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Torbjörn/Reinhardt – Reinhardt goes down into a nice soft headspace for Torbjörn.

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“Kneel.”

Torbjörn says it like an afterthought, one good eye fixed on a good pair of working gloves high on a shelf he can’t reach.

Reinhardt, ever a good boy, immediately drops down, albeit controlled. He’s gotten enough reprimands over the years to know when to look out for his knees.

He is on the concrete floor, staring down between his hands. The floor is very clean; courtesy of Torbjörn being anal about keeping everything in mint-condition (like he keeps Reinhardt in absolute top form), and he makes sure to lock his back before he feels first one, then another boot on him.

Torbjörn is short but packed with muscle, and the weight on his back is considerable, but the mechanic knows to place his feet apart and brace one against the small of Reinhardt’s back and the other between his shoulder blades.

Of course he could have asked Reinhardt to simply fetch the pair of gloves for him, but that’s not how their dynamic works and Reinhardt is more than happy to be Torbjörn’s furniture. To be not more than a foot stool that one does not ask for permission but simply uses.

Torbjörn grabs the gloves and steps off of Reinhardt. Absentmindedly, he pats his head and goes to work. He does not tell Reinhardt to get up so Reinhardt stays right where he is. His patience is rewarded by Torbjörn soon sitting on his back and using him as a chair while he is working on something small and difficult, and Reinhardt keeps perfectly still even though he wants to talk. A lot.

It’s a bad habit that he’s had since forever; the need to fill the silence with something that usually amounts to his voice booming loudly out, and after more than 60 years of the behavior it is almost driving him up the wall to keep quiet. It itches beneath his skin and makes him jittery and nervous, but kneeling on the ground with Torbjörn sitting on his back there is little in the way of vibration that he could do.

The need and itch rise until he finds himself humming softly – right until Torbjörn places a thick fingered hand on the back of Reinhardt’s neck and squeezes. Reinhardt quiets down and breathes out, shoulders relaxing somewhat and head falling forward to hang down.

Finally, the need subsides. It is like he has struggled up a mountain and hit the top kicking and screaming before finally able to enjoy the view.

He is breathing softly; in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four, and closes his eyes to focus on staying upright because the world is suddenly gently tilting like a cradle and Reinhardt wants to follow it along and maybe lie down, even. Roll on his back and offer his belly up for some rubs and just be a good boy…

“There. Done.”

Torbjörn’s voice is gruff and should be startling, but Reinhardt feels like he is wrapped up in soft cotton; before anything can prick him, it is dulled long before it can reach his skin.

There is a tug of his hair, firm and hard enough to lift his head, and he groans long and drawn out, his elbows shaking for a moment as he has serious trouble keeping them locked so he wouldn’t smash down on the floor.

His head is slightly tilted around via the grip on his hair, and then Torbjörn’s hardlight prosthetic is coming into view. From the glittering, blue fingers dangles a collar that looks as simple as it is intricate with its metal links woven into each other.

Reinhardt whines softly while Torbjörn finally stands up and walks around him, his fingers still in Reinhardt’s hair to pull on it and give him a bit of pain to focus on. Torbjörn does not have to squat down; it is easy to look up into his face, his one good eye pensive as he lifts the collar once more.

“You want it?”

Reinhardt is mute at this point. Making sounds is utterly beyond him – so he only nods and shows off his throat.

Torbjörn finally lets go off his hair.

“Sit,” he orders and then grunts out a gruff: “Good boy,” when Reinhardt immediately plants his ass on the ground like a big dog.

The collar fits him perfectly, sitting around his throat firm but not too tight, and Torbjörn’s beard twitches when he smiles a little, satisfied with the sight.

“Good boy,” he repeats more softly and lets Reinhardt lean bonelessly against him.