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"Alright, party people!" Invisigal chirped brightly, clapping her hands to the assembly of Z-Teamers. "Who's down for some good ol' Seven Minutes In Heaven?"
Ah. It was that kind of a night. Flambae knew his slim-fit jeans and mesh top had called to him for a reason. He caught Prism's eye and shared a salacious kitty smirk with her. His partner in crime, the hostess of the night's shenanigans, winked at him from across the room, taking a fat drag of her bubblegum vape.
As far as party games went, Seven Minutes In Heaven was rather juvenile, but whatever. He was tipsy enough to surrender his fate to a bottle spin.
The whoops of excitement that erupted around the table at Visi's announcement were absolutely obnoxious, but the weekend party vibe was a potent contagion. A grin split across Flambae's face as the room enlivened around him. The Z-Team were a bunch of morons, but Flambae did love them to death for what it was worth.
"Alright, alright, let's get this show on the road already, fuckers," Flambae snapped his fingers as he stood, privately relishing the way he commanded the drunken team's attention. Waterboy's spine went straight as a ruler where he was anxiously hovering next to Golem and Phenomaman. Punch-Up and Coupe peeled off of each other, exchanged knowing looks, and ambled to the rest of the group.
Flambae could admit it; he liked being the pacesetter of this chaotic brigade.
It'd be absolutely perfect if not for Robert Robertson, the bane of his fucking existence, hardly sparing him a sidelong glance from where he was sitting at the kitchen island.
Robert's brown, world-weary eyes were snapping between Visi and Prism with something akin to resentment stewing in them. The dispatcher’s foot hammered a frantic rhythm against his bar stool footrest, his knuckles white where he squeezed the life out of his shot glass.
Flambae slowly raised an eyebrow, interest piqued.
That look. It was pointed. Kind of hot. Very nearly concerning. It begged a lot of questions.
Flambae paused in reflection.
Claustrophobia? Some sort of sensory bullshit? Was Robert being a little piss-baby?
Hm. Yeah, that last guess was probably it.
The room bustled with energy as the team settled into a circle in the middle of Prism's living room floor. Flambae kept a watchful eye on Robert. Blazer sneaking up to pat the dispatcher on the shoulder was the only thing that got him to budge from his seat. Robert was obviously struggling to school his expression as Blazer ushered him to where the group was corralled, dragging his feet like their were iron weights clamped to his ankles.
Flambae's smile widened a little as he took his seat on the area rug, pulling his legs into a loose criss-cross.
Who knew party games were Mecha-Man's Kryptonite?
The thought tickled Flambae something fierce. And usually, he would have a taunting remark to say about it— he always kept them locked and loaded for Robert's demise—but he was far too transfixed on the way the dispatcher's hands were visibly shaking around his phone.
If Flambae had more pity in his heart for the guy, he would probably play the party angel and come to his rescue, but he didn't, and Robert was a grown ass man for fuck's sake. He didn't need coddling. If he wanted out, he could just say so himself.
Yeah… no need for Flambae to feel a slight pang of worry for him. No need at all.
Flambae shifted awkwardly, fixing the back of his hair back into its proper side-sweep. It took an embarrassing amount of effort to tear his eyes away from Robert.
Flambae was pulled out of his thoughts as Malevola sat beside him with a serene sigh. She smelled oppressively of Don Julio, which wasn't exactly a bad thing. That shit was practically an aphrodisiac.
"Fuck's sake," The demoness breathed wistfully. "She's fine as."
That quickly got Flambae's attention. When he looked over at Malevola, she was engrossed in her iPhone—her golden eyes bright and sparkling cartoonishly with reverence.
Flambae was nothing if not shamelessly nosy.
"She who?" He leaned closer to the demoness to get a better look at her screen.
And of course, she was ogling at Prism's Instagram. Go figure.
Malevola's brightness was down, but Flambae still caught the blip of Prism's recent thirst trap. It made him roll his eyes, but also…damn right. His homegirl was drop-dead gorgeous. Appreciate that merchandise, especially if you're going to fuck eventually anyway.
"You two are so fucking useless," Flambae muttered over her shoulder, checking his nails. "Just scissor already. You're coworkers, not nuns."
Malevola didn't attempt to hide her screen. Her nail clicked twice against her screen protector, double-tapping a big red heart to the photo. She wasn't looking up, but Flambae could feel the tip of her smooth tail tuck into the belt loop of his black jeans, tugging on him slightly.
"I'm takin' that stunner home tonight, Bae. You'll see."
Flambae's eyes flickered from the tail hooked on his jeans to Malevola's phone screen with a cheeky grin.
"It wouldn't take much," He purred, his hair spilling over his shoulder as he tipped his head. "But uh, keep that hush-hush, okay? It's almost my birthday and I don't want to be on her shit-list."
Malevola leveled him a suggestive smile, slipping her tail up and brushing it under his chin stubble.
"Can do, love." She said with a glint in her eye. "Y'know, your little situation wouldn't really take much of a push either."
Flambae nodded sagely and clicked his tongue, looking up at the ceiling in thought.
"Yeah, you're probably right. Wait- What situation-?"
"Okay losers, everyone shut the fuck up!" Invisigal shouted over the chatter, and the noise in the room died down. She had a vulpine smirk plastered across her face as she wiggled an empty beer bottle tauntingly in her hand. "It's time to shake this shit up."
The vanishing act plopped down next to a terrified-looking Waterboy and leaned into the middle of the circle, positioning the bottle just so. With a mischievous 'oh yeah', she flicked her wrist and sent the glass into a spin of breakneck speed.
Thrilled snickering rolled through the group as the bottle cycled. Flambae casually toyed with the ends of his hair, watching it spin with passive interest. Invisigal had some fucking wrists on her. It felt like the damn thing was going forever.
The bottle gradually slowed to a stop, and Flambae's indifference turned into a very evil intrigue when the lip of the bottle landed on him, and the butt of it… on Robert.
While Flambae cracked a malicious smile, the room exploded with laughter that shook the apartment walls.
"Oh-ho, shit! No way!" Sonar exclaimed, slamming his hands on his knees, his humongous ears perking up.
"Ah, a classic Deus ex Machina. Stimulating." Coupe had the barest hint of a smirk on her face. She absently twirled a blade between her fingers, keeping her feline attention on the bottle like something straight out of Assassin's Creed.
"Nahhh, this shit is rigged," Golem rumbled, scratching the top of his head.
Malevola let out a 'pft' at Flambae's side, patting him on the shoulder in either congratulations or condolences.
Was it cause for celebration? Frankly, it was Seven Minutes In Heaven with the most miserable white boy Flambae had ever met.
In the midst of the commotion, Flambae stole a glance in Robert's direction. The dispatcher was pulling the perfect, desolate facepalm. Beside him, Blazer had a hand clapped over her lips, her face strawberry pink with suppressed laughter.
Oh, yeah, Flambae was definitely going to get a kick out of this.
"Hey, respectfully, guys," Robert drawled from across the circle. "I'd rather die."
Flambae flipped his hair back and breathed out an 'O' of smoke in Robert's direction, expertly tapping the top of the plume to fashion it into the shape of a heart. "I can take care of that for you, Bob-Bob," He promised, leveling the dispatcher with a smoldering gaze. "Quick and painless."
Robert deadpanned at him, the fatigue under his eyes appearing exponentially darker than before. "There you have it." He gestured at Flambae, addressing the room. "The jokes just fucking write themselves."
That made Flambae raise an eyebrow.
"Who says I'm joking, bitch?"
The life immediately left Robert's eyes.
"Yep," Robert glared at him coldly. "That about checks out. Thank you, Flambae, for being the most predictable guy I know. I was never too big on surprises."
Flambae grinned wickedly. "Psh, yeah. Nothing is big about you, Bob-Bob."
Robert slapped his face back into his palm audibly.
"Hey, we're all gonna die someday," Invisigal said around a candy bar. "Might as well do it at the hands of a hot piece of ass."
"With a bang, not a whimper, baby." Prism cheered, finger-gunning at Invisigal in solidarity.
"I hate all of you," Robert grumbled.
"Aww," Malevola cooed. "We love you too, babes."
"Flambae…listen, we need to get out of here."
"Yeah, right. Ugh, thank fuck I wasn't raised to be a scaredy bitch like you."
"No, it's not-"
"I mean, c'mon, really? Claustrophobia? Didn't you spend hours in a fucking glorified gimp suit for a living?"
Robert fell silent. He just gave up. His life was over anyway.
God wasn't real. He couldn't be. Not when Robert kept getting dealt the worst possible hands on Earth.
He and Flambae were stuffed in what had to be the smallest coat closet in the universe. Robert's shoulder blades were flattened against the wall behind him, thrumming with discomfort at the hard, unmerciful plaster. The meta was practically boxing him in with his bulk, taking up any and all wiggle room with his wide shoulders and towering height.
Robert virtually crushing himself to the wall was kind of overkill, but it was either that or be face-to-face with Flambae's mesh-clad chest. Not an option.
Robert had to keep them at a distance, even if it was a tall order in this finite space. He even held his head to the side and stared at the floor for good measure. Because he wasn't claustrophobic. No. It was something far, far worse than that. Something he'd managed to suppress around just about everyone his whole life.
Everyone, except for Flambae.
Robert had convinced himself that he was simply built wrong. His bodily fixations, his instincts, his urges—they were crooked. Out of proportion. Borderline subhuman.
He was too animal.
The scents others carried weren't just merely noticed by Robert, but experienced in unnatural magnitude. He clung to them in ways no well-adjusted man should. It wasn't inherently sexual; at least, not in the beginning. It was just a 'thing'. He hadn't put a name to said 'thing' quite yet, but it was certainly there.
Throughout his adulthood, it had been a gentle kind of obsession, just shy of all-consuming. Distant enough to make him feel some semblance of normal.
Scents comforted. They signaled. They told stories that lips could not.
Robert's preoccupation with them passed as insignificant for so, so long.
Until Flambae—the flaming, head-turning jackass that was actively ruining his fucking life.
The downward spiral cropped up the first time they ran into each other at the SDN gym.
Flambae's towering body had loomed over Robert from where he sat on the workout bench, exuding not just physical prowess, but a vaporous dominance in the air around them. It was smoky. Sensual. Galvanizing in a way that was completely and utterly unfair.
Robert soon learned that there were consequences to harboring a fixation with an invisible sense. Experiencing something only he could perceive on such a heightened level felt cruelly intimate. Breathing Flambae in—filling his chest with the pure, unfettered essence of that man—was like getting a private dance in an ill-lit room. A guilty secret so thrilling it teetered dangerously on the edge of sex. Too quickly and too suddenly, the simple whiff he'd gotten morphed into a monster Robert hadn't the strength to tame.
He had hardly managed to keep up with their bitter back-and-forth that morning. Where other scents had solely oriented Robert to a person, Flambae's violently hypnotized him. It swallowed the stink of gym rubber and governed the very oxygen Robert breathed.
Worst yet, it had gone straight between Robert's legs.
So, being stuck in a ridiculously small coat closet with Flambae, even just for seven short minutes….was the end of Robert's world.
For the life of him, he couldn't get Flambae's scent out of his head.
Why the fuck did he agree to this? Why didn't he just go home?
Despite Robert's best efforts to create space between them, Flambae's scent pervaded the stuffy closet air. The spicy scent of his cologne blended seamlessly with his natural fire-wood musk. There were hints of scalding clove. The blood of saffron. Spiced cherry. All so intense that it was pornographic. Every time Robert breathed, the aroma infested his lungs.
Robert tried to school himself—he was stronger than this. He was a grown man. But he couldn't keep his body from vibrating with involuntary intrigue. Nor could he stop his mouth from falling open to alleviate the need to breathe through his nose.
"It's seven fucking minutes, Bob-Bob," Flambae hissed, his irritation literally radiating off of him in warm waves. "Stop being so dramatic. It's just…sad."
Robert was shaking from head to toe, and could only pray Flambae wouldn't notice. He kept his locked on the floor, which was nothing more than a void beneath his feet in the darkness. Anything but Flambae's glowing, molten, judgmental eyes.
Mouth breathing became paramount, and he knew he probably looked like an idiot for it—if Flambae could even see him—but he had no other choice. This was already the worst-case scenario. He could feel an uncomfortable warmth blooming between his legs. The only effective course of action at this rate was frantic damage control. And reciting a silent prayer that Flambae's devilish scent would leave his bloodstream.
"Don't get pissy on me now," Flambae growled above Robert's head, sending him plummeting back down to Earth. "I'm not exactly bouncing off the walls to be stuck in here with you. Those idiots are probably out there thinking we're jerking each other off, but I'm not interested in sad boys with third-world six packs."
Robert shuddered and swallowed thickly, breaking into a sweat. The insults were flying at high velocity, but they weren't quite landing. Not because they didn't sting, but because Robert was within an inch of his sanity. He had to press his thighs together to smother the thrum in his core. The effort to ignore the dampness seeping into his boxer briefs was utterly fruitless.
It wouldn't take much adjustment for any part of Flambae to be right up against his crotch. Fuck.
How long had it been? Surely this would be over soon, right?
In the midst of Robert's spiraling thoughts, Flambae grunted and shifted in front of him.
"Ugh, damn. This shit is fucking up my back," The meta grumbled under his breath. "Hang on…just gotta-"
Alarm spiked through Robert as Flambae lifted his arms above them, leaning impossibly closer to Robert. The taller man propped himself by the forearms above Robert's head with a long groan of relief, slumping forward.
This truly was a nightmare.
Robert immediately became one with the wall, pushing himself as hard against it as he could. Flambae's massive frame swallowed Robert's whole. He could feel the heat flowing off the other man's skin, and the raw power of his physique sealing him in place.
It was torture. Robert felt fucking hunted.
In a last-ditch effort to leave the closet with even just a shred of his dignity, Robert gasped in a breath through his mouth and held it, forcing indifference to the way it made his chest ache. He kept his eyes peeled, wide open and staring straight forward at his demise with rapidly mounting dread.
If Robert breathed, it was over. His face was far too close to the hollow underneath Flambae's shoulder, his traitorous nose mere centimeters from his armpit. His armpit, which was only covered by an ultrathin mesh shirt. Black, honeycomb-woven mockery that did absolutely nothing to filter Flambae's potent scent.
Flambae moved his leg, slotting it between Robert's thigh, just shy of the heat pulsing under his waistband.
Robert shivered and swallowed down a whimper.
He was going to die. And Flambae had no idea he was killing him.
"Mmm, much better," Flambae intoned, rolling his shoulders one by one, sending fresh distress roiling through Robert's stomach. "Now, we just wait it out, and once this is done, you get to go home, and I get to tell Alice about how much of a scaredy-bitch you were. It's a win-win."
But Robert knew there was a clear loser in this situation, even if Flambae couldn't see it for himself.
Because eventually, Robert would have to breathe.
He was already straining, and it fucking burned. The brutal mixture of adrenaline and arousal had his lungs shrieking for oxygen. It was a fruitless endeavor, but Robert still tried. He held his breath for dear life, willing his cursed human anatomy not to betray him, knowing that it inevitably would. He held it until his body spasmed involuntarily, the ache in his diaphragm reaching a crescendo, and he finally took an urgent gasp of air.
Robert endured a full body shudder, feeling his cock swell with interest underneath its hood, pushing its way toward his damp briefs.
Finally, he had oxygen. But Robert was drowning.
The whiff was suffocating, like the air was made of syrup, swamped with Flambae's heady, addictive scent.
Woodland. Manhood. Autumn. Safety. Sun-warmed heaven on sweat and skin alike, and Robert just needed Flambae to take him there. Just fucking take him.
He breathed in again, and Robert's restraint went AWOL in a matter of seconds.
Like a man possessed, Robert surged forward, grasping the back of Flambae's shoulder and stuffing his face in his armpit, making Flambae tumble toward him with an annoyed noise, their legs slotting together. Robert inhaled greedily through his nose, unable to stop himself.
That twisted, bestial thing inside Robert snapped. A matchstick struck. The pure musk he dragged into his lungs robbed a pathetic whine from him, the sound only muffled by his face being stuffed deep in Flambae's musky axilla.
"Hey- Hey, what the- what the fuck, Robert? " Flambae hissed over his head, but his indignant voice sounded miles and miles away. Robert was entirely outside of himself. Well off the deep end.
He dug his nails into Flambae's shoulder and pressed his nose further into his axilla, his eyes rolling back before fluttering shut reverently. There wasn't any going back. He was in deep now. He was terribly aroused, deaf to the moans he puffed wetly into the mesh over Flambae's skin. Unwitting of the way his hips canted into Flambae's thick, muscular thigh, desperately trying to relieve the pressure between his legs.
Still, the shame sang.
"Sorry…Mn' sorry… Mmmph…sorry…" Robert's apologies were mournful, near-silent whines. Flambae smelled so good, and Robert was fucking miserable. He looked up at Flambae the best he could, eyes half-lidded, dazed, wounded. Because he didn't have a choice. There wasn't any stopping this.
He'd finally found it, the perfect chasm to bask in everything that Flambae was.
"Hooooly shit. You can't be that drunk, right?" Flambae sounded genuinely taken aback, even a little breathless. His hips were rigid where Robert helplessly rutted against him, but he didn't move away.
In fact, to Robert's horror, he pressed himself closer, caging Robert between his bulk and the wall. The temperature in the closet ticked up, and Robert could only whimper as the control slipped from his grasp.
"Oh… ohhhh, fuck. You like that, Bob-Bob?" Flambae purred, pointedly not moving his hips to meet Robert's, tormenting him. "Not only do you dress like a perv, but you also are one. Hmph, why am I surprised? I always knew there was something filthy about you."
The humiliation that flooded through Robert made him gasp. His cunt throbbed as he clung to Flambae's shoulder, his other hand clawing the wall behind him. Flambae's scent kissed the back of his throat, bathing his airways in that sinful, spiced bliss.
"God…I don't-" Robert warbled, head spinning. "Mmn' so sorry…Mn'…f-fuck…"
"Okay, now I know why you were being such a pussy," Robert could feel the heat of Flambae's breath curling into his hair as Flambae spoke, keening frailly when the larger man ground forward, his muscular thigh pressing tauntingly against Robert's blown clit. "What is it? You have a crush on me, baby boy?"
God, I wish it were that simple. Robert thought woefully, writhing through the clothed friction. This is so much fucking worse. Wait- baby boy?
Robert withered, knees trembling as an outflow of arousal seeped into his briefs. This couldn't be happening. Flambae had to know what he was doing.
The object of his distress chuckled wolfishly, the sound reverberating off the tight-knit walls. When the temperature rose around them, so did the thickness of his scent. Robert was humping him like a dog, and the guilt wasn't running fast enough to catch up to thirst. The fingers that came up to card through his hair were ghosts—disembodied blips of sensation that pressed his head forward, burying his nose in Flambae's mesh so deeply Robert could smell his sweat.
And it was undoing.
"Nmmph!"A muffled cry leapt from Robert's throat, digging his nails into Flambae's shoulder blade hard. His eyes rolled back behind his eyelids as a terrifying pressure struck his core. His cock twitched against Flambae's thigh, wild for release.
And Flambae just held him tighter, snaring him in that endless loop of indignity.
"Ohhh, it's more than that, isn't it, Bob-Bob?" Flambae asked, low and sultry. "You got a nasty little fetish, huh?"
Robert whined and shook his head. Flambae chuckled, all too knowing.
"Yeah, right. I can feel your little dick on me. If you're going to be fucking perv, at least be honest about it."
Robert anguished at that demeaning label, his eyebrow knitting together as if to expel it from his mind. It was everything he didn't want to be, but he couldn't pull himself out of this mess. He was too far gone. Robert could feel where Flambae's cock had begun to fill out the crotch of his jeans—how its thickness warmed Robert's hip and demanded its presence be known. And it drove him fucking mad how Flambae was getting off on this. Getting off on his ruination. Aroused by the most unholy parts himself.
"God, Flambae…please…can't- can't!" Robert whimpers rose in pitch as he bucked into him, enveloped mercilessly in his powerful scent, puffing wetly into the crook of his axilla.
"Oh-hoh, Robert…" Flambae lightly gripped Robert's hair, tipping his head back a bit. His voice rumbled through the smaller man's spine. "Who knew Mecha-Man…LA's beloved hero…was such an adorable fucking degenerate?"
The words lanced through Robert, white-hot and lethal. His orgasm hammered through his cunt in a sudden, debilitating surge, sending him arching onto the tips of his toes just to escape the severity. The broken cry that left him was stifled by Flambae's skin, further muted by the meta shoving his face deeper into that blissful hollow. Robert's fingers twitched against Flambae's shoulder as the pleasure sloped to the thrum of afterglow and clarity, his feet falling flat on the ground once again.
They remained like that, Robert melding into Flambae's body, rocked to the core, thighs twitching. Flambae was uncharacteristically quiet, his hand never leaving the smaller man's hair.
Robert pulled back slightly, struggling to catch his breath. When fresh air hit his tongue, he suddenly had the urge to cry.
Then, a series of explosive knocks rapped on the closet door. Both men tensed.
"Alright losers, time's up!" It was Invisigal's voice. "But uh, hey, take your time zipping your pants up or whatever. I know better than to open that door."
As her footsteps disappeared down the hall, neither of them moved.
"Hey, um, Robert?" Flambae said his name with a strange, gentle neutrality.
Utterly floored, Robert could only give a meek nod in response.
"We're going to talk about this later." And it wasn't a question.
Robert swallowed thickly, nodding again.
This was just supposed to be a night just like any other—one that held no consequences that could be carried into Monday.
Tough fucking chance.