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The casino never really slept, it just breathed—slow, recycled air pushed through vents that smelled faintly of smoke, money, and redstone. Lights glared off polished floors and chipped at the edges of Branzy’s vision, everything a little too bright, a little too loud, the way it always got after a long day of violence. He sat slouched at the bar with one boot hooked around the rung of the stool, shoulders heavy, forearms resting against the lacquered wood. There was dried blood at his knuckles and darker, tackier smears along the cuff of his sleeve where he hadn’t bothered to wipe his hands properly before sitting down. Someone else’s blood, mostly. Some of it his. Not enough to worry about.
He cradled a low glass in one hand, ice clinking softly as he tipped it just enough to wet his lips. He wasn’t drinking fast. He rarely did after a day like this. It was more about grounding himself, about the weight of the glass and the familiar burn, about reminding his body that it was allowed to slow down now. The adrenaline crash sat heavy in his chest, a dull ache behind his ribs that had nothing to do with injury and everything to do with the way his heart had been sprinting for hours.
Beside him, Clown stood instead of sitting, one knee pressed against the bar, elbows braced as he leaned forward to peer at the bottles lined up behind the bartender. He looked like he couldn’t quite settle, like his bones were buzzing under his skin. There was blood on him too—splashed across the front of his coat, flecked along his mask where he’d wiped it with the back of his hand without thinking. His hair was slightly disheveled, curls flattened on one side where a helmet or a shoulder had pressed too hard earlier in the day.
They’d done well. More than well. Traps sprung exactly when they were supposed to, ambushes clean and almost elegant in their cruelty. Server mates had fallen one by one, confused laughter turning sharp and panicked before cutting off entirely. It had been a good day to be clever and ruthless, a good day to trust each other implicitly. That kind of success usually left Clown electric—giddy, even, full of sharp jokes and animated retellings, hands cutting through the air as he replayed moments that had gone just right.
Tonight, he was… off.
Branzy had noticed it hours ago, in the space between kills. The way Clown’s eyes kept finding him even when there was no tactical reason to check in. The way his hand lingered at Branzy’s elbow after a successful strike, fingers brushing fabric and skin like he needed to confirm that Branzy was solid and still there. Once, when Branzy had crouched to loot a body, Clown had come up behind him and rested his palm briefly against the back of Branzy’s neck, a touch that was unnecessary and oddly gentle, gone almost as soon as Branzy turned his head.
Now, at the bar, that restless energy had nowhere to go.
“What’re you getting?” Branzy asked quietly, eyes still on his glass. His voice was rough with exhaustion, the kind that settled into your bones and didn’t leave until you slept for a very long time.
Clown hummed, noncommittal. “I don’t know. Everything looks wrong.” He glanced sideways at Branzy, then away again, like he’d been caught staring. “What is that?”
“Whiskey,” Branzy said. “Same as always.”
“Yeah, but—” Clown gestured vaguely. “That one smells like it could take paint off a wall.”
Branzy’s mouth twitched despite himself. “That’s part of the appeal.”
Clown laughed softly, then went quiet again. He shifted his weight, hip brushing Branzy’s thigh this time, not an accident. Branzy felt it anyway, the warmth through layers of fabric, the subtle press that lingered just a second too long.
“You’re staring,” Branzy said gently.
Clown stiffened, then exhaled hard through his nose. “Am I that obvious?”
“To me? Yeah.” Branzy finally looked up at him, really looked. There was something tight in Clown’s expression that hadn’t been there earlier, something like nerves. “You alright?”
Clown hesitated. He opened his mouth, closed it, then lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “I’m fine,” he said automatically, then sighed. “No. I mean. I am, but also I’m not. It’s stupid.”
Branzy turned his stool slightly so he was facing Clown more directly, knee bumping Clown’s leg in the process. “Try me.”
The bartender drifted over, waiting expectantly. Clown glanced at the bottles again, then blurted, “Whatever he’s having.” He immediately looked like he regretted it.
The bartender raised an eyebrow but poured anyway.
When the glass was set in front of him, Clown stared at it like it might bite. He picked it up, took a cautious sip, then coughed, eyes watering. “Oh. Oh, that’s—why would you do that on purpose?”
Branzy laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm. “You get used to it.”
Clown set the glass down and pushed it a few centimeters away, as if putting distance between himself and the offending liquid might help. He looked back at Branzy, really looked this time, gaze lingering on the dried blood at his knuckles, the faint bruise blooming along his jaw. His expression softened in a way that made Branzy’s chest ache.
“You were really good today,” Clown said quietly.
“So were you.”
Clown shook his head. “I know that. I mean—” He swallowed, fingers curling against the bar. “You always are. It’s just… watching you today. The way you moved. The way you had my back without even looking.” He huffed a short, nervous laugh. “You make it really hard to think straight.”
Branzy’s heart did a slow, heavy flip. “Clown.”
“I know, I know,” Clown rushed on. “Bad timing. We’re exhausted, we’re covered in blood, this is not the moment for—whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely between them, then laughed again, too sharp. “I just—Void, I’ve been weird all day, haven’t I?”
“A bit,” Branzy admitted. He reached out before he could overthink it, resting his hand over Clown’s where it gripped the edge of the bar. Clown’s skin was warm, pulse fluttering fast beneath Branzy’s thumb. “Talk to me.”
Clown froze at the contact, then didn’t pull away. He stared at their hands like he couldn’t quite believe they were touching. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, stripped of its usual bravado.
“I want to be with you tonight,” he said. “Like. Really with you.”
Branzy didn’t interrupt. He waited.
Clown took a breath that hitched halfway through. “I just—there’s something you should know, and I don’t want you to think it’s weird or that I’ve been lying or—”
“Hey.” Branzy squeezed his hand gently. “Slow down.”
Clown nodded, swallowing hard. “I’ve… never done this. Not all the way. I talk a big game, I know, but it’s—this is new for me.” He risked a glance up at Branzy, eyes bright and a little scared. “And I don’t want to mess it up.”
The casino noise seemed to fade, the clatter of chips and distant laughter dulling into background static. Branzy felt something in him soften, something protective and fiercely fond.
“Clown,” he said, voice steady. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
Branzy shook his head. “I promise.” He shifted closer, their shoulders brushing now. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. And if you do want to… I’ll take care of you. At your pace.”
Clown’s breath shuddered out of him, relief written plainly across his face. He leaned into Branzy without quite realizing it, forehead dipping toward Branzy’s shoulder. “You always know how to say things like that,” he muttered.
Branzy smiled, pressing a brief, careful kiss to Clown’s hair. “Comes with practice.”
They stayed like that for a moment, touching but not rushing, the weight of the day finally catching up to them. Clown’s hand tightened around Branzy’s, grounding himself, and Branzy let his thumb trace slow, reassuring circles against Clown’s skin.
“Finish your drink,” Branzy murmured after a while. “Or don’t. We can head out whenever you’re ready.”
Clown glanced at the untouched glass, then back at Branzy. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I think… I think I’d rather just go.”
Branzy nodded, downed the rest of his whiskey in one smooth swallow, and stood. As they moved toward the exit together, bloodied and exhausted and quietly certain, Clown’s fingers laced with Branzy’s, grip firm and trusting, and Branzy squeezed back.
—
The door to Branzy’s room clicked shut, cutting off the low thrum of the casino and plunging them into a quieter kind of intimacy. The only light came from the neon sign outside, painting the walls in shifting strokes of magenta and electric blue. It was a room that saw as little sleep as the casino floor, but tonight it felt different, softer. The air was still, holding its breath.
Clown stood awkwardly by the door, hands shoved in his pockets, the bloodstained coat suddenly feeling like a costume he didn’t know how to take off. He watched as Branzy moved with an easy grace, shrugging off his own jacket and tossing it over a chair. The motion was familiar, but the energy behind it wasn’t. It was deliberate, unhurried.
“Hey,” Branzy said, his voice low in the dim light. He crossed the space between them, stopping just short of touching. “You can relax, you know.”
Clown let out a shaky breath, a laugh that was more air than sound. “Right. Relaxing. Famous for it.”
Branzy’s mouth curved into a gentle smile. He reached up, his fingers brushing the lapel of Clown’s coat. “Let’s get you out of this. It’s seen enough action for one day.” He worked the heavy fabric from Clown’s shoulders, his touch careful, almost reverent as he slid it down his arms. The coat hit the floor with a soft thud, and Clown felt a little more exposed, a little more real.
Branzy was very gentle as he straddled Clown, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed before settling over his lap. The position was intimate, a warm weight that was both grounding and thrilling. Clown’s hands came up to rest on Branzy’s hips, hesitant at first, then more certain as he felt the solid warmth of him.
“Okay?” Branzy murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of Clown’s mouth.
Clown nodded, his throat too tight for words. He could feel the frantic beat of his own heart, a trapped bird against his ribs.
Branzy’s lips trailed along his jaw. “Have you ever looked at porn before?” he asked, his voice a quiet rumble against Clown’s skin.
The question was so direct, so unexpectedly clinical, it startled a laugh out of Clown. “Uh. Yeah. A few times.”
“It’s not always realistic,” Branzy continued, his breath warm as he kissed the sensitive spot just below Clown’s ear. “But it does let you know what to expect a little more.” He nipped gently at his earlobe, then soothed the small sting with his tongue. “It’s all about building up to it. Foreplay.” He punctuated the word with a series of open-mouthed kisses down the column of Clown’s throat, his hands working the buttons of Clown’s shirt with practiced ease. “Making sure you’re both ready. Making it feel good for everyone.”
Clown’s head fell back, giving Branzy more access. He was lost in the sensation, the gentle scrape of teeth, the wet heat of Branzy’s mouth. He felt his shirt being pushed open, cool air hitting his chest before Branzy’s hands followed, palms flat and warm, exploring the planes of his stomach and chest.
“Have you ever fingered yourself before?” Branzy asked, his voice muffled against Clown’s skin as he gently nipped at his collarbone.
Clown’s whole body went rigid. The question landed like a spark on dry tinder. He’d thought about it, idly, in the dark of his own room, but he’d never… “No,” he breathed, the word barely audible. “I—no.”
Branzy paused, lifting his head to look at him. His eyes were dark in the neon glow, his expression soft and without judgment. “Okay,” he said simply. “That’s okay.” He leaned down and pressed a reassuring kiss to Clown’s sternum. “I’m not expecting you to bottom, Clown. Honestly…” He shifted his hips, a slow, deliberate grind that made Clown gasp. “Honestly, I want to ride you.”
The raw honesty of it, the clear want in Branzy’s voice, washed over Clown. It wasn’t a performance or a game. It was just Branzy, telling him what he wanted, and trusting Clown to give it to him. The last of Clown’s nervous tension didn’t just break; it dissolved, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated want.
“Yeah?” Clown managed, his voice rough.
“Yeah,” Branzy confirmed with a grin. He kissed him properly then, a deep, languid kiss that was all about connection and not at all about rushing. He took his time, mapping Clown’s mouth with his tongue, one hand coming up to cup the back of Clown’s neck, holding him close. When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
“So let me take care of you,” Branzy whispered, his forehead resting against Clown’s. “Let me make you feel good.”
Branzy pushed himself up, his movements fluid and sure. He gave Clown a final, lingering kiss on the lips before sliding off his lap and standing by the edge of the bed. The neon light caught the curve of his spine as he turned, and for a moment, Clown could only stare, his breath caught in his throat.
“Stay there,” Branzy said, his voice a low command that was softened by the gentle smile he threw over his shoulder. He reached into the bedside drawer, his movements unhurried, and pulled out a small bottle of clear liquid. He set it on the nightstand, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, pushing them down along with his underwear in one smooth motion.
Clown watched, mesmerized, as Branzy kicked the fabric aside and climbed back onto the bed. But instead of returning to his lap, he settled on his knees a few feet away, facing Clown, giving him an unobstructed view. He made a little show out of it, the way he knew Clown needed. He leaned back on one hand, his body a long, lean line in the colored light, and popped the cap on the lube with his thumb.
“This is one way,” Branzy began, his voice a husky murmur as he drizzled the slick liquid over his own fingers. “Prepping yourself. It’s efficient, and it feels pretty damn good.” He brought his hand down, and Clown’s gaze followed, fixed on the sight of Branzy circling his own entrance with a slick finger before slowly pressing it inside. A soft sigh escaped Branzy’s lips, his head tipping back slightly. “You get to control the pace, stretch yourself out just how you like it.”
He worked his finger in and out a few times, a slow, easy rhythm that was hypnotic to watch. Clown’s hands, which had been resting limply on his thighs, curled into fists, the fabric of his pants bunching in his grip.
“But there’s another way,” Branzy continued, his voice a little breathier now. He added a second finger, his hips rolling subtly into the motion. “Prepping your partner.” He met Clown’s eyes, his gaze dark and heavy with intent. “Using your fingers to get them ready. It’s more intimate, in a way. You get to feel them open up for you, learn what makes them gasp, what makes them shake.”
Clown swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He could picture it with startling clarity—his own fingers where Branzy’s were now, feeling that tight heat, hearing those sounds for him.
“Me, though?” Branzy’s lips curved into a wicked, knowing smile. He scissored his fingers, a low groan rumbling in his chest. “I usually prefer getting eaten out.” He watched Clown’s reaction, the way his eyes widened, the way his breath hitched. “It’s messier, and I know it’s not for everyone. Some guys don’t like the taste, some are just… hesitant.” He shrugged, a fluid roll of his shoulders. “But for me? There’s nothing better. The feeling of a tongue, hot and wet, taking its time…” He trailed off, pulling his fingers free and reaching for the lube again. “But tonight,” he said, slicking himself up with a generous amount, “tonight is about you.”
He finished his prep quickly, efficiently, his gaze never leaving Clown’s. Then he was moving, crawling back over him, his movements predatory and graceful. He straddled Clown’s thighs again, the slick heat of him hovering just above where Clown wanted him most.
“Ready?” Branzy asked, his hands braced on Clown’s shoulders.
Clown could only nod, his voice gone completely. He was more than ready. He was desperate.
Branzy sank down slowly, taking him in inch by inch, and the sound he made was a soft, broken gasp that went straight to Clown’s soul. It wasn’t the wild, frantic ride Clown had braced himself for; it was something else entirely. Branzy’s hands came up to frame Clown’s face, his thumbs stroking his cheekbones as he settled, his body a warm, tight weight that felt both overwhelming and perfect.
“Okay?” Branzy breathed, his forehead resting against Clown’s.
Clown couldn’t speak. He just nodded, his hands finding Branzy’s hips, holding on like he was the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis.
It started as a gentle rock, a slow, shared rhythm. Branzy braced his hands on Clown’s shoulders and rolled his hips, a deep, grinding motion that was less about speed and more about friction, about the drag of skin on skin, about the feeling of being completely joined. Clown sat up, the movement instinctual, needing to be closer. He wrapped his arms around Branzy’s back, pulling him flush against his chest, and buried his face in the warm, sweat-slick curve of Branzy’s neck.
The scent of him was intoxicating—clean skin and the faint, metallic tang of the day, overlaid with something uniquely Branzy. Clown breathed him in, his lips parted against the pulse point in his throat. Every shift of Branzy’s hips sent a jolt of pleasure through Clown, but it was the intimacy of it, the quiet closeness, that was undoing him.
Branzy was an extremely gentle lover. One hand slid from Clown’s shoulder into his hair, fingers combing through the strands, nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made him shudder. His other hand drifted down his own chest, and Clown felt the small movement more than he saw it. He pulled back just enough to watch as Branzy’s fingers found one of his own nipples, toying with it, pinching it gently between his thumb and forefinger.
“Sometimes,” Branzy murmured, his voice a low, breathy whisper against Clown’s ear, “the bottom might not be able to get off with penetration only.” He rolled his hips in a slow circle, illustrating his point, and a soft moan escaped him. “It’s still good, it feels amazing, but… it might not be enough to push you over the edge.” He looked down at Clown, his eyes half-lidded and dark with pleasure. “It’s considerate to see what you can do to help them get off and feel good. To pay attention.”
The words were a lesson, a gift. Clown’s hands tightened on Branzy’s hips, and he shifted his own angle, thrusting up to meet Branzy’s next rock. The new angle made Branzy gasp, his head falling back. Taking the cue, Clown slid one hand from Branzy’s hip to his front, wrapping his fingers around the hard, leaking length of him.
“Yeah,” Branzy breathed, his voice cracking. “Just like that, Baby.”
Clown didn’t have a rhythm, not at first. He was clumsy, overwhelmed, but he was a fast learner. He matched the rocking of their bodies, his strokes firm and sure, pulling a ragged moan from Branzy’s lips with every pass of his thumb over the slick head. Branzy’s hand fell away from his own chest to clutch at Clown’s shoulder, his other hand still buried in his hair, holding him close.
They moved together, a tangled mess of limbs and ragged breaths, the world outside the room ceasing to exist. It was just the slick heat, the frantic beat of their hearts, and the quiet, desperate sounds they were making for each other. Clown felt the pressure building at the base of his spine, a tight, coiling heat, and he knew he wasn’t going to last. He pumped Branzy’s cock faster, his own hips snapping up to meet him, driven by a primal need to see him fall apart first.
“Clown—” Branzy choked out, his body tensing, his back arching. He came with a sharp cry, spilling hot over Clown’s hand and his own stomach. The sight, the sound, the feeling of him pulsing around his cock, was all it took. Clown followed him over the edge with a guttural groan, his face still pressed into Branzy’s neck as he emptied himself into him.
They stayed like that for a long moment, slumped against each other, their bodies trembling with the aftershocks. The only sound was their harsh breathing, slowly evening out. Finally, Branzy lifted his head, his movements sluggish. He pressed a soft, exhausted kiss to Clown’s temple.
“Told you I’d take care of you,” he murmured.
Clown just held him tighter, burying his nose in Branzy’s hair, and for the first time all day, he felt completely, utterly still.
For a long while, they just breathed together, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat and exhaustion. The frantic energy had been spent, leaving behind a profound, heavy stillness. Branzy was the first to move, shifting carefully. Clown made a quiet, unhappy sound at the loss of contact, his arms tightening reflexively.
“Shhh, I’ve got you,” Branzy murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Clown’s temple. He eased himself off, his movements slow and deliberate, and stood for a moment, stretching. He looked down at the mess on both of them—sweat and semen streaking their skin—and a fond, tired smile touched his lips.
“Come on, Baby,” he said, his voice gentle. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Clown blinked up at him, his eyes hazy and sated. He looked utterly spent, his usual sharp edges softened into something pliant and vulnerable. Branzy grabbed a discarded shirt from the floor and, with surprising tenderness, began to wipe the mess from Clown’s stomach and chest. His touch was careful, almost reverent.
When he was done, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Clown’s lips. “Good boy,” he whispered, the words a warm puff of air against his skin.
The praise sent a fresh, pleasant shiver through Clown’s body. He watched, mesmerized, as Branzy tossed the soiled shirt aside and then took his hand, pulling him up from the bed. Clown’s legs felt like jelly, and he swayed slightly. Branzy caught him, steadying him with an arm around his waist.
“Easy there,” Branzy chuckled softly. He gently dragged Clown toward the small, adjoining bathroom, his hand a firm, grounding presence in Clown’s. “Shower time.”
The bathroom was cramped, the fluorescent light a stark contrast to the neon glow of the bedroom. Branzy didn’t bother waiting for the water to heat up completely, just guided them both into the stall and pulled the curtain closed. The spray was cool at first, then quickly warmed, sluicing away the grime of the day and the evidence of their night.
Branzy washed him, his hands moving with an unhurried, practiced gentleness. He worked soap into a lather and ran it over Clown’s shoulders, his back, his chest. He tilted Clown’s chin up, washing the dried blood from his jaw, his touch infinitely careful. Clown stood there and let him, his eyes closed, leaning into the contact, utterly trusting.
Branzy could usually do a couple rounds, especially with a partner he was this invested in. He had the stamina, the appetite for it. He could feel a low hum of potential energy still thrumming under his own skin, a quiet readiness for more. But looking at Clown, at the way he was practically melting against the tiled wall, his head bowed in blissful exhaustion, Branzy knew that would have to wait.
That’ll wait for another night, he thought with a private smile. When Clown might actually be able to keep up.
He finished rinsing them both off, then shut off the water. He grabbed a fluffy towel and began to dry Clown, patting him down with the same unhurried care he’d shown in everything else. When Clown was mostly dry, Branzy wrapped the towel around his waist and pulled him back into the bedroom.
He guided Clown to the bed, pulling back the covers. “Get in,” he ordered softly.
Clown complied without a word, sliding between the cool sheets. He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion it had been fighting all day. Branzy stood there for a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. He looked peaceful, younger, the perpetual tension in his face finally smoothed away.
Branzy dried himself off quickly, then slid into bed beside him, careful not to wake him. He pulled the covers up over them both and, after a moment’s hesitation, curled into Clown’s side, resting his head on his shoulder. Clown shifted in his sleep, his arm automatically coming around to wrap loosely around Branzy’s waist, holding him close. In the quiet dark, with the casino’s distant hum a lullaby, Branzy closed his eyes and finally let himself drift off.