Dirt in the Machine

Reno/Rufus. R. ~300 words. For Spring Kink.
“I suppose you’re keeping a tally.”

His grip on the low-power handgun is steadier than his racing heartbeat. He’s accustomed to situations under his direct control, to being the victor despite the odds. Here, in this moment, it doesn’t matter if his face is calm or words honeyed and smooth.

He doesn’t even know Reno’s behind him until the gun’s muzzle touches the back of his head. “You’re dead again, President,” Reno says, slum accent leaking through and voice hardly more than a whisper in his ear.

Disgusted, Rufus straightens. Reno keeps the gun on him. “I suppose you’re keeping a tally.”

“‘Course,” Reno says. “Bragging rights and all.”

“Shall we go again?”

In response, the gun slides down, nestles right at the top of his spine. His lips twist, the sudden trip of his heart less surprising than Reno’s hand settling warm on his hip.

“Maybe I didn’t kill you,” Reno says. His body moulds to Rufus’s back in one long line of lean-muscled heat. “Pretty piece of ass like you.” The sight scrapes along Rufus’s jaw, dips down to press under his chin, forcing his head back. Reno’s green eyes are glittering dark, the edge in his voice sets Rufus’s nerves to humming. “Be a shame.”

If it were anyone but Reno behind him, Rufus’s confidence in the game would be unshakable. Reno dares liberties where no one else would, toys with violence in a way that is less than sane. Most days, Rufus is certain seeing how far he can go is Reno’s drug of choice, in full possession of his senses but playing at not.

Days like this, pinned between the cold brick of the training halls, the hard press of a gun to his head and Reno’s cock up his ass, he isn’t.


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