Chapter Text
“So,” Flambae says eventually, when he remembers how to breathe properly, now feeling much more sober than he has in the past few hours, “we just did that.”
Robert stares up at the ceiling from where he's next to Flambae, his hands resting over his bare, scarred chest that’s still glistening with sweat. “Yep.”
“Harder,” Robert pants, one hand gripping the headboard and the other clasped around the back of Flambae’s neck, his fingers tangling in damp, loose locks of jet black hair as Flambae snaps his hips forward between Robert’s shaking thighs. “C’mon, Flambae, just–”
“Ah-ah,” Flambae tsks, grinning down at the dispatcher with fiery eyes, his breath coming out in visible puffs of smoke. “You’re just a normie, Robbo. I don’t think you could handle–”
“Shut the fuck up.” Robert swiftly leans up and grabs him by the chin, his thumb dragging over Flambae’s lip, and dipping into his mouth when Flambae gasps to brush over his fixed teeth, his red-hot tongue. “Is that any way to treat the guy who cut off your fingers and hauled your ass in jail–?”
Flambae growls, bites his fucking thumb before grabbing Robert’s wrists to pin them to his mattress. He ducks down to swallow broken moans as he viciously snaps his hips forward, fucking Robert into a beautiful, broken mess.
It was fucking incredible.
Flambae, truthfully, barely expected anything when Robert agreed to come to his apartment after a few too many shots at the bar. Thankfully no one noticed them leaving together, as far as he knows, and Robert was silent on the car ride over. Flambae expected, at most, a sloppy handjob from Robert, and maybe some desperate crying from the dispatcher after Flambae sucked the soul out of him.
Instead, Robert shoved him onto the couch, yanked his pants off like they were on fire (pun intended), fell to his knees so fast it made Flambae's head spin, and did exactly what Flambae was planning on doing.
Honestly, now Flambae is thinking of turning over, smothering Robert in the heat of his own body, kissing him until he can barely breathe and starts begging to get fucked again–
“I should get going.”
Robert’s already getting out of Flambae's bed, and Flambae finds himself lurching up from the pillows, his brow furrowed and hair sticking to his sweat-slick back. “What, seriously?”
Robert turns slightly as he pulls his boxers up, his eyebrow raised. “Did you wanna take a survey…?”
“Maybe I wanted to make you come around my dick again, bitch.”
“Yeah. That won't be happening,” Robert sighs, picking his pants up off the ornate carpet in Flambae’s bedroom. “This was a mistake. Just– a drunken lapse in judgement, alright?”
And for some reason, that pisses Flambae the fuck off. He's not hurt; that would be pathetic. But it's fucking irritating that Robert is being this flippant about how hard they made each other come just a few fucking minutes ago.
“So what, you're just making your fucking way through the whole office, then?” Flambae scoffs. “Blazer, Invisigal, now me; who's next, fucking Waterboy?”
Robert just sighs again. He doesn't take the bait, doesn't fight like Flambae was sort of hoping he would. “I never did that with Blazer and Visi. But I thought you had a new date every week, right? Can we just chalk it up to that?”
Wow. Flambae scoffs. “Fine. Sure. Whatever, bitch.” He pulls himself out of bed– the sheets have scorch marks from where he fucking lost control of his flames when Robert rode him like a goddamn stallion– and ties his hair up, not even bothering to pull his own clothes on. Let Robert stare, he thinks. Let him see what he's fucking missing.
But Robert doesn't do that. He keeps his gaze fixed on the buttons of his shirt as he finishes getting dressed. And that makes something weird and uncomfortable flip around in his stomach.
But, like Flambae said. Fine. It's not like he needed to get his dick wet again. He definitely didn't want to reach out for the dispatcher, to shove Robert back onto the bed, to crawl between his thighs to blow his fucking mind a few more times. He wants Robert out of his apartment, and Robert seems plenty fucking eager to go.
“I'll see you Monday,” Robert says quietly as he reaches for the doorknob, and Flambae has to be imagining the hint of an apologetic tone. If he was sorry, he wouldn't be leaving. Like a dick.
“Whatever,” he says again, pointedly not watching as Robert leaves, the door shutting behind him with a deafening click.
A mistake. That’s what Flambae was, apparently. And that’s never something you should call a petty, catty bitch with anger issues and a destructive streak. Come Monday, Robert would learn just how much of a mistake it really was.
✧
Robert was admittedly naive for thinking that Flambae would be professional on Monday.
He's being a dick, plain and simple. Sure, he's always a cocky asshole, but today he's being petty. Deliberately disobeying Robert’s orders, mouthing off whenever he can, just making work as complicated as he possibly can.
“Flambae,” he grits out, watching the tracker float away from the docks to the downtown area, “you're off-route again.”
“Yeah, and?”
Robert sighs.
It was definitely a mistake, sleeping with Flambae when they were both drunk as hell after work. He knew it at the time, but it’s even more evident now. Flambae seems to have taken it personally, like a real blow to his self-worth, and Robert doesn’t quite understand why. It’s not like Robert was his type, anyway. He knows he was just a warm body at the time. Or maybe he was some kind of challenge for Flambae: getting to fuck the guy who fucked your life up. Dicking down Mecha-Man and making him come untouched was probably a real ego boost.
But still. It was a mistake. And Flambae is seemingly determined to prove that, as spitefully as he possibly can.
“We’ve only got another hour before the work day is over,” Robert says drearily. “Can you please just–”
“God, you'd think after the weekend you had, that stick woulda gotten knocked outta your ass by now.”
The mouse under Robert’s hand creaks from how tightly he’s clenching it, and Prism makes an inquisitive noise. “The fuck kinda weekend did you have, Robert–?”
“Flambae,” Robert cuts in, “one more word and you're benched for the rest of the week. I don’t give a shit anymore. Be a fucking professional.”
Surprisingly, the line stays quiet, until Malevola says, “Damn. Dad ain't playing around today.”
“Do we have to be quiet, too?” Invisigal cuts in. “Because the robber you sent me after has an AK and I could really use some fucking back up.”
Robert sighs, and sends out Malevola and Sonar as Flambae’s icon blessedly flies back to the SDN building.
Thankfully Flambae behaves for the last hour, but Robert is still fuming, still brimming with irritation and something deeper that he isn’t willing to confront. So he lets Chase take Beef for the evening and spends some time in the gym, pushing his limits on the treadmill and swinging at the punching bag until his bones ache. Because it’s a Monday, no one walks in on him taking out his frustrations on the equipment until his knuckles are raw and on the verge of bleeding.
He isn’t sure how long he’s in the gym, but the sun has nearly set by the time he’s finished, so he’s probably (hopefully) the only one left in the building.
The locker room is empty, too, as he steps under the shower, the water so hot it’s practically boiling. It feels familiar in a way that scratches an itch in his brain, yet makes his chest ache all at once. Makes him think of steaming hands against his throat and hips, of smoking breaths against his lips, of the mistake he made last week that’s been haunting his fucking dreams, and now his life at work, as well.
“You’re going to melt all your skin off at this rate, Bob-Bob.”
A curse upon all the gods above, Robert thinks as he sighs, pointedly not turning around at the sound of Flambae’s voice. But he shuts the shower off, grabs his towel to wrap around his waist as the steam clears, shakes the water out of his hair and keeps his gaze on the floor as he dodges the arsonist to head back into the locker room. Despite how toasted his skin feels, heat still radiates from Flambae as Robert passes him, and it takes everything in him to keep his breath normal.
And of course, Flambae can’t just leave him alone. “You were a bigger bitch than usual today, Mecha-Dick. Any reason why?”
“You know why,” Robert mutters as he heads for his locker. Flambae is right behind him; out of the corner of his eye, Robert can see that he’s out of his usual indecent flaming uniform, and instead wearing an equally indecent pair of sweatpants with a sinfully tight tank top. When Flambae leans against the lockers next to him, his arms crossed as he stares down at the dispatcher, Robert finds himself looking up despite his best efforts not to. Flambae’s hair is tied up in a loose bun, and he's smirking in that cocky way that Robert hates. He looks, admittedly, insanely attractive, and he definitely knows it.
“Mm,” Flambae hums. “No, I don't. But this shitty fucking attitude of yours is bad for team morale, you know–”
Fuck it.
With a firm slam of the locker door, Robert forgoes putting his clothes back on, instead facing Flambae with an intense anger he hasn't felt in years.
“Get on your knees.”
Flambae scoffs, but his eyes widen fractionally, just for a second, just enough for Robert to know he’s going to get what he wants. “We’re off the fucking clock, idiot. You think you can just fucking boss me around–”
Robert throws a hand out too fast for Flambae to dodge, weaves a hand through Flambae’s hair to tug it out of that bun and yanks, his eyes hardening as Flambae’s breath hitches. “Get. On. Your. Knees.”
And Flambae just swallows, rough and audible, before sinking to the floor, staring up at Robert with those insanely fiery eyes. His fingers expertly tugs the towel loose from Robert’s waist, wrapping his smoldering hands around his hips in its place as Robert’s achingly hard cock bobs against his scarred abs.
With no hesitation, Flambae wraps his lips around the tip, dipping his tongue into the slit to make Robert gasp before he sinks down all the way. His head bobs rhythmically as his hands started to wander, tracing the faded cuts and burns that mar Robert’s skin, dragging his nails up to thumb over Robert’s nipple while his other hand– three fingers, because you took the other two, Robert thinks bitterly to himself– slide back to cup Robert’s flexing ass. Not pushing, not guiding, just feeling.
And Robert makes the mistake of looking. Flambae's eyes are shut, but his brow is furrowed like he's fucking concentrating, like he's savoring this, the taste of Robert and the little huffs of breath he can pull out of him. He looks fucking gorgeous.
“Fuck,” Robert gasps quietly, his thumb tracing over Flambae's chiseled jawline while his other hand tangles further into soft black locks to try and gently pull him back. “Fuck, Flambae, you gotta pull off, I'm gonna–”
But Flambae just pulls him closer, swallows around him like it's nothing, and Robert chokes on a groan as he empties into his mouth.
He's so dizzy with it that when Flambae shoots up to his feet and crowds Robert against the lockers to kiss him, he lets it happen. Flambae is a sinfully good kisser, and his brain is practically mush. Basking in it is just too easy.
Eventually he gains enough situational awareness to push Flambae back so he can put some fucking clothes on, because he just got blown in the fucking locker room like a degenerate pervert. And it's pretty obvious that Flambae isn't a fan of this turn of events, once Robert has pulled his clothes back on and turns around.
“So what, you're just gonna fucking leave me like this?” Flambae gestures angrily at the raging tent in his sweats.
“No,” Robert says, slowly walking up to Flambae until the taller man has to step backwards, his muscled back thumping hollowly against the lockers, his throat bobbing with anger and anticipation as Robert drags his hand up his heaving chest. “You're going to go home, and I'm going to meet you there. There's no point in pretending that there isn't fucking tension here, for both of us. So we're going to get it out of our system, once and for all, and that'll be it.”
Flambae says nothing for a moment, just breathes heavily with his mouth in a firm, angry line, until he breaks. His hands shoot up to grasp Robert’s jaw, cradling it in his massive palms as he ducks down, his lips crushing against Robert’s viciously once more. And Robert can't help but moan lowly into it, his lips parting as Flambae’s tongue darts forward to trace along his teeth, his own tongue, the roof of his fucking mouth–
Robert gently pushes Flambae back again, his own breath shaky against Flambae’s lips, his eyes hooded and serious. Flambae already looks wrecked, fucking hungry for it, and Robert reluctantly backs away. “I'll see you in an hour.”
Flambae scoffs, feigning composure and ultimately failing as he tugs his shirt off and heads for the showers. “You fucking better. Bitch.”
So with one last lingering look at Flambae’s chiseled backside, Robert leaves.
✧
The knock at Flambae’s door comes somewhat as a surprise to him. He was half expecting the dispatcher to bail, to cut his losses and leave Flambae high and dry. But he probably knew that that would have just made the arsonist cause even more trouble tomorrow.
As soon as Robert steps foot into the apartment, Flambae crowds him against the door, kissing him feverishly as he presses their bodies together so Robert can feel the heat of Flambae’s bare torso. But he still doesn’t fucking feel close enough, even as his hands tangled into Flambae’s hair– he really seemed to fucking enjoy that when it was down– so Flambae leaned down just enough to wrap his hands around Robert’s thighs and haul him up, giving him no choice but to wrap his legs around Flambae’s muscular waist.
When breathing starts becoming an issue, Flambae moves his assault from Robert’s mouth to the delicate skin under his jawline, sucking and biting just enough to make him gasp without leaving any marks.
“Wasting no time, huh?”
Flambae growls against his throat. “You left me with a raging fucking hard-on in the fucking locker rooms, you dick. I’m about to bust out of the fucking seams.”
Robert yanks Flambae’s head back, his eyes hooded and dazed, his lips swollen and parted adorably. “Better get us to the bed, then.”
“Or I could fuck you like this,” Flambae mutters. “Right against the fucking door. Let all of my neighbors hear you cry like a fucking slut, eh?”
“Flambae.” Robert leans forward, carefully sinks his teeth into Flambae’s bottom lip, drags it back just a bit to make him gasp. “Bed.”
And who is Flambae to fucking argue with that?
It turns out that, even when he’s stone-cold sober, Robert Robertson the goddamn Third fucks like a wild animal.
Flambae’s got him pinned face-down to the silk sheets with a burning hand in between his shoulder blades, dragging over the scars of claw marks and bullet holes while Robert grinds his skinny little hips back to meet Flambae’s brutal thrusts. The bed fucking shakes under them, the room filled with sinful slaps of skin and blissed-out gasps and grunts.
And Flambae, as he soaks up the pleads for more and harder that spill out of Robert’s mouth, realizes that there is no getting this out of his system. Robert is an intense fuck for a normie, knocking all of the other men Flambae has slept with out of the goddamn ballpark. There’s no one last time, not when Robert is crying into his fucking silk sheets and snapping his toned ass back like a feral slut.
There’s got to be some kind of way Flambae can convince him into a fuckbuddies situation. Not that they’re buddies, or even close to it, but Robert is fucking addictive, and Flambae wants to mainline him until he overdoses.
So just in case Robert really means it, that this is the last fuck just to get it out of their system, Flambae is going to make it count.
He pulls out with no warning, grabs Robert by the hips and flips him, smothers his tiny little body with his own– their size difference is fucking insane, and it drives Flambae crazy– and ducks down to tongue-fuck the dispatcher as he slides his cock back inside the intense heat of his body. Robert moans with it, lets out these wonderful little whines with every thrust of Flambae’s hips, drags his nails down Flambae’s back and wraps his legs around his waist to drive him in deeper and harder like he can’t get enough, either.
Robert is fucking insane. And Flambae realizes, with dazed horror, that he kind of wants to keep him.
“That was fun,” Robert pants into the pillows, lying in the mess of his own come– fucking untouched, because he’s infuriatingly incredible like that– as Flambae kisses down the length of his scarred spine.
“Hmm.” Flambae grabs a handful of Robert’s toned ass as he bites at the back of his neck, just to hear Robert grunt adorably. “That is an understatement.” He drags his thumb over Robert’s swollen hole, dips just inside before pulling away to lie back on the pillows. He can’t help but stare at Robert, at the flush on his freckled cheeks, the relaxed form of him where there’s usually stress and tension. It’s a very good look on the man. Flambae wouldn’t mind seeing it more often.
He finds himself saying, “You said if I wanted to take you to dinner…”
Robert swallows roughly, his eyes shut, and a little furrow forms between his brow. Flambae wants to smooth it over with his mutilated hand, wants to pull Robert close and kiss him so he doesn’t have to hear what he knows he’s about to.
It’s not like he wants to do that with Robert, really. But he’s fucking hungry, now that they burned all those calories, and maybe if he can fill Robert up with food, he can fill him up with his dick again, later. It’s a logical plan, really.
“Flambae–”
“I’m kidding,” Flambae quickly scoffs, instead moving his gaze to the ceiling, just like last time. “But, like, be fucking serious. We are very fucking good at that.”
“At committing HR violations?”
“At fucking the goddamn brains out of each other. My dick, your ass– they fit like fucking puzzle pieces.” Flambae smacks said ass, and tries not to smile at the laugh it emits from Robert. “We could make this a regular thing. Shit, it would probably help with fucking morale at work. You won’t be such a tense little bitch all the time, and I won’t have a fuckload of pent-up aggression from how much our dispatcher sucks at his fucking job.”
“Dick.” Robert opens his eyes. There’s a look in them that Flambae can’t decipher, and that makes something in his stomach flutter uncomfortably. “It’s not a good idea.”
“I’m sure people said that about letting a bunch of former supervillains join the Superhero Dispatch Network, and then we took down the fucking Shroud.” Flambae raises an eyebrow challengingly.
After a moment, Robert says, “I don’t know if I’d call you supervillains. Honestly, you were all pretty basic. Downright pathetic, sometimes–”
Flambae smothers his laughter with a filthy kiss, crawls back over Robert’s body until the dispatcher hardens against his hip, and starts grinding up in an invitation. When he pulls away to let the normie breathe, Robert mutters, “Maybe,” and yanks him back down.
Yeah. Flambae definitely won this one. This won’t be the last time, not by a long shot.