Chapter Text
The rain over Lumiose City never really stops—it only changes its rhythm. It drizzles across glass rooftops, splashing off neon signs, and dripping into the gutters of South Boulevard. From his cab window, Zach watches a Fletchling huddle under a café. That Fletchling is lucky. At least it doesn’t have to pay dues to the Rust Syndicate.
He sighs, tapping the steering wheel. The cab’s meter ticks, mocking him. Another day without more than a couple of fares. Another day behind on his payments.
Then the message pings on his RotoPhone.
From: Rust Syndicate
Subject: Report to Corbeau. Immediately.
Zach gulps. Groaning as his head thumps against the steering wheel. “Oh, great. Just what I needed.” A tired-looking Pidgey perches in the passenger seat, blinks once, and hoots low, as if to say, You did this to yourself. Zach starts up his car and drives, feeling the rapid beating of his heart in his throat.
The Rust Syndicate office was already daunting, but under roaring thunderclouds and rain, the intimidation of the towering building is even more terrifying, especially to a simple taxi driver like Zach. When Zach enters the office building, he is led up the building, each level making his heart race faster and faster. When he’s led into Corbeau’s office, the door is shut and locked behind him.
“Zach,” Corbeau says, turning in his chair to see the nervous taxi driver. Corbeau’s suit is as pristine as it always is; his piercing, orange eyes peer from behind his clean lens. He motions for Zach to sit on the seat in front of him. Zach doesn’t dare to defy Corbeau and promptly sits, his hands clenched tightly out of nervousness. “Three missed payments. Again.”
Zach tries to laugh, but it sounds like a dying Magnemite. “Y-yeah, I’ve been having a bit of bad luck in the promotion matches. My team—”
Corbeau raises a hand. The room stills, even the air hums quieter. “Luck is for trainers who can afford it. You owe the Rust Syndicate twelve thousand PokéDollars, Le Z Éternel. My patience is running thin.”
Zach’s heart is doing double-time. “Please, Mr. Corbeau. I’ll get it. Just–give me another week. I can take one more match. I’ve been training—”
Corbeau stands, which commands great presence. He walks around his desk, slow and deliberate. His shoes barely make a sound. His eyes run up and down Zach, analyzing every little detail and movement. “You think battling solves everything,” he says, glancing at the Dusk Ball on his desk. “But some debts are settled outside of the arena.”
Zach feels the weight of those words. “Wh-what are you saying?”
Corbeau’s smile could terrify even the most Alpha of Pokémon. “I’m saying there are other tasks more useful to me than losing another match. A job.”
Zach swallows. “A job?”
“A few jobs, actually,” Corbeau corrects himself as he fixes his tie. His voice is even, almost gentle, which is far more menacing than if he’d yelled. “You’ll do as I say, when I say it. If you do well, perhaps I’ll see fit to erase some of your debt.”
The words are a sledgehammer. Zach feels his pulse in his temples, his throat, his wrists. He wants to argue, to refuse, but all he can think of is freedom from his debt. So he nods. Stupidly. Desperately. “Yes, sir.”
Corbeau’s lips curl. His gaze flicks down Zach’s body and back up. “We’ll begin now. Stand.”
Zach’s knees wobble as he rises. Corbeau slowly moves closer. Despite the height difference, Corbeau’s presence commands so much authority. Rain blurs the windows, but the city’s lights still filter through, painting Corbeau’s silhouette in neon purple. His scent is expensive—something sharp and earthy, like sandalwood cut with astringent cologne.
“Take off your jacket,” Corbeau commands.
Zach’s hands tremble as he fumbles with the zipper. The fabric sticks, and he nearly rips it. He shrugs out of the wet jacket, dropping it to the polished floor. Each movement feels like dancing at the mouth of a Gyarados. He expects Corbeau to laugh. But Corbeau just waits.
“Shirt too,” Corbeau says. “Why don’t you show me what the city has given you, Zach.”
Zach’s cheeks flame. He slowly lifts his shirt of his head. His bare skin immediately feeling the cool air that makes his skin crawl with anxiety. He wishes he’d showered. Wishes, even more, that he wasn’t getting hard despite the humiliation. Corbeau’s eyes rake over him, slow and clinical, and Zach tries to stand tall, tries not to flinch when Corbeau’s fingers brush his ribs.
Corbeau walks around him, inspecting. “Serviceable,” he mutters. “You’re not the worst I’ve seen. But you’ll need discipline.” Zach’s body is lean, with taut muscles that ripple under the skin.
Zach’s cock twitches. It’s mortifying.
Corbeau returns to stand in front of him, then leans in close. His voice is a whisper in Zach’s ear. “Are you going to embarrass yourself, Zach? Or are you going to serve me?”
Zach’s mouth is desert-dry. He manages, “S-serve you, sir.”
“What was that?”
“Serve you, sir!” Zach repeats himself louder despite the tremble in his tone.
“Good.” Corbeau’s hands are on Zach’s belt, the motion practiced and impersonal. The buckle clatters to the floor. “Shame does not interest me,” Corbeau says, yanking the pants down. “Obedience does.”
Zach shivers. He’s left in nothing but threadbare briefs. His cock bulges, straining the fabric. Corbeau tugs them down, then steps back to admire the effect.
“You know why you’re here,” Corbeau says. “I want you on your knees.”
Zach drops. The cold floor shocks his knees. He doesn’t dare look up. He can’t stop looking up. Corbeau’s hand is at his own belt now, the movement crisp, efficient. The trousers hang low on Corbeau’s thighs. The bulge in Corbeau’s briefs—expensivey—dominates Zach’s eyesight.
Zach lets out a hushed gasp. The bulge was nothing compared to the actual sight of Corbeau’s member. When Corbeau pulls down his briefs, his monstrous member bounces free. The thick, dark veins run along the incredible length. The thickness is unreal, and the swollen purple cockhead glistens under the light. Corbeau’s cock is massive, the kind of monstrous big that makes Zach’s throat pulse with terror and curiosity.
“Open,” Corbeau says.
Zach hesitates, his teeth clenched tightly out of fear.
Corbeau hooks his thumb between Zach’s lips and tugs. “I said, open.”
Zach obeys. Corbeau steps forward. He presses the tip, velvet and hot, against Zach’s lips, and Zach lets it in. He’s never done this for another man before, the thought never crossed his mind. Now he’s choking down a loan shark’s cock for a discount on his debt, and the humiliation sets every nerve on fire. His lips stretch wide to accommodate the thickness of Corbeau’s cock, his face rapidly glowing hot red.
Corbeau grips Zach’s hair. Not gently. He feeds it in, inch by excrutiating inch, suffocatingly steady, until Zach can’t breathe. Then he pulls out, gliding along Zach’s tongue with wet finality. “Again,” Corbeau mutters. “Deeper.”
Zach’s eyes water. Corbeau’s cock breaches the back of his throat, then further. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can only clutch Corbeau’s thighs and gag, tears streaming down his face, nose running. He can only feel the relentless piston of Corbeau’s hips and the raw, bruised ache in his jaw.
Corbeau sets a rhythm, using Zach like a tool. He talks, quietly, almost bored: “You’re learning. You see? This is what obedience looks like.” A hand presses the back of Zach’s skull, holding him flush, and Zach’s vision tunnels. He feels his own cock, desperate and leaking, straining against the fabric of his own underwear.
When Corbeau finally pulls out, Zach collapses forward, coughing, spit and precum leaking from his chin. Corbeau grabs him by the jaw, holding him up. “Look at me.” Even through watery eyes, Corbeau’s stare is molten, hungry, as if Zach is a treat to be tasted.
“Good. Now turn around. Put your hands on the desk.”
Zach’s legs tremble as he stands and faces the battling arena behind the desk. The city outside is a vast, wet grid of neon and rain, but here, in this office, there’s only Corbeau’s breathing. Zach plants his palms on the desk, feeling the chill of the wood. The silence is unbearable.
Corbeau steps behind him, running a finger down the length of Zach’s spine. “You ever been fucked like this before, Zach?”
Zach shakes his head. He can’t trust his voice.
Corbeau laughs, low and satisfied. He spits, then presses the head of his cock to Zach’s ass, not waiting for Zach to settle or even adjust. The first push is agony. Zach bites his arm to keep from yelling. Corbeau is patient, methodical even, but he doesn’t stop. There is no gentle acclimation, just a slow, ruthless insistence. The head splits Zach open, stretching him wide, wider, until Zach thinks he’ll split in half. His throat tightens with panic and need, a trembling mix that spins through his guts and spills out as a quiet, involuntary whimper.
Corbeau holds him steady with a hand on his hip, the other pressed to the center of Zach’s back, pinning him to the desk. “Breathe,” Corbeau says, his tone almost instructional, which only stokes the ache in Zach’s chest, the white-hot coil in his belly. Corbeau’s cock drives deeper with each pulse, the stretch and burn almost overwhelming, but Zach’s body shakes and yields, and something low and dark inside him unlocks.
Zach’s fingers splay out, digging into the edge, cold and slick with sweat. Corbeau begins to move for real, the thrusts building with deliberate force. Each time, Zach’s body rocks forward, forehead nearly slamming into the polished wood.
Corbeau fucks him relentlessly, holding nothing back. The sound of flesh on flesh is obscene, echoing in the high office. There’s no time to compose himself, no pause, just the relentless, iron rhythm of Corbeau’s need. The pain knits into something else—a sensation that feels like punishment and reward together, a current that licks up Zach’s spine and down to his cock. Which, in spite of the humiliation—the sweat, the drool, the burning in his ass—stands iron-hard, dripping clear slick onto the desk.
“You’re doing well,” Corbeau says, voice rougher. “Better than expected.” The words are both praise and threat. He yanks Zach upright with a fist in his hair, forces Zach to arch back into him, still impaled. His other hand slips under, palm rough and cold, and grabs Zach’s cock. The touch is sudden, electric, and Zach thrusts into it helplessly.
Corbeau’s fingers snake their way up and into Zach’s mouth. He hooks and pulls at the edges of Zach’s lips, an anchor of sorts that makes his thrusts even harder and reaches even deeper. Corbeau’s thrusts are intense, the thickness filling up the tightness of Zach’s ass, hitting the most pleasurable spots inside of Zach.
Corbeau bites down on Zach’s shoulder, not enough to break skin, but hard enough to leave a mark. “You want to cum, you little whore?” he snarls, stroking Zach mercilessly. “Say it.”
Zach’s voice is nothing but a gasp. “—Please—”
“Tell me you’re my property.”
The word sours on Zach’s tongue. But the need is a brutality now, a screaming, animal thing. “I—I’m your property, sir—”
“Louder. Say it like you mean it.”
“I’m your property! I’m yours—fuck, I’m yours—”
Corbeau’s hand tightens, squeezing the head of Zach’s cock until his vision blurs. The thrusting never stops, just gets sharper, more demanding, driving Zach’s hips into the desk with mechanical certainty. Zach’s body is a furnace, every inch of him lit up and trembling. The hand on his cock jerks him with cruel efficiency, wet and slick with precum, and Zach’s vision is collapsing inward, everything else gone but Corbeau’s heat at his back, the fierce pressure splitting him open, the iron grip on his cock, and the adrenaline rushing through his body.
“Cum for me,” Corbeau commands.
It’s not a request. Zach’s entire body lurches forward, ass slamming back into Corbeau’s hips, cock spasming in Corbeau’s palm. Hot, sticky ropes of cum spatter across the polished desk. He barely registers it before Corbeau’s grip on his waist tightens like a vise and Corbeau’s cock drives impossibly deeper, rutting out one, two, three brutal thrusts, then stilling.
There’s a wet, guttural noise behind him, and Zach can feel the pulsing heat as Corbeau empties inside him, the hot flood making his knees go numb, his lungs flutter for air. For a second, Zach’s world narrows to nothing but the thunderstorm in his head, black and bright and echoing, the weight of Corbeau’s body pinning him to the desk, holding him together so he doesn’t shatter.
Corbeau releases his grip and pulls out, leaving Zach shaking and hollowed. Zach’s stretched hole is swollen pink and gaped. Cum trickles down his legs, cold against his skin. He collapses over the desk, unable to stand. His arms feel like wet towels.
Corbeau, for a moment, says nothing. Just breathes. Adjusts his suit. Then, with a casualness that chills Zach, he buttons his trousers and smooths his sleeves. “You did well,” he says. “Better than expected.”
Zach doesn’t know if he wants to crawl out the window or beg for more. His mind is static, his body one big, dumb ache. He forces himself upright, swaying on unsteady legs, cum leaking down the inside of his thighs.
Corbeau sits back on his chair, his hands steepling in front of his face. “You want your debt cleared, Zach? You’ll come when I call. You’ll do what I say.”
Zach tries to find his voice. It’s raw, shredded from choking earlier. “Y-yes, sir.”
“Good. Now clean up your mess on my desk.”
Without an ounce of hesitation, Zach leans down and licks his sticky, hot cum off of the polished wood. He can feel an ache, a need, in his ass that he knows only Corbeau can fill. And if he’s good, he’ll satiate that ache.