Work Text:
You push the door open without knocking—because when have you ever?—and the familiar sight greets you: Narumi sprawled in his desk chair, headset looped around his neck, thumbs flying across his controller. The agency room itself is sterile, military white walls and standard-issue bed, but he’s turned it into his own little lair. Energy drink cans crowd the desk, a mess of cartridges and controller cables tangling around the monitor. Posters slapped crookedly on the wall. A place that shouldn’t feel lived in somehow reeks of him—gunpowder, sweat, cologne, and ego.
He doesn’t even turn his head when you come in. Just smirks at the screen, lips curling like he’d been waiting.
“Knew it was you. Nobody else barges in without knocking.”
You smile to yourself as you drift closer, leaning on the desk beside him, the blue glow of the monitor painting sharp lines across his cheekbones. He tilts his head a fraction, giving you one sharp sidelong glance before his attention snaps back to the flashing HUD.
“What?” He drawls, teasing, controller clicking in a rhythm almost as fast as his heartbeat. “Gonna stand there pouting till I give you attention?”
Your fingers skim across his shoulder, tracing the ridge of muscle through his shirt. He chuckles, eyes glued to the screen.
His voice is lazy as he mutters, “You’re playing with fire, y’know. If you make me lose, you’re cleaning my whole damn arsenal.”
You tilt your head, pretending to consider it, before letting your lips curl into a grin.
“Maybe I’ll make you lose on purpose then. I’m not afraid of a little gun grease.”
He doesn’t stop you when your hand trails lower, over the length of his thigh, thumb brushing the seam of his pants. He slouches deep in his gaming chair, amusement flashing in his eyes.
You sink to your knees, the cold floor bites at your knees. His jacket hangs over the chair back, brushing your arm—faint gun oil, faint sweat, faint Narumi. When you glance up, he finally looks down, mouth twitching with disbelief and something hungrier behind his eyes.
“Seriously?” he mutters. “You’re insane. Here? While I’m playing?”
“What’s the matter, captain? Scared you can’t multitask?”
He spreads his legs a little wider anyway. Controller still in his grip, knuckles tight, his focus split between the screen and you kneeling between his thighs. The slow rise and fall of his chest stutters the second your fingers toy with his belt.
You tug it loose, the buckle clinking too loud in the quiet room. He doesn’t tell you to stop, doesn’t even look down at first—just smirks at the monitor like he’s daring you. His knuckles go white on the controller, but his breathing stutters when your fingers slip beneath the waistband. For a second, his thumb freezes on the joystick, a soft noise slipping out before he clenches his jaw and forces himself back into the game.
“Shit…” His voice dips low, a little strained. “You’re really doing this?"
"What can I say?" You respond, a cheeky smile plastered to your face. "You know I like annoying you."
The corner of his mouth jerks when you pull him free, flushed and already hard, his cock pressing into the cold air of the room. He leans back in the chair casually, still acting like the controller in his hands is the only thing that matters.
“Careful,” he warns, thumb flicking the joystick. “If I die, it’s on you.”
You don’t answer—you just lower your head and take him in your mouth.
His breath punches out of him in one sharp exhale, his thighs tensing beneath your hands. The only sounds are the rapid-fire clicks of buttons, the faint explosions and voices from the game, and the wet pull of your lips moving down his length. The cold blue light makes his grin look sharper, more wolfish.
“Fuck…” he mutters under his breath, hips twitching despite the way he tries to keep still. “Don’t think you’ll make me—hnh—drop this controller.”
Your tongue drags along the underside of him, the taste hot and heavy, your jaw aching as you push deeper. His body betrays him—the way his knees spread wider, the way his hand flexes around the controller like he’s fighting the urge to grab you instead.
He curses, loud this time, a broken noise that sounds nothing like the smug captain, the controller slipping in his grip as your mouth works him harder. You feel the muscles in his stomach jump, his whole body jerking as you hollow your cheeks and set a rhythm that makes his inputs turn sloppy.
“Damn it, damn it—” He snarls at the screen, fingers frantically mashing buttons. His voice fractures into a strangled laugh, half cocky, half desperate. “You’re—shit—you’re such a brat. I can’t—can’t even focus—”
His controller clatters against the desk when you swallow him down fully, gagging just a little, and the sharp sound echoes in the quiet. He fists your hair immediately, dragging your head back just enough to make you look up at him.
“Congratulations,” he pants, eyes dark and wild, grin breaking into something hungrier. “You made me lose.”
You pull your mouth away with a pop, and before you can even smirk at your victory, his hand is in your hair. He yanks your head back just enough to bare your throat, his eyes burning down into you—wild, sharp, that feral grin curling his lips.
“You think that was funny, huh?” His voice is rough, ragged from the way you ruined his focus. “You’re such a little pain in the ass.”
But there’s no heat behind it, not really. He’s grinning, breath uneven, and his other hand wraps around the base of his cock as he drags you closer.
"Oh dear, I'm sorry..." You mock, glancing over at the screen and folding down your bottom lip playfully.
He taps the head of his cock against the edge of your mouth, smearing pre-cum across your skin like he’s marking you.
“Yeah, whatever. C’mon, open up—show me what that smart mouth’s really good for.”
The second your lips part, he pushes in, not giving you a chance to tease this time. His hips roll forward, sinking deep until your eyes water, and he groans—long, low, almost guttural. His hand tightens in your hair, controlling your pace as he thrusts shallow at first, then harder, making your throat flex around him.
“Yeah… that’s the stuff,” he growls, jaw tight, teeth flashing in the dim light. “Not so cocky now, are you?”
The playful bite in his voice makes your stomach twist, heat pooling low as he sets the rhythm himself—using your mouth like it’s his right, like this is how it should be. Every thrust forces slick, obscene sounds from your throat, echoing with the faint hum of the console fan and the muted game music still running in the background.
When you gag around him, his laugh cracks out, cocky even through his ragged breathing.
“Shit… listen to you. Whole base would hear you if these walls weren’t soundproof.”
He pulls back only to push deeper again, making you choke on him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. His thumb brushes your cheek almost absentmindedly—half soft, half mocking.
“You wanted my attention, brat? You’ve got it now. Every damn inch of it.”
His grip doesn’t ease up. If anything, he gets even rougher now that the game’s long forgotten, hand in your hair, guiding your head like you’re just another weapon in his arsenal. Each thrust is sharper, pushing deep into your throat, making you gag and swallow around him while his low groans spill out in broken rhythm.
“Fuck… you feel too good,” he pants, eyes half-lidded but still gleaming with that smug, wolfish edge. “Bet you thought you were in control, huh? Now look at you. Drooling all over me.”
And he’s right—you can feel spit dripping down your chin, slicking your hand as you brace against his thigh. The sounds are lewd and wet, bouncing off the sterile walls, too loud in the small room.
He starts to pace you faster, hips jerking, using your mouth the way he wants. Every time you gag around him, his laugh breaks out—low, taunting, tinged with primal hunger.
Your eyes blur with tears, throat raw, but the weight of him, the heat, the way he twitches against your tongue has your pulse racing. His breathing quickens, shoulders tight, one hand braced hard on the armrest as the other keeps you locked where he needs you.
“Shit—” His curse cuts through the air, voice breaking as his rhythm falters. “I’m gonna—fuck—”
He yanks you off him at the last second, jaw clenched, chest heaving. Your lips are swollen, chin slick with spit, strands clinging to your skin when he drags you back. A hot, shuddering groan rips from his throat as he finishes across your face—thick streaks splattering your lips, your cheek, the curve of your chin. He watches the whole thing, crooked smile curling even through his ragged breaths, pupils dark with satisfaction.
“Goddamn…” He drags a thumb across your mouth, smearing the mess. “Look at you. You little wreck. Might just send you outside like this to report to the director.”
He leans back in the chair with a shaky laugh, wiping sweat from his brow, lounging like a king on his throne. There's a crack as he opens a fresh energy drink and offers you the first sip while staring at the "GAME OVER" blaring on the screen.
“First sip’s yours. Don’t say I never treat you.”
He waits for you to drink, watching you over the rim of the can. Only when you swallow does he take a long pull himself, throat bobbing, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like it’s a victory toast.
The can thunks down on the desk, and he stretches out, eyes half-lidded with lazy satisfaction.
“See? I always win in the end.”