Writerunknown's Shipyard

Commissions info | Fic Masterpost | AO3 | Twitter |💕avatar by Mirae, header by Kapcan💖| ship positive!

[kiruuuuu]

Girl, just wanna check if you're alright？I do miss you, hope you're doing fine.

My dearest anon, you're so sweet for your concern :) I'm doing great and I hope you as well as anyone who reads this is too! 💕

I do miss being part of a fandom, all the wonderful people, the creativity, the support... I just haven't had the spoons for it. Still, I have been itching to write for people again recently, so we'll see!

[kiruuuuu]

Sun's Out, Guns Out - Day 5!🌈

Hi all, this is your quarterly reminder that I'm not dead 😊 As always, @dualrainbow has organised a Pride event and I'm happy to participate! Give them a follow and check out the other entries 💖

Since I tend to resort to my favourites when I can't write what I want to write (motivation, thy name is fickleness), this one features Thatcher and Lesion trying to figure out a few things. Well, mostly Thatcher. Please enjoy!! (Rating G/T, fluff, ~3.3k words)

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Mike Baker has always had a knack for teaching. Born from the addicting sensation of being smarter than everyone, he quickly realised there’s actual merit in passing on hard-earned knowledge founded on a mixture of theory and painful experience. It took him a while to suppress the resentment of witnessing others, armed with his wisdom, excel immediately where he had to struggle for much longer, but once he overcame that particular ego trip, he started receiving heartfelt compliments.

And, well, he likes those.

Suddenly, he played a part in many success stories, was cited as a major influence by skilled operators around the world, and shook hands with others whom he admired on equal footing. There are other advantages as well, like broadening his horizon through exchanges with young minds from vastly different cultures, many of which left him befuddled at first yet enriched in the long run. He’s often called old school, a term he wears with pride instead of embarrassment seeing as it stems from his conviction that advanced technology might be useful but ultimately a crutch. He’s opened many eyes to the old ways and no doubt saved countless lives by empowering others to acquire survival skills not reliant on newfangled tech.

This, too, he learnt the hard way. After the disaster in ‘92, he vowed never to allow something like it again.

Amidst the coaching, he endeavours to learn from his students just as they soak up his advice. Not always successful, he still tries to grasp their differing world views and outlooks, attempts to understand how they developed and why his own rarely match. Finding similarities is easy, there’s timeless topics such as cars, sports and physical fitness, and beyond that cyclical trends materialise and disappear over the course of a decade or two – whisky, gardening, woodworking, it all recurs.

But the longer Thatcher pushes his retirement, the more he perceives a rift forming between his generation and the younger ones. Not having any children himself (or any friends who do), he’s reliant on his work relationships to keep him up-to-date, and while there’s no shortage of sensible, eager young men in the SAS as a whole, Rainbow generally features established, well-adjusted operators who need little guidance.

So… maybe it’s the small sample size. In any case, Thatcher is increasingly perplexed when Mute mentions most of his friends don’t even own a car anymore. Or that they have no notion to buy a house and settle down – even Thatcher considers marriage optional, seeing as his own crashed and burned spectacularly, but not wanting to own property? And the absolutely disrespectful way Mute speaks of national treasures like the Queen and Thatcher’s namesake (which, alright, he’s had long discussions about this and maybe she wasn’t the progressive saint he once thought she was, but still – defacing her monument just isn’t funny).

At first he was filled with a giddy sort of glee when the taciturn, serious young Brit opened up to him, heeded his advice and even looked to him first when he was unsure about anything work-related, but the longer they spend conversing about their private lives, the more Thatcher wishes he’d never asked in the first place. He’s fairly sure he will never understand the point of ‘memes’, no matter how often Mute tries to explain.

.

And one day, a humid, muggy Friday in June, Mute approaches him with a problem for which Thatcher has no answer ready yet. So he does what he always does when he’s unable to process news or make his mind up: ask the one person for help to whom he’d entrust his life without a second thought.

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~*~

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“Mark thinks he’s gay”, says Thatcher, apropos nothing, as he turns the page from sports to local news. ‘Hotel California’is softly pouring out of the radio next to the toaster – the classic rock station isn’t his favourite but one meaningful glance over Simon & Garfunkel incentivised him to switch to it. He didn’t want to be accused of being a lonely old man again.

Across the table, Lesion visibly smothers his initial reaction, whichever it would’ve been; there’s an unnatural half-blink and an almost imperceptible pause in guiding the ham-topped croissant to his mouth. And Thatcher thinks: here we go.

They haven’t fought in a while. Not for the entire year, actually, if he discounts their usual bickering (and he’s inclined to, it barely counts despite the awkward atmosphere it forces bystanders to endure, which is incidentally Thatcher’s favourite part). He regrets having to sacrifice their harmonious breakfast which, apart from the at-times questionable songs wafting over, is nearly perfect where he’s concerned. Lesion bought fresh muffins for Thatcher and croissants for himself, Thatcher provides good-quality cold cuts, they share a pot of tea and discuss whatever is new either in their lives or the world. It’s idyllic.

Sadly, he’ll have to ruin it – for the greater good.

Could he introduce the topic in a less inflammatory way? Sure. Would it have the same result, i.e. a quietly destructive Lesion who chooses his words so carefully it’s hard to imagine he’s simultaneously holding himself back from throttling Thatcher? Absolutely not. And therefore this is the only option remaining.

Once Lesion has bought himself some time to process Thatcher’s remark by carefully chewing for an inordinately long time, he avoids his gaze and asks, very calm: “Did he drink too much and say a few things he now regrets?”

Deflection. With a joke, at least, Thatcher taught him that – when they first met, Lesion would raise his brows and change the topic when confronted with anything he did not want to comment on. Either he’s attempting to save the mood or his brain is working overtime to figure out how to respond. Good. So he doesn’t know what to think about this either.

“Nah. We both know the lad barely drinks.”

Lesion begins pushing the crumbs on his plate into a neat pile. “He does when James is around.”

And this is why Thatcher chooses him for any difficult topic. Lesion has mastered the art of being unobtrusive and inoffensive to the point where everyone around him either forgets his presence or believes him to be an accomplice of sorts, thus dropping all inhibitions. His skills in information gathering and observation are unparalleled and Thatcher enjoys making use of them, even if it’s for petty purposes.

Well. Especially for petty purposes.

He’s right, of course, he always is: Thatcher retroactively analyses Mute’s behaviour around his colleague and concludes that yes, Mute does indeed let Smoke be a bad influence on him.

“Tell me what happened.”

Somehow, the initial friction has disappeared and though Thatcher would prefer a sharper exchange of words, he plays along for now. “Julien dragged him to a Pride event last week and some bloke there talked Mark into believing he fancies James. He’s not fully sure, though, so he poured his little heart out to me.”

He spots the tell-tale crease between Lesion’s brow. He’s getting pissed – even though Thatcher isn’t entirely certain why. But that’s what he’s here to find out. “I have additional questions”, Lesion states after a moment, “but I think it’s best if you tell me your thought process first.”

“On what?”

“You seem to disagree with him. I’d like to hear why.”

“With whom?”

Lesion refuses to take the bait and get angry over stupid details. His patience is another virtue Thatcher admires greatly. “With Mark’s assessment of himself.”

“That he thinks he’s gay?”

“Yes.” He takes a sip of his tea. “That.”

Alright then. If this was anyone else, Thatcher would refrain from elaborating, wave it off and attribute it to personal differences rather than risk offending or coming across as ignorant. The two of them, however, have known each other for such a long time that no such anxieties remain: they’ve both made idiots of themselves in front of the other, have supported each other through various crises, have become such an important and fundamental part of each others’ lives that he discards any vanities in favour of personal growth.

Most of the time.

Which doesn’t contradict his urge to exasperate his best friend. It’s almost… charming? Endearing? He’s not sure of the correct term, but it does leave a deep, satisfying feeling in the low of his stomach to watch Lesion ruthlessly apply logic to try and change his mind, working himself up to unmerciful gentleness with which he both ensures victory and that Thatcher’s pride isn’t hurt. These days, he rarely allows himself any indulgences, yet Lesion’s cutting rhetoric is too addicting.

He’s not proven wrong often, but with this man, he almost enjoys it.

“We’ve talked about it before”, he starts, Lesion keeping up eye contact now as he finishes the other half of his croissant, “being gay isn’t a choice.”

An encouraging nod. So far, so good.

“Either you’re born gay or you’re not.”

The nodding fades. Surely, he can’t object this early.

“So either you know that you’re gay, or you don’t know, which means you’re not. And yeah, there’s the bisexuals and whatever, but they know who they are as well. Mark on the other hand said he never really had any interest in anyone until now – but if he was gay, that wouldn’t have happened.” He probably should stop talking. Lesion is looking at him, mid-chew, the same way he did when Thatcher ranted about poor people always buying poor quality products even though purchasing slightly more expensive, higher-quality ones would last much longer.

Which, alright. He conceded the point eventually.

Another sip of tea after the croissant has disappeared. Lesion adds more crumbs to his pile. “Is it too late then?”, he asks, curious. “For him to realise he fancies men.”

“Huh? No.” Ridiculous. As if there was some kind of cut-off point where lads had to live as heteros because they didn’t claim their gayness fast enough. “No, what I mean is… he’s just not gay. He’s found a kindred spirit in James, somehow, and I predict he’s going to turn into an annoying little gremlin under his supervision, but he’s confusing a serious, close friendship with, I don’t know, attraction? Romance?” The more he scrutinises it in his head, the more sense it makes. “Yeah. He never fancied anyone before. How would he know what it feels like? I have the impression he just never had a friendship like that before.”

Actually, this is obvious – he’s almost embarrassed he couldn’t come up with the same explanation when Mark sought him out. No wonder the poor lad is a little lost, a shithead like Smoke will do that to an innocent soul.

Lesion is starting to shift now, sharpen around the edges, weighs his words more deliberately before he allows them to escape his lips. It’s reminiscent of how he is on the job, competent, no-nonsense. He might crack jokes and wear a smile but Thatcher’s gaze penetrates the thin veneer of jovial gestures to reveal remorseless efficiency. And though he respects that part of Lesion deeply, he also savours how pliable, how… domestic they are around each other. Lesion has saved his life more than once, and he’s helped remodel Thatcher’s bathroom. He asked Thatcher to test drive a used car he considered buying, and he’s killed with a smile and a shrug.

If he’s honest, Thatcher prefers his softer side. There’s something peaceful in sitting in his garden and trying to spot birds, even if they’ve had to wash blood off their bodies more times than they care to count.

“How did he come to the conclusion that he likes James?” Gathering more necessary intel. Thatcher suppresses a grin.

“I can’t recall his exact words, it was surprisingly flowery. Maybe he dreamt about kissing him, felt like he was having butterflies in his stomach whenever James texted him, something along those lines. Typical shite, you know. But I mean, that’s normal.”

Lesion’s eyes snap up.

Oh? He’s picked up on something though Thatcher wouldn’t know what exactly. They’re still dancing around the issue, Lesion hasn’t formulated his point yet so it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking. It’s no fight yet.

“Normal stuff”, Lesion repeats and it sounds very close to a question. He must know what Thatcher means.

“Aye. Everyone has these kinds of thoughts, even if there’s some kind of stigma on it since blokes barely talk about it. It’s curiosity, nothing more, the brain latches on to something and you can’t get it out of your head for a while. Like buying a new car, innit? A mate gets himself a brand new ride and suddenly, you want one too. It’s almost impossible to push that thought away.”

“… a new car.” It seems Lesion has resorted to parroting bits and pieces of Thatcher’s speech. Again, with anybody else, he’d be upset that he’s opening up about a topic rarely discussed between men and met with hesitant mockery, but this is Lesion. His best friend would rather jump out the window than hurt him deliberately.

“Not the best metaphor maybe, but you get the gist. He’ll just have to pull himself together and realise it’s perfectly normal to have these kinds of, I don’t know, intrusive thoughts, and move on.”

Lesion’s face evokes the image of an exhausted mum debating internally whether she should let her child eat the crayons just so she can have a bit of peace and quiet. He’s still not contributing to their conversation which is frankly worrisome – not that Thatcher is apprehensive about what might be going on in his head, but he knows the longer he talks the worse it gets. The two of them have a code word for ‘you should probably shut up now’ and there’s a reason Lesion is the only one who uses it regularly.

“Do you not agree? Just because you think like this doesn’t mean you’re queer. Hell, most of the blokes on this earth would’ve ended up married to another bloke if they followed that line of thinking. The two of us might as well have married.”

This shakes Lesion out of his stupor. “Might as well”, he repeats, sounding oddly entertained. It seems he’s about to add something but decides against it, shaking his head a little before he takes a deep breath and gets up to pour himself another cuppa. Buying more time. This is getting serious. “Want the rest?”

Thatcher hands him his Arsenal mug, mulling over the phrase which seems to have sparked amusement in his best friend. There’s worse fates in the world than being tied to this man, he supposes – they get along better than any married couple he knows. Most days, their schedules are intertwined, they give and take in equal measure and have found compromises for all their differences in taste. “Might as well”, Thatcher mutters without meaning to and accepts the tea-filled mug with an added ‘ta’.

Instead of sitting back down, Lesion leans against the counter, fingers wrapped around the Winnie the Pooh mug he used to pick as a joke (and now defends from other guests), steady gaze resting on Thatcher without the hint of reproach. There’s a warmth in it he’s accustomed to seeing when it’s late and they drank a little too much. Quiet anxiousness rises in Thatcher; he can deal with exasperation but doesn’t do well with vulnerable sincerity.

“You’ve not talked about this with anybody else, I assume?”, Lesion asks.

“Of course not. If they’re all too embarrassed to say it out loud, I’m not gonna be the first one.”

An eternity passes while Lesion stands there, eyes drifting aimlessly around the cosy kitchen, and contemplates how to reply. Thatcher’s uneasiness increases with every passing second yet he knows better than to interrupt the other man’s thoughts. Despite his growing desperation to interrupt his own.

He has a feeling he won’t like what he’ll hear next.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘normal’”, Lesion starts hesitantly. “I do believe it’s not unusual to be curious in one’s younger years, but… dreaming about kissing your mates when you’re in your fifties is, um.”

Thatcher’s cheeks begin to heat up. He hopes he hasn’t committed a grave mistake. “Oh come off it – don’t tell me you don’t think about those things.”

“Ah…” The corners of Lesion’s mouth lift into a sheepish smile. “I do.”

“See!”

“But, Mike. I’m gay.”

Uh.

Thatcher’s brain screeches to a halt. “What”, he says and can’t keep the hint of anger out of his voice. Strangely, he feels betrayed rather than surprised, and it’s a tad odd to realise he’s genuinely upset over the fact Lesion never told him. He cares not one bit about his sexuality, Lesion can do whatever he wants, but Thatcher needs to be in on it. Still, it helps to distract him from the fact that Lesion’s earlier words open up an entirely different can of worms.

Which is that apparently Thatcher’s mind has significant overlap with that of a gay man, at least where other men are concerned, and he is not prepared to face this particular revelation just yet.

Maybe I should’ve married him, he thinks and suppresses the sudden, absurd urge to laugh.

“Do you want to talk about this?”, Lesion offers, still smiling, and it’s eerie how well he knows him – when conflicted, Thatcher tends to withdraw unless assisted, yet is too prideful to ask.

He appreciates the suggestion but appearances force him to weakly object: “Don’t you have errands to run today?”

Lesion shrugs. “They can wait. I’d rather make sure you don’t end up brooding the whole weekend.”

A fair assessment. Thatcher nods and is flooded with relief over having someone in his life so willing to talk about everything and nothing, except… Suddenly, there’s something else besides gratitude as well.

.

~*~

.

“… so, in conclusion, it doesn’t matter what you identify as. Just do what you feel is right, use your common sense – and I know you have a lot of that. If you feel an attraction, there’s nothing wrong with pursuing it without worrying about labels for the moment. Alright, lad?”

Mute stares at him in much the same way Thatcher’s family did on their last reunion when he asked for extra vegetables. He adds a mental note to teach Mute how to control his expressions better and keep his composure even when confronted with the unimaginable.

“Do I have something on my face?”

“No, I just -” The lad blinks a few times before starting to nod. “I mean, yeah. Thanks. That’s actually really helpful. I was worried about some of it, but what you said just… some things clicked.”

Boy does Thatcher know how that feels. “Don’t mention it. You got your head on straight, lad, keep it that way.” He realises too late and hastens to correct himself: “I don’t mean – well, you know what I mean.”

His awkward floundering earns him a grin he much prefers over the troubled look which has recently dominated the young man’s features. “Yeah. No worries.”

“Good man.” Thatcher pats his back and gets up, relieved their talk went smoothly and confident he’ll be able to manoeuvre similar conversations in the future. Which is a relief, because based on Mute’s memes, the entire younger generation is some kind of queer or other and he’s had his suspicions about Dokkaebi for a while.

“Just one question though.”

He turns to Mute, expecting anything from mundane to profound and certain he will be able to advise. After all, it’s his job to guide and teach wherever he can.

The lad points to Thatcher’s neck. “… is that a hickey?”

Alright.

Well.

Time to make up an excuse and get the fuck out of here.

[kiruuuuu]

Siege the Valentine's, Day 11 💘

Hi all, you know the drill, follow @dualrainbow for more events like these and so you don't miss a single entry 😁 Thank you again to all the people organising this and thank you also to the participants!

My entry is a wholesome one (for once) about how Bandit and Jäger go on a date, but not really. I hope you enjoy it!! (Bandit/Jäger, Rating T, fluff, ~3.7k words)

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“You better dress up for our date later.”

Bandit looks up only once his shoe is lightly kicked and greets his teammate with a wide grin, noticing how Rook’s head in the background whips around at the statement. “Rented a tux for you, babe. You better follow… suit.”

He earns a very satisfying groan and an eye roll, warranting no further questions from Jäger himself, though prompting IQ to lean over. “What are your plans for today?”

“Let’s see…” Bandit glances at the other man to check he’s not forgetting anything. “Early film, of course the most romantic one we could find, then a candle light dinner at an Italian place near the sports park, and if I play my cards right, it’ll turn into a sleepover with benefits.”

“Nice.” IQ nods in appreciation. “Learnt your lesson last year, huh?”

Bandit has long noticed they hold all the attention belonging to an increasingly confused-looking Rook who’s trying his best not to stare, so he hams it up even more. “Yeah, eating dinner first and then going to the cinema was a nightmare, we had to beg the waiter to rush our food even though they were swamped because the old couple who stole our table just wouldn’t leave and Marius was cranky the entire time. We only barely made the film and were too stressed out for any… other activities afterwards. Unlike today, hopefully.” He winks at Jäger and receives a sincere nod in return.

“I was in favour of just staying home and making some food ourselves, but he vetoed that. Vehemently.”

“Look, it would’ve been fine if you were still in your pickled phase, but fermentation?” Bandit makes a face in IQ’s direction. “You don’t want to know how much kimchi I’ve had to try in the last months. And those salty half-alcoholic fruits that never turned out right -”

“The kimchi was fine”, Jäger insists, getting huffy, “you’re just mad because I refused to make beer for you.”

“Absolutely no reason to just leave food lying around until it gets kinda mouldy. I don’t even like sauerkraut.”

“Soy sauce is fermented, actually, and you might as well drink the stuff with how -”

“You’re going on a date?”

It just burst out of Rook – even he seems appalled at his sudden interjection yet his curiosity must burn too bright for he does not recant his question. Instead, his eyes dart between them, seeking a specific reaction, a revealing sign, anything.

“Yeah”, Bandit replies easily, “just one of many, you know.” He doesn’t need to look to know Jäger nods in confirmation. IQ probably does as well.

“So…”

No way he’s letting him off the hook like that. Instead of picking up on Rook’s non-verbal implication, Bandit simply raises his brows expectantly and waits. He’s going to make him say it.

After he’s fidgeted uncomfortably for a few seconds, he finally blurts out: “So you two are dating.”

IQ throws him a pitying look. He’s not the first and he won’t be the last, and this whole thing is part of why Bandit enjoys days like Valentine’s so much. His smirk is overly smug yet he makes no effort to reign it in. “Of course we’re not. Never have, never will. What makes you think that?”

And he just soaks up the mixture of bemusement and annoyance radiating from the young Frenchman.

.

He’d be hard pressed to remember all the details from their first ‘date’, though some aspects preserved themselves illegally in his mind: when he pictures it, all he sees is a lanky, withdrawn nerd who grimaces every time anyone mentions Christmas around him, so Bandit naturally did what he always does. He pokes and prods and rubs it in until he finally gets a straight answer out of his current object of curiosity, and the one they called Jäger admitted his long-term boyfriend recently broke up with him so now all their plans for the festive season were nullified, leaving him devoid of company. And hey, what a coincidence, Bandit’s then-girlfriend (not for much longer, obviously) had just accepted an invitation to her horribly backward, racist and homophobic family’s party and he’d been looking for a good excuse to ditch her.

So they did the most stereotypical shit they could come up with, watched Die Hard and ate potato salad and drank too much beer until Jäger passed out on his couch, and then they proceeded to not interact with each other for a long time. The chance never really came up, is the thing, and Bandit did an undercover gig and Jäger was sent somewhere else after and then a year had passed and Bandit asked for his plans for Christmas with a tongue-in-cheek comment, referring to the previous year and expecting a laugh and to be shot down (like Jäger usually does when it comes to social events with people he doesn’t know well, Bandit is aware and stopped inviting him without changing anything else about their conversations which somehow seemed to put Jäger at ease) – except Jäger is the one who suggests they celebrate Christmas like the Japanese and get KFC together.

And as a casual acquaintanceship slowly blooms into something more, they involuntarily learn a variety of things about each other. Bandit’s habit of putting a cigarette behind his ear, losing it almost immediately and complaining loudly while he calculates how much that single cancer stick cost him. Jäger’s preferences in food, which are as cryptic as they are manifold: sometimes he rejects dishes for consistency, sometimes for colour, sometimes for reasons unknown to everyone including him, and Bandit forgets them all the second Jäger divulges them which turns out to be fine as they keep changing from month to month anyway. Jäger tries futilely to convince him not to buy a new motorcycle whenever the urge overtakes him, and they inevitably end up tuning it together.

Eventually, Jäger readily offers advice whenever Bandit describes whoever he’s flirting with at that point, and Bandit talks a little about his night terrors (though not sober, he needs to be dead drunk, meaning the opportunity presents itself quite often), and Jäger laments his difficulties in finding anyone with whom he’s comfortable enough to start a relationship, and the two of them swap work stories that leave them the unhealthy flavour of desolate. But it’s either Bandit’s dry sarcasm or Jäger’s genuine enthusiasm about his current fixation that allows them to move on, and then one year, everyone brags about their perfect Valentine’s date, so naturally, Bandit and Jäger name each other as their Valentine’s. They go ice skating and Bandit ends up with a bloody nose and nearly a finger less than before and they conclude that next time, they’d rather do something more romantic.

It just escalates from there. Though they do spend significant holidays with their families or, rarely, their partners whenever possible, more often than not something comes up and they just celebrate together. By the time they can’t remember how long they’ve been friends they’re leaning into it all the way, sipping sickly-sweet cocktails on Christmas while slagging Hallmark-like films shown on TV, mocking the many advertisements in between to the point where Jäger is red in the face and can’t breathe anymore.

(When Bandit finds out Jäger is following him into Rainbow, he ends up crying. Could be all the gin and tonic, who knows, could be the relief of knowing he’ll have someone who has his back no matter what, but he knows he wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been pissed, and he certainly wouldn’t have done it had he known Jäger would mirror him. It’s not – not a sob fest or anything, they don’t cling to each other shedding tears of joy, it’s just annoyingly wet and a pain to wipe away of which he does a bad job of hiding while Jäger gets some tissues for himself, and they quickly change the topic afterwards.)

.

“I don’t actually know which film we’re seeing.” Jäger bounces on his heels in impatience, eyes darting around the lobby trying to find the poster that reveals whichever kitsch Bandit might’ve picked.

“You’re remarkably calm about that.” He’s busy operating the vending machine responsible for dispensing reserved tickets, a blessing as far as Bandit is concerned – he doesn’t need to talk to a human being and the poor cashiers don’t have to deal with his sorry attitude. “When I was sixteen, Ced invited my girlfriend and me to a double date and kept the film a secret. It turned out to be some fucked-up gory horror flick. I think I still have the scars from where my girlfriend clawed into my arm while trying not to scream.”

Jäger scoffs. “I would’ve dumped you for that.”

“Even though it wasn’t my fault?”

“No, because you probably laughed at her and brought it up at every opportunity. You told me how you were at sixteen.”

There’s no arguing there. Bandit grins and snatches the printed-out tickets before Jäger can sneak a peek. “I did, and she did dump me. Now she’s working as an accountant and has like three kids, so who really lucked out in the end?” His companion opens his mouth. “Don’t answer that. Let’s go.”

In true date night fashion, Jäger links his arm with Bandit’s and they meander through the floors together, commenting on a few cardboard cutouts and which one they’d put up in their homes if they had to choose. Eventually, Jäger voices a sudden oh! and yanks Bandit to a halt so abruptly he nearly drops the popcorn they’re going to share. “It’s this one, isn’t it.” He points to a pink-framed, mellow poster picturing a woman beaming up at a man at sunset. “This is the worst one I’ve seen so far. What is it called? Building a Bridge to Cloud Nine? Seriously?”

“That doesn’t sound OSHA-compliant.”

“If it’s about a career-oriented woman who falls in love with a builder, I’m walking out.”

“I bet it’s a really sexy quantity surveyor. His catchphrase is ‘let me survey your quantity’.”

Jäger beams at him with an amused and delighted expression not unlike the one displayed by the actress on the poster, and for a brief second, Bandit is filled with the sudden epiphany of this is exactly what I want. Followed by a derisive mental sneer, of course, because he’s far from being the romantic type – quite the opposite. Still, he can’t deny that he craves intimacy, however shape it eventually takes, and he’s secretly glad he didn’t actually choose a film that would fuel this particular desire.

Why can’t it ever be easy? Why is it always complicated, draining, requiring constant work and mental resources, why is being in a relationship so goddamn hard? Bandit has tried, couldn’t even count the attempts if he wanted, and there was always a wall they hit, sooner rather than later. He’s been accused as selfish, withdrawn, brooding, even his therapist complained about him not opening up enough. He doesn’t see why it’s necessary. There are people in his life who know enough about him so that nobody else needs to, like Blitz. Like Jäger.

Why can’t it ever be as easy as with Jäger? They settle into the loveseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world (and it was only last year that Jäger booked one for kicks for the first time though it turned out to be much more comfortable than they expected), and, because it’s Valentine’s and they have to keep the theme going, Bandit puts an arm around him and Jäger laughs but cuddles up to him and the point is making everyone around them think they’re a couple anyway. The gangly nerd is flexible enough to sit cross-legged and it almost feels like they’re just at home on the couch watching something in private. Very cosy.

The cosiness is only briefly diminished when a series of gruesome deaths happen on screen as a building collapses, impaling someone with a steel bar while someone else’s head gets squished between two concrete blocks. Jäger turns to him with a glint in his eye. “Is this the new Final Destination?!”, he whispers. His delight only grows when Bandit nods with a smirk. “I love them! They’re terrible.”

They are. Bandit figured there’s no better film to watch on the day of love than this schlock and, judging by Jäger’s thinly-veiled excitement, he’s not alone in this opinion. He pushes away his musings about relationships and the likes and leans back to enjoy the grisly spectacle.

.

“- look, just stop me if you don’t care about this stuff, but I need to tell someone how wrong they got it”, Jäger blabbers, still exhilarated from the film, “because buildings don’t work like that. Not the one they chose, anyhow, there’s not just… air between the floors, there’s wiring and -”

Though it’s the last thing Bandit wants to do, he interrupts his companion with a gentle: “I think you should order.” He’s already conveyed his choice of food and drink through a series of subtle pointing, acknowledged by the amused waitress with a nod as they’re both subjected to one of Jäger’s famous rants. It usually takes every new person in the engineer’s life about two to three months before they get to witness one since he watches himself carefully around casual acquaintances, which means most people experience him as a friendly and modest co-worker with no noteworthy eccentricities.

But once he’s thawed enough and one of his current pet peeves is brought up (they change depending on his current fixation), there’s no stopping him. He’s never angry, just passionate, with an overwhelming urge to share his grievances with anyone willing to listen, and they’re always factually flawless. Bandit couldn’t name half the topics on which he became an unwitting expert purely by existing around Jäger for so long.

When he loses his train of thought, however, is distracted or interrupted by anything, Jäger deflates instantly and requires a few sincere prompts to start up again. And as much as Bandit loves listening to him, he is quite hungry.

The peppy waitress, who takes it in stride and seems to find the whole thing extremely cute, helps Jäger pick something with no fuss and promises them a short wait time despite the busy restaurant. Seems like they chose well, the service is fast and friendly and the other customers appear satisfied with their dishes.

Jäger comes to the same conclusion and comments: “Nice place. How’d you find it?”

“They offer a discount for couples today.” Bandit winks at him, making him laugh.

“Do I need to start calling you ‘babe’ now so we don’t strain your wallet too much?”

“Oh I think we’re plenty convincing already.” From the few glances and smiles they’ve earned between entering the restaurant and now, he’s sure they have everyone fooled. “We’re like an old married couple who managed to keep the magic alive and still go on dates together.”

His friend shrugs. “We might as well be.”

Yeah. It’s not that far from the truth with how much time they spend in each other’s presence. “Alright, so back to the structural integrity of an office building”, he changes topics and Jäger’s face lights up instantly.

.

“Don’t be ridiculous”, Bandit grumbles as they walk arm in arm through the brightly-lit and pink-clad shopping centre as a shortcut to his car. It’s already dark and though they’ve got to work the next day, they’ve both decided on watching another film in Jäger’s apartment to conclude their ‘date’.

“I don’t make the rules – I get the bill, I’m the top.”

Outraged, he tries to nudge Jäger into a potted plant but his companion merely spins them around it, laughing. “I’ve always gotten the bill before. Every waiter and waitress we’ve had decided I’m the top, the outlier today means nothing.”

“Maybe she just wanted to show her support of top twinks who are as vocal in bed as they are in conversation.”

“Or she didn’t like me and wanted to piss me off.”

“Or she wanted to introduce you to new opportunities, you know. She figured we’d discuss it and I’d get a chance to say I’ve secretly wanted to top you for years now but didn’t know how to bring it up -”

“Marius, you’re so experienced I’d let you top me in a heartbeat if you asked.”

Jäger is about to retort when a blonde woman with a camera addresses them, and Bandit is almost glad for the distraction. While they’ve talked about plenty of sexual escapades before, it was never really about them and something about it made him… uneasy. As if they’re toeing some kind of line. Which is nonsense, they’ve been close friends for so long now that if anything was going to happen between them, it’d have happened years ago, they know too much about each other.

“Sorry to bother you”, the young woman says, eyeing them with a smile, “I’m a freelance photographer and I’m working on a personal project featuring couples of all races and genders – would it be alright if I took a photo of you two?”

The option of correcting her doesn’t even enter Bandit’s mind. He flashes her a winning grin and drags Jäger to a more favourable position next to him. “Of course, go ahead. Today is probably the perfect day for your project, hm?”

“I don’t really like having my picture taken”, Jäger mutters in protest but lets Bandit move him around anyway.

“Babe, you always look camera-ready.” The two of them exchange a look, Bandit innocently smiling and Jäger with a dark scowl, which is exactly when the woman photographs them. “Wait, take another one, you didn’t catch his beautiful smile.”

Somehow, this does not seem to lighten Jäger’s mood. The woman, being a professional, seems to sense his discomfort with presenting himself for other people and opts for a different tactic: “Do you want to try kissing?”

Hell yeah. This will make for a fantastic story tomorrow and even more in-jokes between the two of them, so Bandit doesn’t even think twice about it. He catches sight of a raised eyebrow and curled lips and assumes Jäger is once again reading his mind, as he always does when Bandit is up to his shenanigans, and then he’s already pulled the other man to his chest and locked lips with him. They barely manage a proper kiss at first because Jäger pulls away as soon as Bandit’s tongue touches him, but when Bandit quietly calls him a chicken, Jäger returns with a vengeance. Fully aware of their audience, they violently snog while refusing to allow each other the upper hand and Bandit has to exert immense self-control not to burst out into laughter. He’d love it if they made it into some sort of exhibition among all kinds of other couples with this.

And then he notices he’s wrapped both arms tightly around the other man, and Jäger’s hands are sneaking into his biker jacket to stroke over his sides, and somehow…

It’s not the same, kissing Jäger versus kissing anyone else, though he’s not really sure why. He’s a good kisser, now that the initial playfighting has turned into something more cooperative, and he smells nice, and the faux fur of his jacket is tickling Bandit’s cheek, and their lips are moving against each other like they’ve done it a thousand times before, and this kiss has lasted a long time already, they should probably stop. No use in milking it any further. They got their material, time to move on.

Jäger’s tongue curls against his own and he’s left wondering why it’s so good to feel him in his arms like this, why it felt so good to spend a whole film with Jäger snuggled up to him, why he couldn’t stop smiling as Jäger pointed out all the flaws afterwards, and there’s really only one explanation for all this, the only one that makes sense, and then somebody wolf-whistles them.

Without a second thought, Bandit breaks the kiss to turn in the direction of the whistle and yell out an instinctual: “Fuck off!” He regrets it instantly as he spots another gay couple grinning at them over their shoulders while walking away. So… no sarcasm, instead probably a show of appreciation. “Damn, they were really hot, too”, he mutters, feeling Jäger shake with silent laughter. The photographer has disappeared entirely; she likely figured they needed some privacy.

And all of a sudden, this is extremely awkward. He turns back and Jäger is still smiling though there’s a decidedly lost quality to his features, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself either.

When the prolonged silence of them hugging and gazing into each other’s eyes helplessly becomes too unbearable, Jäger utters aptly: “Well. Whoops.”

Bandit snorts and tries to hide his burning face in the side of Jäger’s fluffy hood. “Fuck, man.”

“I don’t think I can pretend that didn’t happen”, Jäger mumbles to Bandit’s relief as he feels much the same way. “Were you – did you know -”

“Let’s not talk about it here, alright?”

A nod. “Alright.”

They both take a deep breath before separating and though Bandit misses the physical proximity straightaway, the dull yearning is alleviated by fingers interlacing with his own. If this is what’s been going on with the two of them, without them being aware of it, it would explain a lot of things. He tries his best to calm racing thoughts, not very successfully, and a random one pops into his head, unbidden: if Rook gets wind of this, he’ll have a field day.

“You know”, Jäger says, cheeks red and not looking at him, thumb stroking over the back of Bandit’s hand, “if this turns out to be our first proper date, it was a pretty good one.”

“It was”, Bandit agrees. Now he just needs to play his cards right.

[kiruuuuu]

Remember how Rainbow came across an extremely strong aphrodisiac in my advent calendar, days 8 & 9? Somehow, while I was spinning that particular yarn, my brain went "well what if it's Wamai and Lion instead" for absolutely no reason. Naturally, I couldn't resist the urge and had to write it. Please enjoy! (Wamai/Lion, Rating E, explicit + sex pollen/drugs, internalised homophobia, some fluff?. ~9.2k words oops)

.

“Thank you for the lift.” Wamai unfolds himself as he gets out of the small car, much like Lion himself, and they both take a moment to stretch their limbs and breathe in the crisp evening air. After having spent the entire day cooped up together in a warehouse to catalogue and sort crates, Lion is looking forward to a shower, a cup of coffee, watching the news in bed. It’s a mental kind of exhaustion that weighs him down, his muscles indicating their eagerness to be used – he might go for a run first, just to shake off the sluggish feeling overtaking his body. He oversaw the precautions in place, delegated the manual labour and was left with admin work, the most tedious task of all.

Right now, they’ve returned to base in order to hand over their findings, brief the higher levels and then finally head home. Wamai’s presence isn’t necessary though he volunteered when Lion expressed his preference of not delivering the results alone, in case he overlooked anything. Not that he expects to, but over the years he’s learnt that witnesses are always useful. As much as he loathed certain people in the positions above him, they taught him that much at least.

As they walk through the empty corridors, Lion listens for any signs of life, to no avail: at this late hour, most of their colleagues will either have gone home or are preoccupied elsewhere as opposed to their offices. The workshop is bustling almost around the clock, as is their proprietary gym. The only other soul he observes is Wamai next to him, seemingly lost in thought though Lion doubts there’s anything worth knowing going on in his head. A few times, he’s attempted to communicate with the other man but might as well have tried to understand string theory as explained by Mute. They’re simply on differing wavelengths.

This in itself is no cause for concern. His affiliation with Nighthaven, however, is.

Lion has always harboured a quiet dislike for the organisation itself and its members specifically, even if he has to admit Wamai’s conduct so far has been exemplary. Unlike Kali, he goes out of his way to make friends instead of enemies, and at work he’s reliable, dutiful and efficient. He was not the one who balanced a crate so precariously that it crashed to the ground right as they were getting ready to leave.

Stupid. They were lucky it was one of the few containing no harmful substances and though he and Wamai were enveloped in a white cloud and couldn’t taste anything but salt for a few minutes, they weren’t in any danger.

He knocks on Sledge’s door, opens it when he notices no light peering through the cracks, and finds it empty. So much for going home soon. “He better not have left already”, he grumbles and steps into the large space, already checking his phone for messages he might’ve missed during their drive here.

Wamai follows him, shuts the door and switches the desk lamp on. The sun is setting, painting long shadows with its warm light. “Are you in a hurry?”

In a hurry to relax, Lion almost replies yet catches himself before he ends up earning a mocking remark so typical of the Kenyan. He’s known for his calm demeanour, his gentle teasing of anyone not stopping to smell the proverbial flowers. Not Lion’s fault he has places to be and values his free time. “I know that you’re not.”

No need to see the other man’s face to know he’s smiling. Wamai inspects the paraphernalia scattered on Sledge’s desk, the photos, keepsakes, knick-knacks, shows no respect to privacy by groping all of them, as if he were a small child. If he puts any in his mouth, Lion will snitch on him. “Being impatient won’t make him appear any faster.”

Not true, it might. Irritated, Lion sends a text reminding Sledge of their meeting, and takes his thin jacket off to hang it on the coat stand. He’s comfortably warm despite the cool air outside and wonders whether Sledge left his heating on. Well, if he did, it’s a sign he can’t be far. Wamai seems to feel the heat as well, unbuttons his coat and opens it up for better air flow.

It really is quite warm.

“I’ve let him know we’re here, I guess all we can do now is wait.” He leans past Wamai to put the folder with their summary on the messy wooden surface and in doing so, feels a sudden twang of… something. Not unlike the sensation of suddenly remembering an important detail, something he’d previously forgotten. Almost like an oh yeah, that’s right. Except his mind is devoid of any thought that would cause it, instead it’s filled with nothing but mundane things, his plans for the evening, the route he’ll jog later, the settings to choose on his coffee maker, the video he’ll look up to wank -

Ah.

That’ll be it then.

Sighing inwardly, he paces about and shakes his head to get his mind out of the gutter – now’s neither the time nor the place, he won’t have to be professional much longer before he can take care of his various needs. Except it’s unusually difficult to distract himself, so much so that he jumps as if he was caught in the act somehow when his phone vibrates in his pocket. “Seamus says he’ll be a moment”, he reads out loud for Wamai’s benefit. “Something came up.”

The other man just nods, having moved on from the desk to the sparse decoration scattered throughout the rest of the room. It’s a cosy office, made welcoming by several prominent houseplants and the large couch off to the side. There’s worse places to be stuck at, even if it’s not Lion’s choice of company. Wamai might feel at home in every situation but Lion tends to interpret silence as uncomfortable more often than not.

When Wamai’s coat joins his jacket on the stand, Lion steps around the bulky desk to check the heating. It’s turned off, the radiator cold to the touch. Weird. The office is west-facing, so it’s not like it bore the brunt of today’s sun throughout the day. And now that Lion has allowed himself to briefly consider tonight’s happy ending, it gets harder and harder (no pun intended) to focus on anything else. He took care of himself just the day before, and it hasn’t been that long since he’s slept with someone, has it? The last one was the cute philosophy student he met at the New Year’s party, she was someone’s niece -

Yeah, alright, maybe it has been a while. But even then, the urge to touch himself isn’t normally that strong. He should just stop thinking about it.

“This looks old”, Wamai comments out of the blue and it’s a welcome distraction. Eagerly, Lion steps over to see, in the process brushing his arm against Wamai’s (and the man is a furnace). He’s holding a picture frame with a photo showing Sledge and Maestro in their younger years, arms slung around each other and displaying blinding smiles against the backdrop of a beautiful landscape. “Were they working for the same organisation?”

Standing next to the other man, Lion is now uncomfortably warm and oddly aware of all of Wamai’s movements, no matter how tiny. They’re almost leaning into each other to get a good look at the picture, heads close, and the proximity does something to him. “I don’t think so”, he hears himself reply, not even sure of the veracity of his statements. His brain feels muddled somehow, as if he had a glass of champagne on an empty stomach. His cheeks are hot. He’s light-headed. “They cooperated on something and became friends, I suppose, they’ve known each other a while. Their reunion here was touching.”

“Friends”, Wamai echoes. “You think there’s nothing going on between them?”

The possibility hadn’t ever crossed Lion’s mind before – he was convinced they were good friends with how familiar they are, like him and Montagne, but now that Wamai spoke it out loud, it’s… it’s not that far-fetched. The lives of these two are intertwined, both of them are in the prime of their lives and attractive, it’s not impossible they’re also attracted to each other. And suddenly, unbidden, his mind is filled with scenarios, pictures the two of them making out, making love, naked bodies moving against each other in unbridled passion, sweat-slicked skin -

Heavens. He’s dizzy, his eyelids heavy and it occurs to him that he’s aroused beyond all proportion; this has nothing to do with Sledge or Maestro, that much is obvious, it’s a directionless desire, a general need for relief no matter how. It forces his thoughts into the shape of unwanted filth and there doesn’t seem to be much he can do other than to try and weather the storm. Hope it fades on its own.

“Your phone just went off”, Wamai’s voice vaguely penetrates the fog in his brain and when he doesn’t react, an elbow nudges him. Despite the gentleness of the gesture, he might as well have been shoved, loses his balance instantly and grabs Wamai’s upper arm for support, prompts him to place his hand on his side. And wow, his own reaction is instant. The second Wamai’s fingers curl around his ribs, thumb slightly digging into his skin, all his aimless want snaps onto the other man. Like a spotlight. And now that Wamai is brightly illuminated in the light of inexplicable desire, Lion just wants his hands all over himself. Doesn’t matter where or how, he’s about to grab this man’s wrists and drag his palms across fiery skin to soothe the awful prickling everywhere.

This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

“Don’t touch me”, he hisses, opposing absolutely every signal his body is sending out, and tightens his hold around Wamai’s arm simultaneously. It helps to recall the situation they’re in: this is work, he will have to maintain a professional relationship with Wamai in the future, he doesn’t even like him, there’s tension between their respective organisations, they merely completed a task together and now they’re waiting for Sledge to arrive. All of these are extremely good reasons not to act on whatever is going on with his body right now. Every single one of them suffices, and he knows this.

He will not succumb.

Fingers shaking, he awkwardly reaches into the pocket opposite of his free arm, unable to let Wamai go. His fingertips are stroking over Lion’s side and it feels divine, he needs them on his cock right this instant and the way Wamai stares him down, pupils blown, unblinking, stirs something deep inside him. There’s no doubt Wamai feels as he does, his bulge matches Lion’s yet where he resembles a hunter merely waiting for the right time to strike, Lion is screaming internally. This can’t be happening to him. This is not the kind of thing that happens to him. He chats up cute girls and sometimes gets lucky, and if he doesn’t, it’s fine. He does not feel the primal need to devour his male co-workers.

It’s getting unbearable. His clothes are too tight and restrictive, he feels trapped in them. He really, really, really needs to come.

When there’s a brief second of clarity, he remembers what he was doing and glances at the lit-up screen in his palm – but what he sees crushes what little hope he had left; there goes one of his reasons. “Seamus cancelled”, he says and puts his phone down on the nearest surface, doesn’t care anymore where it ends up. His eyes travel back to the man next to him, unprepared for the sight as if he suddenly materialised out of nowhere.

Wamai is gorgeous. He looks like a deity, poised and powerful, chin raised and head tilted as if he’s appraising Lion, and he wants nothing more than to please him. Prove to him he’s worthy. Prove himself. He can’t remember ever being this attracted to anyone on this earth, no matter how charming or pretty, there is only Wamai in his thoughts and his mouth goes dry with how much he wants him.

“You feel this too?” His voice is a rumble that resonates in Lion’s bones. He sways in place, towards the other man, and is simultaneously horrified. Despite the clear physical signs that he wants this, he is fairly sure he doesn’t.

And then it clicks. As his eyes wander listlessly, searching for a reprieve, they land on the very object he placed here for Sledge to find and it explains everything – the revelation allows him to sober up enough to press out a strangled: “It’s the – it’s the fucking drug. We must’ve – somehow -”

Wamai nods, dismissive, either too far gone himself or he had it worked out already, yet whichever option it is, he doesn’t seem inclined to pull himself together and resist this damned substance. Lion’s read the analysis and took every necessary measure to ensure none of them came into contact with it, so it’s unthinkable how they ended up like this.

Unless the terrorists didn’t produce it exclusively in liquid form. Only the two of them breathed in the powder from the dropped crate, not too long ago.

Desperate, he gathers what little sanity he has left, and lets go of the one tether he still has, releases Wamai and takes a step back, forcing his hand to drop away, severing all contact. Knowing what’s happening helps him suppress at least some of the interference; the voices yelling at him to throw himself at Wamai haven’t ceased, but at least they’re quieter. “We should separate”, he forces out with difficulty. “I’ll try to get help -”

“You’re so beautiful. Like a prince.” The intensity of his words hits Lion unexpectedly, the raw emotion behind them reigniting his own need. Nobody has ever looked at him like this before, never, not once, not with this … hunger. “I can’t stop looking at you.”

It’s the same for Lion, his gaze is glued to the Kenyan. Where he can normally appreciate good-looking people of his own sex, now he’s overwhelmed with how erotic every part of Wamai seems to him – the flawless body, tight muscles, sharp face, but also his lips, the bit of collarbone peeking out, his hands. He wants to see him whole. He wants to worship every inch of his body. He feels his resolve waning. “Don’t talk”, he pleads quietly. “You’re making this impossible.”

Wamai’s eyes burn. If he takes a single step, if he reaches out, it’s over. Lion isn’t able to struggle against this overpowering thirst much longer, even when he tells himself he’s not attracted to men, he never was, he certainly doesn’t want to sleep with one, and if he did, Wamai would be at the bottom of that list. He wonders what it’d be like to fuck him. He can’t breathe anymore.

“I want to put my mouth on you so bad.”

Then do it, Lion’s tongue is too heavy to enunciate. Do it. Please. He’s so hard it’s starting to hurt and Wamai’s gaze is boring into his soul. If only he could make him understand what a terrible idea this is they might get out of this dignity intact. “No”, he tries, voice breaking. Panic is settling in his guts, and this isn’t the kind of panic he anticipated, not at all, this is a fundamental, all-encompassing terror not in reaction to what’s about to happen. No, he’s fairly sure his entire world view won’t be shaken if he allows some drug to get the better of him. Instead, he’s screaming at himself: I’m not gay.

He is not gay.

Other people may be gay, he is not among them. Nor will he ever be. It’s just not who he is.

“Let me suck you.” Wamai is ravishing, like a soldier refusing to step down. Proud and principled.

It’s over.

Lion unclasps his belt, feels a shudder run down his back at the way Wamai unconsciously, unselfconsciously licks his lips once he understands. He curses himself for being weak, curses Wamai for being weaker – if the twat had had any kind of willpower or self-discipline, they might’ve gotten out of this unscathed, but as it stands, he’s about to get a blowjob by Nighthaven’s second-in-command and enjoy it. Nothing he can do now, not when Wamai sinks to his knees before him, large hands grabbing his thighs, really feeling his flesh before pulling his trousers all the way down. The brief massage already has Lion breathless, basking in the touch with a sense of finally. He’s thirsting for physical contact, the more the better, rests a hand on Wamai’s shoulder and pushes at it, impatient. Now that he’s accepted his fate, it’s deceptively easy to go along with what his body wants.

When Wamai leans forward to mouth at his still-clothed erection, his knees nearly give in: pleasure rushes through his system, clouding his mind even further and prompting him to free his cock, push his briefs down to join his trousers. The cooler air has no chance to hit his skin before Wamai has already wrapped his lips around the head, forcing a drawn-out moan out of Lion’s throat at the feeling. It’s exactly what he needs, it’s fucking heaven with how hot and wet Wamai’s mouth is, and the further his shaft slides into it, the better it feels. Sweet release appears on the horizon, the promise of a mercifully quick affair, and he decides to focus on the wonderful sensations instead of who’s doing what to him right now.

There’s no doubt in his mind that Wamai has done this before, he’s just too skilled at it, knows exactly where to put his tongue to cause jolts of utter ecstasy to race through Lion’s body. He works his cock deeper and deeper with an absolutely rapt expression Lion can’t look away from – and his hand dances over Wamai’s head, feels the way his jaw opens to take him in fully, his cheeks hollow whenever he drives Lion a tad more insane, the soft, short hair, his throat working to accommodate Lion entirely. Somehow, it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever witnessed, is left breathless by the intense gaze that colours his cheeks, by the utter devotion displayed, by the sight of his dick disappearing into Wamai’s mouth.

He’s going to come any second now and it’ll be the best orgasm of his life, he can already tell. The velvet cavity around his cock has no equal in his memories nor the performance itself, the regular, serious rhythm aimed to drag him closer and closer to the edge in tandem with hard sucks, a forthright tongue, a tight throat and good God, Wamai deepthroats him so effortlessly. Normally, keeping his hips still during blowjobs is nigh impossible but like this, there’s nothing more he requires, he’s already got it all, there can’t be any more stimulation.

Lion wishes he had more control over the loud, desperate noises streaming from his own mouth but knows it’s a futile struggle to try and suppress them. All of his remaining brain capacity is spent on staying upright and not losing his grip on reality, the rest is preoccupied with thoughts like this feels so fucking good. And when Wamai lets out a strangled moan himself, all is lost.

Because not only does it reverberate around Lion’s dick and cause the most delicious kind of tingling, no, it also leads to him glancing past the mesmerising face, further down to where he detects movement, where Wamai’s hand is – is stroking his own -

The realisation of what Wamai’s doing hits him like a truck (and it’s not that it’s so odd, not like Lion isn’t familiar with the concept, but the fact that Wamai’s doing it with a dick down his throat, and not only that: with Lion’s dick, that is too much, it’s the sudden revelation that men can be attracted to him, that men can enjoy sucking him off, that Wamai is actively doing so, it’s entirely too much). For a heartbeat, he flails, brain short-circuiting, and then he notices much too late how incredibly hot he finds this because by then he’s already halfway through his climax. It rages through him like a storm, intensity unparalleled, moaning helplessly as he’s wracked with tremors; his fingertips instinctively seek out Wamai’s throat to feel him swallow every last bit of Lion’s come, which in itself is magnificently sexy. The relief is everything he’d been hoping for and more, all-embracing and a full body sensation.

He’s left panting, swaying unsteadily in place as he stares into nothing, trying not to think too closely about what just happened, and winces in discomfort when Wamai pulls off his erection, lips glistening, eyes half-lidded. He looks like a siren, tempting yet insidious, like he’d capture Lion forever if he gave in now – he hasn’t come yet, his large cock just as stiff as Lion’s and the slow glide of his hand is hypnotising. As if he welcomed being watched, he leans back onto one arm, perched on his heels, never once taking his eyes off Lion while he continues his strokes.

It’s indecent. It’s obscene.

Lion can’t stop staring. His own erection remains, only briefly receded but is back at pre-orgasm levels, which is impossible, he just came, he shouldn’t be this turned on and especially not by the sight of none other than Wamai touching himself, and yet. He vaguely recalls Doc’s report about the effects of the drug, that it can last for up to an hour, possibly more. Dread befalls him yet again.

“Do you want to experience something that feels even better?”, Wamai asks him, no interruption in his slow, even strokes.

No, Lion thinks and doesn’t say. Can’t say. He flushes hot with shame, is flooded with guilt at the instant spike of arousal at the proposition. I’m not gay, he repeats to himself, and wonders whether he’ll allow curiosity as an excuse later. Or inaction – right now, he needs to do absolutely nothing and it’s going to happen regardless. Fighting the drug is an uphill struggle, if it’s even possible at all, so he might as well… might as well lay back? Let it all wash over him and dismiss it afterwards?

As he stands there, indecisive, Wamai gets up and tosses the clothes on his lower half aside, revealing seemingly endless toned legs and allowing Lion a good look at his crotch (and good heavens, his mouth goes dry at the sight, there’s no way, there is no way). Paralysed, he watches the other man grab a tall, slender glass bottle from a shelf and approach, their eyes locked until Wamai’s face slides out of his vision, their cheeks nearly touching now, chests a palm apart. Lion can feel his body heat. Their proximity causes his hair to stand on end, quickens his heartbeat, makes him all too aware of every part of his body.

He glances down. Their arousals are in the same state, proud and needy. His own twitches in reaction to the measured breath ghosting over his skin. Without conscious thought, he clenches his fists.

“You can say no.”

The whisper almost forces a disbelieving gasp out his throat, a helpless reaction to uncontrollable desire roaring in his skull – is declining even an option at this point? Would Wamai respect it if he did? Is a shake of the head enough? Perhaps Wamai will be content pleasuring himself, Lion mirroring him, and the two of them need never touch each other again.

Is that what you want?, he asks himself, ready to explode into outrage at the notion, but then wet lips touch the side of his neck and suddenly, there’s not enough air on this world to fill his lungs. White-hot pleasure shoots through him at the simple contact and only intensifies as Wamai’s mouth latches on to him for good, kissing down to his shoulder until his fingernails bite into his own palm, deliberately hurting. He sends a beseeching look upwards, as if He had any say in this matter, before tilting his head to allow for better access. The first moan escapes him when gentle teeth pull on his skin.

He’s so sensitive. His body is on fire, amplifying every sensation to an unbearable level where even a brief suck on that spot right below his ear feels like a little death. Don’t touch me, he repeats, the words ringing hollow even in his mind, don’t touch me, please. He’s rigid, refusing to cave, unrelenting, eyes closed, as Wamai licks over his Adam’s apple, traces his jaw with his tongue, and it’s amazing. Forget about the blowjob, this is the best thing Lion has ever felt, this distilled desire fighting his resolve which somehow makes it all the sweeter. There’s a forbidden element in this: he shouldn’t, but it feels too good. Like the one glass too many. A secret kiss. The smiley face someone offers him in the back of a club.

He shouldn’t. But he will.

“Fuck”, he breathes, a surrender, and Wamai’s lips curl against his neck, and the way he presses them to Lion’s pulse point is so goddamn sexy. This war was lost before it began. “Do it then.”

The other man closes the gap between them and nestles against him, forces direct contact where possible, one leg between Lion’s, their upper bodies pressing against each other, their erections trapped. The intimacy of it has him bristling. How dare he.

Slowly, Lion unclenches his hands, rubbing over the stinging crescents left behind, and allows himself to sink against the solid body. Wamai smells good, even if everything else about him is unfamiliar: the flat chest, the confident way in which he touches Lion and flaunts his sexual desire, the rod pressing against Lion’s belly, the muscles – everything about him is hard and angled and uncompromising. Even so, it’s just another body. A sightly one, too, visually appealing, commanded by a man who doesn’t seem intent on using it as a weapon during this encounter. He could weaponise it, overpower Lion, something along those lines, yet all he does is tease. Prompt. Invite.

And Lion accepts the temptation.

For a few moments, all he does is breathe in Wamai’s scent while resting his head on his shoulder, nose pressed into the soft fabric of his shirt and barely resisting the urge to hump the other man. Something about this heightens his senses and he blames the drug, not the circumstances, because he is not gay. He takes no pleasure in doing this with a man, he takes pleasure because the sensations are pleasurable.

Then gentle fingers take his hand and turn its palm up before a cool liquid is drizzled into it. “Touch me”, comes the whispered demand and, like an obedient dog, he follows it. Caught between their bodies, Wamai’s cock doesn’t appear so imposing, but when Lion moves back a little for better access and wraps his hand around the shaft, he realises how large it really is. The velvet skin feels much like his own though he’s never touched another man’s, the contact in itself exciting. Once he’s spread a thin layer of oil (at least he thinks it is, smells like olive oil if he had to guess), he cups his palm again, receives another splash from the bottle and grabs the hard flesh with more confidence this time. The quiet moan by his ear is electrifying.

While he experiments with angles and motions, Wamai reaches around him with both arms, cages him in, and gropes his backside in a sinister hint of what’s to come. When slick fingers slip between his cheeks for the first time, he’s had time to come to terms with what’s going to happen to him, so he merely continues the lazy strokes, the extra pressure around Wamai’s glans, the sceptical studying of how the organ reacts to which stimulus. Wamai has different sweet spots and Lion takes to exploiting them in the hopes of moving things along – the insistent tug has returned and urges him to satisfy himself however possible. A slick finger circles the rim of his hole. Teeth pull on his skin. He grips the hot shaft a little tighter.

To distract himself, he focuses on what his hand is doing: while resting his forehead on Wamai’s shoulder, grateful for the support, his eyes are glued to the sight of his hand stroking the darker organ, a surreal view but mesmerising nonetheless. The low mutters right into his ear ensure his breathing never normalises, and how could it when Wamai keeps telling him how good it feels, how well he’s doing, to keep it up, little comments of appreciation which send Lion spiralling down the path of wanting to do even better, of overachieving. He’s always been weak to praise, especially in the bedroom, and the moans he harvests by cradling Wamai’s balls with his unoccupied hand, by massaging them, are acceptable payment. There’s a finger inside him now, exploring his insides, and he tries his best to relax against it. It’s not uncomfortable.

This worries him.

Wamai’s scrotum is as slippery as his cock, indicating they’re getting the oil everywhere and making a proper mess, but Lion is certain there’s no alternative anyway. He’s found a rhythm that works for the both of them, letting his fist slide up and down to milk more compliments and involuntary noises out of the other man, voice getting shaky, while Lion adjusts to two fingers. He’s experimented before, of course he has, it’s something he’s convinced all men do, even if most men wouldn’t admit it. But when he tried it, it wasn’t this nice. It certainly didn’t give him ideas of wanting something bigger instead. He considers jerking himself off parallel to Wamai, or slotting their erections together and wank them both, yet something holds him back.

Maybe Wamai’s promise that this’ll be even better.

It’s then that he notices the Kenyan’s laboured breaths, his fingertips digging into his arse, the slightly hunched pose – Wamai is trying hard not to give in, it seems, which only serves to spur Lion on. He speeds up a little, follows the other man with his own body as he moves back, his grip relentless. He must be suffering, he hasn’t come yet and still his self-control is remarkable, the fingers pushed deep into Lion remain gentle and probing. Perhaps Lion was wrong about his self-discipline, whatever that means. Perhaps Wamai simply goes along with what he can’t change. Like his impending climax.

Lion watches, completely immersed, as Wamai comes, witnesses how thick ropes of sperm hit both their shirts, how the viscous liquid shoots out, and thinks not without pride: I did this. Wamai’s muscles tense and they hold on to each other as he gasps helplessly against Lion’s shoulder, twitching in time with Lion’s slow, thorough strokes to prolong his orgasm. He’s never done anything like this, there are so many firsts tonight that Lion forgoes keeping track, but he has to admit it’s a powerful feeling to reduce the otherwise so composed and calm man to this moaning mess. Even if it’s short-lived.

He holds the warm, wet flesh in his hand and briefly muses on how it’d feel in his mouth, what it’d taste like, whether he could force out even louder noises. He’s getting partial to this whole situation. A vague pulsing between his legs agrees with him.

However, when Wamai instructs him to turn around, the bad kind of anxiety rises once more, accompanied by all sorts of doubts and alarm bells: sure, he might’ve just whacked off another man while getting his arsehole fingered, but this may be going too far. This could be where he draws the line.

Then again, he really wants to know what the fuss is all about.

In bracing himself on the desk, he knocks a few things over and off entirely, notices the oily handprints he leaves without caring. I’m not gay, he repeats to himself yet is almost drowned out by a booming I bet this feels AMAZING. He grits his teeth as he sticks out his arse, struggling against the feeling of vulnerability and winning. It helps that they’ve been on missions together, however brief, because trusting his colleagues is in his bones and that same instinct takes over now: Wamai won’t let him come to any harm, he has his back. Only… in a different way.

A blunt object brushes against his ring of muscle and he can’t help the immediate thought of Jesus fucking Christ. He’ll have to ask for forgiveness later.

“It won’t fit”, he chokes out when the dick starts pushing gently, because there’s no way it will. Regardless, his own cock remains very much on board with the idea and so does the primal roar inside his skull. He wants this, he realises belatedly, he genuinely does, despite the reason not being entirely clear. Curiosity, possibly. It doesn’t matter.

Warm hands wander under his shirt, dig into sore knots in his back until he lets out a relieved groan, and come to rest on his hips. “Relax”, Wamai tells him. “I’ll let you do it. Go at your own pace.”

Alright, so he most likely underestimated the other man’s self-control, because Lion is just about ready to shove his erection down Wamai’s throat again and hold him there – the tantalising promise of what’s to come heightens his senses unpleasantly and he’s left with unbearable heat beneath his skin and a vague yet intense craving. Willing himself to loosen up, he closes his eyes and focuses only on the sensation between his legs, the warm place where they’re in contact. Moving back a little, he feels himself give way and fuck, it’s odd, it’s such an odd feeling. Never before has he deemed himself so vulnerable, as if his entire future was in someone else’s palm, and then the head slips in and Lion is this close to calling it quits. To just walk away.

It’s not that it’s painful or uncomfortable, it’s more about the fact that he’s got someone’s cock up his arse and he kinda wants to keep going. See whether he can make it. Whether he manages to take it in its entirety. Which is a thought he’s literally never entertained, he’s never gone I wonder if someone could push their dick in me to the hilt, and thinking it now is enough to involuntarily force him to clench around the thick shaft and wince as a result. Fuck. He won’t make it. He genuinely believes he won’t, as much as he might want to (and easy there, it’s the drug talking, nothing else).

“This is ridiculous”, he hisses from between clenched teeth, noticing then how his fingernails are leaving marks in the desk’s varnish. His hips move of their own accord, push back against Wamai only to withdraw again when it gets too weird. The Kenyan is still petting him with endless patience, hands soothe Lion with broad touches probably meant to distract and when Lion concentrates on their meandering path, it actually does get a little easier to bear. He tries again but makes no progress, pulls back once more until he feels the glans threatening to pop back out. How anyone would do this for fun while sober is beyond him.

Wamai helps to undress them both fully, their shirts landing somewhere in the room and the lack of sweaty fabric clinging to Lion’s skin helps him feel a tad saner. He ventures moving more fluidly, small, gentle motions spanning no more than a couple of centimetres if he had to guess, in the hopes he’ll adjust more quickly. For now, it’s like scratching an itch in a strange place, bordering on satisfying though the peculiarity of it dominates. “I told you it won’t fit”, Lion continues his angry tirade, scowling at the inanimate piece of wood providing all his support for the moment, “this will never work. How does anyone do this? And why?”

With every thrust, undefined disappointment melts into annoyance, at Wamai for proposing this stupid activity, at himself for playing along, at Sledge for cancelling on them, and he grinds his teeth and grimaces and moves back onto Wamai’s cock, and then, suddenly, his arse meets Wamai’s thighs and he -

He just stops.

Holy shit.

Yeah, he can feel it, how incredibly massive Wamai feels inside him, and when he lowers his head, spreads his legs a little more, glances down and between them, his eyes tell him the same thing as every other sense. He’s fully impaled. He can’t breathe. Somehow, it’s an achievement, pride wells up in his chest and then Wamai’s cock, fully sheathed, twitches deep inside of him and his knees turn to butter.

Oh.

Gingerly, he withdraws almost all the way before sliding back onto this hard piece of flesh, and yeah, alright. Not bad. He repeats the motion faster and can’t suppress the disbelieving gasp upon the sudden jolt of pleasure. Okay. He gets it. Wide-eyed, he stares down at the floor, unseeing, and pushes his hips against Wamai’s in one swift motion, knocking all the air out of his lungs in the process. Good lord. He couldn’t even put the feeling into words if he tried.

Before he can make use of his newfound knowledge, two warm hands take hold of his hips and keep him steady as Wamai takes over, his first thrust sparking a full-body sensation already that leaves Lion panting and doubting his own sanity. The next one rips a strangled moan from his throat, and the one after that just has him give up entirely. All he does is ensure he stays upright, propping himself up on the solid desk before him and keeping his legs straight, the rest of his reality is taking up by this wonderful, addicting delight.

It feels so good. His brain can’t comprehend just how good it feels, how freeing, and he finally understands why all the bottoms in the many, many videos he’s seen would volunteer for it or even enjoy themselves. Finally, he gets it. With every time Wamai’s cock buries itself deep inside him, he loses himself more, he can feel every centimetre slowly driving him insane and sure, this has to be the drug. Nothing real could ever be this satisfying.

And when Wamai continues to compliment him, he worries about coming right away. The low, masculine voice tingles in his ears, calls him beautiful and amazing and so, so tight, and if he keeps this up, Lion will melt and cease to be. He tries, he tries so desperately to control himself but the embarrassing noises won’t stop pouring out of him, every movement rocks his entire body and his world, he’s leaking so much precum onto the soiled floor and drooling along with it, unable to keep his mouth shut. Forget about everything else before, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, he worries about blacking out once he orgasms and no resistance stirs inside him at the thought.

Sex is meant to be about intimacy and sharing a special moment, about trust and attraction and deliberateness, he knows all that, but he doesn’t care. Right now, it’s about raw animalistic urges. And they tell him to get the most out of this in case he never experiences anything like it again.

Wamai calls him breathtaking, so Lion begins meeting his thrusts and the resulting shock of ecstasy nearly steals his vision. It travels all the way to the soles of his feet and he wants more, ever more, craving the monumental release waiting at the end of this journey. He barely knows what’s happening anymore, only knows he needs relief, and soon – but when he reaches between his legs to alleviate the impatient thrumming in his temples, his wrist is seized. “Not yet”, comes the foreboding warning Lion instantly ignores, opting to use his other hand to alleviate the building pressure. Again, he’s intercepted and the resulting position drives some colour into his cheeks: Wamai is grabbing both his wrists now, using the leverage to pull him onto his large cock, and Lion is left without support other than leaning into the strong grip, keeping his upper body parallel to the floor.

“Let me go”, he demands, struggles against the embarrassing hold which only tightens at his resistance. His thighs are beginning to tremble with the exertion coupled with the mind-numbing elation overpowering most of the discomfort but Wamai is relentless. Not once does his rhythm falter, he keeps up the long, thorough strokes reaching deep into Lion’s guts and is not deterred by the quiet pleading his movements inspire. “Please”, Lion mutters, and then louder, “please. I need to come. Let go.”

His whines fall on deaf ears. Instead, Wamai does something to the angle that causes the most delightful sensation to rush through his whole existence and emphasises the urgency burning underneath Lion’s fingernails. He wants a release, needs it, his fingers twitch powerlessly, reaching out for nothing but thin air, his balls draw up uncomfortably, anticipating something not yet to come, and his poor neglected erection is almost starting to hurt. Desperate, he arches his back, freeing himself of any kind of inhibitions he might’ve still had and allows himself to come apart at the seams, lets the onslaught of sensations take over and make up his entire presence on this earth. He’s never felt anything like this. He feels like he’s floating. He’s lost all sense of self.

And when he realises Wamai is about to climax, blind panic takes over. Guided by nothing but instinct, Lion yanks one of his hands free but instead of using it to toss himself over the edge, he grabs Wamai’s arse and drags him close just as the other man begins to withdraw – and Lion couldn’t even say how he knew Wamai was going to pull out, but it doesn’t matter because absolutely not. The thought alone of his fat cock painting Lion’s insides white is nearly enough to send him off and the disbelieving, helpless groan escaping Wamai’s throat as he understands what Lion is doing is the single hottest thing Lion has ever heard.

Wamai manages to slam even deeper with his last thrust, finally lets go of Lion’s wrists and wraps his arms around his torso instead, pulling him into an upright position so their bodies are pressed against each other from head to toe, and then the Kenyan comes with the sexiest growl ever to grace Lion’s ear directly. He stands there, trapped in Wamai’s tight embrace, feeling the shaft inside him pulse with every spurt, and realises he’s being pumped full of come by another man, and two hard strokes are enough to finally tip himself over.

His orgasm is earth-shattering. He trembles in Wamai’s arms, his muscles convulse rhythmically with every wave, every shock of arousal coursing through him prompting a throaty moan. His hole clenches hungrily around the invader, no doubt milking more and more out of Wamai and by proxy prolonging his own orgasm with it, both of them riding it out with small motions of their hips, moving against each other while chasing their high. Lion’s eyes unfocus, maybe he’s cross-eyed, who knows, all that matters is this glorious, phenomenal relief the likes of which he’s never experienced before, this intoxicating ecstasy he wants to last forever. In this blissed-out state he doesn’t care about anything other than the occasional twitch of the hard shaft inside him and the sharply satisfying strokes of his own fist – this must be what heaven is like. It has to be. There can’t be anything better.

Breathing hard, it’s difficult for him to come back down: his muscles jolt here and there, sending brief aftershocks of pleasure through his system, and the wandering hands massaging the insides of his thighs aren’t helping either. One pushes his own away to gently slide over his dick, causing a nice tingling without delving into overstimulation, and for a while they just stand there, Wamai’s cock buried balls deep, him lazily stroking Lion who’s busy trying to put his consciousness back together and grateful for the physical support, for the solid body at his back.

This really happened. They actually did this.

Despite the vague alarm somewhere at the back of his mind, he can’t bring himself to care too much. His excuse is faultless, Wamai is his only witness and he’s never struck him as the chatty type, so if he’s honest there’s barely any consequences to this. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

“I’m sorry”, Wamai mutters, causing a pleasant shiver. He really has a nice voice. “I didn’t want to come inside.”

Lion bites his lip lest he incriminate himself. A second later, he manages a neutral: “Whatever. I need to sit down.”

When Wamai pulls out, Lion grimaces at the sudden feeling of emptiness though it turns out walking is worse – his body doesn’t seem willing to cooperate so they awkwardly stumble towards the couch together onto which Lion sinks like a swooning heroine, grateful for the reprieve. It briefly crosses his mind that he’s filthy, feels dirty inside and out and possibly shouldn’t come into contact with fabric at all, but then he realises sitting down brings him right to eye level with Wamai’s beautiful cock. Perhaps now’s the right time to have a taste.

Excuse me, he asks himself, and the following revelation is timed perfectly with Wamai’s next question: “It’s not over yet, is it?”

No. It appears it is not.

Lion swallows down a thousand possible replies, ranging from incurably horny to snide, and instead focuses on not leaking Wamai’s seed all over Sledge’s sofa. His sense of time is skewed, he couldn’t say whether they’ve been at it for ten minutes or an hour, but the returning impatience, the underlying thrumming in his bones is proof enough that they’re still at that bloody drug’s mercy. Wordlessly, he slides further down and spreads his legs which is all the invitation Wamai needs.

The Kenyan kneels before him and, without asking for permission, pushes Lion’s thighs back, essentially folding him in half, and the only reason he doesn’t earn any protest is the fact that his still-erect shaft slides in to the hilt without any resistance. And it might be that Lion has properly adjusted to the feeling now, that this position simply does it for him, or maybe the damned drug intensifies when fed serotonin, but Lion very nearly creams himself both at the sensation of being plugged again and the anticipation of getting fucked another time. His eyelids flutter, his ring of muscle contracts around the thick arousal, and he involuntarily reaches out to place a palm on Wamai’s abs, just so he can feel them working with every movement.

It’s pretty. Wamai is pretty. And the soft smile with which he regards Lion as he starts thrusting into him without mercy is mesmerising.

I can never have normal sex again, Lion thinks unprompted, just before Wamai slams into his special spot and causes him to howl.

.

When the door to the office finally, finally opens, Lion is straddling Wamai, riding him gently as the other man guides his motions with his hands on Lion’s hips. They’re both sore, dehydrated, utterly spent in every way possible, and unable to stop, there’s bags under their eyes and marks covering their bodies ranging from bites to scratches to deep purple hickeys.

The office itself is even worse for wear, papers scattered about carelessly, oil stains almost absolutely everywhere (not the ceiling but that’s about it), a lamp’s been knocked over, somehow they managed to break a shelf, and all sorts of bodily fluids cover most surfaces (Lion can’t remember when but he’s pretty sure he cried at some point, probably from overstimulation).

Poor Sledge blinks at them, taking the two of them and his trashed office in with a few glances and looks like he’s about to go straight back home. Not like Lion could blame him.

And as Wamai lets out an almost pained moan at the most recent in a long line of dry orgasms, Lion fixes his superior with an imploring gaze and whispers hoarsely: “Please help.”

.

~*~

.

Slob, Lion sighs inwardly as he cleans up the last of Doc’s mess in the treatment room. If it was up to him, he wouldn’t share his working space with anyone – he’d be free to sort everything by a logical, intuitive system and never have to stick ugly labels onto cupboards or rifle through drawers hoping he picked the correct one. And he wouldn’t have to clean up after others as he’d make sure everything would remain pristine and spotless. Still, he was hired for his excellent work ethics and he intends to uphold it to the best of his ability, even under these circumstances.

Too late does he notice the figure in the doorway, jumps when his eyes stray to the dark silhouette and can’t help his heart beating in his throat. “Would you stop sneaking around”, he barks, irritation rising at the lack of remorse on the other man’s face. “I’m about to leave, so unless it’s urgent, it can wait for Monday.”

Wamai enters as if Lion’s dismissive attitude was a heartfelt welcome. He leans against one of the cabinets and opts for following Lion with his eyes as he flits about the room with bustling efficiency. “It’s not urgent”, he says after the period for a normal reply has long elapsed.

“Then why are you here”, Lion snaps back, more aggressive than planned. He can’t deny Wamai unnerves him, his presence prickles uncomfortably beneath his skin but where he successfully avoided interacting with the Kenyan for the past weeks, it seems he can’t run from him forever. A shame, really. If switching jobs had been an option, Lion would’ve earnestly considered it, just to spare himself the embarrassment. It’s the first time they’re alone since the incident and he suspects it’s by design. All the more reason to finish up quickly.

Silence stretches on for an eternity and Lion resents the other man for displaying no sign of discomfort whatsoever while he’s thinking himself into a rage. They have nothing to say to each other, no unresolved matters, no mutual interests or friends, no connection of any kind. There is no need for them to speak, no need to even be in the same room. And yet he knows better than to assume Wamai is here to taunt him. He slams doors and drawers shut louder than necessary, hoping Wamai gets the hint.

He’s a large presence yet somehow manages not to loom – none of his behaviour has been objectionable since, he kept his mouth shut, corroborated Lion’s version of the events to the people who needed to know, remained at a comfortable distance. No secret glances or gestures, no verbal hints, no unnecessary contact. It was as if nothing had happened, a stance Lion advocates himself. Ultimately, nothing happened. Life goes on. Over time, he might even forget about it, which will be a blessing: he doesn’t need these kinds of intrusive thoughts in his life, the what-ifs and how-abouts, useless pipe dreams fulfilling no purpose.

He is not gay. That much he knows and will always know. Even straight people have doubts sometimes, just like the most pious men question their faith without being any less of a believer. His conviction is unshaken and so he hasn’t even bothered discussing the topic with anyone.

Eventually, he has to access the cabinet Wamai is blocking, and, fearing the worst, he storms up to him and demands a simple: “Move.”

To Wamai’s credit, he steps out of the way without a fuss, still observing Lion as he angrily tidies. However, just as he’s about to step away, Wamai finally speaks up: “I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

Blatant excuse. Lion pauses regardless and turns to face him, probably standing much too close but if this is what it takes for them to never have to talk about this again, he’ll take it. “There’s no reason for me not to be”, he responds evenly.

Something in Wamai’s expression softens. He refuses to be antagonised, overlooks Lion’s barbs and disregards all the signals he sends about wanting to be alone – he’s bothersome, rude, unfazed, reaches out to put a hand on Lion’s hip and Lion does not move away. The touch is warm even through layers of fabric. Lion’s expression is unchanged, annoyed, and Wamai is not deterred by it.

He smells good. There’s an uncomfortable quality to their proximity, as if Wamai sees too much, perceives Lion too sharply. The air around them shifts.

They move at the same time, slow yet purposefully, and Lion’s eyes fall shut just as their lips meet in gentle contact. Arms wrap around him in a reassuring embrace, the physical contact soothing to his soul. Wamai kisses exactly like he expected him to, patient and deep and deliberate, taking his time to adapt to Lion’s cues, drawing him in. It’s lovely. Lion’s heart is trying to pound its way out of his chest.

He rests a hand on Wamai’s cheek, brushes through his cropped hair with the other and basks in the affectionate gesture of Wamai stroking his back. He can’t remember the last time he was kissed like this, unhurried and sweet. Even during brief breaks it’s not awkward, their eyes meeting as if it was natural, and what Lion appreciates most is the lack of triumph in Wamai’s demeanour. There’s no superiority, no I-told-you-so, no smirk, no knowing glance, nothing but appreciation. He’s not doing this to prove anything to anyone. He’s doing this because he wants to.

Eventually, Lion rests his forehead on Wamai’s shoulder, breathing in his personal smell, and nearly tears up when the other man tightens his embrace. Belatedly, he realises he gave a non-answer to Wamai’s question and wonders whether stacking lies on top of more lies will cause him to topple at some point. All he knows is that he’ll have to answer some of the uncomfortable questions he’s been posing to himself.

A nose brushes over the side of his neck. “Some of the others are going to the pub tonight”, Wamai mutters. “It’d be nice to see you there.”

Lion doesn’t reply. Instead, he squeezes the man in his arms one last time before they separate and finishes his routine, checks he’s not forgetting anything, locks a few cabinets, switches off the lights, locks the door behind him. Wamai silently follows along, walks with him down the corridor and Lion knows he’ll accompany him to his car, bid him goodnight and leave him alone if he prompts nothing else. The thought is comforting. Safe.

When they step outside, Lion turns to him and asks: “Which pub?”

[kiruuuuu]

omg Kiru I had a dream about your Recruits. Shay got into trouble and pissed off some Eldritch Horror Sasquatches somehow and the others were all trying to protect him from them. Ivan killed one I think. I don't remember anything else but I just thought you should know.

@noivoom, I am always loath to answer your asks because that means they won't remain in my inbox and bring me joy forever, but this is too good not to share 😂

This sounds very much on brand for all of them, I can only imagine them all being very respectful and hoping not to upset any Elder Gods when Shay comes along and asks one (1) insensitive question, making all hell break loose. He deserves and needs to be protected at all costs. If this were Halloween season, I'd be tempted to write a horror spinoff with the recruits being ill-equipped ghost hunters or the likes and not realising what they're messing with. Amazing.

[kiruuuuu]

I feel like I should inform you that I reread "Protection Mountain" at least one a month at this point. It's a real comfort story for me and I just felt I should thank you for writing it. Got me through some legit dark times in 2022, so thank you:

Thank you for writing a story about someone finding happiness, who sees himself undeserving and inheritently broken. And thank you for not making it a story about how finding the right guy fixes it all. For showing that getting better takes work, takes strength. Your story to me says very strongly: "There is light there, just at the horizon and if you find the strength to move towards it, no matter if it's steps or crawling, you will reach it. You are not a lost cause." So thank you for that.

Gosh this is such a lovely ask, thank you so so much for sharing this, anon 💕

I inevitably put a bit of myself in any character I write, and the whole Protection Mountain series has a lot of that in its story as well. Back when I wrote my first Siege fic, my first fic entirely in English, I was not in a good place - despite my patient, supportive, caring then-boyfriend, now-husband. Part of what helped me get back on my feet was my dog Alice, whose existence forced me to leave the house, and part of it was the outpour of love I experienced in the fandom, which made it easier to get out of bed, and part was my best friend who dragged me to the gym once a week. And a huge part, obviously, was my partner who encouraged me along the way, yet he alone couldn't "fix" me. I would've been lost without him, but I still had to decide I wanted to get better. (And please do not misunderstand, I don't mean to imply that anyone who's struggling isn't trying hard enough or any of the sort - what I want to convey is that it's impossible to help someone who won't accept it.)

And when I write about Bandit, I write a little bit about myself, and when I write about Montagne, I also write a little bit about myself, because I have tried to be that sort of presence in other people's lives who are close to me. I am wondrously lucky to have such a presence in my life myself. I wish everyone had a Montagne.

So hearing that my fics are helping others in any kind of way is more than I ever could've hoped for. Nothing makes me prouder. And believe me, anon, your takeaway is true: it does get better. It does. You are worth the world and I wish you nothing but the best.

[moondustk]

2022 Summary of Art — A Year Full of Aruni from Rainbow Six Siege!

I can’t believe I actually did this. To be honest, I doubted myself too many times along the way… but here we are! Thank you everyone who support me throughout the year :)

[kiruuuuu]

Siegemas 2022, Day 7🌟

and also: Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 25🎅

Hiya all, the last day of my advent calendar is also my contribution to @dualrainbow's annual Siegemas event - make sure you follow them so you don't miss anything!! Thank you so much to all the participants as well as the tireless mods 💖 My prompt was: 'Sitting by the fire ⎯ “This is nice, being here with you.”' and, as is tradition, features Bandit/Ace. This time, it's a meet-cute! (Rating M/E, all the best things: emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, kinda explicit, ~8.9k words)

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Ace is fired exactly two weeks before Christmas.

Not his own fault, nobody ever raised concerns about his work ethic, competence or interpersonal skills, but times are tough and the economy not what it once was… and he loses interest halfway through the buzzword-laden speech coming from a faceless man in a suit with whom he’s never interacted before while his boss avoids all eye contact and squirms in his seat when Ace takes to simply staring at him, impassive.

He knows why he’s being let go and his boss knows he knows. Politics, he’d probably call it, and Ace: nepotism. It was obvious his structured approach did not sit well with his supervisor, just as obvious as his favouritism towards one of Ace’s previous colleagues, the same person who’s going to be promoted into his job.

It’s odd, he’d have expected it to feel much worse, for his stomach to drop or his chest to constrict, yet instead he’s overcome with a relief that worries him in its intensity. He’s free, that’s what it feels like to him, finally free of this soul-sucking, spirit-crushing place. Before, he feared having to work through Christmas Eve, of not being able to allocate any time for his family or even just himself during the holidays.

Now? Now he’s got more than enough time for everything he never planned, for all the things he’s been wanting to do without allowing himself to think it. There’s no guilt over postponed projects anymore. He can just go and do them.

Once he’s back home, the reality of what happened sets in and effortlessly quashes all positivity and hope he developed as a defensive mechanism, for the alternative would’ve been crushing despair which isn’t particularly constructive. His dismissal did not come out of nowhere, he can’t claim it did, and yet nobody around him thought a step this drastic was even an option. What he’s left with is a tired numbness, as if he slept too long or spent too much time in the presence of someone he doesn’t like: he’s drained, empty, devoid of all motivation to concern himself with his own future. Sure, he got a severance package – they wouldn’t have dared otherwise – but he’s going to have to apply to other places now, new soul-sucking, spirit-crushing companies who play the same games with the same kind of people who favour questionably competent yes-men.

Ace stands in the middle of his small apartment, in the middle of the huge complex, in the middle of a large city, and wonders what it would’ve been like if he’d stayed home.

He knows the answer to that one. His parents are wonderful, he adores his family, but he would’ve suffocated in the little town with uncertain future.

Is this better? Being spread so thin he barely feels human anymore? He’s not sure. At least here, the restaurants have vegetarian options, he can watch plays if he wants to, he doesn’t need a car. All his younger siblings flew the coop, earlier than even he did, so either he set a precedent and they all curse him for promising something their new homes can’t deliver, or it’s simply not possible for ambitious, curious young people to sit still.

He misses travelling. He wonders whether he should book a last-minute flight sometime the next days.

They actually fired me, he types to Bastien. You got some time to talk?

A cry for help. It doesn’t feel particularly good to beg for attention, at least not this kind – in groups, Ace easily draws the focus, makes it seem natural, centres everyone on himself and makes them think it was their idea. Hardly anyone can resist him in person if he aims for it and yet, tragically, the one man who’s capable of escaping his charm is the very one for whom his heart yearns. It’s been so long the overwhelming pull has faded to a dull pulse, his thoughts freed of the endless spirals into which they were forced when the infatuation was freshest, and still he finds himself crawling by his feet, asking for bits of scrap, a kind word, a text back.

No response. Not yet, he’s probably at work himself, Ace might have to wait for the lunch break.

The whole affair this morning left an unpleasant taste in his mouth and sticks to him like grime, prompting him to toss his clothes aside in the bathroom for a shower but a glance into the mirror stops him. The person looking back at him is a ghost, empty eyes, face devoid of any expression. Right then, he can’t remember the last time he laughed.

Before he steps into the shower, he compulsively checks his phone but as expected, Bastien hasn’t messaged him back, hasn’t even opened the chat.

God, he’s desperate.

After he’s allowed the lukewarm water to drum on his scalp for a while without moving, he hears the doorbell go off. Frowning, he turns the water off and listens for a second or two, then hears it again, a muffled bzzt next door, not his own – the walls are thin enough that he’s watched several films along with his neighbours without wanting to, let alone witnessed all kinds of other activities. The water returns and he grabs the expensive shower gel, the one bit of luxury he allows himself, ignoring the evermore insistent buzzing from one flat over.

Except it doesn’t stop. And right as he starts rinsing himself off, the arrhythmic noise turns into one obnoxious, continuous buzz that is apparently going to go on forever. He’s already irritated and this takes the cake; infuriated, he snatches the nearest towel, doesn’t bother drying himself and instead wraps it around his hips as he stomps to the apartment door, yanks it open and steps out. “Mate”, he calls angrily, “she’s not fucking home!”

The curse slipped out before he’s processed the sight before him, and in retrospect, he feels a tad guilty. A massive, misshapen package blocks most of the narrow hallway but the source of the unending buzzing is a man, clad in the team colours of whichever delivery company he belongs to, leaning his forehead against the wall and pressing on the doorbell with his body. When he finally straightens up and interrupts the horrible soundscape, Ace notices the courier looks about as tired as he himself feels.

Wordlessly, the two of them stare at each other, him dripping all over his welcome mat, the bloke clearly trying to assess the situation and decide what to do.

“Can I -”, he starts, just as Ace says: “I should -”

They fall silent again, this time with an air of amusement that illustrates the ridiculousness of the scene. Instead of awkward, it’s funny somehow and so there’s a bit of cheek in the delivery man’s voice when he asks: “Could I leave this package with you, once you’ve put some clothes on?”

“Yeah”, Ace agrees and almost grins when he catches wandering eyes. You’re not subtle, my dude, he mentally admonishes the stranger, not suppressing the pang of pride he feels when his toned chest seems to draw this gaze like a magnet. “Both of that sounds like a good idea. I’ll be right back.”

He leaves the door open, which he normally wouldn’t, but the obvious interest he’s spotted makes him cocky. The bathroom door he shuts, just in case, and quickly towels himself dry before throwing on a t-shirt that might be a little too tight and his favourite sweatpants. Grey, of course; if there’s an opportunity to show off a little more, he’ll gladly take it.

When he re-emerges, the delivery guy (and Ace takes a moment to peer at his name tag: Dom, apparently, which somehow makes this even funnier) has pushed the bulky box in front of his apartment door and again checks him out. The attention leaves his skin prickling in a good kind, like a heartfelt compliment by a stranger. Which he supposes this is, essentially.

“We’ll have to tilt it”, Dom drags him back to the here and now, indicating the package taller than him. Taller than the door, in fact, its base wider than the top and if Ace didn’t know any better, he’d assume his neighbour ordered a two-and-a-half metre penis sculpture. It’s very big. Carefully, they slide it further into the corridor and lean it forwards, only to realise it won’t fit like this either.

“Sideways?”, Ace suggests and while they manage to get the top third into his flat this way, it catches an edge and refuses to move any further. “Whatever piece of furniture they ordered, it’s not gonna fit in their flat anyway. What is this, a bloody fence?”

Dom, originally treating the package entrusted to him with the utmost care, stops worrying about its integrity somewhere between the third and their eighth attempt of shoving it into Ace’s apartment, eventually kicking it to get it to the right position, and he might’ve given up earlier if Ace hadn’t found it so goddamn funny.

“Maybe we need some lube, ease the slide”, he wheezes and gets a rare grin in return. He had the choice of letting frustration take over, of allowing all the negativity stored up erupt and pour out, engulfing this package representing consumer culture in its purest form and possibly also washing up against poor Dom who deserves none of it, or deciding the whole scene is hilarious enough to run out of air laughing. He went with the latter option and is loving every second.

“Last attempt”, Dom announces, visibly done with this stupid misshapen box, and suddenly, after they’ve tipped it over completely and laid it on its side, they manage to push it all the way in. Probably not a good sign.

Ace looks at the large bottom of the package now blocking most of his apartment door and frowns in disapproval. “Let me just check something.” And just for the hell of it, he climbs over after it turns out that shimmying alongside is not an option, and finds his suspicion verified once he’s inside. “I mean… I’ve always wanted another wall that blocks entry to all the other rooms.”

Dom snorts and crosses his arms on top of the box, rests his chin on them and takes a moment to just breathe. “Man, it’s all the way in there, isn’t it.”

“Yeah. I could cuddle with it at night if I wanted to.” Ace indicates the open door to his bedroom which has also been invaded by cardboard. Both of them silently drink in the comically large object taking up most of the space in the flat, savouring the ridiculousness of it all. “As much as I’m in favour of avant-garde decorations, I don’t think this is it.”

The other man nods solemnly. “Yep. And you know what just occurred to me? If it’s this difficult to get this monster anywhere, there’s no way anyone would steal it. We’ll just put it back and your neighbour can deal with it when they come home.”

Ace huffs in amusement. “Can you just do that?”

“Oh absolutely not, I’d get fired if they found out. But I’m already like thirteen deliveries behind and stopped giving a shit. You ready to play Tetris again?”

His disregard for rules hits Ace straight in his suddenly rebellious mood and so he agrees eagerly. Together, they turn the blasted thing on its side about five times before they accept they’ll just have to go ahead and pray, and it’s an added bonus that he can watch the muscles in Dom’s tattooed arms stand out as he does most of the heavy lifting. He’s easy on the eyes overall, a rugged charm to which Ace is weak, allowing him to forget this morning’s events completely.

It takes them a laughable amount of time to get the package back to where it was before and only a small part is owed to Ace actively sabotaging the manoeuvring because it’s both amusing and also so he can spend some more time in Dom’s presence. They end up panting, exhausted, and smiling at each other.

“Thanks for the help.” Dom himself must realise he sounds like he’s about to shake Ace’s hand in a totally straight way, so he adds a cheeky: “Never enjoyed getting my package stuck more than today.”

Ace can’t help it, he bursts out into laughter at the corny remark and decides then and there that they’re not done with each other just yet. He motions towards his own door. “Want a coffee? That’s all I can offer you though.”

The understanding nod makes it obvious Dom gets the implication. “Sure. I’m already late, might as well take a break after that ordeal.”

.

A little while later, they’re seated in Ace’s tiny kitchen, warming their hands on nondescript mugs as they speculate about the contents of the mystery box. Dom is surprisingly good company, easygoing and witty, just the right kind of flirty without being overbearing. Ace has no lack of suitors yet he rarely entertains them: his heart is somewhere else and therefore his mind, and purely physical pleasure doesn’t manage to scratch the itch. Plus it usually leaves him emptier than before, dissatisfied with himself, wondering whether it really was worth it.

But Dom? He just seems fun to be around. And oddly enough, he doesn’t look out of place in Ace’s flat.

“Aren’t you worried about your job?”, Ace eventually asks, sipping on his cappuccino.

“I would, if it was decent.” Dom’s shrug is heartening, like an affirmation: it’s fine to switch off emotionally if your work treats you badly. He might have exactly the things to say Ace needs to hear right now. “Only been doing this for a few months and if I’m honest, I’m close to quitting anyway. For a while, it was fun, most customers are nice and it’s interesting to get a glimpse into how different kinds of people live, but the conditions are pretty bad. And now, with Christmas coming up, everyone just seems stressed.”

Yeah, Ace can attest to that. Whenever he goes shopping, he’s surrounded by a sea of harried faces, crying children, overwhelmed parents. It’s almost a relief he won’t have to buy any presents last-minute, if only it didn’t mean he won’t get to see his family for the third Christmas in a row.

“What do you do?”

He pulls a face. “Nothing. I was let go today.”

“Oh shit. How’s that for a Christmas present. You got something else lined up?”

There’s something reassuring about Dom’s response, with how much he takes it for granted that people lose their jobs and find something else, switch careers. It’s not the end of the world, it’s no sign of personal failure, it doesn’t devalue him to be fired. He just has to dust himself off and keep going. “Not yet. But I’ve got some money saved up, so there’s no rush.”

“Nice. Take your time then and choose carefully, or you’ll end up like me.” A good-natured grin. “Hopping from shitshow to shitshow.”

“That bad?”

“You know, it’s fine. Not the jobs, they’re all garbage fires, but it’s never boring. I just need something to pay the bills and I’m good.”

Ace tilts his head and scrutinises the man before him, the soft-edged motifs on his arms indicating they’re at least a decade old, the multitude of piercings in his ear, the well-built physique. He must work out to look like that, and the quiet determination in his eyes speaks of discipline. “You sure there’s nothing you really want to do?”

The hesitation betrays him. He looks down at his black coffee, swirls it around and takes a sip before he shrugs again. “I guess. I’ve been good with electronics, I like tinkering. Would be nice to do it for a living.”

“Have you tried?”

More silence. Ace appreciates he’s not fed any platitudes, empty phrases to distract from the topic, instead Dom seems to mull over his words in earnest. “I probably should”, he admits after more seconds have passed. “How about you? Any dreams left unfulfilled?”

Oh. Maybe he shouldn’t have prodded, not when he himself is guilty of the same sin. “Always wanted to be an EMT. Never had the balls to go for it.”

“No time like the present.” Dom grins at him, a magnetic, bewitching kinda thing. “How about we make a promise? We both vow to send out some applications this year, just to see whether it’d go anywhere. No harm in applying, right?”

Ace considers the proposal. He could lie and agree in the hopes of improving a stranger’s life while continuing down the coward’s path and keep working in the same field just because it’s safe and he knows what to expect. He could also just flat out refuse. But somehow, in that moment, he finds it easier to make an agreement with this random delivery man than talk about his dreams with his family and friends. They’ve been supportive, never pushy, and yet he found it impossible to disclose his deepest desires to them, nigh impossible to admit he’s been going down the wrong path for most of his life now. Dom simply cannot judge him, knows nothing of his story, merely tickled his actual dream job out of him and now offers the vaguest support. And it’s enough. Somehow, it ends up being enough.

“Yeah. Alright.” He nods more emphatically the more he thinks about it, already formulating paragraphs in his head, working out a timeline of when to apply and where. “Yeah. Let’s promise. No harm in applying.”

And Dom beams. “It’s a deal then.”

It is.

.

They drag it out, neither of them ready to admit that Dom should’ve left half an hour ago, but it’s obvious they’re enjoying each other’s company. Ace provides him with some toast and another coffee, discussing their living situations, their love life (and Dom really toes the line between socially acceptable and too forward here), anything and everything. It turns out he’s been single and not looking for a while now, deeming relationships too much of a hassle (though there’s some bitterness there with which Ace very much sympathises), Ace in turn mentions the woes of falling for the straight best friend to which Dom grimaces a little too sincerely (they’ve all been there, every single one of them), and the longer Ace interacts him with, the more he considers just dragging him to bed. He looks like he could hold him down with no trouble, jokes around like someone who’s an expert at endless teasing, and Ace wouldn’t mind wrapping himself around that strong body.

Still. The aftermath is unlikely to be pleasant.

Eventually, Dom reacts to the time displayed on his phone with badly-concealed panic, so Ace decides to throw him out for his own good. He bats Dom’s hands away as he moves to tidy up after himself (so unexpectedly polite it’s adorable), and then they’re suddenly back by Ace’s apartment door, hovering uncertainly.

“Thanks”, he says and tries not to let emotion colour his voice too much, “I needed this.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Neither of them moves to open the door, they just face each other.

“Good luck with the rest of your deliveries.”

“I doubt any of them are gonna be as nice as this one.”

They smile and Ace’s heart is beating in his throat. He has to do something, at least just a little, or he’ll kick himself for sure. It’s been so long since he experienced this kind of chemistry within the first few minutes. “If you want -”, he starts and Dom talks at exactly the same time: “I don’t mean to -”

It’s dumb. They both know it’s the uncomplicated thing to just say goodbye, and yet Ace hears himself say: “Just kiss me.”

And Dom does so, without missing a beat, just leans forward and captures Ace’s lips with his own, and it feels like a fucking electric shock with how instantly he’s hit with deafening arousal. His arms wrap around Dom’s torso and pull him close while his tongue coaxes out its counterpart, both of them moaning desperately into this kiss, and Ace thinks this is bad this is really bad why did I think this was a good idea because it isn’t, and at the same time the rest of his body assures him it’s the best idea he’s had in a long time.

Dom crowds him against the nearest wall, making space for himself between Ace’s legs that are by now threatening to give in, and as Ace’s hands land on a beautifully-shaped arse they can’t help but squeeze, Ace gasps out, slightly frantic: “Just a kiss. Just a kiss.”

He could slap himself because Dom immediately stops sucking on his lower lip to bury his head in the nape of his neck, breathing him in and visibly holding himself back. “You’re so fucking hot”, he whispers and Ace’s toes curl at the way the words brush over his skin. He smells amazing, feels even better in his arms.

It’s so, so difficult not to act on it, not to go wild and suck him off right then and there – he’s hard, Ace feels it against his own erection. But he can’t. He doesn’t want to, knows what the end result will be. So he looks to the ceiling, composes himself, and eventually responds: “You too, and I wish you weren’t, because I’ll have to let you go and I’ll hate myself for it.”

A quiet chuckle lets him know that the moment is passing, that they’re getting over it. Their blood reduces from a boil to a simmer, their hearts quiet down. Once they’re breathing normally again, Dom presses their lips together once more and they exchange a few lazy kisses that lack the desperate urgency from a minute ago yet are full of warmth and appreciation. His embrace is tight and reassuring, his kisses sweet, the way he looks at Ace intoxicating. Good thing he was just about to leave.

And if the mood hadn’t died fully as of yet, Dom’s next sheepish question does the trick: “What’s your name, by the way?”

Ace just laughs before separating from him.

.

Once Dom really is gone, Ace is left buzzing, a latent energy humming underneath his skin. He’s overtaken by an addicting motivation, an unusual optimism, a grim determination. He will uphold his promise and somehow the fact that neither of them asked for each other’s number, that they didn’t agree to meet up again, that it’s possible they will never see each other again strengthens his resolve. Oddly, he feels as if Dom’s continued interest in him would’ve devalued their agreement – it might have to do with the fact that he’s witnessed people doing all kinds of things just to impress him or get into his pants, to which Dom would not have said no either, and yet his support felt sincere.

He decides he’ll do some research first, update his CV, lay the foundation for a successful application process, and then edge himself into oblivion while thinking of Dom. Make use of the adrenaline high while it’s still ongoing.

Almost as an afterthought, he checks his phone and indeed finds a reply from Bastien: prob not right now but later, anything serious?

Ace realises his encounter with Dom has done more for his mental health than hours of spending time with his best friend, decides not to analyse this fact too closely, and writes back: actually it’s fine, don’t worry. We still on for Christmas?

Yeah man, won’t let the gf interfere with that.

Good. He nods to himself, puts the phone away and opens up his laptop while trying to ignore the insistent pulsing in his crotch.

.

~*~

.

Ace has gone all out.

Not having to slog through each day knowing his efforts will go unappreciated has done wonders for his psyche, surprisingly – he expected to feel worthless, useless, lost without his daily routine but it turns out he can simply develop new structures that works for him. He makes sure he dresses each day regardless of whether he’s going out or not, he tries to cook instead of getting takeaway, he revived regular contact with his family and was touched over the supportive and encouraging messages he received after he had the courage to share his future career with them.

Maintaining himself is more effort than he thought and so he doesn’t get around to cleaning his flat properly or revisiting old projects and hobbies, but he’s sure it’ll come to him soon. Filling all the hours in a day is a struggle as well and more often than not he ends up in bed, watching some series or films instead of being productive, and it takes him a week to accept that this is fine, he doesn’t need to beat himself up over it. He manages. Whenever doubt creeps in, he reminds himself of the future ahead of him, of the prospect of fulfilling his dream. Finally. He knows he’ll succeed, he always does, and imagining himself in a healthier, happier place does wonders to motivate him.

And now, for Christmas, he made use of all his spare time and prepared a feast worthy for the gods. Preparing all his ingredients started yesterday, with him roasting and caramelising nuts, mixing his chocolate mousse so it has time to set, thawing the duck breast. He spent all morning in the kitchen, delighted at how easy it was to get out of bed because of it, and poured all his love into each dish. There’s still that small voice in the back of his mind, the one who simply refuses to die, who whispers to him: if you give him your all, he’ll realise your worth. No way any of Bastien’s many girlfriends has ever provided him with such an exquisite meal and since Ace’s friendship alone doesn’t seem to be enough, maybe it helps to view him as housewife material on top.

Their ‘tradition’ started two years ago, after Ace mentioned his family was scattered all around the globe and unable to meet up for Christmas meaning he’d have to spend it alone, and recently-dumped Bastien suggested they meet up, get drunk and watch terrible films together. Ace took it as a throwaway comment but his friend was serious, resulting in them doing exactly what Bastien said and having a whale of a time. The following year, they reprised their meet-up much to Bastien’s current girlfriend’s displeasure (though she didn’t last long anyway), and this year, Ace is going for something else entirely.

Before, they’d eat something cheap bought at a questionable food stall, the only one still open for miles, drink cheap booze and pass out once they’ve had enough. Today, Ace will surprise him with a fancy four-course feast he half prepared because it involves a few dishes he’s always wanted to make but never got around to and half to show how much Bastien means to him.

There’s also a red envelope sitting under the small plastic tree he put up in the corner of the living room, and its contents are as terrifying as they are exciting. Ace really did go all out, they don’t tend to gift each other presents. Especially not ones of this magnitude.

He’s just waiting for Bastien to turn up, most of the food is prepared to a point where it can be finished within a few minutes or simply needs to go in the oven or be heated on the stove – he’s mixed the dressing but not assembled the salad, cut the potatoes but hasn’t turned on the hob. The productivity did wonders for his mood, he’s turned up his music and danced along to it, sang where applicable, otherwise just imitated the melody. His phone buzzes, probably his sister elaborating on her convoluted Christmas plans, and then he reads a few scattered words and his world falls apart.

Ace sits down, puts the playlist on pause, phone in hand, and takes a deep breath. The salad dressing has a beautiful colour, the raspberry vinegar awarding it a deep red. He likely prepared too much food for two, let alone for one.

He promises himself he won’t cry over this.

Sorry man, the gf threw a tantrum when I told her I’d stay at yours and she’s been a bitch all day so I said I’d visit her family just so she calms down. I’d rather not spend the day with harpies but looks like I got no choice. Next year we’re definitely back on!

Another deep breath. The wooden surface of the table is cool against his forehead. He has no idea how long Bastien’s already been with his current significant other, wonders whether he’s even met her family yet though it sounds like he has, and he also notes how there’s no alternative date mentioned. Bastien could’ve suggested tomorrow as a sign of goodwill. Bastien could’ve cancelled earlier to ensure Ace doesn’t prepare anything in advance.

The arsehole could’ve shown a little empathy.

He’s fine. It’s fine.

It doesn’t matter.

Now he has a killer dinner all to himself and can voice chat with his parents later and the mulled wine actually doesn’t smell so bad. Tastes even better. He made it himself, warmed up some expensive red wine and added a variety of spices tickling his tongue – it goes really well with every course he selected. Planned out, shopped for, prepared, put so much thought into.

Fuck.

Fucking bastard.

He paces through the flat, throws another glance at the envelope and has to take a big gulp when he realises all the ramifications, when he realises how utterly stupid that bloody voice of his is, the one whispering all sorts of delusional crap like of course he’s going to say yes, he has absolutely no societal obligations, sure he’ll agree. No he won’t. He’ll look at Ace, bewildered, weirded out, and decline politely. And then he’ll text back even less than before. Tell a few friends about it, how odd it is, and they’ll put two and two together for him when they ask ‘wait the gay one?’ and he’ll understand and be awkward around Ace for the rest of his life.

His doorbell goes off and nearly has him drop his wine. Bastien, his heart suddenly knows, he just sent the text as a prank only to turn up a few minutes later with a thoughtful gift and his adorable lopsided smirk. Ace hurries to the door, yanks it open and is confronted with none other than Santa Claus.

“Ho ho ho”, says Santa, deep voice exaggerated, “you’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you?”

Ace blinks at him, too aghast to reply. He’s about to tell Santa to shove it, he’s lost all Christmas spirit, when he faintly recognises the voice, the demeanour, the physique. “Are you -”

It’s him. Not Bastien, but possibly the second best person. Santa sets down his bag of presents and pulls the white bushy beard down to reveal a shorter, dirty blonde one, offering a hopeful grin. “Hi. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

I wish you were. Wordlessly, Ace downs the rest of the spiced liquor and tries not to think about why he’s so overwhelmingly relieved to have Dom turn up on his doorstep unannounced. His aura has changed, the air surrounding him charged with meaning as well as uncertainty – he’s expecting something, that much is obvious, but he’s also ready to be turned away. Ace doesn’t doubt for a second Dom would accept it if he refused. He’s more handsome than he remembered (as far as he can tell with the Santa costume), softer too. More inviting. He looks warm. “The hell are you doing?”, Ace wants to know, indicating his entirety and implying this is about the clothes and not… why he’s here.

Dom’s grin widens. “Got fired from the delivery job. Now I’m working as Santa. Not sure what’s unclear about that.”

This explains nothing. Ace examines him, knowing full well he’s got to fell a decision while in an emotionally vulnerable state – not that it’s Dom’s fault for turning up right now, he couldn’t know and still doesn’t. If it was anyone else, Ace would send them away to grieve in peace and wallow in self-pity.

Still, he kinda wants to brag about scoring a few interviews. And yeah, he could leave it at that, exchange some news, converse civilly, and then send him back home. But there’s the fact that a pretty large part of him wants something to happen. Even now, with the silly costume, he feels invariably drawn to this man.

“If this is an awkward time, I can come back later or not at all, that’s -” Dom snaps his mouth shut the second Ace steps aside to let him in, and though he probably didn’t mean to, his excitement briefly flashes on his face. It’s cute how thrilled he is, even cuter when Ace imagines him working up the courage to come here and open himself up to a pretty hurtful rejection, imagines him jogging up the stairs while thinking about what to say, imagines him fixing his costume before ringing the doorbell.

He closes the door and suddenly there’s this stranger in his home whom Ace wants to kiss until they can’t breathe anymore.

“Been a while since I last sat on Santa’s lap.” He can’t help himself, he has to reference the costume.

Another blinding smile. The clothes are too big and hiding his muscles as well as the tattoos, which is a shame, but he doesn’t look half bad. “Good thing I brought a sack full of gifts.”

“Terrible.” Ace shakes his head. “Why did I even let you in?”

“Because Santa comes but once a year?”

He rolls his eyes, amused despite the horrendous puns. As he enters the kitchen to put his glass away, he hears heavy footsteps following him and so he asks without turning: “Want some mulled wine?”

“I don’t need any alcohol, I’m drunk on you already.”

And good fucking god, that one gets him. Stabs him right in the heart, makes his knees goes weak despite how cheesy it is, because it’s been a hot decade since anyone said anything comparable to him. Unlike the ones before, this one is delivered with a quieter, more sincere tone of voice, and when he turns, Dom is standing really quite close. “Even worse”, he whispers and barely finishes the last syllable before Dom’s tongue is in his mouth. His hips snap forward and a hand lands on his backside as he groans into the kiss; instinctively, he slings his arms around the other man, wraps his legs around him as well and allows him to carry him to the bedroom as if he weighed nothing.

They land on the large bed, rolling back and forth as they fight for dominance, though when Ace has finally managed to undo the top of the Santa costume, he requests a brief timeout. As he thought, Dom’s chest is a sight to behold, ink adorning smooth skin, a trail of hairs leading down from his navel, and his eyes widen as he notices the dark metal peeking out from red cloth. His nipples are pierced. This really is a joyous day.

“Please tell me you got one down here as well”, he mutters after playing with one of the black rings, his fingers moving to cover the prominent bulge between Dom’s legs.

Dom’s smirk is encouraging. “I guess it’s Merry Christmas to you then.” He laughs at Ace’s wondrous expression, laughs even more when he immediately scrambles to undo the ridiculously large belt, and then he’s not laughing anymore.

The whole affair is over so fast Ace barely gets to enjoy it: he can’t remember the last time he was this turned on, cock twitching and wet by the time Dom gets to suck on it, and he’s loose and open and ready in a fraction of the time he usually requires. There’s just something about Dom that wakes a feral need inside him, reduces him to grunts and moans and teeth and nails, causes him to experience everything in troubling intensity. Every touch feels like fire on his skin, every thrust making him lose his grip on reality even more, and every noise from Dom’s throat pushes him a little more towards insanity.

He needs this man and once Dom is inside him, Ace is drowning in pleasure, not caring about volume or restraint at all, biting into his pillow and unconcerned about ripping it while he’s pounded into the mattress. It’s the purest form of ecstasy he’s ever felt, bliss coursing through his blood as he gives himself up entirely. And Dom is a force of nature, taking what’s his and then some, worshipping his body and letting out all that pent-up tension Ace releases as well, the two of them moving in unison towards a common goal, towards their climax.

Ace comes first, burying his face in the duvet and trembling his way through an absolutely mind-blowing orgasm, his dick jumping in his grip as it releases thick spurts of come, and Dom joins him soon after, growling in pleasure and gripping his hips so tight he’s probably bruising them. They ride it out and Ace relishes the aftershocks, the brief tugs on his muscles as he comes down from his high, as his breathing evens out, as his heartbeat slows.

And though Dom stays by his side for a minute or two to cuddle and stroke over his body, he eventually gets up to throw the condom away, wash his face, stretch his limbs a little. It’s the time Ace always uses to feel cold and lonely as well as wonder when the guilty conscience will set in – not if, but when. He knows how it goes, knows himself too well to persuade himself it won’t happen this time, that Dom is nicer than the others, that they’ll stay in touch. He knows how it goes.

“Mind if I smoke?”, his visitor asks, sitting on the bed by his feet and raking his gaze up and down Ace’s body.

His response comes out sharper than intended: “Don’t care if you burn.”

Dom reacts with a smile, unexpectedly, and takes the hint, misses out on his cigarette in favour of a compliment. “That felt really good.”

It did. It felt amazing. Ace doesn’t know whether he should show him the door now or make some small talk first. He’s uncomfortable, wants to dress without having to move around naked in front of Dom – it feels like he overshared, somehow. Showed too much.

“Want to open some presents?”

His brows draw together. “What?”

“Oh, this one needs a little bit of backstory. Alright.” Dom moves up on the bed, sits cross-legged next to him and settles in with an expression indicative of a good yarn, entirely unselfconscious as if he wasn’t even aware of his nakedness. “I wanted to get some extra cash over the holidays and figured I could play Santa for some families who need one – you know, there are those posh ones who want to make sure their little brats have a really special Christmas so they can go to school and brag about how they met Santa and all. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

Ace nods, propping his head up on his arm. This sounds like it’s going to be good.

“So I go all out, even call the parents yesterday to ask them a little about their kid, whether they’re doing well in school and behaving and all that, you know, gathering ammunition. If the kid’s a dick, I get to talk some sense into them, so I wanted to make sure they were fine. I had the dad on the phone, but his wife was prattling on in the background, making all kinds of plans it sounds like, involving him and constantly interrupting with questions. Sure thing, they’re probably busy over the holidays. He’s always like ‘Cynthia, give me a minute’ and ‘Cynthia, not now’, and ‘Cynthia, let’s talk about this later’. Fair enough.”

Ace raises a brow.

“Struck me as pretty entitled, kind of a bellend, you know the type, but not enough I’d cancel the gig. So I turn up today, turns out they’re having a dinner party with their childless friends and decided to subject them to a visit by Father Christmas just so their little princess is entertained. Huge mansion, expensive car, everyone sipping champagne – I’m amazed I was let in through the front door and not the servant’s entrance. They take me aside and give me all the stuff they’d gotten for their daughter so I can shower her in presents. The wife’s off again to entertain their guests and the dad condescends to talk to me a little. I mention my fee in passing and could instantly tell we were gonna have a problem.”

This part sounds familiar. Ace nods encouragingly, wholly invested in the story by now.

“He says he owes me nothing. He got the presents after all, if I needed a little bit of money for the clothes I’d get a tip but it apparently looked like a bathrobe to him so worth next to nothing, and I was already there, so I might as well get on with it. Charming, right? He’d decided on his own that I wasn’t worth a penny, don’t need to tell you how he talked to me, you can imagine.”

He can, yes.

“So I agree. Smile and tell him sure. Sure, I’ll do it for free. I love taking time on the holidays to play Santa for a spoiled little hellspawn – not in those words, of course – and then I go in and surprise the kid with the whole shebang. She’s amazed, fawning over Santa, telling her mum to come look, with one of the guests going ‘oh Ruth, every year you outdo yourself’ or something like that.”

Ace’s eyes widen, just like Dom’s grin.

“And yeah. I turn to the dad and, in my most innocent voice, I ask: isn’t your wife called Cynthia? Or did I mishear on the phone yesterday?”

“Oh shit.”

“I’m telling you, his expression was worth the wasted time and effort.”

“Did they…”

“Apparently, Cynthia is the babysitter and a distant relative of the wife’s, or at least that’s what it sounded like during the following argument. They remembered me at some point and threw me out, but let me tell you, those dinner guests will have to choose a side in the future.” Dom shrugs. “So yeah – I got to keep the presents, they didn’t demand them back. Wanna go through them?”

Ace blinks at the suggestion, trying to gauge whether he should feel gleeful or horrified at Dom’s dismissive attitude. They aren’t rightfully his, not really, but on the other hand… who even cares? Curiosity gets the better of him, and so he eventually nods. “Yeah. Alright.”

“Can I borrow some pants first? I’m afraid the only clothes I have are Santa’s, and while I appreciate the irony…”

They get up and dress together, Ace purposefully providing a sleeveless shirt for Dom and lying through his teeth about having run out of t-shirts (and the sceptical, knowing look he receives likely is the retribution for his own when he opened the door half-naked and Dom ogled him, it basically screams you are not subtle). While Dom helps himself to some wine, he puts on the fireplace DVD someone bought him as a joke, mentally laughing at them because it’s finally getting some use, and then they settle on the bed again to open their presents.

Well. To open some presents.

The first is wrapped in bright pink paper and immediately has Dom excited about its contents once he realises what it is. “This is expensive make-up”, he says, pouring its contents out on the bed.

“How old was the girl again?”

“Man, who cares about harmful gender stereotyping, you need to see how awesome I look with eyeliner.”

Ace bursts out laughing, merely fuelling Dom’s resolve. “Show me, then. I’ll open the next one.” He’s revealed three worryingly realistic plastic babies (he can’t remember them doing things like vomiting or sweating when he was younger) by the time Dom returns from the bathroom, the corners of his eyes darker and sharpened without looking overdone, and Ace nods in approval. “Not bad.”

“Now imagine me like this in all leather and on a bike.”

“Dude, I already slept with you, there’s no need to convince me any further.”

Dom snorts, accepting his reply as valid, and the two of them go back to judging gifts. There’s a junior edition of Trivial Pursuit in there, to their awe and horror, and they quickly start asking each other questions in between unwrapping increasingly girly presents.

“Which member of One Direction left the band in 2015?”, Ace reads while trying to hold still so Dom can properly line up the temporary unicorn tattoo on his belly.

No hesitation in Dom’s answer: “Ozzy Osbourne. Hey, stop laughing or it’ll come out crooked!” He tries to pin Ace down, the touches ticklish and making him giggle even more, and when he accidentally knees Dom in the ribs, his overdramatic wheezing has them both laughing.

“Oh!” Ace sits up suddenly. “I made food. Lots of it. Want to stay for dinner?”

Dom would very much like to stay for dinner. He even helps with the preparations, lets Ace rant at length about how well each course complements the others, compliments the wine together with each dish and is overall the perfect dinner guest. All while wearing that damn eyeliner. They eat their desserts on the bed again, surrounded by glitter and purple plastic, taking their time with the rich chocolate mousse while Dom recounts a story from one of his many previous jobs involving a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Will Smith and way too much Vaseline.

.

“Did you actually look for something electronics-related?”, Ace wants to know later during a rare lull in conversation, Dom stretched out on the bed like a comfortable cat and Ace perched next to him. What he really means is: did you keep our promise?

“Yeah. Of course. Haven’t heard anything back yet, but I did send out a few applications. I’ll just keep at it until I find something.”

There’s nothing but sincerity in his voice and Ace doesn’t doubt for a second that he’s telling the truth. After everything he’s seen today, Dom is authentic if sometimes snarky, thoughtful without realising, appreciative. “That’s great. I’m glad to hear it.”

Dom awards him a warm smile. “Thanks. How about you?”

“Pretty much the same”, he says, nodding. “I got a few interviews but not sure yet whether I’d accept if they wanted me.”

“Congrats, getting interviews is good. But know your worth. If it’s not where you wanna be, move on. You’ll find something else.”

Somehow, they both kept their end of the deal, undertook the endeavour of trying to improve their lives together yet separate from each other. And somehow, this doesn’t surprise him. They’re one step closer to where they want to be.

Overcome by sudden emotion, Ace crawls over and snuggles up to him, drapes himself half over the welcoming body and nuzzles his cheek. Warm arms pull him closer, card through his hair, pet his side. The fake fire crackles on the large screen opposite them. “This is nice, being here with you”, he mutters into Dom’s beard and the mental image of how it would’ve been if Bastien had come over today instead finds no space in his thoughts, is unable to take hold. All he knows is that Bastien is his friend and will never be anything more, no matter what. And he needs to accept it.

“You know”, Dom starts, interrupts himself and seems to pour over his words for a while during which he fidgets restlessly. “I’m really attracted to you, I think that’s obvious. But that’s not the only reason I came back here. I just really wanted to let you know that I didn’t break the promise, as dumb as it sounds. I wanted to share my progress with you. Somehow, that felt really important.”

Ace’s lips stretch into a smile. “I actually thought the same when I opened the door earlier. Just a, I don’t know, ‘I want him to be proud of me’.”

“Yeah, like that.”

The physical contact feels lovely, reassuring and safe. Belatedly, Ace realises how easily Dom pulled him away from the void into which he was threatening to fall earlier, avoiding all post-coital shame and embarrassment by glossing over it, engaging Ace with something else. He probably noticed the mood shift and refused to accept it.

Idly, his fingertips push Dom’s shirt up, stroke over his navel, brush against the ridges of his abs. The reaction is instant, he notices shallower breath, increased heart rate, no more fidgeting. His fingers travel higher, flip a metal ring back and forth, lightly stroke over a nipple. “Dom”, he says quietly, earning a questioning hum. “Do you want to fuck me again?”

The embrace tightens, possibly involuntarily. Very satisfying. Dom takes a beat to compose himself, then asks: “It’s the eyeliner, isn’t it?”

Ace pinches his nipple, prompting an interesting choked moan, and can’t help but smile. “Can we take our time though?”

.

They take their time for the second round. It’s slow, deliberate, almost tidal with how it ebbs and flows, gradually growing at a snail’s pace. Clothes are removed one by one, skin caressed, they don’t stop making out for half an hour during which Ace identifies most of Dom’s erogenous zones (and the other way round, he discovers soon). When they become one, they gaze into each other’s eyes, every sensation mirrored in their expression and it’s so intimate it hurts.

Communication is key, they take turns whispering filth and sweet nothings, disclosing their preferences, encouraging each other. Dom finds his sweet spot quickly and milks it until actual tears form in the corners of Ace’s eyes from the stimulation, and when Ace begs him to come inside, Dom obliges. They fall off the edge together, shuddering and moaning, moving in sync, their bodies pressed against each other in unbearable heat.

Again, there’s no awkwardness. Dom suggests a shower and Ace invites him to come along, he nearly falls asleep when the other man massages shampoo into his scalp, and when they’re back in bed, Dom spoons him without asking. There’s no question of whether he spends the night, both of them just assume he does.

Shrouded in darkness, Ace grows bold and speaks of something he wanted to bury deep in his memories so he’d forget and not be overcome by hot shame every time he remembered it. He was prepared to erase it from existence as best as possible, burn the envelope, even deny the plan, but now there might be an alternative.

“I did something dumb”, he states, to which Dom immediately holds him tighter in support. “I bought a trip. Round trip, three weeks, leaving the day after tomorrow. Hotels included, lots of sightseeing, some hiking. Some downtime, too.”

“That doesn’t sound dumb to me.”

“I bought two tickets.” Dom is suddenly very still. “I was gonna invite my friend along. You know, the -”

“Yeah. I know.”

“At this point, I don’t even want to go with him anymore, it wouldn’t have been fun. But I can’t refund it.” He waits, lets the implications sink in, allows Dom the chance to interject. He doesn’t. “Do you want to go with me instead?”

Dom takes a second to think it over. “Am I going because you genuinely want me there, or am I going because you don’t want it to go to waste? Because I’ll be honest, I’m very much fine with either option, I’d just like to know what’s up.”

A fair request, except that Ace has no answer. He feels extraordinarily comfortable in Dom’s presence, enjoyed himself today, is fiercely grateful for him saving the day instead of having to spend it alone in misery. He doesn’t think Dom is a rebound, he’s too unique for that.

“How about you sleep on it, I’ll leave you my number tomorrow, and if you still want me to come with you, you text me.”

That… actually sounds perfect. It allows Ace to make an informed decision, and the fact alone that Dom made a suggestion like this emphasises why he invited him in the first place. “You know, you’re different to most men that I’ve dated so far.”

“What, more hesitant?”

He snorts. “No. More reasonable.”

“That’s a little sad, but I’ll take it.” A beat. “Wait, are you saying -”

“Good night”, Ace interrupts him quickly, sparking a quiet chuckle. “And Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas. I’ll leave some more presents in you tomorrow if you want.”

And Ace takes that to be yet another promise.

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 24🎄

Everyone my beloved, I'm sorry there won't be a fic from me today! The 24th is when we Germans mainly celebrate Christmas and spend time with our families, and that's exactly what I did for the day 😊 As a peace offering, I present you my two dogs posing because they expect a treat.

I hope you all had/will have a wonderful day regardless of festivities and I wish you all the best 💕

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 23🏆

The day is here - finally, the Great Rainbow Bake Off actually takes place! Read all about who won and why :) This whole series was really fun to write and I hope everyone enjoyed it as much as I did 💕 (Rating T, chaos/fluff, ~3.8k words)

.

The outpour of support is overwhelming. IQ helped her source and install a few more ovens in Rainbow’s canteen, multiple people provided identical utensils, appliances and other kitchen needs, and both Mozzie and Echo volunteered for the camera work. Even Mute got involved and set up a livestream and a large screen in the lounge so absolutely everyone can follow the competition without getting in the way. Identifying the two judges was easy and Twitch herself is content in merely commenting on the proceedings and making sure everyone gets their time to shine. As host, it’s her duty to introduce the contestants as well as set an appropriate mood, and if the complete silence in the lounge next door is anything to go by, the pastries she provided for the audience are doing the trick.

After explaining the format a little and welcoming everyone, she turns to face the orderly queue of bakers with Sledge at the helm.

“I’m confident”, he replies to her question of how he feels about today. “It’s been a while since I worked this hard on anything, and I’m already proud of what I’ve accomplished so far. As long as I don’t accidentally break anything, I should be good.”

Once he’s moved out of the frame and to his workstation, Kapkan takes his place, facing the camera stoically. “I am going to win”, he states and immediately leaves.

“Against popular demand, I will not reprise my brownies from Rainbow’s first Christmas party. I do value my pay check too much.” Bandit grins at the instant uproar from the lounge and good-naturedly flips everyone off.

Finally, Dokkaebi appears, already wearing her apron, her hair neatly pulled back. “I’m just here to prove that Asians can bake”, she says as if anyone had ever questioned that fact.

Huh. Twitch turns to the other end of the room where Ace is busy listening to a seemingly endless anecdote by the second judge. Addressing Dokkaebi, she asks: “Did he -”

A nod, followed by a smile that’s a little too bright. “Sure did! That’s why I prepared a special surprise, just for him. To show him what I’m capable of.”

Fair enough, Twitch is intrigued. After everyone has taken position, she motions her judges over and addresses the four contestants who display varying levels of excitement (ranging from manic by Dokkaebi to deadpan by Kapkan). “Welcome to your first and only challenge today here at the first Great Rainbow Bake Off. These are your judges, Håvard and Adriano, and they would like -”

“Wait.” Sledge seems confused. “Why are you a judge, Adrianito?”

Twitch has never before witnessed Maestro being at a loss for words. He squirms uncomfortably next to her, starting a few sentences yet unable to follow through, and after a few seconds, Sledge is overcome by a sudden realisation.

“You can bake!”, he accuses with the same gravitas a widow would the murderer of her husband. “You lied to me.”

“I had to, cioccolatino, you would have used me to cheat.”

“Maybe we can postpone this conversation until -” Her attempt at defusing the situation is interrupted by the righteous fury of a Scotsman wronged.

“I trusted you. I felt for you. And as I stood there, filled with the despair of a man doomed to fail, as I laid my soul bare in our kitchen, all this time you could’ve fixed it? Was all my blood, sweat and tears just a game to you? I saw how well you slept, your conscience clean, did my plight mean nothing to you?”

Sledge’s emotion-laden roar easily triumphs over Maestro’s weak excuses. “I can’t be accused of favouritism, amore mio, I didn’t want -”

“After this, nobody will ever think of you as anything but impartial, well done, you have made it abundantly clear where your priorities lie and it’s not with your talentless, pitiful husband.”

“Please listen to me -”

“And Jesus wept!”

By now, Bandit looks like he’s going to crack a rib from suppressed laughter any minute. Neither Kapkan nor Dokkaebi seem particularly impressed, and there’s obvious panic lining Ace’s features as he looks back and forth between the arguing couple like it’s a tennis match. Twitch is pretty sure Sledge would be winning if it was, and also absolutely certain the Scotsman has spent entirely too much time with the Martello family and their dramatic streak. “Perhaps it’s better -”

“I will be baking today, but you know what? I am not doing it for you anymore.”

Sledge’s crossed arms indicate his side of the conversation to be over, and though Maestro must be dying a thousand deaths inside, he pulls himself together and lifts his chin defiantly. “Very well. I look forward to the results.”

“Get a room”, Dokkaebi comments and earns two genuinely frightening glares.

“In any case”, Twitch continues as if nothing happened at all, “the, uh, judges would, um, like you to make sixteen identical cookies. They don’t need to be Christmas-themed, although it doesn’t hurt your chances, and they should be baked well, taste amazing, and have just the right consistency. You have one and a half hours – on your marks, get set, bake!”

And it’s wonderful to watch them just burst into activity, getting out mixing bowls and scales, sort their ingredients, check their recipes. Like a bunch of well-oiled machines who form something greater than the sum of its parts.

“Should we make the rounds? Check on everyone?”, Twitch suggests to her two judges. Maestro’s expression gives nothing away as he nods, so she leans over to him to whisper: “Do you need a quick cry? Or are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly fine”, he assures her and she chooses to ignore his quivering lip.

As it so happens, Sledge is the first one they approach. “So, Seamus – what are you baking for us today?”

“Shortbread with a side of betrayal”, he replies evenly and when Maestro immediately starts defending himself again, Twitch and Ace exchange a brief look before sidestepping to Kapkan’s workbench instead, dragging Mozzie with them so the other two men can argue in peace.

“So, um, Maxim, what kind of cookies are you making?”

“Pryaniki”, comes the curt answer.

“What are they?”

“Delicious.”

“I mean… what are they made of?”

“Flour. And honey.”

“Just flour and honey?”

“Some other stuff, too.”

“Okay. Great talk. Thanks and good luck!” Twitch and Ace just shrug at each other, unsure of what they’re going to be eating later, and then move on to Bandit who’s currently watching his stand mixer beat some air into what looks like egg whites.

“Hi”, he greets them cheerfully, straightaway putting Twitch on edge.

“These are egg whites, right?”, she inquires with a healthy amount of scepticism.

“Yep.”

“… just egg whites.”

“Sure are.”

“Nothing else.”

“Of course not.”

He continues beaming at her with possibly fake innocence as the noise level rises in the other room, the other operators no doubt speculating as to the actual composition of the stiffening mass. “He wouldn’t be so crass”, Ace dismisses Twitch’s suspicion, earning muffled laughter from their audience. His expression slowly shifts from unconcerned to vague dread at that reaction. “… right?”

“Can you tell us a bit about your cookies?”, she intentionally shifts the focus away from what might become a meringue, provided Bandit isn’t lying, which is a 50-50 chance. She’ll take it.

“I could, but I don’t want to”, is his enigmatic reply. “It’ll be a surprise.”

Twitch’s alarm bells are going off and yet she forces a smile. “Well, we’re… looking forward to it. Did you practice a lot?”

“Made them once. I’ll be fine.”

As they make their way over to Dokkaebi, Ace addresses her in a conspiratorial whisper: “If that’s a meringue he’s making, he’ll mess it up for sure. You need to bake it long enough but not too long, it needs to be beaten to stiff peaks and I doubt he knows what that looks like, and if he’s folding anything in, he’s likely to knock all the air out of it if he’s not careful. It’s ambitious and I don’t believe he’ll pull it off.”

Though Twitch had much the same thoughts, her inherent optimism refuses to accept Ace’s assessment at face value. She still believes in Bandit, even if he’s prone to sabotage competitions like this one. “Will you be impressed if he gets it right?”

“Yeah, I’ll give him a handshake if he does.”

“How about you snog him if he does!”, Smoke calls from the other side of the room.

Is he even supposed to be in here?

Ace rolls his eyes. “Sure. I have so little faith in him that I accept that.”

The Brit manages to exchange an encouraging thumbs up as well as a wide grin with Bandit before he’s thrown out into the lounge and if she’s honest, Twitch is quietly rooting for Bandit now.

“I actually have a little surprise as well”, Dokkaebi informs them once the attention is on her. “I’m making two kinds of cookies, one is macadamia chocolate chip and the other a very special treat for Ace.”

Interesting. “What makes them so special?”

“Glad you ask.” Thusly prompted, Dokkaebi pulls out a small jar of what looks like to be a light brown paste. “This is an ingredient you don’t find in normal cuisines here, that’s why I really wanted to use it. My second set of cookies will be baked with it, and it’s made specifically for you.”

“I’m intrigued.” Ace eyes the mystery ingredient with a frown. “What’s it called?”

“Gae-sae-kki.” And with a lovely smile, Dokkaebi simply gets on with it.

The next hour and a half is a flurry of events Twitch can’t even summarise succinctly. Sledge and Maestro finally manage to make up after half the time is over, meaning Sledge is scrambling for the rest of the time, running around in a panic until Dokkaebi offers her help which he gladly accepts. Bandit is done early and starts harassing the other bakers, first and foremost Kapkan who eventually challenges him to a blindfolded game of tag – meaning Bandit spends fifteen minutes crashing into things and yelling for Kapkan to disclose his location whereas Kapkan took the blindfold off immediately and went back to icing his pryaniki without a care in the world.

At least one oven malfunctions, Dokkaebi burns her butter and makes everyone cough their lungs out (even next door), Echo nearly commits suicide by Kapkan when he stumbles and almost knocks his finished cookies off the counter, Maestro recounts various stories at least one of which features a bog mummy (it’s not entirely clear with the other two) and Mute features audience-made memes in a corner of the livestream, allowing them to vote on them to keep engagement up.

And then, finally, Twitch gets to announce: “Your time is up! Please stop fiddling with your cookies. Well done, everyone!”

The lounge erupts into loud applause after which they do another short round of interviews while the four contestants clean up their stations. There’s a tension palpable in the air, now that the stress is over: they feel it, it’s getting serious. The judging is about to begin. All eyes are directed to the front, to the small table placed before Maestro and Ace.

Twitch savours the silence a bit longer, relishes the attention for just a moment. She knows how hard they worked during the past week (most of them anyway, she’s not convinced Bandit has worked a day in his life), knows they finally got a taste of what it means to spend hours in the kitchen producing delicious goods to share with others, knows they’re all trying to win. This is partly why she stepped down from judging herself: she’d declare all of them winners, no doubt. She couldn’t pick a favourite.

“Grace, would you like to bring your cookies to the front?”, she eventually prompts, to which Dokkaebi just nods.

Her first batch is beautiful, slightly browned on the outside, a good balance of macadamia nuts and chocolate chips, not too flat but also not too dense either. They’re uniform, all of them the same size and colour. Twitch can tell both judges are impressed. While they’re chewing, she grabs one and tries it herself – and wow.

Okay.

Forget about all that not being able to pick a favourite, this is the best chocolate chip cookie she’s ever eaten. The browned butter gives it a light roast aroma, the brown sugar emphasising this darkish sweetness, and the macadamia nuts lift the taste back up, brighten it a little. It’s delicious. She needs this recipe.

“Amazing”, says Ace, utterly flabbergasted. “These are perfect. I have absolutely nothing negative to say.”

“What a flavour. What a flavour! You have created a miracle, my dear, this is a feast for the senses, utterly divine, if I could choose my last meal on earth right now, it would be this. Never before -”

And while Maestro waxes poetically into the nearest camera, Dokkaebi points to the second, smaller batch she’s presenting. “These are just for you, Ace. I hope you like them.”

The Norwegian eagerly shoves one of the unassuming-looking biscuits into his mouth, likely expecting similar excellence. The longer he chews, the more confused his expression becomes until it flips over into thinly-veiled disgust. With difficulty, he swallows everything and is left grimacing wildly. “An… acquired taste. I’m sure it tastes different to you, but -”

“Oh, I’d never eat this”, she objects, remaining unfailingly pleasant.

Ace blinks at her. “Didn’t you use something traditionally Korean? Or something like that? What was that stuff you showed us?”

“That was just pureed dog food. Merry Christmas!” With that, she grabs the tray with the chocolate chip cookies and walks out the door, only to be greeted with roaring approval in the lounge, the noise deafening for the brief moment before she closes the door behind her.

“I think you deserved that”, Twitch mutters in Ace’s direction, the man staring down at the dog food biscuits in horror and seemingly contemplating his life choices.

“- a poem in baked form”, Maestro finishes his verbose speech and turns back to the two of them. “On to the next one?”

.

They take a short break while Ace brushes his teeth and drinks about a litre of water just to get the taste out of his mouth, and Bandit admits he’s not so sure about wanting to kiss him anymore. Twitch fills Maestro in about what he missed and the Italian laughs so loudly he causes a brief feedback loop and even Mute takes the time to dash into the lounge just to congratulate Dokkaebi.

Twitch does feel a little bad for Ace, all things considered, but he takes it in stride despite his slightly paler face than usual.

“Let’s continue then. Dom, do you want to present your cookies next?”

“Sure.” When he puts his tray down, Twitch instantly knows he won’t need a mistletoe this year. She’s not sure what kind of cookies they are, but she knows a good meringue when she sees one – next to no cracks, shiny on the outside, and when she picks one up, it’s wonderfully light without being sticky.

“They look good”, Ace admits reluctantly.

“Made them especially for you.”

“Forgive me if I’m hesitant to eat them, but the last time I heard that…”

Twitch snorts and is the first to try them. It’s crunchy, lovely and sweet with a hint of almond – probably ground almonds folded into the mixture. And yeah, it’s nice, but… nothing groundbreaking. There’s no twist on it, no personal note she can discern, and it’s certainly no reason to stare motionlessly into space and look like the world just stopped turning. Concerned, she nudges Ace. “You alright?”

He shakes himself out of his stupor and stares at Bandit who’s displaying his trademark smug grin, the one he wears whenever he’s inordinately pleased with himself. “Where did you get this recipe?”

“Remind you of something?” Bandit is positively beaming. “Well, Siv sends her regards. These are her vepsebol.”

Twitch is worried Ace’s eyes are going to fall out of his skull any second now. “You – you talked to my mum?!”

“Yeah, no biggie. She’s absolutely charming. I asked her what your favourite cookie was when you were a kid, and she was kind enough to help me bake it.” No wonder Bandit is exuding self-satisfaction. His grin is contagious and Twitch finds herself smiling along with it. “I told you I was taking this seriously.”

Ace is speechless, for the second time now.

“They are quite good”, Maestro agrees and Twitch considers taking the tray back just so he doesn’t eat them all.

And something happens just then, something shifts in Ace’s expression as he realises the man notorious for playing pranks on everyone, the man said to care about nobody but himself, the very man who’d normally torpedo a happening like this went to the lengths of finding out something this personal about him just so he could present him with cookies from his childhood. No sarcasm, no backhand.

“Do you need a cry?”, she asks him quietly.

“I’m fine”, he replies, a little choked up. “Let’s, let’s just keep going.”

Still radiating smugness, Bandit goes back to his workstation to make space for Sledge.

What looks like plain shortbread turns out to be flavoured with lemon zest and ginger, a delicious combination they all compliment, much to his pride, and Twitch is glad to see the couple back to their usual harmony when Maestro holds yet another speech about how it’s the journey that counts and not the destination, and that he’s so proud of how far Sledge has come.

The implication isn’t lost on her, though. The shortbread is fine, but a little unimpressive.

Kapkan is the only one left and from one peek, Twitch can tell his offering is something else. He’s baked the pryaniki into small slabs and decorated them to perfection, adorned them with simple yet elegant Christmas designs like baubles, stars, a Santa hat and even a delicately feathered fir branch. The royal icing is piped with precision, framing each cookie with a cute ribbon and flooded with white so the colours he’s employed stand out more.

“These look exquisite”, Ace speaks what they’re all thinking. “They’re properly set, and underneath they’re all the same colour.”

Twitch lets out a content hum when the taste spreads on her tongue, a rich, satisfying, warm flavour – there’s all kinds of Christmas-y spices involved and the honey brings it all together. This is exactly the kind of cookie she wants to eat throughout December when it’s cold and wet outside and she needs a little pick-me-up.

The two judges concur with her mental assessment, expressing their enthusiasm vocally to an entirely impassive face, and suddenly it’s time to retreat and choose a winner.

While Maestro and Ace withdraw to a corner of the room to compare the participants’ creations, Twitch joins the four bakers (Dokkaebi begrudgingly returned for the award ceremony) to congratulate them on a job well done.

“I’m just happy with what I made”, Sledge summarises his experience with a sincere nod. “I’ve never spent that much time in the kitchen before and I doubt I’ll do it again, but it was fun.”

Dokkaebi agrees. “Yeah, I’ve already found twenty new recipes I wanna try out. No dog food, though.”

“If they give you the win, I’ll strip for you”, Bandit promises (threatens?) her. “They can’t. You probably made the best cookies, but you bet people will try to feed Ace the most disgusting shit if he lets you get away with that.”

“Do you mean yourself by ‘people’?”, she grins.

“By the way, were you actually trying to win?”, Twitch wants to know from Bandit, who gives her an enigmatic shrug.

“Well. I won’t win the competition I don’t think, but I’ve won something else.” He catches Ace’s gaze across the room and winks at him, earning no discernible reaction. Though Twitch thinks she sees Ace’s cheeks darken a little. Then, something else occurs to her.

“Are you not worried, Maxim?”

The Russian frowns at her question. “Of course not. With Grace disqualified, I’m going to win.”

“But aren’t you worried about the implications?” He’s still not understanding. “You’re known as a fearless hunter. You crush cans with your forehead and open bottles with your eye socket. You have a reputation, you know. Don’t you think being crowned best amateur baker in Rainbow because of your delicate decorations will… undermine that? A little?”

Finally, realisation sets in and Kapkan’s eyes widen. “Oh. Oh no.”

Just then, Maestro and Ace step back into the limelight, carrying a trophy and trying their best to look professional. “It was a difficult decision and I’d like to preface this by saying you’ve all done really well, except for Grace, who can go eat a dick.”

“Fuck off!”, Dokkaebi yells back, chipper. Nobody is paying much attention to an increasingly frantic Kapkan.

“But now we can crown the first victor of the Great Rainbow Bake Off! And the winner is -”

“No! Don’t say it!”

“- Maxim!”

“No!”

“Come over here and accept your trophy.”

Sledge manages to grab the man before he can escape and together with Maestro, they wrestle him in front of the camera, ignoring his cries for help and attempts to break free – Dokkaebi shoves the small trophy into Kapkan’s hands while Echo snaps a few pictures, just in case, and Twitch is somehow not at all surprised this ended in chaos.

To ensure at least their audience experiences a satisfying conclusion, she pulls Mozzie off to the side and smiles into the camera. “I suppose that’s it, thank you all for joining us, it’s been a joy to -”

“Actually, can you stand over here?” Mozzie is focused on something in the distance, motioning for her to step a little to the right and gives her a thumbs up once he’s happy with her position.

“Uh, like I said, it’s been great and I hope we can do this again sometime.” Mozzie is still not looking at her. Without turning, she asks: “Let me guess, Dom and Håvard are making out behind me?”

The cheeky grin is all she needs to know.

“Sounds like a few Christmas miracles happened today. Happy holidays everyone, bye!” And as she waves, Mute lets her know he’s cut the livestream.

That’s it then, the event is over. And as Twitch surveys the room, all the bright smiles and easy laughs, the people trickling in from the next room eager to deliver supportive messages to their favourite participant, hands grabbing cookies and breaking them in half to share them, she affirms that yes. Yes, she’d love to do this again.

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 22🧂

Today is the last part of the Great Rainbow Bake Off preparations! Now we only have the actual competition to go :) In this one, Dokkaebi does her best with Lesion's support. (Rating T, fluff, ~2k words)

.

“What even are cookies, anyway”, Dokkaebi muses as she tries and fails to turn the hand mixer on. Regardless of how many times she flicks the switch, nothing happens. “How does this stupid thing work?”

Lesion, already looking like he regrets ever making her acquaintance, condescends to showing her where the cable is concealed on the underside and even plugs it in for her. “Now be careful with the -”

Too late. She’s already jammed the beaters into the bowl and turned the appliance on, producing an impressive cloud of flour and flinging bits of raw egg and butter around when she jumps at the sudden flurry of action. While trying to turn it off again, she lifts the mixer and spatters both herself and her gracious host in various ingredients while yelling about how dangerous this thing is, and then Lesion is by her side once more to finally put a stop to the salmonella carousel.

Accusingly, she asks him: “Why don’t you have a stand mixer?”

He glances down at his ruined jumper and gives her a look conveying very much what he’s too polite to say. “You need to start on a lower speed”, he explains gently. “And don’t lift it before switching it off.”

“You’re lucky you don’t smoke anymore. Hey, do you think we could go out back and make a flour explosion instead?” By the time the old man opens his mouth to, no doubt, refuse, she’s already waved him off. “Nah, forget about it. I need to win this, so I better practice. How does your oven work?”

She’s awarded with a quiet sigh.

No doubt he’d been looking forward to a quiet evening alone, being misanthropic and morose on his own as he wraps himself in five blankets and drinks litres of tea and/or coffee, but fortunately for him, Dokkaebi stepped into his life to disillusion him of that option. She chose him not just because he has an oven at all, it’s also that Hibana merely laughed when she was asked whether she can bake, Mute shushed her in case Smoke caught wind of their conversation (and though involving them would no doubt have ended in hilarity, nothing constructive would’ve come out of it), Vigil silently shook his head and IQ’s expression turned into quiet horror. She didn’t bother asking Echo – he probably would’ve lied and said yes, then watched her clean his kitchen so she could use it before revealing he has no knowledge to offer her after all.

So yeah. Lesion it is. He’s got a well-stocked pantry, a functioning kitchen and the patience of a saint, making him the perfect victim.

For some reason, her cookie batter doesn’t look right but she figures it’ll be fine anyway. After plopping all of it in small portions onto the baking tray, she tosses it in the oven and glances at the prominent wall clock to gauge the time.

“No timer?”

“Don’t need it. I know when twenty minutes are over. Do you think they’ll come out great first try and I won’t have to do anything else for the contest?”

Lesion raises a brow and glances at the admittedly-malformed lumps she just produced. “Sure. It’s possible.”

.

“Second try!”, she announces good naturedly, slamming the oven door shut. By now, she’s grateful for the apron Lesion provided and has made ample use of it. She looks like she butchered a chocolate Santa. “Done. Now to analyse what went wrong with the first batch.”

“Have you ever baked before?” Lesion is perched on the only chair in the small room, doing a crossword puzzle in between critiquing her non-existent talent.

“No. But it can’t be that hard, right? Dom said so himself. And he would burn a salad.”

The old man is judging her, she can feel it in the back of her neck – it’s a skill she’s developed over years of being surrounded by guys who think they know better than her. Even if it’s warranted in this case.

“Why do they look so odd? What’s this white stuff?” She pokes the sad, melted masses of sticky dough she rescued from the oven half an hour ago with a frown. Some of them have weird holes, others are flatter than the rest, and some display streaks of a substance she can’t identify.

“Flour”, comes the exasperated reply.

“Oh. But it’s supposed to be in there, right? You can’t make cookies without flour.”

“You didn’t mix them enough. You’ve had clumps of butter that melted out of the dough in the oven, that’s this brown stuff here. And you didn’t chill them, that’s why they’re so… horizontal.”

Huh. Good to know. “I didn’t chill these ones either”, she points to the glistening balls of dough currently being baked.

Lesion gives her another look.

“You could’ve said something!”

“I’m already keeping you company, that should be enough.”

.

“Weird that it’s so little dough this time”, she wonders out loud while inspecting the cold blobs with narrowed eyes. This time, she feels like she did everything right, she made sure everything was incorporated well and even put the blasted things in the fridge for a good while. “Oh well. It’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

“Then you got some time to help me. Who’s the first programmer again? Babbage doesn’t fit.”

She regards Lesion with disdain. “Lovelace. How dare you forget that the first ever computer programmer was a woman.”

“And another, I need the name for the protocol employed by network switches to ensure -”

“Spanning Tree. Also based on the work of a woman.”

“By the way, what kind of cookies are you making again?”

“Sugar coo-” Dokkaebi slams her fist on the table, making Lesion jump. “Fuck! I forgot the sugar!”

.

She doesn’t miss Lesion’s conspicuous glance at his wristwatch. “I’ll be done soon”, she threatens while watching her handiwork, crouched in front of the oven. It’s really working overtime today, she reckons. “This is the last one. Everything’s in, I mixed it well, I chilled it, I gave them a little kiss and wished them goodnight, and now they burn in hell for their sins.”

“What crime did they commit, being sinfully delicious?”, he mutters in the direction of his phone while typing away. Dokkaebi suddenly realises she hasn’t checked her notifications in more than two hours, which is an absolute miracle – normally, her fear of missing out gets the better of her and though she’s been trying to cut down on screen time, she finds herself unable.

“I wish.” Both of them have yet to eat a single cookie and while they’ve nibbled on some, they didn’t dare eat a whole one. Just in case.

She deems the cookies done and gets them out with an oven mitt, poking at the malleable substance with curiosity. “They look good. Don’t you think? They might be fine.”

Lesion, for once, looks vaguely impressed. The cookies are a nice golden-brown colour and have held their shape well, somehow. Dokkaebi cuts one with a knife and lets it cool on the counter for a bit before offering one half to Lesion, putting the other half into her own mouth. Both of them bite down at the same time … and spit it back out at the same time.

“That”, Lesion forces out with a grimace, “tastes bad. What did you do?”

Dokkaebi struggles to come up with an answer before sweeping her gaze over the counter still littered with ingredients, nearly slapping her forehead once she notices. “Oh. I used salt instead of sugar. Oops.”

Another sigh. “I’m going to bed. Feel free to keep trying.”

.

A while later and in the midst of an involved multi-player battle, Dokkaebi hears footsteps approaching. She’s so engrossed in her current game that she doesn’t look up when Lesion opens the door, merely opting to ask: “Weren’t you going to sleep?”

“Not if you’re setting my kitchen on fire.”

It takes a second. “Oh fuck!” She nearly drops her phone as she scrambles to yank the tray out, coughing at the smoke emanating from it.

“Looks like someone’s getting coal for Christmas.” Lesion looks and sounds very much done. Just like the cookies. “Please go home now, Grace.”

.

She’s back the next day, undeterred. Lesion may do his best in trying to ignore her, though he thankfully is brave enough to try whatever she shoves under his nose from time to time.

“Not bad”, he rates her first attempt that day before audibly biting on something very crunchy. “Ah. Especially the eggshell. A brave addition.”

Right. Next try.

“This… tastes odd, and it’s kinda dark. What kind of flour did you use?”

Dokkaebi doesn’t really understand the question and shrugs, irritated. “Flour.”

“No, but -”

“It’s flour. It says on the packaging. Flour. See?”

Another look.

“Okay. What’s wrong with it?”

“This is buckwheat flour. It’s not the same as wheat flour, it tastes -”

“Flour is flour, it should do the same thing!”

“It doesn’t though, it will -”

“Flour is flour!”

.

Dokkaebi has never seen Lesion’s place this neat. While she occupies his kitchen, he apparently can’t relax enough to do nothing which results in him pacing about the flat and compulsively cleaning and tidying whatever sticks out. And there’s a lot of things that stick out. In the time she’s produced three more failed batches, he’s made sure the bathroom is sparkling, folded his laundry, put clean sheets on, took out the trash, sorted his books and tidied the living room.

In turn, she has not taken her phone out once.

“Try this”, she pants once she’s finally gotten a hold of him, meaning once she tackled him into the couch because he wouldn’t stop running from her and the cookie-shaped threat in her hand.

With an air of defeat, he bites into it and -

- and doesn’t look like he just drank paint thinner. Instead, he pulls a not bad face. “Surprisingly tasty. Different. What did you change?”

“I bought them at the shops.” For a second, he believes her, and this is even more of a victory than hearing him call them tasty. If he entertains the notion that these are store-bought, even just for a heartbeat, then she’s finally done it. “Honestly, I just did the same thing as always.”

“Everything is the same?”

“Yeah.” He gives her a blank look. “No, really! Butter, sugar, flour… all the same. Come look.” She gets off him and allows him to breathe once again, leading him to the kitchen and presenting her ingredients. “Here. I mean, your white sugar ran out, so I used the packed brown one. But sugar is sugar, it won’t make a difference.”

Lesion just sighs.

.

It’s a testament to the old man’s patience that he doesn’t close the door in her face the next afternoon.

“You were right”, is the first thing Dokkaebi says. “Flour is not flour, and sugar is not sugar. I looked it up. There’s an actual science to this, I thought it was just throwing together the same things with different results.”

“Come in. I restocked, so you can just keep on baking.”

“I actually brought everything I need.” And then some. She holds up her shopping bag and returns the rare smile she receives. “I’ll probably want to use half white, half brown sugar since they do different things, and I’ll try out baking soda instead of powder. Also, I read that browned butter can -”

“You know, I’m glad you didn’t give up.”

Dokkaebi scoffs. “Give up? This is the most fun I’ve had in years. I think I’ll keep baking even after the competition.”

“Good.” Lesion gives her a nod of approval, takes the bag and motions for her to go ahead. “So, you were talking about browned butter?”

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 21🛌

Without any further ado, here's the second part of that Smoke/Mute fic I posted yesterday! I hope you enjoy 😊 (Rating E, the best combination: explicit + emotional hurt/comfort + fluff, 6.9k words)

.

“Lie down”, comes the quiet request and neither of them lets go, resulting in Smoke half-dragging Mute with him, pondering whether he should awkwardly remove everything covering the bed with one hand or look for an alternative. He still hasn’t decided when Mute reaches around him and simply tosses the blanket aside, sending everything on top flying and replacing it with Smoke himself, pushed down onto the mattress with their connection now severed. He doesn’t get the chance to miss the contact because Mute descends on him immediately, shuffling the both of them further up on the bed until Smoke can rest his head on the pillow, chasing kisses and ‘accidentally’ kneeling on Smoke’s sweatpants, forcing him to partially undress himself.

Mute finishes the job with intoxicating smoothness, palms gliding over Smoke’s legs and brushing off his trousers almost as an afterthought, then pushing his shirt up until it pools around his neck. Their mouths only leave one another to allow for Smoke to take his top off properly, then slot back together for kisses deep enough to sink into entirely. It doesn’t feel like a mistake anymore, not even a tiny one, not like a grey area or anything questionable. It feels like heaven. It feels like something they should’ve been doing all along. Every touch of tongue on tongue is electrifying, the sensation of embracing the strong body above him a desperately needed kind of soothing. He wraps his legs around Mute’s hips to pull him closer until the weight of the other man presses him further into the mattress and he wishes they could stay like this forever.

Alas, they can’t – though the alternative is acceptable too: Mute sits back up to take his own t-shirt off, arms crossed and all, showing off muscles, and Smoke’s body temperature rises with every inch of revealed skin. He remembers vividly how he stared in disbelief when Mute undressed himself last time, exposing his sculpted chest and tan skin, and somehow, it’s even sexier this time. Maybe because he does it more deliberately, returns Smoke’s gaze, holds it as he finally gets rid of the stupid belt, unzips his jeans and good lord. Just the bit of underwear peeking out has Smoke sweating, let alone the way Mute so carelessly tosses his clothes aside like he’s got better things to do. Like the butt-naked Englishman before him.

And Smoke can’t help himself, he marvels at the beauty of Mute’s (largely) unmarred skin and needs to do something about it, he can’t not. Decisively, he yanks the younger man back down to his level and peppers his shoulder with kisses, smiling when Mute shies away with a low chuckle, and sucks on warm skin once it’s clear Mute isn’t going anywhere. They’re moving against each other now, bodies melting together like they were made for it, dancing to the rhythm of Smoke’s muffled moans. Somehow, he manages to drag Mute’s trousers down with his feet, hooks his toes into the waistband or the belt loops, whichever he can reach, and pulls them over toned thighs while his mouth makes Mute squirm delightfully. There’s only a thin layer of fabric separating their erections now and, judging by the noises escaping from his throat, Mute is getting into it again.

Hunger drives them as they start devouring what’s theirs, Mute’s hands squeezing Smoke’s arse, all of his weight half crushing the man under him, but Smoke doesn’t mind, not with his fingers carding through messy hair and his hips rolling against Mute’s, mouth still occupied with biting and suckling and licking whichever part of his lover he can reach. Teeth pull on Mute’s earlobe, forcing out a quiet gasp that shoots straight to his cock, and catching a glimpse of reddened, almost purple skin and bite marks fills him with pride. Regardless of the outcome, Mute will have to live with these mementos, just like the bruise on Smoke’s calf which faded over the course of almost two weeks. Reminding him every time he caught sight of it.

They could fuck like this, a steady transition of more and more insistent touches until Mute is suddenly inside him and they strive towards a mutual orgasm, and Smoke has no doubt it’d be phenomenal, but he’s got something else in mind. With more effort than he’d like to admit, he flips them over so he’s straddling the subject of all his desires and finally gets a better look at him. Mute’s hair is more tousled than usual, wet lips parted and stretched into a dreamy smile, neck covered in love bites (and they flatter him beautifully), breaths deep and measured. He looks like a young god.

It almost hurts to look at him.

“I want to ride you, babe”, Smoke tells him, though he should’ve phrased it as need, not want, and Mute does a content, affirmative nod like that’s what he’d been hoping for anyway, dopey smile still brightening his expression. He obediently lifts his hips as soon as Smoke reaches down to remove the last piece of clothing he’s still wearing, making Smoke rise with the gesture as well with no visible effort and Jesus Christ that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. Smoke takes his time on purpose, generously fondles Mute’s tight buttocks, brushes against his rock hard shaft, lets the waistband drag over it while pulling the briefs down and only relents when Mute starts trembling slightly from the exertion. He never once complains, however.

Once the offending piece of fabric is gone, Mute’s lower half sinks back onto the mattress and Smoke is suddenly glad he went for a larger toy earlier. His hand moves on his own, wraps fingers around the velvety-smooth flesh and marvels at the heat of it. Yeah, he needs this inside of him like five minutes ago. Before he can even open his mouth, Mute reads his mind and indicates the bedside table with his chin, muttering a vaguely embarrassed: “Behind the beer, next to the bowls.”

I’m in love with a fucking slob, Smoke thinks and suppresses the immediate flare up of panic upon the realisation that yes, he still does, and never didn’t, and this really isn’t the moment. He manages to grab the bottle in question without causing anything to topple, not even the precariously balanced pile of books, and pours some of the massage oil into his palm to warm it up. “No lube?”, he asks, curious, and earns a shake of the head. “Babe, you gotta stock up.”

“Didn’t have the need so far.”

Smoke raises a brow. “Well now you do.” And if Mute was planning on replying, he’s stopped short by Smoke’s hand encasing his cock and gliding down from the head to the very base, then back up just as slowly to coat it in the slippery liquid. He’s chewing on his lower lip again, visibly holding back a moan which escapes him nonetheless as soon as Smoke’s thumb rubs over his frenulum. He’s so sensitive, eyelids already falling shut as Smoke pumps him lazily – it must’ve been a miracle that he lasted as long as he did last time. “Babe. Talk to me”, he requests, drinking in how Mute blinks up at him in return, gaze unfocused.

The answer is not what he’d expected, delivered in a marvellously hoarse voice, a deadpan: “Get on with it.”

Well. No need to tell him twice. He flashes a quick grin, stomach flipping when it’s met with a mirror image, and lifts his hips, shuffling further up until he’s positioned correctly. The tip of Mute’s penis kisses his hole and has him shudder already, the anticipation killing him. He’s been fantasising about this ever since Mute very nearly fucked him unconscious, and despite the differing circumstances he’s not any less aroused – Mute is gorgeous, and hot, and staring up at him like he hung the stars, which in and of itself makes Smoke’s dick throb as violently as his heart.

When he pushes down slightly, he has to make a conscious effort to relax and is rewarded with the addictive feeling of being opened by Mute’s erection, his ring of muscle stretching to accommodate and twitching once the head finally slips in, aided by generous amounts of oil. Smoke has to pause and breathe, already feeling full yet wanting more, adjusting slowly to the girth. Mute’s facial expression has slipped a tad, disbelief creeping in, and when Smoke eventually buries him a little deeper, Mute’s eyelashes flutter and his mouth forms a silent oh. His eyes flick up and down, not sure whether to focus on the spot where they’re now connected or Smoke’s face, and impatience has his lower half attempt to meet somewhat faster, forcing a whimper out of Smoke as the thick shaft pushes in further.

“Don’t move, babe”, he gasps, pressing down on Mute’s taut stomach muscles as if that’d actually stop him from anything, “wait. Don’t move yet.” It feels so good, having Mute inside at last, but he knows he should go slowly if he wants to enjoy the ride.

Mute draws a shaky breath yet nods, hands coming to rest on Smoke’s thighs, creeping up a bit, and then they push -

“And don’t do that”, Smoke tries to admonish him while swatting his hands away, fighting against the amusement showing on his face, “you’re unbelievable. Don’t touch me. No, don’t – put your arms up. Arms up, babe. Keep them there.” He relaxes once Mute has obeyed and gripped the headboard with both hands, pursing his lips in an adorable pout, and how is he this cute with half his cock up Smoke’s arse?

To ease the slide, Smoke leans back, propping himself up on the mattress next to Mute’s thighs, and allows the rest of Mute’s erection inside with small thrusts, going deeper and deeper until it bottoms out and that’s approximately when Smoke’s brain stops working. He throws his head back as he grinds against the impossibly big cock, still getting accustomed to the feeling of being filled completely, and moans through clenched teeth when it twitches hard against his sweet spot. He’s sleeping with Mute, again, they’re enjoying the same intimacy as before, and it’s not just a spur-of-the-moment thing, Mute wants him and Mute wants him instead of anybody else, and it feels so fucking good he’s getting light-headed.

True to his word, Mute stays perfectly still yet is betrayed by the muscles standing out in his strong arms where he’s holding on to the headboard; he’s trying so hard not to move Smoke takes mercy on him. He rises up and up until the head pushes against the inside of his entrance and then sinks back down, enveloping it in tight heat once again, drawing a pitiful noise out of his lover. The movement is smooth, Mute’s cock going balls deep without any trouble again, throbbing in pleasure. Just to be sure, Smoke repeats the motion, toes curling as Mute reaches deep into his guts, and then he does it again because he likes the helpless look Mute throws him too much.

Normally, he’d go for a witty quip or some more dirty talk (especially since Mute is weak to it), but another vicious throb inside him hits just the right place, so all Smoke grits out before starting to ride Mute in earnest is a quiet, heartfelt oh GOD. And then his world melts together into an onslaught of pleasurable sensations.

Being in full control means he gets to set the pace and the angle, which in turn means he’s slamming his hips down like his life depended on it while grazing his prostate with every downwards motion – he only needs half of Mute’s length for that, though he occasionally buries him all the way inside when he’s forgotten what overstimulation feels like, or when he has to take a momentary break, or simply whenever he wants to hear Mute moan like a whore. The sound alone would be enough for fierce need to pool low in his belly, and coupled with the sensation of impaling himself on Mute’s dick, it’s positively magical.

He relishes it all, Mute’s adorable, adoring glances, feeling the body between his legs tense up in pleasure, his own thrumming lust demanding for more and ever more. Internally, he’s fighting over whether he should draw this out and enjoy it for longer or instead take what he can, hoping for a round two, aim for an orgasm intense enough to knock his socks off. And though he’d initially vowed to make it last (in case this ends up being a one-off, but he’s not thinking that too loudly), he has to admit the latter option seems more tempting.

Mute’s chest is glistening with sweat, the labour of not doing any work clearly getting to him – his entire body is tensing up, muscles tight and dancing on display, abs twitching. The moans he produces are miserable, either it’s too much or not enough for him; Smoke can’t tell because Mute doesn’t tell, though the lack of complaints has to indicate something. Now and then, he rakes his gaze over Smoke’s entire body, head to toe, always getting stuck in the middle where he can watch his own dick disappear inside his fellow teammate, where he can watch Smoke’s own follow his motions, slapping against his belly. Mute’s mouth seems lonely. Smoke idly wonders whether Mute would suck him off if he asked, and whether he’d let him come down his throat. His tongue is certainly skilled enough to coax out a killer climax.

By now, Smoke’s body is protesting against the position, his arms trembling under his weight, so he takes the opportunity to lean forward, lean down and seal Mute’s lips with his own once more. Their kisses start out sloppy and only get worse as Smoke keeps grinding his hips, yet the extra stimulation from playing with Mute’s tongue and rubbing his poor, forgotten erection over Mute’s flawless skin is more than worth the awkward position. The lad snogs him like he needs it to live, all open mouth and thinly-veiled despair, arching his back and needy groans. Smoke enjoys it for a little longer, sucks on his lower lip while letting him go deep, but when he sits back up, it’s his gig again.

He’s steadying himself on Mute’s chest, pressing down on ribs and savouring the resulting shallow, fast breaths, and picks up the pace. It’s not perfect, he can feel the sheer size of Mute’s dick better though the angle doesn’t work as well, yet they’re closer like this, keeping up eye contact, sharing more body heat. It makes Smoke want to tell him, burst out with all the feelings he’s harboured for his friend; his heart is full and threatening to overflow and maybe, just maybe, he can chalk it up to the heat of the moment later. He got away with it last time, didn’t he?

“James”, Mute interrupts his thoughts before he can decide to act on them, “can I touch you? Please?”

And he’s nodded before he fully processed the plea because how could he ever say no to this man?

With a relieved sigh, Mute immediately makes use of the permission and runs his palms over Smoke’s thighs, follows the rolling of his hips and guides them gently before moving on to roam over the rest of his body. Curious fingers seek out all his erogenous zones as if they knew exactly what to aim for: fingertips brush over his throat and press down experimentally, causing Smoke’s breath to hitch and his rhythm to falter momentarily because holy hell how does he know. They push between their legs and stroke over the place where they’ve become one, force Smoke to pause for a moment while they prod at his hole, making him shiver in pleasure. Of course, they play with his nipples, twist throaty moans out of him and have him nearly fold in half at some point, hips stuttering and stomach fluttering.

Eventually, they explore his crotch, wipe up some of the oil from the base of Mute’s own cock to smear it onto Smoke’s, stroke and squeeze and massage even more powerless noises out of him. They adapt to his tempo, sliding up when he bears down onto the delicious piece of flesh, stroking him all the way to the base when he lifts his pelvis again. He can’t see straight anymore, the mixture of Mute’s eagerness to please and his dick hitting all the right places is too much for him, he’s rapidly climbing up towards his climax now. Mute steals his move by massaging the sensitive spot directly below Smoke’s glans and adds an unfair twist to his wrist on the upstrokes and if he keeps this up for just a little longer, Smoke is going to blow his load much sooner than he’d like.

“Babe, I’m getting close”, he warns his lover, “but don’t stop. This feels amazing, you feel so good.” Mute’s focused expression shifts into something Smoke can’t interpret, but what he can interpret is Mute’s hands letting go of his weeping erection to move back to the top of his thighs. “I said don’t sto-oh fuck -”

While he’s still reeling, Mute looks up at him with what can only be described as puppy dog eyes, full of feigned innocence despite knowing he’s being very naughty, probably expecting Smoke to tell him off yet before he can do so, Mute again slams up into him, to the hilt, at the same time pushing Smoke’s hips down to meet his thrust and Smoke’s vision is gone for a second.

This is too much. It’s too deep. He explicitly told Mute not to -

When Mute repeats the motion, one of Smoke’s arms gives in and he’s forced to steady himself on his lower arms instead of just his hands, which brings him much closer to Mute’s face, meaning the bastard can give him a quick, cheeky kiss before rearranging his insides. Again. “Babe”, he starts and whatever else he wanted to add is lost and replaced with a high-pitched whine because now Mute’s changed to a choppy, fast tempo, burying himself completely inside Smoke with each thrust and holding him in place, allowing for no escape. He’s got no choice but to let Mute have his way with him, he’s physically too weak to fight back and mentally too smitten to try – besides, it feels fucking sensational, it’s just – it’s the principle of it, he wanted to be in control this time and -

- and Mute slams right against his sweet spot and Smoke’s cock twitches so hard he worries about pulling a muscle.

Okay. Yeah.

This is fine.

He gives in with an animalistic, guttural groan and lets Mute mercilessly pound into him for the second time in his life. The lad is manipulating his body however he wants it, pushes him up so they can trade some more spit (because this has little to do with kissing anymore), lifts and drops his hips so he can reach as deep as he likes, digs his fingertips into strained thigh muscles to force out more half pained, half appreciative noises. When it becomes clear Mute is too occupied with scratching up Smoke’s sides and groping his backside to pay any attention to his neglected erection, Smoke (literally) takes it into his own hand and starts jerking himself to the erratic tempo of Mute’s movements.

His blood is hot in his veins, intensifying every shock of pleasure until he’s left simply whining into the crook of Mute’s neck, cheek against cheek, their chests pressed together, bodies moving in unison. He’s close, Mute’s ministrations brought him almost to the edge and now he’s hovering near it, pausing his strokes intermittently to not go too far, and their physical proximity is getting to him. Mute is cradling him in his arms, mouthing at and moaning against his skin, sweat-slicked and burning, thrusts getting faster, more desperate. His increasing urgency is contagious and Smoke finds himself babbling, he’s got no control over what comes out of his mouth anymore.

“Come inside me, babe, please”, he begs, probably preaching to the choir, “just tell me when. I love you. God, you feel so good. Don’t stop.”

Mute’s rhythm falters momentarily (and Smoke can guess why), he draws a sharp breath and buries his teeth in Smoke’s shoulder, the brilliant pain somehow amplifying the overwhelming need to come. “Don’t”, Mute mumbles around a mouthful of skin while he continues to bury himself balls deep. “James – don’t.”

There’s no stopping him now. Smoke repeats it, meeting Mute’s thrusts and his own fist with reckless abandon, says it again and again and Mute’s response in the form of a quiet, hopeless whimper is music to his ears. Though he doesn’t trust his own body to support him anymore, not with how wobbly he feels, Smoke lifts himself up with one arm to say it directly to Mute’s pleading, desperate, pleasure-contorted, beautiful face: “Babe. I love you.”

And, without any warning at all, Mute just explodes inside him. He shoves himself as deep as he will go, and comes, lets out a deafening moan that his neighbours probably had no chance not to hear, eyes rolling back, grip impossibly tight on Smoke’s waist. Smoke can feel every single spurt, feels the shaft inside him jump and it’s the most magical thing he’s ever seen, even factoring in the last time they did this – and since his own hand never stopped, kept stroking his own cock, he’s shoved off the edge also as soon as he realises what exactly it was that triggered his lover’s orgasm.

When the first storm front of blinding pleasure rolls through him, he involuntarily clamps down on Mute’s throbbing dick, causing it to twitch even harder, causing Smoke to tense up again, and so they shudder their way through their orgasms, heightening each other’s pleasure as they hold on for dear life. Smoke can hardly bear touching himself with how intense it feels, his cock shooting out white strands all over Mute’s torso as he trembles and pants and wallows in mind-numbing ecstasy; and below him, Mute squirms and moves against him, intent on prolonging this divine feeling even more. They end up riding it out in small motions, teeth gritted and fingers twitching, basking in the intensity of it until it starts to fade gently. Even then, they coast on the aftershocks once the overpowering sensations have mellowed out, puffing out incredulous breaths, eyes closed in bliss.

Eventually, Smoke’s arm does give in and he unceremoniously collapses onto Mute, trapping his too-sensitive dick between their bodies but not finding it in himself to care. Mute withdraws awkwardly, leaves behind an uncomfortable void and it’s a sign Smoke is sobering up that their general stickiness is beginning to bother him. Still, he enjoys the physical contact, the warmth, the all-encompassing exhaustion slowly taking over; his limbs are made of butter and bones no more than a suggestion. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to even slide off without considerable help. Maybe Mute won’t mind sleeping like this. Smoke certainly doesn’t.

He considers driving the point home by repeating himself post-coitus, though he assumes Mute wouldn’t appreciate it – in the heat of the moment, sure, he might interpret it as appropriate teasing, as a way for Smoke to assert what little dominance he can, possibly even a form of dirty talk (and that thought is particularly weird). But now? Now it’d carry weight. It would actually mean something.

And somehow, that prospect terrifies him.

Below him, Mute’s breathing has evened out to a point where it’s becoming suspicious, so Smoke nudges him. “Hey. No sleeping yet.”

The response is a disgruntled hum he recognises as Mute’s universal sign for ‘leave me alone, I’m too tired’. His eyes are closed, his entire body devoid of tension. Yeah, he’s gonna be useless like this, they’d better postpone talking until the next morning.

Groaning in agony, Smoke rolls off the other man, stretching and bending parts of his body so they feel like his own again, and eventually manages to pull the blanket out from all the crap under which it’s still buried. If Mute doesn’t care enough to keep his bedroom clean, surely he won’t mind come stains on his sheets.

He looks peaceful like this, forehead smooth, long eyelashes fanned out on his reddened cheeks, chest rising and falling slowly. While Smoke watches, Mute turns away from him and then backs up until they’re spooning, melts into Smoke’s negative space and shoves him slightly to indicate he wants to cuddle proper, only stops once Smoke has wrapped an arm and a leg around him, pulling him close. It’s adorable. It’s so fucking adorable Smoke presses his nose into Mute’s hair and tries really hard not to tear up.

This is what he wanted. Above all, this is what he’s been wishing for – the sex is nice, sure… well, it’s phenomenal, but really he craves proximity, trust, shared comfort.

He hopes with every fibre of his being that they can clear up whatever went wrong tomorrow.

.

Despite sleeping like the dead, Smoke wakes up first, blinking at the unfamiliar ceiling and requiring a few heartbeats to orient himself. They’ve lost most of the blanket overnight, though it’s not like they needed it – Mute is a space heater, radiating comforting warmth like nobody’s business. He’s still pressed against Smoke and taking deep breaths, sleep uninterrupted.

Smoke decides against waking him for now in order to sort his own thoughts and slips out of bed, stumbling into the bathroom to take a leak and a well-deserved shower. The shower gel smells of nothing but Mute and it feels like blasphemy to surround himself with this scent, yet he can’t stop himself. While the too-hot water drums on his skull, he tries to come up with a plan, any sort of… idea of how to untangle this mess. Which questions to ask, which answers to demand. Which topics to avoid, maybe. Which apologies to give first.

It could be the early hour, or the residual tiredness, or the fact that thinking straight while wrapping himself in a towel that also smells like Mute is nigh impossible: his mind is utterly empty. All he can do is exist until Mute perceives him, and then the two of them can decide how to move forward. It feels like he’s stopped grieving for the time being without allowing himself any hope, and the result is vast emptiness. Gone is the dread overshadowing his entire life, but gone is also the pleasant afterglow from last night.

No hope. Not yet. He wouldn’t want the same thing to happen twice.

For a lack of better options, he puts his sweatpants and t-shirt back on, if only to feel vaguely human again, and moves the pile of boxes onto the windowsill so he can sit down on the only chair in the room, slightly behind the bed. He’s got a perfect view of Mute’s sleeping face like this, angelic and unguarded. Choosing not to take a picture with his phone is one of his better decisions, that’s for sure – if it all goes south, he wouldn’t want to be confronted with it again, neither now nor in the future. For various reasons. If this goes well, he’ll be blessed with the view again anyway.

If.

Before he can debate how to wake the sleeping beauty, Mute starts stirring by himself and rolls on his back to stretch, arms spreading and hands moving as if he’s looking for something – but before Smoke can draw attention to himself, Mute sits up abruptly, eyes wide. He glances down the opposite side of the bed from Smoke before hissing out a heartfelt fuck, and then he’s suddenly scrambling to get out of bed, half tripping over everything in the process. He rushes out of the room, still swearing under his breath, and leaves his dumbfounded guest behind.

Smoke blinks.

He can hear Mute race through the apartment, throwing doors open and uttering increasingly desperate curses, and it’s obvious what happened. He’s thinking Smoke left. He must’ve not seen him in his peripheral vision, checked for his clothes only to find them gone, and seems to be unsuccessful in his current search.

What in the world. Unexpected doesn’t cut it, this is bordering on concerning territory. It’s an intense reaction to finding Smoke missing, to say the least, and he has absolutely no idea what to do with it.

A soft vibration by his thigh prompts him to check his phone and, to nobody’s surprise (but everyone’s worry), it’s Mute texting him. And although it’s no more than three words, they reek of desperation, were likely typed with shaky fingers.

Call me, his display shows. Please.

Smoke draws a deep breath and puts his phone down on the bedside table before getting up. He finds Mute in the living room, still naked, kneeling on the floor and clutching his own device in his hands as if it allowed him to breathe. There are scratch marks on his body, love bites all over, his hair a complete mess. And despite knowing their origin, Smoke finds that it all makes Mute look wild, cornered. Hurt.

“What are you doing?”, he asks, making the poor lad nearly jump out of his skin. He stares at him, mouth open, then gets up, a whole bunch of different emotions visible in his expression: confusion, despair, distress, panic, shame. He even tries to hide his nakedness somehow, which serves as a sharp reminder that he must’ve been more intoxicated last night than Smoke realised. This is the Mute he knows, the one who turns into a skittish animal whenever honest feelings are involved, and not the suave fuckboy who doesn’t even ask for permission before ramming -

“Let’s get back to bed”, Smoke suggests, voice gentle, and holds out his hand. He thinks he can see moisture glistening in Mute’s eyes and wonders: what happened to you, darling.

To Mute’s credit, he accepts the offer and interlaces their fingers once more, trails awkwardly behind Smoke and takes the first opportunity to hide most of his body under the blanket. Attempting to even the playing field, Smoke undresses before joining him, though it somehow doesn’t quell the lad’s nervousness. “Please explain”, he demands and now Mute also tries to hide his face.

“Fuck”, he says, eloquently.

Silent, Smoke keeps on holding on to his hand while carding his fingers through Mute’s mane, hoping the gesture helps to slow both their heartbeats. Neither of them utters a word until Mute has ceased his trembling and there’s nothing left but vague horror on his face.

“I’m – oh god, this is awful. I’m awful. I’m such a bloody moron”, he eventually mutters, shaking his head. His ears are crimson: an indication of how incredibly uncomfortable he must be right now. Smoke still understands nothing. “I’m so sorry. James, you don’t understand, and you won’t understand, but I genuinely am sorry. I just – I didn’t know. I didn’t know what to do, and what not to do, and so I did everything wrong -”

“Babe”, Smoke interrupts him, “as much as I enjoy watching you grovel, maybe you should tell me what in all of the fucks is going on.”

All Mute produces in return is something Smoke can only call a pitiful squeak, which clears up exactly fuck all. Alright. Different strategy.

“Then I’ll start. Because I’m sorry too.”

This, at least, penetrates the aura of embarrassment Mute projects probably without realising. “What?!”, he goes, almost indignant, previous terror entirely forgotten.

“I… took advantage of you. You know, last time. Well, yesterday too. You were -”

“No you didn’t.” There’s anger colouring his words now. “Bollocks. I told you to stay that time, didn’t I? You gave me every opportunity – and I initiated. Both times! What are you – don’t tell me that’s actually what you thought.”

Smoke frowns. “You were not in a position to give informed consent.”

“You know, that makes it worse. That makes it so much worse”, Mute muses, sounding fatalistic.

“What makes what worse?”

“Everything.”

They still haven’t moved forward a single step. “Look, why don’t you just… start at the beginning. What happened, why did you start avoiding me, what happened yesterday?”

“Okay.” Mute nods, rubbing over his face likely in the hopes it’ll help him get his brain in order (it doesn’t, Smoke has tried many times himself) and heaves a deep sigh. “Yeah. I suppose. But don’t hate me after this. And don’t laugh! Promise you won’t laugh.”

At this point Smoke would’ve given several toes if it meant he’d get a straight answer out of this idiot in front of him. He’s getting the creeping suspicion that he worried a lot about nothing and that Mute is even worse at communicating than he thought. “Sure. I promise.”

“Alright. Yes. Okay. Well, as you know – of course, you were there – we, um, there was the terrorist lab, and during the mission, I got, uh -”

Jesus fucking Christ. If Smoke wasn’t this tense about finding out what went wrong between them, he’d be a lot more amused about Mute’s waffling, but right now he doesn’t have the nerve to listen to it. “Yeah, yeah, you enthusiastically pounded several loads into my holes. Go on.” Mute fixes him with a unique mix of reproach and embarrassment. His ears are bright red. “Babe, you’ve had your cock all the way down my throat and you can’t even say out loud that we had sex?”

“This is part of the problem”, Mute grits out, sounding strained.

“My filthy mouth?” Smoke suggested it as a joke and did not expect for Mute to answer with a slight nod. “What, seriously? What? How?”

Wordlessly, Mute lifts the blanket and allows Smoke full view of his glorious cock, well on the way towards fully erect and proud.

“Oh”, says Smoke.

Mute drops the blanket again.

They look at each other for a few seconds, unmoving.

Well. There’s only one thing to do, probably. Smoke purses his lips and offers a quiet: “… want me to take care of that?”

.

Five minutes later, after Smoke has wanked his lover to completion, sucked on his nipples and cradled his balls while Mute shuddered and moaned through it all, he finally gets some answers. Mute’s orgasm has tangibly relaxed him, and while he pets Smoke’s head in absent-minded affection, he comes clean.

“I got too much in my own head, I suppose. I’m not normally that… dominant – unless I’m drunk apparently –, and I was worried you’d expect it of me afterwards. And I was sure you’d be disappointed. And then I started wondering whether you even had any interest in me, or whether you just saw it as a one night stand and that was it. Or whether you’d just want me for sex, or whether you would think I would just want you for sex when I suddenly showed an interest after we did it. It was a whole mess, I had myself convinced that we were doomed to fail, that you would laugh at me the next time we slept together, or that rumours would spread, or… something equally stupid. It was stupid. I was stupid, and I knew it, and I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“Moron”, replies Smoke, deadpan, startling a snort out of the other man.

“Yeah. I was. I am. It’s probably the only area in my life where I’m really self conscious.”

“You should be more self conscious about tidying your room.”

“Fuck off.” Despite the blunt reply, Smoke’s light banter has conveyed exactly what it meant to: it’s fine. I still like you. The pained expression on Mute’s face that showed as he talked about the sensitive topic had no time to solidify.

“And you’re aware you could’ve, you know, talked to me, right?”

“No! See? That’s the thing – I couldn’t!”, comes Mute’s emphatic response, and oh boy, this better be good. “I couldn’t talk to you. I tried. I almost did, once or twice, but it just… no.”

“Huh? Did I interrupt you? Or why?” Smoke seeks his gaze, confused, since he doesn’t remember the lad ever seeking him out for a serious conversation – sure, he’d looked at him a few times like he wanted to spill some beans, but nothing ever came out. And again, Mute gives him an almost accusatory stare before gesturing broadly in the direction of his own crotch.

“What?” He suddenly remembers Mute’s earlier remark as well as his… extreme reaction to Smoke’s dirty mouth, and the truth dawns on him. “… what.”

“Yes. I know. Tell me about it.” Mute seems genuinely upset. “I couldn’t. Every time I looked at you, I just remembered… god, it was so bloody hot that I couldn’t think about anything else while you were there. It’s like I suddenly had see-through-clothes-vision – which shouldn’t ever be called x-ray vision, thank you very much – because you might as well not have worn anything at all, ever, because I just… pictured you…”

Smoke’s mouth is wide open. He can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“And whenever you looked at me, it was even worse, it was like magnetic attraction or some shite. I couldn’t deal with it, not in public. I just couldn’t. You were too much. And acting on it would’ve been certifiably insane, we only saw each other at work which is an absolute no-go, especially after we’ve already done it on a mission – on a mission! – and the others were always around, and they’d know. Oh you know they’d know. So no chance. Nuh uh. Besides, you probably would’ve thought that all I wanted from you was sex which is not true, and therefore -”

“Wait. Wait, hold up.” It takes Mute several seconds to stop gabbing, he’s talked himself into a rage directed at himself and Smoke needs to take a huge fucking step back here. Because what the actual hell. “Mark. Are you actually telling me that the sole reason you ignored me for weeks, that the explanation for all the mental anguish I went through thinking you genuinely hated me, that I’d done something unforgivable to you, that I’d ruined a friendship and lost the love of my life, that all of that happened… because you got incurably horny around me and couldn’t deal with it like a grown adult?”

A long pause.

Smoke stares.

“I know, I know”, Mute is wincing now, face contorted in regret and shame, “there’s… no redemption there, I agree. But it was just… you called me babe once, I think on accident, and I had a boner for two hours – I had to hold a meeting in front of most of the others and I was adjusting my trousers the whole time, hoping nobody’s gonna say anythingand I know that doesn’t in any way compare to what you -”

“That”, Smoke cuts in, barely able to compose himself, “is so fucking funny.”

Mute blinks. Looks at him, bewildered. “What -”

He needs a moment before he can continue, eyes wide in disbelief and stomach clenching in suppressed amusement. “I – I promised not to laugh, so I’m not laughing. But if you think for even one second that I’d ever let you live this shite down, you’re sorely mistaken.” He can’t help the grin stealing onto his face, betraying the immense relief he feels – he’s giddy, his chest so light it feels like he could float away at any moment. God, what absolute idiots they both are, worrying about nothing when they’ve both wanted the same exact thing this whole time: each other. Hearing Mute say it (imply it, whatever, he said he wanted more than sex, which is good enough for him) leaves him dizzy and breathless and elated. “You can bet your pretty arse that I’ll be exploiting this for years to come. Oh, I’ll call you babe in public when you least expect it. Say goodbye to any kind of decency because I’ll -”

“Does that mean we’re good?”, comes the quiet, meek question which instantly disarms Smoke. His will to keep teasing his lover vanishes entirely, leaving nothing but fierce, helpless affection. Yeah, there’s no way he’s ever going to say no to anything Mute asks of him.

“Yeah. We’re good”, he confirms softly, kissing a dark purple spot on Mute’s shoulder before adding a grumbled: “Fucking gobshite.”

He earns a low chuckle and a tight embrace that feels like heaven. Like finally arriving after a long, arduous journey. Like a reunion at the airport. “I’m sorry”, says Mute again and Smoke has no doubt that he is.

Snuggling up to the light of his life, he mutters: “You do know that you owe me a variety of special favours now, right?”

And though he can’t see it, he’s positive Mute’s ears just turned a shade darker.

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 20🥃

Hey, so, uh... remember Day 8💋 and Day 9🍑? The Smoke/Mute PWP? Because I sure did. And I wrote a sequel, I just couldn't leave it at that and neither could they :) This is just the first part, second and last part and Smoke coming tomorrow! (Smoke/Mute, Rating E, explicit + emotional hurt, ~5.4k words)

(Also, I feel like I should tag you, @cerosin, because I "forgot" to mention there was a sequel back when I sent you the first fic - so, surprise? 😁)

.

Their eyes meet right after Smoke finds his footing following a dramatic combat roll to escape the exploding building. He’s carrying the bit of intel they so desperately need in form of a USB stick, and Sledge is elated when he hands it over – the mission was a success, there were no casualties on their side and Mute is staring at him like a hungry wolf at its prey. Oh yeah, they’re gonna do this.

“We’ll analyse this immediately”, Sledge tells them, ignorant of the sparks flying between his two friends, the raw animal magnetism, “are you coming with us?”

“You go ahead”, mutters Mute, not taking his dark eyes off of Smoke. “And don’t wait up.”

A minute later, Smoke’s back smashes against the remnants of a wall caught in the explosion, a wild beast tearing at his clothes and trying to suffocate him. Mute is ravenous, urgency guiding his movements as he undresses his lover and the same impatience makes them skip any foreplay: Smoke is ready, already open and wet and bends over at the insistent shove, pressing his cheek against debris and moaning into the dust cloud surrounding them when Mute pushes inside, deep and even deeper, stretching Smoke to his limit.

The feeling is wonderful and though they usually take their time, Smoke relishes this just as much, the hard thrusts, the heady pleasure, the sensation of warm palms keeping him in place. He could do this for hours, for as long as Mute wants to, and he knows if he keeps this up until his legs give in and then comes, it’ll be the sweetest -

His phone is ringing.

That’s what that sound is, piercing through the residual smoke and the victorious rush following the mission and the ecstasy of sleeping with the man he loves, sobering him up unpleasantly. Dragging him back to reality.

Right.

Smoke opens his eyes to the sight of his bedroom illuminated in mood lighting, wondering why he even bothered. He took a long bath, lit a scented candle (cinnamon is his favourite) and took his time doing some ‘self care’ but if he gets rudely interrupted like this, it’ll all be for nothing. He’s out of it now, the memory of a scene which never happened fading fast and with it the euphoria, leaving behind an uncomfortable embarrassment burning low in his gut. He knows what he’s doing is messed up. Isn’t it enough that he faces the shame afterwards, now he’s also gotta repent during?

When the song keeps playing for a while longer, he figures it’s urgent enough that he might as well take it. The night is ruined, it can’t get much worse, so he’s got nothing to lose. He stretches to reach his phone and the toy inside him shifts, pressing against all the right spots so he lets out a quiet whimper. Man, what a shame – he had it all figured out, the scene was so realistic and could’ve been so, so good. He should keep it in mind for next time. Maybe.

Unless he won’t be able to fend off the epiphany anymore that wanking to one of his co-workers who clearly rejected him is a recipe for unhappiness at best and disaster at worst.

“Hey mate”, Bandit’s voice booms out of the speaker once Smoke picks up the call. He sounds at the very least tipsy, if not wholly intoxicated. “You busy?”

Smoke glances at his flagging boner. “Not anymore. What’s up?”

“Can you come get me? I came by bike but… nuh uh. Too drunk. I’ll save some of the whisky for you.”

How is there nobody else for him to call? To be fair, Blitz is out of the country and Jäger drives like he flies helicopters, which is to say like a madman, and IQ won’t take any of his bollocks anymore, so alright. Yeah, maybe Smoke is the only one he can call. “I guess. Ask how expensive the bottle was though, I don’t drink anything below 30 quid.”

“Snob. I’ll send you a Google maps thing. Bye, love you!”

And with that, he’s gone. Smoke heaves a sigh and winces as he pulls the phallic object out of himself, feeling much too empty as a result. Fitting, really.

Only throwing on an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants which need to go in the wash anyway, he grabs his phone and keys and taps the location Bandit sent him to start the navigation. Maybe not all is lost and he can finish what he started upon his return, but he’s not hopeful – a pissed Bandit is a hilarious Bandit and though he’ll leave Smoke in a better mood than before, he certainly won’t rekindle his libido.

Distracted with thoughts about what to do with the rest of the night, he drives through familiar streets, turning familiar corners until everything becomes a little too familiar. About one turn away from his destination is when it finally hits him.

He’s heading directly to Mute’s flat.

The dread settles at the bottom of his stomach like a too-heavy dinner, poisoning his mind with a myriad of painful memories and even more painful possible outcomes to this encounter, and all of it is making Smoke’s fingers shake. He finds a parking space opposite the building yet is unable to exit his car, not when he might have to face him, not with his heart pounding like this.

You still work together, he reminds himself sternly, you see each other almost every day. This won’t be any different. You go up there and tell him you’re picking up Dom, and that’s that. No more interaction necessary. He won’t make it awkward if you won’t.

But what if Mute just shuts the door when he sees him?

What if he turns and leaves, refusing to speak to him altogether?

What if Mute yells at him to leave him alone, that he doesn’t want him and never wanted him and Smoke is a fucking creep and how dare he do what he did and it was the worst moment of Mute’s life he’s never felt so violated and he keeps having nightmares, jumping whenever anyone touches him and -

Good heavens.

Smoke rubs his temples and tries to get the spiral under control before he has a full blown anxiety attack opposite Mute’s house. None of the above will happen. The end result is usually somewhere between the worst and the best thing that could happen (and good God, Smoke can’t even imagine the best thing happening because it’s so agonising to entertain the idea), so it’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

Mute is fine.

Maybe he won’t even answer the door. Yeah, that’s a heartening thought – maybe Bandit is already dressed and waiting for him, said his goodbyes and Smoke won’t have to look at Mute for even just a second and he’ll drive Bandit home and then he’ll spend the rest of the evening sobbing into his pillow and whoops, there he goes, back to the dark place. That was fast.

Mute just won’t answer, because that’s the easiest option, and Smoke will be fine. He’s only been here a couple of times anyway, once to pick up the TV Ela wanted and Mute didn’t need anymore, once for Mute’s birthday. Once when Mute needed help carrying some decommissioned equipment home and Smoke stayed much longer than planned because they played around with it instead of unpacking properly and then Mute ordered food for them and they watched the beginning of a horrendous horror film while eating and then ended up watching the whole thing, and Smoke went home much too late that evening but felt like he was floating and looked at Mute differently from then -

Deep breaths.

Dom must be getting impatient. He should go.

The sound of him slamming his own car door shut startles him, as if he needed a reminder about his current mental state. He crosses the street, practising smooth one-liners with which to greet Bandit to convince him absolutely everything is fine, and breezily jogs up the stairs to the first floor. Bandit will answer, maybe Smoke will stick his head in to greet some of the others (because he heard party noises on the phone, so there’s clearly something going on, and no he isn’t obsessing about why he wasn’t invited), and then they’ll leave and it will all be alright. Maybe Mute will be in the bathroom. Or he’s too busy doing whatever to pay any attention to him.

Smoke knocks with a fake air of confidence, putting on a smile and straightening his clothes.

Mute opens the door.

He looks fucking gorgeous.

And Smoke feels his smile flicker.

.

How long has it been? How long since the fateful encounter which drove them apart?

When he tries to, he can recall every second of it, every noise, every small gesture, every gaze between them. These days, he doesn’t try anymore and yet the memories keep flooding his mind at the most inopportune moment – in the presence of others, in public, during a conversation, doesn’t matter, he’ll be minding his own business and spot an advertisement showing a bit of skin and bam he’s back with Mute’s cock down his throat trying desperately not to cum.

And Mute just -

Instead of turning him down, he simply stopped turning up.

Fucking coward.

Like Smoke can’t guess what’s going on when people start acting odd around him, side-eyeing him and asking in private whether there’s something wrong between him and his former best friend. Like he doesn’t know Mute flees as soon as he shows up, disappears around a corner, forgot about a meeting, needs to go right this moment. Like Mute isn’t telegraphing it loud and clear by not telegraphing anything, by ignoring texts, by forcing conversation when they have to, by quietly requesting to be assigned to a different team.

And that one stung. The other events hurt, sure, left a low ache where Smoke’s heart used to be, but knowing the very person he trusted so much, adored so much, loved so much – that this man couldn’t stand sharing any kind of space with Smoke? It left a mark. Because it might mean one of them has to leave Rainbow, and then they won’t see each other at all anymore, and Smoke knows how much being a part of the team meant to the both of them. How proud they are to have made it.

But what smoulders beneath it all is blinding, deafening, muting shame.

Because Smoke knows he overstepped a line. Took advantage of Mute’s vulnerability. Acted selfishly. No assurance of consent was going to be enough, not when the other man was in such a state, and instead of showing compassion and responsibility, Smoke took what he wanted and deluded himself into thinking it was mutual.

Well. Mute’s behaviour made it abundantly clear that the opposite was true.

He’s had terrible nights imagining Mute lie awake as well, remembering being touched against his will and wondering how to go on with his life.

And despite all this, despite any leftover rationality in Smoke screaming at him to apologise, to attempt to make amends, to talk it through with somebody, despite it all he can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop seeing Mute that way, flushed and sweaty and insatiable. He chooses him to star in his fantasies. Which makes the whole situation so much worse.

.

So yes, when Smoke stares at the object of his most shameful desires, he’s utterly tongue-tied – he won’t be able to express any of his inner turmoil in words nor will Mute be willing to hear it, so it’s best to just … ignore him. Acknowledge him with a non-committal greeting, enter his flat, grab Bandit, drag him outside and cry himself to sleep later, aaand he’s back to feeling sorry for himself. Because his best friend abandoned him. After he committed a heinous breach of trust.

This is not the most productive use of his time.

They’re still staring at each other, unmoving, seconds later. Mute has certainly been partying, his cheeks are reddened and his ears are following suit, the comfortable dark grey t-shirt looks rumpled and he’s barefoot. His expression is unreadable in the low light. He’s not letting go of the door.

“I’m here to pick up Dom”, Smoke eventually explains himself, to which Mute steps aside to let him in. This probably means he won’t fetch the German by himself, so Smoke takes it as an invitation to explore the flat – he passes the kitchen where glasses are piled up, and steps into an empty living room. It’s not a large apartment but Mute valued comfort over style and has crammed enough sofas and armchairs in that it easily houses a medium-sized get-together. Except all signs point to the very same having finished already: there’s no one here.

“He left with Seamus”, Mute speaks up behind him and his voice makes it suddenly apparent that he’s been drinking too, and not a small amount. He’s swaying slightly, blinking often, his tongue seems heavy. “Maestro picked them up. A few minutes ago.”

Well, that explains it. Smoke huffs in annoyance and is keenly aware of Mute blocking the only exit – rather, he’s standing in the doorway, looking as lost as Smoke feels. This is unbearably awkward. He feels like an absolute bellend.

“I think he set something aside for you. There’s a bottle in the kitchen.”

Oh, a win-win: Smoke won’t have to listen to Bandit’s drunken gibberish yet reaps the reward anyway. Focusing very hard on not paying Mute too much attention, he squeezes past him (and good god, the one half-shared breath has his heart skip a beat) to get to the dimly-lit neighbouring room, wondering when it became normal for the people around him to host a party without extending an invitation. It hasn’t happened often, but it has, though he remembers attending a few events with Mute conspicuously missing. Maybe they didn’t want to pick sides and chose each of them equally. What a cop-out.

His scalp is prickling and he realises how tense he is just from being in Mute’s private space. He should leave as soon as possible, though it’s likely the damage has been done; alcohol is a downer and painful memories tend to exacerbate a bad mood (for which Smoke is responsible, and he knows it). Picturing Mute fighting off demons on his own at night makes his heart ache, so he might have to say something. Advise against loneliness.

And he would know.

The bottle is labelled Tobermory, a brand with which he’s not familiar, and more than half empty. He’ll just grab it and leave, drive home and do the very thing he’s about to tell Mute not to do: drink alone. Maybe. Whatever lifts this crushing weight from his chest.

As he turns around, Mute is behind him again, staring with an uncomfortable intensity – does he feel so unsafe that he has to follow Smoke around his flat? Has it gotten that bad? His arms hang uselessly by his sides, fingertips fiddling with a loose thread sticking out of his jeans. He looks like he wants to say something.

And dear lord, there is so much at the tip of Smoke’s tongue. Above all, an apology, followed by a despairing plea to go back to a semblance of what they were, of needing to be a part of this beautiful young genius’ life; he’d beg for forgiveness if it meant Mute would be able to look at him again, exchange more than tactical communication during missions, not react with sudden panic when he tries to talk to him anymore. He knows he’s not owed any of it, far from it, but it doesn’t stop the excruciating longing inside him. To see him smile again. To just sit next to him in peace.

“James”, says Mute, calmly, with next to no slurring. And hearing his name uttered from this mouth almost causes him to tear up.

This is not the moment. Mute is tipsy at best, vulnerable and unguarded, and Smoke will not take advantage of him again. They can talk another time. Even then, worry and concern take over, take control of his tongue and voice some of his thoughts. “You shouldn’t be alone today”, he mutters. “Don’t spend the night by yourself.”

Mute’s expression shifts, he briefly looks taken aback and Smoke wants to smack himself – as soon as the words pass his lips, he realises how they must come across. Why does he keep making everything worse, always? As he scrambles to come up with an appropriate explanation, Mute takes a step forward. He didn’t take it the wrong way, did he? Then again, if Smoke ends up being smashed against the counter for his dumb mouth, he’d deserve it. And hey, if it makes Mute feel better, he’d gladly -

He’s really close now.

Close enough for Smoke to smell him and this is bad. Lowering his gaze does nothing to help, it gets caught on slightly parted lips, on the strong jawline, the exposed neck. The bit of collarbone peeking out. On the heartbeat visible through his shirt. Why is it so fast? Is he -

When Mute leans down, time stops. The world ceases to be. And then Mute kisses him. Just a bit, briefly, no more than a second, but their lips touch and Mute’s breath is on his skin and then it’s over again.

Smoke stares at him, thunderstruck. He – what just happened. Why did he – is this for real.

What even is going on.

Mute does it again, longer this time and Smoke’s body is catching up faster than his mind because he feels his still-loose hole twitch in completely inappropriate anticipation, and his dick is taking an interest in this sudden turn of events as well, and he wishes he could just shut off certain bodily functions. Because this isn’t right, he needs to tell Mute no instead of returning this heavenly, sweet kiss, needs to extract himself from this situation entirely instead of tilting his head like so, needs to stop this … fluttering sensation. Mute smells heavenly, his lips are as soft as ever, gently insistent. It feels so good. Better than any memory or fantasy.

???, goes his brain, not even able to form coherent thoughts as his former friend interrupts the slow kisses to lean back and look down at him with a mix of curiosity and something tantalising, something dark. This is wrong. They can’t do this, he can’t do this, not without clearing the air first, having a proper sit down and talk. Yeah. He should tell him. He needs to tell him they have to cease right this instance. He plucks up the courage to open his mouth and say something, and what comes out is a breathy, pleading, pitiful: “… babe.”

Mute grabs him by the shirt and slams him against the kitchen counter – fulfilling Smoke’s prophecy in a very different way – before crushing their mouths together once more, stifling the embarrassing moan to escape Smoke’s throat at the gesture. He’s half hard now, wrapping his arms around Mute’s neck and basking in his body heat, their proximity. Despite having no idea what got into Mute, his first instinct is to set aside all doubts and enjoy the moment for as long as it lasts.

Which is a terrible notion. It’s what destroyed Mute’s trust in the first place. But how, how is he meant to refuse this? How could he ever?

When it might be the reconciliation he’s been yearning for?

Mute’s tongue is licking any sense out of him, leaving him reeling with its determination to coax out more and more noises, and the delicious way their bodies slot together like they were made for it rapidly fogs up his brain. Heat pools in his crotch, both front and back and he sharply regrets not finishing before driving here – the wanton need merely slept instead of being sated and now awakens with renewed hunger, tugging on his sinews to get him closer to Mute, even closer, press their lower halves together with an undignified moan followed by an ardent echo when his own half-hard shaft meets another.

Fucking hell, Mute is really into this.

Two cool hands slip under Smoke’s shirt and one rests on his lower back, holding him in place if not forcing them even closer, while another creeps up his side, drawing small ticklish circles with its thumb before digging in between his ribs, following the movement of his laboured breaths, rising whenever his ribcage expands. He can’t think straight, is rapidly turning into a hot mess especially when Mute’s hips grind against his own, forcing him to acknowledge the entire length of Mute’s cock, every inch tangible and coaxing out memories. Inconvenient memories. Memories of being bent over a crate and coming undone, coming untouched, of -

A sharp jolt of pleasure has him snap his lower half forward without meaning to: the long fingers exploring his chest have found one of his nipples and started caressing it gently, brushing over it with a fingertip, pinching it slightly. Smoke interrupts their mind-numbing snogging to hiss a quiet fuck, repeats it when Mute continues his ministrations and adds a low moan at wet lips sucking on the side of his neck. He feels both malleable and utterly trapped: Mute’s body is basically wrapped around him and now he’s moulding Smoke however he wants to, he’s shoved a leg between Smoke’s and starts pressing against his crotch, lifting him slightly while bending his upper half backwards to allow for better access to his neck and jaw.

It feels fucking amazing. It shouldn’t, but it does. Smoke is reminded of being at Mute’s mercy and relishes the memory. He’s more than ready to give himself up once more.

“Do you like this?”, Mute mutters, slurred voice a low rumble over Smoke’s skin as he keeps stroking over his nipples with varying intensity, brushing lightly before pinching. “Does it feel good?”

Jesus Christ, now that the lad is (mostly) of sound mind and not preoccupied with getting himself off as fast as possible, it turns out he’s a tease. Smoke is struggling to stay upright as it is, there’s no chance he’ll be able to engage in any kind of conversation or voice his preferences when he can groan in pleasure and hump Mute’s leg instead. His hole is pulsing by now, hungrily clenching around nothing and no doubt weeping for Mute’s girth, and still there’s a tiny voice at the back of his mind asking him whether he really wants this. Whether he’s ready to trade these sensations for a friendship. Again.

“Babe”, he says, and he genuinely wants to demand they stop. He does. He really, really does. If Mute doesn’t listen, there won’t be anything he can do, Smoke’s body is too charged, too sensitive not to go along, but chances are good Mute will listen. If Smoke earnestly asks him to stop, he will. There’s no doubt.

Except, well, before he can utter anything else, Mute kisses him again and these aren’t ‘I hate you but I’m a horny drunk so let’s get it on’ kisses. They’re not ‘I just want sex from you’ kisses. No ‘I’m confused about what I want’ kisses. Mute doesn’t half-arse things, and neither does he half-arse capturing Smoke’s lips in such sensual, deep, adoring kisses that he’s rendered speechless. Though his nipples continue to be abused in the most titillating way, one of Mute’s hands finds the opportunity to bury itself in Smoke’s luscious hair and softly tilt his head into the kiss. Their tongues aren’t involved at first, it’s just smooth lips pressing against his own, chasing his, a relieved sigh following as if uttered by a reassured lover, a gentle massage of his scalp, a tight embrace, a body melting against his.

These are ‘we just reunited after being apart for too long’ kisses. ‘Meeting at the airport after a long vacation’ kisses.

Holy hell.

They’re ‘I missed you so much’ kisses.

Oh boy. Something has happened here and though Smoke can’t identify it yet, his body realises much sooner what it means – he might be able to enjoy this guilt-free after all.

The moment Mute’s tongue touches his is the moment he suddenly becomes aware of how soon this is going to be over if they don’t quit dry humping. Smoke’s primed enough as it is, desperate for any kind of release (even into his sweatpants) and throbbing at this point, the lack of an orgasm earlier coming back to bite him since the roaring need blots out everything else. They have to get a move on, so he bravely reaches between them and unclasps Mute’s belt using what little brainpower their lovely making out leaves him. He keeps moaning into Mute’s mouth despite trying to concentrate on getting his jeans open and eventually just admits defeat, fingers too shaky and mind preoccupied with all the wonderful sensations everywhere on his body.

“I’m gonna come”, he gasps as a last resort, “babe please, I’m gonna come soon. Wait. Please wait, oh fuck -” One of his nipples is twisted in response, causing his erection to jump, and Mute latches onto his neck again, sucking so insistently there’s no doubt it’ll show. Which is a gesture too hot for Smoke to handle right now. “Babe. Please. I can’t -” A hard rod presses against his own, startling a helpless mewl out of him. This isn’t good. He can’t control himself, not near his climax like this, so he’s relying on Mute to do the right thing.

…an intoxicated, horny Mute, and yeah, maybe this isn’t one of his better ideas.

In his desperation, he resorts to the only possible action capable of halting his impending doom and twists in Mute’s arms, writhes until he’s awarded enough leeway to fully turn around and have Mute rub against his arse instead. Which is only a marginal improvement seeing as the large dick fits beautifully between his cheeks and it reminds him too sharply of the position in which Mute fucked a hands-off orgasm out of him.

He wonders whether Mute will manage a repeat performance and feels his face grow warm at the thought.

Arms snake around his torso, conveying Mute’s unwillingness to let him go, and a hand dives down past the waistband of his sweats, meeting nothing but skin. Oh, right. He didn’t dress properly, did he.

“Oh my god, James”, purrs Mute right into his ear, making him squirm. It’s the second time Smoke’s name falls from his lips and where the first occurrence sounded composed, this time it’s both scandalised and excited. He better not think this is all premeditated, it’d kill Smoke if his friend (ex-friend?) assumed he turned up here expecting to get laid, though there’s still one detail left to discover which will undermine him even further. Best not to beat around the bush then.

Well, that and he really, really, really wants Mute’s gorgeous cock inside him right this instant.

He’s overwhelmed as it is, there’s teeth at the nape of his neck and now Mute’s wrist is warm against his dick, deft fingers cradling his balls like they were made for it (and how does he know all of Smoke’s sensitive spots, he exploits everything as if someone had given him an instruction manual, turning Smoke’s knees into butter and his brain into mush), and Smoke can’t. He can’t. He doesn’t care they haven’t shed a single piece of clothing or exchanged an honest sentence since he came here, couldn’t care less about more foreplay or god knows what. Propping himself up on the counter with Mute draped over him like an overprotective, jealous lover, in between jumps of his cock in reaction to the indirect stimulation, he pleads: “Just put it in, babe. I’m ready. You can fuck me right here.”

And though the Mute in his head reacts with unbridled enthusiasm by taking him up on the offer with no hesitation (and wouldn’t that be amazing, just getting railed in Mute’s kitchen mere minutes after arriving, he’d come so hard he nearly passes out staring at the bottle of whisky Bandit put aside for him and all would be fine again), the real-world Mute pauses for a second. Lets go of Smoke’s balls to reach around to the other side, brushes over a quivering hole that instantly relaxes against the probing fingertip, undoubtedly notices how wet it is.

Don’t ask me about it, Smoke implores him mentally, just don’t ask and do it. Please. Fuck now, talk later. Come on.

Two fingers are shoved inside him, pushing the air out his lungs. Smoke lets out a small, helpless noise and then another when the fingers move inside him, push deeper, twist and scissor – not as wide as the toy he’d used earlier but more precise, brushing over his sweet spot with worrying accuracy as he whimpers in disbelief. He stares into nothingness while Mute explores his insides, makes his entire body curl in sudden lust whenever he hits that special place and yes, maybe getting fingered to completion is fine too. The third one finally blurs his vision and nearly has him smack his head on the kitchen counter in response to an especially vicious twist of Mute’s wrist – and though he’s enjoying himself, he idly wonders whether Mute wants some loving, too.

He’s not left wondering for long.

“Bedroom”, Mute orders, voice thick. His fingers withdraw, leaving Smoke gaping and gasping. “Let’s…” A shaky intake of breath, then another, quieter: “… bedroom.”

The lad doesn’t move until Smoke does, probably stalking after him so Smoke can’t see his face (which he already has anyway, and Mute looks as unguarded and open as he did last time: cheeks and ears flushed, off-balance, longing, beautiful). Walking is awkward due to his legs not cooperating fully after Mute just tried to reach into his guts, let alone the general haze clouding his mind; but what it does is allow him a few seconds to think. Unimpeded by curious hands roaming over his body, by an insatiable mouth requiring contact at all times.

He misses Mute’s touch already.

Still… how did they end up like this? A tinge of his previous doubts remains as he himself knows how powerful nostalgia can be, especially when amplified by alcohol. But surely, that can’t be it.

And even if it is, Mute won’t blame him the next day. Right?

… right?

Two details cause this line of thought to screech to a halt: one realisation, the other more immediate. The first is the fact that Mute’s bedroom is an absolute mess. Smoke remembers the layout of this flat, legs carrying him to their destination without any presence of mind required and it doesn’t click until he’s pressed down on the handle, made the door swing open. Clothes are strewn about everywhere, the small desk is crowded with all kinds of shite, the bed is unmade, the wardrobe door askew, a few dirty dishes piled up on the bedside table. No doubt none of Mute’s guests set foot in here this evening. Yet Smoke is allowed to, even asked in, invited into the most intimate part of Mute’s living space and the implications aren’t lost on him. Mute could’ve left him in the kitchen, or they could’ve moved to the living room. Instead, they’re here.

The second one begins as a light touch and changes into a hand wrapping around his, reacting to his prompt by interlacing their fingers, holding on tight. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears as he stands there like an utter idiot amid this mess, face burning, clutching Mute’s hand so hard it must hurt, and doesn’t dare move a muscle in case all of this vanishes in a single second. In case it’s some fragile, wishful dream. They’re holding hands. And Mute initiated.

What the fuck.

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 19💤

One of my all-time favourites and a reliable obsession today, unusually sweet 😊 Please enjoy! (Thatcher/Lesion, Rating T, fluff, ~1.3k words)

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For a long while, it’s with envy that Thatcher watches Lesion sleep.

When he was younger, he could do it at the drop of a hat, the SAS training taught him a lot and this was a part of it he never forgot: focus on your breathing and you’re gone in seconds. Sleeping on command was essential during high stakes missions, every minute counted as he was required to be alert for long periods of time and needed enough energy. He didn’t have the luxury of reading before bed, reviewing the day or getting comfortable, not when fifteen minutes of refuelling was all he had to get him through a few more hours of action.

As he gets older, he needs less of it overall. Which is fortunate, because falling asleep has become a chore – his mind roils and thunders, unearthing troubles thought long-forgotten as well as infinite worries for the future. This part is particularly mean, his memories are finite, his imagination not so. And therefore, he tosses and turns, gets back up to drink some tea or wander around or click through channels he doesn’t care about anymore. He’s grown weary of so many joys of his youth, overdid too many things until they’ve become bland and lost all temptation, and this is just one of them.

He watches on, bewildered and with irrational irritation rising up in him, as Lesion proceeds to sleep in any position possible, in all kinds of scenarios. After a long day, they’re transported to their final location by helicopter and Lesion’s helmet is touching the glass, vibrating along with it yet failing to disturb the quiet snoring. Once they’ve landed, he’s all chipper and cheerful again, his usual self, courtesy of no more than twenty minutes of shut-eye. Or the morning after they stayed up all night tailing someone, when Thatcher passed on their target’s destination and got the order to stand by for five minutes – Lesion slumped in his seat, got comfortable by shifting back and forth like a small animal snuggling into its nest, and dozed off. Just like that. In the middle of a chase.

It’s not that the man needs more sleep than Thatcher, quite the opposite, he just seems to strategically pick the best opportunities he can find. He does so with an air of efficiency Thatcher appreciates since it’s so unlike Lesion in many ways (he’s competent, punctual, all kinds of things, but efficiency doesn’t rank very high, tradition has coloured a lot of his world view and as much as Thatcher would like to pretend he’s any different, he can’t).

He notices Lesion sleeps best in the presence of others. Idle chatter seems to reassure him, white noise, bustling activity, just signs of life allow him to drift off more easily and so Thatcher watches, green with envy, whenever Lesion naps during a particularly boring film or while waiting for anything, during dull phone conferences, in all those situations where Thatcher wishes he could use his time more wisely. Sleeping on command is such a useful skill he curses himself for losing it, meaning he now vicariously lives through the other man.

After a while, he knows all of Lesion’s tells, the anticipatory yawn before he announces his intent to doze for a bit, the way he breathes once he’s fully under, the difference in breathing and the shifting he exhibits when he’s about to re-emerge. Thatcher begins remarking on it, suggesting a proper spot when Lesion’s eyes glaze over or when he suppresses the first yawn, insisting on getting him comfortable and not taking no for an answer because he’s seen Lesion sleep while hugging a bag of trash, with a cat draped over his face, upside-down with his legs on the backrest of a chair, on top of an actual pile of bricks. And that just won’t do.

Admittedly, it’s kind of cute. Almost childlike in its innocence, the way Lesion blearily blinks at bright lights when he’s awake again, the small sounds he sometimes makes, his smooth, unguarded face devoid of any worry. Thatcher has noticed him chewing in his sleep on several occasions and had to stuff a fist into his own mouth to stop himself from laughing. Besides, it reminds him of a cat, lazily stretched out, confident, trusting. And that’s kinda it, isn’t it, the fact Lesion considers him enough company to feel safe. He needs white noise from many people around him, or Thatcher. He sleeps best in the middle of a crowd, or in Thatcher’s presence. It’s nice. He doesn’t mind it.

The envy dissolves into inner peace somewhere through the years, and Thatcher is left smiling to himself whenever his friend nods off. It’s an adorable personality quirk, a testament to their friendship, a source of amusement – they both crack jokes about it, Lesion entirely without embarrassment and suitably proud of his ability, Thatcher repeatedly comparing him to an old man. He even tries to join him, closes his eyes for the same period of time, attempts to empty his mind but finds it impossible. He either waits long enough each evening until darkness swallows him whole, or he passes out from exhaustion, nothing else seems to work.

Until one day, when Lesion suggests Thatcher join him. The offer comes without an ulterior motive, without any awkwardness at all, and likely based on sympathy: Thatcher has voiced his frustrations before and Lesion’s helpful advice has so far yielded no positive result. This seems to be the next logical step and Thatcher has no real reason to refuse, so he finds himself fully clothed on top of Lesion’s bed, his back pressed against the other man’s, trying to will himself to sleep.

No chance. He’s not sure why he thought it would work, and when Lesion stirs against him, he stretches as well and glances at the alarm clock telling him that somehow, half an hour has passed. And despite Thatcher swearing on his honour that he didn’t sleep for a second, despite him being able to name several topics with which he concerned himself during the time, it did not feel like thirty minutes. Meaning they have to repeat the experiment the next time Lesion visits, when he announces he’s going to take a short nap before they continue their film marathon. Thatcher follows him to the bedroom, obediently switches off the lights and wakes up at two in the morning because he needs to pee.

Well. No use staying up now, is it? Once he’s switched his normal clothes for pyjamas, he returns to find Lesion has not only discarded the majority of his garments as well as taken up most of the mattress in his absence but also fallen asleep again, leaving Thatcher no choice. He climbs back into bed and throws some of his limbs over Lesion’s just so he fits somewhere, prompting the other man to wake, tiredly grumble and struggle against him, meaning Thatcher very reasonably explains to him that he can’t just steal the whole bed while extremely unreasonably playfighting with him, and Lesion makes an unsavoury and inappropriate remark that manages to push exactly the right button, and suddenly they’re both very much not tired anymore.

After another hour, Thatcher sleeps like the dead, a dreamless, reassuring, comforting slumber. So addicting that he suggests to Lesion a repeat performance the next day to establish whether it was a fluke or they’ve actually found a reliable way of helping Thatcher doze off.

It turns out to be the latter, to both their satisfaction.

So now, when Thatcher watches Lesion sleep, he does with a smile and the knowledge he’ll be doing much the same at the end of the day.

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 18💔

More of the Smoke/Mute uni AU! We're getting close to a point where the two of them actually talk to each other - I wasn't kidding about the slow burn 😁 (Rating G/T, slice of life/fluff, ~1.7k words)

.

James spots him mid-sentence. It’s likely not the most appropriate choice to interrupt himself just to yell a cheerful ‘hi Mark!’ across the public space yet instead of sparking irritation, Morowa merely chuckles in amusement. The ground is still wet from a downpour earlier, street lights and the bright pub sign reflecting on the glistening asphalt, refracting into glittering spots awarding the night a more glamorous flair than it deserves. Up until recently, his day could’ve gone better, his sleeping place not yet secured as Seamus is out of town and James is too proud to ask anybody else, plus the presentation due for tomorrow isn’t even half done.

He can wing it, but his contribution to the seminar so far has been shaky enough that he’d prefer to earn a good mark on it.

But Jordan invited him to their little hangout and there’s no refusing where Jordan is concerned, that man knows how to have a good time – so James tagged along and tried his best to enjoy himself, downing a few pints during this endeavour, and then he ran across Morowa. Finally. The woman can be more elusive than the Yeti if she’s busy, and no doubt she’s been keeping her schedule full following their break-up.

“- I guess what I ultimately want to say”, James continues after Mark has acknowledged his presence with a nod from a distance away, “is that I’m fine. And I’d still like to live with you.”

His ex-girlfriend’s smile is blinding, reminding him of why he developed a crush on her in the first place. She takes his hand, squeezes it, deems it as not enough and pulls him into a tight embrace: physical contact is important to her, be it with friends, family or her lovers, and it’s reassuring to witness there’s no hesitation in her affectionate gestures towards him. “I’m so glad to hear that”, she replies, voice laden with emotion. “It might sound odd, but I missed you this last week. Still… are you sure?”

Her question is warranted and he’s fully aware of the implications: she’s always expressed her desire for a more active, more varied love life, in dating other people. And though her admittance that she didn’t even kiss anybody else while the two of them were together filled him with gratitude, guilt overshadowed his relief. Because she’s been nothing but open and communicative with him, from the start, whereas he selfishly assumed it’d somehow work out regardless. So now, what he has to decide is whether he accepts her moving on and possibly bringing other people home while the two of them remain friends and roommates.

After some more deliberation which is just for show, really, he’s spent the last seven days pouring over this exact dilemma, he nods with confidence. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Then you best take your key back.” And another problem solved.

They spend a few more minutes detailing the specifics, exchanging heartfelt messages of support and being generally sappy until he notices the other woman waiting a few feet away, shifting from foot to foot. “Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you. You off to somewhere?”

Morowa confirms and introduces her friend as Emmanuelle. “We’re helping someone else move out. Difficult situation.”

“If anyone needs a slogging, call me.”

“Will do.” A last grin, a last hug, and off they trot.

James imagined the conversation to go worse somehow, to involve more emotional suffering, yet both of them saw the end coming from miles away. It hurts less than he expected. Doesn’t make the void in his chest feel any better, though. To take his mind off it all, he saunters over to the only two other people in the street, one of them a tall, reasonably buff bloke with a pretty face and wild hair and the other one a bubbly fountain of neverending commentary. He’s never seen them together yet it’s obvious the shorter lad is a close acquaintance of Mark’s.

“- no more panel discussions, please. If you ever go see improv again, I’m with you all the way, but if I have to listen to another hour of pseudoscientific shite from old, white men, I’ll throw up in my mouth”, he chatters away as James joins them. “Hi! I’m Julien. Honestly, I don’t know who sets up those talks but they really need to -”

It takes another minute until James can introduce himself, sparking recognition in the young man’s face. “Aren’t you the dude who set the lab on fire two years ago?”

He smirks, offers a casual shrug. “Maybe.”

“You’re a fucking legend! I think the profs still use you as a bad example.”

Mark opens his mouth for the first time since James caught sight of him tonight: “Don’t you need to leave?”

“Ah fuck.” Julien checks his phone, frantically types out a reply while almost vibrating in place with suppressed energy, then gives a little wave. “Gotta run, bye James. Bye babes, don’t stay out too long!” He stretches to place a kiss on Mark’s cheek despite the lad trying to lean away from him, and hurries off in the same direction as Morowa earlier. James wonders whether it counts as stereotyping or something similar to assume that Julien and Emmanuelle know each other, them both obviously being French. Morowa would know what to call it.

Being left alone with Mark is always a little like being dropped into cold water, his presence starts out as suffocating, robbing James of any words he might know, of the ability to string them together to form a sentence. It’s not unpleasant yet he’s filled with the irrational urge to impress him, the pressure of which building until he either comes up with a topic to save himself or blurts out the first fully-formed sentence taking shape in his mind. Not that they’ve spent much time together, James simply has started making a point out of striking up a conversation with Mark whenever he sees him. Constant dripping wears the stone – he will befriend him, no matter what.

“Who’s he, then?”, he asks, motioning in the direction of the young Frenchman jogging along. Out of habit, he pulls out a cigarette, offers one to his companion who takes it with a nod before it’s lit up and welcomed by his lips.

“An idiot”, is the curt reply. There’s fondness in his voice and it suddenly clicks in James’ head.

While Julien gave him significant gay vibes, the kiss on the cheek could’ve been one-sided, something done between friends. But there’s the bracelet again, peeking out of Mark’s sleeve, three beads on it representing a very real flag James has encountered a few times before. It’s the toothpaste flag, as Morowa calls it, and either Mark is an overly specific supporter of just one group in the community – or he is, in fact, gay. And for some reason, this changes something about him in James’ mind, though he’s utterly unable to put it into words. He eyes him with a new kind of interest and tells himself it’s the same as if he recently found out one of his relatives was working in chemistry research – it’s a common ground of some sort. He’s now more determined than ever to get to know more about him.

“What?”, says Mark and James realises he’s been staring at him.

“You’ve been working out”, he states. Apparently it’s a day where he cracks under pressure and loses all control over what comes out of his mouth. The nod he receives encourages him, so he adds: “I remember your goal was to look good. You’re almost there.”

A brow rises, a silent question. Mark’s cigarette lights up as he sucks on it, brightens his face and contours his cheekbones, the sharp jaw.

“Now you just gotta do something about your hair.”

Mark scoffs, features softening (which is almost the same as a smile) and he runs a hand through the bird’s nest on his head. It looks soft. James wonders whether he had one or two drinks too many. “You do chem, right?”

“Yeah. And you’re in engineering?”

Superfluous information: Mark apparently deems it as irrelevant and ignores his question outright. “Think you can settle a debate?”

Gosh, is this genius actually asking for his help? James curses himself for not crossing his path earlier in the library so he could show off there – he should ensure there are witnesses at all times. “Sure, about what?”, he offers easily, trying not to let his giddiness show, but it seems it’s not the prodigy himself who requires his expertise. Mark indicates the pub with his chin, prompting James to stub out his fag and follow him inside to the loudest corner in the whole room.

Jordan is there, of course, a few of his friends and others James has never seen before, and it becomes clear very quickly they’re arguing about explosions. And oh boy, they better strap in, because this, this is right up his alley. Mark grabs a chair and James slides onto the bench, waiting for the perfect moment to cut in. And when he does, when all eyes are suddenly on him, everyone soaking up his vast knowledge with greedy curiosity, the day is saved.

The longer he talks, the more he indulges various ‘what if’-scenarios, the more anecdotes he drops… the more alive he feels. Someone takes copious notes for her pen-and-paper campaign, someone else really explores the edges of what can be proven scientifically, someone else offers supplementary knowledge that complements James’ own. They end up devising explosives for a variety of use cases, ignoring the odd glance from the tables around them, and James drinks too much.

When some of them exchange numbers at the end of the evening, he discovers Mark has left them half an hour ago. And though he thoroughly enjoyed himself, is left buzzing and beaming, full of enthusiasm, having made several new friends, it still feels a little like he missed out on something.

He’s just not sure what it was.

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 17✅

Not much time left now, a week and a day! This one is just a 'slightly confused, but they got the (romantic) spirit' fic that's Nighthaven-centric because I still adore them 😊 (Wamai/Ace, Rating M, fluff/sexual themes, ~2k words)

.

Ace discovers very quickly that Wamai can’t say no.

Not really.

He witnesses it in his early days at Nighthaven, when he’s still overwhelmed with the resources they have available, the outreach, the reputation, all the opportunities: Kali asks for a coffee and Wamai is on it. She demands an explanation and Wamai gets it for her. Dropping hints about firepower, and Wamai sets it in motion. At first, Ace believes it’s because of her position yet whenever Osa requests anything, the second-in-command jumps as well.

Never with the enthusiasm of a mindless golden retriever, never projecting the aura of someone desperate to be accepted, thirsting to be liked. Never out of self-interest, a calculated action working towards a higher goal. No, Wamai simply does it. Nods and gets on with it, as if his job description read ‘do stuff for people whenever they ask’ and he takes it serious to a point where he fulfils his role well without obsessing about it in his downtime.

Thinking about it, Wamai does most things that way, with a calm acceptance, always ready to crack a smile without contributing to the humour, efficient and attentive. It’s almost as if he’s a blank piece of paper and only comes alive when anyone writes on it.

So yeah, it doesn’t take long for Ace to fall into the same habit. Not quite as crassly as Kali and starting out small, like adding to a drink order when Wamai is already running, or asking him to perform some other task along the way. He’s careful not to make the other man take a detour of any kind, tries not to impose, but when all is executed without even the hint of a complaint or similar, he grows bolder. Until it becomes second nature, until he catches himself making the same demands of other people who look at him like he’s lost his mind.

Wamai helps him take photos for his blog, passes him his phone when he currently can’t reach, googles things for him he’s too lazy to look up, holds his backpack while he adjusts his clothes. Wamai explains all the folklore passed down through generations when asked, demonstrates how he prepares for long dives, recounts all the beautiful and terrifying experiences he’s had underwater, teaches Ace how to scuba dive. Wamai listens when he raves on about Norway and how he misses his family and friends, keeps him company after a harrowing mission and even trudges along to pubs despite not drinking anything.

So when Ace asks him, thoughts lazily trailing around his mind, limbs heavy with intoxication, eyes glued to the attractive body of his companion, when he asks him the one thing he’s secretly wondered about for the year they’ve known each other now, when he with his slurred words poses the question, he messes up. Because he phrases it as: “Do you want to sleep with me?”

And Wamai, stone-cold sober, probably still riding his high on the residual adrenaline in his veins, replies with: “Do you want me to?”

Not phrased as a request, it’s useless. Ace averts his eyes and mumbles a quiet forget it into his drink, fully expecting never to speak of this again or for Wamai to snitch and Kali never letting him live it down, or something. He should’ve asked differently, or come clean: he’s curious, he’s physically attracted, he’s lonely, he’s horny, he thinks they would be compatible. All of the above are applicable, he could’ve chosen any combination of them and used them as an introduction to a proper request. Or even order.

The next fifteen minutes are some of the worst of Ace’s life so far. Filled with despair over not wanting to make it awkward, he carries a conversation all by himself, babbling until even he has no idea what he’s on about, all the while micro-analysing the tiniest movements of Wamai’s body, looking for signs of discomfort or even interest and finding absolutely nothing. His brain is going haywire, attempting to salvage the situation somehow but uncertain what to do, and eventually he just downs his drink in one go and blurts out: “Yeah. I want you to sleep with me.”

To his utter and absolute amazement, Wamai just nods and says: “Sure.”

And good god, it’s awkward. Looking back, Ace identifies all of his mistakes, realises what he was trying to do, but in the moment, it’s just two people bumping into each other without apologising. He has endless preferences, about setting, the right way to make out, where and how to touch him and so on, projecting the same attitude onto Wamai and not accepting his I’m fine with anything as an answer. He tries so, so hard to get the other man to admit something, to fell any kind of decision while simultaneously making sure his own needs are met that it’s impossible to kill the mood – because there is none.

Part of him probably experiences guilt over feeling like he pressured Wamai into this, despite there being countless opportunities to refuse (but he wouldn’t, he never does, and knowing that does not help) and so he desperately wants him to enjoy it, not realising that Wamai is, in fact, enjoying it. Eventually, he settles on sucking him off while wanking himself to completion, the one option he can reconcile with his conscience, and he comes with Wamai brushing his hair back and calling him pretty.

Are they compatible? Who knows, Ace didn’t allow them a chance to find out.

Regardless, he fantasises about all the other things he wants to do with Wamai for a week or two until a stunning redhead walks into his DMs and he forgets about his other cravings for a while.

They don’t speak of it, Ace because he’s still deeply embarrassed, and Wamai possibly because it’s not a big deal to him. Like everything. He’s on a higher plane of existence somehow, Ace is growing more certain of this by the second, and he has no time to concern himself with petty incidents.

Still, Wamai agrees the second time he asks, just as easily as the first.

It’s a bodyguard gig, those are the most tiring because it switches between requiring full focus and downtime with absolutely nothing to do. Ace has already scoured all available dating apps and developed option paralysis until he realises there’s a low-effort alternative readily available, so he gets drunk again for good measure and asks, and Wamai says yes, and this time, it’s a little better. Ace goes in with a rudimentary trust in Wamai to object if he’s really not into what they’re doing and just does his thing, riding him until they’ve both climaxed, and opts to spend the night in Wamai’s hotel room. Or rather, he inquires whether it’s fine and Wamai agrees.

As usual.

They have sex again the next morning, the length of Wamai’s body pressed against Ace’s back and this is more like what he’s been looking for, deep and intense and the teeth on his earlobe drive him insane. Definitely good enough for an encore. Throughout the whole bodyguard deal, they do it at least twice a day, partly out of boredom, partly because it actually feels good, and when they’re back, Ace matches with a quirky older guy who turns out to have a wife somewhere down the road, meaning he’s back to square one.

It’s an intermittent thing now, whenever Ace doesn’t have anybody else (and even sometimes when he does, and no he doesn’t feel great about it and he knows there’s no real excuse but he can offer an explanation, and the explanation is that Wamai is there and they’ve finally worked out the best angle so Ace nearly cries from overstimulation each time and it’s just, it’s so comfortingly familiar that he can’t understand why it’s ever been anything but), especially on missions together, the two of them just sneak around because it’s more fun that way. No doubt that Kali knows about it, Ace accidentally answered Wamai’s phone once thinking it was his own, they’ve arrived at work together several times, once even took a few days off at the same time. They’re not subtle, nor are they trying to be. There’s nothing to hide, really, since there’s nothing in the first place.

Admittedly, it feels nice to brag about his Wamai knowledge from time to time. When Aruni has joined them and doesn’t know everyone’s preferred coffee order yet, Ace can tell her with confidence what Wamai would like. Kali briefly forgets a detail, the name of a past client with whom Wamai worked, or a city where something memorable happened, and Ace is able to remind her. Just small pieces of evidence that show Wamai has some permanence in his life.

Why this matters to him, he’s not entirely sure.

Aruni comments on how she appreciates how close they all are, meaning Kali and Wamai, and Kali and Osa, and Kali and Ace, and also Kali and herself. Kali is the glue holding them together and the reason they met in the first place, but then Aruni clarifies she includes Ace and Wamai in that list, which is surprising. He downplays it, jokes how Wamai refuses nobody, and Aruni assures him he’s refused requests from her plenty of times.

And… what.

He investigates. Puts his feelers out and receives the same answer from Osa, not appreciating the knowing wink she gives him. She’s too perceptive, he’s noticed in the past, so he knows her opinion carries weight. Armed with this new suspicion, he watches Kali like a hawk until she considers accepting an assignment one day and Wamai urges her not to. Until Kali wants to let someone go and Wamai merely shakes his head in disapproval. Until Osa suggests a modification to Wamai’s firearm and he turns her down.

The next question is asked in bed, right before going to sleep.

They have the following day off, meaning Ace turned up on Wamai’s doorstep with enough ingredients for a three course dinner. They leave the Olympic games running in the background as he cooks, Wamai keeping him up to date on any developments, and have sex on the couch afterwards with the lights dimmed and gentle music playing, just like Ace likes it: the setting romantic enough to make his heart melt and the orgasm strong enough to make his toes curl. A shower concludes the evening and as they’re wrapped around each other under the blanket, he wants to know: “… are we friends?”

Of course the only possible response is: “Do you want us to be?”

And he could slap himself. There was no other outcome, he knew it and yet his voice wavered in trepidation. Because this time, there’s the very real possibility of Wamai saying no. Previously, Ace carried with him the undisputable truth that Wamai would agree, but now he’s been disillusioned of this notion. Instead of giving up on pursuing this particular topic, he offers a hesitant: “Yeah. I think so.”

Wamai nods and kisses him on the head. “Then we are.”

Oh.

Well, good.

It’s at the tip of his tongue, the follow-up question he’s really curious about, the one to which he doesn’t know his own preferred answer either, but he saves it for a later date. For now, it’s reassuring enough to learn that Wamai voluntarily spends time with him and seems to appreciate his presence. For now, it’s satisfying enough to drift off in his arms and know he’s someone on whom Ace can always rely.

For now, it’s enough to know Wamai doesn’t say no to him. The rest he’ll figure out later.

[kiruuuuu]

Kiru's Advent Calendar, Day 16🏡

It's getting more and more difficult to set aside the time to write these, but I'm hanging on! To everyone who's shown support along the way, be it with reblogs, comments, likes or anything else, thank you so so much 😊 You have no idea how much you're helping 💕

Today is about Smoke and Sledge accomplishing a vital mission, enjoy! (Rating T, pure and utter chaos, ~2.2k words)

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Smoke eyes the large, ominous building with a vague sense of dread. They’re out in the middle of nowhere, the nearest soul several miles away (so at least they won’t have to worry about causing too much noise). The windows are dark, the façade old and dirty, the path leading up to the house largely overgrown. Next to him, Sledge shifts his weight uneasily, probably experiencing the same foreboding feeling as his colleague. They’ve been on enough missions together to assess these things in sync.

“Alright”, he tries out his voice and doesn’t like how it sounds. “Give me the brief again.”

Sledge nods without taking his eyes off the stately home. “We’re looking for a standard passport. There are three possible locations: the bedside table on the second floor, a large trunk in the basement and a cabinet in the living room. We are to disturb as little as possible – ideally, nobody would be able to tell we’ve been here.”

They both take a deep breath. “… and?”

“And… there might be precautions in place. Of what nature, we’re not sure, but we should keep our eyes peeled.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

After an exchange of nods, Smoke sets foot on the small bit of stairs leading up to the main entrance, and instantly his eardrums explode. Or at least that’s what it feels like, the air is suddenly filled with the loudest shrieking he’s ever had to witness, rendering him incapable of anything other than pressing his palms to his ears and screaming in perfect tune with the noise.

Next to him, Sledge is doing much of the same, mouthing something at him he doesn’t understand, him yelling something back and earning nothing but a confused frown, and together they shuffle around the house on the lookout for something, anything to stop this torture. Eventually, after they’ve already cut two other wires running along the outside walls, they’re once again blessed with silence. Though to be fair, it doesn’t seem like it with how his ears are still ringing.

“Bloody hell”, Sledge pants, looking just as shocked as Smoke feels right now. “Who the fuck has an alarm for their stairs?”

“Well, we both know the answer to that. I just hope we didn’t cut anything important, but I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. After you.”

The Scotsman doesn’t seem to appreciate Smoke’s reluctance to lead, but he courageously climbs the stairs to the front door anyway. So far, so good. From as far away as he can, Smoke hands him the keys with outstretched fingers and considers diving into cover, yet deems it too dramatic. For now. Sledge carefully turns the main key in the lock, slowly puts his hand on the handle and slams the door in his face full force.

Smoke badly suppresses a snort.

“Who the fuck spring loads their fucking front door?!”, Sledge complains in disbelief, rubbing his forehead.

“Someone demented. Let me check if the coast is clear.” Smoke slips past him, entering the main hallway and expecting the worst. Both of them wait several seconds, uneasy, until they decide they’re good. “I don’t even know whether I’m supposed to be on the lookout for anything. You know, like some kind of trigger or pressure plate or shite like that. Maybe he only booby trapped the outside and we’re fine now. What’s the first location?”

“Living room cabinet. Should be over there.”

Smoke starts walking to where his companion pointed, cautiously followed by the very same, and though they keep scanning the floor and walls for anything suspicious-looking, Smoke runs head first into some wire installed at eye level. Before he can scream, they’re once again surrounded by noise – this time, however, there’s something satisfying to it, almost rain-like in its pitter-pattering as innumerable glass spheres are poured onto the ground, surrounding them.

“Marbles”, Sledge summarises succinctly and Smoke almost applauds him for the observation. “That’s fine as long as we don’t move. Don’t try to step on them, we should stay -” He’s silenced by a water balloon hitting the back of his bald head, failing to explode and falling to the floor impotently.

“I don’t understand how anyone can set something like this up”, Smoke remarks right before another bursts by his feet, spattering his legs with a black, viscous liquid. Its stench nearly makes him gag and all of a sudden, they’re filled with panic once more.

“Move, move”, Sledge urges him on, “skate over the floor so you don’t -” And the large Scotsman crashes to the ground before even finishing his sentence, having stepped on marbles that rolled away immediately. With him on them.

Smoke barely dodges the next balloon aimed at him, dragging his feet in an attempt to outwit the marble sea, and secretly thanks Ash for her relentless exercises in evasion. Behind him, he hears Sledge sputter and retch as he’s hit again but it’s every man for himself now, Smoke has almost reached his sanctuary, the door leading to their first potential target, he stretches out his hand, moves to open the door and -

- and smacks himself in the face with it. Hard.

“Fucking bellend”, he curses through the pain, leaking more and more marbles into the new room and gets nailed by a paint-filled balloon to his back. At least, he thinks it’s paint.

… he hopes it’s paint.

It takes Sledge a few more seconds to come crawling in as well, looking like he went diving in a bog and panting hard, gratefully accepting the pack of tissues Smoke hands him. Right as he’s about to open it, he asks: “Did you have this on you?”

“Yeah, I -”

“Ow! Mother -”

“Uh, I meant to say, it got stuck to me when I stumbled in. Sorry.”

“He fucking booby trapped the fucking tissues!” Sledge pours out the thumbtacks hidden in the plastic packaging before inspecting each tissue individually. Once he’s mostly cleaned himself up, they regroup by patting each other on the back and improvising a small pep talk. They both needed it.

“I think that’s the cabinet there.” Smoke points at the object in question, a heavy-looking mahogany thing placed innocently next to a fireplace. “Want me to open it?”

“You have no idea how much I was hoping you’d say that.”

Smoke walks over, his colleague again following at a distance, and once he’s close, the fireplace predictably coughs out a large cloud of soot they both manage to avoid. Apart from breathing a lot of it in, of course. “We’re getting wise to these tricks now”, Smoke half-grins, half-croaks, reaches out and breaks the glass door with his forehead.

As he stands there, alternating between cursing and whimpering, Sledge drily mutters: “We should not open another door in this bloody house.” Heavy boots crunch over to where Smoke is brushing shards of glass off his clothes and they both begin rifling through the contents, making sure to lift everything and check for secret compartments.

“Looks like the only false bottom here is me”, Smoke announces, earning himself an entirely unamused glare from his companion that seems to say you wish. “So, downstairs or upstairs?”

“I’m more scared of this basement than usual. Let’s go up.” Sledge leads the way, both of them still trying to cough out the burnt ashes that are currently lining their lungs. It seems the balloon barrage has ceased and with the marbles populating the living room as well now, there’s enough space for them to tiptoe across the room without falling again. When they reach the foot of the stairs, they pause.

Look at each other.

A second later, Sledge holds out a flat hand just as Smoke offers a fist.

“Fuck”, Smoke grumbles and begins climbing the stairs in slow motion. He tests every single step before putting his weight on it, half expecting them to snap into a smooth surface so he slides all the way back down, and the next thing he knows is that he falls up the stairs – he’s able to catch himself before his poor maltreated face meets old wood, but his foot won’t lift off the stair regardless. He lets out a deep sigh. “Please tell me my boot isn’t superglued to these bloody stairs.”

“I can with a very clean conscience inform you that your boot is indeed not superglued to the stairs.” Sledge sounds sincere enough Smoke gets his hopes up until the added: “They do, however, look like they’re melting into them.”

“Holy mother Mary of god”, Smoke hisses as he unlaces his shoe in record time, slipping his foot out of it as fast as possible, only to realise that the step to which he jumped in order to escape melting himself is about as slippery as the bastard who set this all up. What follows then must probably look hilarious to Sledge who isn’t caught in a dance between life or death, with Smoke flailing all over the place, at one point probably lifting his foot higher than his head, almost falling about a hundred times as he slips and slides with an added soundtrack of similarly wobbly noises and indeed, when a strong hand grips his arm to finally put an end to his performance, it’s shaking with silent laughter. Just like the large man it belongs to.

Smoke really wants to strangle someone now, and he’s not sure it even needs to be anybody specific.

“I have an idea”, he discloses as they halt in front of the bedroom door. “Watch this.” Not fancying getting hit in the face again, he leans against the door with all his weight, pushing as hard as he can, and then presses on the handle, thinking himself a genius.

It’s a good thing Sledge’s reflexes are as trained as they are so the Scotsman manages to grab him before he flings himself full speed into the bed of nails placed strategically behind the door. The door that swings inwards.

“Fucking hell”, Sledge comments and Smoke can only agree.

They isolate the bedside table, the second possible location, with extreme prejudice, identifying a small explosive that would’ve gone off by opening it without care and disarming it while IQ coaches them on the phone, and eventually nod at each other. Sledge is brave enough to pull it open and reach in, only to yank his hand back with a yelp.

“What?”, Smoke wants to know, worried. “What happened?”

Sledge looks like he’s going to cry any second. “Paper cut”, he grits out before whining pitifully. And indeed, there’s already some blood visible on his fingers.

“Come on, that’s not so bad. Let’s just hope that we’ve… found …” Smoke trails off as more and more blood appears, pooling at the edge of Sledge’s hand, his wrist, disappearing into his sleeve.

“If it’s not in here”, Sledge hisses, waving his hand in an attempt to distract from the pain that must be immense, “I’m throwing myself out the window.”

Wordlessly, Smoke pulls the drawer out and upturns it. Nothing but a few loose sheets of paper. “Sorry, mate”, he mutters.

At least Sledge seems to forget his agony for a moment when Smoke slams the door in his own face as they exit the bedroom.

.

~*~

.

With a final-sounding smack, Smoke slaps the open passport onto the hood of Sledge’s car. Both of them stand there in companionable silence, flipping the badly-taken photograph inside the bird with such sincerity it makes him proud, continuing even as he waits for Harry to pick up the phone.

When he does, all Smoke forces out is a quiet: “We got it.”

A brief pause. “Great. I, um, trust there were no complications? He did say you might run into a few of his security features, but -”

“You need the number, right?” No time for chit-chat. Smoke just wants to walks the few miles down to the river so he can wash off the worst of the mix of paint, rancid butter and bird poo covering him head to toe, because Sledge is not driving him home like this. He reads out the passport number while Harry asks no further questions, ready to hang up without notice until something occurs to him. “You never told us: what even happened?”

“Well… Mike got himself arrested in Laos – don’t ask me how, don’t ask me why. I don’t know how he got there without his passport, but they won’t let him go until they have it so he can prove his identity. So in addition, you’ll have to mail it to him, I’ll send you the address in a moment. Thanks for getting it from his holiday home, in any case.”

“Sure”, Smoke says and means fuck off. After he’s hung up, he fills Sledge in and the two of them look at each other.

“How long will priority mail take? Two days with the express option, right?”

Smoke purses his lips. “I guess.” A pause. “But I mean… it’s pretty expensive.”

Sledge nods gravely. “And it’s not really a pressing matter, right?”

“He won’t mind waiting a few more days, I’m sure.”

Another, final nod. “Alright then. Snail mail it is.”

One last bird in the direction of Thatcher’s face and the two of them start walking towards the nearest source of water that isn’t located in a madman’s house.