Chapter Text
1.
The thing about abstinence is that it gets bad (like, real bad) before you even have the chance to make the best out of it. Chad knows. He’s been there before. Multiple times, actually. Now he’s square back where he was before, only barely managing to remain clear for a couple of days before the need is crawling back along his limbs to pull him in, tempting him to cause yet another pyre out of the nearest building.
By day four, Chad knows the day is going to be a wreck-train since 5 am.
No. Scratch that!
He’s known it since way before then, when his body refused to shut down at midnight, instead started running hotter than usual. Like he had a whole ass furnace in his chest, right inside his ribcage, or some other fucking, poetical bullshit he has no time to consider. He’s never been good at this whole ‘describe how you feel’ thing, and he’s sure as hell not starting now.
But, to put it simply: he needs to burn shits up!
He needs to put his hands on something and burn – burn – burn them to a crisp!
It’s never been an issue before. No dispatcher had actually found it in himself to call Chad out during one of his little stunts. Not until Robert walked in SDn with the confidence of someone who’s been on the field and ordered the team around as his life depended on it.
Since the day the new Dispatcher took over, Chad’s never been able to unload entirely: he’s always tense, muscles stiff due to the lack of enough warmth, too focused on not setting his friends on fire.
Flambae, don’t do that.
Flambae, don’t start a fire.
Flambae, did you just start that fire?
Every ‘don’t’ feels too personal. Every order coming out of Robert’s mouth is an attack on Chad’s own being. Everything is an insult. Even the lights in his own room, or the lack thereof, is offensive. There isn’t enough warmth, he thinks, not enough threat in his surroundings.
Fire started calling for him again yesterday morning, after the announcement of someone getting fired – are they going to get rid of all of them? The thought doesn’t sit right. He’s worked so hard to get where he is, to obtain a parole after everything crumbled because of some fucking hero!
But what’s a man gonna do when your own body is trying to burn you from the inside out? He must get back to the basics, no shit. Set a dumpster on fire, burn an abandoned building to the ground – you know, the usual arsonist shit.
But no! Fucking Bob-bob is always watching! Always judging and detracting points whenever Chad goes out of his way to indulge in his needs.
Turning and tossing under the sheets, Chad keeps his eyes painfully open, glaring at the darkness and any unanimated object in his imminent proximity. The entirety of his room is pitch black, still, and all the less entertaining than usual. When it’s clear he won’t be seeing anything interesting jumping out from behind the furniture, he rolls over. Again.
Usually, he prides himself on falling asleep very easily. It’s the quirk of running hot at every hour and going cold once he is surrounded by the comfort of his house, once his flames are off.
But not tonight, bitch!
At 5 a.m., his alarm goes off, and god’s knows how he’s going to go through a whole day without setting something on fire, accidentally or not.
It’s 5 am, and he has his whole morning planned out already, and he’d hate to bail on it! He has an hour at best to get breakfast, prep his hair with leave-in conditioner, and hit the gym. Then, once he’s done with the training, he’s going to take a scorching hot shower and hope everything will be back to normal by then.
If he’s doing the math right, he bets he can even fit in half an hour of power nap and clock in at 9 am like any other normal day!
See? His plan is fucking perfect!
...
He’s never been so wrong in his entire life.
So fucking wrong!
Someone forgot to bring a towel, and the prints of a sweaty ass are all over the plank he usually uses – which, you know, gross. The showers are out of order, leaving him with the only option of using the sink to clean himself up the best he can. His hair is going to be a mess to deal with later on, but there’s nothing he can do about it now. Not unless he asks Waterboy to spit on him to wash the product off his hair and set the boy on fire later to keep his mouth shut.
He grimaces. Uh, gross.
On top of it, the sensation is still there, at the core of his chest: hot waves of fire burning against his muscles and bones to the point of being unpleasant. His arms sizzle like coated in burning oil, and breathing hasa small cloud of steam rolling over his tongue, out from his mouth in what would be sexy on its own way in any other scenario.
“Dude, you know I love you, but you can’t go on like this,” Prisms chimes in, staring at her phone as she uses it as a mirror to put mascara on. The small table in the break room is littered with all the products of Prism’s routine. Among those, Chad can see some of his own that the woman still has to give back.
Chad rolls his eyes and goes for the vending machine. He inserts a few coins into it, taps on a few numbers, and waits for a bottle of cold water to drop down. When he collects it, he places it right in between his pectorals, hissing when the cold mixes with the scorching sweat covering his skin.
“No shit, babe,” he scoffs, putting the bottle in the fridge as soon as it loses its cool, right before the plastic starts melting. Oops. Something more to clean up for wet-boy over...
“I mean, lots of guys are into pain-play and such,” she quips, tilting her head to inspect her work. Then, she goes for another pass of mascara to separate her lashes. “You can find yourself one of these. Are you not into fire-play or something?”
He snorts. And wouldn’t it be just dandy? To put his hands on a willing body, brand the poor man with his own hands, instead of having a building crumble down on him? Yeah. It would be better but... he'd lie if he said the thought doesn't make him squirm. He should correct her, explain that no, angry sex won't solve any of his problems! He's tried it before and the release never lasted more than a couple of days.
“Find me someone willing to put up with …” and moves his left hand around his torso, “this, and then we will talk. Maybe.”
“Man, you’re being ridiculous! Just go to a club!" she gasps, "Oh my god! Roberto!”
Chad freezes. He doesn’t turn. Not yet. He can see the man’s muted reflection on the windows, and that’s enough for him to drop the conversation on the spot.
“Hi guys,” the dispatcher groans, crankier than ever, followed by the pop of bones as the man stretches his shoulders.
“Yoo! Mr Dispatcher! Who’s the lucky lady?” Prism whistles, moving her mascara up and down to follow Robert’s figure.
At that, Chad turns on the balls of his feet and widens his eyes. He doesn’t know exactly what catches his attention first, if Robert’s shameless grunts as he rolls his shoulders or the marks disappearing under Robert’s shirt, but Chad can’t stop staring.
A trail of hickeys starts right from the edge of his jaw, dark and purple staining his pale skin, running down his throat to dive right under his shirt. Wittingly, Chad follows the trail even lower, imagining the extent of the path. A low sigh from Robert takes him back to reality right before his amber eyes start burning holes by staring at the dispatcher's belt.
“Nope. We’re not close enough to have this conversation right here, right now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Prism scoffs, throwing her mascara in her purse. With meticulous precision, she picks up all the other products and places them in order together, cataloguing them by colour and size.
Chad’s brows connect into a frown. There is something off about Robert, aside from, you know, the marks left behind by the relentless attack of a piranha. Yet, the detail escapes him. What can it be? Sure, the bruises are weird enough, we’ve been over that, but… There is something more he can’t quite pinpoint.
Perhaps it’s the posture, the way Robert is hunching forward more than ever; the way he keeps massaging his lower back with slow, careful circles; or… what? No, those are useless clues. There is no way in hell that the flat-ass dispatcher got dicked down that bad! Besides, the guy is as straight as one can be. Chad knows. He’s seen him. Actually, he’s seen him multiple times eyeing Blazer’s cleavage, acting like a simp when the woman flutters her eyelashes to win him over before dinner.
But. He can be bi, he thinks, considering with a pout on his face while Prism goes on a tirade to pull the gossip out of Robert. Yes, he could be bisexual. Plenty of people swing that way, and Robert does look like the kind of man still hiding into his closet during the day and suck dicks during the night.
Chad shivers.
The thought is enough to set his chest ablaze, again. For two very different reasons, he really doesn’t want to think about.
One, no matter who his partner is, it’s clear that Robert is receiving more head than Chad himself. Or giving head, but he is not thinking about that right now…
…
Ah, screw that! He’s definitely thinking about that now! Chad doesn’t give a shit about what the dispatcher does with Blazer – hell, even Visi would be fine! Chad could very well picture him as the kind of guy who likes a good pegging once in a while.
In fact, the problem is another, and lies in the very idea of Robert fucking Robertson giving head.
Chad shakes his head. Perhaps, that’s how you shut that bitch up: sticking a ---
Wait…
He tries to blink the thought away.
What is he thinking?
“What’s happening to him?” Robert asks, suddenly, tilting his head towards Chad. The man lifts an eyebrow, unamused.
“You broke him, that’s what happened,” Prism muses, “you coming in here looking like that, every sicko into that shit would be all over you!”
Chad tries not to think at Prism’s teasing, and lets it go. For now. They’re gonna have a talk about disclosing Chad’s kinks at work, later. For now, he merely graces her with a glare and nothing more. She’s lucky he loves her...
As if self-awareness is finally kicking in, Robert’s right hand flies to his neck, hissing when pale fingers brush against the bruises, “Should I hide them?”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Chad wheezes, “what the fuck were you fucking thinking coming here looking like that?!”
“Relax, Human Torch,” he says, rolling his fucking eyes as if Chad is being dramatic. Him. Dramatic. The man really has no shame! He comes here, looking like he got the night of his life and has the gut to tell Chad to relax?
“You’re overreacting, bae,” Prism says, without looking at him, more interested in assessing Robert’s appearance than anything else.
No, he isn’t. Pretty sure Blonde Blazer would kick his ass any time if Chad was the one coming in looking like that.
Robert pinches at the bridge of his nose, exhaling, “Look, next time I am gonna be more careful.”
Chad’s eyes widen. Prism’s hands stop organizing her purse.
Next time?
“Anyway, I am sure nobody cares.”
Except the joke is on Bob: everyone does. Everyone does care about what’s going on with their dispatcher. In fact, it’s the team's main topic during the first shift, to Flambae’s dismay.
“Wow, Robbie, my man! What’s the deal? Care to share with the class who the mistress is?”
Chad doesn’t know, exactly, why he’s noticing it only now, but once Roberts dismisses Sonar with a ‘whatever’ and starts bossing them around, Chad realizes what’s been bothering him the most about Robert. And it’s not beating the dick-sucking allegations.
“Boooob,” comes Sonar again, after completing yet another mission, “please, I need to know. At the very least, tell me if she treats you well!”
“I am glad you care enough to ask, but I am sure as hell I am not telling you now. These calls are recorded.”
That’s when it clicks.
Sonar is silent for a beat, “We could talk about it over a drink?”
“Oh, c’mon!” Visi chimes in, “You come here looking like a snack, and you expect us not to bite?”
Robert chortles. The sound goes straight to the flame in Chade’s chest, fuelling something he’s been trying to put out since this morning.
“Believe me. You don’t need to know what’s going on in my private life.”
It’s his fucking voice! Whilst his voice maintains the very same slow, infuriating tone, the sound comes out wrong, too raspy, like someone just forced it out of him to the point of screaming his lungs out. Or, if Chad allows his horny brain to wander, like someone bottomed out in his throat.
Chad swallows.
This… this really isn’t the best day to have these kinds of thoughts.
Robert isn’t even his type!
He likes his men manly, more on the bigger side of the scale, and able to keep up with his stamina. And believe him: Chad has seen Robert training. The man is all sharp brain and swift movements, but when it comes down to endurance, he’s all talk and no action.
Then… why is he so caught up in Robert’s sexual activities? Chad comes to the only simple, yet inevitable conclusion: the lack of interesting hook-ups isn’t helping. Nor is the incessant whining of Sonar about wanting to know what Bob’s been up to.
Chad huffs. His hands twitch for release. He needs to burn shit up before he starts thinking with his dick.
Seeing as Robert is heading into his conversation with the rest of the team, too distracted to notice Chad going off route, he sees an opening. He could get away with one little accident…
Before he can come up with a decision, his feet are already moving, taking him past the mall, along the dirt path of the park, all the way behind a secluded area where an abandoned construction has been keeping up for a few years now.
A spark is enough to catch on the dry wood.
The comms are silent for a while.
Then a sigh.
“Flambae...”
**
Sometime around the end of his second shift, the energy of the day shifts.
On Grindr, a guy worth a second glance just messaged him. The pics of lean, sculpted abs grab his attention first. Then, it’s the turn of two golden jewels piercing his nipples. It’s enough for Chad to bite down on his bottom lip.
Okay, perhaps Chad is a tad desperate right now, but it’s the quickest hook-up he’s ever set up in ages. He gets back to the chat as soon as the shift ends, his fingers start typing so quickly he’s afraid his phone is gonna burn right there. He quickly thinks of a place and sends the message, neatly decorated with eggplants and fire emojis.
He doesn’t ask the man’s name.
Doesn’t bother with small talk.
He needs something else.
“Babe, you’ll have to go home on your own,” he says, kissing Prism on the top of her head before walking towards the exit of the building. Shower first, pick a comfy outfit, then date – the plan is as simple as that.
Prism quirks an eyebrow at him, but she doesn’t ask. She knows better than to put herself between a well-deserved fuck and Chad. He doesn’t even run back up the stairs to check his ranking.
…
Yes. He is that desperate.
But, you know how it is: if something can go wrong, it will. And today started like shit, and it shouldn’t surprise Chad when karma comes knocking at his door with a shitty reveal: the date is boring.
For one, the man arrives at the designated club one hour late. One fucking hour!
Then, cherry at the top of the god damn cake, the guy isn’t even here to fuck around! Eddy, or whatever the guy’s name is, is here to drink away the pain of his recent breakup and drown in self-loathing bullshit. Honestly, not even a minute in, the self-deprecating shit has Chad’s dick shrinking.
But Chad is a good man, now! He is a hero, for better or for worse; he tries. He really tries to listen to him, to offer words of comfort. Maybe, if he’s good enough, he could, you know, get in the man pants before 11 and get back home at midnight to get some good sleep.
But he knows better than wishing on shooting stars now.
He needs a break from this. He’s not desperate enough.
“I need to take a leak,” Chad says, already shifting off the stool. He doesn’t wait for a response. He’s been listening to the guy for the whole evening now, and if the man dares to utter another word, Chad might as well set the whole place on fire. Not a problem, tho, the place is already shit on itself, it would benefit from an entire restyle.
(And maybe he’s been using the word ‘shit’ too much today, but he doesn’t care.)
With his great displeasure, the bathroom isn’t empty.
The room is cramped. The walls are trashed, covered in graffiti, horrible drawings of dicks of any kind, and there are only two stalls. One’s door is wide open. The other is fully sealed, with one pair of shoes and one pair of knees peaking from underneath.
“Just like that, slut,” someone groans from behind the door.
On a whim, Chad kicks the door open. If he can’t fuck, nobody will get the pleasure of getting their dick wet. That’s what he thinks, before the door opens, banging against the person getting his dick sucked.
That’s what he thinks before Robert fucking Robertson's face comes into view as the man remains there, knees down, feet tucked under his ass on the floor, head kept in place by a third person sitting on the toilet. His doe-like eyes widen, taking in Chad’s presence as soon as he grabs the man in front of him by the neck and throws him out of the stall. The one behind Robert gasps, but understands the clue and leaves of his own volition. It doesn’t take a Harvard graduate to see that Chad is pissed. What for, he is not sure.
The horrible date? Yes. Very much.
Finding their dispatcher getting gang banged in the bathroom? Maybe.
Or is it worry?
“Now, that seems a bit too much even for you, don’t you think?” Robert scoffs, tilting his head to stare at the two men scrambling on their feet to get out of there. He doesn’t stand.
“Did they force you?” Chad asks, squinting his eyes. Robert doesn’t look injured, but those hickeys look way worse than they did earlier today. There are new additions, too. Not that Chad has them memorized, of course.
Almost annoyed, Robert rolls his eyes.
“Answer me,” he orders, hunches forward, getting both hands on Robert’s face to inspect it more closely. It makes Chad grimace.
“No,” Robert adds, eventually, “they did what I asked.”
The admission should not sting as much as it does. It should surprise him, yes, it does, but… it shouldn’t hurt him like it’s doing right now.
What is the problem here? Is he really that bothered by the knowledge of good, old Robert being, as the man before said, a good slut for other men?
“What are you doing here?” Robert asks, grasping at Chad’s ankles to sustain himself on the tips of his feet, ready to spring upwards to stand up again. But he doesn’t. Not yet.
“Prism said you have a date,” Robert goes on, as a matter of fact.
Finally, when Robert attempts to stand up, Chad keeps him there, on his knees. Robert lifts an eyebrow, eyes shifting from one of Chad’s hands to the other. Chad can see that little, pretty head of his thinking, gears turning ever so slowly, without saying a word.
“Not cool, bitch,” Chad says, for reasons unknown to him other than the fact that this might be the safest thing to say in this situation, “it’s bad enough that you’ve put your foot in two shoes with the whole shit-show you have going on with Blazer and Invisibitch. Now this?”
“They’re too good to me.” He says, simply, as if it’s the most normal thing to say.
Inadvertently, Chad’s eyes fall down to Robert’s crotch. Not hard, he notices, as if it’s of any importance. When he looks back up at Robert, he snarls.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course, they’re good to you! You’re like the most perfect motherfucker in this damn world to them!”
Robert is still looking at Chad like he has the answer to how to solve some kind of complex algorithm, scrunching up his nose, forehead creasing slightly. Then, when he finds what he’s looking for on Chad’s face, he relaxes. His tension drops. His eyes drift to Chad’s bare chest, then back up again.
“Maybe it’s not what I am looking for,” Robert snorts, “do you want to get back to your date?”
Oh.
This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. But Chad’s never been good at restraining himself.
“Yeah, no. My dick is so dry because of his constant blabbing, I am not sure I have it in me to get back to that,” he says, giving Robert an opening to continue this bad-idea of a conversation.
He shouldn’t be doing this. Really.
Chad shouldn’t be… doing whatever he is doing now.
He just spent the whole day bitching about Robert and the way the man is forcing him to keep his habits in check, and now look at him! Play a game of chicken in the bathroom of a club, with said man nonetheless.
Eventually, Robert grins, “I can help you with that.”
It goes straight to Chad’s dick.
Taking it as an invitation, Chad opens his legs, placing them at each side of Robert’s thighs, and starts unbuttoning his trousers, mentally praising his previous decision to go for a simple outfit with neither belts nor accessories.
Robert slots between his legs, pawing at Chad’s thighs like the man is desperate for contact, and nuzzles at his erection from over his boxers when Chad lets his pants drop. Now free from the denim, Robert’s hands wander freely along his skin, testing the muscles underneath, touching small scars near his knees. Then, content with his ministration, he brushes his nose against Chad’s balls, drags the boxers down in one, fast motion, and looks up, eyes as cold as always.
“Make it hurt, Flambae.”
Any other time, Chad might have waited, informed Robert of the need to pick up a safeword, gotten to know each other's boundaries, and whatnot. Really. If Chad had been wiser, he might have looked into it a little more. He would have noticed the way Robert’s eyes look.
There is nothing tender in Robert’s eyes. Just resignation. As if he’s been offering himself up not out of excitement, but as a chore. Something that needs to be done rather than a pleasure to indulge in.
Any other time, he would have noticed. Even now, in the back of his mind, Chad has an itch, a fire-alarm going wild in his subconscious. But it’s not enough to help him go past his hardening dick to look at the situation more clearly.
“Oh, Bob-bob, never pegged you for that kind of man,” Chad muses, grabbing at a handful of Robert’s hair, earning a low, guttural groan from him as he pushes him forward. Lips brushing the tip of his cock, Robert’s tongue peeks out to lick tentatively at the foreskin. After taking in the taste of it, his lips wrap around the tip, using his tongue as he’s diving in to lick at each and every side of Chad’s cock.
When it’s clear the man won’t go any deeper, Chad shoves him all the way down towards the base, following with a loud moan when the hint of teeth catches at his foreskin and drool pools at the sides of Robert’s mouth. Robert gags when there is no space left to accommodate Chad’s shaft, stretching his jaw enough to apply just the right pressure with his teeth without making it hurt.
The tip bumps against the back of his throat one, two, three times more before Chad closes his eyes, throwing his head backward in pure bliss when finally, fucking finally, Robert’s tongue resumes its task. It slides tentatively around his length, unable to keep up with his thrusts as Chad picks up, before swirling and wetting his dick to the point of having him buck his hips forward intentionally.
“Jesus, bitch,” he rasps, a maniac laugh bubbling up from his chest, “you’re good!”
Robert hums around his cock, flattening his tongue against the backside of it as it bumps after each and every thrust. The friction sends jolts up his spine, with sparks drizzling all over his skin under the shirt. Thank goodness this thing is fireproof!
But Bob isn’t.
His dicks gets hotter when he is excited, and he is sure as hell Robert is gonna feel each and every burn tomorrow morning. But Bob can take it, he thinks. He’s been the one asking for it to hurt, and who is Chad to deny him that?
“Don’t tap out on me, bitch,” he taunts then, when he feels Robert’s tongue slowing down. The suggestion drops dead. Instead, after dragging out his cock ever so slowly to bottom out entirely into his mouth right after, Robert’s tongue keeps at it, swirling in circles now, using the coat of saliva to dampen the heat.
Smart little bitch.
The fire on his arms sizzles hotter by the minute as tension starts pooling in his gut.
Chad looks down briefly, and whatever snark remark he’s been thinking of dries in his throat when he meets brown eyes staring at him in sternness, as if challenging him to do his worst.
Not enough, Chad finds himself thinking, hearing Robert’s voice amidst his thoughts.
He picks up his pace. Unrelentless. He grins when Robert’s eyes go shut, and the man holds back a choking sound that makes his dick throb. In response to his little stunt, Robert’s nails dig into his thighs, skin stinging when a rivulet of blood meets a lonely spark.
He holds Robert’s head steady, fucking into his mouth with precise, forceful pumps, feeling his tongue sliding against him lazily once again. Fucking pillow princess, letting him do all the job!
When teeth make themselves know more strongly than before, Chad pulls at his hair with an iron-firm grip, and he feels Robert’s hum vibrating along his dick. Chad does it again. A muffled moan rises from below, and he closes his eyes.
Fuck! Fuck!
Suddenly, the fire dissipates, the heat focuses solely in his balls, tightening. With a deep groan, Chad’s coming straight into Robert’s throat in streams, his entire body seizing against the door. It’s a bliss and a torture all the same once he feels the dispatcher’s throat tightening up to swallow his release.
Finally, he releases Robert’s hair to sustain himself against the door. The man’s mouth lets go with a loud pop of his dick. Chad is left panting against the enclosure, eyes shut and spent.
At the very least, his chest feels lighter.
Good god! Robert is a fucking menace!
He should compliment him, come up with some sweet-talking to let him down slowly, to let him know that this is a one-time occurrence and that it’s never happening again. The words are already on the tip of his tongue as his breathing slows down, and the post coital clarity kicks in – really, he’s ready, but Robert’s hands are faster.
He opens his eyes when he feels hands pressing on both his sides, with the intent of shoving him away from the door.
Robert isn’t looking at him.
“It was good,” he says, with the excitement of a dead fish, “can you move so I can go?”
Chad blinks down at him.
Too out of his mind still to register the meaning behind those words, Chad moves to the left, allowing Robert to give him a court nod and leave. Just like that.
It takes Chad a couple of minutes to understand what just happened.
He doesn't know how many more minutes pass. The rejection speech he’d been about to use expires quickly in his mouth, leaving a sour aftertaste.