Chapter Text
The morning after Robert and Flambae had sex for the first time, they were almost late to work. Robert hadn’t slept on a mattress as nice as Flambae’s since he was a kid, apparently, which explained why he slept like the dead and it took an hour of prodding to get him back on his feet.
That was the first time they had sex.
It was also the last, given everything went to shit the next day.
Robert had thanked him for breakfast with a blindingly sincere smile and a kiss on the cheek.
That single kiss was just the cherry on top of all the reasons why Flambae wanted to incinerate Mecha Man when their dispatcher revealed his true identity.
That kiss was also the reason he hesitated to incinerate him to a crisp, which allowed Golem to block Robert’s body from the flames just in time to save his lying, traitorous ass.
Would those flames have made it to Robert without Golem’s interference? Flambae isn’t so sure he’d have been able to stop himself amidst his rage.
Mecha Man could have died.
Robert Robertson III could have been killed.
Flambae was one botched miracle away from being a murderer.
It was a rough night after that.
A rough week following that, too. Not just for Flambae, but for everyone.
And then it got worse; Chase was hospitalized, Invisigal was suspended, the Red Ring was on a rampage, Flambae got fucking kidnapped and nearly blew an entire city block to smithereens, and Shroud pummeled the shit out of all of them in his giant spider robot— nearly got their asses, too— before he suffered at the hands of his own incompetence and Robert’s sheer dumb luck.
Things got better after that.
Slightly.
Dead on their feet following the adrenaline crash that resulted from protecting the city for over thirty hours straight, the Z-Team followed Blonde Blazer— Mandy— home like blind ducklings, herded into a real house bigger than any of their ex-convict paychecks could ever afford.
It seemed like the best solution; Mandy had a car, Phenomaman, Sonar, and Flambae could fly, and no one on the team really wanted to go back to any empty, shitty apartment after enduring so much chaos together. So they stayed together, the Z-Team, which was feeling less like a group of coworkers every day and more like a family of forced proximity victims. But still a family, nonetheless.
Robert— Mecha Man— finally enacted revenge on the man who killed his father, who nearly took the lives of Chase and Beef, too.
While he couldn’t follow through with killing him because he’s a far better man than Flambae could ever be, he definitely didn’t leave Shroud behind bars without some permanent disfigurement.
A satisfying conclusion to almost sixteen years of trauma. Not a magical cure, no, but something. Closure, at the very least. Maybe their dispatcher won’t have a stick up his ass all the time anymore, learn to chill the fuck out.
“Hey.”
Flambae opens his eyes. There’s a person blocking his crusty, bleary view of the ceiling.
He’s on the floor in Mandy’s living room, a throw pillow under his head supporting a splitting migraine. There are others strewn about somewhere close by, but he’d be half-assed to name who ended up lying where on what piece of furniture.
“Flambae,” they say again. It’s Robert. Mecha Man. “Take this and drink some water.” He presses a pill past Flambae’s chapped lips, then nearly drowns him when the glass he tips too far spills water all over his face and neck.
To Flambae’s sputtering, Robert cringes, “Sorry. Didn’t realize my hands were shaking. Haven’t eaten in… I don’t know. A while.”
“Fuck off,” Flambae groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. His brain is about to leak out of his ears. The last time he burned as hot as last evening was the same night Mecha Man— Robert— cut off his fucking fingers. He’s running on fumes.
“Do you need a blanket?”
Flambae doesn’t grace that with a response.
“You mind if I lay here?”
He doesn’t respond to that, either, but he does roll on his side towards Robert and lift an arm, an invitation to cuddle like they had before Robert was Mecha Man and Flambae didn’t constantly struggle with thoughts of melting his flesh.
Robert grunts, sore all over, and nudges his way into Flambae’s embrace, burying his face in the nook between the arsonist’s shoulder and neck. Their legs tangle together, doing their damned best to make lying on a rug a semi-comfortable experience. It’s not unpleasant, so that’ll have to be enough.
“You did good today,” Robert murmurs.
Flambae’s skin crawls at the praise. He deflects, “So did everyone else.”
“True, but…” Robert traces the flames on his suit. “I wanted to make sure you knew.”
“I know.”
“You’re still upset that I’m Mecha Man.”
“Of course I’m fucking upset. I hated Robert Robertson, but I hated Mecha Man even more. Shut up and let me sleep.”
Robert sighs, relenting, as if being empathetic will guilt Flambae into forgiving him for being a lying piece of shit who fucked him and degraded him while knowing a vital piece of information about their relationship that Flambae didn’t.
The worst part is that Robert feels genuine remorse, because of course he does. He’s a hero. A good person. He always has been, even when he was slicing off Flambae’s fingers and hauling his ass to prison, unknowingly saving Flambae from destroying himself, yet also completely ruining his life.
Even though his life is technically better now that he’s in the Phoenix Program, it was still ruined, and it almost wasn’t worth going through all that horrible traumatizing shit he went through in court, then prison, and parole.
Months of malice and hatred for Mecha Man stewed until it coagulated into something more; respectful loathing. Or something like that. Animosity for the bygones poorly mixed with a begrudging gratitude for new opportunities at turning his life around.
Water and oil.
They weren’t meant to mix, but Flambae pulls Robert closer anyway. It’s not like he can just forget the night they shared, and all of the emotions and vulnerability that came with it. The trust that Flambae extended to Robert, to know the true him he’d never shown anyone else— he never would have shown Robert that had he known he was Mecha Man.
But he did show him, and that’s not something he can undo. Now he has to live with it and keep moving forward, just like he did after being recruited by this dumbfuck family of his at SDN.
So he pulls Robert closer, because there’s no point in pushing him away.
Torrance is still Torrance six hours later, just a bit crispier and a little more blown up.
Robert awakens first, moaning about a crick in his neck despite using Flambae as a human body pillow. The larger man sleeps through Robert’s squirming yet clings too tightly to his waist for Robert to fully detach himself.
There are others scattered about in varying stages of wake, lulls in conversations between bites of what smells like takeout Chinese food.
Robert’s stomach growls something fierce. He swallows a mouthful of drool.
“Open up, bitch,” says Courtney, chopsticks extended and a steamed dumpling offered like a dog treat. She’s sitting on the couch, legs spread, containers in her lap, and her left arm in a sling. She reaches over Flambae to deposit the dumpling in Robert’s mouth. He opens up because she’s feeding him, not because he’s a bitch. Smirking, she asks, “When did this happen, and how did I miss it?”
“What? This?” he juts his chin to Flambae, out cold. Or, uh, hot. Whatever. “Few days ago before everything went to shit.”
“Huh.” She snorts, impressed. “He owes me a drink, then.”
“Were you placing bets on my personal life again?”
“Whaaaat? No way. This time it was an attempt at blackmail that backfired into landing me a pity prize. So—“ She nudges his shoulder with her foot and shakes him. “How was the sex?”
“It was none of your business,” he says, eyes rolling, leaning into her touch.
“Did you get on your knees for him? Said he was gonna get you on your knees. I called bull.”
“He told you about this, did he?”
“Uh, yeah. Duh. Hence the promise of a drink.” She shoves another dumpling into his mouth. “So, did you? Blink twice for yes, once for no. Or, shit, thrice if you need me to call the trafficking hotline.”
Robert blinks once, very slowly, hoping his disappointment is blatant enough to discourage her from further gossip. It isn’t.
“Oh shit! Was he on his knees for you?”
“Knew it,” says Malevola, who hops over the couch and lands beside Courtney. “I know a brat when I see one. And you, Robert, have been taming a gang of brats since day one.”
“Okay, slow down. I don’t care how much you guys talk about my sex life, but don’t bring anyone else into it. I’m not fucking around, either.” He takes the carton of rice extended to him by Malevola and points the complimentary spork at her and Courtney. “Just because it’s the weekend doesn’t mean I won’t suspend you.”
“I’m already suspended, what do I care?” Courtney snorts, although she does back off, sinking into the sofa.
Malevola skewers a dumpling with her tail and pops it into her mouth, humming. There’s a smile on her face when she cups her hands around her mouth and stage-whispers, “We’re happy for you both.”
“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” Robert sighs, cautiously eyeing Flambae’s sleeping figure. If he were secretly awake, Robert is pretty sure he’d know based on body temperature alone. Still, it’s scummy to talk about him like he isn’t lying right there.
“Pending final review; still happy for you.” Malevola rests against Courtney’s side, tail wagging.
“Thanks.” He scratches his chin, yawning. “Where’s Mandy?”
“In the kitchen making drinks,” Sonar joins in, hanging over the couch and Malevola’s shoulders, a bottle of beer in hand. He grins, “I think our boss is an alcoholic. So, yeah, she’s way cooler than we initially pegged her for.” He and Courtney snort and fist bump like two dirty teenagers. Then his ears flick, his nose turning. “Is he okay?”
“Who, Flambae?”
Robert turns his attention back to his… friend? Are they friends? They’re not more than friends, but to say they’re anything less feels disingenuous. Can they land on ‘friend adjacent’ for now and keep a pin in it? They haven’t properly spoken since the Del Taco incident.
Robert rubs the forearm latched to his waist, chewing his cheek.
“Yeah, I think so,” he shrugs. “How about you guys? Any injuries I should know about that might affect your ability to do volunteer work?”
“Volunteer work?” Sonar groans. “We just saved the world! Haven’t we done enough?”
“We saved a single city, dork,” Malevola laughs and buffets Sonar’s chin. “Kinda did feel like the end of the world there at the end, though.”
“My heart nearly fell out of my ass when— when Beef…” Robert clears his throat. Addressing trauma directly aloud is not one of his specialties. “Where’s my dog?”
“Where else? With Chase.” Courtney kicks her legs over Malevola’s lap and reclines across the couch, stretching and groaning. She bites her lip, fingers drumming restlessly atop her stomach. “I should apologize to him, huh?” she wonders, remorseful.
“Eh,” Robert shrugs, smiling. “I’d say you’re even. Grab a soda for him on your next shift and he’ll forget you ever sucker punched him.” He rubs his chin. “Well, he won’t forget it, but he will forgive you. He already has.” Robert finds her gaze, the fear of rejection hidden too deep to shine, but close enough to the surface to reflect borrowed light. “We all forgive you, Visi. Right?”
“Yeah, sure,” Malevola teases, wrapping her tail around Courtney’s shin. “Taking a bullet for our favorite dispatcher was hardcore. Selfless, too. Real hero shit.”
“Fuck yeah it was,” Sonar agrees.
“Guh,” Flambae adds, although whether his timing was intentional or not is up for debate. “My fucking ribs,” he whines, unwinding himself from Robert to scrub his face. “If I open my eyes and there isn’t a red carpet rolled out for me leading directly to a buffet table, I’m burning this house to the ground.”
“Keep ‘em closed, then,” Robert says and places his hand over Flambae’s eyes. “This is a really nice house.”
“Every house is really nice by your standards. You live in a fucking dumpster.”
“You’d know, huh?” Courtney snorts.
“Yes, because I attended his shitty housewarming party. We all did. We all fucking know,” Flambae barks with no bite. Rather than swat Robert away, he leans further into the hand on his face, clutching his side and gasping in pain in an attempt to sit up. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Now I know what getting hit by a car feels like.”
Malevola chortles. “You got hit by a car? How? Did someone throw one at you?”
“Actually, I got thrown into the side of a car. By Shroud.” He finally peels Robert’s hand from his face, but doesn’t open his eyes. The hand remains held, fidgeted by warm fingers. “That counts, doesn’t it?”
“No,” answers Waterboy, hovering by the coffee table. “Uh,” he squeaks when everyone’s attention diverts to him. “I mean, no, it doesn’t count. You hit the car, it didn’t— it didn’t hit you. I think I’d— well, I mean, you hit me with your car, so I know the difference. I know that— um. Yeah. It doesn’t count. That’s my opinion.”
“You hit Waterboy with your car?!” Robert exclaims.
Flambae’s eyes crack open solely to glare at Waterboy, but they lack his typical heat. The scorching kind, not the baseline.
“Yes,” he admits, nose scrunching. “Sorry about that…”
“It’s okay. Um. Yeah. It’s okay.” Waterboy rubs his arm, thinking hard about what to say next. “You, uh. We fought well together, I think, against the Red Ring. So, uh, thank you for… um…”
“Don’t mention it. Please.” Flambae pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why am I the only one here so fucked up?”
“Hey, I literally have a bullet hole in my shoulder,” Courtney argues.
“Let me get that for you,” Malevola says and slaps a hand on Flambae’s bicep. The point of contact glows red, summoning a ghoulish, distorted chorus of faint screams. And then it’s over, and Malevola falls back with an exerted breath. “Phew,” she says, “and Bob’s your uncle.”
“Who?” Flambae asks.
Robert snorts into his fist, coughing. That shouldn’t have been so cute, but being obliviously genuine at the weirdest moment is an oddity of Flambae’s that the other man isn’t even aware of.
Nor is he aware that Robert was strung up like a hog and tortured not twenty four hours ago.
Jesus. Talk about a morbid intrusive thought.
Such is the price to pay for bringing home gold in the suppression Olympics; reminders of those boxed up memories manage to pop up every now and then at random.
The scars from Coupé’s knives are still pink, the bruises from being knocked around and brutalized are literally black and blue. Concerningly blacker than blue. Flambae isn’t the only punching bag with survivor’s guilt.
Fuck. How many people died last night? There were bombings everywhere in LA. So many fucking bombs and explosions. If the civilian casualty reaches the double digits, Robert won’t walk out of this home as mentally well as he could have. Even the single digits will sting, but then what doesn’t?
Just because they won that battle doesn’t mean they didn’t lose, too.
There’s so much to do, so many messes to clean. The work isn’t done. It never is. Shroud facing justice doesn’t undo the damage he’s done. They have to put that work in, they have to get back out there and finish the fight like god damn superheroes.
“You feel any better, man?” asks Sonar.
“A little.” Flambae stretches his arms over his head, wincing. “Ow. Fuck. Yeah, a little.”
“You were pretty banged up. I can’t cure everything. Sorry, mate.”
“Nah, you’re good.” He jumps to his feet, cracking his neck. “Gonna take a piss. Bye, losers.”
Sonar salutes his departure while Waterboy waves awkwardly, muttering a farewell that falls on deaf ears.
“Hey,” Robert passes the carton of fried rice to Waterboy. Unlike some pompous assholes, he doesn’t just look out for the little guy, he listens to them, too. “You holding up okay, kid?”
He takes the carton gratefully, blushing. “I’m fine. Better, knowing that— that evil asshole is arrested.”
“Whoa! Cheers to that!” Malevola whoops, a fist thrown to the sky. Sonar whoops, too, piercing everyone’s ears in the vicinity. There’s a collective flinch and chorus of complaints.
It works in their favor, acting as an alarm of sorts that gathers everyone— minus Flambae— into the den.
“Well,” huffs Mandy, hands on her hips. “How do we feel about having a team meeting? I know it’s the weekend, so you’re technically not obligated to stick around, but a debriefing could do us some good. Especially considering we don’t have a functional base of operations at the moment.”
Everyone looks at each other, then to Robert. That’s a lot of expectant gazes to juggle at once.
He clears his throat, pushing to his feet off the floor and wiping the wrinkles out of his shirt, which is also covered in blood and piss and dirt and— yikes. Flambae is not going to be happy if he learns he cuddled with Robert while he was wearing a piss stained shirt. Thankfully, the distinct stench of piss isn’t detectable past all the other grime and muck. Thumbstick must have been well hydrated.
“A meeting. Right.” Robert claps his hands together, grimacing. “I would prefer to take a shower first.”
“You didn’t shower before you ate? Or… fell asleep?” Mandy asks, pointing at the blanket by his feet. “That’s one of my favorite blankets. Tell me you weren’t— you know what? Never mind.” She waves it off, sighing. “Does anyone else need to wash up? Let’s reconvene in twenty.”
“Just enough time for a coffee run!” voices Punch Up. “Anyone thirsty?”
Coupé is by his side in an instant, having not dared to stray too far following her accepted return to the team. Stilted, she says, “Text me your orders. I will pay.”
“I’ll split with you,” Golem speaks up from the corner, raising his tablet-sized phone.
Somehow, Robert hadn’t considered Golem could use technology. Is that wrong of him? The construct is twenty years old. He’s younger than Waterboy. Does he subconsciously fail to consider Golem a human? Or, rather, a person. That’s… shit, yeah, that’s something to work on.
Coupé nods to him, a sight worth a thousand words, then walks out the door with Punch Up. Two peas in a pod, those two. Robert hasn’t seen Punch Up smile so widely since those first couple days on the job. It’s heartwarming to see them together again, how apparent it is that their love for one another transcends a simple romance.
“We have perfectly fine coffee here,” pouts Mandy.
“Sure, but do you have an iced caramel latte with walnut shavings and two shots of espresso?" Prism asks, thumb tapping away on her phone, likely texting Coupé the orders from the room.
“I have Jack Daniel’s,” shrugs Mandy sheepishly. “Soooo… next best thing?”
“How do you take your coffee, Mr. Dispatcher?”
“I’m good,” he tells Prism, heading towards the bathroom. “Sticking to water until this hangover is ancient history.”
“You’re a great role model!” Sonar yells. Then, when Robert is out of sight but definitely not out of hearing range, he asks, “You got any weed, Bruno?”
The bathroom isn’t hard to find, as it is the only door in this hallway that is fully closed. He is drawn to the warm yellow light beneath the door, literal in temperature. Even the moisture in the air is thicker.
He knocks on the bathroom door, listening for Flambae’s response.
“Come in!” he yells over the running shower.
Robert comes in and closes the door behind him, locking it unlike Flambae had done. The shower is a stall with a sliding glass door that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Flambae is, obviously, naked. And he doesn’t seem all too bothered by the ogling.
“How did you know it was me?” Robert asks, suspicious he already knows the answer.
“I didn’t.”
Yep, that’s the one.
“You wouldn’t care if someone else walked in on you naked?”
“No one else would have stopped in their tracks and stared like you did,” Flambae points out, and he’s probably right. Although, with a body like that, how is he meant to look away? “Are you the jealous type, Robbie?”
Again with that fucking nickname. Snaps him right out of it.
“No, I’m not. I was just surprised.” He tosses his disgusting shirt to the ground. “Is there enough room for me in there?”
“The water’s hot. I think.” Flambae lifts a palm into the spray. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I d’know.” He shrugs. “Pretty much everything is colder than my natural state. It is difficult to tell how hot is too hot for a normie like you.”
“You could tell if you lowered your body temperature to something normal.”
Flambae glares at him from his peripheral when Robert slides the shower door.
“But you wouldn’t,” Robert adds like an apology. “You shouldn’t. There’s no reason for you to.” He steps into the stall next to Flambae and huddles close. “Fuck, yeah, no. This is cold.”
Flambae embraces him immediately, shielding him from the spray and encasing him in warmth. He reaches around his walking furnace and twists the faucet knob. Only once the water is acceptably hot does Robert gently nudge Flambae off.
“Thanks,” he hums, hogging the water. They can split it in halfsies when Robert isn’t covered in a million disgusting substances. First clean, then sexy.
Flambae leans against the tiled wall, a resting frown upon his face. Robert can’t quite meet his eye, for some reason. Guilt weighs him down, but he doesn’t have reason to feel that way. Not anymore. Alas…
“You look like shit.”
Robert sighs, “Yeah, well. You know. Shit happened.”
“Shroud really did a number on you,” Flambae says, mocking aloofness. “You should have killed the fucker.”
“Is that what you think?”
Flambae huffs, tossing his hair aside to glower at the wall. “No,” he grits past his teeth. “Yes. I don’t know. I almost killed you, Robert.”
Whiplash.
Robert plants a hand on the glass, disoriented into speechlessness.
“Uh. Yeah. You did.”
The water on the floor begins to sizzle and steam.
“I would have killed you. I wouldn’t have stopped myself. If Golem hadn’t—“ Flambae curses, balled fists bursting into flames. “At least she wasn’t trying to kill anyone. That was an accident. I wasn’t— it wouldn’t have been an accident.”
“You didn’t want to kill me, Flambae.”
Robert pulls him close, cheeks cupped like an endangered species’ eggs. There might have been tears in Flambae’s eyes if he weren’t currently hotter than a stovetop. The water is Robert’s only saving grace from third degree burns, giving him enough time (see; one second) before the heat could take effect. Instead, his hands hover like he’s tending a bonfire.
“You were hurt. I lied to you. I… used you. You were upset because of my mistakes. But you weren’t trying to kill me. I don’t blame you, and I forgive you.”
Flambae’s forehead creases down the center, wrinkles cut into the corners of his squeezed eyes. He mutters, “If Golem hadn’t…”
“That doesn’t matter. You were trying to hurt me, not kill me. There was nowhere else for you to target your pain. I know you’re better than that, Flambae. I read your file. I know you. Trust me.”
“I do trust you, but not about this.” He hugs himself, turning away from Robert, hiding against the wall. “You don’t fucking know me, bitch. How could you? I don’t even know you.”
“Flambae, that’s not how that wor—“
“Am I a fucking joke to you?” Fire dances atop his head, hair dried and frizzy. “What, do I have to earn common decency, too? Is that my reward for being good?” He shakes his head, hissing. “I’m not good, Robert. I want to kill you right here and now. I want to kill you.”
“I don’t think you know what you want,” Robert says, placating a rumbling volcano with a prayer. So, essentially useless. He continues, though, because having faith means clinging to hope no matter how helpless you are.
“You don’t know what you want, Flambae. You’re confused. It’s natural to not know what you feel after being lied to and let down by someone you trusted. You might feel betrayed, or you might be so furious you could blast a hole in the moon, but you don’t want to kill me. That’s not who you are.”
He reaches slowly for Flambae’s face, taking a risk. Luckily for him, Flambae banishes the heat from his head entirely at the very last millisecond, allowing Robert to safely caress his jaw. It’s cold.
Now he’s the one warming Flambae up. There’s something flattering about that.
“You’re loyal,” he repeats a recent sentiment. “You’re scared. That’s okay.”
“Let go of me,” Flambae utters, voice cracking. Robert doesn’t budge. “Robert,” he tries, “get off me.”
Instead, Robert travels south, forcing Flambae to cool not only his upper half, but his legs as well, dragging his hands down Flambae’s torso and wrapping himself around him in a hug. He’s cold to the touch, but Robert is warm and the shower is hot against his back. It doesn’t take the bigger man very long to raise his body temperature to a healthy mid 110’s.
“See?” he hums, nuzzling Flambae’s clavicle with his five o’clock shadow. “You haven’t hurt me. I’m okay.”
Flambae guardedly tucks his arms under Robert’s, returning the embrace with less vigor. Still better than nothing.
He sighs, “I can’t stand you.”
“Want to kneel instead?” he jokes. When Flambae doesn’t respond, he pulls away, finding a darkened, cloudy gaze. “Sorry, that was meant to lighten the mood.”
“It did.” Flambae looks down pointedly at Robert’s half-hard cock. “But I do— want to kneel instead.”
“Oh.” Robert sucks in a sharp breath, nodding.
Flambae looks up, pupils blown, eyes wide and grave.
“Can I?” he rasps.
“Yes, you can give me a blowjob. Me nodding was supposed to indicate…”
Oh.
Flambae isn’t asking for permission for the sake of getting consent, he’s asking so Robert can answer. As in, answer with a command.
“Is that what we’re doing? Really? Right now? Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Flambae replies automatically.
“We’re supposed to have a team meeting in, like, ten minutes.
“Then I’ll be quick.” He rolls his eyes, then suddenly he’s on his knees, and Robert’s dick is in his hand.
It is noticeably not the dismembered hand. Which could be a coincidence. It could totally mean nothing.
Don’t fool yourself.
Flambae swirls his tongue around Robert’s cockhead, batting droplets from his lashes, awaiting direction.
“You’re on a timer,” he reminds him, hips jolting.
To that, Flambae takes action and swallows him effortlessly. Fuck, it’s insanely good. The heat and softness of his mouth, a wet throat and strong working jaw, lips sliding over his foreskin, tongue flattening against an underside vein.
Flambae yanks Robert’s hand to his head, forcing him to tug his wet hair and hold his head in place to fuck. Obliging is all Robert can do in this situation, slamming his hips to Flambae’s face. His eyes are half closed, rolled back, jaw practically hanging from hinges. He takes Robert’s dick so perfectly, so wholly, like his real superpower is infallible servitude.
Is Robert getting too power hungry? He might be enjoying this too much.
When he tries to slow the tempo, reel himself in, Flambae clasps his thighs and deepthroats him, disavowing departure.
“Fu—ungh! Fuck,” Robert gasps, his chest aflutter and abs clenching. With both hands clawing Flambae’s scalp, he bottoms out and shoots ropes down Flambae’s throat, containing a moan with a bitten, swollen lip.
Flambae’s nostrils flare, drowsy eyelids drooping, Whore that he is, he swallows everything without gagging.
What the fuck?
Robert pulls out, aghast at his own stray thoughts, but Flambae doesn’t seem to notice his inner turmoil, face-fucked out and floating on an asphyxiated high.
“Thu… thank you,” Robert verbally fumbles, teetering on a figurative pedestal. The way Flambae is staring up at him, practically bowed in prayer. Jesus. Fuck. It’s a lot to process. He coughs, “Good job. You… did good. Thank you, Flambae.”
The half-assed praise clears some post-nut haze from Flambae’s mind, although it’s unlikely he came untouched. He blinks up at Robert, now sitting on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as if the water hasn’t already washed away all the evidence.
Shoulders hunched, he mutters, “Sure. Whatever, bitch.”
Flambae rises in a swift motion, whereas Robert would have creaked in seven places like an abandoned mill. He looms over the smaller man, gaze flicking to Robert’s lips, but ultimately refrains. In fact, there’s no further contact between them after that; Flambae leaves the shower, dries himself in a flash of orange, then slips into his suit.
Over his shoulder, he frowns, mouth opening yet failing to emit a sound.
He faces the door, a hand on the knob, and speaks where Robert can’t see it.
“I don’t want to kill you, Robert, but I don’t want to trust you again, either.”
Oh.
The declaration is barely audible, yet it rings in Robert’s ears like a gunshot long after Flambae leaves.
He might have tinnitus.