pesk's stinky sideblog

blog is stinky as in mostly deceased now posting all dbh and non-dbh content on main @peskellence 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

[trashmakersblog]

hot enough

When an intel mission goes wrong, Robert and Flambae are left trapped in a warehouse bunker as temperatures outside plummet.

With no way out and no telling when help will arrive, the fire user takes it upon himself to make sure the dispatcher doesn’t freeze. Forced proximity quickly turns into something more, as the two come up with some... creative methods of keeping Robert warm.

Pairing: Flambae x Robert // Explicit Content 18+

Tags: Shameless Smut, PWP, Sharing Body Heat, Dom/Sub Undertones, Praise and Degradation Kink, Blow Jobs, Anal, Fingering, Naked Cuddling, Top Flambae, Bottom Robert

AO3 Link

The Z-Team had been short-handed. Golem was out with gastroenteritis—something definitely unrelated to yesterday's wager that he couldn't dry swallow a tyre iron. Coupé and Punch Up were at a wedding for a friend who felt suspiciously like a mob connection. Sonar claimed he was attending the same event for 'business' reasons, which did nothing to ease concerns.

So, the decision had been made to include Mechaman in the team numbers—or Robert, more realistically. The suit was once again out of commission, but nonetheless, a trainee dispatcher had been cycled in to fill his spot. 

The mission itself had been simple: grab intel from a warehouse bunker a few miles outside Torrence. Not their usual patrol radius, but it had been flagged as urgent. 

The encryption was a joke, with Robert holding a filled flash drive within minutes of their arrival. Unfortunately, in the short time it had taken, the weather had decided to conspire against them. 

Frost crawled across the windows in gnarled claws, like it was trying to break in. The 'light sleet' confidently forecast on the news had upgraded to a blizzard of near cataclysmic proportions. 

"Shit, it's really coming down out there…" Robert squinted through the window at the hostile surroundings, struck by an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. The banks along the bunker had deepened significantly, forming dense mountains of snow. A secondary fortress, which undoubtedly stretched the full perimeter of the building. "I think we're snowed in." 

"Relax, Mechawuss," Flambae interjected, brazen and overconfident as always. He held out his palm, a small blaze erupting from the centre. "No bitch ass snow is gonna stop me. I control the fire and the flame, remember?"

Robert cast a withering glance over to his teammate. It was hard to forget, given how frequently the man brought it up. Despite this, he shrugged, stepping away from the entrance and out of the scorching blast radius. "Yeah, sure, do your thing." 

Flambae pressed the release button of the door, but it failed to respond. Brow knotted in confusion, a few embers ignited on the ends of his fingers, applying targeted heat in case the internal mechanisms had frozen.

Still nothing. At which point, Robert noticed that the red glow inside the plastic casing had vanished. His trepidation grew as Flambae, visibly agitated, attempted to prise the metal hatch open using his hands. 

 "...Okay, slight problem," he announced with a huff, pulling back digits which were now reddened from exertion. "The door won't open." 

A jab rose to the tip of Robert's tongue. Questioning if the hero had been slacking at the gym, and the metal slab had simply out-muscled him. He thought better of it, settling on a less derisive, "You sure?"

Flambae looked utterly scandalised regardless. With a scowl, he gestured over to the door, challenging the significantly smaller man to take a shot at the same brute force approach. "Be my guest, jackass." 

Skipping over the more ape-ish route, Robert opted to inspect the exit button, checking if it still had power. The pad of his thumb pressed down before a spark of electricity bit into his skin, and he pulled back in pain.

Several more charges emerged, spitting out of the panel like it was the Fourth of July. Then all the lights in the room cut out, plunging them into darkness.

"...What the fuck did you do?" 

"Nothing," Robert clapped back, cradling his charred digit defensively. "Some snow must've dislodged outside—hit a power line."

"Well, fix it. You're the tech guy, right? That's about all your scrawny ass is actually good for."

Using his phone torch to guide him, Robert began searching around for a fuse box. He eventually found it nestled behind a lopsided tower of boxes, each overflowing with miscellaneous documents. Dragging them back—and dislodging a cloud of mildew-scented dust in the process—he set to work.

The switches had been tripped, but there was no response upon flipping them back. After repeating the process several times, he was forced to admit defeat. 

"No good—it's a total blackout," he said grimly. "There's no fixing anything until the power comes back on. Which'll probably be when this storm dies off."

"What do you mean? Just like..." Flambae trailed off, making a vague circling gesture with his hand. "Hack into the mainframe, or whatever."

Robert raised an eyebrow, wondering what hokey Summer blockbuster could have possibly informed this level of expertise. Or if this particular nugget of wisdom was a Flambae special. "Sure thing—let me just yank the jumper cables out of my ass and work my magic."

The other man stared at him. Gormless. Utterly devoid of any higher brain function. Robert resisted the urge to crack his skull like a hard-boiled egg against the wall before he could be blessed with any more enlightened suggestions. 

"No power means no mainframe," he explained, pinching the bridge of his nose, "no security grid, nothing to hack. It's an automated lockdown—there's nothing we can do except bunker down and hope the storm passes. Or that someone from HQ comes looking for us."

"Well, they better hurry up, I've got a date tonight."

Is that what we're calling a hand job in the Waffle House parking lot?

Ignoring the continued grumbling, as his teammate paced up and down, Robert checked his phone again. Confirming what he already knew—no bars—but also that it was getting late. The heating had cut out with the lights, and he was already beginning to notice a drop in temperature, a creeping chill prickling at his arms.

He kept his voice steady, masking any flicker of panic as he spoke again. "I'd say cancel, but good luck getting a signal. Those walls are made of solid steel. And I doubt they'll risk sending anyone out in weather like this, so get comfy. Find a crate to make a den. It could be a while."

"Oh, this is bullshit—" Flambae unleashed a tight plume of flames, directed in a blazing cyclone towards the door. When this failed to do anything but blacken the dense wall of metal, he growled in frustration. "Since when does steel not fucking melt?"

"Since forever." With his phone reduced to a glorified paper weight, he slid it back into his pocket and tucked his hands beneath his armpits. "You'd need a base temperature of two thousand five hundred and fifty degrees. Guess you're not as hot as you think."

"You take that back," his coworker hissed, pointing at him accusingly. "I'm the hottest shit around. No one else is as hot as Flambae. If anyone is breaking down this door, it's me."

"Of course." Robert tightened his grip on himself, arms folded neatly over his ribs, as his chin dipped in resignation. "Good luck with that." 

He had seated himself in the corner of the room, shouldered by papers that smelled the least like wet dog. Glancing down at the flash drive, nestled in his jittering palm, he considered whether the contents had really been that urgent. Or if procuring them was even legal. They'd never actually verified if the guy worked for the same company. 

Flambae kept ramming at the shelter, as Robert indulged in the pockets of warmth this provided. It was only when the hero gave up, panting heavily and drenched with sweat, did the chill really began to hit. Slicing like butcher knives, cutting him to the bone. 

"—Nah—that ain't steel—" Flambae announced between gasps. He had doubled up, weighted by exhaustion that he'd sooner die than admit, hands supported on his thighs. "It's got to be, like, enchanted, or something. They hired a magician to fucking spite me." 

"S-Sure they d-did," Robert mumbled in vague agreement, hoping it would encourage the idiot to stop talking. A visible wisp coiled from his lips, lingering in the frigid air. 

The stuttering did not go unnoticed, as the other man shot up. Wide-eyed and alert, like a fucking meerkat. His frown melted away into a knowing, self-satisfied curl, as his energy seemed miraculously restored.

He strutted towards Robert, looking him up and down, tsking in false commiseration. He even had the gall to wipe his sodden brow, rubbing in just how little the cold was affecting him. "I can hear your teeth chattering from here, dickhead." 

"I'm o-okay," the dispatcher insisted. He'd not wanted to give the smug asshole the satisfaction, but another involuntary spasm of his jaw betrayed him.

The fire user circled him—a lion, stalking its prey. Then, he offered help in perhaps the most backhanded, condescending way imaginable:

 "Don't lie, Rob Rob. If you want, I can start a fire. I'd need some kindling, though. Maybe one of these boxes. Or your purse."

"I'd rather you d-didn't start lighting up sensitive corporate documents," Robert drawled. "Unless you wanna lose half of your paycheck. Also, it's a s-satchel. Not a purse."

"Keep telling yourself that." 

In an affront to the very concept of personal space, Flambae moved aside one of the teetering piles of documents and sat next to his supervisor. Their shoulders clipped, before his arms were stretched in a wide arch above his head. 

The extension revealed twin patches on his armpits, as Robert caught a whiff of what could only be described as a potent cocktail of musk and burning. He wanted to cover his nose, but his arms were locked stiff, refusing to budge.

The longer they sat like this, the more Robert was forced to concede that the proximity wasn't without its perks. It was no wonder Flambae seemed immune to the plummeting temperature in the warehouse. Whilst everything around him, Robert included, was gradually transforming into an ice box, the man was a living space heater.

The dispatcher could almost see ripples of heat curling off his protruding chest. Sweat burned up with light sizzles until the skin was dry. Either that, or Robert was hallucinating, his brain slowing to a crawl as his heart struggled to pump blood through his body.

"Your lips are turning blue," Flambae commented, in a way that might've read as concern, had it not been followed by yet another smart ass quip. "Either you've been blowing Papa Smurf, or you're about to freeze on me."

"Not gonna—f-freeze..." 

The protest was far from convincing, and his colleague groaned, rolling his eyes. "Seriously, you better not die. That would be some bullshit. I just know Blazer will want me to fill out a statement, or report, or whatever. I don't have time for that, I'm a busy man."

"Well, I'm very sorry if my untimely death serves as an inconvenience."

Flambae didn't say anything to this. As though the blunt response had flagged something in his brain. That Robert might actually, seriously be in danger if things kept going the way they were.

"Let me warm you up," he ultimately said, breaking the silence which had settled between them.

Robert shook his head. Or tried to, anyway. It translated more as a broken spasm. "No… f-fires…"

"Yeah, yeah, you already said. Fucking fun police." Flambae shifted, subtly closer, until the sliver of space between them vanished. "No, idiot, I meant me. Even if you don't think I'm hot enough, my base temperature is still way higher than your average powerless bitch—That's you, by the way. You're the bitch." 

"Got it."   

"Don't be ungrateful. I'm offering to save your life. Unless you want to be a bitchsicle." 

Robert wanted to fight back, to refuse the suggestion, clinging to the dangling threads of his pride. But they were locking up, too, hardened by frost, ready to snap at any moment. 

"...Fine," he muttered in acceptance, grunted through clenched teeth.

Flambae seemed a little knocked back, as though he wasn't expecting Robert to agree. Nor had he actually planned out how they were going to achieve this. He shuffled away again, as the smaller man silently despaired at the loss of passive heat. 

Then, he placed his hands on Robert's shoulders, trying to coax his frostbitten body through the flimsy jacket. "If you just—move over. In front of me. And lie down." 

Robert followed the broken instructions best he could until his coworker slipped out of sight, and he was staring headlong into the darkness. He was guided to tilt his head back by a hold that felt surprisingly gentle, until reclining on the other man's exposed pectorals.

An appreciative groan rolled from his lips the second he made contact. Despite its firmness, the stretch of muscle felt indescribably welcoming. Like crawling under a heated blanket on a harsh winter's night. He leaned into it, shamelessly, as his eyes flitted closed. 

"Comfy?" A voice asked, muffled and pinched. As if the words were caught in his throat—Flambae trying to mock him, but failing to convey this with any meaningful bite. Robert didn't think about it too hard, distracted by the prickles of sensation rapidly returning to his nerves. 

"Yeah…" He was completely out of it, his brain having not yet thawed, boiling his responses down to nothing but base instincts. "So warm."

"You know this is—" There was an abrupt stall before the taller man started again. Testing the waters, as if knowing how crazy the subsequent suggestion would sound. "This might work better skin on skin. If you like, take off your clothes." 

His freeze-dried mind flickered to life, electricity charging through Robert as his eyes snapped open.

His head whipped around, and he gawped at his colleague in bewildered disbelief. Questioning whether he'd misheard or if Flambae had decided to spice things up with a spontaneous HR violation. 

"Did you just ask me to strip for you?"

"I didn't ask you to do shit—!" Flambae snapped, audibly flustered by the accusation. "I'm just saying that's how it works. Aren't you supposed to be a science guy? Don't you know your biology?"

"Wrong science," Robert said flatly, before conceding that this was not, in fact, total bullshit. The questionable insight of Hollywood had steered him right on at least one point. "But yeah. More or less. Body heat transfers better through direct contact. That's why they encourage mothers to do it with newborns."

The taller man winced, nose crinkling at the choice of phrasing. At least, Robert thought so. It was hard to make out the subtleties of his expression, with what little light was bleeding in from outside. 

"Well, there you go, then. Your choice, the offer's there. I'm not gonna tell you what to do."

Taking a second to determine if his coworker was serious, and not just trying to lure him into an opportunistic jab at his "dad bod", Robert began fumbling with his zipper. Pulling it down with a firm tug and shirking off his hoodie, before gripping the hem of his t-shirt. 

He'd had to stand in order to remove his shoes and jeans. It was when the denim pooled at his feet, nudged away, that he realised Flambae was making no effort to mirror his actions. He was staring, inspecting each inch of newly exposed flesh with intense curiosity, as though it were covered in scales. 

The gaze seemed to stall just above his boxers, realising it would be passing a point of no return. In flipping the script, Robert was the one left grinning, as he smugly gestured towards the still very-clothed man. "You, uh, gonna take your suit off? Thought that was the whole point of this."

"Oh, yeah. Right." Flambae shot up suddenly, snapping from the trance. He reached to his neck and felt out the fastening of his costume. 

As the lycra peeled away, slowly, Robert considered that the whole process was a little redundant. The man probably would've managed without undoing anything, diving out of the ludicrously deep V of his neckline. 

The internal mockery subsided, however, as he caught glimpses of a powerful physique, illuminated by occasional breaks of moonlight. There was a softness to it, despite the sharp edges. The swell of large thighs and the shapely curve of his ass, accentuated as he bent down to fold the discarded suit.

Robert did not let his sights linger much longer, realising he'd be passing his own point of no return. An accusation of ogling was the last thing he needed, with the already staggering power imbalance developing between them. 

The men moved back into position, looking anywhere but each other, as they held a little extra space than had been present before. Suspiciously, Flambae seemed to be anchoring his supervisor away from his legs, forcing his body into a strange arch, as he tried to get comfy despite it.

In the absence of any barriers, the taller man was intensely hot. It might've been oppressive, had the circumstances been less dire. Huffs of breath nipped at his neck, as twinges of sensation were sent rocketing up his back, chasing the line of his spine. More alarming, however, was a twitch of excitement that migrated downwards, flagging between his thighs. 

Shit.

Robert considered folding his legs, concealing what threatened to become an extremely ill-timed erection. This was before realising that the action would make the issue all the more obvious. Flambae would undoubtedly notice, given the watchful vigil he had looming over his shoulder.

All he could do was steady his breathing and hope that the problem resolved itself. Because really, it had nothing to do with his teammate. It was an unfortunate consequence of the closeness, owing to the fact that he hadn't gotten any action in quite some time. Waffle House hand jobs or not.

A manhunt for your father's murderer, coupled with a desperate scramble to salvage your family's legacy, kind of did that to you. Generally speaking, a bit of a boner killer.

This silent assurance was repeated to himself a dozen times over, as the more his thoughts drifted to Shroud, the more the excitement tenting his boxers started to wane. A shudder of relief passed his lips, which he disguised beneath a cough. 

He would've called the effort a success, considering himself in the clear, if Flambae had not chosen this precise moment to inch forward. Revealing with startling clarity why he'd been trying to hold the suspicious margin of space. 

The taller man was flaccid, but large despite it. The clothed skin blazed, much like the rest of him, radiating his lower back in steady pulses. Robert wondered, in a daze, how he'd been packing all that into what was essentially a more flamboyant wrestling singlet. 

From this point, he was fucked. Arousal rushed back to him with a vengeance, pressure building in his gut. Not unlike a dip on a rollercoaster, or the aftermath of a particularly offensive takeout. It reached for his navel, straining against a wall of black cotton. Brazen and unforgiving.

The dispatcher prayed that he might be blessed by divine intervention—or an early Christmas miracle—and his colleague would fail to notice. But it seemed he was on Santa's Shit List, as he didn't get so lucky.

There was a low chuckle. Rich and rumbling, curling through the shell of his ear, as stubble brushed against his cheek. It served as all the answer Robert needed, with him unable to do anything but wither in embarrassment.

"Oh, you're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Fuck, I—" He didn't know what to say, but settled on an apology. It seemed the most appropriate thing to pluck out from the increasingly tangled web of his thoughts. "I'm really sorry. It's not like that. I think it's just… having another person close, you know. "

"Is that right?" Robert was grabbed—harshly. Gripped by his hips, the digits hooked onto the bone, digging bruises into his flesh. He was then hauled backwards, his ribs jolting as he landed, a startled grunt rattling outwards.

He found himself mounted in the centre of the other man's lap. The softness, which had been scarcely concealed beneath a tight set of boxer briefs, was beginning to stiffen. So much that Robert could feel his breath hitch in surprise. 

"Guess it's the same here." Flambae hummed, the sound dripping with smug triumph. "Involuntary, right? Glad to see you humbling yourself—before I have to do it for you."

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Robert was done. There was no way he could recover from this. 

Flambae could easily sell him out, march his ass into Blazer's office and tell her that the dispatcher had decided the most appropriate response to a crisis was to re-enact Magic Mike. If this happened, he could kiss his SDN Dental Plan goodbye—along with any hope of paying his rent. 

That being said, he'd more likely opt for the route of prolonged suffering. Dangling the event over Robert's head until the day he retired. Any late arrival at the office, any unauthorised absence, any refusal of dispatch to a job he didn't want to do. All to be met with, "Yeah, but do you remember the time you used my tits for a pillow and immediately got hard?"

"—That's not to say we can't do something about this." The crooning words cut through his spiral, punctuated by a goading buck. Flambae had leaned in, sucking at the dispatcher's shoulder, before tracing a wet line across the base of his neck. 

He bit down, hard enough to leave a mark. The distinctive gap in the impression would allow no doubt on who had created it—and the man undoubtedly knew this.  "What do you say, Rob Rob, a bit of extra friction? Seems like a win for everyone, now I'm gonna miss that date."

Robert felt another lurch in his stomach. Not excitement this time, but rather, something that caused his brow to knot disapprovingly. Suddenly, he didn't appreciate the reminder of his colleague's ruined dinner plans—could find no humour in it. 

Then a realisation struck, mingled with the stomachache, as he concluded this might be jealousy. 

God, it better not've been jealousy. Him, getting irked over the fact that Flambae would be off necking some other moron with questionable taste, had their mission not gone to shit. 

From this, distracting himself from the horrifying hypothetical actually seemed like a wise decision. If Robert was screwed, regardless of how he chose to proceed, he reasoned he might as well enjoy it.

He spun around, wiggling free from the powerful hold, and crushed their lips together. 

What followed was a messy clash of tongue and teeth. Frenzied, almost animalistic. Robert hooked his legs around the taller man's waist and pulled him inward. With their bodies flush, he pressed against his toned midsection, hips moving in long, teasing rolls.

A low growl rewarded his efforts, rumbling like thunder in his colleague's throat. Satisfied, he slid his hands upward, carding fingers indulgently through long, glossy hair, pulling it loose from the ponytail it had been tied in.

Flambae let him carry on for a moment, indulging a fleeting sense of control, before snatching it away. The hands which had been mussing the hair were abruptly yanked back, wrists pinned above his head, as Robert was shoved to the side.

Their positions flipped. Flambae crouched overhead, caging the smaller man between his arms as he collapsed. His exposed back pressed unwelcomingly against the floor—grates which might as well have been chiselled out of ice. 

Robert howled at the contact, attempting to arch away from the notches digging into him, before being given something else to lament: a knee pressed firmly to the aching swell of his arousal, applying targeted pressure.

"Shut the fuck up."

The voice was iron—firm, unyielding, a command that left no room for protest. Robert didn't dare, couldn't have, even if he'd wanted. Waves of pain constricted his lungs, forcing groans past his lips despite repeated efforts to swallow them back.

The pressure increased as Flambae leaned in—and his mind went blank. Reduced to a dense wall of cotton, unable to process anything but the unrelenting surges of pain coursing through him.

"Now listen to me. Carefully. Or this is all you're getting." 

There was quiet, allowing the words to sink in. He leered down at Robert with all the same ferocity he'd directed at the door. Dangling the threat of burning through him, should he fail to comply, alongside the promise of euphoria. 

"Here's what's gonna happen, bitch. Here's how this is gonna go: 

I am going to rock your world, make you see stars. Leave you so blissed out you won't remember your stupid goddamn name. You don't do shit unless I tell you to. I'm the one calling the shots."

The dispatcher was seeing stars already, skull ringing from the impact with the cobalt. He might have clapped back with a tongue-in-cheek remark about how Robert Robertson III was a proud and noble title, were he not so desperate to see if Flambae could deliver on his words. To back them up with salacious action.

"Now, when I let go, you're going to be a good, obedient little slut for me. Got it?"

He whimpered at the notion. The hold on his wrists was tight—too tight. Pressing down ruthlessly, threatening to shatter bones, as he could do nothing but writhe around helplessly. "Flambae—"

"Chad." The other man corrected, before there was a small break in the domineering resolve, softening his expression. He regarded Robert with an intimacy that suddenly seemed less invasive. Something closer to fondness. "Call me Chad when we're like this, okay?"

The sincerity caught Robert off guard. Far more disarming than the impromptu pile driving into the ground. He'd fully anticipated the jackass would insist on him using the stupid alias for the entirety of their encounter. Maybe proclaim him "master," or something, while they were at it.

But Flambae—or Chad, as he wanted to be called—was being completely serious. The grip on slender wrists stayed firm, a knee still digging oppressively into his crotch, but there were no signs of escalation. Nothing to suggest that anything more would happen between them, until Robert agreed.

Slowly, he nodded his head, wetting his lips with what little moisture remained in his mouth. "Okay… Chad."

He was released, his arms clattering limply to the grates, as the knee also shifted away. Robert used his renewed mobility to soothe the burning skin. One wrist in particular—his right—had taken the brunt of the force. 

He was about to suggest the other man cut down his self-love sessions to a more conservative twice per day, when his mouth was smothered by a bruising kiss. Chad had taken complete control. Prying his jaw open, exploring each inch of warm, pliant skin, before receding with a firm bite on his lower lip. 

"Get on your knees."

Robert lamented how much the dark, authoritative tone was affecting him. How willing he was to bend to it, without any modicum of resistance. His body moved as though it were hijacked, as he shifted positions, propped obediently between a set of outstretched legs.

He had a hunch he knew where this was going. All but confirmed as Chad, with a terse huff of approval, established a grip on the back of his head. Binding strands of hair in a tight lock, before yanking them forward. Robert staggered, his elbows almost giving way, as he narrowly avoided colliding headlong with the clothed erection. 

"Suck my dick." 

Chad wasn't going to help—save for keeping the other man upright, anchored by his hair—as trembling hands got to work on removing the underwear. With a steeling breath, nimble fingers slipped beneath the elastic, and he began to draw the material down the length of large, tensed thighs. 

After a deliberate delay, Chad was charitable enough to lift his hips. It made the job easier, and the briefs were removed—Robert filled with a conflicted blend of excitement and trepidation. 

He had no idea how he was going to fit the man into his mouth. Surely, Chad knew this and had tempered his expectations over the years. It was doubtful that the dispatcher was the first person to voice such concerns:

"Fuck, you're big…" 

"I know," the other man replied casually, albeit the 'indifference' was betrayed by a prideful puff of his chest. "Now come on; don't be a bitch about it. Unless you're not man enough to handle me." 

The liberation of his reverse psychology tactic did not go unnoticed. Robert frowned before his self-respect took an impromptu vacation, and he began to lean in.

Gripping the sizable length in his hand, he guided it towards his mouth. His tongue poked out, traced testingly across the tip, before he took it between his lips, caged in a tight pucker.

Chad hissed in pleasure, encouraging Robert to continue with a push. And so, his head began to lower, jaw extended to claim all that he reasonably could. Once adjusted to the size, he established a rhythm of shallow bobs. 

As he worked the length, he stared up at the man playing Cat's Cradle on his head. While he hated to admit it, Chad looked amazing like this. His hair was velvet, draping his shoulders in a silky curtain, and his eyes were dark with what could only be dubbed as pure, concentrated lust. 

He watched the smaller man in kind, offering hushed words of encouragement, coupled with clipped profanities. Then, he grew tired of the effort, wishing to secure stimulation for uncharted inches of skin. 

"Come on, I know you can take more than that—"

Without warning, Robert was shoved deeper, tight coils of hair brushing against the tip of his nose. His throat locked around the intrusion, trapping the startled gag bubbling there, as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. 

He glared up at Chad, sharp and accusing, as the man smiled in a way that claimed to be innocent, but was utterly devious. A lopsided curl growing in broadness, as chuckles rattled from his heaving chest. "Good boy." 

The praise caused annoyance to fizzle instantly, burnt up in staggering heat. Vibrations rumbled through the length, as Robert moaned. Suddenly, all he could think about was what he could do to hear this again. Sordid praise, curled deliciously off an experienced tongue.

He allowed Chad to fuck his mouth. Hard. Deep—each thrust testing the limits of what he could take. As it happened, this was much more than he gave himself credit for. 

His coworker seemed just as surprised, expressed in a string of degradation thinly veiling a compliment. "Fuuuck, you're good at this—Spend a lot of time on your knees, Robert? Or do you practice at home?"

The dispatcher wouldn't have answered this, even if he was able to speak. What he did behind closed doors was none of Chad's business. He didn't need to know the details of any 'equipment' he owned, nor the things he did to stave off loneliness when it got too much.

"If only the team could see you now." The taller man thrusted with greater forcefulness, rasps leaking out through the margins of clenched teeth. "Panting and whimpering like a whore, gagging on my cock." 

Robert felt his excitement ramp—in a way it really shouldn't have. The hardness between his legs pulsed uncomfortably, in a desperate plea to be touched. He considered that when this was all over, and he was safely back at home, his toy box should be the last thing on his priority list.

Really, he ought to call his therapist. They were long overdue a session. 

Chad pulled away suddenly, removed from the seal with a wet pop. A strand of saliva connected them, as Robert noted the ache in his jaw. Throbbing continuously, rising all the way up to his ears.

"There. I'm nice and wet for you." 

Despite the pain, Robert still managed to splutter incredulously. The tense bone locking shut at the sheer audacity of what had been said.

"No prep? Seriously?" Not a chance. "Do you treat all your dates this well, or am I just special?"

"You want prep…?" Chad leaned in—dangerously close. At some point, the emergency lighting had activated, casting a thin glow from above and sharpening his outline. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a sauna: flushed crimson, sweat running in thick lines down the centre of his chest. "Do it yourself." 

He shoved Robert away suddenly, causing him to lose stability. He teetered, unsure of which direction to fall, before flopping into a seated position. 

"Give me a show, and I'll give you something better than your fingers." 

The command took a moment to register, with Robert still recovering from the momentum. When it did, however, desperation gripped him. Clawing at his skin and flaring in his cock. Imploring that he comply, do anything to make sure that this didn't stop here.

And so, he pulled his boxers down, the arousal springing free from its confines. Fingers slipped into his mouth, coating them liberally. All the while, he stared at Chad with hungry, lidded eyes, ready to give him the show that he'd so ardently demanded.

The first of the digits slipped down, feeling out his opening, before dipping in with a fluid sweep. He groaned, albeit it was mostly performative. He'd done this plenty of times before, although he would allow Chad to speculate on exactly how many. 

Once he started to move, the whines became less forced. Charged by the stimulation of sensitive nerves, as he pushed deeper, working open the tense walls.

A second finger was added, moved with the first, before branching outward. It stretched the muscle with greater effectiveness, as the bow of his legs widened in tow, allowing Chad a better view. 

The other man watched on, transfixed, wetting his parted lips with a shaky sweep of his tongue. The action came as close to a compliment as he was likely capable of giving. "Fuck yeah—You like that, don't you?" 

Robert angled his thrusts until he found a familiar bundle of nerves. Fingertips brushed against it lightly, and his head flung back, vision turning spotty.

When his sight returned, Chad was touching himself. Making no attempt to hide it, either. He worked his length, still glistened with spit, with almost crazed urgency. His available hand had found his chest, charting across the dark brush of hair, before settling on one of his nipples and pinching indulgently. 

It seemed he'd forgotten who was supposed to be putting on a performance. That, or he didn't want to be upstaged. Reminding Robert of what was coming, so he didn't get too lost to the draw of self-pleasure. 

"Don't cum," he said, in a more decisive effort to combat the threat. "Not yet—not until I'm done with you." 

Fingers receded soon after, leaving Robert unbearably empty. It did not last for long, as Chad moved in. Asserting himself between the hold of his thighs, hands anchored beneath trembling skin and lifting firmly. 

His legs were draped on either side of the taller man's shoulders as he lined up against his entrance. Bucking against it, but withholding any greater pressure. It was an attempt to tease him, and it was working. 

Robert was sent into a frenzy, desperate to be filled. A searing want that leaked out in a short, raspy plea: "Chad, please—"

This was all it took, as with a forceful push, the man was inside him.

Robert was smothered. By relief, satisfaction, and a searing, indescribable heat. The man had been hot before, but this was different. It was a blaze that breached his core, splitting him open and spilling into every available crack. There was pain, but it was near-impossible to discern from intense prickles of bliss. 

There was a period of adjustment, as Chad held back, making sure that Robert was okay—still wanted him to continue. The smaller man gave his answer with a wanton buck of hips, meeting the searching gaze and nodding shakily. 

There was no further hesitation, as Chad drove into him. Sharp and laboured, matching his breathing, with both men coming apart. 

Their bodies melded together seamlessly, like it was always meant to be this way. All manner of frustrations, lingering resentment, leaking out into air that grew increasingly thick. 

That being said, it would've been nice to have reached this resolution at home—or in a hotel room. Basically, anywhere but the grimy floor of a corporate bunker.

"Feels—amazing—" Chad spoke in fragments, no longer able to form a complete sentence. He speared harder and deeper, his pace mounting, gripping onto Robert's hip for support. 

He was the picture of animalistic desire: Tensed brow, crinkled nose, teeth digging into chapped lips so hard they drew blood. Robert could have looked at it forever and made sure to retain as much as he could through his dizzying, blissed-out haze. 

He reached for his neglected arousal, pumping it in time with the thrusts. Chad allowed this, so focused on claiming the entirety of his body that he had little time for anything else. 

In his determination, he found the peak of Robert's sensitivity, ramming into it repeatedly. This drew out loud, strangled howls, as the dispatcher could do nothing but squirm beneath him—a broken, babbling mess.

Coiled pressure rose in his gut as his movements grew clumsy. Frantic. He chased the ascent, the promise of release looming nearer. Chad could tell he was close, could feel the walls tighten around him, as he fought to keep moving despite this. 

"S-Shit—"  Fire erupted around his wrists, formed in tight bands. It climbed higher, snaking up the length of his arms, until flickering amber threatened to singe the dispatcher's legs. "Am I hot enough now?" 

It took Robert a second to clock what he meant; Chad not really seeming the type to get philosophical during sex. Then, it rushed him, like a sweeping uppercut to the jaw. 

The door. 

The completely accurate suggestion that Chad couldn't melt a steel-plated door.

Honestly, it was impressive how shamelessly self-absorbed he was—to still be thinking about this whilst bottomed out inside him. The sinful pyrotechnics were not involuntary; that much was clear to Robert. He was showing off.

And fuck, it was sexy. Infuriatingly so. Watching his teammate light up, literally, until the blaze had traced every sharp line and defined curve, making them glow.

Robert hadn't been able to answer the question—or say anything else—as release struck him. It bubbled out with a broken sob, coating his palm and chasing the length of his quivering fingers.

Spurred by the sight, Chad pressed deeper. The flames rose, gleaming blue at the tips and flickering in time with his thrusts. Then, he finished, a growl torn from his heaving chest. 

Adrenaline ebbed and a quiet settled, allowing the men to recover. Whatever illusions Robert had about this being a one-time thing were swiftly abandoned as, against better judgment, they went for another round.

Chad made use of his mouth this time—for something other than smug taunting. There was still room for boasting, however, when Robert was hoisted clean off the ground, held with disarming ease as he drove into him. He refused to let up, carving every second into the dispatcher's memory, until he was finally spent.

The rest of the night passed on the floor, Robert's coat serving as a makeshift blanket, as Chad coiled around him in a shielding arch. They fell asleep like that, hoping their nakedness could be explained with some vague scientific reasoning.

This had been the least of their concerns. When help eventually did arrive, the lingering smell of sex proved a much greater challenge to rationalise.

[peskellence]

✧˖° her °˖✧

[izbnart]

Dispatch animation! 👍

[monokumasans]

Valentines day art for @tastesliketvstatic :]

[peskellence]

> I WAIT ON YOU INSIDE THE BOTTOM OF THE DEEP BLUE.

[peskellence]

Pairing: Reed900

Tags: M/M, Workplace Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Roommates, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Previous Chapter

Read on AO3 here

Summary: After a string of bad decisions leaves GV200 without a place to stay, he ends up crashing with the last person he’d ever want to live with: Special Agent Nines.

Cold, clinical, and somehow more robotic than any android he’s ever met, Nines seems to take a certain pleasure in making him feel small. But GV starts noticing the cracks in this polished exterior: the sleepless nights, the skipped meals, the relentless refusal to ask for help.

He always thought Nines was untouchable. Above it all. But his pedestal is beginning to teeter—and it’s a long way down. (Reverse!AU)

Word Count: 3.7K

Warnings: Depression/Self-Destructive Behaviour, Mild Sexual Content/Humour

Tag List: @faxaway @sweeteatercat @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts @starry-eyed-stray @citricsinger76 @residenttf-nerdandstoryteller

Nines had survived the night—albeit not without monitoring. Tossing and turning, his body struggled to process the minibar’s worth of booze sloshing through it. He protested the android’s presence, too mired in self-pity to accept help, until exhaustion dragged him under and left him catatonic.

There was renewed activity as GV re-entered the bedroom. A low, pained grunt when the blinds were drawn, Nines turning away to shield himself from the unforgiving light. The android held back a quip, the “Morning, Sleeping Beauty” balanced precariously on his tongue. 

A glass of water was set on the nightstand, alongside painkillers, as the man emerged from his bedsheet bunker. He blinked sluggishly, his bloodshot eyes struggling to focus, until they locked onto GV. 

The android tried not to dwell on how ridiculous he looked. Dead fish stare, hair sticking up at all angles, a loose strand glued to the corner of his gaped lips. Instead, he posed a question. One he already knew the answer to:

“How are you feeling?”

“As though my night ended with a sledgehammer to the skull.” The response had been honest. Brutal. Reserved tendencies buckling under the weight of self-inflicted suffering. “For all I know, it might've done.” 

“Most people call that a hangover. They tend to happen when you drink enough to put a frat boy in the ER.” Two aspirin were popped from the bottle, held towards the man as a peace offering, alongside the glass. 

This courtesy backfired. The pills lodged in Nines’ throat as he performed a bizarre hacking motion to force them down. It should’ve been funny. On any other day, it would have been. Instead, the humour died before it ever landed.

A ghost lingered in the room, reeking of stale vodka. Its puckered lips hovered over GV’s own, ready to lay a claim.

“Do you…remember much…?” 

As soon as the question was asked, the air in the room shifted. Thickened by something more confronting than the battle scars of overindulgence.

Nines, who had been running a hand up the length of his pulsing neck, abruptly stilled. His jaw tensed, the skin drawn tight, in a way that had nothing to do with pain. Suddenly, just about anything in the room seemed preferable to look at over the android. Even the window, the beaming flashbang that it was.

> Right. Yeah. Of course.

Nines remembered, alright—he just didn't want to say it. Reveal anything incriminating; forcing himself into an unwanted admission of guilt.

GV hadn’t expected anything different, but it took some effort to quieten his inner cynic. To hold space for the consideration that maybe, just maybe, the man wasn't ducking the subject out of pure, selfish egotism. 

Emotional constipation and stupidity weren't one and the same. Nines understood the mess he'd created. Knew it couldn't be glossed over with a carefully worded email or formal note of commiseration. Last GV checked, Hallmark didn't print a “Sorry I Got Drunk And Made Out With You” card for their Sympathies collection.

For his part, the android would let it go. For now. Albeit not extending enough charity to re-draw the curtains. The prideful jackass could do that himself. 

When he spun on his heel, he wasn't stopped, and that seemed to say enough. Then, just as he was striding forward, ready to leave the human to his wallowing, something unexpected occurred:

“I remember enough.” 

He froze in place, completely disarmed by the interruption. Slowly, he turned his head, glancing over his shoulder to see Nines just barely looking at him. Still pained, but not in a way that crossed into agony. A small twinge which tugged at his lips.

“It seems I got a little…” The man dithered, tripping over his own stilted vocabulary. He flipped through the Buzzkill Thesaurus in his head, searching for something that didn’t sound like cold dismissal. “Carried away. In the heat of the moment.” 

> No shit. 

“You were wasted. It's fine,” GV clipped, both in dismissal and self-preservation. He didn't really need a detailed breakdown on why kissing him had been a mistake. He'd heard it plenty of times before, in more compromising positions. “I can see how you got the idea I was easy—or whatever. But sticking your tongue down my throat caught me off guard.”

“I did not stick my tongue anywhere.” The words were defensive, but shrivelled into nothing, as Nines realised he couldn't trust them. “It wasn't an entirely spontaneous decision. I've wanted to do it for some time, but I just felt it would be inappropriate.”

“Hey, you wouldn't be my first boss to get handsy: Had a construction gig after devianting. Supervisor grabbed my ass during a performance review. Asked if I wanted to test its shock absorption.” 

Nines withered at the comparison, unsure if it was meant to be funny or confronting. In all honesty, GV didn't know either.

“It felt inappropriate for several reasons. Our job roles, for one, but also the living situation. I didn't want you to think I was taking advantage. Expecting…payment, for allowing you to stay.”

“Wow. Smooth. If you wanna call me a hooker, just say it. You got pretty damn close yesterday.”

“That was deeply uncalled for, and I owe you an apology.” He tried to sit up, lending his words greater weight, but failed miserably. “I have no right to police you, nor anyone else, on how you choose to live your life. I am extremely sorry for how I behaved—and will admit there was jealousy behind my comments.”

There was plenty that could've been said on this. Maybe if a real hooker had been hired post–breakup, he wouldn’t be this knotted up. Not a healthy, long-term solution, but a means to screw out some frustration before it calcified into bitterness.

But the longer GV studied the man, the more something unsettled him. Impossible to quantify, buried deep under layers of emotional repression, but there all the same. 

If this had really been about petty resentment, the selfish desire to release tension, Nines wouldn’t be doing this. Pleading his case, with as much transparency as he was capable of, waiting to be understood.

The penny dropped like a cinderblock, crashing through the floorboards, propelling splinters in all directions. 

“Oh, fuck off.”

“That might be a struggle.” The man grimaced, gesturing down at himself. He'd made it into a semi-reclined position, now propped against the pillows like a limp ragdoll. “I doubt I'm getting much further than this.” 

“No, seriously, fuck off. Stop messing with me. Why the hell would you be jealous? You hate my guts; you've made that clear.”

The scowl collapsed, along with any assurance behind it. Nines stared pensively into his lap, running through defences, crumpling them one by one until they formed a teetering pile.

Then, he responded, in a pinched grumble. As if questioning whether there was any point in speaking at all. If it was worth exacerbating his raging migraine.

“I've been awful, and I can understand if you don't believe me. But as unlikely as it might seem, despite all our differences, I'm actually rather fond of you.”

“Bullshit.” Lightning surged through the GV200, like jumper cables hooked to his conduits. “Give me one example. One thing you like about me.”

“Your lust for life, your unapologetic commitment to being yourself, your resilience and bravery—even when the world constantly beats you down. They’re all traits I admire about you. Deeply.”

The amps had increased, almost frying his synthetic skin. Nines was not an adept sweet-talker. Even if he had been, the words flowed too naturally, too effortlessly, to be lip service. Like praising the android he’d liberally shittalked since their meeting was as easy as taking a breath. 

> Okay. He's still drunk. 

> He has to be.

But a BAC reading said otherwise. Nothing close to the level needed to shatter the foundations of logic.

Nines’ mouth opened again, but nothing escaped, his cheeks darkening with shame. It was obvious what the repressed ass was trying to communicate. Despite that, GV let him flounder. If he wanted to make his point with any conviction, he’d do it without liquid courage. 

“I also find you very attractive.” The confession was spat out breathlessly, before cowardice had a chance to drag it away. 

The android struggled to keep his composure as his racing thoughts quelled, replaced by a smug satisfaction. He couldn’t help it; he grinned at the human. Wide and toothy. 

“Yeah. You said last night.”

His confidence only increased with the reaction this inspired. Nines was dazzled, a telling bob rising in his throat, as any effort to stay upright was abandoned. He sank, a bashful butterfly retreating back into its chrysalis.

GV wasn’t cruel enough to leave him like this. Respecting how ballsy it actually was, for someone so private to have gotten this far. To speak candidly about something so personal, especially in his current condition. 

“You're not that bad yourself, meatsack,” he replied, breaking the tension with returned honesty. “If you'd laid down the moves earlier, before I saw the rock collection, I might've said yes.”

The fluttering body of his roommate stilled. Bulging eyes peeked from the top of the sheets, daring to re-emerge. “That is…surprising.”

“No, it isn't. Come on, you're hot, and you know it. You know I know it; don't play dumb.”

While GV had the capacity for discretion, it rarely translated outside of work. Nothing about him was subtle. The human had caught him multiple times, through lingering glances at unfairly tight sweaters or suspicious interest in the thread count of post-shower towels.

The man pressed his lips together, choosing to revise his statement rather than plead ignorance. “Surprising as I’d assumed any advances would be rejected on principle. Given your apparent hatred of me.”

“Hey, I don't—” The protest derailed, a system notification alerting him to his own blatant dishonesty. “Okay, so I do. A bit. You're a nitpicky asshole who judges every fucking thing I do. In and out of the office. I left a plate in the sink one time, and you put a sticky note on it.”

“I just don't understand why it was there. There weren't any traces of thirium-based food, so why did you need a plate?”

> Probably best we don’t touch on that. 

“Look,” GV strained, pivoting sharply back to the point. “The truth is, I don't actually hate you. Not really, just…” 

A hand was scrubbed down his face, as he grappled for the right words. He’d relied on ‘hate’ for so long to summarise the mess of feelings he had for Nines. Without it, he was a little lost. 

“Don't get me wrong, you drive me insane. I wish you'd get over yourself, pull your head out of your ass. But I don't like seeing you miserable. I thought I would, in theory, but in practice, it's just sad. Kinda hurts, you know?”

Nines’ face turned rigid. His guard rose, an invisible wall replacing vulnerability with practised efficiency. “I am sorry if learning about my strained familial ties and disastrous dating history caused you undue stress.”

“Yeah, so, that’s exactly what I mean,” GV gestured toward the lemon-pinched pout, illustrating his point. “Pretending like you don’t have feelings. Shitting on people for showing empathy. It doesn’t make you cool or mysterious; it just pisses everyone off. Makes you lonelier and more miserable.”

“I am not miserable,” Nines fired back, the point whizzing overhead like a speeding curveball. But he had failed to harden his tone, giving away just how flimsy the argument actually was. “I was drunk last night. I can assure you, the past does not affect me to such an intense degree.”

“I had to pin back your hair while you puked into a trash can, crying about how your deadbeat Dad—who left sixteen years ago—never sent you a postcard. You're not over it, and you're not okay. Stop lying.”

The cold veneer fractured, then peeled away. A varnished worktop drenched in acetone. The human tried to hold himself together, but the damage was done. There was nothing left to salvage, no hope of hiding how deeply it spread. 

Through the cracks, a voice emerged. Frail. Broken. Appealing to anyone who might hear it:

“Perhaps I’m not.”

If it had been ‘kind of sad’, watching his roommate quietly kill himself for months on end, this was gutting. The dewy-eyed man staring up at his ceiling was far from the ruthless tyrant GV had thought he’d known. 

It wasn’t Special Agent Nines, lost and scared in his own mind. But rather, Nolan Stern, clawing out of dormancy. The same person who had lost his dad. Then his brother. One after the other, like the universe was checking items off a list. Hellbent on ensuring he had no support, no safety net—just painful isolation. 

GV was struck with a horrifying realisation. He might be the closest thing to a ‘friend’ Nolan had. One he needed now more than ever.

“...What happened to you was shit.” He negotiated space on the side of the bed, careful to avoid any limbs, before sitting down. “Nothing I say is going to take that away. But you can't let it define you, sabotage your chances of being happy again.”

Nolan wasn’t listening, sinking deeper into his self-loathing spiral. Framing emotional awareness as a personal failure, assuming and awaiting punishment:

“I don't deserve to be happy.” 

GV groaned. It was the sort of shameless self-flagellation that could've been expected from a teenager. One writing in their journal and blasting out angsty pop punk ballads at 2 a.m. 

But from a grown man, well clear of their twenties, it was too much. Even if Nolan had never had a chance to be that teenager, GV wasn't about to sit and endure him making up for lost time. 

“Don’t be stupid.” 

“It's not stupid. It's a fact. Were I deserving any better, were this not the direct consequence of my own cruelty and cowardice, I would—I, uh—”

The tirade was broken by a sudden dry heave. The sun outside had brightened, leaking into the room with greater intensity. His roommate was struggling to cope with it, retain his composure, when he was one mistimed head tilt away from puking all over his sheets.

“Would you…” He gestured weakly to the window, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s rather bright.”  

“Not a chance. The only way I'm closing those curtains is if you quit it with the whiny, woe-is-me bullshit.”

Nolan withered in defeat, knowing this was a promise he could not keep. He flopped back against his pillow, having the audacity to stare morosely at his ceiling.

> Oh, you melodramatic—

“I'm not going to lie to you, say that you're wrong to make you feel better,” the GV200 started again. “You’ve been an asshole. But you don’t have to stay one. You can choose to change; be better. For you and everyone else.”

“What if I can't be better? What if this is all I'm capable of being?” 

“You won't know unless you try, jackass. Really, it can't get any worse—you're not exactly living it up now. So what have you got to lose?”

Grey eyes pulled away from the drywall, if only briefly. It had been enough, as GV was quick to catch them. Holding their gaze until the tears fell freely, with no attempt made to wipe them away. 

The GV200 didn't seek permission, waiting for Nolan to initiate what he clearly wanted. And would deny himself, out of practice or self-loathing. He took charge, pulling the man in, wrapping him in an embrace. 

It felt strange at first—unnatural—like hugging a cactus. He expected resistance, to be poked and prodded for his efforts. But the man was tired. Too spent to deny himself this basic comfort, having been starved of it for far too long.

He needed it. Desperately. 

Maybe they both did. 

“You don't have to be alone in this…” The GV200 promised, in a rare show of earnestness. 

The grip on his shoulders tightened. Nolan wasn't able to say much, his breathing broken by laboured shudders. But he was able to stutter out a short reply. A weak, but achingly sincere, “Thank you.” 

They remained like that for some time. Nolan, allowing himself to be held. Trusting that his roommate wouldn’t vanish beneath his grasp. GV, in tow, indulged in the pleasant warmth of his body. Focused on the faded notes of woody cologne and mint body wash, breaking through the funk of bad life choices.

“...Get a therapist, though,” was eventually added, diluting some of the saccharine sentiment. “Like, seriously, man, Jesus Christ. I'm not a Psych model, there's only so much I can do.” 

“I'll think about it. If I can get the time off work.” 

GV tensed, tugged violently from the moment. There was something he’d been mulling over—something that felt unfair to leave unsaid. Especially now. While hearts were still bleeding, before they had a chance to be stitched closed.

“I'm thinking about requesting that transfer. Or looking for something else.”

Nolan, who had just begun to relax, snapped back in an instant. Sitting bolt upright, he searched his roommate with a strained expression.

“I was angry when I made that suggestion—I wasn't thinking about how it would affect you.” 

Panic was flooding the dry monotone, as much as he fought to keep it level. “Please, don't let it diminish your confidence. It is an honour and a privilege working with you.” 

GV resisted a snort. He wanted to tell Nolan to tone it down a bit, lest he trigger an aneurysm. The irony of the situation was inescapable. He had become the voice of reason. A dramatic flip of the script. 

“It might be a little awkward now, don't you think?”

The human stilled, unable to respond, save for a deflated huff. As if he’d arrived at the same conclusion, entirely against his will.

There was no sense in denying the obvious. Something had changed between them. A newfound connection that couldn’t be undone. Only likely to grow—and for the better.

But it didn’t stop Nolan from wrestling with it, pulled between hope and apprehension. There remained a drive to recover normality, rather than plunge headfirst into the unknown. 

“Kissing you was a one-time occurrence. It was, and remains, totally inappropriate. It wouldn’t change the way I conduct myself within the team.”

GV was forced to bite his tongue. So hard that it almost detached.  He’d have zero objections to a second kiss. Hell, he had ideas for far more egregious HR nightmares they could indulge in. All he asked was that Nolan sort his head out first, at his own pace.

“Nah, I believe that. It's got nothing to do with you, I'm just over it; have been for a while.”

Scepticism flickered across Nolan's face. In spite of his many social shortcomings, he was too smart, too keenly attuned, to believe the decision had nothing to do with him.

“Okay, okay—and—it would make being your friend a whole lot easier,” GV added, putting an end to the silent interrogation. “I’ve had enough ‘Special Agent Nines’ to last a lifetime. I want to set myself up for success before I get to know Nolan.”

The man considered this, his quirked brows levelling, as he pursed his lips. Eventually, a small, grateful smile curled at the corners. 

“It may be wise for me to request some leave. It is long overdue, and would allow me to reassess my own trajectory. Take a step back, stop dwelling on the finer details and consider the bigger picture.” 

“I think that would be good for you. That picture is gonna be a lot clearer once you're back on Earth…” He paused as another suggestion emerged. Born mostly of concern, with a small dash of ulterior motive. “Could get lonely, though, sitting at home all day by yourself.” 

“I doubt our superiors would appreciate us both being absent. Even if you do intend to leave.” 

“No, no, you're good,” GV deflected, before he could net himself a lecture about professional courtesy. “I'm not about to skip out on my notice or anything. I was thinking more along the lines of…well, you know.”

> Ah, what the hell.

There wouldn't be a better time to make the proposal. He'd laid the groundwork multiple times. Was it actually selfish to try again, when they both stood to benefit?

“Something small. Furry. Way more likely to tolerate your bullshit than I ever will.”

Nolan rolled his eyes so hard they almost popped out of his skull. As if he'd fully anticipated the conversation would circle back to this eventually. 

“I have no idea what you mean.” 

Nothing was decided that day. Or for a while after. 

GV wanted to give his roommate breathing room. Time to reset, to consider what he wanted, without any influence or persuasion.

Free from the tremendous pressure that had been crushing him, the benefits appeared almost instantly. Nolan was eating more, sleeping more, the colour returning to his skin. Hell, he even sat differently. No more of the uncomfortable stiffness that had warped his posture. 

Whether this would continue after the leave ended—if the man decided to go back at all—GV welcomed what had been set into motion. He was no longer hiding behind a farce of perfection. The uncannily poised, stoic puppet. As it was hacked into kindling and set alight, a real, honest-to-God person rose from the ashes. 

He’d never seen his roommate like this. Content. Settled. Still following the same routine of stuffy books and shitty tea, but doing it with a smile.

It had been a week or so into his leave when they took a trip out. They returned home a few hours later, letting themselves in with the spare key Nolan had finally requested. Held between them was a plastic case, with an adorable tortoiseshell kitten nestled inside. Curled up in a ball and sleeping peacefully.

It would be a long process, safely descending the pedestal of misery Nolan had built. But now, at least, he was making progress. 

[jibberjibbsart]

Boyfriends play Tomodachi Life 🔥

[jibberjibbsart]

Blazer is the babysitter for the WHOLE Z-team. Including Robert.

(dialogue is from Castlevania)

[gwensketch]

remember to give your dispatcher some tlc

[pointyshoesmf]

Team Building

First time drawing Robert, so that was fun :)

Edit: had to crop, because tumblr nuked the post 😔 Full here

[thelittlewyrm]

[magical-kid-red]

Another bullshit shift with the Z-Team

[yumchxa]

Robert slipped

(December 17, 2025)

[tsenamu-mu]

[daizygomezzsworld]

Flambae lock the hell in please

Original By - @clacy2812 /  clacy2812.tumblr.com

[pngheavy]

a vessel

[tyaki129]