Fumbling Towards Ecstacy
Day 19: Uniform
It's right at the end of the after-lunch rush that they waltz in through the fuschia-stained doors like they own the place.
MDK spies a flash of their familiar blue plating flitting across the far end of the dining area in the corner of his eye, a platter of dirty dishes balanced on one hand, and the other resting in the lap of his ridiculously frilly work uniform. They saunter past the sparsely populated tables, and swiftly take up the empty booth closest to the back hallway. All without waiting to be seated.
V1's bright yellow optic catches his gaze across the restaurant, and holds it for about five seconds. As a result, he just about floats into one of the support beams, gaudily decorated with paper lace and photos of the service staff with customers. The dishes slide sharply to the right as he jerks to avoid it, and it's only long-ingrained reflexes that stop the dessert plates and fountain glasses from meeting their demise on the mosaic-tiled floor.
The spoons, on the other hand, make a desperate bid for freedom, and clatter to the ground one by one.
"Shit--" he hisses, dropping out of the air to the floor quickly and landing on silk-covered knees. He's got half of them gathered when some of the butter knives follow their brethren's example. Christ, everybody on the opening shift tomorrow is gonna give him crap for this. MDK scrabbles for the farthest utensil from him, at last grasping it in his hand and returning it to the platter.
They're still staring; he just knows it without having to look. He floats back up, the dish platter somehow remaining balanced in his palm. An exhale leaves him, steadying his nerves as he continues his journey towards a brief reprieve from work. He just needs to get these dishes off his hands, and not be saddled with taking over the register first.
"Hey!" MDK calls out as he barges into the bustling kitchen, directing his shout at the far corner of the back-of-house. "I'm gonna take my break!"
The manager on duty, a Cerberus that has to crouch to fiddle with the only computer in the entire building, sends an absent nod in his direction. Sighing in blatant relief, MDK slips the platter onto the edge of the crowded dishpit before flying swiftly back out the kitchen doors. In a flurry of lace and swishing fabric, he crosses the dining room floor, and smoothly seats himself opposite the machine already sitting there, their wings flicking excitedly.
"Hi!" He greets them, general mood immediately improving. Warmth circles in his hollow chest cavity as they reach across the table to take his hand, fingers curling around his palm in a loose hold. "You know I don't get off for another five hours, what's up?"
Their other hand starts to spell out a word, and then another, moving just a bit slower than normal for his sake. MDK realizes, with a slight shock, that he's gotten a lot better at reading fingerspelling in the year they've been cohabiting together.
"JUST WALKING BY."
"Well, can I get you anything? You know it's on me."
They shake their head, and gesture at him. It's their usual sign that they'd rather hear him talk. The husk gladly fills their silence.
"Well, it's been a pretty boring day, actually. Hank's only threatened to quit once this morning… "
This is normally something V1 would listen to him say when he got back to their small apartment, just inside one of Lust's nearest residential districts, but he's glad to have them here now. Their thumb rubs easy circles across the back of his hand as he speaks, and the subtle noises of the quieting establishment fades into the background.
But just as he starts to wrap up, he suddenly notices their gaze traveling away, towards the counter and the sparsely-filled cafe. Any remaining patrons are occupied with their shakes, pastries, and good conversation. Hank is wiping down platters, and the Owl is discreetly counting out their generously-filled tip jar.
Right when it occurs to him that nobody's really paying any attention to this tiny corner of the restaurant, V1 becomes a blur of movement, slipping out of the booth. Their hand tightens its grip around his bony wrist, one encircled by a lacy cuff, and all but yanks him out of his cushioned seat. Dumbfounded shock steals away anything he might have had to say in response to this as he's pulled swiftly down the secluded hall, and into the back corners of the dining area. He's too stunned to say anything even as they hurriedly tug open the entrance to the cleaning closet right by the bathrooms.
As he's pulled into the cramped space, MDK suddenly finds his voice again.
"Oh my god, you are gonna get me fucking fired-" He starts, but has to quickly silence a hitching gasp from escaping him. V1's palms run all across his body with a heated sort of hunger, groping at him through the thin, silky fabric of his work uniform. Just as quickly as light had filled the tiny space, darkness falls when the door is shut firmly behind them. He can only see by the dim light of their optics, fixated on his almost obscenely lacy costume.
Four different hands wander in every direction possible: running over every rib he has, grabbing at his hip and sending muted sparks of arousal rippling through his body, one landing upon his spine and another seeking the back of his helm. They're entirely fake, but MDK somehow still feels a shudder pulse down south as they pinch one of the tips of his cat-ear headband between their fingers.
They quickly crowd him against the shelves, and bottles of cleaning solution rattle dangerously upon impact. He holds his breath, but somehow, none of them take a spill. It's punched out of him in a hushed gasp as a bold hand slips under the skirt of his dress, gliding up his femur in a sensual stroke before reaching their destination.
He almost can't muffle the moan it prompts in time. Their fingers glide over his pubic arch, rubbing it in slow, but firm circles that quickly start to drive him crazy.
"Fuck--fuck are you for real?" He hisses under his breath. "We're gonna get caught--"
He's cut off by a familiar click, and then pressurized silicone presses insistently against his thigh. V1's optic meets his gaze, the light dimmed and the whirr of their fans growing in volume as he struggles to catch his breath. It's a look he's become quite familiar with; through Lust's bright sunrises, all its artificial days, and its neon-drenched evenings, pouring through the window of their shared bedroom.
Ultimately, he relents.
"... we--we need to make this quick, alright?" Not to mention stay completely quiet. He isn't keen on losing this job. Sure, he likes to complain about it off the clock, but the tips more than made up for the bullshit he puts up with on a regular basis. Along with the benefits and the vacation time. Speaking of the latter, MDK's been meaning to take them to his home layer of Greed, to see it's golden streets, luxurious spas, and stunningly clear nights-
Deft hands suddenly flip him over onto his front, all but pinning him against the shelves. His struggle to balance himself is cut short as their hand hikes the skirt of his dress up and over his hips. Their fingers go right back to rubbing every sensitive area they can reach.
"Ohfuck." Okay, yeah, something about doing this at work is doing something else to him. "V1… "
The utterance of their name is met with a low, metallic whine. He hears the faint schlick of a palm spreading artificial lubricant across smooth silicone. Right after, both his ilium wings are grabbed in a harsh grip, and he's being pulled back right onto their dick.
MDK jolts instinctively in answer to the sudden surge of lightning-hot pleasure, pulsing outwards from where they're connected. The motion is met with both of V1's free hands. One digs under his costume and shimmies up to his ribcage, and the other grabs at the back of his helm and pushes it flush against the shelves.
"Shit," He moans, palm slapping over his visor, struggling to meet each iron thrust that has them dragging along the underside of his pubic arch. "Fuckfuckfuck--ohgod."
V1 sets a brutal pace right away, apparently determined to make good on his demand. With each frantic roll of their hips, a cry threatens to break free. He can't stop the sounds in their entirety; each one seems to echo obscenely loud in this enclosed, darkened room. They lean over him, too-hot plating pressing into his back and the heat soaking through the fabric of his dress to sear him alive.
He hears a door open, and for one terrible, charged moment he swears the hall light is pouring over them both. But it's just the glow of V1's optic hitting the wall. The sound of it shutting with a muted click follows the steady clatter of footsteps walking by, right as a moan is unexpectedly punched out of him with an especially vicious thrust. He barely manages to stifle it in time.
He can't believe he's getting off on the thought of someone catching them like this: pinned to the wall, dress bunched around his hips, getting fucked so brutally. He'd be completely on display if anybody wandered in; a moaning, writhing mess being pounded into the shelves, by the undefeated Cyber Grind Champion themselves and by virtue the most dangerous machine in all of Hell, no less.
The hand groping his ribs goes right down to join the other two, rubbing everywhere it can reach. Heat starts to coil tighter and tighter in his metaphorical gut. He grits his teeth around a yelp when three of their fingers shove themselves through one of his foramen holes and pump once, twice-
Release slams into him without warning, radiating over his body in rhythmic, heated pulses. One of V1's hands slaps over his own, further muffling the sound that rips itself from his throat. They don't let up, hips jackknifing against his own over and over. It feels like it's never going to end.
But just as he starts to come down and the euphoria starts to spill over into overstimulation, MDK hears that tell-tale, high-pitched whine from deep inside their chassis. The sound vibrates along his back, and everywhere else they're still pressed against him. Hot air flows from every vent and their plating shudders almost violently.
The both of them slump, V1's palm falling away from his lower visor. If he weren't perpetually floating he's sure the pair of them would have fallen to the floor, and subsequently alerted whoever it is opening the bathroom door just outside. As it is, the janitor's closet has fallen silent. The faint, muffled clatter of utensils against fountain glasses and the idle chattering of patrons is all he hears, none the wiser to their tryst.
A helm nuzzles along his own, with a whirring rise and fall of internal fans mimicking a content sigh. A laugh, soft but giddy, escapes him, nuzzling back as he revels in the afterglow. Gentle fingers stroke his fake cat ears once more before they pull away.
By the time he's righting himself midair to glance back at them, the machine is slipping out of the closet. The door shuts with a muted click, and their footsteps retreat from the scene of the crime with an easy-sounding gait.
It takes a few moments more for him to completely compose himself, but by the time he's pretty sure fifteen minutes have passed in full, MDK straightens up. He fixes up his outfit with the ease of long practice, straightening the headband, and tugging his dress back down to where the hem falls mid-tibia. He's adjusting his sleeves and cuffs when it occurs to him that there's something on the lining of his uniform.
Something sticky and wet.
"Oh you motherfucking--"
They did this on purpose. And there's not a single fucking paper towel roll in here. V1 knows this because he's been complaining about their refill being on backorder for weeks, forced to borrow their current supply from the lingerie shop next door.
Hoping to god that his blush is sufficiently undetectable under his helm, MDK slips out of the darkened closet, and back into the glaring fluorescent lights of the hall. Peering around the corner, the husk takes a quick glance around. Aside from a few more machines, husks, and demons at the tables, it looks like nobody noticed them. Small mercies.
V1's somehow already at the counter and being handed a large bloodshake, in a to-go cup, by the Owl. They drop a few coins into the tip jar before turning to leave. But before they do, their gaze meets his own peering around the far corner of the cafe.
Their optic shudder goes half-lidded for a moment, and then rises and drops twice in quick succession. It's the machine equivalent of an eyebrow waggle. He can't do anything other than gape and glare at them. And then they pivot on their heels, and head out the door from whence they came, pouring just a bit of their treat over their chest plating.
He's debating making a break for the bathroom proper and grabbing some toilet paper, when he unfortunately locks eyes with one of the other waitresses.
"Oh, there you are!" The demoness says in a far-too cheery tone that suggests he's about to experience a drastic increase in workload. "Table seven needs cleaning!"
There goes his window of escape. Thankfully, everyone's still pretty unaware of what just went down in the janitor's closet. MDK floats across the dining area and steadfastly ignores how his dress sticks to his legs. He gathers the dirtied dishes as calmly as he can, slips back behind the counter and hurriedly sets them down. Hank's not back here; another miracle.
And he did leave the damp cleaning rag by the serving platters.
He's just starting to reach for it when comes the knowing, deadpan tone of the Owl, freezing him in his tracks.
"Don't even think about it."
