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Four months on from Martinaise, you’re still learning new things about Kim, squirreling each one away like smooth stones on the beach, to worry over and touch.

Some facts you’ve uncovered about the lieutenant: he’s collected and painted model aerostatic fighters since he was a child, and still keeps them on a shelf in his bedroom. He dislikes tomatoes, and will pick them off a sandwich if no one is around. He claims not to understand art, but his photographs have some of the best composition you’ve ever seen. He is a speedfreak on the 8/81 in the early morning hours. He’s a speedfreak in bed too. He’s skilled at being kind to your body, and fucking amazing at being mean to it. His cock is a few shades darker than the rest of him, and has lovely blue veins running down the underside that you could trace with your tongue for hours. Although he’ll never admit it, he prefers to be the little spoon.

Also, Kim Kitsuragi, lieutenant of the RCM, likes to bite.

A lot.

You wriggle underneath him as his teeth close around your chest, biting down hard and sharp enough to make you yell, and then give a silent apology to your neighbors.

But good god, this is the best fucking of your life. You think that every time you have sex with Kim, but this time might actually be true.

He’s deep inside you with your nipple in his mouth, and you’re shimmying helplessly, wriggling your hips trying to get him deeper inside you. Your wrists catch on the cuffs wrapped around the bars on Kim’s bedframe as you reach for him. “Fuck!”

He seems amused at your struggles.

 “Kim, you’re so cruel. I want to touch you.”

“Mm,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry. He likes tormenting you. Likes how badly you want to touch him, and watching your thwarted struggles.

You still don’t even remember sex before him. He might as well be your first. That made him cautious with you, your first time together. He wanted to make it good for you.

But you’re a superstar detective, and Kim, despite his best efforts, can’t hide his feelings all the time. It didn’t take too long to suss out that he wanted to be rougher with you. It took a bit of convincing to get him to do it, but once he believed you? You were off to the races.

He looks down at you, stroking the angry red twin crescents that are already rising around your areola. His touch is tender, and for a moment you wonder if it’s as sweet for him as it is for you, being locked together like this. You’re in danger of saying something stupid, so you flex a little against the cuffs instead, because you know he likes that. Chained heat. All that strength, helpless and at his mercy.

He laughs into his hand. That’s one of the best things about Kim Sex. The way the control slips, the microexpressions disappear, replaced by honest to god expressions. A smile is playing on his lips as he watches you.

Then he bites you again, and the sweet, sharp agony blots all thoughts from your mind. 

 Sometimes he take quick little nips at you, sometimes he bites down hard and holds it until your skin is raised and blue and purple. Now he chews–pressure on and off. God, who knew Kim could be so feral?

I knew! a small, deranged part of your brain pipes up. Anyone who’s that tightly wound is hiding a serious deviant streak.

“Fuck,” he says afterwards, pulling out gingerly, and sliding up your body to kiss you.

“Yeah,” you agree. There’s really nothing else to say.

He uncuffs you and rubs your wrists, frowning at the marks forming. He didn’t expect you to pull that hard against them. You reach for the bedside table. “Don’t worry.” You pull on the electric green wristbands you found in a box of rags in an alley–you can’t believe someone threw these bad boys away. You look like you’re ready to reclaim the title of fastest gym teacher in Grand Couron history with these on. “There’s even a matching headband!”

“Yes,” he says seriously. “Every cop needs a matching headband.” 

But he can’t hide the relief in his eyes. For a man who likes to leave bruises as much as he does, he’s anxious about leaving them anywhere on you that’s likely to be seen. He’s gotten good at choosing the hidden parts of you that will drive you wild–the insides of your thighs, the breadth of your upper back, meat of your ass (not a lot of meat there, to be sure, but what is there has had every inch lovingly marked by him.) And here–you touch your nipples, already bright red and rimmed with the perfect imprint of teeth. Forensics couldn’t ask for a more perfect dental record. You're going to feel them every time your shirt moves across your chest for days.

He straddles you and leans over you to imagine the bite marks afterward, fascinated. It’s a funny ritual you let him perform, but it’s important to him. To see what he’s done. 

He likes examining your bruises afterward, making sure they’re healing right. He takes satisfaction in that, in watching your body return to normal. Reassuring himself you’re going to be all right. That he hasn’t really hurt you.

You’ve asked him to mark you permanently, but from the way he declines it’s obvious he doesn’t like the idea. He likes your body healing, coming back from what he puts it through. And he likes you always coming back for more. Marking the passage of your time together with bruises, watching them fade from red to purple to yellow and brown. He is fascinated by your body and how alive it is.

And you’re never going to say no to Kim lavishing you with attention. You only get to do this once a week, on your days off, and you will take all of it you can get

He becomes aware of your eyes on him, trying to gaze through his soul, and rolls off you. “Get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll make dinner.”


A week later, you run all the way over to his place (your cool new wristbands and headbands definitely part of the ensemble.)

A sweaty, ad hoc game of strip Suzerainty later, and you’re in his bed.

This time you’re lowering yourself, your thighs burning as you slide deeper onto his cock, the intrusion making you gasp. “Fuck.”

“Mhm. That’s the plan.” He looks smug as he folds his hands beneath his head and looks expectantly up at you.

He’s fucked you plenty of times before, but never like this, with you on top. There’s a fresh transgression in impaling yourself on him, relaxed and somehow still commanding beneath you. You feel off-kilter up here, a too large edifice swaying in the wind. 

“Kim. I’m so… exposed like this,” you breath, wonderingly. 

“I know how you like to be up on stage.”

Your eyes slide closed as you lower yourself deeper. Hm. That’s right. You are a superstar. “God, Kim–yeah. That’s an idea. I’d do that for you.” You make yourself relax, focus on the sensation of accommodating him from this new angle.  “We’d get up on stage and put on a show for everyone. People would come from miles around to see us.”

“Khm. I’m up on stage with you?”

“Who else would be?”

He’s stroking your belly, the softly fading bruises there from when he took as much of you in his mouth as he could and bit down hard. You draw in a shaky breath, rapturous from the memory.

“Kim, you’re the real star.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says, running a finger up your chest. You moan. “So big. All those muscles. And the hair…” he curls his fingers lightly in the dusting across your chest and tugs, raising a whimper from you. “So eager to be degraded. So desperate to have a cock up his ass.”

You’re whimpering noisily at his words, biting your knuckles. As he continues, you begin to rock your hips back and forth, your rim stretching to take more of him in.

“A specimen like that would absolutely have an audience.”

You nod, your head bobbing as you fuck yourself on him, trying desperately to find the right angle, the one he knows drives you wild. 

“And look at what else they’ll see,” he murmurs, and fans his fingers across your thighs, digging his thumbs into the dark marks that track his incisors. “Everyone will see these and know exactly who you belong to.”

Love notes, a deep, subterranean voice in your head rumbles.

He digs his finger nails into your thighs, leaving deep purple crescent marks.

“Everyone would know,” you agree. Then you grin a little, and wiggle your ass around him. “Although your cock in my ass might tip them off first.”

He huffs a breath, and then lifts his hips up off the bed to move with you, setting a ragged pace that drives you wild.

You like it. The idea of everyone knowing. Utterly shameless and exposed. Being brought into work on a leash….

“I’d suck you off all day under your desk,” you babble him. “No one could object. You deserve the best office equipment available. Whatever helps the Lieutenant work.”

It’s what you daydream about on long days when the work seems like it’ll never end. What gets you through the day when Jean’s in one of his moods or McCoy has called you a couple of f—ts for not going into an apartment with guns blazing or there’s more dark rumors coming out of Central Jamrock, and they all point to the fact that this peace isn’t going to last forever–

When the stress gets too much, you imagine Kim taking charge and using you. It’s a lovely fantasy, and you know he likes it too. Certainly the way he thrusts harder into you as you speak gives him away. 

But it is just a fantasy.

You know the way his shoulders go up when people talk around the station. It’s not easy being a homo-sexual in the RCM. You may be only half a homo-sexual yourself, but you’re pretty sure they don’t give half-credit for that. He wouldn’t kink so hard on the idea of everyone seeing his teeth marks on you if it wasn’t dangerous. And it is, even if it’s not, strictly, against any rules.

But here, you can be as wild as you want. Your ass clenches as you work, and you can feel the hot welts on your ass straining with each squat. You couldn’t sit right for two days after he bit you there. Kim had tensed a lot in those two days, watching Jean watch you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

The starburst scar on your left leg is just above the spread of his fingers, and he brushes his thumb just shy of where the skin turns tender and raw. Even now, almost a year later, it’s still a stripped wire, sensitive to the touch. He’s careful with it. In all the various positions you’ve been in together around his flat and yours, he’s never hurt you there.

You tighten your thighs around him again, and feel the ache not just of the muscles, but of the half-dozen bites on the inside of each thigh he laid down first.

You whimper. You aren’t touching yourself. You’ve stopped doing that. Focused solely on letting yourself be the best cocksleeve he’s ever had, clenching and squeezing and taking him in down to the hilt, mimicking as best as you can the rhythm you know gets him off better than any other.

His hand lifts to your cock, but then some thing in your expression makes him stop.

Afterwards, you roll off him, feeling like a rock star who just gave the performance of his life.

He rolls over and touches you. Breathes you in. He tries to deny it, but he loves the smell of you after a workout.  He tries to hide it, the almost imperceptible ways his nose twitches and his eyes dilate with desire from your pure, masculine musk.

“Just think. If we lived together, you could tap this any time you wanted.”

“Hm. I’ll keep that in mind.”  He doesn’t stop examining the bruises from last week, now faded to a greenish purple.

You think you’re winning him over on the living together front. He’s already been made well aware of the Mazovian arguments in favor of pooling resources in defiance of the landlord class. And he’s conceded that the insultingly low pay of an RCM detective make it less than feasible to live alone in central Jamrock. It’s not as though roommates are unheard of in the RCM.

And, well. He’s well acquainted with the other benefits of cohabitation.


The next morning, he’s making eggs when you slip up behind him and wrap your arms around him. He doesn’t stop stirring the eggs, but he does melt into the embrace a little, the tension in his shoulders unwinding a fraction, letting himself slump against you. 

He's aching from yesterday’s workout too son. You should do some stretches together.

God, you want this every day, not just when your increasingly erratic schedule allows your days off to align like some kind of rare astronomical event.

You squeeze him a little, and then go to pour yourself coffee.

“So why biting, Kim?”

He blinks gazes out the window as he prods the eggs, looking younger than he usually does in an oversized t-shirt and grey socks slipping down his ankles. “I don’t know. Is it a problem?”

“Kim, have I ever acted like it’s a problem?” You’re standing in the middle of the kitchen in nothing but your underwear. Giving both of you a very clear view of the bruises on your chest, in various shades of healing.

He frowns. “I’m not really one to over-analyze these things.”

An untruth, sire. He’s given it thought.

He pauses. “I suppose you have some theories?”

If you’re going to talk about this, he’d rather you take the lead. The one area, really, where he’s always reluctant to take the lead.

“Just one.”

 You think of those painted aerostatics on his shelf. The childish scrawl on the base of that toy lorry that still sits on his. A defensive gesture made by a boy who had so few things of his own, and could never be confident that what he had couldn’t be taken away by someone bigger and stronger. 

“I think you like marking me. You like claiming what’s yours.”

“Mhm. I suppose that’s not so outre, when you put it like that.” 

“It’s important. Having things of your own.” A fresh thought occurs to you. “Oh shit, is that why you don’t want to move in with me?” you ask. “You want to keep something that’s just yours? This place?”

You can’t even blame him, really. You’re a lot. Any space you share… you’d take up more than half of the oxygen. You’re just kind of like that.

Why are you pushing this? So hysterical voice in your hindbrain is screaming. Just be grateful for what you have. Don’t try to push. Don’t you remember pushing her? Remember how you made her leave?

You’re trying not to be like that anymore. To be okay with not pushing. All the same, you find yourself anxiously rubbing at the bite mark above your hipbone.

He looks startled by the thought. “No. Well, I wouldn’t say it’s not entirely a concern. But mostly… you know people would find out, right? Right now…

They think you’re straight. It’s not like you haven’t given them plenty of reason to, giving them a front row seat to your slow-motion ex-wife meltdown over the past six years. Which also, coincidentally, is a very good reason to not rush into anything with anyone.

Too late. You’re already balls deep in each other. Emotionally and physically. You’re not untangling yourselves that easily.

“We don’t have to make a big deal of it,” you say quickly. 

You’ve kept it quiet at work this far, haven’t you? Even though by all rights, you should be able to shout the fact that you’re sleeping with Kim from the rooftops and have people be properly jealous.

He looks at you with sympathy. “It doesn’t matter how quiet we keep it. We’d have to update our information in the system. Someone would notice.” 

And then…

Well. Who knows, exactly? You don’t really think your closest colleagues would care. Jean would probably needle you about Kim being too good for you, which to be fair, he is, but you don’t really think any of them would, like, do anything. Probably. It’s a big station, though. It’s not exactly enlightened.

There’s a silent moment between you when you can hear a fly buzzing somewhere in the other room.

“I like this,” he says, inclining his head, as if to encompass everything about you and him in his kitchen, half-naked and bathed in sunlight. “I like it a lot actually,” he mumbles into his coffee. “But it would change things.”

Being on guard. Jokes. Looks. Questions. Nicknames. He finally got out from under the weight of a much-mocked reputation at the 57th. He’s not yet ready for a new reputation. And there will be one. Living with the most legendary burnout C-Wing has ever seen.

“I get it,”  you say. “Cops are regressive assholes. We’ll be first against the wall when the revolution comes.”

“Yeah, well. That’ll cause its own problems, then, I suppose,” he says. “But the point is, I like what we’ve got now.” And he’s not in a hurry to change it. He’s afraid of making waves.

He looks sorry to have disappointed you. “Is it all right?” he asked, carefully neutral.

You idly touch the bruise at your collarbone, somehow just doing that makes you feel more grounded. “Yeah.”



After breakfast, he pushes back his chair. “I wanted to ask you a question.”

That’s only fair. You cock the ol’ finger guns and tell him to shoot.

“You like it when I don’t get you off.” It’s not judgmental. It’s curious.

So he has noticed.

“I mean… uh.” You’re struggling to find the right words. How to explain the appeal of him getting to come while you don’t. The thrill of the unfairness of it all.

Do you need to explain that to him? He’s the one who likes bossing you around so much, after all. 

As if he’s developed mindreading powers of his own, he clears his throat. “I don’t mind,” he says. “I was just wondering if you wanted to… do something with that.”

Your pulse pounding between your legs. “What did you have in mind?”

A smile flickers in his eyes. He slips out of his chair, and kneels before you, slipping his hand under your waistband, his cool hands making your stomach flutter. You’re rapidly hardening from the rough stroke of his fist. “You only come when I let you. No jerking off. No touching yourself. I get to make you come.”

His long, slender fingers are working you over, and you’re teetering on the verge, and you have no self-control, none at all, but for him you force yourself to hold off, trying to think of unsexy things. The hoarder’s apartment you had to search last week. Jean chewing you out over paperwork. Nothing works.

“God, Kim." You're on the verge.

Then he lets go, gets up, and returns to his coffee.

“Kim, you’re fucking evil,” you groan. Your nerves are electric, chemistry rushing up your spine. You’ve painfully turned on.

“Let’s go to work,” he says calmly. This is going to be fun, he thinks, as he clears the dishes away


A week later, he lets you come, and you nut so hard for a few minutes you think you might have wiped your memory all over again. It’s not until his face appears that you recall. “I remember you,” you say. “You fucked my brains out.”

And then the torturous process starts all over again. 


A couple weeks later, he gets you a gift. “Something for when I’m not around.”

You put it on right there, and admire it, sucking in your gut to get a proper view of it, twisting your hips to see the metal gleam.

The shiny metal, the smooth way the pieces look together. You can tell from the way he puts it on that it pleases the same part of his brain that lights up for all smoothly oiled mechanics,, all components polished and in working order. He bought it because he thinks it’s attractive, all chrome and interlocking steel. He likes the way it looks on you, locked around your cock. Keeping you soft, no matter how horny you get. You can see that from the way he strokes it fondly with his long toes as you go down on him on the couch.

He likes leaving you with visible evidence of your submission to him, just out of the line of vision.

“Another way to dress me up,” You say. “Just imagine if people could see under my clothes. Everyone would know that you own this cock.”

His ears flush a little, but he recovers remarkably. “They wouldn’t have to. I could just order you down on your knees in the middle of the office and you’d suck me off, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck yeah, Kim.”

He reaches out and tugs on your caged cock. Possessive.


When you walk into work next week, he’s the only one who looks up, and you move casually around the room, feeling his eyes on you. You settle in your chair and spread your legs. There’s nothing visible, you made sure of it, but it’s worth it to feel the physical evidence of his ownership against your leg throughout the day.



He takes the cage off whenever he wants to use your cock. Sometimes he’ll suck you off, enjoying your desperate squirming under him, or he’ll jerk you off over and over again until you cry. Or, cruelest of all, he’ll remove it and do nothing at all, just give you the order to go the day not touching yourself.

“I trust you,” he says with a wicked grin, and turns back to his sci-fi novel.

It’s all blending together in your mind, an orgy of wanting and not quite getting it. It gets harder and harder to leave and go back to your own sad apartment, even wearing the reminders of him on your body. You don’t want reminders. You want him.

You sense it’s hard for him too. One time he fucks you and pulls out before he comes, admiring the spread of come across your hole. 

You don’t want to clean it off.

“That can’t be sanitary,” he remarks, and proposes a better solution. He knows you’ve bought a butt plug that you like to use when he not around. The next time he comes in you, he seals it up inside with the plug. Something to take home with you.

“You’re a deviant, Kim,” you say, delightedly, wrapping your arms and legs around him and rolling him to the side, pressing him with kisses. 


You should be sated a little, but somehow you’re both more desperate than ever.

Each close call with a bullet whizzing by your head or another rumbling of disquiet sets you on edge. You don’t know how things are going to shake out by the end of summer, let alone further into the future. It doesn’t make a difference how often he lets you come or not. You crave him more and more.

Today’s officially one of your days off, but after a lazy morning in bed that ends in desperate fucking, you’re both back to work. Going over files Kim brought home on a murder investigation that’s been breaking both your brains–a murder, a drug shipment. The more you pull this thread. The more important it seems. Kim thinks you might be able to really make a difference with this one.

But that’s for when you solve it. In the here and now, your brain is about to fall out of your head when he suggests you go drive somewhere.

That’s how the two of you end up parked up on the coastline, on a cliff overlook the ocean. It’s a beautiful view, but neither of you are really seeing much of it, crowded in the back of the Kineema. You swear you can feel him inside you, warm and sticky. You can definitely feel that chunk of silicon inside you shifting as you clamber down to your knees in front of him. There’s the cage in front. You wore your extra tight disco pants for him, because it’s very obvious how much he likes seeing that particular bulge in the front of your pants.

He’s sitting in the back seat with his pants down around his ankles, holding your head between his hands as you suck him.

The car smells all around you, it definitely gets him off. And you suspect the car is going to smell faintly of sex after you’re done. 

Here, overlooking the sea, there’s just enough of a hint of near discovery that he can satisfy his exhibitionist streak. 

His breath is quickening. He’s whispering your name over and over, his hands twisting in your hair, when the radio spits and hisses to life. “Lieutenant Kitsuragi? It’s urgent.”

Kim, impressive in the face of coitus interruptus, practically vaults out of the backseat does an army roll into the front seat, pants still down, and scrambles for the radio. “Come in.” 

You sit up, heart pounding, and lean over the front seat.

You can hear Jules’s voice through the static of the receiver. “I finally got a hit on that informant you were looking for.”

He glances at you, swallows. “We’re off duty.”

“I understand. But our information suggests he’ll be getting on an Aerostatic to Sur la Clef in a little under an hour. You’re going to need to talk to him now if you want to.”

The line goes dead. You exchange glances.  Kim’s already putting the radio down and scrambling to wrestle his rapidly wilting hard-on back in his pants, cursing under his breath.

The thing in your ass is starting to feel less sexy and a little more burdensome.

He shrugs helplessly. “This could be the breakthrough we need,” he says, and glances over at you, still sprawled on the floor of the Kineema, tight pants hugging the bulge around your cock. He grimaces slightly. He must decide it’s not that noticeable. 

“Buckle up.”

Any thoughts you have about propriety are melted from your brain as you zoom off towards the epicenter of wherever you’re needed.


You get there just in time to talk to the informant before he escapes the city. He gives you the information you need, but it’s not enough. There’s a Moralintern bureaucrat behind the missing drug shipment. You can’t touch him, and any hope you had of getting anyone else in the organization was squashed by the discovery that everyone had been tipped off by someone who could only being working inside the RCM. Another dirty cop, probably in Madre’s pocket. One big happy collusion. No arrests, no further leads and you get punched by one of the bureaucrat’s guards for even sneaking around his space. It’s a pretty long way from where you started this afternoon in Kim’s MC.

You’re told over the radio by Pryce it’s not worth it to fight it, and that’s that. Three months of work down the drain.

When it’s over, you stagger back into the office, exhausted. 

Kim slumps into his chair and buries his head in his hands.

You feel a certain defiance running through your blood. Kim sighs and stretches. He doesn’t say anything.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “We should get you home.”

“Nah,” you say. “I’m good. Guy barely hit me.”

A voice pipes up in your brain to remind you that he’s talking about the hunk of silicon still jammed up your ass.

Still, your words to do make him step forward and examine your fat lip. He looks at the mark on your lip and frowns. (He hates that someone hurt you.)

You’re remembering the childish note on his toys. A an almost magical spell cast, trying to ward off harm. Some part of him maybe still wanting to believe that what he marks as his own is warded against harm, although he’s far to old and rational to believe that. He’d deny it if you so much suggested it.

Still, there’s a troubled frown on his face as he examines the bruise forming on your lip.  A symbol of failure.

He knows better than you how quickly you can lose a partner. 

His shoulders are tense as he turns your face this way and that. You don’t have to read his mind to know all the ways he’s chiding himself for failing. 

And it’s not just you, is it?

Being reminded how little his work is valued riles him. His relationship to the RCM is complicated. He loves it, but is very aware of all the ways it doesn’t love him back. Most of the time, he responds by shoving his doubts and frustrations down and refocusing his attention on the job. Tonight, you can sense something’s different. He’s angry. You know him well enough to know that there’s a lot of angry driving on the 8/81 in both your futures. Maybe you can continue your car blowjob later.

Instead, he surprises you.

He crosses the room and locks the door carefully, and pulls the blinds.

You’re standing alone together, after hours, in the smallest and draftiest wing of an old silk mill. There’s no one else around, not even the hum of the vacuum that you’d normally hear on weekday.

Some frightened voice in your head is screaming that he’s about tell you it’s the end of the line. You’ve had a good run, but he can’t do this anymore. The stress of almost losing you. You can’t protect each other. It’s too big.

You think your heart’s going to break if that happens. 

He leans in, his muscles taut and nervous, and kisses you right in the middle of the office. He glances behind him, like he’s worried Jean’s going to start cursing from his desk. But Jean’s desk is empty, just like the rest of C-wing, save for you too.

You deepen the kiss. When he pulls away, he’s recovered his composure, looking you and down, and frowning at the uncomfortable little squirm in your step as you shift from side to side.

“I think we need to remove that now,” he says. “That can’t be healthy.”

“What?” you look around stupidly, like this will have stopped being the office you work in in the last ten seconds. “Here?”

There’s a wicked, defiant glimmer in his eye. “I don’t think it can wait.”

Oh. Huh. 

None of the voices in your head saw that one coming, but they’re all speaking up their approval now, raising up their voices in unison.




You fumble your belt open. Shit. Shit. Is this really happening? Here? Well… you’re not going to say no. God no.

He’s certainly not wasting any time, now that he’s committed to this, moving with the same assured calm he always projects in these walls, usually to very different means. He shrugs his jacket off and folds it over a chair, clears the papers on his desk (not nearly as difficult a task as it’d be to clear every off your desk) and drops them on a chair. Then takes you firmly by the shoulders and spins you around.

“Bend over,” he orders.

You do as you’re told,  placing your hands on his desk, your fingers fanned across the wood the cheap wood laminate.

His boots slide between your legs and kick your feet apart, you catch your self, stomach close to flat against the desk, spread out for him like a buffet. You feel the cool air on your ass as he eases your pants down over your hips, feel the rough fabric of his gloves against the welts there. You shove your ass up into his hand, eager for his touch. After a moment of fondling you, the touch withdraws and you hear a soft rustle beside you. He’s removed his gloves and tossed them on the desk beside you. You seize them greedily and breath them in, the scent of gun oil and machinery.  You hear a soft huff of amusement from him, and then his fingers are working between your asscheeks and close around the plug nestled in your hole. You feel his fingers slip under the handle and find a grip–teasing your hole as they work–then he grips the plug, and pulls.

You curse low and deep as it slides out in one smooth, obscene motion. Still slick from the lube he put on it hours before and his own jizz. You’ve never felt filthier, and you still can’t believe it’s Kim Kitsuragi doing this here, scandalizing your workplace.

Soiling the nest. 

Making a statement. An artistic statement. Sex can be art too.

The bulb of the plug is cresting, your rim stretching as you put your hand in your mouth to bite back your moans.

No one has any reason to come to C-Wing tonight. It’s still the most harrowing thing you’ve ever experienced, and you can hear the detective’s ragged breathing. The little hitch in his breath that reveals just how excited he is. Kim, you speedfreak, you want to say, but you’re still covering your mouth

And then the plug slips out, leaving your hole gaping and bereft, clutching after it. This is already more than you ever dared hope for here, but you still feel the absence.

You’re dimly aware that your cock is desperately leaking on the carpet. Shit. Thank god the pre-revolutionary carpet of your office is already covered in too many mystery substances to ever identify.

“Khm.” He murmurs that special Kim murmurs when he’s found something interesting. He touches the warm stream of come dripping down your taint.

“Someone’s already come in you once today, and yet you’re still gaping for more.” That sweet tremor in his voice does things to you.

“Fuck yeah. Need you, Kim.”

He swats you and you moan. “You’re in the middle of a police station. Have you no shame?”

You whimper. Some voice in your head wants to chime in to ask the same thing, for real. Are you seriously going to do that? What if someone walks in on you?

No one’s going to walk in on you. He wouldn’t be doing this if anyone could. The latch can only be opened from the inside.

“Nope. No shame here. You better fuck some back into me.”

“Mm. Begging. Desperate.”

His hand are moving around to your front now. “And what’s this?”

 You let out a reedy breath through your teeth. God, you’re grateful for the last few months of clean living, or you’re pretty sure you would have already had a heart attack by now.

He tsks. ”It’s a shame when someone locks up such a nice cock. Let’s set it free and get a proper look at it.”

He shifts to your front, to get both hands on you and remove the device. You dare to lean forward and peck him on the lips. “Kim, god, you’re so hot.”

He dodges the kiss, in mean mode.

He sets the cage on the desk, the weight of the metal heavy on the oak. Your cock, suddenly unencumbered, remembers what it’s for and is rapidly responding to these new circumstances. He gives you a friendly squeeze, and that’s all it takes to get you at full mast.

“Fuck, Kim. If you don’t fuck me I might actually die.”

You don’t mean to say that loud, but it still echoes through the room. He claps his hand over your mouth and you both listen intently, eyes searching each other.

“Kim, I don’t know if I can stay quiet,” you whisper.

He takes pity on you, and his eyes light on the gloves beside your head. “Open up.”

God, he’s incredible. You’re actually going to pass out from how hot he is, you think as he balls his gloves and works them into your mouth, and you sigh, satisfied, closing your mouth around them. They taste of Kim–pine and motor oil and pencils. You feel the fabric dampening on your tongue. His jaw twitches as he looks at you, your mouth gaping with his orange driving gloves. He’s thinking it’s hot, if not entirely sanitary. Though if professionalism isn’t stopping him from this insane course you’re on, that’s not going to stop him. 

Besides, you see him reasoning, you put worse things in your mouth on cases all the time.

He unloops your tie and wraps it around your mouth, tying it tight. “Good?” he whispers. 

Your cock is standing at full attention, in case he had any doubts about that, but you nod. Beaming your desire straight through your eyes.

He rewards you with a small smile, and his hands move back to your ass.

“Now, where were we?”

You whimper, bracing yourself, and spread your legs as far as you can. He’s got one thumb in your hole, feeling around. “Such a loose, sloppy hole,” he murmurs. “I don’t even need to prep. Always ready for me, aren’t you?”

Your arms are about to give out underneath you, you want him so bad.

Then finally, you hear the rustle of fabrics  and feel his warm, velvety tip at your entrance, easing back where it belongs. He’s right about it being easy. His own come makes excellent lube as he slides deeper inside you, his hands grasping your hips for leverage. When he’s balls deep inside you, he gives a little hitch of his hips and somehow thrusts deeper.

You’re grateful for the gag, you’re pretty sure the moan you let out at that thought would bring the night shift running from all the way over in A-wing.

You remember how close he was back in the car. Even having already come once today, the blue balls have to have been frustrating him. 

“Twice in one day.” He must be thinking along similar lines as he rocks inside you. “God, Harry, you’re incredible.” The mean lieutenant act falls away as he starts fucking you in earnest, setting about the task of fucking as many moans out of your drooling lips as he can. You feel his fingers find the bite marks on your hips and press into them.

Your legs shake and your arms ache as he rocks his hips into you in that pleasant cadence you know so well. The way he’ll thrust fast and hard and then stop himself, slowing down, trying to savor the feel of you around him. It’s good for you too, the agonizingly slow drag of his dick inside you, making you feel so exposed, so intimately penetrated and pinned to his desk.

You’re making less and less effort to hide the frenzied moans and snorts coming out of your throat.

You taste him and feel him, sweet pain rocking you to the edges of consciousness. You feel like you could speak to the city herself like this. It probably should be embarrassing to be seen by a genius loci like this, but then, you’re pretty sure a city has seen worse. Revachol certainly has.

Your cock bobs in time with his thrusts, throbbing with the weight of all the jerk-off sessions of the past week untaken. You’re startled out of your revery by his hand slipping around your cock, and stroking you long and slow. Asserting itself. This is mine. I will touch what I like. Mark what I like. Take pleasure, and give it.

You moan, and he thrusts deeper and harder, his control splitting for a moment, and you can feel his breath on your back, hot through the fabric of your shirt, making a wet spot, and he bites there as he comes.

You moan, and he keeps stroking through it all, sealing himself against your back like two bricks, lazily, teasingly stroking you.

“Excellent work, detective.”

You come, of course, from his praise in your ears and the degrading reminder of where you are, in the silk mill turned station, in a wing where only the truly hopeless reprobates work.

You pant together, pressed tight, your arms in danger of giving out underneath you supporting your own weight as well as his, suddenly limbless and exhausted against your back, his cock still in your ass and his hand still affectionately ghosting up and down your sensitive cock.

You slump all the way forward. 

That breaks him out of his spell, and he’s squeezing your cock, affectionately. He releases you and steps back, helping you up, and untying the tie around mouth. You bring your hand up and pluck the glove out of your mouth. “That was… god. Kim.”

Your voice feels raw and rough. You offer the gloves back awkwardly, and he makes a face but accepts them and tucks them in a pocket.

“You’re good to walk?” he asks, a little worried.

You stretch. God, you love that freshly-fucked-by-Kim ache. Nothing like it in the world. “Never better. I can’t promise I’ll look normal when I walk, since you fucked my legs out from under me, but…” you’re pulling up your pants and grinning at him.

Now that he’s that he’s got the clarity that comes from no longer being in a haze of sexual frustration, you can see him regarding his desk warily. The line of your jizz running across it.


Huh. Maybe Kim’s onto something there. That does feel pretty good.

But he finds a towel and starts cleaning things up, rearranging papers like they were before, his ears visibly burning. But you can see from the small smile as he adjusts his glasses that he’s pleased with himself. He’s at least as proud as he is embarrassed.

“To be clear,” he says, looking at what’s probably a very dopey smile on your face. “I don’t want to make a habit of this. We should probably use the office for work going forward.”

“Come on, Kim,” you start to protest, but he hold up his hand.

“If we do anything like this again, we can do it in our place.”


“Our place?” you say, a hopeful grin spreading across your face.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging his jacket back on. “Fuck it. If you still want to?” He sounds slightly nervous. As if you’d possibly say no.

By way of response, you pull him into your arms. You can feel him smile against your chest, tracing the fading bruises. The map he’s made of his affection for you.

You once asked yourself what your body would be marked by. Now you know it's love notes, written in the flesh, absorbed into your body and laid down fresh, again and again. He doesn't have to mark you permanently for you to carry it with you. The iron-rich hemoglobin will break down and be reabsorbed into your bloodstream, different than you found it. Ever-refracting into new colors, like a disco floor.

Riddled with lieutenant.