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“Here.”
A hand sneaks under the back of his skull, gently lifts it. Labyrinth suppresses a hiss when the brush of fingers makes the gash pulse with pain. “Nh.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
Aguiar clicks his tongue, hands Labyrinth a full mug of water. “Today’s share. Bless Jae for that filter.” The occultist hums and takes a few, careful sips, sneaks a glance at the other man’s face. Disapproval, Labyrinth identifies easily on the detective's sharp features.
Reading Aguiar has been as easy as breathing to them. But whether that’s because he wears his emotions on his sleeve or because of their strange connection, they can’t tell. “You don’t have to lie,” Aguiar says. “You know I see right through that shit.”
Ah. It goes both ways then. The occultist sighs, closes their aching eyes. Faintly wishes they could reach behind them to scrape that pounding migraine away. “I know.”
“Still, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have hit this hard.”
Labyrinth takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. He’s been trying to get Aguiar to stop apologizing since he woke up from his, um. Forcibly induced nap. Which, given the color of the sky, has lasted most of the day. “Again. Me and Jae weren’t thinking straight. We were posing a threat, both to you all and to the mission.”
“Yeah but—”
“Stop. I’d rather suffer ten concussions than having my thoughts dictated by someone else.” Yes, it had hurt — Aguiar might’ve only used the handle of his axe, but the man was still strong, and Labyrinth themself (or rather, the body) wasn’t exactly the sturdiest in the first place. But the alternative would’ve been much, much worse, given the quick explanation given by Henri upon their waking. “You did the right thing.”
Aguiar purses his lips. Carefully lowers Labyrinth’s head back on the folded bedsheet — which didn’t make a great makeshift pillow, but they had what they had. “I guess. And you’re sure you don’t want me to—”
“I’m sure, yes.” The gash at the back of his head feels tender, still stings with every brush of air, every press of fabric. But he can take it. “We should keep what little medical supplies we have for more serious injuries.” Like yours, the occultist adds in petto.
Aguiar hums, his brow still pinched, then leans back a little bit. He’s letting it go — good. “If you say so, Labs.”
The other nods, immediately regrets it. “How is…”
“Jae’s fine,” Aguiar responds before he can even finish his sentence. They do that a lot, both of them. “They’re going over documents with the kid right now. They’re pretty pissed about the ritual thing though.”
“Understandably.”
“I’m surprised you’re not. What she did to you two—” Aguiar’s hands grip his jeans hard enough to make the fabric taunt, thunder and violence in his eyes. “And I know how much you care about… like, having a clear mind and all that shit.”
Labyrinth stays silent for a moment. Their face contorts in a tic, thinking back to last night. Their memory of it has grown hazy since the ritual’s hold over their mind was broken, but trying to remember the details makes them want to throw up a little bit. Or maybe that’s just the concussion.
They suppress a shiver. “...Yeah.” They’re on the roof — because of course they are. They always seem to have these kinds of conversations on the roof. He’s grateful for it — it’s quieter than the rest of the house, and the long-since dried maze he painted onto it nights ago offers a grounding sense of familiarity. “I do.”
The memory of laying awake at night, right there under reddish stars and a moon too large for it to make sense. Talking in hushed voices like the morning after would be their last, lingering glances, lingering touches on their arms, their faces, mapping out each other’s frames. Stopping longer on fresh injuries, over messy bandages, where the call of blood feels strongest.
Lingering. Longing. Feeling. The world is a maze, and Labyrinth has mapped out so very little of it. But his paths kept meeting Aguiar’s, again and again and again, at every crossroad.
“What was it like?”
Labyrinth opens his eyes. The tall walls and turns and dead ends make way to heavy, sickly orange skies. Aguiar’s face a darkened shape cut out of it, framed by ever-messy locks. Frowning. He’s fretting again. Labyrinth wets their lips, clings to the sting of the cut on the lower one to anchor himself. “What was what like?”
The detective purses his lips. His fingers dig into the meat of his arms, eyes avoiding the other man’s. Bitterness. “Being… you know. Under her influence.”
Ah. His eyes close again. Bits and pieces rise to the surface. Of Escarlata sending them on their way, the feeling of his mouth bent in a nonsensical smile. Confusion when confronted by Henri and Kemi, their onslaught of questions, their palpable anger when he and Jae spoke of their time with the Couraças. Of their time with her. Henri squinting at them suspiciously, Aguiar’s nose scrunching like he was smelling something foul. Uncontrollable rage when they declared their plan to kill the leader of the Couraças, their ally, their lover, their everything — blood running down his fingers Jae screaming, the lines on his chest lighting up must protect her, they’re in the way, in the way, can’t let them, can’t—
—and then a sharp pain at the back of his head before everything went dark. “...Like being lost, without realizing you are,” he whispers. In hindsight, now that he wasn’t under the ritual’s effects anymore, the maze in his mind had felt… strange. Wrong. Twisting where it shouldn’t, tricking him into dead end after dead end, every single path leading back to her no matter in which direction he tried to wander. Going around in circles instead of uncovering new paths. Like a house of mirrors, reflecting her and her only.
He opens his eyes. Parses through Aguiar’s tense expression. “...You’re upset.”
“Yeah, no shit. She got into your head, and Jae’s.” The detective growls, runs his hand through his own hair. “I don’t know how aware you were of it, but neither of you were acting like yourselves. All smiling like teenagers before their first crush or something.”
Labyrinth frowns. “I smile sometimes.”
“Not like that. You kept talking about her like she was the most perfect person on god’s green earth, didn’t even listen when we told you about the band, or the vampires, or anything. And your pupils were too big, like you were drugged. That’s what tipped Henri off by the way— that there was paranormal shit going on with you two.”
Ah. They suppose it makes sense. “...I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” Aguiar waves him off with a frustrated sigh. “I’m not mad. Well, a little bit. But that’s because I was worried as shit. M’just glad you’re back.” His hand reaches out, fingers tracing the scarifications on the occultist’s forehead. “You, and all your paths and dead ends.”
Labyrinth blinks, slowly. “I… expected you to be upset with me.”
Aguiar stares at him like he’s just spoken a different language. “...With you,” he repeats.
They swallow dryly. Aguiar is confusing them. “For.” Their eyes blink hard, lips curving in a grimace. Nervous tics growing more frequent. “Sleeping with the enemy.” With someone else. That last part is unsaid.
Aguiar lets out a bark of a laugh. Disbelief. “Labs, I don’t give a fuck about you sleeping with her. I’m mad because it was reckless and because she fucked with your head in the process.” He gestures wildly. He’s so expressive with his hands. “Sex is just sex, right? Who gives a shit. S’far as I’m concerned you could sleep with anyone here, or the Psikolera — hell even Ana and Chispa are cool in my book. If anything it looks like you and Jae get along better for it, so that part’s a win at least.”
The occultist hums, mildly surprised. And intrigued. “Would you…?”
“Sure, hell yeah. If offered.” He seems to consider something for a second, grimaces. “Not Pomba though. Or Henri. We got something different going on now, wouldn’t feel right.”
Right. Labyrinth doubted the young deserter could survive such… activities in his current state anyway. And Henri had referred to Aguiar as a brother of sorts a few times lately. “He’d probably whine about being left out, knowing him.”
“Nah, I’ve seen the way he looks at Dalmo. He wants that man’s dick so fucking bad it makes him act stupid.” Aguiar snorts. “More than usual I mean. Too bad Dalmo’s devoted to his wife.” He stops. Frowns. “...Well, to Colosso’s wife. Cuz that’s not his body. Christ that shit gets confusing.”
“You sound like you’ve been thinking about those things a lot.”
Aguiar shrugs. “Hey, we’re stuck in a red hellscape on a suicide mission, with barely any memories of who were were, in bodies that don’t belong to us. You take the little joys where you can. Besides…” His lips curve in a cocky grin, exposing gleaming canines that are just a little too sharp. (Labyrinth tries not to let that distract him. Too much.) “I’m not worried about you running off to Escarlata. I know you’ll always come back to us.”
Labyrinth can hear the implied ‘to me’ as clearly as if Aguiar had said it out loud. He finds himself endeared by that, despite himself. And had he been in a better state, he would’ve laughed. Maybe. “You sound very confident about that.”
“I am. You wanna know why?”
“Do tell.”
Aguiar smiles wider, exposing more teeth as he looms over Labyrinth. Almost predatory, although the obvious, fond amusement in his pupils softens the effect quite a bit. All bark. Adorable. “Because I know your blood doesn’t sing for hers. Not like it does for mine.”
As if to prove his point, his palm comes to hover over the center of Labyrinth’s chest, just a hair away from their skin — and the occultist barely suppresses a gasp when their blood immediately reacts, pushing up towards that open palm. Their heartbeat picks up. “I have — learned something.”
Aguiar’s hands don’t stop. Every almost-touch sending a jolt of something down the other’s nervous system, every pull of blood underneath the skin making them more lightheaded. “Oh? About what?”
“Myself.”
Aguiar’s teasing expression softens. Understanding. “A memory?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t want to get into it. Not now. Later. “But also…” A hitch in his breath, a dollop of sweat running down his armpit. It’s still so hot out, even in the relative shade of the roof and the waning sun. “About. Desire. Of the sexual kind.”
Aguiar hums. Curiosity. “What did you learn?”
Labi closes his eyes. The feeling of waking up on ruffled satin sheets, body bruised but satisfied. Mind hazy and unsure. The discomfort of something in his brain being bent out of place. Longing for home. The smell of her, rusted metal and a sweet, sickly perfume that clung to his nostrils like tar all the way back to the base. “...That I don’t experience it. Not really.”
Aguiar’s hands stop over his stomach. And when Labyrinth opens his eyes, his expression has shifted into a mix of surprise and creeping horror. “Labs. Did I—”
“No,” the occultist shuts that train of thought as fast as he can, “No. Everything I’ve done, everything we…” His head is spinning. Words are harder to muster than usual. His head still hurts from the blow. But this is important. “I wanted it, with you. All of it. With Escarlata…” he sighs. “I was… willing. She didn’t force us. The ritual… it came after.” Or maybe the sex fueled it. Again, he doesn’t want to think about it.
“Right. Still messed up.”
“Yes. My point is…” What’s his point? He’s getting lost again. Walls and corridors and dead ends. Focus. “With her, I was curious. She offered me a path. I took it. Because I wanted to…”
“Know yourself better,” Aguiar mumbles. “So you’ve said.”
“Mh. And to be fair, it did work.” Somewhat. “I know that I feel… mostly indifferent. About sex. Like I could go the rest of my life without ever doing it again, and I would be okay with that.”
Aguiar ponders the information for a moment. Labyrinth can see the gears in his head turn, see in real time the shifts from confusion, awe, disbelief, then curious acceptance. “Can’t relate to that, I don’t think,” he eventually responds. “But I think I get it. Does that mean I’m like, an exception?”
Labyrinth rolls his eyes, but can’t help the slight heating of his face. “Seems so.” He reaches out, grabs Aguiar’s hand to pull it back to his own shoulder. “You can keep going.”
The other man cocks his head. Ever dog-like. “You like that?”
“Mh-hm. It’s…” Strange, but not unpleasant. There is something, a tension in the minute space between Aguiar’s fingers and the occultist’s scarred skin as his partner resumes his strange, not-quite-petting — leaving Labyrinth cloud-headed. In a good way this time. “...Relaxing.”
“Mmh.” Aguiar’s eyes dart further down his body, lingering for a moment. Come back to Labyrinth’s face. “You’re hard, just so you know.” The occultist blinks. Focuses his perception further south. Huh. So he is. “Guess the exception theory holds water. Or, blood I guess. Heh.”
“I think you should stop talking.” Labyrinth’s words sound harsh, but they can’t help the fondness that seeps into them. They hiss when Aguiar’s fingers map out a nexus of corridors right under their left pectoral, twitch in a full-bodied tic. “Don’t stop.”
“Jeez, so demanding.” Aguiar clicks his tongue, but complies — bends down to plant a kiss on the occultist’s lips reverently — less of their usual desperate clash of teeth and tongue, this one surprisingly chaste. His stubble tickling his skin as he kisses his way down his neck and jaw, nimble fingers pushing his rags out of the way to uncover as much of the occultist as possible. More skin, more Labyrinth. “Fine then. You greedy weirdo.”
“How am I greedy?” Aguiar had made very clear the past few days he’d take any and all opportunity to fool around with the occultist when the others had their backs turned. (Kemi had had to step in at some point, because apparently Pomba had accidentally gotten an eyeful when going for a bathroom break and had come back traumatized. Again, Kemi’s words.)
“Come on. Pulling two bad bitches in one night and still asking for more?” Aguiar gives a bark of a laugh. “Apparently even Chispa wanted a piece of you.”
“Would you have preferred I slept with him instead of the leader?”
“Sure. Have you seen his war rig? He’s cool as shit.”
“You ass.”
“You love me.”
“...Mh.”
After a minute or two, Labyrinth finds himself relaxing completely under the other’s phantom touches — his migraine fading to a dull throb instead of a constant vice around his skull. It’s indeed, very, very pleasant.
After five minutes of it, he’s a complete mess. The remnants of last night’s activities — bites and the hickeys and bruises alike — have disappeared among the sizable flush on his skin, red lost in red. Beads of sweat roll down his legs, his torso, his face ; mouth open in short, hot little pants as he bares his throat like oh-so willing prey before the wolf’s teeth, hazy blue eyes rolling back so far into his head he might spot his own grey matter soon. “Aguiar, shit—”
“Shhhh.” His partner tuts at him, a shit-eating grin on his face. Labyrinth wants to bite it. “I hear the kid talking downstairs. Maybe we don’t traumatize him again, yeah?”
God. Of course Escarlata couldn’t measure up to Aguiar. Nobody else could get him in such a state, nobody. And he hasn't even touched him yet. Maybe that’s the worst part. “Aguiar,” he pleads, tries to arch into his partner’s hand to finally get some goddamn contact — but the detective simply raises his hand a little bit higher, cruelly escaping his attempt. “Shit.”
Deep brown eyes study the taller man with an intensity Labi has only seen on him in moments like these, when they both come together and let their blood do most of the talking. That level of scrutiny only makes him want to writhe more. “Do you think they even did this?” Aguiar asks suddenly. His fingers descend and ascend back to Labi’s face, tracing over his features. “Jonas Aguiar, Labyrinth. The real ones.”
Labyrinth lets out a needy sound. “I— I don’t know.”
“I have some of his memories. Felt his bloodlust, when I put on the mask.” Aguiar continues his exploration. His hand — that cursed, dextrous and calloused killer’s hand with that magnetic, perfect blood within how fucking dare he — hovers a couple inches above Labyrinth’s skin, the twitch of his fingers the only thing betraying how much he wants to actually lower his hand and touch, yet he doesn’t. That bastard. “I know I’m not him. But I look like him. Sound like him. Lived through those memories like they were mine. So it’s hard to remember I’m not.”
Labyrinth says nothing — they understand. And they know Aguiar knows they understand. “You think we ever did this? As Order agents.” The detective sounds pensive. “Kinda inappropriate workplace behavior.”
“I don’t know,” the occultist pants. Something tells him that wasn’t the case, but he can’t be sure. “I don’t know.”
“I’m scared.” Aguiar whispers. “That if we make it out, if we go back to our own bodies—”
“Stop.” Labyrinth doesn’t want to think about this. He wants to think of nothing but the feeling of Aguiar’s touch, his voice, his eyes, his devotion — heavy and sweet on his tongue. His presence, guiding him through the maze. Not towards its end — but its center. “Aguiar…”
“I’m scared it will. Stop, I mean. That we’ll lose, this.” There’s a wet chuckle above him. Labyrinth opens his eyes, is greeted by the other man’s slightly manic expression. His fingers have a subtle tremor to them as they glide across the labyrinth of scars on both sides of its namesake’s neck. “Fuck, Labis. I don’t wanna lose you. Any of you. But I know I already have.”
“Aguiar.”
“Agatha said it, right? We fucked up, one of us already died. No more body to go back to. Could be me, could be you. We don’t know.” His hand wanders lower, hovers impossibly close to his inner thigh — Labyrinth gasps, bites on a moan as the tension grows in intensity, some sort of crackling, static charge that shoots straight to the occultist’s spine and groin, bypassing his brain entirely. If he wasn’t hard before, he definitely would be now. ”And when you’re not there, when it’s night and it gets all quiet my thoughts start screaming and I can’t not think about it and it drives me insane.”
“Ah—! Please—” They’re pleading. Honest-to-god pleading. That's usually Aguiar’s job. Their face flushes, something at the back of their mind tells them they should feel embarrassed about being so loud when they’re not even being directly stimulated and the others are downstairs they could hear they could see — but they’re beyond caring, beyond anything but the growing need for release and touch and pleasepleaseplease. “Please…”
“I’m here.” Aguiar’s eyes are huge, blown out by desire. He’s not smiling anymore, and his hands shake, more obviously. Like he wants so desperately to touch the other, but he’s afraid doing so will make Labyrinth vanish right in front of him. “I can feel you. Can you feel me?”
“Yes!” He does. His blood is so loud in his ears, pooling stubbornly in whichever part of his body Aguiar’s hands are closest to, following. They come to hover above the visible tents in his tattered robes, and the sensation, the rush of blood from his head southward — it almost makes him pass out. They’re so hard, it hurts. They’re not sure how much more they can take before their dwindling sanity shatters like glass. “Don’t stop,” Labyrinth pants, shaky, desperate, somehow overstimulated and hating and loving every second of it. “Aguiar.”
“You’re so sensitive,” the other breathes out, clearly amazed, warm eyes following the journey of his own hand through the maze — and the trail of goosebumps it leaves in its wake. Hair as pale as the skin beneath, almost invisible. Makes him wonder what color his hair would be, if he’d let it grow. ”Holy shit.”
That makes sparks of heat crawl up Labyrinth’s spine. “Nnh.”
“You’re beautiful.”
A spike of shame. Labi averts his eyes and resists the urge to curl up on himself, suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t need to lie.” His body is all angles and sharp edges, pale, bordering on cadaveric. His constant tics twisting his face every now and again, warping the few smiles he tries to give into sneers and grimaces. The shadows around his eyes deep enough to hold secrets. “This body’s unsightly.” Uncared for. Abused by years, maybe decades of being used as a vessel for the forces of the Other Side. (He can’t help but wonder. What had happened to the boy Labyrinth had once been? Had he had a life, before the killing? Had he been happy? Had he known love? Had someone cared for him like Aguiar cared for the amalgamation of body and mind using his name at this very moment?)
“I don’t agree with that,” Aguiar says, still mapping out the maze. Committing it to memory once more. “Shut up.”
The occultist whimpers, struggling to keep still — their body shaking from unfulfilled need and want, want, want, he wants, nails scratching at the sun-bleached wood underneath him, other hand gripping Aguiar’s shirt in an unsteady fist. His head is spinning, half from the lingering concussion and half from the blood leaving his brain to follow Aguiar’s phantom touch. He’s harder than he’s even been in his life — probably - hard and hot and heavy and leaking, proving how very ready and willing he is. Pre is soaking his robe in a wet patch, the slight friction of the fabric not enough, not even close. Sweat slowly pooling in his navel, twitches and tics growing in frequency as the fire in his groin burns hotter and hotter, with no end in sight.
He wants more. He wants, and Aguiar won’t give it to him. It’s torture, being denied like so. “Jonas, I can’t…” He feels exhausted, in the best of ways, in the worst of ways — delirious with want and lust, craving the other’s hands on him. Yet Aguiar still denies him, still moving his fingers above his skin. “I want to see it,” he whispers. From Labyrinth’s wrist to his shoulder, down his chest, doing a u-turn around his navel, his hands explore. Cruelly avoiding his covered length, back up, across his collarbones, down his other arm to the hand from where he jumps to his hip, down the leg, fingers feathering just so on the sensitive inside of his thigh. Always following the lines, always. “You, in that mask. I want to see what you look like when you kill.” He wants, he wants, Labyrinth will lose it at this rate, he will, Aguiar, Aguiar, Aguiar. From ankle to ankle, up again, before finally stopping above his sternum. “I want to see you ripping someone’s heart out,” Aguiar pants, and his voice sounds wrecked, his eyes alight with a fever they both know well by now. “Labis.”
Labyrinth arches off the floor with a keen, please, please, God. Aguiar’s hand is wracked with tiny tremors, the effort of keeping his wrist steady starting to take its toll on his muscles. He breathes out, shifting on his knees next to ease the soreness. Glances at the occultist and groans at the look on their face. Labyrinth can only imagine what they look like to him right now, but it seems to drive the man up the wall, so much so that he finally, finally starts to lower his hand towards his sweaty skin. Labyrinth lets out a shuddering breath, relief, finally, finally, he’s close, oh god he’s getting close, moving to press himself against the other. but doesn’t have the time to act on it when Aguiar returns both his hands above his body.
He bits his lip and groans in frustration. “You—” Asshole. Bastard. “T-Tease.” He’s stuttering, words half-eaten by tics stumbling out of his mouth in his haste to ask for more. Aguiar bites his lip hard enough it blanches under his teeth, moving his hands above the other’s skin as if he was petting his sides, hovering a second more above his hips and curling his fingers just so, mimicking something else. Labyrinth’s blood seems to pulse, sending a wave of pleasure in his entire groin and midsection, making his eyes roll back into his skull. “Fuck—!”
“Labi,” Aguiar whimpers like a kicked dog, breathless and hungry, eyes boring white hot in Labyrinth’s scars. The occultist wants to reach up and bite, consume, devour — but they can’t even bring themself to move, pinned to the carpet by the inch of empty space between their stomach and the other’s sweaty palms. Their eyes flutter shut, their brain oh-so helpfully supplying them with the memory of Aguiar’s strong hands holding their hips in a bruising grip, then their thighs, their ass, digging his teeth in the meat of their neck and ramming his hard thick cock deep inside th—
“Oh my fucking GOD!” Kemi’s voice booming through the ceiling, laced with very real annoyance. “Aguiar you prick, just let the guy cum already!” “Kemi!” A boyish squeak replies. Pomba.
They both freeze, just for a second. Labyrinth feels heat travel up his chest, neck and face. “Ah,” Aguiar says. “Forgot again.”
The occultist covers their face with their hands. “...I hate you.”
“What?!” Kemi continues from down under. “At least they’ll stop if he finishes! I got shit to do and I can’t focus like this!”
“Eeeh, I don’t know.” A drawl, dripping with amusement. Henri. “S’like listening to a podcast while you do chores. A very horny podcast. I like it.”
“Of course you fucking would, you freak.”
Aguiar’s hand moves away slightly. Labyrinth’s eyes widen, and he grabs the other’s wrist in a vice grip — nails digging into the skin hard enough to leave marks. “Don’t you dare,” he warns, low and dangerous, with half a mind to just go and finish himself off right there and then and the other half to conjure a ritual to make Aguiar keep going. But he won’t. “Don’t you— haa— fucking dare leave me like this.”
The other swallows thickly. The bob of his Adam’s apple makes the occultist want to do unspeakable things. “Okay,” his hands come back, yes, yes, thank every god there is. “Fuck it, okay. I got you.” And he moves them again, closer, faster, zeroing-in on the occultist’s straining cock, barely a brush, not even a graze — Labyrinth whimpers, arching his back and baring his throat, the back of his head hitting the makeshift pillow and sending a fresh wave of pain through his skull. “Ah!”
“Careful, careful.”
“Fuck you, Aguiar.”
“Yeah, okay. Maybe later.”
Henri cackles below. Kemi is screaming something. Labyrinth does his best to tune them out, legs spreading, hands gripping the carpet. His panting gets hoarse, he’s so close, so close and he can’t believe he is, can’t believe he’s going to come completely untouched. He’s going to come without any stimulation at all, nothing but an illusion of touch, the phantom of Aguiar’s fingers tracing over the maze and the push-pull of blood underneath. “Aguiar,” he chokes, eyes squeezing shut. He can feel hands closing in, not touching yet but so close to, Labyrinth can feel the warmth of Aguiar’s blood, he can hear it singing to him, his own singing back and harmonizing, longing to be joined, to mingle, to melt into each other. His head is spinning, everything is too hot and too much and he’s about to snap in two and he’s, he’s—
“Holy shit, Labs,” Aguiar breathes out, staring open mouthed as the other arches off the wooden floor like a bowstring and comes all over their own stomach — wrecked voice calling his name again and again, raw and unfiltered. His hands linger over Labyrinth’s body, for a moment, his own cock throbbing something fierce in his pants at the sight of this, this incredible creature brought to his peak by the mere idea of Aguiar touching him.
It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. And he’s seen his own come smeared on Labi’s stomach while the other drew a bloody maze on him just a few days ago, so that’s saying something. He doesn’t even register Henri’s wooping and cheering coming from downstairs, or Kemi’s faint thank fucking god. Labyrinth’s body goes slack and Aguiar reaches into his own pants, frantic and desperate.
Labyrinth comes back to their own body quickly, disoriented and oversensitive, their brain still bathed in endorphins. They blink away the dark spots in their vision — ah. They passed out. He mumbles Aguiar’s name, hears a choked, almost sob-like noise from somewhere on his right. When he rolls his head to look, face soaked in sweat and tears, Aguiar is staring down at him with lust darkened eyes and furiously stroking himself, marveling over his still twitching body. “Labi,” he whimpers, gritting his teeth, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. “Labi, h-hah, fuck—”
Aguiar lets out a full-on moan, and Labyrinth’s pretty sure they have stars in their eyes right now. They’re trying to keep their gaze on their partner, but it’s hard as they’re soon being smothered by hungry lips and an eager tongue. Labyrinth closes his eyes, hums into the kiss and sneaks his hand in Aguiar’s lap. “Let me,” he whispers, and he feels Aguiar nod against his shoulder. His hand lets go of his cock, letting Labyrinth wrap his slender fingers around it. It only takes a few strokes to finish him off, Aguiar canting his hips forward as he comes with a deep groan all over the occultist’s hand and already sullied robes. Then he slumps forward, and Labyrinth doesn’t have the strength or the will to keep themselves from hitting the carpet together, achy, out of breath but deeply, deeply satisfied.
A few minutes pass in partial silence, heavy breaths slowly coming back to a normal rate, happy hums and sighs mingling together. Labyrinth feels Aguiar’s stubble brushing against their neck, their jaw, his lips kissing his face. “You good?” the detective asks, raw and maybe a little giddy. Labyrinth makes a slurred noise of approval. “That sounds good.”
“Nice one you two!” Henri calls out from beneath, and the occultist can hear how wide the other man is smiling. “Hey Aguiar, how’d you rate his o-face?”
The detective groans, this time in annoyance. “I will throw your ass off a cliff.”
“That’s not a number but okay!”
“I will! Don’t test me!”
Labyrinth hums, raising a weak hand to rest on Aguiar’s shoulder and play with his hair. He’s wrung out, head hurting again, and he probably just sweat off all the water he’s had today, but his thoughts are quiet. Blissfully so. “Thank you,” he breathes out, sinking into Aguiar’s hold. “I… needed this. After…” Her. He barely remembers what her touch felt like, can barely recall that cloying scent. “Good boy.”
Aguiar’s breath hitches. “Sure,” he clears his throat, red in the face. Cute. “Anything.”
“Mmh.”
“I mean that. Anything.”
Labyrinth closes his eyes. He knows.