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Tamsy Caines leaned against the grimy brickwork of the secluded alleyway, the distant sounds of the Cleaners’ post-mission bustle fading into the background. He looked every bit the reliable senior member: calm, collected, his nonchalant smile perfectly affixed to his scarred face. The yellow eyes that usually unnerved newcomers were softened today, crinkled in what looked like genuine concern.
"You did good out there today," he said, his voice a smooth, practiced hum. He tilted his head, the long tassels holding his navy-and-blonde hair clicking softly against his collarbone. "Don't let Delmon's shouting get to you. It’s rough starting out down here, but you’ll get used to the agonies. Just how it is."
It was a masterclass in faux empathy. To anyone else, he was the gentle anchor in the chaotic sea of the Ground.
But you weren't anyone else.
You stood before him, blocking the only exit from the narrow dead-end. You’d been watching him—not the performance he put on for Rudo or the others, but the cracks in it. You’d seen the microscopic twitch of gleeful sadism at the corner of his mouth when a job went sideways, the cold calculation in those blank yellow eyes when he thought no one was looking. He wasn't kind; he was bored. He was a predator playing with his food before he ate it.
And he didn't realize he’d just walked into a bigger predator's cage.
"I think you misunderstand who you’re dealing with," you murmured, closing the distance until you were uncomfortably close. You reached out, not to attack, but to lightly flick one of the white holders of his hair tassels. He flinched—just barely—a crack in the nonchalance. "You like to watch people break, don't you Caines? You like to wind them up and watch them snap just to see what color they bleed."
His smile finally dropped. The mask evaporated, leaving behind the cold, cruel intelligence that truly lived beneath the surface. "Careful, rookie. You’re making strange accusations."
"I'm not making accusations." You pressed a hand flat against his chest, feeling the steady, arrogant beat of his heart. You pushed him backward, hard.
Caught off guard by the sudden aggression from someone he considered a pawn, Tamsy stumbled, his back hitting the damp brick wall with a dull thud. Before he could recover his trademark cool, you were there, pinning him, your forearm pressed against his throat—not enough to choke, just enough to remind him that he wasn't the only one who knew how to hurt.
His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise—perhaps even a spark of dark intrigue—replacing the boredom.
"You think you're the only one who knows how to play with their toys, Tamsy?" you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed the scar on his ear. The smell of ozone and old blood clung to him. "Let's see how well you maintain that 'nonchalant aura' when you're the one being taken apart."
A low, dangerous laugh rumbled in Tamsy’s chest, the sound vibrating against your forearm. His cold, yellow eyes held a new, predatory light. He wasn't scared; he was intrigued.
He moved, a sudden, lightning-fast attempt to reverse the pin, to grab your wrist and slam you against the wall. He was a senior Cleaner, and his slight frame was packed with deceptive, wiry strength.
But you were expecting it.
You had studied his every move for weeks, not just his psychological tells, but the way he fought. You'd watched him spar with Delmon, seen how he favored his right side, how he led with arrogance.
As his hand shot up, you pivoted, releasing the pressure on his throat to drop low and fast. You didn't block his hand; you bypassed it entirely. Your target was his Jinki, the "vital instrument" holstered at his belt.
“Now, be a good senior cleaner and activate your jinki for me.”
Tamsy grunted as the tethers wrapped around his wrists, lashing them together with brutal efficiency. He struggled, a full-body thrash against the bindings, but his own Jinki was designed to hold monsters. It held him perfectly.
You grabbed the hilt of the Jinki, still in its holster, and used it as a point of leverage, shoving him hard against the wall again. His bound hands slammed into the brick. He was completely trapped, disarmed by his own weapon.
You leaned in, your voice a silken, triumphant purr right next to his ear. "You're just a sadist who gets off on agony, Tamsy. You love to see people weep. But you don’t know what some people are capable of"
You brought a hand up to his face, tracing the rough line of his scar with one finger. He tried to recoil, but he had nowhere to go.
You brushed your thumb over the portion of his pinky finger that was missing. He flinched violently, a reaction so honest it was almost sweet.
“Now, I may be a sick sadist bastard like yourself, but I’m no monster, I’ll stop if ask me to” You whispered into his ear. “Although” You brushed your thumb over the portion of his pinky finger that was missing. He flinched violently, a reaction so honest it was almost sweet. “It seems like you stopped resisting”
When Tamsy stayed quiet after you gave him an outing of the situation you smiled and looked around. “Thought so”
"Now," you whispered, "Let's peel back this performance. Let's see what you really are."
Your free hand went to his uniform. He flinched, expecting a blow. Instead, you slowly, almost mockingly, began to unbutton his Cleaner jacket. The fabric was rough, smelling of dust and the Ground's metallic tang.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice a low growl. He tried to pull away, but the Jinki held him fast, his bound hands pinned uselessly behind him.
"Just getting a better look," you murmured. You pushed the jacket open, exposing the thin shirt beneath. The cold alley air hit his skin, and you were pleased to see a shiver wrack his frame. It wasn't just the cold; it was the sheer humiliation.
You didn't stop at the jacket. Your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, popping them open one by one. His chest was defined, lean and muscled from a life of survival, but your eyes were drawn to the faint map of old scars—and the smooth, untouched skin between them.
Your hand, now cold from the air, splayed flat against his chest. His heart was hammering, a frantic, rabbit-fast beat against your palm. You smiled. The "nonchalant aura" was gone. This was raw, unfiltered panic
You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. "You love agony. You love the sound of hope breaking. You love...this."
You scraped your fingernails—hard—down his ribs.
Tamsy let out a sharp, choked gasp, his back arching off the wall.
You pulled your hand back. Four white lines slowly welled up with red. You watched, fascinated, as tiny beads of blood formed and traced lazy paths down his skin.
"Beautiful," you breathed, fulfilling the first part of your promise. You dipped your finger into one of the crimson trails, then held it up to his face. "Look. It's the first real color I've seen on you."
He stared at his own blood on your fingertip, his jaw working, his pupils dilated so wide his yellow eyes were just thin, dark rings. He was breathing heavily through his nose.
Your hand moved from his chest, slowly, deliberately, down his stomach. He tensed, his abs turning to granite under your touch. He knew where you were going. He tried to slam his body against yours, to throw you off, but he was too well-pinned.
"Don't," he commanded, the word tight with a new kind of dread.
"Don't what, Tamsy?" you whispered, your fingers brushing the waistband of his pants.
You didn't give him time to answer. You undid his pants with practiced efficiency. He was rigid, a statue of humiliation as his pants slacked, held up only by the friction of his stance.
Your hand closed over him, right through the fabric of his underwear.
Tamsy broke.
He let out a noise—a strangled, humiliated sound that was somewhere between a sob and a growl. His eyes squeezed shut, and a single, frustrated tear escaped the corner of his scarred eye.
You watched it trace a path through the grime on his cheek.
"Oh, Tamsy," you cooed, your voice dripping with false sympathy as your grip tightened, your thumb finding the sensitive tip and pressing down. "There it is. Don't cry. That's just how things are on the Ground."
Tamsy’s breath hitched, a desperate, angry sob caught in his throat. He tried to turn his face away, to hide the evidence of his lapse, but you fisted your hand in his hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to meet your eyes.
"No," you commanded, your voice a velvet-wrapped steel bar. "You don't get to look away.”
Your hand, still gripping him, began a slow, deliberate stroke. It was skilled. It was knowledgeable. It was everything his arrogant, controlled mind despised. Tamsy’s entire body went rigid. He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes flying wide with a new kind of horror.
It felt...
He couldn't stop it. His body, that traitorous prison of flesh, was responding. Despite the cold, the humiliation, and the fury, a deep, unwanted heat was coiling in his stomach.
Tamsy’s back arched, slamming against the brick. A raw, guttural sound was torn from his chest, and the dam truly broke. The tears came in earnest now, flooding his eyes. He was sobbing. Not just crying, but ugly, choking sobs that racked his entire frame. He was being undone by his own biology.
"You like this," you stated, not as a question, but as a judgment. You didn't relent, your hand moving faster, your grip slick and unforgiving. "You hate that you like this, don't you?"
"Please..." he begged, the word a shattered wreck.
"Please what?" you purred, leaning in until your lips brushed his ear.
You gave him no mercy. You worked him with a cruel, rhythmic efficiency. His mind was short-circuiting. The sadist, the man who lived for the agony of others, was being brought to his knees by his own. The pleasure was so intense it was indistinguishable from pain. It was the ultimate overstimulation, and he was coming apart.
"I... I can't... fuck," he choked, his knees buckling. He was only held upright by the Jinki's tethers and your grip on his hair. "Please... don't stop... please, I...!"
His body was thrumming, a live wire of sensation. He was close, desperate for the release that would end this agonizing, humiliating pleasure. He was about to...
You stopped.
Your hand released him completely, leaving him aching, exposed, and utterly denied
Tamsy let out a raw, agonized sound of pure deprivation. His entire body shuddered, a violent, full-body tremor. He stared at you, his face a mask of tears, snot, and ruined pride. He was breathing in great, ragged gasps, his mind totally blank, filled with nothing but the echo of pleasure and the acute, burning need.
"P-please..." he whispered, the fight completely gone. It was no longer a demand or a threat. It was the broken, genuine plea of an addict. "Please..."
"That's better," you murmured, smiling. You raised your hand, wet from his desperation, and calmly wiped his tears away with your thumb, smearing them. "You'll beg, Tamsy. You'll beg for all of it. And you'll only get what I allow you to have."
The air in the alley was frigid, but Tamsy was burning. His skin was slick with a sheen of cold sweat, his entire body trembling with the violent, unreleased tension you’d built in him. He was a picture of perfect ruin: eyes red and puffy from weeping, face streaked with tears and grime, his body half-undressed and pinned by his own power.
"Please... just..." he panted, his voice a broken, hoarse whisper. He was no longer the sadist. He was just a raw, exposed nerve.
You savored the sight for a moment longer before stepping back into his space. You didn't touch him with your hand. Instead, you leaned down, your face level with his chest.
"You're pathetic," you whispered, and then you licked him.
A long, slow, agonizingly deliberate trail of your tongue right over one of the bloody scratches on his ribs.
Tamsy moaned. It was a high, thin sound of pure, unadulterated shock, a noise that was half-pleasure, half-agony. The salt of his sweat and the metallic tang of his blood flooded your senses. He thrashed against his bonds, a violent, desperate movement that only made the tethers cut deeper into his wrists.
He gasped, but even as he did, his hips gave an involuntary, seeking thrust.
You licked the other wound, slower this time, drawing it out, enjoying the way his breath sawed in and out of his lungs. You were combining his two greatest inputs—pain and pleasure—and his brain couldn't cope. It was shutting down, leaving only the sensation.
"You're so desperate," you murmured, your hand returning to him, his skin searing hot. He was already fully, painfully hard, weeping pre-cum. "You're just a mess. Look at you."
You didn't just stroke him. You tormented him. You used your nails, lightly scraping the sensitive skin of his cock. You squeezed the base, cutting off the blood flow until he whimpered, then released it in a dizzying rush.
"I can't... I-I'm going to..." he babbled, his mind completely gone, his voice thick with sobs. He was right on the precipice, a trembling, over-stimulated wreck.
"No, you're not," you commanded. And you stopped again.
This time, the denial was too much. His body, pushed past every conceivable limit, betrayed him in the most humiliating way possible.
A dark stain began to spread across the front of his underwear. The sharp, acrid scent of urine cut through the alley's smell of rust and blood. He hadn't just lost control of his emotions; he'd lost control of everything.
Tamsy's eyes flew wide. The realization of what was happening—what he had done—hit him like a physical blow. The pleasure, the begging, the pain—that was one level of humiliation. This... this was annihilation.
"No... no, no, no..." he sobbed, the sound absolutely wretched. He was crying so hard he could barely breathe as the hot, shameful flood continued, soaking his clothes, running down his leg. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could block out the reality of his own degradation.
"Disgusting," you said, your voice cold and clinical. But you didn't move away.
Instead, as the last of his control gave way, you grabbed him again. Your hand was slick with his own humiliation.
"You're filthy, Tamsy," you hissed, your fingers digging into his hips. "Absolutely drenched in your own filth."
You didn't give him time to recover. You didn't give him time to process the shame. You slammed your hand back onto him, his skin slick and hot.
The sudden, brutal friction, combined with the new, absolute rock-bottom of his humiliation, was the final trigger.
"Now," you ordered. "You can finish."
It wasn't a choice. It was a command. Tamsy moaned—a long, ragged, animal sound of release. His back arched so hard it was a miracle he didn't snap. His body convulsed, his own tethers holding him up as his knees gave out. He came with a desperate, sobbing intensity, his orgasm a violent, uncontrolled purge.
He was a wreck. His face was buried in his own shoulder, his entire body shuddering with the aftershocks. He was weeping. He was bleeding. He was covered in his own fluids.
You let go, stepping back to admire your work. The man who saw agony as fuel was now just... empty.
He hung in his bonds, limp, his head bowed. The only sound in the alley was the ragged, wet sound of Tamsy Caines trying to remember how to breathe.