Work Header

Maha Special

Work Text:

Maha Special

Author’s Note: Enjoy the story and R&R.

This is Part 7 of “The Promiscuous Adventures of Hikari Netto” series. [All installments after Part 1 are prequels to Part 1]

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of the Rockman EXE series.

Pairings: Non-romantic Netto x Dingo + Nenji, non-romantic Netto x Rockman. Non-romantic Rockman x Dingo + Nenji by proxy. Established Netto x Tohru. Referenced non-romantic Dekao x Dingo, non-romantic Chisao x Kosuke, non-romantic Netto x Meijin, non-romantic Netto x Chisao + Kosuke, non-romantic Dekao x Gutsman, non-romantic Dingo x Tomahawkman, non-romantic Tohru x Iceman.


While making his last curry delivery for the evening, Dingo interrupts a private moment between his Cross Fusion teammates, Hikari Netto and Rokushakudama Nenji, who propose he take part in their steamy, late-night escapade.

Dingo let out a torpid sigh, pooped from constantly jogging here, there, and everywhere.

What a week. Maha Ichiban’s half-off promo had attracted droves of customers new and old, but it also meant stacks of dishes to scrub and frequent trips all over town. The curry shop’s head chef, Oyama Dekao, had been riding him hard all day, in more ways than one.

During a lull when Mahajarama and Hinoken relieved them of their duties to recoup some much-needed R&R, the duo retired to Dekao’s place for a quick screw between shifts. Standard procedure. Dingo sucked and took it up his chute. Dekao denied any attachment. Fairly cut and dry; or it would have been, had it not been for the fact that this specific instance, they caught Dekao’s brother, Chisao, masturbating with a classmate in the closet. Kosuke was his name, if Dingo remembered correctly.

“Crap, I’ve gotten turned around again. Where could the customer be?” Dingo tabled the quandary of what they were going to do about Chisao for another time, spinning on his cleats and surveying left and right.

“Dingo, it’s getting late,” Tomahawkman informed. “Find a police station and ask for directions.”

“Aw, shaddup! Trust my instincts!” the delivery boy repeated his trademark retort. “Sky Spirit! Earth Spirit! Where is the customer located?”

He chucked his tomahawk, retrieved it where it landed, then followed the path its heel dictated. Seven hurls of his axe and a detour through the veterinary clinic routed him to Densan City’s fireworks factory.

“Hello? Maha Ichiban! Anybody here? I have your dinner!”

No response.

He ventured in. There was a light. Soft grunting emanated behind the mill’s inactive machinery, and Dingo neared to investigate. A decision which he regretted forthwith.


Flat on his back in the rear of a loading van was a totally nude Hikari Netto, blindfolded with his bandana, caked in sweat and cum. Standing above him was none other than Rokushakudama Nenji, fireworks builder extraordinaire, operator of Napalmman, and the Cross Fusion Members’ heavy hitter. The chubby was in nothing but kerchief, gloves, and fundoshi. His fat, erect cock peeked out the loincloth, extending into Netto’s stretched hole.

They’d definitely been at it for a while.

“Ahh! I-I’m gonna –!”

Nenji yanked Netto upright, pummeling him at full pelt. His skeet rocketed upward, bottlenecking inside the youth as it stippled his crevices in white.

When he pulled out, Dingo’s eyes feasted upon a fantasy most smutty: the Net Saviour’s abused plug-in port, twitching erotically, fresh sperm pooling ’neath his thighs.

“I’ve seen something terrible!” the Native whisper-shouted to himself, tiptoeing away, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by Nenji yelling “Who’s there?”

Shoot! He saw me!

“Oh, it’s you. Why are you here?” the pyrotechnician spoke insouciantly.

Dingo hesitantly raised his gable box. “I have the curry you ordered?”

“Not mine. Wrong address.”

“W-what are you doing to Netto?”

“What’s it look like?”

“Dingo, is that you?” Netto queried, lacking the strength to remove his headband and check.

“Uh, mm, it’s me. Are you all right? He’s not…ya know, is he?”

Nenji jittered. Would the punk loose the cops on him?

“Hehe, relax Nenji-san.” Netto unblinded himself. “Dingo’s a bigger horndog than I am!”

“Is that so?”

“Ugh…How could you, Nenji-san? Cumming inside me! Now my butt’s a mess!”

“Sorry, kid. You were just too good! I couldn’t hold it.”

Playing with the adult goo, a bawdy idea came to him as he ogled the pike forming in his contemporary’s shorts. “Eat me, Dingo.”


“Can’t allow Nenji-san’s juice go to waste, can we?”

Concurring, the randy redhead hurriedly plopped his grub caddy onto a conveyor. Kneeling opposite the vehicle’s bumper, he lifted Netto’s legs and slid his tongue between his cheeks. Lapping tenuously at first, then really diving into it, he slurped like a madman, hankering for that piquant load.

Not a drop went uncleaned.

“What happened to ‘I’m not cheating on Tohru-kun! We’re exclusive now’?” Dingo chuckled, aiming to paraphrase, but instead nailing it word for word.

“I’m not. I have Tohru-kun’s permission.”

“What are you, six? You need a permission slip?”

“Laugh all you want, but Tohru-kun could have dumped me when he found out. He didn’t because he trusts me.”

“That’s fucked up. Hot, but fucked up.”

“He says without a trace of hypocrisy,” Tomahawkman criticized sarcastically.

“Better run along, kid. Nenjiro and I are setting up a show for tomorrow night in the morning.”

“Ehhh? But Dingo just got here!” Netto whined. “I’ve been meaning to try something!”

Eternally hospitable, Nenji humoured him. “Lay it on me.”

Netto grabbed his PET. “Meijin-san, a Dimensional Area, please!”

Soon thereafter, a polychrome dome encased the building.

“A Dimensional Area? How did you convince Meijin to agree to that? This ain’t an emergency!”

“Let’s just say since Tohru-kun approved my habit, Meijin-san’s been one happy camper.” Netto winked at Dingo. “It’s go time, Rockman!”

“W-wait, Netto-kun!”

“Synchro Chip! Slot-in!”

Exiting Cross Fusion, R-Rockman sprung into action.

“Aha! That’s your plan!” Dingo undressed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Glad to stay for the fireworks, as he jokingly put it, Nenji reached under the Navi/human hybrid, groping his package. Netto stiffened in his suit, his penis and testicles choked against the constricting material. As the explosion-wright continued manipulating him from behind, Dingo peppered kisses along the contour of his boyhood up front.

Both operator and Navi groaned, divvying up the pleasure.

Pushing him on top of Dingo, the artisan handled R-Rockman’s shapely derriere. The teammates tore a window in his tights and swapped turns banging him with their fingers. Unsatisfied keeping to the basics on account of the unique backdrop, they took advantage of the tools at their disposal, and ran a request by Netto’s helmet.

Obeying the recommendation, R-Rockman summoned a mushroom-like Chamush virus, which he transferred to Nenji. “Battle Chip! Bad Spice!”

“What’s this for?”

“You’ll see.”

While Dingo held Netto’s buns apart, Nenji inserted the toadstool, stalk and all, whereupon its size doubled, causing the teenage hero and his best friend to cry out. They fucked him to the volva on the fungus-dildo. With each insertion, the cap flared outward, its pores releasing spores that alternatively numbed, stung, or tickled his rectal muscles, throwing his brain chemistry out of whack. His dopamine levels soared, and Netto spiralled into a drunken, feverish bliss. The fuzziness spread to his balls and dick, before finally jiggling the gland in the recesses of his being.

Sundered, an overwhelmed Netto emptied his coin purse, soiling his pubic region and stomach beneath his suit. He retracted his mouthguard to breathe easier, yet in doing so provided Nenji the opening to switch places with Dingo and stick his missile down his gullet.


R-Rockman worshipped the labourer’s firecracker. Thumb buffing the underside, forefinger and middle finger around the stem, and ring finger and pinkie twining the hairy base, he sucked the tip, memorizing the saline tang trapped in Nenji’s prepuce. He licked a circle clockwise, enlarging his grip to include the worker’s scrotum in his palm, then scratched the tube using his other hand whilst batting the nose cone with his tongue.

Squeezing Nenji’s cherry bombs, the NetCrime fighter navigated the altruist’s Vulcan to the pit of his throat. Precum splashed, evoking a protracted “Mmmmm!” Coming off, he osculated below his frenulum.

Nenji and Dingo exchanged posts again. They had R-Rockman gather additional Chamush, allocating a single shiitake per hole.

Netto worked the bugs in his mouth and anus simultaneously. Their psychotropic toxins paralyzed his lips and gave him cramps, but jump-started his sex drive, restoring his flaccid pecker to its optimal length.

That’s when Dingo lowered himself, unlubricated, onto his clothed Rock Buster. No minor accomplishment. The paunchy powwower propelled off his hands scaling Netto’s shaft, jowls a lusty scarlet and braids clapping against his chest. R-Rockman’s livery moulded to fit his Train Arrow, a splotch of dampness aggregating on its crown as they porked.

Since Netto was wolfing the Chamush’s ileus, Dingo staked a claim on its bulb. The two blew the shroom between them.

At the taste of the critter’s psilocybin, Dingo’s nipples throbbed. “Aagh! The hell?”

Netto ceased dildoing himself, freeing up his hands to rub Dingo’s febrile bosom, a gesture the Indigene returned over the surface of R-Rockman’s costume. The bucko’s teats were quaking, made extra sensitive by the psychedelics, and his peen itched for contact.

Commanding Dingo back onto the mushroom, he wrapped the NetBattler’s teepee in a gauntleted fist. Still pinching a nipple, he stroked him, foreskin sheathing and unsheathing over his clammy arrowhead.

Refusing to be left out of the festivities, Nenji evicted the virus nudging Netto’s portal. Once he’d implanted his bazooka and they’d acquired a sturdy tempo, it was bye-bye inhibitions. Nenji destroyed him, sugar snake squelching as it wound the boy’s hot and tight and rugged interior, Dingo jouncing in the middle participant’s lap.

Chamush mobbed them and fanned the flames of their scorching threeway.


He knew Rockman felt it. They weren’t merely sharing a body. When he cleaved Dingo, he and Rockman tag-teamed, cock to cock. And when Nenji drilled him, he was also drilling Rockman.

But Cross Fusion enhanced their connection beyond that. Rockman was in him.

A Mini Bomb to Gutsman’s groin and Iceman’s birthmark proved Navis were customized with the applicable equipment. They didn’t secrete sexual fluids like humans; however, they could process sexual stimuli. Facts Netto owed to Chisao and Kosuke.

The possibilities tantalized. Dekao sitting on Gutsman’s striated barbell. Dingo smoking Tomahawkman’s peace pipe under the warrior’s breechcloth. His shy Tohru luging through childish Iceman’s igloo.

In their common mindscape, the Blue Bomber, minus his armour, attuned his thrusts to Nenji’s, gazing resolutely at Netto, who fell to pieces before the multidirectional assault. Member hugged by Dingo’s wigwam, ass gaping round Nenji and Rockman’s schlongs, all in the same moment.

They weren’t operator and NetNavi anymore. They were perfectly united. Of one soul.

They’d gone Full Synchro.

Nenji secured himself, gloves on R-Rockman’s waist. “G-get ready, kid! ARRRHHH!”

Ignition fluid larded the juvenile’s inner walls, setting off a chain reaction. Netto and Rockman’s fusion lapsed, leaving Rockman to achieve dry orgasm in his PET and Netto to detonate inside Dingo, thus lighting the bronco’s fuse.

"H-here it comes! It-it’s gonna leak out!" Dingo fired off, speckling Netto in his Grass Seed.

Even after the Dimensional Area disintegrated, the trio carried on. Nenji’s candle nested snug in Netto’s soggy wireless entry port, Magma Seed seeping out. Akin to his Asteroid’s namesake incendiary, the tallow adhered like napalm to the socket, burning so fiercely, Netto jacked himself to yet another fulmination to feed the five-alarm blaze.

Stoked by his avidity, Dingo did the same, sliming Netto’s face in his cornstarch.

Gradually regaining energy, Netto noted his predicament. “Nenji-san! You did it again!”

Dingo got right on it. “No problem! Maha Ichiban’s loyal delivery boy, at your service!”

The hog rimmed his trough and drank it down.

“So…How would you rate our newest Maha Special?” he polled.