Cliffton Fanfiction: Interview Skills
This is NSFW fanfiction of n3m3sis43's Cliffton universe. Trigger warning for dubcon.
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Get home. Fucking brutal workday. Just because the building blew up - thanks to us -, didn't mean we could fucking skip. Wanted to - should have fucking skipped.
Wes asks, “Are you okay?”
Give him my fucking lab coat. “Building blows up. Don't even get a fucking day off.”
Been going to work every fucking day since the mission. Gotta keep my cool. Fucking impossible. Paranoid fucking workplace. Coworkers calling each other terrorists and traitors. People in the second fucking WeaponsDev building fucking hate us for taking their space.
Not my fucking fault. Wait, it is. Don't fucking know that, though.
Might as well get it out now. “Fucking WeaponsDev making everyone in my building do interviews. Wanna find the traitor.”
Calla asks, “They're interviewing you, Princess? We're in trouble.”
“Whatever,” I mumble. Don't need to tell her she's fucking right.
Wes says, “We can do what we did before and feed Devin answers over his neurovision implant.”
Fucking better do that. Not sending all my friends to jail because I can't give a fucking interview.
* * *
Morning of the interview and everything's fucking splendiferous. Wes hands me my SynthBrew. Gonna fucking need it. He's talking about everything I need to remember. Can't hear a fucking thing. Not awake yet. Gotta wait for the SynthBrew to kick in. Hope it kicks in fucking soon.
Words filter in. From Calla. “Look, Princess, don't volunteer any information unless they ask for it. The less you say, the better.”
“Don't fucking call me Princess,” I mutter. Know not to fucking volunteer info. Not gonna do that shit.
“You'll do fine,” Wes says. “We'll be there for you.”
Gonna need them. Got me through my job interview, can fucking get me through this. No reason for breathing to be so fucking difficult. Must be the wonky ventilation. Need to get around to fixing that. Been putting it off too fucking long.
Finish my fucking SynthBrew. Think I need extra this morning. Wes gives me more. Fucking wonky ventilation. Wish I didn't have to deal with this.
“You should get going. You don't wanna be late, and the second WeaponsDev building's farther away,” Wes murmurs.
“He's right, Princess. Tardiness is a clear sign of terrorism,” Calla says.
“Shut up,” I mumble. Shit's not fucking funny. Don't know what these people will think is a sign of fucking terrorism.
Walk to work takes fucking forever. Am almost late. Make it just in fucking time. Breathe a sigh of relief. Harder than I expect. Wonky ventilation in this fucking building, too.
Told to go to the fucking basement. Don't fucking like that. Ventilation's extra fucking wonky down here. Lighting's weird, too. Fucking dark. Ominous. Think they're trying to intimidate us. Not fucking scared, okay? No reason to be.
Hear Wes over my implan. “Remember everything we talked about?”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
Find the waiting room for the interviews. Don't fucking like it one bit. Other people here are fucking twitchy. Coworker glares at me. Glare right back. Never liked that bastard. Sit on the bench farthest away from him. Fucking feels wrong down here.
Head of my fucking department strides in. Smug bastard is smiling. “In case any of you upstanding citizens were thinking of having answers to your interview questions sent to your neurovision implants, think again. No such tricks from your little terrorist friends will be allowed. All neurovision implants are to be turned to 'offline' mode for the duration of your stay here today. We have ways of knowing if you try to circumvent this requirement.”
Fuck.
Can't get answers from Wes if my implant's fucking offline. Throat closes up. Hard to fucking breathe. Gotta breathe. Can't panic. Not gonna fucking panic. Turn my implant to offline mode. Think I hear Wes squeak in surprise. Could have found a way around this if I had known they were gonna fucking make us do it this way. Should have realized. Didn't fucking think about it.
Have to wait my fucking turn now. Bastard coworker smirks at me as he's called into his interview. Interminable fucking wait. How long does it take to prove someone's not a terrorist? A long fucking time.
When my coworker exits, he's still fucking smirking.
“They don't think I'm a terrorist,” he says.
“Whatever,” I mutter.
He leaves.
They call the next fucking person. “Devin Fenton.” It's my fucking turn. Can't breathe. Gotta fucking breathe.
Can't seem to get up, either. Fucking frozen. Heart's hammering. Throat closes up. Come on, get it fucking together.
Stand up. Walk towards the fucking interview room. All I gotta do is prove I'm not a terrorist. When I am a fucking terrorist. Easy as fucking pie.
Enter the interrogation room. Feels like a fucking dungeon. Small and square. Single overhead light, so it's dark as fuck. Metal table and chair. And the fucking interrogator. Sorry, interviewer.
He's blonde. Ice blue eyes. Would be fucking attractive if he didn't hold my fate in his hands. Stares at me like I'm a fucking insect. Try not to glare back at him. Wouldn't fucking look good if I did. Not sure how well I manage.
“I'm Officer Riley. I'll be doing this interview,” he says.
“Of course you'll be doing my fucking interview. Nobody else in the room, is there?” Fucking brilliant, dude.
Riley narrows his eyes. “Attempts at witty banter aren't going to convince me of your innocence. And your name is?”
Name. Right. I fucking have one of those. “Devin Renton. Fenton. I'm Devin Fenton. With an F.”
“Very well, Mr. Fenton. What do you do at WeaponsDev?” he asks.
Work to take it fucking down. Tell him, “Wasn't trying to blow up the building. I'm not a fucking terrorist.”
Stomach drops into my fucking shoes. Heart hammers. Throat closes up so bad I can't fucking speak.
“I didn't ask you if you were a terrorist,” Riley murmurs. “So, what do you do at WeaponsDev, since you obviously weren't trying to blow it up?”
Still can't fucking speak.
Riley glares at me. “Yes?”
Try to speak. Can't fucking manage it.
He says, “You do remember how to use your voice, correct? After all, you just told me how you most certainly aren't a terrorist.”
Right. Find my fucking voice. “Neurons. I mean, neural interfaces. That's what I fucking did. Neural fucking interfaces. For stuff like explosive suits I did not steal.”
The officer gives me a odd look I don't fucking like. “So, you are not a terrorist and didn't steal the explosive suit. Did you know it wasn't common knowledge the prototype was stolen?”
“Of course it was common fucking knowledge, dude,” I mutter.
It had to be common fucking knowledge, right? Heart's hammering even worse now. Gotta dig myself out of this fucking hole. Riley does not fucking like me. I can tell.
Riley shakes his head. “No, Mr. Fenton, it was not common knowledge. The higher-ups didn't want it known, but, somehow, you knew. May I ask how?”
“Not from fucking stealing it myself,” I say.
“Then how?” Those fucking ice blue eyes stare right through me.
“A little bird told me.” Don't think he's gonna fucking buy that.
“And is this 'little bird' a terrorist?” Riley wonders.
I say, “Birds can't be fucking terrorists.” That doesn't even make sense.
The officer sighs. “So, let me get this straight. You are not a terrorist, didn't steal the explosive suit and a little bird gave you secret knowledge about how it was stolen.”
“That's fucking right,” I mutter. What else can I fucking say?
Riley fucking looks at me. “You know, I'm wondering if you got your position at WeaponsDev because you're exceptionally pretty. You certainly didn't get it from your shining interview skills or ability to think under pressure.”
“Don't call me pretty,” I mumble.
“But you are pretty, Devin,” he says. Riley pauses and leans across the table. “Clearly this interview isn't working. You have as much coherence as the average drunkard, and most of them are better liars. If we want to establish that you're not a terrorist, perhaps we will need to use special interrogation techniques.”
Feel my fucking cheeks burn. Not blushing. “Special interrogation techniques?”
Riley lifts a hand and fucking strokes my cheek. “I believe we can work something out to prove your innocence. You may have horrendous interview skills, but maybe you have other skills that can show how you're not a terrorist?”
My whole body flushes. “Yeah, I've got - skills.”
“Excellent,” he purrs. “This should work out well for both of us.”
Riley gets up from the table. Walks around so he's standing fucking behind me. Grabs my “professional” braid. Fucking pulls on it to lift me out of my chair. Standing face to face with him now. Guy's fucking smiling. He's shorter than me but feels like he's staring down at me anyway.
Heart's still going fast. Not from fucking anxiety anymore. Riley drops my braid. Leans in and fucking kisses me. He's rough about it. Fucking fine by me. Wrap my arms around him. He does the fucking same. Wastes no time deepening the kiss. Good kisser, too.
I play my tongue against his. Fucking moan against Riley's lips. He pulls me even fucking closer. Grinds against me. Think I feel an ache building between my legs. Riley removes my fucking lab coat. It's gonna get dirty as fuck lying on the interrogation room floor like that. Don't fucking care right now as he kisses down my neck.
The officer pulls my hair out of its braid. I slip a hand under his shirt. Know I feel an ache between my legs, now. Fucking undeniable. Even more fucking undeniable when he pushes me up against the wall, hard. Gasp and shiver at the slight pain from that.
“You like it rough, hmm?” Riley asks. “Because you're not a terrorist, right?”
I fucking nod.
He rips my shirt off. Fucking bites down on my neck. Gasp at that. Squirm, too. Riley chuckles before teasing my collarbone with his tongue. Feels fucking amazing. Even more fucking amazing when bites my shoulder. Shiver with fucking pleasure.
Shiver again when he starts kissing and biting down my chest. Riley bites fucking hard. I yelp when he gets a nipple. That ache between my legs gets worse and fucking worse. Squirm more as my body flushes again. Press my hands against the wall to steady myself. Fucking hard to stay steady with the way Riley kisses and bites.
“Want - fucking more,” I gasp.
Riley murmurs, “Of course you do, pretty boy.”
Keeps kissing and biting. Don't even bother telling Riley not to fucking call me pretty. Difficult to fucking speak, anyway.
Impossible to fucking speak when he starts unbuckling my belt. Moan in anticipation. Let out an ever louder moan when Riley yanks off my pants and boxers, exposing me. He looks up at me, eyes fucking flashing. Takes me in his mouth. Gasp when Riley starts sucking.
Shudder with pleasure as he works. Whole body's fucking shaking. Riley fucking bites down on my cock. I cry out. Fucking pleasure overwhelms me. Shake even harder. Don't think I'll last much longer. Could swear he's laughing as he sucks my dick. Riley bites down again. I cry out once more. Fucking love how he bites.
Soon, I come, body shaking. Moan the loudest I have yet. So fucking amazing.
Riley swallows everything. Smiles as I go soft and slip out of his mouth. Can't fucking move. All the energy sucked out of me. The officer leans on the wall next to me.
“You - fucking got skills, too,” I manage through my fucking exhausted haze.
He murmurs, “I'm not done with you.” Riley cups my cheek in his hand. Pulls my face to his and kisses me.
I kiss him back. Still too tired to kiss very hard. Keep fucking kissing, anyway. Feels fucking good even if I can't do much.
After who knows how fucking long, I recover my energy. Good timing, too. Riley pulls away long enough to take off his shoes, yank off his pants and expose himself. He's hard. Think I'm fucking hard again, too.
“Gonna take your shirt off?” I ask.
“Don't need to take it off to fuck you,” he growls.
Riley grabs me and flips me around so I'm facing the fucking wall. He smashes me against it. Spreads my legs. Now fucking aching so hard it hurts. Riley pins my arms to the wall.
“Suspects don't need lube, right?” he mutters.
Don't fucking want lube, anyway.
He pushes inside me. Fucking hurts. I cry out, fucking loving how it feels. Riley's not fucking gentle. Thrusts hard. Fucking pounds me. Pressed into the wall now. Riley keeps at it. Finds my spot. I gasp with pleasure as he hits it, over and fucking over. Moan, too. Want to reach for myself. Can't because the officer's got my arms pinned. Fucking frustrating.
That ache builds to impossible fucking levels. Riley keeps thrusting. Almost fucking unbearable how good it feels. Want to come so bad. Don't know if I can unless he lets go of my arms.
I gasp, “Let - let my arms go.”
“Only if you ask nicely, pretty boy,” Riley purrs.
Continues fucking thrusting. Enough to make it feel amazing. Not fucking enough to send me over the edge.
“Fucking - please,” I moan.
“Well, since you asked nicely,” he says.
Riley lets my arms go. I grab my cock. Start stroking as he thrusts fucking harder than he has yet. Not gonna last long at all. Feels fucking incredible now that I have my arms back.
Don't fucking last long. I come with a loud cry of fucking pleasure. Riley thrusts a couple more times. Feel him come, too. Fucking moans as he does. Goes soft and slides out of me with a satisfied sigh. I can't fucking move. Arms hang by my sides as I lean against the fucking wall. Wait to fucking recover.
When I do, Riley's fucking dressed. “I suppose you're not a terrorist after all, Mr., ah, Fenton.”
Fucking better not be a terrorist after that, no matter how good it felt. Gather my clothes. Get dressed as Riley watches, fucking smirking. Lab coat is fucking dirty. Don't wanna put it back on with all the fucking stains. Still have a fucking workday to complete, though.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Riley looks me over. He murmurs, “I'll be sure to tell WeaponsDev you're...squeaky-clean.”
Fucking snort. Not any kind of fucking “clean” in this lab coat.
“Have a nice fucking day,” I mutter. Not sure what else to fucking say, okay?
Exit the interrogation room. Ignore the stares I get for my dirty lab coat. Wish I had purchased a fucking spare.
Rest of the workday is fucking awkward. Glare at my bastard coworker as he snickers at my lab coat. One to fucking talk with that messy hair of his. How WeaponsDev lets him get away with that, I don't fucking know.
Take the lab coat off when the day's over. Walk home with it in my fucking arms. Get back to the house. Wes greets me. Then he sees my fucking dirty lab coat.
His eyes go wide. “Devin? What happened to your lab coat, dude?”
Don't look at him. “Fucking dropped it,” I mumble.
“I'm gonna need so much HyperCleaner to get these stains out! Where did you drop this?” Lucky Wes runs to the fucking laundry room so I don't have to answer that.
So fucking awkward. At least I saved all my friends from going to jail because of me. That's worth any amount of fucking awkward.
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written for the hc_bingo prompt "Blackmail"
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Get home. Fucking brutal workday. Just because the building blew up - thanks to us -, didn't mean we could fucking skip. Wanted to - should have fucking skipped.
Wes asks, “Are you okay?”
Give him my fucking lab coat. “Building blows up. Don't even get a fucking day off.”
Been going to work every fucking day since the mission. Gotta keep my cool. Fucking impossible. Paranoid fucking workplace. Coworkers calling each other terrorists and traitors. People in the second fucking WeaponsDev building fucking hate us for taking their space.
Not my fucking fault. Wait, it is. Don't fucking know that, though.
Might as well get it out now. “Fucking WeaponsDev making everyone in my building do interviews. Wanna find the traitor.”
Calla asks, “They're interviewing you, Princess? We're in trouble.”
“Whatever,” I mumble. Don't need to tell her she's fucking right.
Wes says, “We can do what we did before and feed Devin answers over his neurovision implant.”
Fucking better do that. Not sending all my friends to jail because I can't give a fucking interview.
* * *
Morning of the interview and everything's fucking splendiferous. Wes hands me my SynthBrew. Gonna fucking need it. He's talking about everything I need to remember. Can't hear a fucking thing. Not awake yet. Gotta wait for the SynthBrew to kick in. Hope it kicks in fucking soon.
Words filter in. From Calla. “Look, Princess, don't volunteer any information unless they ask for it. The less you say, the better.”
“Don't fucking call me Princess,” I mutter. Know not to fucking volunteer info. Not gonna do that shit.
“You'll do fine,” Wes says. “We'll be there for you.”
Gonna need them. Got me through my job interview, can fucking get me through this. No reason for breathing to be so fucking difficult. Must be the wonky ventilation. Need to get around to fixing that. Been putting it off too fucking long.
Finish my fucking SynthBrew. Think I need extra this morning. Wes gives me more. Fucking wonky ventilation. Wish I didn't have to deal with this.
“You should get going. You don't wanna be late, and the second WeaponsDev building's farther away,” Wes murmurs.
“He's right, Princess. Tardiness is a clear sign of terrorism,” Calla says.
“Shut up,” I mumble. Shit's not fucking funny. Don't know what these people will think is a sign of fucking terrorism.
Walk to work takes fucking forever. Am almost late. Make it just in fucking time. Breathe a sigh of relief. Harder than I expect. Wonky ventilation in this fucking building, too.
Told to go to the fucking basement. Don't fucking like that. Ventilation's extra fucking wonky down here. Lighting's weird, too. Fucking dark. Ominous. Think they're trying to intimidate us. Not fucking scared, okay? No reason to be.
Hear Wes over my implan. “Remember everything we talked about?”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
Find the waiting room for the interviews. Don't fucking like it one bit. Other people here are fucking twitchy. Coworker glares at me. Glare right back. Never liked that bastard. Sit on the bench farthest away from him. Fucking feels wrong down here.
Head of my fucking department strides in. Smug bastard is smiling. “In case any of you upstanding citizens were thinking of having answers to your interview questions sent to your neurovision implants, think again. No such tricks from your little terrorist friends will be allowed. All neurovision implants are to be turned to 'offline' mode for the duration of your stay here today. We have ways of knowing if you try to circumvent this requirement.”
Fuck.
Can't get answers from Wes if my implant's fucking offline. Throat closes up. Hard to fucking breathe. Gotta breathe. Can't panic. Not gonna fucking panic. Turn my implant to offline mode. Think I hear Wes squeak in surprise. Could have found a way around this if I had known they were gonna fucking make us do it this way. Should have realized. Didn't fucking think about it.
Have to wait my fucking turn now. Bastard coworker smirks at me as he's called into his interview. Interminable fucking wait. How long does it take to prove someone's not a terrorist? A long fucking time.
When my coworker exits, he's still fucking smirking.
“They don't think I'm a terrorist,” he says.
“Whatever,” I mutter.
He leaves.
They call the next fucking person. “Devin Fenton.” It's my fucking turn. Can't breathe. Gotta fucking breathe.
Can't seem to get up, either. Fucking frozen. Heart's hammering. Throat closes up. Come on, get it fucking together.
Stand up. Walk towards the fucking interview room. All I gotta do is prove I'm not a terrorist. When I am a fucking terrorist. Easy as fucking pie.
Enter the interrogation room. Feels like a fucking dungeon. Small and square. Single overhead light, so it's dark as fuck. Metal table and chair. And the fucking interrogator. Sorry, interviewer.
He's blonde. Ice blue eyes. Would be fucking attractive if he didn't hold my fate in his hands. Stares at me like I'm a fucking insect. Try not to glare back at him. Wouldn't fucking look good if I did. Not sure how well I manage.
“I'm Officer Riley. I'll be doing this interview,” he says.
“Of course you'll be doing my fucking interview. Nobody else in the room, is there?” Fucking brilliant, dude.
Riley narrows his eyes. “Attempts at witty banter aren't going to convince me of your innocence. And your name is?”
Name. Right. I fucking have one of those. “Devin Renton. Fenton. I'm Devin Fenton. With an F.”
“Very well, Mr. Fenton. What do you do at WeaponsDev?” he asks.
Work to take it fucking down. Tell him, “Wasn't trying to blow up the building. I'm not a fucking terrorist.”
Stomach drops into my fucking shoes. Heart hammers. Throat closes up so bad I can't fucking speak.
“I didn't ask you if you were a terrorist,” Riley murmurs. “So, what do you do at WeaponsDev, since you obviously weren't trying to blow it up?”
Still can't fucking speak.
Riley glares at me. “Yes?”
Try to speak. Can't fucking manage it.
He says, “You do remember how to use your voice, correct? After all, you just told me how you most certainly aren't a terrorist.”
Right. Find my fucking voice. “Neurons. I mean, neural interfaces. That's what I fucking did. Neural fucking interfaces. For stuff like explosive suits I did not steal.”
The officer gives me a odd look I don't fucking like. “So, you are not a terrorist and didn't steal the explosive suit. Did you know it wasn't common knowledge the prototype was stolen?”
“Of course it was common fucking knowledge, dude,” I mutter.
It had to be common fucking knowledge, right? Heart's hammering even worse now. Gotta dig myself out of this fucking hole. Riley does not fucking like me. I can tell.
Riley shakes his head. “No, Mr. Fenton, it was not common knowledge. The higher-ups didn't want it known, but, somehow, you knew. May I ask how?”
“Not from fucking stealing it myself,” I say.
“Then how?” Those fucking ice blue eyes stare right through me.
“A little bird told me.” Don't think he's gonna fucking buy that.
“And is this 'little bird' a terrorist?” Riley wonders.
I say, “Birds can't be fucking terrorists.” That doesn't even make sense.
The officer sighs. “So, let me get this straight. You are not a terrorist, didn't steal the explosive suit and a little bird gave you secret knowledge about how it was stolen.”
“That's fucking right,” I mutter. What else can I fucking say?
Riley fucking looks at me. “You know, I'm wondering if you got your position at WeaponsDev because you're exceptionally pretty. You certainly didn't get it from your shining interview skills or ability to think under pressure.”
“Don't call me pretty,” I mumble.
“But you are pretty, Devin,” he says. Riley pauses and leans across the table. “Clearly this interview isn't working. You have as much coherence as the average drunkard, and most of them are better liars. If we want to establish that you're not a terrorist, perhaps we will need to use special interrogation techniques.”
Feel my fucking cheeks burn. Not blushing. “Special interrogation techniques?”
Riley lifts a hand and fucking strokes my cheek. “I believe we can work something out to prove your innocence. You may have horrendous interview skills, but maybe you have other skills that can show how you're not a terrorist?”
My whole body flushes. “Yeah, I've got - skills.”
“Excellent,” he purrs. “This should work out well for both of us.”
Riley gets up from the table. Walks around so he's standing fucking behind me. Grabs my “professional” braid. Fucking pulls on it to lift me out of my chair. Standing face to face with him now. Guy's fucking smiling. He's shorter than me but feels like he's staring down at me anyway.
Heart's still going fast. Not from fucking anxiety anymore. Riley drops my braid. Leans in and fucking kisses me. He's rough about it. Fucking fine by me. Wrap my arms around him. He does the fucking same. Wastes no time deepening the kiss. Good kisser, too.
I play my tongue against his. Fucking moan against Riley's lips. He pulls me even fucking closer. Grinds against me. Think I feel an ache building between my legs. Riley removes my fucking lab coat. It's gonna get dirty as fuck lying on the interrogation room floor like that. Don't fucking care right now as he kisses down my neck.
The officer pulls my hair out of its braid. I slip a hand under his shirt. Know I feel an ache between my legs, now. Fucking undeniable. Even more fucking undeniable when he pushes me up against the wall, hard. Gasp and shiver at the slight pain from that.
“You like it rough, hmm?” Riley asks. “Because you're not a terrorist, right?”
I fucking nod.
He rips my shirt off. Fucking bites down on my neck. Gasp at that. Squirm, too. Riley chuckles before teasing my collarbone with his tongue. Feels fucking amazing. Even more fucking amazing when bites my shoulder. Shiver with fucking pleasure.
Shiver again when he starts kissing and biting down my chest. Riley bites fucking hard. I yelp when he gets a nipple. That ache between my legs gets worse and fucking worse. Squirm more as my body flushes again. Press my hands against the wall to steady myself. Fucking hard to stay steady with the way Riley kisses and bites.
“Want - fucking more,” I gasp.
Riley murmurs, “Of course you do, pretty boy.”
Keeps kissing and biting. Don't even bother telling Riley not to fucking call me pretty. Difficult to fucking speak, anyway.
Impossible to fucking speak when he starts unbuckling my belt. Moan in anticipation. Let out an ever louder moan when Riley yanks off my pants and boxers, exposing me. He looks up at me, eyes fucking flashing. Takes me in his mouth. Gasp when Riley starts sucking.
Shudder with pleasure as he works. Whole body's fucking shaking. Riley fucking bites down on my cock. I cry out. Fucking pleasure overwhelms me. Shake even harder. Don't think I'll last much longer. Could swear he's laughing as he sucks my dick. Riley bites down again. I cry out once more. Fucking love how he bites.
Soon, I come, body shaking. Moan the loudest I have yet. So fucking amazing.
Riley swallows everything. Smiles as I go soft and slip out of his mouth. Can't fucking move. All the energy sucked out of me. The officer leans on the wall next to me.
“You - fucking got skills, too,” I manage through my fucking exhausted haze.
He murmurs, “I'm not done with you.” Riley cups my cheek in his hand. Pulls my face to his and kisses me.
I kiss him back. Still too tired to kiss very hard. Keep fucking kissing, anyway. Feels fucking good even if I can't do much.
After who knows how fucking long, I recover my energy. Good timing, too. Riley pulls away long enough to take off his shoes, yank off his pants and expose himself. He's hard. Think I'm fucking hard again, too.
“Gonna take your shirt off?” I ask.
“Don't need to take it off to fuck you,” he growls.
Riley grabs me and flips me around so I'm facing the fucking wall. He smashes me against it. Spreads my legs. Now fucking aching so hard it hurts. Riley pins my arms to the wall.
“Suspects don't need lube, right?” he mutters.
Don't fucking want lube, anyway.
He pushes inside me. Fucking hurts. I cry out, fucking loving how it feels. Riley's not fucking gentle. Thrusts hard. Fucking pounds me. Pressed into the wall now. Riley keeps at it. Finds my spot. I gasp with pleasure as he hits it, over and fucking over. Moan, too. Want to reach for myself. Can't because the officer's got my arms pinned. Fucking frustrating.
That ache builds to impossible fucking levels. Riley keeps thrusting. Almost fucking unbearable how good it feels. Want to come so bad. Don't know if I can unless he lets go of my arms.
I gasp, “Let - let my arms go.”
“Only if you ask nicely, pretty boy,” Riley purrs.
Continues fucking thrusting. Enough to make it feel amazing. Not fucking enough to send me over the edge.
“Fucking - please,” I moan.
“Well, since you asked nicely,” he says.
Riley lets my arms go. I grab my cock. Start stroking as he thrusts fucking harder than he has yet. Not gonna last long at all. Feels fucking incredible now that I have my arms back.
Don't fucking last long. I come with a loud cry of fucking pleasure. Riley thrusts a couple more times. Feel him come, too. Fucking moans as he does. Goes soft and slides out of me with a satisfied sigh. I can't fucking move. Arms hang by my sides as I lean against the fucking wall. Wait to fucking recover.
When I do, Riley's fucking dressed. “I suppose you're not a terrorist after all, Mr., ah, Fenton.”
Fucking better not be a terrorist after that, no matter how good it felt. Gather my clothes. Get dressed as Riley watches, fucking smirking. Lab coat is fucking dirty. Don't wanna put it back on with all the fucking stains. Still have a fucking workday to complete, though.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Riley looks me over. He murmurs, “I'll be sure to tell WeaponsDev you're...squeaky-clean.”
Fucking snort. Not any kind of fucking “clean” in this lab coat.
“Have a nice fucking day,” I mutter. Not sure what else to fucking say, okay?
Exit the interrogation room. Ignore the stares I get for my dirty lab coat. Wish I had purchased a fucking spare.
Rest of the workday is fucking awkward. Glare at my bastard coworker as he snickers at my lab coat. One to fucking talk with that messy hair of his. How WeaponsDev lets him get away with that, I don't fucking know.
Take the lab coat off when the day's over. Walk home with it in my fucking arms. Get back to the house. Wes greets me. Then he sees my fucking dirty lab coat.
His eyes go wide. “Devin? What happened to your lab coat, dude?”
Don't look at him. “Fucking dropped it,” I mumble.
“I'm gonna need so much HyperCleaner to get these stains out! Where did you drop this?” Lucky Wes runs to the fucking laundry room so I don't have to answer that.
So fucking awkward. At least I saved all my friends from going to jail because of me. That's worth any amount of fucking awkward.
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written for the hc_bingo prompt "Blackmail"