Kinktober WIP: dnnz breeding

((I realise I’m basically just constantly edging all of you at this point, but I promise to cross-post the Leon thread from Twit soon and I’ll try to draw some dabihawks this weekend!))

Champion Leon wins again! Another stunning victory from the strongest trainer in Galar!

The crowd is a dull roar under the concrete and steel of the stadium’s walls, but so loud it’s audible even here in the locker rooms. Piers leans back against the cold metal of one locker, listening to the rise and fall of the pulsing chant that is Leon’s name repeated over and over on thousands of lips.

There’s never any question about these things, not really. Leon’s victories feel absolute, almost predetermined. A given, like the sun rising in the east. The sky is blue, a compass always points north, Leon will always win.

That still doesn’t stop it from being exciting, though.

The entire country never tires of it, and even though Piers would be hard-pressed to say it out loud, he never gets tired of watching either. There’s something hypnotic about watching Leon battle, never missing a beat as he strides back and forth across the turf and issues commands like a king ordering forth troops. His bond with his team is phenomenal too, and Piers knows from years of up-close experience that his absolute dedication to them is what lends him part of that edge.

He’s not left waiting against the lockers long. The cheering of the crowd grows louder for a moment, then muffles once more as the door at the end of the long hall opens and closes, and he hears Leon’s footsteps as steady, even percussion.

When he opens the door, he has that look in his eyes once again. Piers has come to know it well—it’s a look he’ll never show to a camera, far too practiced to give more than a cheery, welcoming smile and just a glint of challenge to beckon to potential rivals. That’s the same glint that drew him in so many years ago, and one he’s been beholden to ever since. But this expression, here and now, is a different beast altogether. Leon’s eyes are burning, the thrill of victory hardening his face ever so slightly, touching the corners of his eyes and the curl of his lips and strengthening them into something predatory and knowing.

Every time Piers is on the receiving end of it, he feels like a very small creature who has just realised his scent has been caught, or sees the shadow of wings growing wider.

Leon reaches one strong hand up and undoes the clasp that holds that massive cape in place, sliding it free from his shoulders and letting the thick velvet fabric pool off across the bench that stretches down the middle of the locker room. Even without it, he looks bigger somehow, as though his shoulders have broadened in the last hour alone. They heave up and down, just barely, but enough that Piers can see it contrasted against the terrible, delightful stillness of his gaze.

“You’re here.” The words aren’t a question, but an acknowledgement. His voice is gravelly from shouting out commands, and that knife’s edge gaze nearly slits Piers’ clothes off where he stands, sending the tatters of his objections fluttering to the floor.

“To the victor go the spoils,” he murmurs, and it doesn’t sound anywhere near as dry as he wants it to. It sounds hungry, and beckoning.

Leon’s response is to toss his hat aside onto the cape, and cross the space between them in two long steps. The arm that wraps around Piers’ waist feels like it’s wrought from steel, yet the body he’s pressed to is warm and wafting the delicious scent of sweat and effort and man.

“You watched me win?” Leon’s voice sounds as intense as a dozen blazing suns, and Piers can only give in to the lips pressing insistently against his neck. Something in him trembles for a moment, then submits in a rush.

“Yes. I watched ya—I’m always watchin’ you win. And now I’m here, been waiting for you.” Gripping Leon’s wrist, he guides it down the sides of his waist, allowing Leon to pause and squeeze in with hands so big they nearly meet in the middle. But Piers doesn’t have the patience for his lingering, and pushes him down further, until that wide palm is between his legs, cupping his sex through the thin fabric of his athletic shorts.

Their eyes meet, and Piers is already sharing Leon’s panting breath.

“Winner takes all.”