Chapter Text
The clock on your desk does exactly what it was designed to do, tick after tick, each second a small, metallic click that count down to a singular, inevitable event. 2:58 PM. Any moment now. You lean back in your chair and let a small, knowing smile play on your lips. Fenomeno was nothing if not punctual. His daily patrol of the academy grounds concluded at 2:55 PM sharp, followed by a mandatory three-minute cooldown walk, and then, at precisely 3:00 PM, he would be at your office door to deliver his report. It was a routine as solid and dependable as he was.
Lately, however, you’d noticed a slight deviation in his mannerisms. A subtle crack in his otherwise impenetrable methodologies, the only reason you had even caught on was from having been around him for so long. You’d catch him staring when he thought you weren’t looking, his intense violet eyes softened with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. Sometimes, after a training session, he’d linger just a second too long when taking a water bottle from your hands, his large fingers brushing against yours, sending a strange jolt through you both. He’d flinch back as if burned, his ears flattening against his hat, stammering an apology for a breach in conduct that only he perceived.
You had a theory. A rather bold one, but a theory nonetheless. Today, you decided, was the day for a little unsanctioned surveillance.
Pushing yourself up from the desk, you shrug off the light coat you’d been wearing. It wasn’t particularly cold in the office, but you’d worn it all morning for a reason. You drape it carefully over the back of your chair, making sure the collar is facing outward. The fabric still holds your warmth, a faint trace of your personal scent clinging to the threads. Bait.
With a final glance around the office, you slip over to the tall supply closet tucked into the corner of the room. The hinges are silent as you pull the heavy wooden door open and slide into the cramped darkness within.You pull the door shut until only a hairsbreadth of a crack remains, a perfect vertical slit that gives you a clear, unobstructed view of your desk and the office door. You hold your breath, your heart thrumming with a mixture of mischief and anticipation.
The clock on the wall, visible through the crack, ticks to 3:00 PM. Not a second later, three heavy, decisive knocks rattle the office door.
“Boss!” His voice is a deep, formal baritone that vibrates right through the wood. “Fenomeno, reporting for daily debriefing! Requesting permission to enter!”
Silence. You remain perfectly still, a predator in your dark little hideout.
A few seconds of quiet pass, part of whatever procedure he’s formed in his mind. You can practically feel his confusion radiating through the door.
“...Boss?” His voice is a little less certain now, a note of concern creeping in. “Are you present? Your presence is requested for my scheduled report.”
Again, you offer only silence. You watch the doorknob, seeing it jiggle slightly. You hear the faint click of the latch as he pushes the door open with practiced caution, as if expecting to find a crime scene in progress.
His massive frame fills the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly scraping both sides of the frame. He has to duck his head slightly to clear the top, his hat held respectfully in one hand. Those piercing violet eyes sweep the room with methodical precision, his gaze sharp. His tail giving a single, inquisitive swish behind him.
“Hm, not here,” he murmurs to himself, his voice a low rumble. He takes a full step inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “That’s… strange. I wasn’t informed of any scheduled appointments…”
He walks toward your desk, his movements quiet for a being of his size. His eyes scan every surface—the neat stacks of paperwork, your pen lying next to a half-finished cup of coffee, the monitor sleeping on the desk. He is the picture of a diligent officer investigating a disturbance. Then, his eyes land on the coat.
He stops dead.
From your vantage point, you see his entire body go rigid. His gaze fixes on the garment hanging from the chair as if it were the most fascinating, most illicit object in the entire world. His ears, which had been swiveling to catch any ambient sound, pivot forward and lock into place, aimed directly at the coat.
“Ngh…” A choked sound escapes his throat, low and strained.
He takes a hesitant step closer, his eyes staring. A deep flush, a fascinating shade of crimson, begins to creep up from the collar of his uniform, painting his neck and ears. He glances around the room, his gaze darting to the windows, the corners, the closed closet door. He’s checking for witnesses, ensuring the scene is secure. You hold your breath, pressing your back against the wall of the closet, convinced the frantic pounding of your heart will give you away.
Apparently satisfied he’s alone, he turns his full attention back to the coat. He slowly reaches out a large hand. His fingers tremble slightly as they hover over the fabric before finally making contact. He strokes the material of the shoulder, his touch so light it’s almost a caress. His lips part slightly, a ragged breath escaping him.
He looks so profoundly embarrassed, so utterly conflicted, it’s almost painful to watch. His duty and discipline are warring with a much more primal, overwhelming urge. And the urge is winning.
With another furtive glance around the empty room, he gives in. He gently lifts the coat from the chair, handling it with more care than he would a priceless artifact. He brings the garment closer, his eyes screwing shut as if in shame. His entire body is coiled tight with tension, a maelstrom of longing and guilt playing out on his face. He lifts the collar of the coat, the place where your scent would be strongest, and presses it to his face.
He inhales.
It’s not a simple sniff. It is a deep, shuddering breath that seems to draw the very essence of you into his lungs. His shoulders heave with the force of it. A low, guttural groan rumbles in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated bliss that he immediately tries to stifle. His tail, which had been still, now lashes through the air once, a powerful, involuntary motion.
He keeps the coat pressed to his face, his knuckles white where he grips the fabric. He’s completely lost in the moment, drowning in the scent, the raw adoration starkly visible in the tense line of his jaw and the fierce heat coloring his cheeks.
And you, hidden in the darkness, watch it all, your own breath caught in your throat. Your theory, it seemed, was not only correct—it was a staggering understatement.
Seconds stretch into minutes as you watch Fenomeno, utterly transfixed by the raw, private spectacle unfolding just a few feet away. He doesn’t move from his spot, simply stands there, your coat clutched to his face like a relic. The initial, shuddering inhale has given way to a series of smaller, more desperate huffs of breath against the fabric.
A low, pathetic whimper escapes his throat, a sound completely at odds with his usual booming, authoritative voice. It’s the sound of a creature in the throes of an overwhelming need. His eyes are still squeezed shut, his wild hair plastered to his brow with a thin sheen of sweat.
“Boss…” he breathes out again, speaking into your coat. “Ah… Boss…”
He shifts his weight, his heavy boots scuffing softly on the floor. His free hand, the one not gripping the coat, clenches and unclenches at his side, his knuckles straining. From your narrow vantage point, you see the muscles in his powerful forearm bunch and release with the motion.
His breathing grows heavier, deeper, turning into ragged pants that fill the otherwise silent office. He turns his head slightly, rubbing his cheek against the soft material of your coat, his tail giving another powerful, agitated lash behind him. As he moves, your eyes are drawn downward, and your breath catches in your own throat.
The front of his uniform pants is no longer flat. A prominent strain is rising against the heavy fabric, an undeniable testament to the effect your scent is having on him. It’s growing with an alarming speed, stretching the material taut, creating an impressive, frankly intimidating bulge that speaks to the sheer scale of his frame. Seeing the disciplined, almost rigid lines of his uniform so thoroughly disrupted by such a carnal display is a dizzying sight. His flushed, desperate expression, the way his lips are parted as he pants your name… it’s a strange and potent mix of overwhelming horniness and his inherent earnestness that you find, to your own shock, devastatingly cute.
He seems to become acutely aware of his own body’s betrayal. A fresh wave of heat visibly floods his face. He groans, a low and miserable sound, and stumbles forward a step, bracing his free hand against the edge of your desk as if his legs can no longer support him. The movement only serves to jut his hips forward slightly, making the enormous erection straining against his pants even more pronounced.
“Ah… Boss, please… if you were here…” he whispers to the coat, his voice full of arousal. He’s completely lost it, talking to you as if you’re right there with him, held in his hands. “I just… I need…”
The hand braced on the desk lifts, shaking, and begins a slow, agonizing journey downward. It travels over the tactical harness strapped across his chest, past the thick belt cinching his waist, and finally comes to rest at the base of that massive, fabric-wrapped hardness. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his entire body trembling, before his hand cups himself fully.
“Nngh… Boss…” he grunts.
His fingers curl, gripping the thick, heavy shaft through the layers of his uniform. He’s not being gentle. It’s a desperate, needy grope, his hand squeezing and kneading himself with a clumsy urgency. The sheer size of him is staggering; his hand barely encompasses his length. You can see the whole outline now, pressing against the fabric as he works his hand up and down in rough, friction-heavy strokes.
He starts to move his hips in a slow, instinctive rhythm. He’s completely given over to the sensation, his disciplined mind taking a backseat to the lust he was feeling right now.
“Feels… so good… Boss…” he pants, his voice cracking. “Your scent… it’s everywhere… Ah! Right here… you’re always watching me, aren’t you? Guiding me… Please… watch me now…”
His pleas hang in the air, a shocking, intimate confession meant for no one but the ghost of you he’s inhaling from a piece of clothing. And you, the real you, stand hidden in the suffocating darkness of the closet, your own body buzzing with a strange, forbidden heat, watching every single moment.
The pressure of his own hand, muffled by the thick uniform fabric, is clearly not enough. A sound akin to slight frustration drips from Meno’s throat, a low growl that makes the hair on your arms stand up. He pushes off the desk only to press himself back against it more forcefully, grinding his hips against the hard wood in a desperate, friction-seeking rhythm. The heavy desk groans under his weight, the objects on its surface rattling with the force of his movements.
“Nngh… Boss… it’s…” he chokes out, his voice strained. He’s working himself into a frenzy, the scent from your coat driving him completely over the edge. “I need to feel it… need to… for you…”
His frantic grinding ceases as he makes a decision. With a shuddering gasp, he fumbles with the front of his pants. From your hidden viewpoint, you hear the rasp of a zipper being puled downwards with frantic haste. He shoves the front of his pants down, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated, bunching the material around his upper thighs.
Now, only a thin layer of simple, light grey athletic underwear stands between his raging erection and the open air. And it is losing the battle spectacularly. The fabric is strained to its absolute limit, stretched thin and semi-transparent over a colossal, straining bulge. It struggles valiantly to contain the size of him, the seams looking like they might tear under the pressure. At the very tip, a dark, wet splotch has already permeated the material, a glistening patch of precum that proves just how long he’s been on the edge.
He pants, his head thrown back, staring at the ceiling as if begging for forgiveness. “Boss… don’t… don’t… look at me… your subordinate… is just…” he whimpers, his voice cracking with a mixture of shame and unbearable pleasure.
He can’t take it anymore. He hooks his thumbs into the straining waistband of his underwear, and with a single, desperate motion, shoves them down.
His cock springs free. It’s absolutely huge, thick as your wrist and long, jutting out from his body at a sharp upward angle. A network of veins pulses along the length of the shaft, which is flushed light red. The head is slick already, a glistening bead of clear, sticky pre-cum welling at the tip before slowly dripping down the side. Tucked beneath the massive shaft is a pair of equally impressive balls, held tight against his body in their sheer, unadulterated need.
A shaky breath rattles in his chest. He still has your coat clutched in his left hand, and he brings it back to his nose, inhaling your scent deeply as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. Then, his right hand, which had been trembling at his side, comes up and wraps around the base of his cock.
“Ah…! Mmmhn…” he gasps as his gloved hand makes contact with his own skin. The sound is entirely different now—sharper, clearer in its neediness.
He begins to stroke himself. His movements are slow at first, his large hand gliding up the thick length. He watches his own hand on his cock, a dazed, fascinated expression on his face, as if he can’t believe what he’s doing.
“So… sensitive… Boss…” he moans, his voice barely a whisper. “This is… such a violation of conduct… a severe infraction… Nghh…”
He picks up the pace, his strokes becoming faster, firmer, his knuckles rubbing against his straining balls with each pass. The desperate, wet sounds of his hand sliding over his shaft fill the room, an obscene soundtrack to the secret show you’re witnessing. He buries his face back in your coat, his words muffled by the fabric as his hips begin to buck in time with his hand.
“Boss… Boss, please… forgive me… I’d do anything for you… Let me… let me be this undisciplined… just for you… just this once… ah, mgnnh—”
The stuffy air in the closet has grown hot, mirroring the heat coiling low in your own gut. You press a hand over your mouth, stifling the sound of your own quickening breath. Watching him, this paragon of discipline and order, so completely undone and utterly consumed by a lust that is centered entirely on you, is the most powerfully erotic thing you have ever witnessed. His desperate pleas of “Boss” are a drumbeat against your sanity. A flush creeps up your neck, and you can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that matches the slick, wet sounds of his hand working his dick.
He’s completely lost to the world, a slave to his senses. The hand not occupied with his frantic masturbation is still clutching your coat, but his grip is so tight his knuckles are white. His hips thrust against his own fist in a powerful, driving rhythm, fucking his hand. Sweat drips from his temples, running in rivulets down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his disheveled uniform.
“So close… Boss… Ah!… Almost there… B-boss… I…” he gasps, his violet eyes glazed over, staring at nothing. He’s right on the precipice, his whole body trembling with the imminent, violent pleasure.
In a moment of final, desperate clarity, he seems to decide that the scent alone is no longer a sufficient tribute. He needs a target. He needs an altar. With a groan, he releases his death grip on your coat and practically throws it onto the surface of your desk. He uses his hands to smooth it out, a shockingly delicate gesture in the midst of his frenzied state. The dark fabric lies spread open.
Bracing himself with both hands on the desk, he looms over the garment, his enormous, dripping cock aimed directly at its center. His back is to you now, the powerful muscles of his shoulders and back flexing with every movement. He resumes his frantic pace, his body coiled like a spring, his knuckles white where he grips the edge of the desk. The end is coming.
This is it. This is the moment.
You don’t want him to finish alone in his fantasy. You want him to see you.
The closet door opens with a barely audible click. You take a single, silent step out onto the floor. He’s so lost in his climax that he doesn’t hear you. You let the silence hang for a beat, watching the tremors rack his powerful frame. Then, you speak, your voice cutting cleanly through the haze of his lust.
“Meno,” you say, your tone calm, inquisitive even. “What are you doing?”
His entire body seizes as if struck by lightning. His head whips around, his eyes wide with a terror so profound it momentarily eclipses his arousal. He sees you. Standing there. Not a fantasy, not a scent on a piece of clothing, but you. Real. And watching him.
Panic floods his features. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, his mind scrambling for a regulation, a protocol, anything to explain the inexplicable.
“B-BOSS!?” he stammers, his voice cracking in a mortified squeak. “I… This is… I was just– a uh… a stress-test of… of personal vigilance! A… a disciplinary… Nghh!”
It’s too late. His desperate, nonsensical explanation is cut short by a little drawn out whine that is pulling from the very depths of his soul. His back arches violently, his hips slamming forward in a single, unstoppable spasm. He’s over the edge, and your sudden appearance has just pushed him into a cataclysmic, point-of-no-return orgasm.
He ejaculates with breathtaking force.
Thick, white ropes of cum shoot from the head of his penis, splattering across the dark fabric of your coat in a shocking, obscene pattern. A second and third pulse follows, just as powerful, lacing obscene white patterns over the material he had been cherishing just moments before. He’s still going, his body locked in the throes of it, a continuous stream of his release painting your coat in the evidence of his depraved activities.
The sounds he makes are a wretched mix of overwhelming pleasure and soul-crushing despair. He squeezes his eyes shut, his head dropping forward as his powerful frame is wracked with the final, shuddering aftershocks. He can’t stop it, can’t hide it, and he can’t look at you. All he can do is hunch over the desk in utter humiliation, still leaking his seed onto the aftermath of his crime, completely and utterly caught.