls.
“So fucking useless…” Krauser grumbles. “Can’t take a little hard fucking without turning stupid? Choke her out, Kennedy; give ‘er a reason she can’t speak.”
With a grunt, Leon wraps a hand around the whole of your neck. Not enough to hurt, just enough to press you into the floor by it. Still, his ragged breath shakes in surprise at his own lack of hesitation.
He’s even more surprised that he doesn’t hate it and that you don’t seem to either. He tests the waters and squeezes a little tighter, drawing a strangled moan from you that clearly isn’t from pain.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he hisses in time with each thrust, swearing more at himself than anything.
He feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something dangerous. He shouldn’t think this is so hot. He could actually hurt you here.
Your cunt clamps down on him as you gasp, and something new washes over him. He grits his teeth and squeezes hard.
You sputter silently as your airway becomes constricted and something daunting builds in your core. Your pulse pounds in your skull as the oxygen in your brain grows stale and dies, you feel your muscles locking up, and you know you’d be moaning if you could make any noun at all.
Your vision slowly darkens around the edges, obscuring the vicious look on Leon’s face that sits in your periphery. In the center of the vignette stands the sight of Krauser’s hand working himself faster. Leon’s hold on your throat and the constant torrent against your inner walls are equally violent, and your pleasure grows violently in response. But all you can do is weakly keen into Leon’s cock as your body becomes completely flooded with unadulterated sensation.
“Slap her pretty face,” Krauser grunts.
Leon does. You’re barely cognizant enough to flinch and can hardly move enough to anyway, but it lands dully; not even enough to sting.
“Oh, don’t fucking insult me. Slap her.”
This time, your cheekbone blooms with heat in the wake of the rough calluses of his palm snapping against you.
“Harder.”
His hand crashes into your face and the whole room starts spinning.
You’ve taken countless blows to the face before, and many from Leon himself; you knew all too well how hard he could hit. Hell, you’d already have bruises tomorrow from the training session that led you here. But that blow landed utterly uniquely from any other you’d endured. No pain had ever caused this kind of disorientation.
Vision fixed on the voyeur and your cunt skewered on Leon’s cock, decreasing thoughts as your face tingles and your neck aches under a ruthless grip, lungs burning behind your ribs— clit swollen and oversensitive from each smack of Leon’s navel against it. Your eyes are bulging and body’s locking up, making your cunt grip around him tighter, pushing out a new surge of wetness around him—
Your vision darkens until all that’s left is the brute force of how good it all feels. Every ounce of pleasure and pain compounds into blindingly bright sensation, like white-hot lightning running through your every nerve, growing stronger and stronger as your faculties weaken.
Your face feels hot as you try in vain to gasp for air, hips working sloppily to try to meet Leon’s pace as he thrusts into your sweet spots over and over. Krauser speaks, but you don’t grasp the words until Leon’s free hand frantically connects with your clit.
“Look at that, she fucking loves it. Go on, make her cum on your cock.”
The grip on your neck lessens just enough to seize a rough gasp of new air as your orgasm rallies. Your back arches so acutely, you feel like Leon’s hold is the only thing stopping you from levitating. Krauser’s mumbling between barks of orders as you tear at the seams—
“That’s it, give her what she needs. Keep her eyes on me.”
Leon captures you by the cheeks to turn your face back towards Krauser. You breathe desperately and watch him while your hands reach haplessly for Leon, nails dragging everywhere they land as you steal ragged breaths through the nose. It’s all so good, so much, and god the mindfuck of it all— your eyes glued to Krauser jerking himself off while another man pistons his cock inside of you, like they're both being cucked somehow as your physical and mental attention is divvied between them.
It’s all just so insane— the fact that Krauser is getting off to you being split in half and manhandled by your opponent, telling him how and when to fuck you— like Krauser is the director and you and Leon are the stars of his own personal brand of violent pornography.
And it’s a role Leon plays well. He’s grown to be barbaric in his own right, a part of him no one including himself knew existed until now.
Krauser had that effect on his recruits, and apparently this was no exception: he’d made the rookie into exactly what he needed to be to rise to the occasion. And the result is animalistic, further evidenced as Leon licks a flat-tongued stripe up your jugular and bites down before growling into your hair through sharp teeth.
“Fucking feel me.”
His voice pulls the pin on the live grenade of your arousal, and in seconds flat, you combust.
Your orgasm hits you like a devastating blow to the core, tearing through your body as if somewhere within your center an atom had split in half. You writhe like you’re dying, and high-pitched moans flood out of your pursed lips that are still squeezed taut in Leon’s grip. He has to hold you even tighter just to keep you from falling away, and he puts a hand on your stomach with weight that lets you both feel each time he bulges through your stomach.
The cracking sounds of his hips connecting with your cunt become wetter and more crude as you gush around him with each shockwave of seizing bliss. Leon starts falling apart himself, moaning wildly as you tighten around him like a vice. He looks down to see the base of his cock covered in the creamy white slick of your cum, and that's enough to make him see stars.
“Oh fuck, jesus fucking christ I’m—“
Cruel as ever, Krauser makes his next command.
“Stop.”
Leon is in a full breakdown as he tries to; he lets go of you to claw his nails into the ground, pained sounds ripping from his chest as he struggles to keep still, but he can’t keep his hips from twitching forward to save his life. He was so close to cumming and he has to force himself not to as he keeps himself bottomed out again, a guttingly difficult task as your walls continue to pulse around his cock as you come down from your high.
The stakes heighten as Krauser approaches with heavy boot steps, and Leon’s whole body strains as he fights to comply before he gets there. Leon swears under his breath as the tendons in his neck clench and small veins begin to pop against his temple, grabbing your weak body by the hips to fix you on his cock instead of fighting the involuntary jolts of his hips.
“Fuckfuckfuck, m’sorry, I’m t-trying, ahh…”
Krauser stands over you again, pumping his sturdy dick in a firm but leisurely grip at the absolute sight of you two. You can only imagine how obscene you must look lying numb and weak on the ground— you’re still panting as you come down from your high, your wild hair sticking to your sweaty neck and forehead, fucked-out and used with Leon’s cock still stuffing you full while you let your major jerk off above you.
But as downright shameful as you look and feel, Krauser takes his sweet time soaking it in, enjoying the unfiltered vulgarity of it as he pumps himself a hair faster.
You’re grateful for the time to catch your breath, sure, but the longer you’re there, the more his attention burns. As seconds roll by, your sweat cools uncomfortably on your skin, you regain enough feeling in your body to feel a small amount of what it’s been through, but most of all, you become more aware of where you and Leon connect.
Your orgasm made you twice as sensitive, and the lack of motion is as maddening to you as it is for Leon as he throbs inside your walls. You can’t help but to squirm around for relief, and you can’t help but to moan as the movement drags the head of his cock against your g-spot.
“Jesus, you still want more? Is one cock not enough? Should’ve fucking known,” Krauser tuts, twisting his fist around the wide base of his dick. “You’ve always been tough. Shoulda known you wouldn’t break so easily. Always making me get my hands dirty…”
He pushes Leon to lean back and out of the way for a thick droplet of spit to fall from Krauser’s lips all the way down to your clit. You jolt at the sensation of it landing, but it doesn’t compare to when Krauser drops to one knee and rubs it in with two firm fingertips.
He massages his spit into your clit with rough fingerpads that move in tight and steady circles, building you towards another bout of sensory overload with calculated precision. You look rapidly between Krauser and Leon and your own body through wet lashes, frantically trying and failing to get a grip.
It’s all too much, but somehow, it isn’t enough. You need Leon to move like you need air to breathe.
“Nnhg, m-major…” you moan hesitantly
“What?” he says dryly, as if he isn’t causing your undoing. You only manage a throaty whine in response, and he chides you by increasing his speed on your clit. “Speak.”
You try, but your words are bracketed by thick heaving breaths. “Hhha, I… oh, ahh…. p-please…”
Krauser leaves his weighty cock to hang in the air as he adds his other hand to your body, staring at you intently as a high pitched shriek gets caught in the back of your throat. He pinches your nipples one by one before flicking them each sharply, matching his rhythm on your clit, stimulating every part of you continuously. He just smirks as your brain melts in your skull, your mouth falling open with nothing comprehensible coming out of it.
“Please what?”
You squirm in an attempt to lessen the overwhelming feeling, but he doesn’t falter once, only leaving your clit to dip his fingers around either side of Leon’s shaft to gather your wetness to slicken your sore nub. Leon sputters at the brief yet unexpected feeling and he bucks into you so deep you both choke.
“F-fuck, I… I need… ahhh,” you whine hard, your head flying back on the ground.
“You can take it. If you’re not gonna use your words, then be quiet.”
You really do try and stay quiet at that, biting your lip so hard you think you might taste blood, but you just can’t.
You can still feel Leon pulsating inside of you, can still hear the sweet sounds of his agonized grunts as you’re brought back to the brink. Leon holds your hips tight for his own sake so he doesn’t cum before he’s allowed, his fingers pressing deeply into your soft flesh to keep you from bucking into him more than you already are, and the dull pain where his short fingernails dig in just add to it all. You’re trembling severely, the meat of your thighs shaking uncontrollably, and it all just feels too good.
All at once, Krauser pinches a nipple painfully and strums you so quickly his hand blurs, and you all but fucking scream.
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Krauser snarls and removes his touch altogether.
It’s easier to swallow your sounds as the sensation fades, but the damage has already been done. Your vision swims as Krauser grabs the since-forgotten combat knife and tosses it to Leon before kneeling beside your head.
Leon catches it on pure instinct and stares dumbfoundedly at it in his hands.
Krauser frames your face with his thighs and his cock becomes inches away from your face. Close enough to see every short wheat colored hair on his navel, every vein that courses up his substantial width; close enough to smell the salt on his skin, even.
He guides it to stroke the length of it overtop your plush, drool-covered lips.
It’s fucking denigrating, the way he does it, dragging his cock over your face with a gruff hum as he holds you in place by the crown of your hair. The shocked face of shame you wear only makes him leak with pre.
Krauser hooks his fingers behind your bottom teeth and pulls your mouth open to slap his tip against your tongue, and you shudder at the sweet taste of his precum. Then he lets go and notches the tip between your puffy lips.
Leon watches with the knife still in his hands, a quiet horrification in his tone as he speaks.
“Sir…”
“Hold it against her neck,” Krauser answers like it’s nothing, “or I’ll do it.”
Krauser plugs your mouth with his cock at the same time that cold steel meets your neck.
Leon watches the sight wide-eyed and disturbed. This is going too far, he thinks— but he’s gone too far to stop himself, too.
Krauser is clearly getting off to the sight of you being borderline assaulted, and Leon is a partner to it. He’s the one holding the flat of a blade to your jugular while your superior sodomizes you, the one who’s still struggling not to cum and wishing he could fuck you fully again. He’s already an accomplice, or more accurately at this point, a willing participant.
He thinks now that Krauser might’ve actually been right, that in these ways they’re alike. It horrifies him and shatters his self-image, but his cock aches with need regardless.
You’re mindless to it all as you start to suck Krauser off. Your lips struggle to stretch around his girth, your whines are muffled as you take more and more, and you feel so fucking dirty that you rock into Leon without thinking.
Fuck, you’re actually enjoying this. A lot.
‘Maybe I am a whore’, you think as your toes curl against Leon’s calves— but how could you possibly care about that right now? You don’t, and you can’t— all you can think about is making Krauser fit inside your mouth so he’ll let Leon keep going.
Leon is harder than he’s ever been in his life, another fact that has him dumbstruck with himself. He even envies the man for getting to stuff his fat dick past your pretty lips, for being the one who’s making your face twist up like it is.
But the final nail in his moral coffin? The sight of you slowly being face-fucked, struggling to suck such a big dick with enthusiasm, while he holds a knife to your neck… it brings him right back to the edge of release. Not in spite of it— because of it.
So when Krauser tells Leon to fuck you again with a reminder not to cum until he’s given permission, he does it without a hint of hesitation.
When he does, you’re no longer on planet earth; you’re floating somewhere above it, your senses more overloaded than ever. It takes focus you barely have to keep Krauser’s girth from hitting your teeth as he picks up speed to roughly fuck your face.
Krauser alternates between striking the back of your throat and holding your chin down to push it against the inside of your cheeks, watching his head bulge out your face before continuing his assault on your throat, using your mouth like exactly the kind of whore he’d made you out to be. All while Leon delivers blunt thrusts, each one thumping against the most electric spots inside your cunt, and each harsh snap of his hips cracks in the room like lightning.
And every few seconds you feel the flat of the blade bump against your neck, a chilling reminder of the control you’re under.
Krauser truly is a goddamn psychopath. That’s never been more evident than now. But it fills you with a certain thrill to be at the mercy of a certified killing machine and his most promising rookie. Both of them are more than capable of causing you serious injury right now, but all their brawn and might is being utilized to ruin you in a way that feels good, and it’s the best, most exhilarating experience you’ve ever had.
Maybe you’re all psychopaths. Maybe Krauser’s promise on the first day of training held a particular purpose for you and Leon. Perhaps the training broke you long ago, and at some point you couldn’t place, he’d reassembled your bleeding hearts into corrupted, submissive subjects, ones perfectly crafted for him to play with, to even enjoy his sadistic demands.
Tears prick at your eyes as Krauser presses himself as far as he can go into your mouth and you choke around him. He’s too thick to take so deeply, and your throat seizes up in rejection. He slaps your cheek just enough to feel it sting as he forces you to keep trying.
“That’s it, choke on it, bitch.”
And choke on it you do, with horrible sounds emanating from your throat as he likely bruises it. Your hands grasp for nothing at the overwhelm and Krauser pins the arm nearest to him under his knee, and Leon holds the other down by the bicep before Krauser even looks at him.
“There you go, now you’re fucking behaving,” Krauser pants at you both. “My two most obedient soldiers… hah.”
A thick string of spit connects your lips to Krauser’s tip as he pulls out suddenly, giving you a chance to gasp for air. He slaps its weight against the red welts in the shape of Leon’s hand on your cheek, making the sore skin shine with spit. Your tongue lolls out on its own and he goes right back to skull fucking you, holding you firmly by the sides of your head to keep you at the right angle.
You moan as his cock vein drags up and down your wet, flat tongue as he thrusts in and out decisively, and your eyes roll back as he starts working your nipples again, catching them in his fingertips as they recoil with Leon’s thrusts.
Leon can’t help it; he can’t stop watching. It brings him closer than ever to breaking. His orgasm has been denied so many times when he’s right there on the edge, and the thought of holding it back again is devastating. So all on his own, he begs.
“Krauser, please, let me… let me cum, sir. I need to, I need—“
And Krauser is all too aware of his staring.
“You like watching me use her mouth that much? Gonna get off to it while you have a knife to her neck? You’re a sick fuck, kid.”
Leon chokes out a sob at the fact and that his plea went totally ignored. But looking between you, Krauser falters too, and he pounds your moaning mouth more wildly.
“Fuck, you’re both crying. You two are so damn dirty.”
Krauser grunts, and nearing his own edge, he makes sure to bring you with him. He reaches over to wedge his hand between you and Leon’s bodies to rub your sopping clit again.
You try to writhe, but you’re too pinned down, and too big of a movement sends your jugular dangerously close to the knife. All you can do is take it, teary eyed and pliant, trembling like an earthquake as you near another peak.
Leon whines as Krauser dips his fingers down to your cunt, but this time, they don’t pass there just to collect your slick. He keeps them fixed around Leon’s cock while he cups your pussy, and each time Leon thrusts, his shaft passes through the tight friction of his fingers.
He braves a glance down at where you all connect and god, it is dirty, just like Krauser said— and Leon is weak to it. His gut twists as your cunt and the major’s fingers both grip around him, warm and velvety wet and threatening to milk him dry.
Ever the coach, Krauser starts encouraging you both, his steady tone in stark contrast to Leon’s as the younger man starts begging again.
“That’s it, take it. Cum for us so he can get his.”
“Please, oh fuck she’s so tight, m’not gonna make it sir, I—”
“Just a little more, Kennedy, don’t quit on me now. Where’s all that endurance?”
“I can’t sir I can’t, needta cum so bad, oh god it fucking hurts.”
Krauser’s own cracks finally show through, the grumbling under his breath the first sign he has any weakness at all as you suck him off with urgency, trying to catch him up to your contemporary.
“Shit, yeah, suck my cock just like that. Sound so good when you beg for me, rookie, jesus.”
A pathetic sound comes from Leon as his thrusts grow sloppy, and he leans over you on his forearm as his muscles begin to buckle. It makes you feel even more caged in, traps Krauser’s palm against your clit, forces your legs a little farther apart— and suddenly, you snap.
You convulse completely as you cum, and the rough sounds the two men make in response only bring you higher until the pleasure is blinding. Your ears ring and mute the strings of profanities they’re chanting as they feel it soar through you and gush around them, and you’re putty in Krauser’s hands as he pulls out and keeps your slack jaw open.
“That’s it, shit, cum for her, Kennedy, fuck.”
“Where, where—?”
"In her, fill her fucking cunt— ahh, fuck—”
You flinch in surprise at the first hot rope of cum that falls onto your tongue. While Krauser paints your open mouth white, Leon collapses over you, and you thread weak fingers into his sweaty hair as he cries out into the crook of your neck.
His words are only for you.
“Oh god, I’m cumming, I’m– oh, ohh fuck—”
He devolves into a mindless stream of consciousness as he pumps you full of it.
“Shit, you feel s’fucking good, fucking take me.”
And when he remembers the knife in his hand:
“Oh god, I’m so damn sorry.”
You can’t think enough to even wonder what he’s sorry for as you swallow your mouthful of cum, shuddering at the mild tang before suckling the last drops from the head of Krauser’s dick.
All the while, you feel every single drop that Leon buries inside of you, warm in the depths of your cunt and slightly stinging the sore skin at your entrance as tickles escape around his base. It seems like his orgasm will never end; there must be so much of it, and even when you no longer feel new ropes of his cum pooling into you, he ruts it shallowly into your cervix as he shakes with aftershocks.
It takes a long time for you both to settle, and for lengthy minutes, you just lie there together, eyes closed and adrift. Your whole body is abuzz as you run your hands up and down his back, feeling it rise and fall with his staggered breathing as he lies flush against you, a drunken smile on your face as you come down for good. You sink heavily into the floor, no thoughts whatsoever in your head, and nothing behind your eyes but stars.
Leon too is perfectly exhausted from the way he’s been thoroughly drained, and he’s more than happy to join you in your empty-headed daze. So lie there you do, long enough to be overtaken by fatigue as your blown minds weigh down with sleep, even long enough to forget about what Krauser might be doing.
Leon rolls off of you, knife clattering to the ground as it slips from his limp fingers, and you open your blurry eyes to see the cause: Krauser’s boot.
Krauser doesn’t look angry at all, more so inconvenienced. He shakes his head at the way Leon’s dead weight falls beside you, too tired to even react to his soft dick slipping out of your sopping cunt.
“Good god…” Krauser mutters under his breath, scoffing at the soft display of you and Leon in a puddle on the ground— an understandably dissonant sight after what you’ve all just done. But it doesn’t cut through your euphoric afterglow at all; Krauser’s disapproval is too familiar to blink twice at even now; if anything, it’s casual coming from him. You even weakly smile until he speaks again with a touch more bitterness in his tone.
“You two look just pathetic.”
Blinking away the stale tears that cling to your eyelashes, Krauser sharpens into view. He’s collected himself completely in the time you’ve been drifting away.
And there you are in stark contrast, completely naked on the floor, your limp limbs in a tangled heap wherever gravity took them, your hair a mess of sweat and frizz— and the most indecent sight of all, the cum drying on the corners of your mouth and leaking out of your swollen folds.
Leon lies beside you in an equally tragic state: his hair is a disaster, his trousers are loose around his knees, and a final drop of cum leaks from the tip of his sore cock.
No wonder Krauser’s displeased. There’s truly no world where he’d be glad to see his top recruits looking half dead in front of him, especially when he somehow managed to be so unaffected himself.
“Get up before you stain the mat.”
You and Leon are all creaks and groans as you pull yourselves to your knees, not yet daring to try your feet and instead crawling to find your clothes. You fight against your lightheadedness as you sit upright to redress, trying to do it quickly before Leon’s cum spills out of you and onto the floor. You can feel how much there is, and you don’t know if you’ll have the strength to clean it up, which you’d surely be made to if it did.
But in the minutes you have somewhat to yourself, your throat feels tight all over again. You feel like you’re back at the beginning in the exact same predicament as before: How the hell are you supposed to look Leon in the eyes?
When you’re finally dressed, you stumble to your feet, and you hardly look at him at all before you both shy away. But as you stand in the room on wobbly legs, you find a new predicament, too: What the hell happens now?
You’ve stumbled into completely uncharted territory, and you have only your major to guide you. So on pure routine, you both look to your superior to tell you what to do next.
It has to be the most hilariously pathetic attempt at standing in formation ever, the way he looks incredulously at the two of you as he shrugs on his olive green overshirt, pausing at the sight.
“You’re both so fucking clueless” he grumbles and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hit the showers and go to bed.”
You stumble shame-faced through yes sir’s and turn heel to the gymnasium door, and your mouth goes dry with each new step.
That’s it then..? You have to pretend it never happened without so much as an acknowledgment? You half wish Krauser had shaken you by the shoulders and told you what to think as usual, for him to set right your spinning head.
“Hey,” Krauser calls just before you reach the door. You both look back and wait, your hearts beating in your chest, but he only looks at you. “I don’t like rumors. I better not hear any more. Understood?”
He stares you down sharply with a lift in his brow. You inhale deeply as you catch his drift. “Y-yeah. Understood, sir.”
Krauser calms and nods once, then turns away. You take the opportunity to slip out of the door.
The walk back to the barracks is painfully quiet; neither of you know what to say. Your bootsteps are the only sound echoing in the dim halls, and your heartbeat is the only thing in your ears.
It isn’t a long walk before you reach the fork between the male and female barrack halls. Your steps slow until they reach a halt and Leon lingers behind you. You turn halfway to face him, but nothing comes of it; you both can only stand there with open mouths that don’t say anything.
You stiffly turn away, but then Leon speaks your name quietly and brokenly, and everything unspoken is left in the ellipses. He gulps once and feels his dry tongue cling to the roof of his mouth as he opens it to speak, and a shaky voice comes out that echoes your very same need.
“Tell me it’s okay.”
You turn around and finally manage to look at him, and it cracks your heart wide open. He looks so much like he did when you’d both arrived here, a scared young man who arrived fresh from the horrors he’d witnessed, who’d do anything to keep everything in one piece despite how much he himself needs saving.
It’s the face you’d first fallen for and fell for all over again as it sharpened into the fierceness he had now. The same face that held you impossibly close just moments ago.
You fall all over again and crash into his chest at terminal velocity, clinging to him with all the energy you have left in you to give.
“It’s okay.”
You hold each other there in the hall for a long time. Neither of you know what you’ll wake up to in the morning or how the hell you’ll pretend everything is normal, but right now, you don’t need to. You just need to hold each other long enough to know that the other one is there.
When you slowly pull away, your fingertips linger over each other’s before you finally break apart. And with one last breathless look into his blown blue eyes, you head towards the women’s showers.
You squint in the fluorescents and avoid your reflection. You step into the shower while it’s still running cold and let the tension wash away in the water as it grows to a calming steam.
You wash yourself with purpose— it’s well past one in the morning and you don’t have sleep to spare— but your fingers linger between your legs as you clean where you feel the most dirty. Feeling the slick slip of cum against your sore, swollen lips as it commingles with the suds, you smile.
⌖⌖⌖
The next morning, everything seems to scream. The wake alarm. Your muscles. Your head from three fleeting hours of sleep. Your thoughts as you remember the source of your freshly aching body.
The very beginnings of bruises bloom in greens and purples under your skin: on your wrists, your hips, and the distinct shape of fingers on your bicep. Your neck is sore and your cheek is tender, nevermind your throat and between your legs. As nervous as the evidence of last night being visible makes you, there's no cause to worry about the curious glances your comrades give you. It really does just look like you got your ass beat in combat, which is... true enough, you suppose.
Still, you can hardly look anyone in the eyes without your blood feeling hot about the new secret that you're keeping, but you don’t have many chances to.
First formation comes in place of breakfast. You’ve never stood so straight in your life; it wouldn’t be a good day to have Krauser pick on you. Definitely not.
Every time the major’s eyes glance over you, goosebumps prick your skin. You have no idea what he thinks about last night’s events, and so you dread his reprimands more than ever.
And when your eyes catch against Leon's, although you catch a hundred different things in his gaze, disappointment isn't one of them, and it's comforting somehow to know that he's feeling the same dizzying mix of emotions as you without having to ask.
But somehow, despite your cloudy thoughts, your aching body, and the ever-present signs of sleep deprivation, you excel.
And so the day goes on without incident as far as USSTRATCOM goes. You’re well ready for sleep by the time you’re relieved for the night, but you stay awake until you know everyone is asleep.
You take your time standing up from your cot, careful not to make it creak or shuffle the cheap blankets noisily. You watch your bunk mate snore as you tip-toe to the door in your socks. Boots would sound too heavy, and besides, you aren’t going far.
Your heart races as you scamper to the men’s wing and look for the right door, but you can’t seem to find it. Maybe it’s farther down than you thought? You turn back down the hall with knit brows to check the room numbers again. No dice. Maybe you passed it already.
You turn again and freeze as a doors opens and none other than Leon walks out.
There’s still no disappointment in his face, though. This is full-on despair. His face drops and his shoulders sink before he stammers and looks away, ducking back inside his room like he’s the one who shouldn’t be here.
“I’m, uh… sorry, I’ll just—“
“Leon, wait...!"
You cross the distance in seconds flat and catch his wrist just as he’s halfway enveloped back in the dark of his room.
“I… I came here to see you.”
end notes: pls infer that you and leon made sweet, comforting love all night long :) or that he violently fucked your brains out without krauser there to make him hold back. whichever
♫ satellites* * - enter shikari | ♫ lo-files album - bmth
We are satellites in a cosmic dance amongst the northern lights.
And we orbit fast, but I wish we could collide.
content: NSFW! MDNI! gn!reader, android!reader x tech!vendetta leon, drunk leon, funny and cute okay guys, smut at the end, wire play, use of fingers, accidental overstimulation. leon has his hands inside of reader's machine body.
notes: 8,8k words. a little diary of reader and their new tech getting to know each other. both are supposed to be around the same age btw! (hinted if u squint). i gave leon an accent because i can. spent so long tweaking and adding to this, it went from a quick 3k word silly thing and i got carried away (i feel maternal over this concept). tried to proofread as much as possible but i'm sure i missed something rip. i hope you like this and feel free to ask and comment, let me know what you think, and thank you for the love on my previous posts ♥
i also want to thank @piningforangels for helping me out at the start because it motivated me to polish the starting mess of a draft tysm friend ♥
Day 1.
The first time you walk into Leon Kennedy’s repair shop is by sheer luck. You forgot to check the weather and thus, left your home completely unprepared for the boiling high temperatures outside. You were too tired for any maintenance the night before and with the sun blazing high in the sky, the heat clings to your casing and your fans are running at full speed. Your movements feel clunky, half a second of lagging, battery draining fast. Noticing the sign across the street, you focus the last of your overheated memory’s slot to reach it, barely able to lift an arm to press the tiny OPEN button on the door.
“Welcome, how can I-” is the last thing you hear before you shut down completely.
You wake up to the smell of oil and sweet coolant. A cold room that you don’t recognize illuminated only by screens and dimmed neon lights. Slightly dazed, your fans are still running quickly and everything feels heavy. There are no windows around, but your internal clock tells you it’s 8:35 PM. Blinking a couple of times, your eyes regain focus and you notice a man’s figure next to you, hunching over a screen connected by a handful of cables on your neck.
“Wow, you are so hot.” He says, eyes not breaking contact with the screen. Dark hair, with what you presume are bangs, falls over his face all tousled. He looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.
“Nice. I ended up at a pervert’s shop. Just my luck.”
“I meant,” he raises his arms over his head stretching until his spine pops. His black tank top rides up, revealing a physique that doesn't match a simple repairman, then rubs his tired eyes with one hand, “your internal temp. You’ve been on my table for four hours.” He lifts his eyes to an analog clock on the wall. “Shop's been closed for two.”
You scan the room, neon screens flickering against metal surfaces. “Ew. You hooked me up to that!?” You panic, finally properly noticing the older equipment and thick cables around you.
“Watch it.” He pats a decent sized metal box sitting on a wooden table. Everything about this place screams old. Neat, clean and very well organized, but old nonetheless. “Old tech is more reliable. I got plenty of loyal customers who appreciate the craft and the fact that this shit can’t be tracked. Speaking of, I had to turn down three of ‘em to keep you alive.”
Alive. Even if machines have gained the same rights as humans and science has proved that they too have feelings and, arguably, a soul, people still hesitate. They refer to it as functional, operational, not alive.
“How are you feelin’?” His voice stops your train of thought, arms crossed in front of his chest and icy blue eyes staring at you with a slight frown. You still feel very uneasy, but the fact that his accent comes out in random words while he speaks is kind of amusing. Paired with how serious he looks, you have to suppress a giggle.
“Weird. Based on a quick data run I can’t explain why I am still running hot.” You scratch your neck around the ports. “You didn’t downgrade me while I was unconscious, right?”
He lifts his arms and rolls his eyes. “Who do you take me for? I’m a professional, not a scavenger. I managed to avoid any damage without opening you up. Nearly ran outta coolant.”
“Ouch.” You flinch at the thought of the bill. You try to relax and to run another system analysis, eyes glowing in a rainbow of colors as the data flashes in front of your eyes. You sigh in defeat when you still can’t locate the problem.
“Could be your temp sensors, CPU got the worst of it. Worth the check?”
He seems kind of excited at the thought of looking inside of you, but it doesn’t come off in a weird way. The state of the shop, the old mechanical parts shining under the artificial light, the way every wire is placed neatly and color-coded, the screwdriver twirling in between his fingers. He has not touched you the whole time, unlike the creeps from your district.
You feel comfortable enough to turn around, laying on your stomach to lift up your shirt, exposing your lower back. Silicone skin parts in clean lines to reveal an intricate pattern of electronics under it. He stills for a minute and you start to regret your decision, thinking that your systems are actually fried up for trusting the guy.
“Sorry, it’s just…” he notices your unease and starts to speak, “don’t you feel a little, uh, tangled up?”
“What do you mean?” You turn your head so you can stare back at him, standing there with his hands on the table and eyes darting from side to side of your back.
“That I think you need to kill whoever's been working on you. This is a mess.”
“Geez, thank you for the compliment on my body.” You joke, trying to brush off how unsettled not being able to see what he means makes you. You shift slightly on the bed, fingers hovering near the exposed parts before pulling back. “Now that you mention it, my battery is running out a little quicker than usual lately. I just figured it was wear and tear.”
“Can I?” he asks, voice quieter now. His hand hovering just above your exposed components while he waits for your answer.
“Sure.” You reply, shifting as you lower yourself further onto the maintenance bed, pressing your face into the worn surface in an attempt to hide the sudden heat creeping up your neck. You’ve come to places like this your whole life, knowing exactly what to expect, what you’re there for, but no one has ever asked before. It’s nice to be treated with respect for once.
The first shift of wires nearly short-circuits your thoughts, expecting the usual rough handling. You try to focus on something else like you usually do, to run background processes and let the maintenance happen without thinking about it, but it is impossible to take your mind off of the way he is being so gentle with you. Not a single tug or pull unnecessarily harsh, one hand firm against your side to keep you steady and metal tools not touching anything that they aren’t meant to touch. He pays so much attention to detail and all you can focus on is the careful paths his fingers trace along your internal wiring as he follows each line. He stills when he realizes that there is one connection jammed way too tight onto its port.
“Breathe in. I’ll try to be careful, but this one might hurt.” He says, the hand on your side squeezes a bit harder, thumb digging into the silky skin. Two of his fingers reach under a metal plaque and the tug sends a sharp buzz all over your body making you groan, face buried on the bed while your hips are firmly being held down. He slowly runs another finger under the corresponding port for guidance, your shoulders twitching at the feeling before a soft click releases all the tension you have been carrying the last few weeks. You exhale, limbs going limp, and take in the comfortable feeling.
By the time he is done with the adjustment you feel so light and a bit dizzy at the way that his fingers ghost over the cables on their way out of your body. He lets out a long breath that he was holding in to focus on the work.
“As suspected,” he breaks the silence clapping his hands together, which startles you a bit, “it’s the sensor. Needa swap it.”
You push yourself up onto your elbows, adjusting to the unfamiliar ease in your system with a stretch. “You are not putting old junk inside of me.”
He drags a hand down his face before dropping his head into his palms, frustrated. “There you go again. You’re still running, aren’t you? Trust me a little.”
He reaches for a drawer on his desk, rummaging before holding up a small, shiny box in front of your face. You recognize it immediately. New generation, barely on the market, the kind of upgrade people wait weeks to get their hands on. “My old junk can run the newest updates too.”
“Fine.” You roll your eyes, trying to not sound impressed.
It doesn’t take long after that. Just a few final checks, the hum of processing, everything settling neatly back into place before you can sit up. Your fans are running steady, battery fully charged and ready to go. By the time he walks you to the front of the shop it’s 10 PM, the neon glow outside dimmer against the dark. You raise your hand to show the barcode on your palm, ready for him to scan it and pay but instead of reaching for it, he shakes his head.
“Don’t worry about it.”
You blink, visibly thrown off, still holding your hand out. “Don’t be ridiculous, you kept complaining about how late it is and how you ran out of coolant. I can’t leave without paying.”
“I am serious.” There’s no hesitation, no room left for argument. “It was an emergency, I am okay with that. Besides, I don’t always get the opportunity to work on older military grade units.” He gives you a cheeky smile, leaning on the counter, and you want the Earth to swallow you. How did he figure that out? You have spent years upgrading, trying to erase all that was left from those days, making sure no one would look at you and notice them.
You clear your throat. “I am retired.”
“Pretty impressive, if you ask me. But you definitely need to find a better tech. Name’s Leon, by the way.”
That’s how you find yourself a new technician.
Day 3.
You don’t plan on coming back at first, but you pass by the shop again a few days later, slowing enough to glance at the neon sign glowing faintly behind the counter and end up stepping inside.
The second visit is normal. A simple data check after the incident. You come in earlier this time, when people are still coming in and out, the noise of machines filling the space. Leon barely looks up when you walk in, just gestures vaguely toward the waiting area with a quiet “Gimme a minute.”
When he finally gets to you, it’s all business. The conversations start small, they slip in between quick diagnostics and efficient movements. A few comments about whoever handled your last updates and maintenance like he’s personally offended by their existence. You find yourself watching his hands this time as he works on your arm, tracking the way he moves through the work without hesitation.
“You ever think ‘bout switching districts?” he asks, not looking up from the joint he’s working on. “There’s better cities to live in.”
You think for a second before shrugging. “Too much effort.”
“Fair enough.”
Day 15.
Another time, you find him elbow deep in a piece of equipment that looks older than anything else in the shop, a bundle of rusted edges and scratched metal. There’s a bottle sitting near his elbow, the sharp scent of whiskey cuts faintly through the usual oil and coolant.
“Is that thing even compatible with anything anymore?” You ask, leaning against the doorway of the maintenance room.
He doesn’t even look up, the tool slipping in his hand. “Doesn’t need to be. It’s for my collection.”
Pushing off the doorway, you step back to the waiting area near the counter, mindlessly flipping through files to free up space in your memory. You had finished your errands earlier than expected and decided to wait for your appointment in the shop. It takes you a moment to realize that you are not alone anymore. There’s an old man leaning against the counter, quiet, watching you.
“Be with you in a minute.” Leon says from the other room.
The man doesn’t answer him. “Have you ever got your chassis appraised?” he asks instead, eyes fixed on you.
You blink. “Excuse me?”
“Military base frame. Old generation, but not cheap.”
You force a laugh, but the fact someone recognizes your base build is making you want to run away. Your fingers curl into fists, resting on your lap. “I think you are mistaking me for someone else.”
“Black market would love you,” he pushes off the counter. “Parts alone-” he takes a second to calculate in his head. “Yeah. You’d go for a lot.”
A sense of dread starts taking over you. You shift uncomfortably in your seat while your processor tries to come up with the best response, suddenly hyper aware of your surroundings.
“Back off.” Leon’s voice cuts in from the doorway, focused on cleaning his hands with a rag.
The man smiles at him, easy and casual, like he believes that whatever he’s saying is not wrong. “I mean, look at that,” he gestures toward you, “that’s a whole payout standing in your shop.”
“Not for sale. You can go somewhere else.”
“Relax,” the man replies, amused. “I’m joking.” He isn’t. He looks back to you, scanning you with his eyes from top to bottom. “Strip the mods and clean up the frame, you’re sitting on a small fortune,” he adds, still as if it’s normal conversation. “Shame to waste it on patch jobs.”
Leon sets the rag down on the counter next to a small knife. “You done?”
The man tilts his head, studying him now. “What? You getting attached or something?”
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here.” You jump into the conversation, pushing the fear to the back of your CPU. It’s usually easy to stand up for yourself, except for when your past comes into play.
The old man shifts back to you, a grin plastered on his face. “Oh? It speaks.”
“Door’s behind you.” Leon snaps at him. “Don’t make me walk you to it.”
The man looks between the two of you. “What a waste.” Turning away, he pushes the door button and steps out without another word. It shuts with a dull click.
For a moment, neither of you moves. Leon stands there, shoulders tight, before exhaling and dragging a hand through his hair. “You good?” he asks.
You nod, a little delayed. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Sorry for jumpin’ in. Not that I think you can’t speak for yourself.” He picks up the rag again, wiping down a wrench. “I just can’t stand people like that.”
He lets out a long, heavy breath, his shoulders slumping as the tension of the confrontation fades. He doesn't go back to the workbench immediately. Instead, he looks at you, his eyes lingering on the way your fingers are twitching against your thighs. The creepy man’s words looping in your processor.
"Hey."
You look up, blinking as your sensors focus on him.
“Don't let him get in your head.”
You nod, barely visible, and your eyes wander to your hands again.
“Tell you what,” he walks away from the counter, signaling with his head toward the working room. “Let's get you inside where it’s cool. I think I’ve got some of that high grade coolant left. My treat.”
“High grade!?” You jump up from your seat at that, skipping as you walk past him, letting your arm brush against him as you go. “Are you trying to sweet-talk me?”
“Just move,” he grumbles and rolls his eyes, though the look he follows you with is anything but annoyed.
Day 25.
You come back. Again and again. You stop by every time you need an upgrade, a replacement, a routine maintenance or a simple check up. The conversations with him are nice and the way he always works on you with the utmost care makes you start to visit later, when the streets are calmer and he doesn’t need to rush that much to make it in time for the next customer. Soon, you find yourself staying longer, letting him run data and examine the oldest parts of you that he seems so interested in. You are enthralled by his fascination. When most people in this world are lost to the advances of technology and science, his heart seems anchored in the past.
“Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
You look down to see him tap lightly against your knee joint with the handle of a screwdriver. There’s a soft clink and he huffs under his breath, shaking his head. “God,” he leans in closer, thumb pressing just above the joint “this thing’s ancient.”
You don’t even think about it, leg jerking to hit him on the side. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to knock him off balance where he’s crouched.
“The hell-” he catches himself on the edge of the bed, eyes snapping up to you.
You fail to contain your smile. “Careful,” you say, “might fall apart if you insult it too much.”
He stares at you for a second before letting out a short breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” he pushes himself back into position and nudges your leg back where he wants it. “Real funny. Keep that up and I’ll start chargin’ extra for attitude.”
A comfortable silence sets in as he gets back to work, fingers tracing along the seams of the joint, checking the alignment, testing the range with small, controlled movements and knocks.
“Why would you spend so much on replacements?” He asks casually after a while. “The old stuff works wonderfully.”
You don’t answer, your eyes drifting somewhere over his shoulder instead, unfocused. He doesn’t push, just hums softly and keeps working. You let out a slow breath, fingers tightening against the edge of the bed beneath you. A minute or two pass.
“You don’t have to tell me.” His thumb presses lightly against the side of your knee. “Really. Not my business.”
You laugh out loud at the way he acts like he isn’t trying to coax an answer out of you, his curiosity getting the best of him.
“I was in the military,” you say finally, the words coming out flat. There is a small pause on his hands, as if he’s debating whether it’s best to stop or keep on working as he listens. He decides on the latter and you keep going. “It wasn’t bad at first. It was what I was made for.”
A short pause as you try to figure out your next words. “My creator used to say I deserved more than that, that I should live a life that actually feels like mine. After the war, I realized people don’t look at you the same way when they know what you were. So I started changing things, piece by piece.”
“You know, people come in here all the time asking me to make them look like something else.”
You look down at him, brow faintly furrowed, and he adjusts the joint slightly, testing it again before continuing.
“Newer model, cleaner lines, better response time… whatever’s trending,” he adds, voice easy, “they want upgrades that make ‘em faster and flashier. They need to make themselves feel seen and useful out there.”
He shifts your leg, checking the stability. “You’re the first one who’s doing it to disappear.”
You shift slightly, getting defensive. “That’s not-”
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he cuts in, finally looking up at you and meeting your gaze. “Nothin’ wrong with wanting something softer than what you were born with.”
“Softer.” You repeat, shoulders relaxing and fingers loosening their grip on the bed.
“Yeah.” He shrugs and gives you a smile, focusing back on the wires under the loosened casing of your joint.
“You don’t seem very interested in keeping up.”
“That so?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice, but he doesn’t look up.
“Your shop,” you gesture vaguely with one hand, “your tools, the way you work, it’s all…” You search for the right word, optics flickering faintly as you sort through options. “…outdated.”
He snorts. “Careful. That knee’s still in my hands.”
“It’s the truth,” you continue, softer now, less teasing. “You could upgrade everything. Work faster, take more clients, charge more. But you don’t. Why?”
He leans back slightly, one hand still resting against your leg while the other reaches for a different tool. He turns it between his fingers once, like he’s considering the question from all sides before deciding how to respond.
“Guess I just like things that last,” he says finally. “New stuff’s built to be replaced. Old stuff,” he taps lightly against the metal frame of your knee, “you fix it right, it sticks around.”
“That broken piece, the one you said was for your collection. Why do you keep things that don’t do anything?”
“They do.”
You frown. “How?”
“They remind me,” he says, voice more absent now, “of how things used to be.”
“You sound like you miss it.”
He doesn’t answer straight away, reaching for another tool first. “Sometimes.” Another pause, he applies oil on the joint and moves your leg up and down. “Just… things change too fast now.” He clicks his tongue and seals the casing back into place. “Alright, that should do it. Try it.”
You shift carefully, bending your knee. The motion is smoother immediately, no resistance, no delay. You extend, rotate, flex again. It responds like it’s supposed to. You slide off the bed, testing your weight properly. Everything holds, balanced and stable.
“Better?” he asks.
You nod, then realize he’s not looking and add, “Yeah. Much better.”
“Told you,” he says, a hint of satisfaction slipping through.
“Hey.”
“Hm?”
“Your collection, can I see it?”
He raises an eyebrow at that, clearly not expecting it. “You sure?” he asks. “It’s just borin’ old stuff.”
You stand there, staring at him with your head to the side. “Alright, alright.”
You follow him to the back of the shop and he pushes open a door you hadn’t noticed before. Just like that, it’s not a workshop anymore. Warm light spills across wood floors. Shelves line the walls stacked unevenly with books- actual books, worn edges, creased spines, some piled horizontally where they didn’t fit. Bits of machinery sit between them, carefully placed. Not scrap, not parts, but keepsakes. A low bed sits against one wall, blankets slightly rumpled. You notice a bottle of golden whiskey on the nightstand.
“You live back here?” you ask, the answer quite obvious.
“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking a little less sure of himself than before. “Saves time.”
You step further in, drawn toward one of the shelves, fingers brushing lightly along the spine of a book as you tilt your head to read the title. “It’s nice,” you say, and you mean it.
Behind you, he huffs a laugh. Everything in there is different, like the world has lowered its voice. Your optics adjust again, slower this time, your memory card pulling data that you thought was already corrupted by time.
A shelf of old components near the entrance catches your attention. A chipped casing with faded markings. A gear assembly that looks too intricate to still exist outside of diagrams in a file. A small, hand-sized device with a cracked plate that reflects the warm light.
“You fixed these?” you ask, glancing back over your shoulder.
“Some of them,” he replies, leaning against the doorframe now, arms loose at his sides, not watching you too directly.
You turn back to the shelf and your gaze drifts again, slower this time, catching details you missed at first glance. Small repairs. Reinforced joints. Replaced screws that don’t match the originals but fit anyway.
“You don’t just restore them. You preserve them. It is that special to you.” You look back at him again but this time he’s watching you properly. Not the shelf, not the objects. You.
You move further into the room, the shelves opening into a wider space you didn’t see from the doorway. A workbench sits there, but it’s different from the one outside. A lamp sits angled low, casting a soft amber light across tools and scattered pieces of metal and paper. Actual paper again, notes written by hand.
Diagrams with corrections layered over other corrections, ink smudges everywhere. The handwriting is rough. Not careless, just fast, like the thoughts moved quicker than the hand could keep up with. A circuit layout. Then revised. Then revised again. At the bottom, a note scratched in smaller text: don’t overcomplicate it.
It takes you a moment to realize that these are about you, a warmth spreading across your chest.
He’s standing near the workbench now, arms loosely crossed like he’s just observing his own space. But his eyes flick to the drawings once, then away again, as if looking at it too long would make it mean something it’s not supposed to. “Just structural mapping. Keeps maintenance accurate. If I understand the system properly, I can service it better.”
You hum, not fully convinced, turning to face him. “Structural mapping,” you repeat.
“It’s- calibration.” He looks away. “If I don’t account for how the system behaves, I can’t keep it stable. That’s just basic maintenance.”
You tilt your head, teasing. “Oh, so I’m just a system to you.”
“No.” It leaves his lips a little too fast, then he clears his throat. “That’s not what I said.” He looks back at you, frustration and embarrassment mixed in his expression. “I meant that I need to map it correctly to avoid risking damage. Which is kind of the opposite of treating you like you’re just a replaceable system.”
His arms are still crossed, one hand flexes once against his own sleeve and then stills again. He looks around, eyes not settling anywhere for long enough. Even his voice, usually steady, has picked up in speed, like he is trying to escape. He is not defensive but nervous.
“I get it, sorry,” you give him a smile, “you don’t have to over explain yourself like that.”
You take a few steps around the room, shift your stance and wiggle your legs. “It’s way better,” you say, glancing down at your knee. “The adjustment.”
“Told ya.”
You both smile.
“Thank you.”
Day 31.
You arrive at the shop in a hurried pace, trying to make it in time for your appointment after being stuck at the city hall waiting for your paperwork. The neon sign is dim, flickering and reflecting against the small puddles of rain on the floor. The front door is unlocked, but when you step inside, the usual noise of machinery is drowned out by a thick, suffocating silence and most of the lights are off.
“Leon?” you call out, your voice echoing off the metal surfaces.
There’s no answer. You move toward the back, your sensors picking up a sharp, stinging scent of whiskey before you even reach the maintenance room. You find him hunched over the workbench, but he isn’t working. He’s just staring at a piece of rusted equipment, a bottle sitting next to it.
“Leon,” you say again, softer this time.
He flinches, the tool in his hand slipping and clattering against the metal table. He doesn’t look up. His bangs are a mess, shielding his eyes.
“Shop’s closed,” he answers, voice raspy, accent thicker than usual.
“I had an appointment,” you remind him, stepping closer despite the internal warning to keep your distance. You’ve spent your life avoiding people’s baggage, but seeing him like this makes your processor hitch.
He finally raises his head, and your heart (or the thing that passes for it) feels heavy. His icy blue eyes are bloodshot and unfocused, hollow. He looks at you, but for a split second you aren't sure if he actually sees you or if he’s looking at a ghost.
“Right,” he breathes. “The military grade unit. Always on time.” He reaches for the bottle, his fingers clumsy. Before he can take another swig you reach out, your hand closing over his shaking wrist.
He jerks to try and pull free, a sharp, irritated sound leaving him. “Don’t-” His grip tightens around the nearly empty bottle, stubborn, like he’s not giving it up without a fight.
“Leon,” you warn, firmer now.
“I’m fine,” he tries to tug his wrist back again, but it lacks strength. You don’t let go. There’s a brief moment where he just holds there, tension coiled in his arm, jaw tight, like he’s deciding whether to push it further or not. Then his grip eases on the bottle and his forehead drops until it almost touches your knuckles. You take it from him, setting it somewhere out of reach, and he doesn’t fight you again.
Your attention shifts to the workbench. Up close, it’s a mess. The casing is half pried open, screws scattered, wiring tangled up. The metal has warped edges, lifted and jagged, thin enough to slice if handled wrong. With the way his hands are shaking, it’s only a matter of time before he gets hurt. Leon’s hand moves away from yours and reaches for some pliers.
“Hey.” You step in, catching his hand again before he can grab them properly. “Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“I know what I’m doin’.”
“You don’t,” you shoot back, “not like this.”
You glance past him at the handwritten calendar pinned to the wall. Today is marked with a heavy, aggressive 'X', his one day off for the month. Yet, right next to it in his messy, slanted scrawl, is your name. 6:00 PM.
"It's your day off, Leon," you mumble, the realization hitting you harder than a power surge. "Why did you write me down?"
He doesn’t answer right away, his eyes focused somewhere in between you and the table. He is trying to maintain that cool, detached persona he wears like armor, but is failing miserably. "You needed somethin’. Didn't want you wandering somewhere else.”
You crouch next to him, placing a hand on his knee, and you can feel the tremor in his leg. “You need to give yourself time to rest”. He looks small, just a man who spent his free day fighting with a piece of metal and a bottle instead of relaxing because he was too afraid to be alone with the silence.
“Gets loud,” he hiccups, “when it’s quiet.” He looks down at your hand on his knee. “Stop moving, and the noise starts.”
“Then we’ll keep it moving.” You give his knee a small squeeze. “But right now, we’re moving toward the bed. Come on.”
He doesn't protest when you slide your arm under his, then tries to push himself up from the stool but his legs have gone numb from hours of sitting in the dark. As he tries to find his footing, his knees simply buckle and you catch him before he can fall on his face, his heavy frame sagging against yours. You guide him through the narrow doorway into the back room. It’s a slow and clumsy process, his boots scuff against the floorboards and he clings to your shoulder with a grip that is surprisingly tight.
When you reach the low bed, the air smells less of chemicals and more of old paper and dust. You lower him down as gently as you can and he hits the mattress with a tired groan. He doesn't even try to get under the covers, he just collapses with his face half buried in a pillow.
You hesitate at the edge of the bed, thinking that you should leave now that he’s safe. But then you look at the way his hand is still twitching, at his boots still laced tight, and you kneel at the edge to unlace them and set them neatly next to what you suppose is a small closet.
For a moment you just stand there, caught in that familiar loop of your own programming. Task complete. Subject stabilized. Departure recommended. Your hand hovers near the doorframe, ready to leave, but then you look back at him. You remember the tremor in his leg and the way he talked about the noise that starts the moment things go quiet.
You look around the small room until your eyes land on a worn wooden chair in the corner. You move it quietly, the legs scraping softly against the floorboards, and place it right next to the head of the bed. On a small side table, amidst a stack of technical manuals, you find a weathered book. You don't even check the title, settling into the chair and finding a comfortable position. You open to a dog-eared page in the middle and begin to read.
Leon doesn't move, but you see his hand relax while you read about a world that has nothing to do with oil, rusted gears or mechanical parts. The tension in his jaw slowly melts away, his breathing syncing up with the rhythm of your voice. You don't stop until his eyes stay shut for good and his breath turns into a deep, rhythmic snore. Even then, you turn the page quietly, your thumb brushing the paper as you keep reading into the night, making sure the silence doesn't stand a chance.
Day 32.
The transition from low power standby to fully operational is instant, but you keep your vision dimmed. The room is quiet except for the steady, labored rhythm of Leon’s breathing. You are still sitting in the worn wooden chair you dragged over the night before, the weathered book resting closed on your lap.
Morning light, muted and gray, filters into the room. A quick search tells you it’s going to rain again, so the city will slow down. While you are deep in thought, Leon shifts.
“Jesus-” his voice cracks, rough and dry, and he presses his palm against his forehead. “What time is it?”
“7:12 AM,” you answer automatically.
He groans, dragging his hand down his face and stays like that for a few seconds, considering falling back asleep. Then he breathes in sharply, realizing he heard an answer to a question he threw into what he thought was an empty room. He forces himself upright, feet hitting the floor with less coordination than he’d probably like. That’s when he registers it properly. The chair. The book. You. Still there.
“…You stayed.” It comes out flatter than he probably intended.
“I didn't have anywhere to be,” you reply. “And someone had to make sure you didn't try to calibrate anything with a hammer while in that state.”
“Shit,” he hisses, squeezing his eyes shut, hand finding its way to press on his forehead again. “Head’s killing me.” He looks at his boots, set neatly by the closet. “Did I- say anything stupid?”
“You said it gets loud when it’s quiet.”
For a moment you think he might deflect, but he just looks at the floor. “Yeah, sounds about right.”
He stands up, swaying slightly. “I should open the shop,” he states, avoiding your eyes as he reaches for a fresh shirt. “Got people comin’ in.”
“You can barely stand straight, Leon,” you point out, rising from the chair. “I’m staying.”
He stops, one arm halfway through a sleeve, and finally looks at you. The professional mask is back, but there's a fatigue behind it that no amount of coffee will fix. “You don't have to do that. You’re a client, not an apprentice. Go home, get some proper charging time.”
“My battery is at 94%,” you lie. Your internal sensors actually read 68%, but he doesn't need to know that. “I’ll handle the heavy lifting and the filing. You just sit behind the counter and look grumpy. It’s your usual brand anyway.”
He snorts. “Fine. Just don't break anything.”
The morning is a series of skirmishes. Every twenty minutes, Leon wanders into the back under the guise of "checking your work." He’ll stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you effortlessly move an engine block. Then, driven by some restless need to prove he’s functional, he’ll reach for a heavy soldering iron or try to crouch down to inspect something. Each time he winces in pain, his face contorting as the blood rushes to his head.
“Leon,” you scold. “The counter. The stool. The water. Go.”
“I’m just looking,” he grunts and rolls his eyes when you don’t back down, but he retreats.
By evening, the shop is quiet and the neon OPEN sign flickers off. You’re leaning against the workbench, your movements finally showing a noticeable lag. Your vision’s tracking is a split second behind.
“Hey,” Leon’s voice cuts through the quiet. He’s looking at you properly now, the hangover finally beginning to recede into a dull ache. “You’re lagging. When was the last time you hit a charging port?”
“I’m fine,” you say, though your hand misses a tool by an inch.
“Don’t give me my own lines.”
“I'll plug in on one condition,” you counter, pointing a finger at him. “You actually eat something. Real food. Not just coffee and whatever is in that shake. You haven't had a meal all day.”
Leon looks ready to argue, his brow furrowing, but then his stomach betrays him with a low growl. “Fair enough. Deal.”
You settle onto the edge of the bed in the back room, connecting your cable to the wall. Leon disappears into the kitchenette and returns with a bowl of simple noodles. He pulls the wooden chair up across from the bed, sitting close enough that his knees almost brush yours.
"I think my internal processors are finally stabilizing. The lag is down to five milliseconds."
Leon looks up, a piece of noodle hanging off his fork. "Five milliseconds, huh? I’ve been buffering since this morning."
The silence that follows is deafening. You stare at him. He stares back, completely deadpan, though there's a tiny, mischievous glint in his blue eyes that suggests he knows exactly how bad that was.
"That was terrible."
"Yeah, well," he grunts, taking another bite. "I'm a mechanic, not a comedian.”
He finishes the bowl and sets it on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks at you and the defensive wall he’s been hiding behind all day, trying to not acknowledge the embarrassment from yesterday, finally has a visible crack in it.
"Look, about earlier... and yesterday." He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. "Thanks for staying. Appreciate you sticking around to... keep the noise down."
"You don't have to thank me for that. We’re both just trying to get through the day. Today was a win. Let’s leave it at that."
Leon gives a slow, appreciative nod and stands up, his joints protesting. He reaches over, his hand hovering near the charging cable before he pulls it back, letting you disconnect it yourself.
"You're at a hundred," he notes, checking the readout on the wall unit. "Go home. Get some actual sleep."
As you walk toward the front of the shop, Leon follows a few paces behind. He reaches past you to unbolt the heavy security door, the humid night air rushing in.
"There’s a patch for the last update coming in two days.” You mention, standing outside of the shop now.
"Drop by, I'll install it. Besides, I still haven't found that rattle in your left shoulder plate. It's bothering me.”
"It's bothering you?" You laugh.
"My shop, my headache," he starts to pull the door shut, his hand lingering on the handle. "Two days. Try not to get yourself fried before then."
Day 45.
You sigh as you turn another page of an old anthology of Albert Camus’ works, sprawled across Leon’s bed. The paper is worn soft at the edges, faintly yellowed, and you trace a line absentmindedly while you wait for him to finish with his last customer of the day, trying very hard to ignore the constant twitching. You have to close the eye that keeps losing focus so you can read the words on the page.
“The only way to deal with an unfree world…” Leon quotes as he walks into the room, dropping onto the bed beside you, “...is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.” He taps your forehead lightly. “What’s got you twitchin’?”
You blink at him, then down at the book like it might answer for you. Nervous how stupid you will sound, you get up from the bed and put the book back in its place. He watches you as you pace a little circle around the room, trying to figure out how to start. “I might have… gotten a little too carried away this morning.”
Leon leans back on his hands, watching you with narrowed eyes. “That already sounds like a problem.”
“And installed something that wasn’t an update.”
He drags a hand through his face and stares at you in silence, which makes you shift your weight to your heels and give him a smile full of teeth. “You can’t be serious.”
“Well, I am. But look at it this way. I break things, you fix them. Infinite money glitch.”
His jaw tightens. “You could have died.” He states bluntly. He does it frequently yet it always surprises you, the use of words for living things on you.
“Come on,” you whine, “it was supposed to give me absurd amounts of knowledge! I’m sure you can fix it and then you can work on that curiosity of yours.” Your knee twitches and you trip as you follow him, already on the way to the workshop.
“I will need to shut you down for a while, are you ‘kay with that?” He asks, thick colorful wires already in his hand. You nod, laying down on the work bed and reaching to open a port behind your ear. You hear him say that it’s going to be thirty minutes before the world fades to black. When you come back, it’s like surfacing back from a long dive in a pool. You feel heavy but the twitching is completely gone.
“Forty five.”
“Don’t start.” He looks angry when he spins the chair to face you. “Could’ve been thirty if you wanted a complete memory reset.”
“Tempting,” you joke.
“Don’t.” His voice cuts in, sharper than before. He doesn’t smile back, staring daggers into you. “Not funny.”
“Sorry.” You mumble, suddenly feeling bad. If you had a human heart, you suppose it would feel like that when they say it sinks.
Leon reaches out to unplug the cable behind your ear, careful as ever even when mad at you. He sighs, expression softening. “Just be more careful next time.”
You nod in response and notice he’s tidying up. “Weren’t we going to do research today?”
“Are you sure you feel good enough for that after the whole day twitchin’?”
After some back and forth about it being too much for you, you settle back on the bed and he sits down on your left. You lift your shirt just enough to expose your lower abdomen where some of the original parts haven’t been replaced yet. It feels kind of nice to have someone that’s interested in the oldest parts of you, the ones that you want to hide and erase the most.
He works like he would normally do, always gentle with his fingers and tools but this time it feels… different. It starts small. A spark when the pad of his finger brushes along the edge of a battery casing, warm skin against cold metal. You inhale sharply, he keeps working. An unfamiliar warm feeling reaches your cheeks when he softly starts polishing the surface in circles with a cloth, each pass vibrating through your frame like a low frequency pulse, the faint scent of his skin mixed with machine oil wafting up as he leans closer. When he reaches the back of the battery pack you have to stop yourself from squirming and a small whine leaves your lips, your fans cycling air with a soft hiss. His hand stops.
“Are you really okay?” He looks concerned. “We can reschedule if it's too much. Once I start the full diagnostic cycle, I can't interrupt it in the middle. Could fry your boards.”
“Y-yeah.” Your processor lags for a second. “Keep going.”
He hesitates, examining your face, and then tries to focus on the last section of battery left to clean. He polishes the most fragile components of your body as you try to even your breath. His fingers trace along wiring, checking connections and solder joints, adjusting tension. Each drag of his skin leaves a ghost trail of warmth, the texture of his calluses rasping faintly against insulated cables. The slight pressure when he runs a thumb to test a bolt makes your hips stutter and you clamp down, trying to stay still. You close your eyes, head tipping back.
You have stopped noticing how loud your fans are working, but he does. He also notices the way you softly whine when a finger brushes over specific ports while he reconnects them, how your hips stutter when he reaches to tighten another bolt on the right side, the way your cheeks are flushed. He assumes you are uncomfortable, but it’s getting hard to ignore how everything sounds and feels like something else. He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts away, a he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, steadying his hands.
“It’s okay.” He reassures you. “You’re doing great. We are nearly done.”
His hand slides lower, following a pipe that disappears beneath your abdominal plating and synthetic skin. Your body snaps upright, hand reaching for his wrist, a full moan tears from your throat. You both stay there for a few seconds, frozen, and when he looks at you he sees your pupils dilate. With your chest closer to his head he hears the fans better, working overtime. He feels his ears burning.
“I- fuck, I’m sorry.” He stutters and looks away, eyes darting to the floor. “I didn’t mean to.”
You take a good look at him. Hand buried wrist deep in the casing of your lower belly, the other one squeezing your thigh. His ears are flushed red, his lips parted to catch uneven breaths. “Is it… okay if we keep going?” you ask, coolant pooling around the area where his hand sits.
“You-” he swallows again, “you know this isn’t standard maintenance anymore, right?”
“Yeah.” You squeeze his wrist again.
Leon grunts and shifts on his seat.
“Please.”
That breaks him. He strokes that sensitive spot again with his thumb, gentler this time, testing the response. Your frame melts back against the bed, your hand slipping from his wrist. His touch changes. Still with a care that borders on reverence, but slower. He watches you as he moves, learns the ways your body reacts. A fingertip circles another bolt, earning another moan from you that makes him twitch under his pants. He starts toying with a wire that’s tangled in between pipes and you squirm when he unplugs it, his breath catching in his throat.
“Does that feel good?” he whispers, breath ghosting your thigh.
You nod, unable to speak. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the outside of your thigh as his hands keep working on untangling the cord. Your hand finds its way into his hair, fingers threading through the strands and your hips lift from the bed, making him miss the port.
“Careful, you’re gonna- shit.” He shifts, the friction of his jeans pulling a sharp hiss out of him. His forehead drops against your thigh and he gulps, a little embarrassed, staying there for a moment. Then something in him snaps. He leaves a trail of kisses on your thigh, stubble scraping silicone making you tremble. One hand keeps working inside you, slow, deliberate circles around an empty and sensitive port, earning more sounds from you. The other moves to his lap, palming himself through his jeans.
The rhythm builds up and the sounds of uneven breathing, moans and whines echoing off the workshop walls. Time slows down for both of you. When he feels himself tipping over the edge, he fumbles for the cable. Shaky fingers find the correct entrance and he pushes it into the port with the sound of a soft click. You both break at the same time, your hand tightening in his hair as he presses his face into your thigh, breath shuddering when he exhales. It feels like you have spent hours on a cloud before either of you moves.
“Now,” Leon licks his dry lips, trying to keep his hand steady, “need to finish this.” He curses himself for getting carried away in the middle of a job and making you struggle through the rest of it now.
His gaze flicks up to your face, catching the way you’re squirming and he exhales, shoulders tightening. “I’m- I’m sorry. Almost done. Just hold on, yeah?”
You whine as his hand shifts, every nerve cluster hypersensitive now. Every touch amplified, overwhelming. He is trying to minimize the contact, but the overstimulation of adjusting the last two ports has you cross eyed and shaking.
“It’s okay,” he soothes you, the thumb of his free hand caressing your hip while he holds you down. “You’re okay, doin’ so well. One more and we are done, yeah?” He’s trying his best to focus, to make this as comfortable as possible for you. He fails to realize that the way he is talking with that raspy voice now, even if you appreciate it, is only pushing you further towards the edge.
You nod weakly. The feeling comes back with the last quick twist of his fingers on a bolt. It washes over you, body tense, your hips buckle and tears pool at the corners of your eyes. You go slack when he takes his hand out of your body and reaches to caress your cheek. You nuzzle your face into the warmth of his palm.
“It’s okay,” he whispers softly. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
Your breathing evens out, the zaps in your body start to smooth under the rhythm of his thumb brushing lightly along your skin.
“Did good,” he adds, “held still for me.”
The praise quiets the last bit of tension you hold in and when you open your eyes again, everything feels heavy. Your processor takes a few seconds too long to catch the instruction to close the plates and skin over your exposed abdomen.
“You should rest,” he says, already shifting, one arm moving beneath you before you fully register what he’s doing. There’s a brief instinct to resist, to insist you’re fine, but your limbs stay still and you let him carry you. He lifts you with ease, one arm under your knees and the other steady on your back, your head tipping instinctively toward his shoulder.
“Easy,” he says under his breath, more to himself than you, lowering you carefully on the bed and covering you with the blanket. Then he steps back and you catch the seam of his shirt. For a moment, he doesn’t turn around. Like he’s giving you time to let go if you didn’t mean it.
“Stay.” You say, voice soft.
“Yeah,” for some reason, this makes him more nervous. “Alright.”
The bed dips again as he sits first, then lays down, settling beside you like he doesn’t know where to place his limbs. There’s a stiffness to the way he holds himself, like he’s not sure where to put his arms or how close is too close. You shift toward him anyway, the blanket rustling as you wrap your arm around his chest and pull it over him too. He goes completely still. His whole body tenses under your touch, breath catching in his chest.
You think you’ve made a mistake, that you’ve pushed too far. But then you feel it. Fast, uneven, human. The thump of his heart against your audio sensors, loud enough to drown out everything else. You shift a little closer, resting your head more comfortably against him, hand loosely wrapped against his chest.
The tension starts to leave him and he adjusts closer, an arm under your waist so you can rest your head on him more comfortably. His hand brushes along your arm once and you complain with a small sound when he stops.
“That okay?” he asks quietly.
“Very.”
He shifts just a bit closer after that, more certain now, his hand moving again in slow, absent strokes along your arm.
You start to drift, focusing on that more than anything else, the warmth of his body beneath you and the now steady beat of his heart under your head. Something quiet and certain to hold onto as everything else fades, leaving you with the unfamiliar but gentle feeling that, for once, you are where you’re supposed to be.
𓆩❤︎𓆪 MDNI. 18+ modulo!yuuji loves playing with his girl’s tits.
it’s hot. worst, your apartment’s ac has been dead and your ever so loving older boyfriend, yuuji refused to hang around his place instead of yours saying it’s already a trouble when you have a fan in your place anyways.
you told him not to get close to you because you are getting sticky from the sweat despite doing almost everything—being in front of the highest setting fan, balcony door wide opened, and sprayed some cooling mist.
yet.. here he is, in front of you, playing with your breast through the thin tank top you are wearing with no bra. his both index and thumb finger pinched your nipples until it pebbled through the fabric, making you whimper.
“ngh—it’s too hot for this right now..” you said as your breath shakes from the way his rough hands cupped your tits. his thumb brushes over the hardened nipple.
yuuji hummed, “no need to move, just stay there.”
his hands squeeze the flesh before massaging it in a circular motion, eyes focused like this is some important matter. yuuji glanced up to your face, crumpled with pleasure just from being groped by him. your breaths are louder, knees drawn together as you squirm from his touch.
yuuji flicked your nipples harshly causing you to whimper his name. “yuuuuuji, what are you trying to do?”
“just trying to appreciate your pretty tits, is that bad?” yuuji asked as his thumbs smooths over your nipples like he’s soothing them from the previous pain he inflicted. “do you not like it, hm?”
“n-no.. it’s good—ah!” you moaned out as he tugs it then rolled around his fingers.
“so cute, my girl is so cute,” yuuji smiled, “want more?”
you nodded meekly, looking down at him. you expect him to take off your top or shove his hands inside your shorts but yuuji lowered down his head. his mouth latched on your covered nipple, sucking the flesh from it.
yuuji pulled away with a pop. his saliva coats your tank top, causing the fabric to be sheer and show your hardened nipple. your chest heaves as yuuji dives back into the other side, his lips desperately suck on the clothed nipple.
one of his hands settled on your back as if he was pushing your more to his mouth as you arch, his other hand plays with your other nipple, trapping it between his fingers to roll it around.
yuuji looked up from his lashes to see your mouth open, panting. he flatten out his tongue, licking you over the fabric as he smiled wickedly and leveled his face on you.
“you good? you look like you’re getting too hot” he leaned a little too give your lips a peck.
you exhaled, breath fanning his lips. “please.. yuuji, need you”
yuuji moved to look at your tits again, both nipples are perked up on the damp tank top that his mouth caused. his hands cupped your boobs again, pushing it together before fondling it.
“but you said it’s hot,” yuuji hummed, not tearing his eyes away from your breast as he caressed them. “i remember you hate being sweaty, always complaining about it”
“i don’t care,”you whined, shaking your head. “not anymore, please.”
yuuji lowered his head again to put one of your tits in his mouth, he repeatedly sucked on the flesh despite feeling the textured cotton fabric of your clothes. he genuinely thinks it’s hotter than pulling down your top.
“yuuji, come o—fuck! ahh!” yuuji trapped your nipples between his teeth, softly biting and tugging.
yuuji sighed with a smile on his face, his lips peppered kisses on your neck and throat. “i’ll think about it, maybe if you ask for more."
notes. first time writing for yuuji.. lowk scared. ik it's not obv but it's modulo!yuuji on my mind writing this.
tags <3 @moonliciousx @tojiibaby @sugurugetosloverr taglist is open!
18+. the many times you & higuruma get caught at work.
I. case one: the evidence locker ( 8:12 PM )
higuruma hiromi is dark pressed suit, two rings on his long fingers & a moral compass that always points north. you’re a paralegal with skirt 3cm below the dress code & a magnet in your molars that has hiromi’s compass swiveling south.
you’re tugging on his tie now. “come onnn, ‘ruma. please?”
a paralegal should not be referring to their boss as ‘ruma. they also should not be dragging him into the evidence locker at 8PM to look for a ‘missing file’ he swears doesn’t even exist. you’re currently doing both. and higuruma lets you.
your lips are summer sticky & far too hot. your hand’s in his hair now, nails on his nape, his palm bunching at the folds of your skirt. your breath’s ridiculously hot in his mouth as you huff & puff against his tongue, shoving him against the lockers. hiromi slaps your ass when you dare to let out a whine.
BANG !
the loud sound jolts your bodies apart. higuruma’s palm is still on your thigh—“hiromi ?!”
“the auto-lock,” his palms drag over his face. he breathes, “it’s eight-thirty. the basement seals automatically till the morning shift.”
he lets out a low, frustrated groan that vibrates through your rib. even now, you’re still pressed against him, half-clothed tits pressed into his chest as his thumb grazes circles on your hip. he dials a number with his other hand, ignoring the sloppy, gloss-drenched kisses you leave on his jaw as he speaks to the security desk at the end of the line.
half-an-hour later—after higuruma’s stewing & you calming him down with apology head, complete with your hair tied in a sympathy bun of course—the heavy metal door drags open. a security guard armed with a flashlight walks in. he’s greeted with the sight of higuruma buttoning your shirt, sympathy bun long come undone.
you’re free. and you’re in so much trouble.
★ Y/N L/N ⎯⎯ DISCIPLINARY RECORD.
offense: UNAUTHORIZED AFTER-HOURS ACCESS & BREACH OF SECURITY
punishment: Written warning & $500 Penalty fine for Emergency Override.
issued by: Levi Ackerman, Chief of security.
CC: Higuruma Hiromi, [Y/N] [L/N]
‘the evidence locker is no place for ‘private deliberations.’ and keep in mind all audio is recorded. in no world should the word ‘tight’ be moaned in an emergency distress call.
II. case two: encrypted outlook thread ( 12:21 PM )
higuruma hiromi ought to teach you a lesson.
frankly, you’re the worst paralegal he’s had the mispleasure of working with since joining pearson hardman. he can’t help but envy his rival, phoenix wright, and his paralegal, maya fey!
you’re much too forgetful, too busty, too disorganized. at 9AM today the files for the high-priority danganronpa case were due on his desk. they didn’t reach him till eleven, and you had the audacity to add on a sticky note labeled ‘sorry!’ and ‘meet me downstairs for some apology head ;)’. higuruma hiromi has concluded that you never learn.
so he decides he’ll teach you himself.
Subject: Investigative Documents for Danganronpa Case
From: Higuruma Hiromi
To: [L/N], [Y/N]
Y/N,
Not only were the documents I requested for prep late, they were also extremely disorganized. This is a serious case regarding kidnapped and murdered children, and I suggest you exercise some more seriousness and be more meticulous in your conduct. You also left an implicit sticky-note attached to the files. I suggest you come visit my office, lest I file a formal complaint.
Regards,
Higuruma Hiromi
—
Subject: RE: Investigative Documents for Danganronpa Case
From: [L/N], [Y/N]
To: Higuruma, Hiromi
Counselor,
Are you threatening me with a complaint? I’m just doing my job. I did notice your tie was a bit crooked today, though, so I’d be happy to come fix it for you when I swing by your office. Or take it off completely. Let me know when you’d like me to drop in and fix those files!
Regards,
Y/N L/N
—
Subject: RE: RE: Investigative Documents for Danganronpa Case
From: Higuruma, Hiromi
To: [L/N], [Y/N]
Y/N,
You can come fix it now. And then I’m going to fix the way you think you can talk to a Senior Associate. I will lock the door, and you will not be released till you admit exactly how much of a headache you’re deliberately trying to be. Don't test me, [Y/N]. I’m a very patient man, but even I have limits.
Higuruma Hiromi.
ー
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Investigative Documents for Danganronpa Case
From: [L/N], [Y/N]
To: Higuruma, Hiromi
ruma,
i suck at corporate speak 😭 are u saying ur gonna eat my pussy orrrrrr
—
Subject: [SECURITY ALERT] KEYWORD FLAG / SERVER SCRUB
From: Hange Zoë (IT Department)
To: Higuruma, Hiromi; [L/N], [Y/N]
CC: Human Resources (General Inbox)
Hi Hiromi, [Y/N],
Just a friendly heads-up: I’m running the quarterly server audit and the 'harassment/explicit' keyword filter just went off like a fire alarm on your thread. Specifically because of the word 'pussy.’
Sorry to intrude on your corporate sexting session! I’ve paused the sync to the main server, but the automated log has already been forwarded to the Senior Partners. You guys might want to check your calendars. Erwin at HR just opened a new 'Conduct Investigation' folder with both your names on it (uh oh!)
Best of luck to you both! And Y/N, I could be wrong, but I think his last message was implying BDSM; though I don’t doubt he’d be willing to eat you out as well!
Happy eating!
Zoë Hange
★ Y/N L/N ⎯⎯ DISCIPLINARY RECORD.
offense: MISUSE OF COMPANY COMMUNICATION CHANNELS / EXPLICIT DIGITAL CONDUCT
punishment: Mandatory 2-hour 'Digital Ethics' Webinar & temporary monitoring of all outgoing firm emails.
issued by: Erwin Smith, Head of Human Resources.
CC: Higuruma Hiromi, [Y/N] [L/N]
‘It has come to our attention that the Danganronpa Case thread was used for ‘personal negotiations,’ that which our investigative committee has concluded were most likely inappropriate. Please refrain from using the firm’s Outlook servers as your personal Wizz/Tinder moving forward. And Higuruma, we expect better from you. Please report to room three on floor six after lunch break. The door will not be locked.’
III. case three: company zoom meeting ( 5:04 PM )
higuruma hiromi thinks he’s so fucking smart.
he also thinks he’s the king of calendar invites. so when he tells you to send out an email for a company zoom meeting for 6PM but set the zoom’s actual time to five, he supposes his intellect rivals god.
“you’re late, y/n,” higuruma’s voice is close to guttural. he’s laid back on his desk chair, tie loose, legs spread, hair impossibly messy. and you’re knelt on your floor, laptop on your thighs.
you’re sporting the cutest little bath robe higuruma has ever seen. you’re grinning at the screen, cheeks peach-dappled & lips bent in a clumsy smile,
“hi, ‘ruma! wanna see my tits?”
lord, how higuruma adores you !
and who is he to say no? he leans back against his seat, swivel chair groaning with a creeeaaak. he’s already unzipping his pants as you begin to shrug off your pretty pink robe, breasts glazed over & supple in the fluorescent light.
a tiny, bright green notification pings at the bottom of the screen.
[Participants: 48]
higuruma freezes. then rises up, palm curling off his shaft & inching towards his keyboard.
slowly, agonizingly, he clicks on gallery view.
forty-six pearson hardman employees stare at him back.
erwin smith looks like he just witnessed a war promised to him 2000 years ago. hange zoë has a measuring tape held up against the screen. his rival, phoenix, is making a face that reminds him of the many memes of that one streamer you’d often send him—i show meat? levi ackerman has already left the meeting—he knows because the notification flashes at the corner of the screen.
and right there in the center box? harvey specter, senior partner of pearson hardman ltd, has his chin in his hand & eyes intensely locked on to the screen.
is he looking at your breasts ?
oh right, you! you’ve been calling out for the past one minute now, completely unaware of the other forty-six employees watching your wet nipples glisten in the light.
“‘ruma? ‘ruma? ugh, is this thing on?”
higuruma slams his laptop shut. it bangs louder than the gunshot that killed charlie kirk.
★ Y/N L/N ⎯⎯ DISCIPLINARY RECORD.
offense: PUBLIC INDECENCY / TOTAL BREACH OF FIRM REPUTATION
punishment: Termination of Employment (Effective Immediately)
issued by: Harvey Specter, Senior Partner ; The Board of Directors.
CC: Higuruma Hiromi (RESIGNED), [Y/N] [L/N]
‘Hey guys! Harvey here. So after a meeting with the rest of the board, we’ve come to the decision to terminate your employment. Higuruma, your resignation letter has been duly received. Gonna be completely honest, that was the last thing I ever expected to see in a corporate meeting. But you two really spiced up my evening, thanks! I tried to negotiate with Jessica and the other directors on your behalves, but sadly they weren’t having it.’
P.S: ‘Nice cock, Hiromi! Very impressive both length and girth wise. And sorry for sneaking a peak at your chest, Y/N. At the very least, your boob job looks very natural. Best of luck to you both!’
dad’s best friend!hiromi fucks his bratty girl nasty with her panties pushed to the side *18+
the office door clicks shut behind you, softer than it should for how much attitude you carried through it.
your dad’s best friend, hiromi doesn’t even look up from the deposition transcript he’s marking. red pen scratches another line. “you’re supposed to be downstairs. with the others.”
“they’re boring.” you hop onto the edge of his desk anyway, thighs parting just enough that the hem of your skirt rides indecently high. “and you’ve been ignoring me for three hours.”
the pen pauses. his jaw flexes once. “i’m working.”
“you’re always working.” your foot nudges the inside of his knee under the desk, slow, deliberate. “thought you said you’d take a break when i asked nicely.”
he exhales through his nose. still doesn’t lift his eyes. “that wasn’t asking nicely. that was grinding against my thigh in the elevator like a cat in heat.” he corrects.
heat climbs your neck but you don’t back down. instead you lean back on your palms, arching just enough that your tits push against the thin cotton of your top. no bra and making sure he noticed that the second you walked in.
“maybe if you paid attention i wouldn’t have to resort to desperate measures.”
the pen finally drops, clatters against the wood and when he finally looks at you his eyes are dark, tired in that way that makes your stomach flip, like he’s already decided how this ends and he’s just waiting for you to stop pretending you have any control.
“get off my desk.”
you don’t move.
he stands slow, his body towers you. one big hand wraps your ankle, yanks you forward until your ass is right on the edge and your legs have to hook around his hips to keep balance. the other hand fists the front of your shirt, drags you upright until your mouths are a breath apart.
“brat,” he mutters, almost fond. almost.
then he kisses you like he’s punishing both of you for it. after all you’re his closest friend’s daughter. you both shouldn’t be doing this.
he, of all, should not be doing this to you. for fucks sake.
the kiss however? it’s messy. teeth and tongue and the faint metallic taste of the coffee he’s been living on since six a.m. his fingers find the hem of your skirt, shove it up to your waist in one rough motion.
you’re already soaked through the cotton of your panties; he groans low in his throat when his thumb presses against the damp fabric. “fuck. wii you look at that.” he pulls back just enough to watch his own hand work between your legs. “you always make this hard, y’know that. filthy little thing.”
you try to roll your hips but he pins you with a forearm across your stomach. “stay still.”
“hiromi—”
“no.” he hooks two fingers in the side of your underwear and yanks them to the side. the cool air hits your clit and you whimper. “you wanted my attention. you’re getting it.”
he doesn’t ease in.
one thick finger slides inside you, then two, curling immediately against that spot that makes your thighs shake. his thumb circles your clit at the same time with a steady pressure and of course, no mercy. your head tips back, mouth open on a silent cry.
“quiet,” he says against your throat. “thin walls.”
you bite your lip so hard you’re sure you’re tasting copper.
he fucks you with his fingers until you’re clenching, fluttering, right on the edge—then pulls out completely. you whine desperate, hips chasing nothing.
“shh.” he’s already undoing his belt, the metal clinking loud in the quiet office. “you’ll get what you want. just not how you want it.”
his cock springs free, heavy and flushed dark at the tip. he doesn’t bother with a condom; you’re both too far gone for that conversation again. instead he notches himself at your entrance, drags the head through your slick once, twice, coating himself.
then he thrusts in to the hilt in one brutal stroke. both of you making small, barely a whisper, inhumane sound.
your nails dig into his shoulders. the stretch burns in the best way, fills you so completely you can barely breathe. he doesn’t give you time to adjust. just grips your hips and fucks into you hard against the desk, papers sliding, pen rolling to the floor.
every thrust shoves you further across the wood. your skirt’s bunched around your waist, panties stretched to the side, tits bouncing under your shirt with each slam. he watches it all with half-lidded eyes, jaw tight, sweat already beading at his temple.
“this what you wanted?” his voice is low, wrecked. “hm? wanted me to fold you over my work and fuck the attitude out of you?”
you can’t answer. every time you open your mouth all that comes out is a broken moan.
he angles his hips, hits that spot again and again until your vision whites out at the edges. one hand leaves your hip to wrap around your throat—not squeezing, just holding. you know hiromi would never hurt or make you uncomfortable in any way.
“look at me.”
you struggle when your eyes snap to his.
“good girl.” his thumb strokes along your pulse. “now come. make a mess on my desk so i have to think about it every time i sit here tomorrow.”
that does it.
you shatter around him, clenching so hard he curses under his breath. your orgasm rips through you, thighs trembling, back arching off the desk. he fucks you through it, relentless, chasing his own release.
when he comes it’s with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering as he fills you deep. hot pulses that make you whimper all over again. he stays buried inside you for a long minute, breathing hard against your neck.
then he pulls out slow, watches his cum leak out of you and leak onto the polished wood.
“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “ruined my desk.”
you’re still catching your breath when he tucks himself away, fixes his tie, smooths his shirt like nothing happened.
he leans down, kisses you once and it’s soft this time, almost sweet.
“next time you want attention,” he says against your lips, “wait for my lunch break.”
he straightens himself. picks up his pen from the floor. sits back down.
and goes right back to marking that fucking deposition like you aren’t still leaking him onto his case files.
you stay there another minute, legs shaking, heart hammering, then you slide off the desk, fix your skirt, and walk out.
We need more thigh riding & dry humping pics (requesting humbly 🙇♀️🙇♀️🙇♀️)
人 ♡ 𝅄 ׁ ˳ note: wow thank you for da request anonnie, i hope u don't mind my creative liberties with this--this was so fun to write and might be my longest yet.. (˵ᵕ̴᷄ ᗜ ᵕ̴᷅˵)
owner!geto saw through your little plan from the very start. you'd been acting strange all morning; aimlessly following him into different rooms, opening your mouth as if to say something then quickly closing it shut. it didn't take a genius to see that the gears in your puppy head were churning relentlessly. more than once he began to ask, but each time he caught his tongue mid-breath.
you're a big girl. geto reminded himself. whatever was on your mind, you could tell him yourself.
so he feels a surge of satisfaction when he notices you out of his peripheral, hovering over him as he lounges on the couch, completely submerged in an article he was reading on his phone. he’s well aware of the fact that you'd been standing there for at least five minutes, staring into him so intensely he could feel his skin prick with goosebumps.
"mr. geto?"
he glances up from his phone. you're standing awkwardly close, ears bent back, tail dragging limply across the floor–looking as guilty as sin itself.
“hmm, everything alright, pretty?” he answers mildly, setting his phone face down to give you his full, undivided attention.
you shift your weight from foot to foot. “yeah.”
he raises an eyebrow, torn between laughing or chiding you for telling him such a blatant lie. his eyes drag down your body and back up again, slow enough to make your throat bob. you want something, that much is obvious. but judging by your stiff shoulders and refusal to look at him for more than a second, he can’t help but brace himself for the worst—
“can I...uhm, sit on your lap?”
that almost makes him choke.
you've never once asked to sit in his lap. normally you'd melt on top his body, fluffy tail wagging, unceremoniously curling into his chest and already expecting praise for it. now, you're acting as if you're scared to be within five feet of him. and though he had already flagged you as suspicious, geto wasn't the type of owner to turn you down, especially if you suddenly decided to start using manners. maybe all those puppy training courses he’d enrolled in were finally beginning to pay off.
geto smiles, unfolding his legs and gesturing for you to sit. “of course."
you climb into his lap a little clumsily, settling sideways against his thigh instead of squarely on top of him. your arms snake around his shoulders as you bury your head into the crook of his neck, breathing in deep whiffs of him through your runny, wet nose. you feel warmer than usual, he thought.
now in his lap, you relax a little–your ears seemingly perk up and your tail slowly regains its usual wag. He is amused by your instant change in attitude and presses a chaste kiss to your temple, letting you melt into his chest before resuming back to the article on his phone.
it's not long before you start to shift. he hardly notices, giving you another gentle kiss, but then he feels it again, and again, and again. he almost thought you were trying to get comfortable, but he could feel a rhythm to your movements: your hips slide back before slowly stuttering forward, smushing his thighs right along your clit with heated, breathy pants spilt across his jugular.
ah.
poor thing.
it doesn't take long for him to understand what you're doing, and suddenly your skirmish behavior all morning begins to make sense. his eyes narrow as he hears a small moan escape, almost as if you were taunting him. another owner would’ve pushed you off then and there and scolded you for being so perverted, and if they were feeling particularly mean, they'd've dragged you over their knee by the scruff and taught you a lesson for it.
but geto does neither.
instead, he settles his hand just above your tailbone, gently guiding your unskillful hips with his heavy palm.
his other hand abandons his phone for your cotton shorts. geto fidgets with the flimsy material, pointedly ignoring your gasps. Slowly, he pulls the damp lining aside, expecting to find thoroughly soaked panties underneath, only to discover you hadn’t even bothered wearing any. he snorts softly at that, at your tenacity, but you're too busy chasing the delicious stimulation at your nub to even care about what mr. geto thinks. your fingers twist their way into his shirt while you drool stupidly over the fabric until it's transparent, letting out breathy little "s-sugu's" with every desperate hump against his thigh.
with his musky scent clouding your head and heavy hands on your body, it's not long before your legs start to thump wildly against his own. The soft little whimpers you’d been trying to hide so hard before are now dissolved into helpless, pitchy moans. geto hooks his fingers beneath your chin and tilts your face up, taking in your adorable blissed-out face before pulling you into a kiss.
geto’s mouth is greedy and coaxing, forcing its way around your pliant tongue as he shares his spit until it's dribbling down your chin. every time you try to break away for air, he follows, keeping your lips pressed to his as if he was trying to punish you by stealing the very oxygen from your lungs.
beneath him your tail lashes back and forth across his legs and your hips begin sloppy and sloppier–he knows all too well you're going to cum. geto imagines the way you must feel right now, your aching cunt clenching around nothing, the tipsy, drowsy feeling in your head as he kisses your breath away. He thinks how salty bubbles swell at your eyelashes while a weak chant of “suguru…suguru” is spilled across his skin.
so he stops.
his hand tightens at your hip, stopping you cold. the strength catches you off guard, but there's nothing you can do but grind in vain as you’re forced to feel your hard-earned orgasm ebb away into nothing more than a faint burning sensation at your clit. you let out a long, disappointed sob into his mouth, until he finally lets you break away, wiping salvia off your face with the back of your hand.
you want to start crying. you were so close to giving yourself a release, so so close after days of suffering through your heat, days of suguru refusing to touch you like you've begged. but before you can start the tears, suguru pulls you back by the scruff to face him.
“puppy.” geto started.
he holds you firmly in place, his fingers pressing into your side just to remind you who allowed this in the first place. His face is unsettlingly calm and his tone even. If he notices your tears, he chooses to ignore them.
"easy. none of that." he scolds, giving your cheek a feather-light pat. "greedy doesn't look pretty on you."
You open your mouth to protest, but he gives you such a stern glare that you forget what you were even going to say.
“I know this feels bad right now,” he murmurs, voice maddeningly calm. “but I'm trying to teach you a lesson." before you can speak, he lifts you up from your scruff, placing you on his other leg with humiliating ease. Then, he grabs you jaw tightly, forcing you to look upon the dark spot you’ve left on his sweats "see this, pretty? you've got to learn to control yourself."
the stain is huge and impossible to miss, and your face starts to ache with embarrassment. you were so lost in your pleasure you hadn't even realized the mess you'd made on him—you’ve never seen a more sorry shade of grey.
“spoiled puppies who can’t control themselves make such a mess,” he sighs, almost wistfully. “you were doing so well, too.”
“but-"
his other hand quickly slips into your pants. you buck into them instinctively, only for him to reprimand you with a quick pussy-slap. ignoring your whines, he swabs your slick across his lanky fingers, before pulling them back out for you both to admire. "you’ll get it eventually,” he says matter-of-factly, pressing his fingers to your lips. “even if it means neglecting this precious hole for a while.”
𓏲ּCW𝄢 NSFW | MDNI | it's a NSFW alphabet, there's a bit of everything.
🪽Dove's notes: GRAAAH TAMSY GRAAAAAAAHHH
A = Aftercare
Tamsy is not an overly affectionate person by default, but he would always clean his partner after sex and dress them. It's part of his own aftercare, a ritual of sorts if you may— The routine and control that comes with being responsible for what happens to your pliable body brings him gratification to an emotional level.
He will also demand that you stay after and sleep with him. If you had plans? Too bad, they're automatically cancelled. No exceptions.
Although subtle, Tamsy tends to linger much more often around you for the next two days without even realizing.
B = Bondage
Where to even start with this one.
The biggest AND best rigger out there. His partner must be a rope bunny otherwise it won't work.
Tamsy likes to have you at his complete mercy when in the bedroom and is not above using less...conventional methods to hold you still. He is personally a fan of Bowline knots for the sheer amount of uses it provides, Hishi Karada because it makes his bunny look absolutely lovely, Sheepshank to provide his partner both the illusion of being able to move around and a bit more comfort, Ladder ties to hold you in place when he needs and he usually mixes labbing and playing for aesthetic purposes.
Something worth highlighting is the fact the entire process is arousing for him. From picking the material and color to wrapping them around your body with calm and precision, relishing how you look when tied up. The rope burns and bruises left behind is also something he loooooves to see, like he's obsessed with, and each time they peek out of your clothes in public he feels rush run through his body.
C = Crying:
Absolutely gets off on watching you cry and whimper. That iron will of his won't crack regardless of how many tears roll down your cheeks or how much you plead. Unless you call a safe word/use a sign there is no mercy from him.
D = Dominance:
Very much a dom and he enjoys grooming his partner to fit his vision of them.
I'd like to make it clear Tamsy has no need to raise his voice or be aggressive to show he's the one in charge. His dominance lays in the way you're subtly and carefully trained every day to abide to his requests— From small things such as deciding what you wear or where you sit to offering your body obediently for him to tie with a simple gesture of hands from him.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
He doesn't come off as someone with no experience to me. Though I think his partners are chosen veeeery strictly by standards that only make sense to him.
F = Favorite position(s):
Reverse cowgirl with a reverse prayer knot and a tight leash around your neck, which he will tug on it occasionally to “help” you stay upright.
Strappado with a spreader bar so he can fuck his partner's little mouth while they have a vibrator or dildo shoved inside them.
Missionary but with a frogtie and elbow restraint so his partner is helpless when he rams his cock into them.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Tamsy is serious in the strict sense. He may have a calm poker face on and speak sweetly, but he is not letting you fool around. Your focus should be only in this very moment and jokes will not be well received during sex.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
For personal reasons only I like to think he has a biiit of hair on his carpet. Nothing much though, just for aesthetic purposes like always.
He also has a personal taste for a well groomed partner just like himself because being able to see every little detail when you're spread out for him is important. He will shave his partner himself if you let him and takes it upon himself to be responsible for how you look. (He loves this sort of thing.)
I = Impact play:
Hitting you is not necessarily his thing, but is also not completely off the table. Tamsy wouldn't use his hands when he does it— He'd opt for some type of tool like paddles or floggers.
Although I'd like to add this type of play is reserved strictly for partners that are actual masochists and he would use it more often for their pleasure rather than only for punishment. (he has much crueler punishments for misbehaving bunnies.)
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
He is not too keen on having fun by himself and considering how busy he is Tamsy forgets that's even an option. He prefers to wait until someone he likes appears than playing by himself.
K = Kissing:
was also be covered —here—
But to add to that, during sex his kisses are treats you need to earn. He will give them everywhere except for your mouth, waiting patiently for the moment where you're about to cum to press his lips against yours and won't pull away until you ride out the wave of orgasm, swallowing your moans and gasps.
Something unique about his kisses is that he uses them as emotional regulators. During your training, your body is taught to relax when he kisses you and assimilate them to comfort so that even during more intense plays where he's speaking a bit more harshly or pushing your limits you still feel that small gesture of affection.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Always somewhere private where he's confident no one will walk in and with a sturdy headboard and comfortable mattress. He is not doing any deed on some flimsy old bed.
M = Masochism:
Sadist, and a big one at that.
His favorite thing is watching his partner struggle and submit to him. He loooooves a good breath play as well and if his partner is a M then those desires of his will come out much more strongly— He will indulge in much harsher degradation, humiliation and advanced plays. He needs someone that can match his level of freak.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
He is not a sub in any shape or form nor would he enjoy being placed into that role.
Overly bratty/natural brats. Like I said, he likes to train his partners and although some defiance most certainly is welcomed at first, actual brats NEED to be brats to get off (if thats not obvious) so that's a no for him.
He also couldn't have a vanilla partner and someone that's overly sensitive is an automatic turn off for him.
O = Oral
He enjoys a good blowjob as much as the next person. Tamsy likes to receive them when your arms are tied and his body is the only thing you can rely on to support yourself without tipping over, taking his cock deeper into your mouth until you choked on it.
Being eaten out by this man is a treat. He will do it while your body is at the mercy of his ropes and your eyes blindfolded so that you're surprised when you feel his mouth sucking and licking you. He is a slow eater— Tamsy will edge you a handful of times with his mouth before you're allowed to cum and when you do he'd fuck you with his tongue until you cum again.
P = Patience:
Looooots and lots of denial.
He will only reward you if you can hold back your orgasms until he gives you permission. Of course he makes it basically impossible to on purpose to see you fail and punish you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Not his thing. He likes to have the time and space to torture pleasure his partner.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Natural risk taker. A rule of thumb for him is that he is willing to try anything at least once IF his interest is peaked enough.
If remote vibrators were a thing then he would have the time of his life playing with you under the strict rules that you absolutely could not let anyone find out or he'd never play with you again. (He may or may not be joking, who knows with this guy).
Tamsy will also have you wear a variation of knots under your clothes during the day to see how well you can maintain his gift until he comes back to check.
S = Sleepy sex:
Do NOT bother him when he's sleeping. That's the quickest way to upset him.
That rule also applies to you because he won't bother you when you're resting. Tamsy likes his partner and him to be completely present during sex and resting time is strictly for resting.
T = Top or bottom:
Vers! and a power bottom.
He enjoys both giving and receiving and looks for a partner open to switching whenever he wants to. Being on top with Tamsy is something you'll have to work for it— He doesn't let others touch him willy-nilly and it's a reward you need to prove be worth of.
U = Underwear:
He appreciates soft and flowy fabrics, particularly so if it gives him easy access to you. Silk robes, matching lingerie. Oh and if you want to earn extra point then you have to color match him. Go for dark blues, whites or a soft yellow when picking out a piece.
He is also big on picking out clothes for the ones he loves and you can trust him to make you the prettiest, sexiest version of yourself.
V = Voyeurism:
He can't say he's completely uninterested when he watches some other couple get it on. It's the same rule as everything else: If his interest is peaked, then he will indulge.
Were the situation arise and he's not yet completely emotionally invested in you then Tamsy would certainly be interested in watching you in the hands of others. Whether he may interrupt in the middle or not depends on his affection level.
W = Wild card: (A personal headcanon that can be considered unexpected)
I feel like this whole thing has been a wild card lmao. But if I had to choose then although he is very self-centered Tamsy's pleasure is directly driven by his partner's. If you're not feeling so good you struggle to even think straight and is just bearing through it then he also won't get much into it and will quickly grow bored. He is not someone that can complete disregard his partner's feelings in the bedroom, though he looks like he would.
X = X-Ray:
I ain't doing this LMFAO sorry pookies dick anatomy is not for me. yk, a dick is a dick. Just know it's probably the prettiest dick you've seen and circumcized.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
His sex drive is not overly high or too low. He usually fluctuates between them because he rarely has a partner around to soothe them anyway. With someone fixed though he can be quite active in the bedroom.
Z = Zones (His sensitive spot/s)
Pulling on his hair will make him hard without fail, especially when you do it a bit rougher by accident.
His back is also very sensitive so scratches of nails or/and kisses are both veeeery welcomed by him.
warnings: 18+ minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, smut, tamsy (the warning is tamsy), no manga spoilers but possibly manga vibe spoilers (if that makes sense?), tamsy is a freak, pretty graphic depictions of choking/fantasies about choking, noncon/dubcon, tamsy is jerking off on the reg to the mental image of you and your choker, tokushin being used as god intended, minor blood kink but only as it relates to possessiveness, mentioned human trafficking, tamsy is really out here trying to trigger a ptsd episode, submissive!reader, sadist!tamsy bc duh, manipulative!tamsy bc duh, yandere!tamsy bc duh
notes: tumblr didn't like my original title for this so I had to settle for this less good title and I'm sad. ofc my first fic in over a year was never going to be easy.
words: 4k
minors, ageless, and blank blogs do not comment, like, or reblog
Chokers are so universally worn on the ground that they hardly warrant a second glance. Some people try to turn them into a true accessory by attaching charms. Others wear them as bracelets rather than around their necks. But no matter how people dress up or style their chokers, there’s nothing remarkable about them.
And yet, Tamsy finds himself unable to look away from yours. At first, he thinks it’s as simple as wanting to savor the sight of something wrapped around the elegant column of your throat. He’s spent countless hours imagining it’s one of Tokushin’s ropes circling your neck instead of the communicator. He’s spent just as many hours fisting his cock and imagining taking Tokushin’s rope once it’s around your neck and tightening it with his bare hands until your teary eyes roll back as you lose consciousness.
But for as much time as he spends fantasizing about your throat, his hands, and navy rope infused with Anima, he knows it’s something more than that.
So then, he thinks it's because he's the one who gave it to you when he found you, when he saved you, and recruited you for Team Eager. Just knowing that an object he gave you is constantly hanging around your neck, and that it carries his blood, is enough to make him hard — especially when he thinks about how your blood is imbued in the choker around his own neck.
He remembers that when he first cut his thumb to swipe his blood along your choker, it took monumental self-control to keep from shoving it past your closed lips and forcing you to drink his blood straight from the source — so that a piece of him would always be part of you. And when you hesitated to cut yourself for a brief moment, looking to him first for assurance, before nicking your finger and giving your blood to his choker, the urge to grab the digit and give it a harsh suck had been almost painful to suppress.
However, even his sick satisfaction with knowing that you never take off the choker, not even when sleeping or showering, isn’t enough to explain what has him so obsessed with the ubiquitous device.
The answer finally comes to him one day, months after his perverse fixation began, when you’re sitting innocently across from him and he’s daydreaming about stringing you up in Tokushin’s net and fucking you from behind, your bonds only tightening with every brutal thrust of his cock into your dripping and abused cunt. You’re complaining about the paperwork Semiu has been nagging you to complete, protesting that as a giver who rarely, if ever, sees combat, you’re ill-suited to filling out reports. You insist that it should be Team Eager’s leader — giving Tamsy a pointed look — that should have to complete them.
It’s as he gives you an indulgent smile and gently admonishes you — just enough affection and amusement in his voice to keep it from feeling like he’s lecturing you as he says that Semiu is just doing her job as the Cleaners’ receptionist — that he gets to the part in his fantasy where reality crashes down on him with all the strength of a trash beast.
Because in his head, he imagines slipping his fingers beneath the back of your choker and yanking on it hard enough to have your back arching in an unnatural angle, or as unnatural an angle as Tokushin’s iron restraints will allow. But then he realizes that you’re wearing your choker so tightly that he doubts his fingers would even fit between the thick cord and your fragile skin.
Where everyone else's chokers hang loosely around the base of their necks, roomy enough that they usually leave the hollow of the throat exposed, yours is snugly wrapped around the middle of your neck.
The revelation — because it truly is a revelation — goes straight to his cock, and he’s thankful for how the many layers of fabric that make up his baggy uniform, the table between you that hides his lap, and his unflappable nature all work in his favor.
In all of his many, many, many fantasies, never once has he imagined that having something tightly wound around your neck — whether it’s his hands, Tokushin’s ropes, his belt, his tie, the hose to his oxygen tank, a seatbelt in the backseat of one of the cars, even his own long, silky strands on more than one occasion — would actually be welcome.
There’s a small part of him that’s disappointed. Your tears, your choked pleas for him to stop, your nails biting into the backs of his hands, your fingers frantically trying to yank whatever’s around your neck loose, your gulping gasps when he withdraws his cock from your throat that last only as long as it takes for him to constrict your air supply again, and the look of betrayal in your shining eyes as the light fades from them have always been integral to every fantasy.
But the disappointment is quick to pass because while you clearly prefer having your choker snug, he thinks that if you were ever forced to confront it, you would be left lost and confused about what it might say about you. After all, when he found you, when he saved you, the first thing that you had done was to beg with tear-filled eyes for him to break the constricting metal collar that your captors had welded shut around your neck.
So his fantasies begin to take a slightly different shape. You’re still helpless beneath him. You’re still desperately trying to loosen the grip on your throat. You’re still crying and pleading and wasting what precious little breath you have to ask him why. But now there’s an added layer.
Because now, when he dreams of you helpless beneath him, your pussy is dripping with the sticky strands of your arousal. Now, when you desperately try to loosen the grip on your throat, your pussy clenches down around his cock in time with every squeeze of his hands. Now, when you’re crying and pleading and wasting what precious little breath you have to ask him why, it’s not why are you doing this to me, Tamsy, but instead why do you like it when he does this to you.
He knows it might break you to realize that the symbol of your captivity, when your worth was measured only in a monetary amount, is the same thing that makes you wet. And he hopes for it.
It’s easy to find you alone, wandering the halls of HQ late one night. It’s no secret that you’ve always kept odder hours. However, it’s not him who finds you but Tokushin, one of its threads silently trailing after you in the dark. The yarn is light enough that you don’t notice it as it slides up your body, closer and closer to your neck.
You remain so clueless, even as the thread reaches your choker, that Tamsy feels like it’s his duty as a fellow Cleaner to caution you about being more aware of your surroundings. But for now, he’ll reap the rewards of your ignorance as he uses Tokushin to pop open your choker and remove it from your person entirely.
He watches you from the other end of the hallway with a frown as you continue to walk away, Tokushin retreating towards him, the end of the string wrapped around your choker. You really should be paying better attention, even in the safety of HQ.
When it reaches him, he plucks your choker from Tokushin’s thread before it rewinds itself around the wooden spindle in his pocket. Anima drains from the object and it becomes a simple distaff once more.
The choker is warm between his fingers, still carrying your body heat after having been flush with your skin for so long, and Tamsy can’t help but rub it slowly against his cheek with a contented sigh. He could spend the rest of the night just savoring the feel of your choker, but you’re about to enter the stairwell and he doesn’t want to let you get too far.
He calls out your name and you come to an immediate stop, your foot hanging in midair above the first step down. You look back and when you see him walking towards you, you turn to face him fully, the curious frown on your lips quickly morphing into a cheerful smile.
“I didn’t realize you were back already. I thought the job was gonna take another day or two,” you greet him. “Did everything go all right?”
He smiles in return with a nod and an affirmative hum, but your attention is quickly drawn away from the topic of his assignment to the choker twirling around his index finger. Your eyebrows knit together in confusion. You instinctively bring a hand up to your neck, only for shock to light up your features when you realize that it’s your choker that Tamsy is twirling around his finger.
“You dropped this,” he needlessly points out, both the dark and your surprise providing him with enough cover to keep his gaze trained on your fingers as you rub the bare skin of your throat where your choker usually sits.
“Yeah, I guess it got loose. Thanks for grabbing it. It would have been so annoying if someone else found it first,” you reply, your nose wrinkling at the thought. “I’d never hear the end of how I’m constantly losing things.”
“It’s a good thing I’m around,” he offers, his tone benign. He gestures for you to come closer and a rush of satisfaction courses through him when you close the gap between you without a second thought. You hold out your hand to take the device from him, but he shakes his head and leans down to meet you. “Let me.”
Your eyes briefly widen in surprise, before hesitation creeps into your demeanor. You slightly curl in on yourself and your hand drops from your throat as you begin to play with your fingers, a clear sign of your nervousness.
“A-are you sure?” you ask, suddenly extremely conscious of how little space there is between you.
“Mhmm. This way I can make sure it’s on right,” he explains, entirely rational. He’s already opening it and raising the band before you can protest any further.
It’s a simple thing — all he has to do is loop it around your neck and snap it shut, maybe give it a gentle tug to ensure the clasp isn’t faulty. But he didn’t orchestrate this late-night run-in to be done with it all in a few quick seconds.
So, he leans even closer in and takes his time sliding the choker around the back of your neck. He skims his fingertips along your skin under the pretense of trying to guide the band to the exact spot where he knows you wear it. You’ve never had a very good poker face, and even if there weren’t only a few inches separating you, he would never miss the shiver that runs up your spine at the sensation.
“You know, I’ve noticed that you wear your choker a little tighter than most people,” he remarks absently as he fiddles with the ends.
He thinks if you weren’t so thrown off by the unexpected turn your night has taken — or if you weren’t so trusting of him — you might think it odd that someone with his skills in combat is taking so long to do what’s essentially an everyday task.
“Y-yeah, I guess…” you murmur, clearly distracted by the way his thumb sweeps a small line right up the center of your throat. “I haven’t really thought about it. It just…seems like that’s how it should fit.”
When he brings his face just a little closer to your neck, he can feel each one of your exhales on his temple. He’s sure you’re aware of it as well, considering how your breathing starts to quicken.
“It’s just a little surprising since you spent so long with something trapped around your neck,” he says. His tone is casual, like the observation just came to him and that he doesn’t think much of it. His words are punctuated by a soft click! as he snaps the choker closed, and the noise combined with the abrupt mention of your past has you freezing. “And they kept it tight, didn’t they? I can still see the scar here.”
“I d-don’t…it’s not…” you stumble over your words, unnerved by the reminder of your time in captivity and the collar that you had been forced to wear for so long that it left a permanent ring etched into your skin.
You can faintly recall how self-conscious you used to be of the scar when you first joined the Cleaners, and how it was only the scar that took up almost half of Tamsy’s face that eventually eased your anxiety. Because, while you don’t know the history of it, if he could wear a scar so prominently on his beautiful face without a care, then shouldn’t you be able to as well?
“Actually, I remember being surprised you took the choker to begin with. I thought I’d have to convince you to at least wear it on your wrist,” he muses with a soft huff of laughter. He continues to fiddle with the clasp, tightening it so slowly that you don’t even notice — like a frog jumping into warm water without realising the temperature is incrementally increasing.
He’s so close that he doesn’t only see you swallow, but the sound echoes in his ears. Your tongue peeks out as you lick your lips and he has to hold in his sigh of longing at the hint of pink, settling instead for relishing how your wet lips now shine in the moonlight filtering in through the windows.
What he wouldn’t give to see you drooling around his cock, your spit messily trailing past your chin and down your throat to coat Tokushin’s fibers, your saliva becoming another cherished part of his Vital Instrument.
“Y-you said it was important for me to wear it. That it connects us,” you finally reply, breathless from the position he has you in and the topic he’s brought up. He glances at you to see the slightly dazed way you’re staring at the ceiling, fully exposing your throat to him, too trusting to be aware of the danger he poses.
“That’s right,” he hums pleasantly. “It ties us together.”
With your gaze directed up and away from him, he allows his mask to slip for the briefest moment, his lips stretching into a wide, sadistic grin as he suddenly tightens your choker beyond how you normally wear it. Your reaction is instantaneous — you gasp, your body tenses, and your hand makes an aborted gesture to grab onto the front of his jacket, your senses half a second behind your reflexes, before it changes course and reaches up to the choker itself, only for him to bat your hand away.
“Tamsy! It’s too tight!” you protest, although it comes out as more of a wheeze, your chest rising and falling rapidly as panic begins to build. He’s never heard you say his name with such anguish and it sounds so beautiful, like a perfect melody.
His posture straightens as stands back up to his full height, looming over you in the dark, and when he sees the mixture of confusion, fear, and alarm on your face, it’s almost enough to make him groan and shove you to your knees — all that’s missing are streaks of his cum.
But it’s the desperation he sees in your eyes that will stay with him forever, the way you’re pleading with him because you know that he’s the only one who can provide you clemency. It’ll fuel every fantasy he has of you from that point on. Every time he imagines something wound around your throat or his cock pistoning in and out of your pussy or your knees forced wide open by Tokushin’s strings, it’ll be with the same desperation coloring your expression.
He turns pitying as he looks down on you. He’s released the choker — it’s tight enough that it stays in place without needing to be held — but his hands are still loosely hanging around your neck. He soothingly rubs small circles on your throat with his thumbs as he shushes you, like he’s trying to calm a spooked animal.
“Shhhhh, you’re fine. It’s just a little snug,” he consoles you, every word dripping with condescension as he makes light of your distress.
“Tamsy,” you beg, helpless to what you believe is his uncharacteristic cruelty, but he just shakes his head and gives you a look of sympathy.
“I can’t make it looser. It could just fall off again,” he explains, as if he’s telling a child why they need to take their foul-tasting medicine. He almost sounds pained, like it hurts him as much as the choker is hurting you. His thumbs haven’t ceased moving along your throat and he softly gives you another shush. “You’ll get used to it.”
It looks like you’re about to protest and tell him again that it’s too tight.
“Be good for me and take it, okay?” he breathes into what little space remains between you, and he’s surprised he doesn’t come on the spot with how quickly the fight drains from you at what appear to have been the magic words.
“These chokers are the only way you and I can stay constantly connected,” he murmurs as he watches how your breathing begins to calm, your tension easing with each rub of his thumbs. “So, you have to be good.”
You nod dumbly in his hold and he lets one of his thumbs trail just slightly down until it’s right above the center of your choker. He waits half a beat and then applies just enough pressure on the middle of your throat for it to be noticeable. He wonders if it’s going to set you off again, especially when your hand suddenly grabs his wrist, but rather than trying to push him away, you simply cling to him — like those pathetic little kittens hanging from branches in those lame motivational posters that turn up every so often in the trash.
While his expression remains sympathetic, as he takes in the way your lips have slightly parted, how your pupils have blown wide, and how your breathing is picking up again, only this time not from panic, he can hear the resounding cackle in his head as his internal self celebrates the realization of his fantasy.
He stays perfectly still, allowing himself another minute to savor the moment, before he loosens his hold on your neck, although he refrains from releasing you altogether. Instead, he returns to fiddling with the clasp of your choker, as if he’s checking one final time that it’s secure.
“Now, aren’t you gonna say thank you?” he gently teases you. However, the small, playful smile that tugs at the corner of his lip is belied by the flash of something darker in his eyes.
It takes you a moment to come back to yourself. Your eyelashes flutter as you blink and your tongue makes a second appearance that evening when it darts out again to wet your lips.
“T-thank you, Tamsy,” you say in a broken whisper, and he internally scoffs in disbelief over how good his luck is that not only does he have his hands around your throat, but you’re actually thanking him for it.
“Anything for my favorite teammate,” he assures you with a smile so genial that it has his eyes turning into two crescents. He slowly lets go of you entirely. But as he drops his hands back to his sides, it doesn’t escape him how your own hand is reluctant to release his wrist.
He takes a step back, putting a more appropriate amount of space between you, as the tense and heated aura hanging over you both slowly begins to dissipate. However, he can see how the awkwardness still continues to linger in your form, like you’re not sure what’s just happened or how to act.
“You really should get on a more regular sleeping schedule,” he gently chides, his tone laced with concern. “Don’t I owe you a trip into town soon? How am I supposed to take you if you’re going to sleep just as the day is starting?”
The nagging seems to reestablish the sense of normalcy you were desperately scrambling for because your features scrunch together unattractively. He watches with hawklike eyes as your hand absently reaches up to instinctively adjust your choker before you realize what you’re doing and drop it.
“You’re starting to sound like Delmon,” you grumble, your fingers toying with each other again to keep them busy, and he snorts with amusement. “Fine. I’m off to bed.”
You give him a half-hearted wave as you begin to head in the direction that you both came from. But just as you pass him, he says your name and loosely wraps his fingers around your wrist to stop you before you can make it much further. You look up at him curiously only to freeze, because while he’s still wearing the same smile that you’re so used to seeing from him, there’s now something about it that unsettles you.
You don’t know what it is or why you feel your skin breaking out in goosebumps, your hair standing on end. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about how he’s looking at you, but for some reason, you feel like you’re trapped in the threads of a spider’s web. What confuses you even more is the unexpected urge you feel to squeeze your thighs together.
“You look good with a collar,” he says, looking pointedly down at your choker.
Your mouth suddenly feels dry. Dread pools in your stomach. A small tremble appears in your fingers.
Not once have you ever thought of the choker you willingly wore — that keeps you connected to the people you’ve come to care so dearly about — as anything similar to the collar that tore your skin and chained you to your captors.
But is he right in referring to it as just another collar? You’re becoming increasingly aware of how tight the choker feels around your neck all over again.
“Tamsy…” you trail off, entirely helpless before him.
He simply smiles in return, as if his words hadn’t sent you spiraling, and lifts a hand back up to your neck, his baggy sleeve sliding down his forearm as he does. He manages to squeeze the tip of his left pinky — the only one he still has — beneath the band’s center, making you flinch harshly. With the finger he’s hooked around it, he gives it an unexpectedly harsh tug that has you tripping slightly towards him, before he releases you again. Your own hand comes up reflexively to rub your throat as you watch him with wide, teary eyes.
“All that’s missing is a little bell, so I always know where to find you,” he teases, but there’s something slightly darker in his tone that makes you think for a second he’s not joking. You forcefully shake your head and tell yourself to forget it because this is Tamsy. “Be good and get some sleep, okay?”
You can only nod dumbly in response as he gives you one last smile before walking away towards the stairs, where he soon disappears from your sight. You’re left alone in the dark and silent hall, confused, shaken, and with no one for company but the shame that creeps up on you as you notice how wet you are.
omfg and I’m so so sorry for inactivity .. school + life has been kicking my booty , i plan to post soon as i have like three fics that are 80% finished — it’s just the matter of actually doing it
but I appreciate ur comments + msgs smm they make me wanna be active on here again c: ˚ ✦ . . ˚ . . ✦ ˚ . ★⋆. ࿐࿔
you're soaking the ring around his middle finger, staining his sleeve with your arousal, but zanka doesn't stop.
he pushes and prods at your inner walls, inhaling sharply at the way you squeeze and tighten around his fingers, your hips jerking in search of more.
more — of this, of zanka fingering you languidly, his index and middle fingers crooked up to push against that spot that makes you gasp. your legs wrapped around his waist, your hands tangled in his hair, your voice cracking over the syllables of his name — "zanka, please, i'm so close."
"mm," he grunts, feeling his cock throb, ignoring it, too intent upon watching your every twitch and squirm. "you're — lovely."
that earns him a halfhearted kick, your foot prodding his back as he sinks his fingers in deep. "zanka," you whine, "please, please fuck me already."
"wanna make ya cum first," zanka breathes, pressing a kiss to your jaw. he leans back to watch the slick gliding down his fingers, the way you swallow him down to the knuckle, your chest heaving. your hands loosen from his hair and you grip his forearm instead, nails biting into his sleeve. "wanna — wanna see."
"you — ngh —"
you fall apart and he picks the pieces up, kisses you hard and groans into your mouth, fingering you through it as you squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.
zanka shares your breaths, collapses into the cradle of your legs as his cock kicks in his pants. "fuck," he gasps. he takes a moment, tries to gather himself, and then — "ya really know how ta make a guy feel special."
"zanka," you murmur, "i've never cum from just fingers before. you are special."
suguru has a weird problem, one that can’t be stopped and that’s making you wear your panties with his fresh cum in them.
it’s more territorial than anything but he likes knowing he’s with you all day.
“suguru please, i’m late for work.”
he huffs a laugh, one hand on your hip to keep you steady in place and the other stroking himself while you hold your panties down.
“i know baby im working as fast as i can.”
a strand of his hair falling from his bun, a bead of sweat slowly dropping down onto the floor.
he’ll hold your whole schedule up for this, it was almost flattering in a way.
it all became worth it when he actually finished, streams of cum leaking onto the fabric, a low groan rumbling in his throat.
“oh fuck baby, you gonna keep it there all day for me?”
you softly gasp watching it.
your eyes are fixated on his dick, how pretty it looks, how each vein becomes more prominent when he’s finishing and the flush on his tip that looks sensitive.
“mhm.”
suguru smiled a little at your small response, the last stream of his cum leaking on the middle of your panties.
he swipes the tip of his dick and tuck himself back in then pulling your panties up which makes you squirm a little.
“wear them all day, don’t even go to the bathroom.”
then it starts.
it starts warm, the wetness coating your soft folds then it quickly turns cold.
whenever you sit you can feel some it slip between your folds some, then you get used to the sensation.
if he’s feeling nasty he’ll lay you down and jerk off over your pretty pussy, softly rubbing your clit while he does it, making sure you’re wet to the furthest extent.
“you like that hm? keep those thighs spread mhm there we go.”
letting you get wetter and finishing all over your pussy, taking in the sight then helping you put your panties back on.
he wants his cum coated all over you as long as you can hold, he doesn’t care if it eventually crusted or left a stain that’s hard to get out after the fact, he just wants his place known.
even going as far as to finish inside of you, just letting it leak out inside of your panties instead, letting it soak down into the fabric, having you feel his cum coat your wet walls and slowly leak down throughout the day.
it all depended on he wanted to go about it that day, sometimes he did both.
had you soaking in him, being reminded every time you sat down, walked, moved a certain way that he was right there warm against you.
when you come home he’ll check them, softly pull them down your thighs and see his cum still coated over you but crusted and your panties stained.
you’ve gone through so many pairs of panties that are now permanently stained with them that he had to buy more that he eventually stained too.
suguru just can’t help it, he gets off on it. having you hold down your little panties and wait for him to spill into them.
⟢ bf!tamsy who always accommodates for what you lack in height whenever you want to kiss him or touch his face—leaning down without complaint, but only after watching you pout a little first.
“careful now, angel,” he murmurs, “you’ll strain your achilles.”
🀥 bf!tamsy who lightly taps your cheek with his index finger when you zone out, head tilting as his gaze softens.
“…are you paying attention, hm?”
⟢ bf!tamsy who sends you off to missions with a feather-light kiss pressed to your temple, gentle enough to barely linger—while, unbeknownst to you, his tokushin slips an almost impossible-to-notice thread around your finger.
for safety purposes, of course.
🀥 bf!tamsy who, after enough nagging, finally gives in and lets you see the scars spread across his chest, eyes softening despite himself as you trace the jagged edges with the light drag of a fingernail.
⟢ bf!tamsy who takes one look at the tear in your clothes and doesn’t even consider sending you to august. absolutely not. he quietly takes them from your hands, needle already threaded, because there’s no way in hell he’s going to allow that scatterbrained man lay his fingers on fabric that’s been against your skin.
🀥 bf!tamsy who lets you curl up on his lap without a word, you pepper soft kisses along his cheek, and he waits—patient, indulgent—as they drift closer to his lips. when your bottom lip brushes his labret piercing, it catches just enough to remind you it’s there, cool metal against warmth.
⟢ bf!tamsy who feels the moment you lose focus, fingers coming up to toy with it instead, curiosity overtaking intent. a quiet chuckle slips from him at that, fond, as his finger brushes against your hip.
🀥 bf!tamsy who sings you lullabies when you tell him you feel restless. his slight accent catching onto the tips of his melodized words. the cadence deems itself unfamiliar to your ears, however, it’s hard to care when you drift off within minutes every time.
⟢ bf!tamsy who always makes sure you end up seated beside him in the car whenever enjin ropes team eager into another mission with team akuta. he lets you rest your head against his collarbone—but only on the ride back, when the job is done and you’ve already worked yourself thin doing exactly what was asked of you.
🀥 bf!tamsy who fights the muscles in his face, forcing them into stillness even as a shadow of a grimace threatens to slip through when your weak, fevered body clings to him in desperation. the mission he’s dispatched to is mandatory, but before he leaves, he gathers what little composure he has left and presses a careful kiss into your clammy palm, (despite all the germs he’s sure are wandering the surface).
⟢ bf!tamsy who lets you fuss over his injuries, deliberately steering clear of eisha just so your pretty hands can tend to him instead. he tilts his head, quietly amused, listening to you ramble about him needing to be more careful next time.
“now, now, my dear.. there’s no need to get so worked up.”
🀥 bf!tamsy who lets you braid his long, pretty hair to your heart’s content, patiently allowing you to intertwine his locks into a two-toned braid. he has one condition though, you have to face him while you work, so he can watch the adorable little expression you make when you’re concentrating—his words.
