Chapter Text
The ice in Kim’s glass had long since melted, diluting the expensive scotch into something lukewarm and characterless. He kept his fingers wrapped around the crystal, focusing on the bite of the etched edges against his palm. It was the only thing keeping him tethered to the room.
Across the mahogany desk, Tony looked disgustingly relaxed. He leaned back, one hand resting idly on the arm of his leather chair, the other gesturing vaguely as if they were discussing quarterly projections rather than the systematic dismantling of Kim’s pride.
"You see, Kim, the problem with people like you is the belief that 'saving' someone is a clean process," Tony said, his voice smooth and conversational. "But Kenta isn’t a damsel. He’s a tool.
Kenta moved. He had been standing like a shadow at Tony’s shoulder, but now he stepped forward with a practiced, haunting fluidity, sinking to his knees and disappearing beneath the heavy expanse of the mahogany desk. Tony didn't even blink; he simply watched Kim’s face, his expression unchanging as he continued.
"And like any fine instrument," Tony added, the corner of his mouth twitching, "he requires... maintenance."
Beneath the desk, the shift in weight was subtle, but to Kim, it felt like a seismic event. He felt the heat of Kenta’s presence, the hesitant brush of hands against his thighs before the inevitable, heavy weight of Kenta settling between his knees.
Kim’s breath hitched, a sharp, jagged sound that he tried to swallow back down. He forced his gaze to stay locked on Tony’s eyes, those dark, knowing eyes that didn't miss the way Kim’s knuckles had turned white.
"He has a remarkable instinct for it, don't you think?" Tony continued, his tone brightening with a mock-appreciation that made Kim’s stomach churn.
The first slick, warm contact of Kenta’s tongue made Kim’s vision swim. He felt the familiar, desperate rhythm of Kenta’s breathing against his skin, muffled and frantic.
"Look at me, Kim," Tony prompted gently, though the underlying command was absolute. "Don't look at him. He’s doing this for you, after all. He wants to show you how well he’s been taught. He’s always been so talented with his mouth, haven’t you, Kenta?"
A low, vibrating sound came from beneath the desk. Kim felt the vibration of it all the way through his bones. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct screamed at him to recoil, to shove the desk over, to grab Kenta and run. But Tony’s smile remained fixed, polite, and terrifyingly patient.
"Answer me, Kim," Tony pushed, his voice dropping an octave, honey-thick and dangerous. "Is he as good as you thought he’d be?"
Kim’s jaw ached from the effort of not letting it drop. He felt the slick, rhythmic heat of Kenta’s mouth, a sensation that should have been private, or at least honest, being treated as a discussion point. Tony was watching for the break. He was waiting for Kim to gasp, to flinch, or to plead.
"He’s... efficient," Kim managed to choke out. His voice sounded like it belonged to a stranger, thin and strained.
Tony chuckled, a soft, dry sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Efficient. Such a clinical word for such a devoted performance. But then, you’ve always tried to keep things at arm’s length, haven't you? You think if you don't acknowledge the filth, it won't stick to you."
Tony leaned forward, resting his elbows on the mahogany. The movement brought him closer, invading the small amount of personal space Kim had left. Below, Kenta’s pace deepened, a desperate, frantic attempt to earn the praise Tony was so casually tossing around. Kim’s hips bucked involuntarily, a micro-movement that felt like a scream in the quiet room.
"You're shaking, Kim," Tony observed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Is it the scotch? Or is it the realization that you’re enjoying what I’ve built? Because let’s be clear, everything he’s doing, he’s doing because I told him to. Every sensation you’re feeling is a gift from me."
Kim’s eyes burned. He wanted to look away, to find a corner of the room that wasn't occupied by Tony’s predatory gaze, but he was pinned. If he broke eye contact now, he was admitting defeat. He was admitting that Tony had reached inside him and found the trigger.
"I’m not... enjoying this," Kim lied, the words tripping over a sharp, muffled sound from below the desk as Kenta took him deeper.
"Look at that," Tony prompted, his voice brimming with a terrifying kind of pride. "Your body is a much worse liar than your tongue. You’re disgusted, yes. But you’re also staying. You’re staying because it feels better than anything you’ve ever permitted yourself to have."
Kim’s eyes finally dropped, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as his vision began to swim. He couldn’t maintain the stare anymore, not when Kenta took him deeper, the friction so perfect it felt like a physical assault on his resolve. A low, needy whine vibrated in his throat, one he was too far gone to suppress.
Tony smiled, and for the first time, the politeness vanished, replaced by a cold, sharpened edge.
"But we both know you’ve already let it go too far. You’ve already shared him with me. And the moment you accepted that arrangement, you became exactly like us."
Tony’s smile didn’t widen, but it sharpened, catching the dim light of the office like a blade. He noticed the way Kim’s head tilted back just an inch, the way his eyelashes fluttered against his pale cheeks despite his desperate attempt to stay focused.
"You're doing that thing again, Kim," Tony whispered, leaning in so close that Kim could smell the expensive tobacco on his breath. "That thing where you pretend your heart isn't thudding against your ribs in thanks. You’re terrified of me, but you’re so incredibly grateful to Kenta, aren't you? Grateful that he's taking the edge off. Grateful that he’s so... thorough."
Kim’s breath hitched, a sharp, jagged sound that he couldn't swallow back down. His hips bucked involuntarily, a micro-movement of pure, unadulterated need that betrayed his rigid posture. He gripped the edge of the mahogany desk so hard the wood bit into his palms, his knuckles white and trembling.
"Think about it," Tony continued, his voice a soft, rhythmic velvet. "While you were out there playing the hero, trying to 'rescue' him from my influence, he was here, perfecting this. For me. And now, you’re reaping the benefits of every hour he spent on his knees learning how to please a man who actually knows how to command him."
Tony reached across the desk, not to touch Kim, but to slowly slide Kim’s glass of scotch toward him, a mock gesture of hospitality.
"Does it make you sick? Knowing that the only reason you’re feeling this good right now is because I broke him in for you? Every technique, every little flick of his tongue that’s making your knees weak, that’s my handiwork, Kim. You’re essentially letting me touch you through him. And you’re loving it."
Kim’s composure finally fractured. A low, broken sound escaped his throat, a sob or a moan, he couldn't tell the difference anymore. He hated the heat in his gut. He hated that Kenta was performing with such devastating skill, and most of all, he hated that Tony was right. He was disgusted by the intimacy, but his body was singing under the attention.
"There it is," Tony said, his voice brimming with a terrifying kind of pride. "The honesty I was looking for. Look at how well you two fit together under my roof. You aren't his savior, Kim. You’re just his new playmate. And look at him, look at how hard he’s working because he knows I’m watching. He’s showing off for Daddy, isn’t he?"
Tony tapped a rhythm on the mahogany with his manicured nails, timing it to Kenta’s intake of breath.
"Go ahead, Kim. Say it. Tell him he’s doing a good job. Give him that little bit of validation he’s starving for. Or are you too busy trying not to come while I’m telling you exactly what you are?"
The tension in the room snapped, leaving something jagged and raw in its place. Kim’s grip on the crystal glass tightened until his hand shook, the physical sensation of Kenta’s devotion becoming a roar that drowned out any remaining logic.
Tony didn’t move. He just watched, his expression one of polite, academic interest, as if he were observing a chemical reaction reach its flashpoint.
"I asked you a question, Kim," Tony prompted, his voice a silk ribbon tightening around Kim’s throat. "Don't be rude. He’s worked so hard for you tonight."
Kim’s eyes finally dropped. He couldn’t maintain the stare anymore—not when his own body was screaming in a language Tony had written. He looked down at the top of Kenta’s head, at the way his fingers were white where they gripped Kim’s thighs. The disgust was a physical weight in his chest, a sickening bile, but underneath it was the sharp, electric spike of a release he no longer had the strength to fight.
"He’s..." Kim’s voice broke, a pathetic, airy sound. He swallowed hard, his head falling back as the pleasure finally overwhelmed the shame. "He’s doing a good job. Fuck—Kenta, you’re... you’re doing a great job."
The exclamation was torn from him, raw and loud in the quiet office, followed by a sharp, shuddering exhale as he finally came apart. As Kim finished, the last of his internal scaffolding collapsed. He wasn't the rescuer anymore. He was just another piece of furniture in Tony’s office, being used exactly as intended.
There was a brief, heavy silence, broken only by Kim's ragged, post-orgasmic breathing. Then, Kenta shifted. He crawled out from beneath the mahogany desk with the same mechanical fluidity he’d used to enter. He stood up, his expression blank, and casually wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand before returning to his place at Tony’s shoulder.
Tony reached across the desk then, not for the glass, but to settle his hand on top of Kim’s trembling one. It was a gesture of ownership, steady and cold.
"There," Tony whispered, the kindness in his voice the cruelest part of all. "That wasn't so hard, was it? See how much better things are when we’re all on the same page? I think you’re finally starting to understand your place here, Kim."
Kim didn't pull his hand away. He couldn't. He just sat there, staring at the desk, feeling the cold air hit his damp skin and the crushing weight of his own self-loathing. He had come to save Kenta, but looking at the man standing stoically by Tony’s side, Kim realized he was the only one who had truly been ruined.