Chapter Text
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took
Savor of poisonous brass and metal sick
—Hyperion, by John Keats (1820)
Another day serving as Shroud's righthand man, another day standing menacingly at his shoulder and relaying his orders with acerbic glee.
"I have no further use for you tonight," Shroud coolly informs him, when all their arms deals and criminal underworld maneuvering and forward-planning is done for the day. "Be back here tomorrow evening for one last security run-through for our upcoming augment deal."
"Can do, boss," Toxic brightly agrees. Ordinarily, he'd wish the man a pleasant evening and turn on his heel as he departed with an airy wave.
But today he hesitates.
Shroud doesn't fail to notice.
The masked mastermind turns his head slightly—not quite looking over his shoulder, but enough for Toxic to know he has Shroud's attention. "Something on your mind?"
Toxic takes a breath to steel his nerves. Shroud likes knowing this kind of thing in advance, he reminds himself. He knows the man prides himself on efficiency—and what better way to keep his loyal lackey happy than letting him have something that costs Shroud basically nothing?
Shroud also appreciates not having his time wasted—and at the slight twitch of the man's head, which privileges Toxic with a glimpse of those piercing LED eyes, he ascertains that he already runs the risk of exhausting the man's limited patience.
"It's not anything super important," Toxic starts, hasty with forced modesty. "I just, uh, wanted to check in and see if it'd be okay with you, if I... took a few days off?"
Shroud unwinds, like he'd been expecting something far less pleasant than an innocuous request for time off. He turns his attention back to the security terminal he's seated at. "Is that all," he murmurs dismissively. Toxic has never been so relieved to have a personal request treated with such open disregard. At least it means Shroud probably isn't angry at him for having the temerity to ask.
At least Shroud hasn't yet said 'no'.
"When?" Shroud inquires.
"The first three days of November," Toxic promptly replies. It takes an effort not to sound too earnest. Too eagerly hopeful, like a kid asking for a new video game console for Christmas.
The quiet purr of computations chirping behind Shroud's eyes echoes softly amidst the drone of the security monitors' electric hum.
"... A weekend," Shroud concludes. "What's the occasion?"
Shroud's tone clearly conveys that he couldn't care less, and Toxic isn't especially eager to disclose his reasons—but neither has he ever ailed under the delusion that even Shroud's idle, mildly disdainful curiosity was something he had the luxury of failing to satisfy.
"Gaming convention," he says quickly, casually as he can.
Shroud slowly spins his seat, the rolling chair's joints creaking faintly. "Really," he says with mild interest, giving Toxic a once-over—like he's searching for some evidence of this unforeseen interest on his person. "I didn't peg you as the type."
Much to Toxic's chagrin, Shroud has yet to peg him with anything. Ordinarily he'd relish the man's undivided attention, and the possibility of its prolonged application potentially rectifying that lamentable state of affairs—but just at the moment, he wishes Shroud would look anywhere but at him.
While Shroud hasn't asked him a question, his open-ended statement makes it clear he expects an answer.
Toxic attempts to deflect. "Whaaat? C'mon, boss-man! You know I love games."
Shroud stares at Toxic thoughtfully. "I suppose you have been known to play with your food," he absently concedes. "But this and that are just a little bit different... Don't you agree?"
Toxic lets out a nervous laugh. "You got me there."
"You know, ordinarily I wouldn't care," Shroud breezily informs him, "but you're being unusually cagey about this. And here I didn't think you had an ounce of shame in your body..."
Toxic rubs the back of his neck, dragging his fingers through the fade of his buzz cut in search of sensory distraction. Shroud tilts his head.
"But now you're embarrassed," he leisurely observes.
Toxic stiffens. He swallows thickly.
"Interesting," Shroud purrs, and it takes all of Toxic's not inconsiderable fortitude to keep his knees from trembling. "I assume a specific event caught your eye, or you wouldn't be so concerned about whether or not I'd permit your attendance as to ask so far in advance."
If anyone else tried to lord their intellectual superiority over Toxic like this, playing detective over something as inane as his embarrassing weekend plans, Toxic wouldn't entertain it for even a second. He'd give them a disdainful look and walk away, maybe after a parting shot of choice insults designed to cut them to the quick. But because it's Shroud—the guy with a supercomputer in his brain, the villain with 90% of the Los Angeles criminal underworld by the balls, the engineering virtuoso who single-handedly pioneered the augment market—it's as mortifying as it is thrilling.
To a man so thoroughly accomplished, to one so disgustingly overqualified at everything he turns his hand to, Toxic is little more than an insect. Hardly worthy of taking an interest. And yet to hold a magnifying glass up to him out of little more than idle curiosity, a great eye spying on an insignificant speck, just because he can—
It's heady, all that attention for no good reason.
Humiliation electrifies him.
"So, I'll ask again," Shroud intones, and there is a narrow thread of warning sewn through that makes it clear he doesn't appreciate being made to repeat himself. "What's the occasion?"
As Toxic squirms, Shroud throws out ideas.
"Will you be attending a LARP?" he asks, injecting so much judgmental disapproval into the word that Toxic can feel it crawl across his skin. "A celebrity signing, perhaps...?" Shroud props his masked head up on a loosely-curled fist, adopting an air of leisurely boredom.
Toxic commits every line of that disdainful silhouette to memory. This is primo spank bank material.
"A Star Trek-themed afterparty overflowing with sweaty shut-ins?" God, he's still going. "A costume competition...?" Shroud's electric eyes glide smoothly from Toxic's face down to his feet, then slowly crawl back up again—like he's imagining Toxic in a slutty maid costume or something. Toxic feels every inch of the path Shroud's eyes take like physical contact.
Toxic doesn't so much work up the nerve to disclose his weekend plans as he does arrive at the conclusion that he doesn't want to explain his burgeoning erection to his boss.
"There's a Magic: The Gathering tournament," Toxic says in a rush, massaging the back of his neck to try and distract himself from the way his ears are prickling.
Shroud goes still with consideration.
"... Magic: The Gathering," Shroud slowly echoes. He gives Toxic another once-over as the man sheepishly nods. Shroud lets out a sigh, long and audibly restrained, ominous with the way it's pressed through the buzzing filter of the vocoder.
Then Shroud says, "You're better than that."
Though it is plainly an insult, Toxic can only bask in the glow of the man's disdain. The fact that Shroud thought highly enough of Toxic in the first place to think he was above anything at all, and the distinctly paternal air of his disappointment, is doing insane things to Toxic's already vanishingly low standards.
God, he loves working for this insane asshole. You just don't get high-quality ridicule like this at a nine-to-five salary job.
Toxic shoves his hands in his pockets, scuffing his shoe on the concrete as he puts on an exaggerated, bratty little pout. "You gonna tell me I can't go?" he sulks. Because being an obnoxious shitheel is what he does best. His crass attitude contrasts nicely with Shroud's no-nonsense one. And he knows this is by design, because his boss actively encourages him to take these liberties in their negotiations with other crooks and villains. Toxic's impertinent bullshit makes Shroud seem more stoic, more intimidating, more level-headed in comparison. And the fact that he lets an obnoxious piece of shit like Toxic run rampant serves as a show of simultaneous disrespect toward those he's dealing with, and quiet assurance of his own power—that he's leashed a rabid, disobedient dog like Toxic to his side. That he can bring even this impertinent braggart to heel with a look, with a gesture, with a word.
And whenever Toxic steps out of line, Shroud gets to make an example of him—to show others the consequences of displeasing him. Like, if he's willing to slap around his righthand man, to demean him in front of potential enemies, what does that say about what he's willing to do to you, huh?
So basically this is the best gig Toxic has ever had.
And as long as Shroud is acting disappointed in him, there's no harm in reminding him that he pays Toxic to be an obnoxious little shit, right?
After a long pause, during which Toxic makes his lip quiver pathetically, Shroud lets out a long, weary sigh. "I should," Shroud says, "just for that."
A flicker of genuine anxiety breaks through Toxic's duck lips routine.
Even masked, Toxic can tell Shroud is rolling his eyes. "Jesus Christ..." the man vehemently mutters. He's so exasperated that he must forget he's wearing a mask, because he lifts a hand as if to pinch the bridge of his nose, or rub his eyes. "Fine. You can have that weekend off." He waves a dismissive hand as he turns back to the security terminal with an air of finality. "Go buy your no doubt overpriced tickets. But keep your phone on in case of emergencies."
Toxic positively beams. "Tickets, plural?" he says. "Why, boss-man, if you want to come along, all you had to do was—"
"Perhaps you'd like your next paycheck in quarters," Shroud interrupts with arch mockery, "so you can spend it on fucking arcade cabinets."
Toxic's snide grin slants with unrestrained delight. "Aww, boss!" he coos, clasping his hands in a shameless affectation of simpering adoration. "You'd do that for me?"
"Get out," Shroud irately snaps, his patience spent.
"Yes, boss! Whatever you say, boss!" Toxic spins on his heel and saunters triumphantly from the room, whistling jauntily under his breath.
When he gets home, he jerks off furiously to the memory of Shroud degrading him. He moans like a whore, slurring out his boss's name against his acid spittle-seared pillow. He imagines Shroud beckoning him imperiously, shoving him onto the floor, stepping on his face and making him lick the filthy sole of his boot as Toxic humps the air in fruitless desperation. A highlight reel of Shroud's greatest hits hisses through Toxic's memory like sweetest filth: pathetic, shameless, idiot, embarrassment. Toxic fists his cock with a merciless grip at a too-quick pace, imagining it's a punishment—a reward—a conquest without reason. He loses his mind so fucking fast that burning tears prick his eyes as climax creeps up on him with all the devastating inevitability of a tidal wave. Lurid green rises to the surface of his skin like a timelapse of weed growth reclaiming a parking lot.
His cock and his fist drip with bright, hissing acid, sending droplets flying with the vigor of his strokes. When the acid overtakes him in disorganized patches, following the blotchy flush overtaking his pale, tattooed skin, the chafed skin of his cock is swallowed by the familiar chemical burn of his powers, and his grip is so deliciously slick that he comes undone with the force of a fucking freight train, moaning aloud to heighten his pleasure, his shitty neighbors be damned. His cum streaks across the bedsheets, sizzling through the long-since ruined fabric and part of the mattress, aerating the acrid scent of a chemical burn.
Toxic harnesses his post-nut clarity to dispel his overactive acid production, gasping in the rush of cold discomfort that comes from shoving pleasure so unceremoniously from his veins with sheer force of will.
But he bought this mattress pretty recently, and he doesn't want to bore a hole in it getting a little too enthusiastic with his most recent Shroud-induced masturbation session.
He groans as the stench of burnt sheets, and the sharp, chemical scent of his own acidic secretions permeate the bedroom, chasing off the last of the afterglow. He reaches bonelessly across the bedside table to turn on his portable air filter before rolling over and curling up in his acid-scorched sheets.
Clean-up is always enough of a bitch to make Toxic consider the merits of risking public indecency, just to save on bedding. But he prefers to indulge his unattainable fantasies of getting dicked down by his boss in the comfort of his apartment, when he can.
Toxic indulges a little further—nestling into his pillow with a sigh as he imagines Shroud petting his hair, rewarding his wanton efforts with rare praise.
Working for Shroud fucking rules.
And he gets to go attend that MTG tournament in a month.
Life, Toxic thinks, is pretty goddamn good right now.
He probably won't trounce the competition with a themed deck—but Magic users are notoriously easy to rile up, and that's the best part of playing competitive. Maybe if he's irritating enough, he'll throw someone off their game so bad they throw the whole competition.
That'll satisfy him plenty.
And Shroud could throw whatever shade he wanted about the Star Trek-themed afterparties, but the free drinks were actually pretty fire.