Disclaimer: I don't own any characters blah blah blah owned by Anthony Horowitz blah blah blah don't sue me.
Summary: MI6 has a new torturer. Reports had emerged about their victims: all left with no grievous (or any) injuries, yet all emerged red-faced, having answered any questions put to them.
Or, a certain Russian assassin lets professional curiosity overcome his self-preservation instincts.
CW: Dubcon. They don't say no, but they don't say yes, so there's your warning.
Happy Valentine's Day! This isn't exactly romantic, but... it has sex (and is my first posted fic that has sex. So, yeah. Be nice?)
I'm On The Edge Of (Not Glory)
The grimy grey room went from pitch black to fully lit with the flick of a switch. It was designed to disorientate its occupants, keeping them off guard and creating a few seconds when the brain could be influenced to increase compliance levels.
Yassen had experienced these tactics often enough that their effectiveness was reduced to less than zero. A script had to be followed with these events, and once one learned all the lines, it made attempts to gather information a waste of everyone's time.
He'd learned the script by heart less than two years after Sharkovsky.
He'd also heard a rumour from his contacts that MI6 had found a torturer (sorry, "interrogation expert") who was creating a new script. No one knew their name, and anyone Yassen asked about their methods (yes, he asked. He could be polite when he wanted to be. Was it his fault that he rarely did?) displayed all the signals of embarrassment, shame and something else. He was forced to obtain the information the old-fashioned way.
A month later, a stumble while fleeing a successful hit resulted in a bruised ego, an inflated sense of accomplishment by a cadre of agents, and the stellar hospitality that could only be found in a prison cell. A call was sent to all relevant parties, detailing the "immense effort" necessary to "capture" the "prized assassin". Overhearing one such call, Yassen was left wondering if they were that stupid or if he was that good at acting.
Which now left him in a grimy room, tied naked to a chair, hoping to settle his professional curiosity (and to learn something new), waiting for an attempt at intimidation to come bursting through the door in a few seconds, along with a sufficiently scary array of torture instruments.
That was the following line in the script, after all.
Instead, someone wearing a cat mask padded into the room, dragging a wheeled wardrobe behind them. Further deviating from the script, they pulled the wardrobe along until both were out of Yassen's line of sight. He heard hinges creaking, the sound of things being pushed around, and what he thought was something being unscrewed.
The script was torn to pieces when the torturer threw a container of a slightly viscous liquid over him. It didn't smell of anything (eliminating any lighter fuel from the list of possibilities) and had the wrong consistency to be water or other liquids commonly found in supermarkets. After a few seconds with no adverse effects, Yassen concluded it wasn't poison, leaving his list of possible options at a solid zero.
He was beginning to conclude that the rumours may not have been greatly exaggerated.
The person came into view, giving him a long time to examine them. Younger than him, slightly smaller… and that was it. The tracksuit bottoms, hoodie, and cat mask concealed any other identifying features from sight. They took a pair of Bluetooth speakers from their pocket and set it on the floor, followed by gloves, which they put on their hands.
Stepping forward until they were standing beside the chair, something on the chair pressed by their hand as they bent over, turning the chair into what could have substituted for an operating table. A remote emerged from the tracksuit pocket and pointed at the speakers.
"Where are SCORPIA's weapon storage facilities located?" demanded a robotic voice from the speakers. Voice modulators. Not particularly high-tech, but it did the job. Yassen didn't respond, but it seemed to have been the expected response because the person let their right-hand trail through the liquid settled on his body, spreading it across their glove.
Yassen's eyebrow twitched when the glove wrapped around a part of his body that hadn't seen outside attention from anyone in a while. Long neglected, it slowly started to show interest in proceedings. He concluded that some of the shame felt by the (mostly) men he'd asked may have come from realising that, no matter how straight they were, friction applied in certain places by anyone could be enough to achieve arousal.
SCORPIA's training to remove preferences had hit an area where it was only partially successful. He could take any gender or position, but on rare occasions, he indulged himself in the most remote safe house he owned, a new item from a carefully selected shop, trying to get as close as he could to that type of relationship on his own…
Well. He still had a preference.
He'd have to punish them for the insufficient information they'd given him once he escaped.
The person's hand was lazily stroking up and down Yassen's cock, the eyes visible through the mask's eye holes focusing on the opposite wall. The only thing preventing his (normally ironclad) control from failing was that, while he enjoyed handjobs, they weren't his weakness, weren't enough to remove everything from his brain except the desperate need to come. A slight twinge of (professional) annoyance went through him. How dare they not pay full attention? It was as if he wasn't significant enough to require their full attention or that his compliance was only a question of when, not if.
Holding the remote in front of his face, a second button was pressed, and he felt something in the chair rise upwards… into the gap between his buttocks. Yassen almost managed to prevent the slight noise from escaping as the pre-slicked protrusion was pushed in and out rhythmically. He had the feeling the person was more focused now; the noise had managed to redirect their attention to him.
After a few minutes of rhythmic in-and-out thrusts from part of the chair and slightly irregular up-and-down strokes along his cock, Yassen had switched his goal from remaining quiet to remaining still. He could feel his desire rising slowly, the urge to move, to shift the angle slightly. It was almost there; it was -
"Where are SCORPIA's weapon storage facilities located?" repeated the speaker, the first words he'd heard in minutes. Yassen ignored it: he was just there, almost, ye-
Some cursed, when he stopped. They screamed, begged him to continue; they were just there; why did you stop? Their lusts ruled them, their brains having taken up permanent residence in their cock.
Some were ashamed. They caught on quickly, realised the rules of his game, knew he'd win eventually. They held on as long as possible, hoping to escape before he "killed them" (only a little death, le petit mort, but they didn't know that).
Yassen Gregorovich did neither. He enjoyed the rare occasion when he was given a SCORPIA agent. They were made of sterner stuff. This was the first time he'd been given a Malagosto graduate, and the man had blown all expectations out of the water.
He'd whined. No screaming, begging or cursing, though there was also no divulged information about the storage facilities. The man was promising to be an exciting subject.
He wondered how long it would take before Yassen Gregorovich broke.
Yassen had heard about edging before. He had followed a target into a club and watched her bring a man almost to the brink before stopping. She'd repeated the process a few times, leaving the man an absolute mess by the time she let him come.
If anyone realised Yassen could have killed the woman ten minutes earlier, that he'd been quietly amazed the man had lasted that long, that he'd let her do that, no one mentioned it to him.
He thought he might see the appeal in a sexual encounter. As a (yes) method of information extraction… Yassen hated to admit it, but he could see (just there) why MI6 had seen a rise in the sheer amount of information gathered.
It could have been ten minutes or sixty. Yassen had lost count somewhere (please) around the third stop; at the seventh, he didn't care.
Dr Three's RTI had prepared him for all methods of painful interrogation. When Yassen got back, he'd have to tell him that he had missed out on the methods of pleasurable interrogation. After all, (almost) he had been the one to educate the class using Nir Eyal's quote, "all humans are motivated to seek pleasure and avoid pain", then only covered pain. It was a severely -
Yassen huffed when the speaker asked the same question. They both knew he wouldn't answer, which meant - he whined when the hand disappeared, and the protrusion was removed from him. Self-control shredded long ago, he thrashed within the bonds while his internal muscles clenched on empty air, desperate for the final bit of friction to send him over the edge.
Once the obligatory few minutes of waiting for him not to be as close to the edge was over, the gloved hand returned to his cock, and the protrusion was pushed back between his buttocks. Unlike the other times, the person stopped before playing the question on the speakers as they covered their ear with their left hand. Then they stopped stroking Yassen's cock (and ignored the sound that escaped his mouth), strode over to the door and left the room, leaving the wardrobe behind, the protrusion still rhythmically moving in and out.
He stood in front of the computers, watching the man's movements through the cameras dotted around the room. Tulip had bet that Yassen would cave within the hour. He'd bet that the man wouldn't.
The man's reactions would follow him into his dreams. The moans, jerks, whines - Yassen had let himself go. The higher-ups had wanted to subject the man to the usual forceps/knives/electricity routine, but he'd argued that his methods would disorient the assassin enough to implant the tracker.
He'd been right - he was watching the man try to writhe on the tracker and angle himself to get it to reach the right spot.
Pressing the third button released the restraints, detached the slim dildo from the chair, and the tracker separated from the top of the dildo. Showing more self-control than any other subject, the man didn't waste time removing the dildo or getting himself off, instead jumping to his feet, looking inside the wardrobe, grabbing one of the canes and making a break for the door.
Everyone working in the building had been told to take the day off, so the cane wasn't necessary, but he admired the man's ingenuity in taking it. He watched Yassen walk quickly and quietly along the corridor, still naked (he glanced to the chair to his left, where a neatly folded stack of clothes sat) and making his way towards the exit.
He'd watched many subjects, but he could honestly say he'd never wanted any of them. Yasswn Gregorovich was the first. Not giving himself a chance to think it through, he picked up the remote and pressed the fourth button. Taaap tap taaap taaap, taaap taaap taaap, tap tap taaap, tap taaap tap…
He repeated the rules twice in case the man had gotten distracted when the dildo still stuck inside him started vibrating. On the screen, Yassen stumbled with a badly suppressed moan as his cock was brought back to full hardness. Once the man signalled his understanding by kneeling with hands behind his back (though a simple "Yes" would have sufficed), he tapped one last word out before holding the button down until the man whined as he came.
Turning off the cameras, he walked out of the room, leaving one assassin to recover from his orgasm in the middle of the deserted corridor.
Your pleasure is mine. You come when your Dom lets you, and only then. I know you won't disappoint me.
Come.
Críochnaithe
(A.N: I think this fic has made it official that I have an… unusual imagination.)