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“Yo, Bobert, you coming out with us tonight?”
Flambae rolls his eyes at Sonar’s question, the same fucking question they ask him every fucking Friday night.
The team usually goes out at the end of the week now, and this was a particularly long fucking week. It took a while for them to find a bar they weren’t banned from, either individually or as a chaotic collective, but they managed to find a dive bar that was supe-friendly and had karaoke on the weekends, which was a necessity for half of the group.
“Do I have a choice in the matter?” Robert sighs, like he does every fucking Friday.
“Nope,” Invisigal chirps cheerfully, slinging an arm around the dispatcher as he moans tiredly. The fuck does he have to be so tired about? Like sitting his flat ass behind a desk all day is that exhausting. “Plus it’s Sonar’s turn to buy drinks tonight, so–”
Sonar’s massive ears perk up. “Wait, fuck, it is?”
Flambae is still checking the rankings as Robert sidles up to him, his arms crossed as he scans the names on the board. “You went up one. Good job, Flambae.”
“Fuck off,” Flambae scoffs. “The rest of these fuckers might need your Hallmark-movie validation bullshit, but I know my worth. Don’t try to blow smoke up my fucking ass, eh?”
Robert just hums, glances up with knowing eyes that burn brighter than Flambae’s flames. “Whatever you say, man.” He claps the superhero on the shoulder, doesn’t even flinch when Flambae heats his own skin up enough to scald a normie. Asshole. “See you tonight.”
And Flambae just scowls until the bullpen quiets down, his eyes still fixated on the rankings.
He did do a good job. He just doesn’t need fucking Mecha-Man telling him that shit.
Things have been weird lately, for Z-Team.
Not bad, necessarily. Everyone is still the same, for the most part. Flambae and Prism are still the most fabulous, competent fucking duo on the goddamn team, and Flambae’s not just saying that because he’s fucking biased, okay?
Sonar is still a screeching crypto-dork fuckboy with the subtlety of a massive fucking bat monster, but he’s fucking trying, a lot harder than Flambae ever assumed he would. Malevola is a terrifying, red-hot goddess of death and destruction, while also being one of the coolest motherfuckers on the team, though she's admittedly softened quite a bit. Punch-Up is still a miniscule, dick-punching force to be reckoned with, and Flambae knows that he’s writing to Coupé while she’s still in jail. Whether or not she’ll be allowed back into the program when she gets out is still up in the air. Golem is– Golem, but he speaks up more, has gotten funnier with his jokes, shows a level of unerring loyalty for his teammates that Flambae sometimes envies.
Invisigal is… more awkward, sometimes. Says her dirty little jokes with a tone like she doesn’t know if they’ll land, where she used to just not give a shit. But it’s clear that she and Robert are still close. Best friends, maybe more.
And Robert–
Robert Robertson III is still the same. A cocky asshole who always thinks he knows best, who isn’t afraid to call everyone out on their bullshit even though he’s just a weak-as-shit normie. An active suicide watch with a heart of fucking rusted gold. He still gets on Flambae’s nerves, makes him want to deck the guy, knock out his own fucking teeth in return, maybe chop off a finger or two like Robert did to him when he was Mecha-Dick.
But he’s… different, too. In a way that’s hard to explain. He’s softer on the team, not as blunt and demanding and fucking rude as he used to be. And sometimes Flambae catches him looking. Not in a disappointed or apprehensive way, but like he’s intrigued. Like he sees something in Flambae he didn’t before, and that leaves an uncomfortable pit in the arsonist’s stomach.
Whatever. Flambae still hates him, he tells himself. Like a fucking liar.
“I fucking hate him,” Flambae growls into his drink– coke and Fireball, obviously, because it’s both delicious and hilarious. And at the moment, probably the very last thing he should be drinking.
“I know,” Prism says boredly, flagging down the bartender for another shot, because it’s the third time Flambae’s said the same thing in a fucking hour. They’re all out of uniform tonight; she’s wearing Y2K bedazzled jeans and the neon leather jacket Flambae got her for her birthday. “It’s, like, all you’ve talked about all night, boo.”
Malevola raises an eyebrow, glancing over at Robert from where he’s chatting with Invisigal and Sonar at the other side of the bar. “He’s literally just standing there.”
“Yeah,” Flambae scoffs, “like a bitch.”
“And you’re complaining about his bitch-ass existence nonstop,” Prism says snidely, “like a pathetic fuckin’ teenager with a lame crush.”
Flambae whips his head around to glare at her. “How dare you.”
“Not sorry.” She pokes him in the chest. “You guys have had some weird fucking vibes going on, lately. Not good for team morale.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Flambae flags the bartender down for another drink, even though his current one is only about half-empty. “‘Team fucking morale,’ you sound like Mecha-Shit and Blazer.”
“True,” Malevola snorts, “but she’s right, you know. He’s been staring, too.”
Flambae whips his head around at that, his loose hair nearly smacking him in the fucking face. “Fuck are you talking about.”
After a moment, she says quietly, “Now.”
Flambae turns, and sure enough, Robert is staring right back at him, sipping on his whiskey with an unwavering gaze as Invisigal and Sonar fuck off to play pool. Maybe it’s the liquor talking, but it almost looks like a fucking challenge.
“See,” Malevola laughs. “You’re both freaks.”
The rest of his drink goes down in one gulp, and he scoops up his fresh one as he slides out of his seat. “He’s the fucking freak. Not me.”
“You gonna do something about it?” Prism asks excitedly. “Should I start filming?”
“Eh, leave ‘em,” Malevola says as Flambae stalks off. “Could cut that weird-ass tension with a fucking dull spoon.”
“The fuck is your problem,” Flambae asks bluntly as he takes the spot where Invisigal sat just a moment earlier. Robert just raises an eyebrow. “The fucking staring, Roberto. You look like you want to pick a fucking fight, and here I was thinking we were fucking past that–”
“You’ve been staring, too,” Robert deadpans, leaning against the bar like they’re discussing the fucking weather. “Just haven’t seen you out of that fiery gogo-dancer costume before now. It’s jarring. You look like an actual person.”
Flambae rolls his eyes. “No one’s wearing their fucking uniforms right now, asshole, so try again.” He gestures to Prism, then Waterboy, then Sonar. “I don’t see you glaring at those motherfuckers like they owe you fucking money.”
“Sonar does owe me money, actually.” Robert swirls his drink around, the ice cubes clinking in the glass. “But seeing a man-bat in a band tee and jeans is somehow a lot less shocking than all this.”
He gestures up and down at Flambae– the hair that’s curling around his shoulders, the dark red button-down that’s halfway undone, the expensive Docs with flames on the side that he got fucking custom-made. Flambae looks fine. Robert’s just a dick.
“What the actual fuck does that mean?” Flambae scoffs, taking a deep swig of his cocktail. “You fucking drunk already, Bob-Bob? Fucking pathetic lightweight normie bullshit.”
“Hmm.” Robert just tilts his head in response, his eyes still fucking lingering, and it’s making Flambae heated with irritation.
“What, bitch?”
“You look better with your hair down,” Robert finally says, completely out of the blue, his head still cocked to the side and his eyes hooded from the alcohol. “Looks… pretty.”
Flambae almost spits his drink out. “Fucking what?”
“You look pretty.” Robert reaches a hand out, wraps his finger around a lock of long, black hair, briefly tugs it just to hear Flambae’s breath hitch before pulling away and propping his head up on the hand that was just caressing Flambae's fucking hair.
Flambae just scoffs into his drink, hoping that the colorful lights drown out the flush on his cheeks. “Yeah, you’re fuckin' drunk, Robbo-bitch.”
“Two things can be true at once, Chad.”
The dispatcher throws back the rest of his whiskey, sets it carefully on the table and stands up, cracking his back in several spots in the process. “I gotta take a leak. Let me know when Prism’s up for karaoke, yeah?”
“Fuck off,” Flambae hisses, clenching his glass with three scalding fingers, almost threatening to shatter it before he shakes his head free from whatever confusing-ass thoughts are rattling around in there.
The thing is, people don’t really recognize Flambae outside of the uniform.
It’s pretty striking, obviously. The deep vee to show off his impressive chest, the fabulous flame designs along the sleeves and legs, the way his hair always looks fucking perfect in his signature ponytail. Without it, he’s just another guy. A remarkably sexy guy, for sure, but no one really recognizes him as Flambae.
He’s sitting at the bar, staring up at the TV screen as he finishes off his drink. They’re covering footage from the fight with Shroud, again; there’s plenty of new angles that the media loves to show off whenever they can, especially now that fucking Mecha-Man has made his reappearance, and some people are still unsure if it’s the same fucking guy or not.
Said dumbfuck fucking guy stands a few seats away from him after a moment, getting a beer from the bartender as Malevola and Sonar screech Mindless Self Indulgence into the microphones on stage nearby. The bar itself is practically empty right now, aside from Visi next to Flambae, and some drunk ugly fuck near Robert. Invisigal is swirling her cherry around at the bottom of her cocktail, quietly cracking jokes at the demon/bat duo on stage, and gives Robert a little nod before turning her attention to the fight on the television above.
Flambae smirks into his drink as he flies across the screen, looking majestic as always, like a real fucking superhero–
“Christ,” the drunk fuck next to Robert scoffs, pointing to the television, “that was such a fucking joke.”
Robert doesn’t bother looking at him as he takes a sip of his beer, but hums quietly. “What do you mean?”
“Fucking Z-Team,” the guy continues. “A bunch of lame-ass failed villains who took down the fucking Shroud? Shit seems like fake news, don’t you think?”
Flambae’s jaw clenches, and Visi scowls next to him, popping the maraschino cherry into her mouth and biting into it like an eyeball.
“No, I don’t think,” Robert says pointedly. “I thought they kicked ass.”
“Oh, come on.” A drunken hand waves at the screen, where Flambae flies across the screen again. “What a pathetic excuse for a superhero,” the guy scoffs. “The literal flaming faggot–”
It happens in a split second. Robert smashes the glass on the counter, shattering the top so the edge is lethally jagged and sharp, and it's pressed against the guy’s jugular. A tiny rivulet of blood spills down his throat when he yelps pathetically in shock, silencing him as his eyes flicker between Robert’s unwavering glower and the deadly weapon digging into the lump in his throat.
“Sorry,” Robert mutters. “Couldn’t quite hear that over the music. Wanna speak into my microphone?”
“Robert, what the shit–!” Invisigal is out of her seat in a second, but Flambae is still fucking glued to his, staring at the encounter with wide eyes and parted lips, because what the fuck.
The bartender pipes up, “Hey, you can’t–”
Visi chimes in, “But that motherfucker–”
From the stage, Sonar yells, “Oh, fuck yeah–!”
“Ooh, get his ass, Robert!”
Flambae quickly cuts off Prism’s jeering by slamming his glass down, shooting out of his seat, grabbing Robert by the arm (strong, why is the normie so secretly fucking jacked) to pull him away, and smacking his hand against the asshole’s face to hear him screech as all of his ratty facial hair is singed off.
And apparently the guy wasn’t alone, because a handful of men lurch up menacingly from a table nearby, cracking their knuckles like they might actually have a fucking chance at fighting them–
Visi chucks her glass at one of them, hitting him square in the forehead, and as if they were fucking summoned by the comms at work, Malevola and Sonar hop off the stage as Prism, Punch-Up and Golem move away from their own nearby table. Seems like they can’t avoid a fucking bar fight for the life of them–
A gun is slapped onto the counter, the bartender scowling as he holds up his phone. “You guys have thirty seconds to–”
“Oh, fuck off, we're fucking leaving.” Flambae yanks Robert away, jerks his head at the others as they head to the door. “You underpour your fucking drinks anyway, asshole.”
“And you’re banned,” the bartender growls.
“Yeah,” Malevola sighs as they head out. “We know.”
“I- we g-got, um, a little bite, uh, bit of everything.” Waterboy and Prism set the ridiculous amount of sliders and fries on the table outside White Castle.
“Mm.” Sonar tosses a handful of fries into his mouth. “I fucking love Harold and Kumar.”
“Of fucking course you do,” Invisigal snorts, tossing a bag of food to Robert and Flambae from where they’re sitting at the corner table. “So is this what we do on Fridays now? Get banned from bars, destroy some fast food afterwards? I’m not complaining.” She eats a slider in three impressive bites. “Great fucking team-building exercise if you ask me.”
“Why did we get kicked out this time?” Prism asks, sliding into the seat next to Malevola and Waterboy. “Fuck did you do this time, Robert?”
Robert just shrugs, struggling slightly to unwrap a slider, pointedly ignoring the way Flambae stares at him in the process. “Guy said some shit I didn’t like.”
“We say shite you don’t like all the time,” Punch-Up notes. “We haven’t gotten a glass to the dome yet.”
Flambae scoffs. “He said we were a bunch of fucking losers,” he says, only half-lying, “during the Shroud coverage. Bobby got upset.”
“Aww.” Malevola smiles. “What a peach.”
“Yeah, yeah, he’s a fucking hero, eat your fucking food, bitches.” Flambae snags the burger that Robert’s struggling with as the others fall into their own quiet conversations. The dispatcher’s hands are bleeding, probably still have fucking glass in them, and Flambae scowls as he unwraps the food and hands it back over. “Why did you fucking do that?” he asks quietly. “It’s not like–”
“Like I said,” Robert mutters, seemingly more sober than he has been all night. “Didn’t like what he was saying.”
“About me,” Flambae hisses quietly, so the others don’t hear. “You think I haven’t heard shit like that before? I don’t need some fucking normie–”
“Oh, come on, man,” Robert snorts around a bite. “Would you just sit there if someone said some rude shit about your friends?”
Flambae raises an eyebrow. “Friends, huh? Awfully fucking presumptuous of you.”
“Hmm. Maybe.” Robert fixes him with a look, one of those ones that Flambae doesn’t know how to fucking decipher. “Sorry the night got cut short. Didn’t even get to finish my beer.”
“Yeah, well, that happens when you smash it across someone’s fucking face for no reason–”
“Don’t do that.” Robert crumbles the paper up with his good hand, tosses it back in the bag with far too much accuracy. “It wasn’t for no reason, Flambae, and you fucking know it.” He tilts his head again, just like he did in the bar. “Feel like a nightcap?”
Flambae chokes on a fry. It’s very dignified, fuck off. “Are you fucking–”
“Just to talk,” Robert insists. “Think we need to clear the air, don’t you?”
He’s not wrong. It’s been weird, lately. Hasn’t affected their missions yet, but it’s only a matter of time if nothing changes. “Fucking– fine. But I’m not going to your shithole depression den.”
“Fine,” Robert says. “Chase has Beef for the night, anyway.”
Flambae snorts. “Of course he fucking does.”
The tremor in Flambae’s hand when he goes to unlock the door is from nerve damage, honest. Not fucking nerves. That would be fucking pathetic.
He flicks the lights on as Robert follows him inside, automatically going for the fridge to pull out a bottle of liquor and grab some shot glasses from the cabinet.
Robert whistles. “Nice place.”
Flambae scoffs. “I fucking know. That’s what happens when you decorate instead of living in a fucking depressing shoebox, Bob-Bob.”
“Still. Not what I was expecting.” His eyes trail over the ornate rugs, the lavish red sofa, the lava lamp and old records, the trinkets from home that line the shelves on his walls. The bitch smirks when he spots the signed poster from Prism’s last concert.
“Fuck were you expecting?”
“Oh, you know. Douchey bachelor pad that looks like it got ripped out of Entourage.”
“How fucking dare you.”
“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound fucking sorry as he tugs his jacket off, draping it over the arm of the sofa before sitting down. “It’s nice. Homey.”
“What-fucking-ever.” Flambae slaps the shot glasses down on the table and untwists the cap off the bottle.
Robert actually laughs when he sees what they’re drinking. “Fireball. I should have guessed.”
“Yeah, yeah, you fucking done with the jokes yet? Little fucking bitch.” Flambae pours them their first round, throws the shot back and waits until Robert does the same to pour another. “You wanted to talk. So fucking talk.”
“Right.” Robert fiddles with the shot glass in his hands, almost like he’s nervous, which sends a thrilled, petty tingle down Flambae’s spine. “I, uh. Look, I’m sorry.”
And Flambae certainly wasn’t fucking expecting that. He stares with a furrowed brow for a moment, almost convinced maybe he was the drunk one here. “You what?”
“I’m sorry,” Robert repeats, easier than before, and finally lifts his head to meet Flambae’s confused look. “For your fingers, back when I was still Mecha-Man. And your tooth, and for being a fucking dick in Crypto Night. And, uh, for not telling you earlier.”
Flambae sits on that for a moment, trying to process what the fuck just happened. Frankly, he was half-expecting Robert to jump his bones. Not that he would have gone for that with a little bitch like Robert. Probably.
Eventually he says, “Wait here,” and disappears into his bathroom for a moment. When he returns with a first-aid kid, Robert is balking with an absolutely ridiculous confused look, and Flambae shrugs. “If I have to listen to this, I need a fucking distraction. So hold out your fucking hand and I’ll– clean it, or whatever.”
“Seriously?” Robert snorts, but sets the shot glass down and tugs his hoodie off so he can lean forward, holding his hand out. He’s wearing a fucking SDN T-shirt. This man is fucking infuriating, and part of Flambae wants to ‘accidentally’ burn the thing off of him. “Fair enough, I guess.”
Flambae cleans it quickly, not cautiously, but Robert doesn’t make a peep. His hands are covered in scars, marred from burns and cuts, small and large. It’s almost charming, in its own fucked-up way.
It looks kind of weird in between Flambae’s own hands, especially the one with the missing fingers, but he hasn’t been as angry about that, lately. Hasn’t automatically thought of how terrifying it was when Mecha-Man severed them when he looks at Robert. Instead he just sees Robert, the guy who believed in their little team of freaks and fuck-ups where everyone gave up after just a few days. In one case, mere hours, and that chick needed extensive therapy after her attempt at wrangling them.
But Robert– he’s got scars from being a real hero, one that would save the day and kept it all to himself. One of the heroes that had action figures and comic books, thousands of adoring fans, but he couldn’t give less of a shit. What he does seem to care about is the Z-Team, and SDN, and his adorable fat-ass little dog. And for some reason, Robert is apologizing to him, for shit that Flambae admittedly kind of, maybe had coming.
“Why the fuck would you tell me earlier?” Flambae asks quietly. “You didn’t tell any of us until that night, because we kept bullying you about it.”
“First of all, I told you because you all earned it,” Robert corrects firmly, and something about that makes Flambae’s stomach flutter with something undeterminable. He drowns it in a shot with his free hand as Robert continues, “Like I said, I was starting to like all of you. But I was also feeling pretty shitty about our… past, I guess. Even before that night, it was– it bothered me, not telling you in particular.”
“Hmm.” Flambae winds a bandage around Robert’s hand– no glass or deep cuts, thankfully– and if he lets his hand linger a little longer, letting his thumb drag against the curve of his palm, definitely just to make sure it’s secure, no one has to fucking know. He finally pulls away, pours another round of shots, and hands one over to Robert. This time when their fingers brush together, it almost feels like it’s on purpose.
“You’re still Mecha-Man, by the way,” Flambae scoffs into his glass before downing the Fireball. “Fucking idiot.”
Robert frowns as he swallows his own down, his throat bobbing distractingly. “I’m not following.”
“Earlier, you said when you were still Mecha-Man.” Flambae rolls his eyes. “You used your bitch-ass suit to fight him, right? You’re Mecha-Bitch for life, Robbo.”
Robert doesn’t reply for a moment, just leans back into the sofa, his head starting to slowly drop down onto the plush cushioning. He’s actually kind of fucking adorable when he’s drunk, Flambae admits to himself, and promptly blames the alcohol for that thought.
Finally Robert says, “Doesn’t feel like that, really.”
“How do you mean? You’ve been Mecha-Man for, like, fifteen fucking years.”
“Yeah, and then I wasn’t.” Robert shrugs. “I became Robert. An actual person instead of a… symbol, I guess. Every time I looked in the mirror after the suit got destroyed, it was like my reflection was just a stranger tagging along. I wasn’t used to it, until I started working at SDN with all of you. And now it’s like every option is a new way I’ll go wrong. But it's not just me on the line, it's all of you, and that's a lot more fucking terrifying.”
“Jesus Christ.” Flambae takes a shot. “That’s fucking depressing as hell, man.”
"Yup."
Flambae licks his lips. “Well. You’re fucking forgiven, so you can stop moping around like a kicked fucking puppy. It’s fucking weird.” He shifts uncomfortably, setting the glass down. “And I’m fucking sorry, too, for trying to blast you to ash after The Sardine. Honestly if you hadn't cut my fucking fingers off, I probably would have burned that bank to the ground. Or done a lot fucking worse. And then the fucking Phoenix Program wouldn't be an option; I'd be in max-security until I killed myself out of fucking boredom.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yup.”
They share a laugh at that. Robert looks fucking nice when he laughs. For a while, Flambae assumed he was literally incapable of fucking smiling. He looks good when he's loose, when all that fucking tension has melted out of him, when his eyes are as soft as his smile–
Oh, fuck.
Flambae might actually like this basic-ass bitch.
And now he's gotta fuck him. What a nightmare.
“So that’s really all you wanted? To just talk about our fucking feelings?” The liquor has made Flambae bold, because Robert thinks he looks pretty, apparently, and he can totally fucking run with that.
When Robert raises an eyebrow, Flambae scoffs, hiding his reddening cheeks behind his shot glass as he throws it back. “You called me fucking pretty, Robert.”
“I did,” Robert agrees. “I’m not blind.”
“I’m not fucking pretty. Ruggedly handsome, more like. I’ve heard comparisons to Greek gods before.”
“Thank fuck that didn’t go to your head,” Robert says sarcastically, and Flambae rolls his eyes. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use my actual name.”
“Don’t fucking get used to it,” Flambae scoffs. “Besides, it’s not like you know mine.”
Robert raises an eyebrow. “I thought it was Chad.”
“What, you think my parents actually named me Chad? It’s my fucking English name. I don’t just hand the real shit out, Bob-Bob. Not until I actually get fucking close to someone, at least.”
“Oh, yeah?” Robert tilts his head again. “How close are we talking?”
And that was definitely a come-on. No doubt about it, with the way Robert’s eyes are hooded, the way he’s trailing a finger around the lip of the shot glass.
Flambae takes his last shot of the night and sets the glass on his coffee table. Flips his hair in the way he knows looks amazing, smirks in the way that always gets men to swoon. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Robert licks his lips contemplatively, and Flambae doesn’t bother trying to hide how intently he watches the movement. “Thought I wasn’t your type.”
“Yeah, I was clearly fucking lying, bitch.”
Robert is quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable, and for a moment Flambae thinks maybe he did misread the situation, his stomach flipping uncomfortably as he tries to figure out what the fuck is going on in Robert’s infuriating head.
But then Robert mutters, “Fuck it,” and tosses the shot glass aside to let it clatter on the ground– bitch– before diving forward to straddle Flambae’s lap, his scarred hands going to scratch at Flambae’s beard, his lips crushing against the arsonist’s in a way that’s heated and fucking addictive. The little shit is just as feral now as he was at The Sardine, growling into Flambae’s mouth and sinking his teeth into his lip, his hands dragging confidently down Flambae’s neck and flexing chest, yanking the last of the buttons free and tugging the sleeves down so he can dig his nails into his fucking shoulders–
Jesus fucking Christ, Flambae is screwed. It’s better than he ever imagined, and fucking yes, fine, he imagined it a lot. But nothing holds a flame (ha) to the real thing, to Robert grinding in his fucking lap and sliding his hands into Flambae’s hair to scratch at his scalp and pull, so desperately it’s almost like he’s been wanting this for a while, too.
Flambae moans into the biting kiss, wrapping his warmed hands around Robert’s waist to slip a thumb under his shirt–
“Hold on,” Flambae murmurs, sliding his hands fully up under the SDN tee to feel surprisingly lithe but solid muscle. “Not kissing you when you're wearing that fucking shirt. Get rid of it.”
Robert snorts against his lips, but tugs it off and– holy shit.
“Holy shit,” Flambae breathes, brow furrowing at the sight of his chest.
“I know,” Robert huffs breathlessly, “but I was in a fucking coma after the suit got destroyed, okay, so you can whip me into shape in the gym later–”
“No, shut up, fuck off.” Flambae traces a hand over the massive expanse of scars littering his chest, heat licking in their wake and leaving Robert trembling with hitched breaths. “I didn’t know you– shit, Robby, you look like you went against a fucking Sonar/Coupé team-up and lost.”
“Too soon, asshole.” Robert leans forward, latches his lips onto curve under his jaw– fuck, that’s good, why is he so good at this– and sucks lightly, his nails scratching down Flambae’s abs until he hits his belt buckle. “Is it a deal-breaker?”
“Obviously fucking not, asshole,” Flambae gasps out, his hands sliding back around Robert’s skinny little waist, carefully heating his palms up just to hear the little bitch groan. “Just wasn’t expecting you to look like a fucking chew toy. But it’s hot. I get why Blazer and Visi were so fucking obsessed with you.”
Robert yanks the belt away with expert ease, tosses it behind him as he goes to unbutton Flambae’s jeans. “What, and you’re not?”
“God, you’re so fucking annoying,” Flambae growls, grabbing Robert by his flat (toned) fucking ass to lift the bitch up so he can stand and walk them to his bedroom.
“Ooh,” Robert murmurs into Flambae’s neck. “You stong.”
“Fucking dork.” Flambae tosses him onto the bed, yanks his jeans open and pulls them off, drops his own pants and crawls over the dispatcher to lock their lips in another heated kiss. Robert looks good like this, splayed out in his bed, his cheeks ruddy to match the scarlet sheets and his eyes hooded with lust. Flambae might just fucking keep him here.
The superhero drops his weight onto Robert, grabbing a handful of his short hair to yank his head back, giving him a long expanse of skin to start biting and sucking on. Robert moans brokenly at the assault on his neck, grinds up into Flambae’s abs in a desperate way that makes Flambae feel heated and raw to the touch. Dark bruises bloom beautifully on the dispatcher’s skin, and knowing that he was the one that put them there sends Flambae into a frenzy as he bites his way down Robert’s skinny chest until he yanks those boring white boxers off of the man.
“Hmm,” Flambae hums against his hipbone, sinking his teeth into the muscled jut of it. “Not as small as you let me believe, eh?”
“Would you have even believed me?” Robert snarks back, sounding far too put-together for the sounds he was making just moments earlier.
“Probably not.” Flambae slides a hand over Robert’s twitching cock, watching with rapture as precome drips onto Robert’s abs. “Kinda pathetic, though, how eager you are to just give it up for one of your former enemies–”
With a swiftness that Flambae did not anticipate, a strong leg is wound around one of his own, an arm thrown around his neck, and with one quick movement Robert flips them, grinning down smugly at Flambae’s shocked expression as he grinds back down onto his lap. “You were hardly an enemy, Chad. And you should really keep in mind who you’re talking to here.”
Robert leans down, his lips barely brushing Flambae’s, making the man beneath him shudder as his hands go back to Robert’s waist. (He likes them there, likes seeing their considerable size difference, especially now that he knows Robert might actually be able to kick his ass if no powers are involved.) One of Robert’s hands dives under Flambae’s boxers– black with flames, fucking obviously– to scratch just above Flambae’s leaking cock. “We clear?”
“It’s fucking infuriating how fucking attractive you are,” Flambae growls, lurching up to kiss Robert again, to lick at his teeth and swallow his moans, to grind his hips up until the dispatcher finally wraps a hand around him and starts slowly stroking with unerring confidence.
“Feeling’s mutual,” Robert replies when they finally break apart, pulling his hand away to yank Flambae’s boxers off entirely so he can line them up and grind deliciously down. “That suit of yours is borderline inappropriate for the workplace. I’m surprised you haven’t been called down to HR yet.”
“Eh, it’s still early days.” Flambae jerks his head at the side table next to the bed. “But I’m running out of fucking patience, Roberto. Get the fucking lube.”
“Bossy asshole.”
“Cocky little bitch.”
He’s got Robert on his hands and knees, one hand burning into his hip and the other splayed across his scarred back, scratching his only two fingers down the dispatcher’s trembling spine as he pounds in and out of him, relishing in the hitched moans of ‘Fuck’ and ‘More.’
Yeah. The little shit is fucking feral. Takes everything Flambae gives him, begs for more, even decided to forego the condom just to feel how fucking hot Flambae can get inside of him.
Flambae told himself this would be a one-time thing at the start, and now he knows that’s a fucking lie. He wants to fuck the stress out of this man at the end of every shift, wants to bottle up his moans like cologne, wants to leave hand-shaped burns over all of his other scars so everyone knows who the fuck took him apart like this.
He’s a little freak, too, choking on a groan as Flambae’s hand bursts into low flames so he can smack Robert across his pert little cheeks, his tight hole clenching even harder around the arsonist like his own personal sex toy.
Flambae lurches forward, burying himself as deep as he can go and biting down on the jagged cartilage of Robert’s mangled ear to hear him moan again. “Such a fucking freak,” Flambae murmurs, grinding in and out with slow movements that leave Robert shuddering. “Wonder what the team would think if they saw you like this, eh? All drunk on fucking lust and cock, getting the last brain cell fucked out of you by the magnificent–”
“What, Chad?” Robert scoffs, and then fucking laughs when Flambae growls and leans back up so he can snap his hips furiously, filling the bedroom with slaps and steam from his sweating, heated skin.
“It’s Zahir,” Flambae grunts, smacking Robert’s ass one more time for good measure. “Don’t fucking call me Chad in bed.”
“Okay, Zahir.” Robert uses one of those fucking moves again to slide off Flambae’s cock, twists his body around so quickly it almost leaves Flambae dizzy as he stares down at the flush on Robert’s face and chest, his bright red leaking cock and that aggravatingly challenging look in his hooded eyes. Robert reaches up, grabs Flambae by the back of the neck to drag him down, wraps his legs around Flambae’s hips to yank him forward and back inside without even touching his cock. “Any chance you’ll drop the fucking nicknames while we’re fucking, or do I need to scramble your brains a little more first?”
Jesus fucking Christ. This fucking loser of a superhero is so hot that Flambae might combust. “What the fuck, you’re fucking insane, you know that, right?”
Robert’s hands slide into Flambae’s hair, tangling them so Flambae can’t escape the kiss he pulls him in. When they pull apart, Robert grinding up to basically ride Flambae’s cock from underneath him, he murmurs, “It’s come up before.” He twists his fucking hand, yanking Flambae’s long locks and making him gasp out. “Now be good, and make me come, already.”
“God, I fucking hate you,” Flambae lies, diving back into a kiss and brutally snapping his hips forward so he can swallow Robert’s moans.
“So,” Flambae says quietly, trailing his hands through Robert’s sweaty hair as they bask in the afterglow of, admittedly, one of the best fucks that either of them has ever had. “You staying tonight?”
“It’s four in the morning,” Robert scoffs into Flambae’s toned bicep, stretching his back so it pops in a few places before he relaxes back into the silk sheets. “Sure as shit not walking or calling an Uber.” He glances up, expression unreadable. “Did you want me to go?”
After a moment, Flambae shakes his head. “Not really.”
Robert snorts. “Wow. Did I fuck the snark out of you?”
“Fuck no, bitch. That shit runs through my blood like fire.” Flambae does pull him closer, though, warming his own body as he wraps his arms around the dispatcher, because Robert is still so fucking small and there’s no fucking way he can regulate his body temperature well. Flambae should cook a massive breakfast in the morning, he thinks. Enough that Robert will finally be fucking full, that his body will finally have proper nutrients instead of the preservatives from just Twinkies and coffee.
“Hmm.” Robert lets his fingers trail along Flambae’s arm, seemingly content with the way that he’s practically pinned to the bed. “So. Was this a one-time thing, or…?”
“Fuck no,” Flambae says again, his eyes already shut as he breathes in the smell of Robert’s hair. “You’re fucking feral in the sack. Never met someone who asked me to burn them hotter when I’m spanking them. We’re definitely doing this again.” He lightly bites the back of Robert’s neck, relishing in the low chuckle it draws out of the smaller man. “Plus, I told you my fucking name, didn’t I? I don’t do that for fucking everyone, Robert.”
“Good to know,” Robert says quietly, but Flambae can hear the smile in his voice, and pulls the dispatcher just a bit closer. After a moment, Robert says, “You know we’ll probably have to go to HR on Monday, right?”
“Fine,” Flambae grumbles, already on the edge of sleep. “But we’re fucking in the gym first. You’re freakishly smart; you can figure out how to switch off the cameras.”
Robert barks out a real laugh. “You’re trouble.”
“Pot, motherfucking kettle.”
“Touché,” Robert murmurs, drifting off to sleep himself, and Flambae grins against his nape. “G’nite, Flambae.”
“Night. Bitch.”