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Rimbaud was laid out, spread-eagle on the bed.
The old yellow light of the hotel room warmed up his pale winter skin to a rich olive. The quality of the camera was such that you could even see that his hair was not the black that it was often mistaken for, but instead a deep, dark brown. Even Verlaine could admit that Rimbaud looked handsome tonight, and though that seemed like a bittersweet compliment that praised the agent's work ethic more than anything, it was the sincerest one that he could unreservedly provide.
With a kiss-happy sigh, his partner melted further into the covers, arms splayed out to the sides, his fingers twisting up the sheets. Happily exposed, waiting for his rapture.
A lid clicked open. Verlaine watched a thick finger enter Rimbaud, glistening with lube, until it disappeared to the last knuckle. The brunette pushed back into the finger with a near hysterical moan, then, apparently self-conscious of his shameless noises, bit down on his own thumb to muffle the next one, which hitched wetly in his throat.
He was choosing to be loud tonight. Had hardly stopped to breathe, and hiccupped air into his lungs whenever his body forced it upon him.
His lover, a large hulking beast of a man, grinned in evident self-pride.
He grabbed Rimbaud by the wrist and tangled their fingers together without minding the spit, pressing their joined hands into the mattress beside Rimbaud’s head. “What’s the point of booking out a whole floor to ourselves if you’re going to gag yourself, sweetheart?”
Verlaine's partner laughed breathlessly, staring up at the man—Serge Arnault, Chairman of Airbus Co., one of the largest arms exporters in France—with a smitten smile. “You’re right, of course,” Rimbaud demurred, “but I won’t force myself. You’ll have to make me scream.”
“Hm? It almost sounds like you’re trying to give me orders… Why don’t you try asking nicely, like a good little slut?” This statement was punctuated with a flat-handed strike to Rimbaud’s flank.
Verlaine felt a grimace spontaneously appear on his face.
Rimbaud, of course, was utterly taken by the dirty talk. He couldn’t afford to seem otherwise. He started shaking the second Serge Arnault took a stern tone with him, and whimpered like a kicked dog when he was slapped.
“Please make me scream,” Rimbaud pleaded tearfully, sealing it with a perfectly desperate: “Please, Daddy, please—”
He earned himself another finger for that one and a mouthful of Serge’s spit. He was quite good at his job, that much was never in doubt.
Verlaine glanced away from the monitor and its high quality picture of Rimbaud getting fingered in preparation for what might be, if not the most mediocre sex of his career, then certainly the most basic. Another screen sitting on his makeshift desk tracked the download percentage of a large file transfer from Airbus Co.’s servers onto his hard drive.
That data transfer was the true reason behind Rimbaud’s show; nothing more than a distraction while Verlaine stole valuable files right from under their target’s nose. As far as he knew—which was, by design, not much—the government didn’t make a habit of committing corporate espionage against its own country’s weapons contractor, but it certainly wasn’t afraid to act in its own interests when it suspected that their political enemies might be buying from the same seller.
The animal-like grunts and snarls made the pit of Verlaine’s stomach churn. He turned down the volume slightly, checked on another program to make sure his hacking had so far gone undetected, then pressed on a button that allowed him to connect to Rimbaud’s earpiece.
He said calmly into the microphone: “Download is at nineteen percent. Looks like you might be there for a while, Rimbaud.”
In response, Rimbaud slapped a palm over his mouth to muffle a strangled noise and trembled his way through a shocker of an orgasm. His come painted parts of his stomach and chest white, drawing Verlaine’s attention briefly to the way his skin seemed to flutter under the force of his erratic breathing.
Rimbaud’s eyes went wide, staring up at Serge Arnault in doe-eyed surprise. His companion seemed equally as shocked.
Serge whispered, “Really? Just from having your prostate touched? I knew it. You really are a whore.”
He started laughing, almost in awe.
“I-I’ve never done that before,” Rimbaud said, and to his credit he was being genuine, at least from what Verlaine had experienced. It usually took a great deal more effort for Rimbaud to finish. For better or worse, the nature of his training granted him an impressive pool of stamina and a scarily short refractory period. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting…”
“Do I look like I’m complaining?” Serge cupped the back of Rimbaud’s head and pulled him up into a drawn-out, open-mouthed kiss. Rimbaud made another one of his patented mewls as they separated. “Can you keep going? Will you get hard if I continue?”
Rimbaud nodded, “Yes, yes, of course I can, if it’s with you…”
“You’re amazing. Let’s do it, slut. Let’s see how many times I can make you come in a night.”
Goodness. Verlaine really couldn’t have handled that type of role, nor could he turn the volume down anymore without tuning out the video entirely. He didn’t dare risk Rimbaud’s well-being by distracting himself on purpose. Nothing else to do but deal with it.
Though the bad dirty talking sometimes posed a challenge for him to endure, overall, it wasn’t such a big deal to watch these private moments of his partner. He'd seen Rimbaud have sex so many times, he was desensitized to nearly every aspect of it.
The visuals, the obnoxious breathing, the awkward wet sounds; nothing about it made it difficult to look Rimbaud in the eye the following morning. If Rimbaud put a bullet between Serge Arnault’s eyes right then and there without a word of warning, he would still keep his eyes on the screen, because they were partners and this was the job.
What was the difference between that and bearing witness to Rimbaud getting fucked, or doing the fucking, in some cases? In watching him enjoy it, as much as the situation allowed? A hedonistic creature, Verlaine’s partner found his pleasures no matter what the mission entailed. Whether it was with sex or a gun, violence or intimacy—in the end, they were both tools that Rimbaud used to complete an objective. Saying it was the least Verlaine could do to offer no judgment implied that he was doing Rimbaud a favor by not reacting, but Verlaine personally didn’t see it that way. He didn't see it any particular way, really, and he knew a lot of agents within their circle who would agree with him.
And so, Verlaine dedicated a great deal of long-suffering attention to the monitor, eyes flickering randomly over the scene.
They made a handsome couple, he supposed. Even though he had seen Rimbaud in every position he could be folded into, he had a kind of face you just couldn’t get used to, so sometimes it felt like Verlaine was watching something new even if he wasn’t. Serge Arnault wasn’t ugly, either, but there wasn’t anything particularly eye-catching about him.
Verlaine’s thoughts threatened to drift, before he realized that things were heating up on the screen faster than was truly necessary. It appeared that Rimbaud was finally deemed loose enough for Serge’s cock to fit.
It all seemed slightly tedious to Verlaine. The readjusting, the fiddling, the waiting heaped upon more waiting. He’d never seen anyone stretch Rimbaud adequately enough that they could slide in straight away; none of his paramours, previous or current, possessed the patience for it. It made Verlaine recall the first time he’d seen blood on the sheets, the panic. It happened so often now that he didn’t even react, not unless Rimbaud did.
Still, while most of the processes of sex seemed awkward or outright uncomfortable, it evidently was not without its benefits, or humans wouldn’t insist on doing it so often.
“You’re—ah—you’re so—”
“Am I too big for you, baby? Can’t handle me?”
“That’s right, that’s right! I can’t… I can’t…”
“You can’t what, huh? Talk to Daddy, tell me how it feels…”
Oh, Verlaine recognized what was happening. Rimbaud looked a little overwhelmed. There it is.
Rimbaud didn’t like too much foreplay. He never said so, but Verlaine could tell because it was hard to miss. It wasn’t that Rimbaud didn’t get turned on by it—he clearly did—but too much of it during a mission and he’d realize that he was alone in his head.
Then came the anxiety. He started obsessing over his noises, his role, how he looked, whether he was convincing enough, all sorts of things that shook his confidence if he was left to his own devices.
Getting fucked pulled him out of that downward spiral. He liked how it felt so much he would forget about everything else.
Verlaine watched, unphased. He’d seen this part so many times he could have taken a picture and annotated it: step-by-step, the exact way that Rimbaud released his built-up tension, letting go of concerns he didn’t even realize he’d been nursing.
As Serge fucked in deeper, Rimbaud’s face eased, like ice meeting hot water. His back bowed, Serge’s hand supporting his tailbone, until he was arched on the mattress, his weight supported entirely by his shoulders and the possessive palm at the base of his spine. He moved like he was made of liquid, rolling his hips and pushing down impatiently. As Serge fed him another inch, Rimbaud groaned, low and drawn out. Probably involuntary. Definitely sincere.
It was not a detail most people would notice, but then again, Verlaine was in a somewhat unique situation—but Rimbaud was actually pretty quiet when he was enjoying himself. Of course he’d start making a fuss as soon as he got used to the feeling, but for the few minutes during which all he cared about was the blunt pressure in his pelvis from being full, it was the sincerest form of self he could be while pretending to be someone else.
Verlaine thought it was a little interesting, the way Rimbaud liked sex best when he forgot someone else was there. Didn’t that defeat the purpose? He reasoned it away as overexposure. Rimbaud had sex a lot. It didn't always mean that he liked it, but more than that, there were only so many ways you could do it. Eventually you would have to get bored.
He checked his other monitor. Pressed the button to connect to Rimbaud’s earpiece. “Thirty-nine percent. Let you know when it hits fifty.”
Rimbaud’s eyes slammed shut, like he’d aborted a flinch. Serge finally bottomed out, his balls pressed snugly against Rimbaud’s ass, sighing in bliss. Looked like a tight fit. It would have to be. He’d wasted too much time playing with Rimbaud’s prostate, trying to pull out a second orgasm out of the hat, and not enough time stretching.
Verlaine couldn’t explain what possessed him to do it, but he pressed the button again and said, as a farewell, “Have fun, partner.”
“Jesus Christ,” Rimbaud growled with unexpected emotion. The tension returned to his body with a vengeance; he shook like a string about to snap, then collapsed flat onto the bed with a huff of air. His legs were locked tight around Serge’s hips. “Oh my God. I— Move. I mean… Please move... Daddy.”
Serge panted harshly, then picked Rimbaud up by the waist and yanked him backwards onto his dick until he was sheathed all the way inside again. He tossed his head, sweat dripping down his nose. “You’re so fucking tight… I’m going to fuck you so hard my cock will leave an imprint inside your body… good slut, that’s right, you like it, don’t you?”
Rimbaud moaned loudly, as if the caveman’s attempt at dirty talk was what he needed to get him properly excited. “I love it,” He said, “Daddy, I love it so much.”
Serge Arnault was on the older side of his fifties; chances were good that he’d go for a while, then crash to sleep as soon as he was done. Then again, he’d split up with his wife six months ago and reportedly hadn’t slept with anyone since the divorce proceedings were finalized. Maybe this wouldn’t have to be an all-nighter.
Verlaine sighed, stretching his legs out underneath the desk. His back twinged, so he left his chair to take a small lap around the room, keeping a careful eye on the monitors. Serge was rutting into Rimbaud like a dog in heat. Nothing special. On the other screen, the download ticked over to forty percent.
Then he heard a dreaded two-toned beep. It was an alert from a secondary surveillance program that kept his virus undetected as he breached Airbus Co.’s firewalls. It indicated that someone might have noticed his presence in their servers.
Verlaine fell back into his seat and focused on the new problem.
Truthfully, he wasn’t a skilled hacker. He was an assassin, he was not built for anything else, but the way the cloaking software was designed meant that all he needed to do was memorize a series of codes and input them when prompted so that the program would start solving its own issues. It was the government’s solution to what basically amounted to understaffing; there weren’t enough hackers on their payroll to go around, so they built a software that would do it in place of the real thing.
What followed was a nerve-wracking twenty minutes as he responded to the program’s pop-ups; whoever noticed him decided to alert someone else, possibly for a second opinion rather than back-up to kick him out otherwise he would have been pressured to abort the mission. However in the end he successfully managed to protect his backdoor into the servers by the skin of his teeth.
“...come on—come on, you can do it, that’s right…”
Verlaine returned his attention to Rimbaud. Fortunately, nothing amiss had occurred while he was distracted.
Rimbaud was flipped onto his hands and knees with Serge railing him from behind using short, fast strokes, his hips slamming into him with a sound like a jackhammer. He sounded like he was gargling stones, “Let go, just let go, you filthy bitch, come for Daddy—”
“I want to,” Rimbaud whined, pulling out another pornographic one-liner from his bottomless bag, “I want to, Daddy, why don’t you make me? You need to fuck me harder, I need it harder!”
His whole body jolted forward as he got fucked, limply being dragged back into the next thrust. Verlaine couldn’t see his face because his head was hanging down. He was holding himself up pretty steadily despite what could be construed as an exhausted order to hurry up and come already from his companion. Indeed, it had been long enough now that Rimbaud, given the right encouragement, could finish again, but this position wasn’t likely to get him anywhere close.
Rimbaud didn’t enjoy it when he couldn’t see his partner; no one with their history would be able to completely relax when they were naked with an unknown element in their blindspot. It was simple self-preservation to be wary of such a thing.
As tense as he was, the only thing Rimbaud could do to get himself through a second orgasm would be to masturbate, which he wouldn’t risk because it would unbalance him and put his face a bit too close to the plush pillows. He once suffocated a female target that way before, and openly talked about wishing he hadn’t if only because it was all he could think about whenever he was in that same position. It killed the mood.
It took some time, but Serge did come to the right conclusion and immediately stopped his rabid humping to regroup, sliding out and bodily moving Rimbaud until he was laying on his side. Serge twisted him, hooked Rimbaud’s outer leg over his arm and pulled it at a high angle until he could fit in the space between. It put Rimbaud’s foot somewhere in the vicinity of his face, which resulted in his toes getting thoughtlessly sucked into Serge’s mouth.
Wrong, Verlaine scoffed under his breath. Rimbaud’s expression briefly twisted into something strange just before he masked it by throwing his arm over his face, producing a put-upon sob.
Luckily for his partner, Serge couldn’t multi-task that well, and soon abandoned Rimbaud’s foot to focus on jackhammering into his hole again. He must have decided to aim at one point, because Rimbaud’s next moan was not at an irritating, dog-whistle pitch, but instead closer to a low snarl. He gave into it, reaching down to yank at his own cock.
With any luck it’d be over soon. Serge’s face was red and his body was soaked with sweat. Rimbaud was playing with the spongy head of his cock, rolling it around in his cupped palm, intently bringing himself closer to the edge. He was probably pretty desperate for an excuse to be released; his muscles wouldn’t be able to hold his current position for very long. Rimbaud wasn’t that flexible. Verlaine blinked, then checked the other screen tracking the download’s progress. He’d nearly forgotten about it.
He automatically hit the button for the microphone and reported, with a small amount of amusement. “It’s at sixty-nine percent, if you can believe that. Keep up the good work.”
Rimbaud twisted his face so that it was smashed into the sheets, his shoulders rocketing up to his ears. His fingers flew down to lock around the base of his cock with lightning speed, but Verlaine could see that excited way that it twitched and drooled, even if Rimbaud had swooped in at the nick of time to stave off a proper orgasm. Which—again, defeated the purpose, but that was Rimbaud’s specialty at this point. “What,” Rimbaud groaned, voice muffled by the sheets. “What in the— Fuck!”
Serge chuckled and asked, “No one ever fucked you like this, baby? I don’t believe it. A slut like you would be well-used. Your hole is too loose. I know it.”
Verlaine sighed. What was it, then? Loose or tight? Why could no one ever make up their mind about what was better?
“I—I—”
“Mmm, yeah. You close, baby?”
Rimbaud pulled his face up from the sheets, his skin wet and cheeks flushed the darkest red Verlaine had ever seen on him. “Yes,” He answered, brows furrowed like he wasn’t happy about it. He shut his eyes and his pinched expression smoothed out a little, before crumpling up in pleasure when Serge’s next thrust shoved him up the bed. “Yes, I… I am, I’m close, I’m so close.”
“You’re close, what?”
Rimbaud blinked. “...I’m close, Daddy.”
“That’s right, baby, that’s it—come for Daddy, don’t worry, Daddy won’t get mad…Well, maybe a little bit, but you can take it, can’t you?”
Verlaine could see Rimbaud’s eyes focus, and in doing so understood that Serge’s persistent Daddy kink had, not for the first time, softened Rimbaud’s dick, dragging him further away from the orgasm he had desperately chased (then stopped) not five minutes earlier. It was unprofessional—and not to mention, dangerously distracting—but Verlaine considered for a second the ramifications of using the microphone frivolously to ask, ‘Hey, is this guy serious?’
In the wider scheme of Rimbaud’s exploits, a Daddy kink really didn’t make the list of strange fetishes he’d catered to. It was so common, in fact, that Verlaine hardly noticed it anymore. Rimbaud was involved in much weirder scenes—what came to mind immediately was the rod thing. It did not matter that it must have felt good, you’d never guess just from looking at it. Verlaine could not fathom that it didn’t hurt in a way that wasn’t pleasurable. And the one where Rimbaud acted like a two year old child, drank warm milk from a bottle and everything. That one was… disturbing to witness, if he was honest. So, a Daddy kink was nothing. It was the way Serge was using it that was bringing Verlaine’s judgment to the forefront. He dropped the word like he was sponsored to say it.
Even Rimbaud was struggling to stay immersed. “Y-yes, Daddy, I can take it…”
Serge started moving again, his eyes greedily locked onto Rimbaud’s flustered face. “Then come,” He demanded, thrusting, picking up speed. Verlaine thought that Rimbaud looked a bit worried. He was never going to come if he didn’t get out of his head.
No matter. Rimbaud was an experienced intelligence agent. He’d figure it out, as he’d done with countless missions already.
Verlaine checked on his background programs with a small amount of paranoia, but everything was operating as intended. The download triumphantly made it to seventy-five percent completed. There was little point in reporting such a meager amount of progress to Rimbaud.
“...”
His finger was on the button. He wasn’t aware that he’d moved. What a silly mistake. He released it, then crossed his arms for good measure, keeping his hands away from the keyboard. He stared blankly at the screen. Hopefully Rimbaud was too busy getting his guts rearranged to notice—
Hm.
No such luck.
Rimbaud had raised his arms over his head, pretending to grip the bedcovers to mask the subtler movements of his fingers. Easy to miss. Verlaine would not notice if it were not the whole reason he monitored Rimbaud in the first place. His partner kept moaning with the consistency of a recording, as if part of his mind wasn’t dedicated to the task of using their special Morse code to tap out a rather basic question: W-H-A-T-?
Such useless concern… “Sorry, forget about it,” He said softly. Then, because such a pitiful reply was bound to make Rimbaud worry more, “Pressed it by accident.”
W-H-Y-?
There was not a satisfying explanation to provide. Verlaine just said, “Don’t worry about it. You need to focus.”
Serge bellowed out a moan. He panted, “Aaaah—baby, you tightened up so much just then…”
Rimbaud’s fingers said: W-H-A-T-!
His mouth said: “Yes, yes, because you’re fucking me so good, Daddy. Flip ov— please, can we change positions, this one is beginning to hurt, I think I might cramp up!”
The prospect of a cramp interfering with the mood roused Serge into moving. He backed off and allowed Rimbaud to pose him how he liked, leaning back against the headboard with his knees spread apart. Rimbaud faced forward and backed up until he was sitting in Serge’s lap. Like this, all he had to do was remember to ride Serge and make the right sounds, but he didn’t have to police his facial expressions and with his hands planted on the bed, he would not have to disguise his Morse code communication.
Verlaine pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling tiredly. Rimbaud went to work riding Serge’s cock. Since he was quite skilled at it, you couldn’t tell that he had other things on his mind.
When he started tapping a follow up question, Verlaine interrupted, “I told you to forget about it. Why don’t you ever listen?”
Offense was painted all over Rimbaud’s face. He tapped, Y-O-U-H-A-V-E-N-E-V-E-R
Verlaine didn’t need him to finish the sentence, that would be a waste of time. It was going to be: You have never done that before.
He was right. Verlaine was a professional. He’d never pressed the button by accident, only ever when he needed to communicate something relevant to the mission. Honeypots were definitely more within Rimbaud’s wheelhouse than his own, so he was strict about limiting chatter on the comms. He didn’t want to distract Rimbaud.
… Like he was doing now.
Verlaine cleared his throat. “I am not an infallible machine. I make mistakes. Now you—” In the video feed, something bad happened: Serge was frowning. Rimbaud’s responses had become rote as he waited on the line for Verlaine to clear his doubts.
Serge was starting to notice, and becoming confused.
Damn it. “Rimbaud, moan!”
Rimbaud wasn’t stupid. He followed the hasty command obediently, the sound tapering off into a guttural groan, and he dropped down to prop himself on his elbows. “Daddy, I’m sorry, I’m too tired, I…”
Serge chuckled and grabbed two rough fistfuls of Rimbaud’s ass. He said, “I guess I can understand that. Poor baby, exhausted yourself on Daddy’s huge dick, didn’t you? Do you want me to help out? You want me to do the work for you?”
“Yes, please.”
“You wanna come?”
“Yes, please.”
“Then I’ll bounce you, okay? I’ll guide you, all you have to do is follow Daddy’s lead and I’ll make sure you come. Is that what you want?”
“Yeah, Daddy, I need it—”
“You might want to actually touch yourself then,” Verlaine mutterered lowly. That would be an acceptable comment to make if he managed to keep it to himself, but of course, he returned to his senses to find that his finger was on the button. Geez.
Rimbaud obviously would have heard him, but played off any surprise at the snide remark by bringing his hand up to his mouth and sinking his teeth into the meat of his palm. However, his eyes gave him away. He was blinking in surprise, and his sharp gaze cut straight to the lighting fixture in the room where the camera was set up.
Verlaine made eye contact with him through the video feed and felt his spine tense. “Sorry.” He apologized again. “Download is at eighty-one percent.”
With his eyes locked on the ceiling camera, Rimbaud made a show of rocking eagerly into the hands of Serge, rising up to the tip and slamming down on the older man’s cock at his leisure. Serge evidently preferred a faster, bruising pace when he fucked, but Verlaine knew that Rimbaud did not. He would have wanted it slower, but Serge wasn’t going to give that to him and Verlaine’s partner, despite his many talents, seemed increasingly unlikely to come without it. He kept making his fabricated noises, encouraging Serge with a few pathetic-sounding renditions of the usual, “Daddy, are you going to fill me up?” and spurring them towards the conclusion of the night, but made no move to remove his hands from the mattress. His hands were curled into fists. He wasn’t trying to communicate, and yet he wasn’t looking away.
Verlaine inhaled slowly. He pressed the button. He didn’t say anything. Just wanted Rimbaud to know that he was still around. As if that could be forgotten.
Rimbaud’s eyes slid closed for a moment, his mouth twisting into a complicated shape. Without looking at anyone, he asked, “Should I touch myself?”
Serge was on it in a heartbeat: “Should you touch yourself, what?”
“Should I touch myself, Daddy?” Rimbaud blinked open his eyes and hastily corrected himself, but there was something about his tone that struck Verlaine as a bit insincere. He was panting from exertion, but otherwise he seemed quite… calm. Or maybe determined was a more appropriate word.
It was certainly not the demeanor he’d adopted to get Serge Arnault into his bed for the night, the bashful little twink who wanted to get dominated by a sexy older gentleman. In fact, he looked almost like his usual intelligent, serene self—
No, not almost, there was nothing almost about it. That was exactly what was happening.
Rimbaud was dropping character.
His resting face permanently looked like someone had frozen it still; he wasn’t a naturally expressive person. Right now, he was frowning, but it looked quite stiff, like he was trying hard not to. As Serge’s bedpartner, Rimbaud had not struggled to emote even once, he was that deep into his character. That awkwardness was most definitely, without-a-doubt, his partner.
Serge said, “Hm, do you think that you need to? Yeah? You won’t come on my dick?”
Verlaine had a different approach. “Why are you bothering me with a question like that? It’s not about whether you should — you won’t come unless you do.”
Rimbaud released a harsh breath. “But I—Daddy, I don’t know how, you have to show me how,” He said it in a rush, like an actor rushing through their lines. Then, slightly more composed, in his normal voice, which Verlaine had known before even his own name, “Tell me how to do it.”
The assassin did not even hear what embarrassing line Serge might have mustered up. It wasn't important. He scoffed into the microphone. "Seriously? What is this, some kind of test? Do you want me to prove that I know what you like? You’re constantly wasting my time with pointless hypotheticals." Verlaine's voice was heated with annoyance, "We’re partners. I’ve been watching you for years, of course I know how to get you off."
Rimbaud’s eyelashes fluttered. He didn't look upset in the slightest. Verlaine pushed him. "Aren’t you asking because there’s something in particular you want to hear?”
“No, I—” His stupid, thoughtless partner bit his lip. “Daddy, can you—harder, please!”
“Stop asking for it to be harder. You know you don’t want that,” Verlaine said, truly a bit irritated with it all.
It was too late for notes. Serge had been given permission to do as he wanted to do, and drove into Rimbaud with his entire body weight. He shuffled them around until Rimbaud was back to being braced on his hands and knees. “What do you—” He babbled nonsensically. Serge paid no mind to it, which was fine, as he wasn't the one being addressed.
The question was for Verlaine, so he provided some free advice, “You don’t want it harder. You don’t want it faster. You keep asking for things you don’t want, then get upset when you’re given them. Learn to ask properly and you’ll have an easier time of it.” There was no response from the other agent, apart from the usual mishmash of pornographic noises. He felt tempted to roll his eyes, but took a second to calm down instead. There was no point getting angry about something like this. But it was rude of Rimbaud to start, then not reply. “Hm? Well? Go on, I told you to ask.”
“Ahhhh—ahhhsk—?”
“Ask him to slow down,” Verlaine ordered, his tone finally cooling down into a more unbothered register. “Ask him to stop. To pull out. Tell him you want him to tease your hole with his cock until you’re drooling for it, until you beg, and that you don’t want him to listen even if you start crying. Tell him that you want to feel it—that you need to be made to feel it. That you like to appreciate a good fat cock inch by inch. That you like it when he pushes past your bullied hole slowly, like you have all the time in the world."
Rimbaud’s blinks became delayed, as if his eyelids were too heavy for him to lift, but they did not stray from the camera. He panted, licked his lips, swallowed like his mouth was dry.
Verlaine checked on the status of Serge behind him; he was chasing his own orgasm, mumbling about how Rimbaud was tightening up, heaping praise upon his hole.
Rimbaud wasn’t even listening to him. He was holding himself up on weakening arms, his face a dark, deep red. Verlaine checked the other monitors; the download was at ninety-five percent. Ah, not much longer now. Rimbaud didn’t say anything, so he kept talking.
“You see, you don’t want it harder or faster, in fact, you never do. Why didn’t you try telling him any of that? Are you afraid you’ll like it too much? Is it too honest for you? That type of thing doesn’t matter to me. You don’t have to confess anything since I already know. You only like it when you can feel it in your stomach.”
Rimbaud just… glitched. His elbows gave up and he collapsed, face-planting into the mattress with a groan. Serge started mouthing off, slamming his palm down on Rimbaud’s cheeks and jiggling them. “Fuck yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!”
Rimbaud moved his face so that he could breathe. The microphone was sensitive, so it was easy to pick up the soft, trembling whines he was making, so pitiful that it stoked the fires of Verlaine’s compassionate heart. He laughed a bit. “Sorry, did I embarrass you? No need to ask for anything then. Just forget about it, okay?”
Saying ‘no’ out loud in this situation was not ideal, so of course, Rimbaud tapped it out. He didn’t even check to see if Serge wasn’t looking, just started doing it: N-O-!
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, as usual,” Verlaine clicked his tongue in disapproval. His partner's breathing hitched. “I said you don’t have to ask. But I’ll still help you. Mr. Arnault is about to blow his load. You should definitely touch yourself or you’ll have some explaining to do.”
H-O-W-?
Rimbaud wriggled until he was using one elbow to hover over the bed, his other arm wriggling down. Like this, he wouldn’t be able to respond. He’d just have to listen. Verlaine put his chin in his hands and instructed, “Just a finger will do for now.”
“Hah,” Rimbaud panted out, frowning again. But he still obeyed. He stroked tentatively over the flushed skin of his rigid cock, and he moaned under his breath when it jumped under his fingertips, spitting out a gob of pre. “Haaah—”
“Focus on the tip, I think. Your head is usually a bit more sensitive right now. I honestly don’t think you’ll take long. One finger, remember, try to listen. Circle the top. Are you ignoring Mr. Arnault? Isn’t that kind of rude?”
Rimbaud swallowed shakily, then cried out in that faux tone of his, “Daddy!”
“Yes, baby, yes!” Serge bellowed in response.
“There we go,” Verlaine chuckled. What a simple man. “I guess you’re not so bad after all, partner of mine. Okay, keep at it. Just like that. Go under the ridge a little bit, I remember you…” As soon as he moved his finger correctly, he jolted and trembled so hard his teeth chattered, “Yes, you like it there, I thought so. Keep going, I didn’t tell you to stop. Don’t just guess, wait for me to say something.”
“Jesus,” Rimbaud moaned deeply, “fuuuuuck...”
“Get your hand wet.” Verlaine waited for him to spit into the palm of his hand. “Okay, you can use all of your fingers now, I’m pretty sure this will do it for you. Do you need me to keep talking you through it?”
“Yes, yes, yes—”
“To think you’d need to be coached on such a simple task.”
“Oh my God, you… Pa—Wait, wait, ah—”
Serge had come and Rimbaud wasn’t even responding to it. He was utterly devoted to stripping his cock frantically, panting open-mouthed against the sheets, his eyes squeezed shut in frustration.
Verlaine felt that same wave of pity from earlier hit him. Poor guy. He really got himself twisted up on this mission. “Go ahead,” Verlaine permitted, his voice warm, “You can come, Arthur.”
It didn’t take any more than that. Rimbaud shoved his face into his elbow, his shoulders and back trembling with bitten-back sobs. For a few minutes there was no sound except for that. Then, Serge bent over to press his forehead into the nape of Rimbaud’s neck, kissing it and praising him again, “You’re a good slut, baby, you did so well, you did so good for Daddy.”
“You did alright,” Verlaine felt the need to correct, because he knew that he, at least, was telling the truth. Rimbaud was off his game tonight. Then again, so was he. Things like that could be forgiven every once in a while.
He stretched his arms over his head and groaned at the slight tingle. He needed a proper walk once they were back at headquarters. To the near catatonic Rimbaud, he advised, “Download is complete. I’m going to start packing up here. You know where to meet me when you’re done with Mr. Arnault. I’ll keep my comms in; call if you get into any trouble.”
Rimbaud had only just caught his breath. Being where he was, he still couldn’t respond to Verlaine, but he managed a rather unsubtle thumbs up, though it looked quite weak and he couldn’t hold it up for long. For all that he was a pain in the ass, his partner could be a bit cute, too.
Verlaine smiled to himself before he walked away from the desk, gathering the equipment quickly. He packed away the screens last, so he could keep an eye on Rimbaud until the very last minute.