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in which Flambae has a morbid fascination with the only man he knows that'd unironically enjoy drinking a Super-Sized Dulce de Leche extra-sweet, extra-whip, extra-crunch, quadruple-espresso-shot Latte. In one sitting.
. . .
Kadir hadn't been lying when he’d said Robert Robertson the fucking Third wasnt his damn type. Not that he was put off by twinks --he’s had his fair few, but compared to the dispatcher he usually preferred his men prettier, more muscular, more pliant . . more eager. But, Rob-Bob, unfortunately . . . had this way about him, some strange sort of pull in the dip of his voice and tilt of his head and hood of his rounded doe’s-eyes when he talked to you with his full attention. Like it was some precious commodity. However oblivious he was or wasn’t, it made people circle around him, like he had his own gravity. It made them stupid.And Kadir was being stupid. Honestly, straight up, not-even-Robert’s-fault stupid. Standing here, with a slow-melting iced-caffeine-monstrosity balanced on the palm of his hand, fingers making the least contact possible with the sides.
. . . -
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