Work Text:
When people made jokes about Robert having a small dick, he laughed. He laughed about it for a lot of reasons. Usually, in the moment, it was to make it clear that he wasn’t offended somehow, that he wasn’t about to scurry off with his tail between his legs to tend to his fragile masculinity while listening to some weird redpilled podcast.
Other times the jokes were just genuinely funny. That was a little more rare— if the Z-Team was good at one thing, it was beating a dead horse until it resembled a pile of unwitty viscera. Every so often, though, a quick little snip or jab would turn up the corner of his lips and he would only half-attempt to hide it behind a sip of lukewarm beer.
Behind all of that he laughed to himself. For himself, really. His life was absurdly, tragically unfunny. If this was one little thing he could seek humour in, he would.
It was that real, bubbling giggle that tore itself out of his throat on Flambae’s couch, teeth dragging along stubble as he’s sprawled in the lap of the man in question. He’s not quite sure how long they’ve been here, tumbling onto the absurdly plush furniture after just enough drinks to write this all off in the morning as a mistake between coworkers.
“What.”
It takes Robert a second to pause, delighting in the sensation of rough stubble against his own as he noses his way along the other man’s jaw. His hands come to a gradual stop from where they had been tracing the edge of the terrible costume, trying in vain to slip beneath and yank the thing off. Robert doesn’t move though, just lets his lips linger along Flambae’s pulse point and delights in the way it earns him a shiver. “Hm?”
“Wh- Rob. Where is it?”
Flambae’s hands are still on Robert’s ass and keeping him firmly in place so Robert takes that as implicit permission to continue, figuring if the man was genuinely uncomfortable he’d have no reservations about throwing Robert off. Or melting his face off. Probably both.
“Where’s what?” The words are muffled against too-warm skin, skin that’s heated noticeably since Robert was swiftly grabbed and yanked onto his new favourite chair. Flambae’s lap really wasn’t that comfortable but it was heated, the warmth a soothing balm on his perpetually aching tailbone.
Flambae huffs like Robert is being deliberately obtuse, hand reaching up to tangle in his auburn hair and yanking. A moan is ripped out of Robert’s throat before he can even think about it, mind going blissfully blank as the pleasure-pain sends a thrill of electricity down his legs.
He manages to lift his eyes a moment later, lidded with pupils he’s sure have blown out by now. Flambae is flushed this gorgeous red, painted across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose and carving a lovely pattern down the V of skin exposed by the suit. Their eyes meet, slow and hazy and utterly unexpectant in anticipation.
He delights in the way Flambae’s throat bobs at the picture he makes, only leaning into it a little as he lets his eyes droop into what had been lovingly described by an ex as his ‘fuck my brains out’ eyes.
Flambae clears his throat, a raw and choked sound before he shakes his head and takes a long, steadying breath. His eyes fix back on Robert, head still tilted back just-so as he makes a home for himself in the lap of a man who tried to kill him.
“Where’s your dick?”
Robert takes a second. Pauses. Calculates. “Don’t have one.”
“You… don’t have one.”
Robert decides to test the waters a little, shift and adjust from where he’s straddling Flambae’s waist. It earns him an instinctual bucking of the hips he’s resting on and he’s grinning, delighting in his win before that shit-eating smirk is melting off his face with another particularly rough tug of his hair.
“Robert.” Uh oh, full name. “What do you mean you don’t have a dick?”
Flambae studies him, studies the way Robert seems to hesitate in his answer. “Wait, fuck, it didn’t get blown off in an explosion, right?”
The laughter bursts out of him in a rush, the bubbling in his chest mixing with the arousal that’s been simmering in his veins until it feels like a fine champagne is flooding his brain.
“No,” He manages after a minute. “I’m, uh.” Fuck it, he was already on the man’s lap and not-so-subtly grinding on his dick, he could make a passing effort to be vulnerable.
He lets his gaze drop to an absurdly defined collarbone as he forces the words he’s only said a handful of times to another person.“I’m trans.”
Flambae doesn’t say anything for a moment too long. Then, “Really?”
Robert’s head shoots up. “What do you mean, really?” Flambae falters at that, eyes shifting side to side like he’s worried he’s somehow offended the man he’s got curled in his lap.
“I dunno. You’re just like, so straight.”
“I’m literally bi.”
“I know that now, bitch, but you’re just so… boring. You don’t have any of the, fuck, what did Alice call it? T-boy swag?”
Robert is already moving to stand up, rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath about ‘this is what I fucking get for being vulnerable’ before Flambae is jolting forward and making a desperate grab. He ignores the thrill of a hand far bigger than his own wrapping around his wrist, not pulling or demanding, but pleading.
“Hey, hey, fuck, sorry. Not trying to be an asshole. It’s just kind of a surprise.” Robert knows the other hand settling on the bony jut of his waist is meant to be placating but he lets himself be placated, lets himself be reeled back in and settled with his legs bracketing a gorgeously wide waist. “I had no idea.”
“That’s kind of the point.” He drawls, letting himself readjust and sighing in satisfaction as hands brush up and down his sides in steady motions. He feels a little like a spooked horse being soothed but he’s willing to move past the minor humiliation, muscles already unclenching with the tender treatment.
Flambae hums in acknowledgement, hands fluttering over the SDN-issued button-up before his thumbs are digging into coiled muscle with a deliciously firm apology. Robert lets his eyes fall shut and his head fall back as he tries to absorb just how fucking good he feels right now. Not wincing, not ‘good enough’, not even the absence of pain that occasionally let him exhale in relief. No, he felt really fucking good right now.
It could be better.
He leans forward, taller than the other man for once in his life as he lets his hands come up to toy with that godawful ponytail. His hair was gorgeous, Robert had seen it first hand, and it was a crime of the highest order to keep it tied up so.
He considered for a moment the intimacy of tugging out the hairband and whether or not that was an action he could brush aside in the morning like the rest of this situation. He wondered whether or not he could explain that action away the way he could explain a tipsy, ill-advised hookup with a coworker.
He does it anyways, lets the tip of his finger worm under the elastic and gently tug until waves of thick, luscious curls are tumbling over Flambae’s shoulders. He hums in approval as he drags his nails along the other man’s scalp and grins as the motion earns him the return of those hands on his ass.
“No more talking,” He croons, dipping his head to gather those absurdly plush lips against his once again. It’s a unique sensation, his tongue dipping into the scalding warmth Flambae had less control over and tasting the last of the cinnamon whiskey on his palate from earlier in the night.
Robert draws away after a beat, tongue tracing his own bottom lip and delighting in their combined tastes. He doesn’t miss the way Flambae tracks the motion, gaze hot and heavy as his fingers begin teasing at where the button-up is tucked into his slacks. He clears his throat and tries to sound suave as he asks, “You ever eat pussy before?"
He laughs as Flambae sputters, that soft blush returning in a fraction of a second and hands stilling where they had been making progress in gaining access to Robert’s bare skin. He clears his throat, shoulders shrugging in a faux-nonchalance.
“Nah, but it‘s the same idea, right?”
Robert raises a brow. “There's some pretty big structural differences between the two.” Flambae shrugs again, confidence seeming to return as he begins unbuttoning Robert’s shirt properly.
“I’ll figure it out. I’m adaptable like that.”
Robert helps him in slipping the shirt off, tossing it to the side to be gathered tomorrow morning when he made his shameful departure. The hands are back on him in a second, almost like Flambae was starved for the skin-to-skin contact in the brief second he couldn’t be groping Robert’s ass.
Robert tries not to shift under the attention, utterly unused to a pair of eyes on the massacre of skin he lived with. Flambae doesn’t say anything, though, just traces and presses against lines old and new, motions rife with a tenderness Robert is unfamiliar with. Flambae pauses, squinting at him.
“What?”
Flambae shakes his head. “Nothin’.”
“Well, it’s clearly something.”
“It’s just,” His palms splay across Robert’s stomach before pressing, dragging up and up until they settle on his chest. “You usually have scars from that stuff, right? Top surgery, I mean.”
Even after all these years, Robert still can’t suppress the satisfied little smile at the notion. “Keyhole. They sort of cut around the nipple, take it out that way. Less obvious scarring.”
“Huh.” His hands settle on where Robert’s tits would be, although it seems less lustful and more considering. “Cool.”
“Yeah. Gonna eat me out now, are you still stalling?”
Flambae looks outraged at the notion, brows drawing together as the orange in his eyes flickers. “I’m not!”
“Well, your face is here and not in between my legs, so. Seems like stalling to me.”
A low, frustrated growl rumbles Flambae’s chest before those hands are fixing firmly on Robert’s scarred waist, picking him up and tossing him onto the other end of the couch in one clean motion. Robert yelps, the back of his head hitting the armrest and still trying to regain his center of gravity as he tries to sit up.
“Nuh-uh. None of that, Robbo.” Flambae is between his legs in a second, arms braced on either side of Robert’s head to watch him with a smoldering gaze. “I’m gonna make you feel good.”
He doesn’t even have a chance to protest (not that he would) before deft fingers are unbuttoning and unzipping his pants just enough to push them down in one smooth movement. Robert hisses as the frigid air of the apartment hits his bare skin, skin tingling unpleasantly as he’s left bare in nothing but his boxers.
Flambae wastes no time, settling back so he’s laying between Robert’s legs and nipping along the sensitive skin of his thighs. He can’t quite help the hiss as a scalding tongue comes out to soothe the reddening marks, only a little apologetic given the way he seems to be trying to purple the entirety of Robert’s inner thighs. “Stop stalling.”
“It’s not stalling, it’s foreplay.” He grumbles but diverts his attention, hesitating a moment before nosing at the wet patch that’s been growing on the front of his boxers the entire time they’ve been making out.
Robert groans, low and satisfied at the first real morsel of stimulation he’s gotten all night. It’s not enough, far from it, but it’s something. It’s warm, too, the other man’s breath ghosting along the fabric as he mouths along the fabric. Robert is trying to be patient, he really is, but he’s getting a little desperate as all of the attention is lavished on his clothed cunt and none on his cock.
He lets his hands move up to tangle in those curls once again, trying to steady his breath so he doesn’t immediately begin grinding his cock against the beautiful bridge of that nose. “Flambae, I-”
“Zahir.”
“What?” Robert bites out, hands tightening in his hair as Flambae laps along the further dampening fabric.
“That’s my real name.” Burnt ochre eyes meet his own, soft and desperately, horrendously earnest. “Not my American name. I want to hear you say my real name when I make you come.”
Fuck. “Fuck, okay, Zahir.” The man beneath him rumbles in approval. “Take off my fucking boxers, I swear to god.” Zahir rolls his eyes but complies, grumbling as he lifts for just long enough for the two men to send the last article of clothing tumbling to the floor.
He should feel self conscious right now. He’s completely and utterly bare before the fully-clothed man before him, a man he has a long and complicated and fucked up history with. He doesn’t feel self-conscious, though, Zahir’s eyes dragging and lingering along every exposed inch of Robert’s skin.
His eyes are lidded, chest heaving a little faster as Robert looks up at him, completely naked and pliant on his couch. Robert nods his head, the corners of his mouth twisting up in a challenge. “Well? Need help finding it?”
“Such a fucking brat-”
Zahir’s lips wrap around his cock and suck hard, Robert’s back arching off the couch with the rush of pleasure that electrifies him and punches a devastated noise out of his chest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-”
The motions are clumsy, stuttering alterations between sucking and laving but sure as hell not lacking in enthusiasm. Robert releases a slow, punched-out exhale, hands tightening in well-loved curls as he resists the urge to grind against the stubble he’s now so familiar with.
“Fuuuuck, Zahir, just like that.” Robert’s lips fall open and his eyes slide shut, body simultaneously tensing and relaxing as a beautifully hot tongue drags and presses against his cock. Pleasure curls just below his stomach, seeping between and through his veins as broad hands come up to hold his wait. “Yeah, good, so good.”
He’s not really talking to Zahir at this point, just rambling and free associating as best he can when he has a gorgeous man between his legs lapping at his pussy like he’s starved for it. A hiccuping moan sends agonizing, perfect vibrations along his cock and Robert whines desperately. “You, hah, fuck, you like that?”
He’s not answered with words, not like he’s expecting to, just a frantic nod and a tightening of the hands on his waist. “‘Course you do, you’re so perfect, you’re so good. You wanna be good for me, Zahir?”
Nails dig into his waist and Robert huffs in response, already thinking of the bruises he’s sure he’s going to find in the morning. His skin is beginning to bead with sweat, going tacky with the blistering heat sprawled across him. A hand leaves his waist, worming under his waist to wrap and drag him closer, closer, until Robert can’t tell the difference between his body temperature and the blistering air.
“Yeah, there we go, sweetheart. We- fu-uck,” He gasps as Zahir’s tongue presses against his cock with a viciousness, chest stuttering as his legs tremble with the influx of sensation. “We just had to, find a use for that mouth, huh?”
“Got such a pretty m-mouth,” He continues, an instinctual, delighted grin altering the shape of the words as he babbles. “Too bad you use it to be such as asshole, I- ah, Zahir, fuck, fuck, there, don’t stop don’tstop.”
Zahir, for his part, seems like he'd rather die than separate himself from Robert’s pussy right now. Robert’s vision is blurry as he looks down, groaning at the view. His eyes are shut, brow furrowed in concentration and hair still clenched desperately in Robert’s fists as he takes in quick, frantic breaths between ministrations. He’s pretty sure this is the most focused he’s seen the other man on, well, anything.
“God, fuck, you’re doing so good.” He might be leaning into Zahir’s praise kink a little but it’s not a lie. His need to please is desperate, the mixture of Robert’s slick and his own spit mixing to coat his chin making him a nearly ethereal sight in the living room so late at night. “Yeah, yeah, like that, now-”
It’s like he read Robert’s mind, pulling away for a fraction of a second, just as long as he needs to press a thick finger into his cunt. Robert gasps, pleasure and ecstasy blooming behind his eyelids as the combined stimulation leaves him stuttering. “Yes, yes, fu-uck, exactly. Good, my good boy.”
Zahir groans, high and thready and desperate as he takes a second to drag his tongue along Robert’s thighs and collect what he’s missed so far. “My good boy, yeah, fuck. So good for m-me, haah, fuck. That’s all you are, huh? Just good for m- shit fuck oh my god-”
He cries out as another finger joins the first and press down hard on his inner walls, hiccups tearing out of his throat as his arms shake. His neighbors were going to hate him after this but he really, really couldn’t be fucked to care right now.
He shudders as the pleasure begins to mount, that dangerous zing behind it all warning him that he was going to come and he was going to come hard. “M’, m’close, Zahir, please please please, don-don’t stop.” The words are frantic, nearly incomprehensible in his babbling.
Zahir redoubles his efforts, dragging Robert impossibly closer and his tongue picking up to a brutal pace. Robert shudders, unaccustomed to the raw pleasure infusing his veins and whisking away the aches and pains he was so familiar with. “I’m close, I’m so fucking, close, Za-hir, please.”
It hits him sooner than he expects— one second he’s hyperaware of the way the tears at the corners of his prick and the next he’s sobbing, muscles spasming as Zahir sucks and presses down at the exact same time. It’s almost painful, the sensation making his limbs tremble and breaths wheeze as he shudders through the stimulation. His ears ring as Zahir whines against his cunt, movements desperate as he works Robert through the high.
He drifts down slowly, breaths still uneven as he begins to whimper from overstimulation. Zahir is still going, continuing his ministrations as Robert twitches away from it.
“F’.” He slurs, weakly tugging the other man back with his grasp on his hair. It takes a little more force than he expects, tugging a little harder when the gentle laves to his cock make his breath catch again. “Off, c'mon.”
Zahir grumbles but goes, collapsing with his arm still around Robert’s waist as he buries his face in his scarred stomach. They both take a minute to catch their breaths, Robert weakly carding his fingers through the tangled strands in apology as his chest rises and falls.
They lay there for a while, the moonlight from the bay windows falling against their tangled frames in a heap on the couch. Eventually Robert manages to drag his eyes open, licking his lips and wincing at the dryness. “Fuck. That was…”
“Good, right?” The words are muffled against his waist.
“Mhm.” Robert continues to detangle, skin tingling pleasantly at the weight collapsed on top of him. “Very good.” Zahir purrs as best a grown man can, sighing and dragging his cheek against Robert’s stomach.
It takes him a few minutes to realise what exactly feels so wrong. “Oh, fuck, wait, it’s your turn. Come on, I-” He’s pushed back down before he’s barely begun to sit up, a wide and firm hand lowering him back down. Zahir refuses to make eye contact as he speaks again.
“I’m good.”
“...you’re good?”
“Great, Rob.”
“You don’t want to…?”
“I… did.
“You- Zahir, did you come from eating me out?”
“Shut the fuck up.”