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With the cutting of a member from the Z-Team and the addition of Waterboy, Robert had braced for a nightmare. He’d expected chaos, maybe even a full-on meltdown—but to his surprise, it wasn’t that bad. The team was rough, sure, but they’d tightened up since the firing. Maybe losing someone had finally made them take things seriously.
It eased a little of the pressure off of Robert’s shoulders. Between the mech-suit situation, Phenomeman’s ongoing grievance, and managing a squad of half-trained heroes, he’d been running on fumes. But if they kept this up, maybe he’d get through a shift without grinding his teeth to dust.
Of course, with every rose, there was a thorn—and in this case, that thorn came with a lighter.
Waterboy was… unique. Still a mess, but the kid had potential. Robert had insisted on adding him to the roster, even when the rest of Z-team rolled their eyes. The teasing was predictable—especially from the retired villains—but he figured it was good for the kid. “Tough love,” as Chase liked to call it.
Robert powered up the console, the Terrance map flickering across the screen. One by one, his team’s signals lit up. He grabbed his mic.
“Alright, people. Second shift with our new addition—let’s make this one work, yeah?”
He hesitated, then added, “And before anyone complains—yes, it’s the last shift of the day. Let’s skip the yelling this time.”
A few mics crackled. Then Waterboy’s uncertain voice came through. “Uh—yeah! Go team!”
Someone snorted. Prism’s voice followed, honey and teasing: “You hear that, folks? ‘Go team.’”
Robert rolled his eyes. “He’s right. Let’s just focus, please.”
To his relief, the shift actually went smoothly. There were hiccups, of course, but no major disasters—by their standards, that was practically a miracle.
Then a new alert flashed on his screen: two delinquents with lighters and hairspray in a convenience store.
Robert scanned the roster—only two were available.
He pressed his mic. “Flambae, Waterboy—you’re up.”
A sharp groan came immediately. “Aw, come on, Robert. You serious?”
“Dead serious,” Robert said flatly. “What’s the problem now?”
Flambae’s reply came dripping with attitude. “The problem is you’re sending me out with the mop boy.”
Robert rubbed at his temple. “First off, he’s not just a janitor. He’s part of this team. Same as you.”
Flambae’s voice came through the comms, laced with irritation. “Yeah, but I actually do things, you know?”
Robert’s tone sharpened. “Need I remind you that petty squabbles don’t belong on the job? And if this is about him accidentally tossing your food last week—”
“Whoa,” Flambae cut in. “You think I’m that petty?”
Robert gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Yes. Now go do your job. You make up for his lack in combat, so make it count.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” Flambae grumbled a few curses under his breath before his line went dead.
The rest of the shift passed without too much incident. Malevola caught a nasty hit mid-mission, but otherwise things ran… fine. Fine enough. By the time the clock hit the end of the cycle, most of the team had signed off, the office dimming into the low hum of monitors and distant hallway chatter.
Robert shut down the main screen and leaned back, rubbing at the tension in his neck. The fatigue was setting in, crawling behind his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, already thinking about a shower and maybe—just maybe—a few hours of sleep.
“Oh—h-hey! Again.”
The voice startled him. Robert turned, blinking toward the reason for the noise. Waterboy stood there awkwardly, dripping slightly onto the tile.
“Oh. Kid.” Robert exhaled, forcing a small smile. “Hey. How’d you think you did today?”
Waterboy scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting to the floor. “Yeah, uh… it went great. Thanks again for, you know… letting me be here.”
Robert nodded, standing. “Of course, dude.” He gave a reassuring pat on the shoulder—then froze when Waterboy winced, his whole body tensing at the touch.
Robert frowned. “You okay?”
Waterboy nodded quickly, stepping back a pace. “Y-yeah! Yeah, of course. Just, uh, got a little singed out there.”
Robert’s brows drew together. “Singed? I sent you on one call—with Flambae. That was supposed to be an easy job.”
Waterboy forced a sheepish grin. “It was easy! Really. I just… he kinda caught me with some of his fire when he went after those guys. Total accident, I swear. No biggy.”
Robert sighed through his nose, a slow, heavy sound that spoke volumes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Well that was definitely on purpose. His voice dropped into a low growl. “That idiot.”
Waterboy’s eyes widened. “What? No, no! Don’t—I mean, really, it’s fine, it’s—”
But Robert wasn’t listening anymore. The apology blurred into the background as he straightened, jaw tight, and headed for the elevator .
The corridors were quiet at this hour, the overhead lights dimmed to a muted orange. He found Flambae on the ground floor near the break room, half-slouched against a vending machine with a bottle of water in hand—irony apparently lost on him. A few staffers lingered nearby, late night fatigue a common sharer.
Robert stopped a few feet away, voice low but sharp. “What is your problem?”
Flambae looked up, brows raised, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth. “What, no ‘good job’ first?”
Robert’s stare didn’t waver. “I’ll save the praise for when you stop torching your teammates.”
That earned a scoff. Flambae twisted the bottle cap off and took a long drink, letting the silence stretch. “If you’re talking about the kid, that was his fault. He ran in front of me.”
“Yeah? Funny. He didn’t mention that part. He said you ‘accidentally’ caught him mid-swing.”
Flambae set the bottle down with a dull clack. “Look, he’s new. He doesn’t know how to keep distance yet. I was handling the situation.”
Robert stepped closer, his voice low but firm. “Handling it doesn’t mean burning it. You’re supposed to be watching his back, not setting him on fire because you can’t let go of a grudge over noodles.”
Flambae’s expression hardened, the smirk fading into something colder. “Oh, come on. You think I’d risk the mission over that? You really think I’m that shallow?”
Robert didn’t blink. “I think you’re impulsive. And I think you don’t like being shown up. He’s clumsy, yeah—but he’s trying. You don’t get to punish him for existing.”
The words landed harder than he intended. A few nearby staffers had paused mid-step, their conversations trailing off as the argument’s edge cut through the air. Robert noticed their eyes flicking toward him, toward Flambae, the tension thick enough to taste.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Great,” he muttered. Then he reached out, catching Flambae by the arm before the guy could bark something back, and hauled him toward the nearest storage room.
Flambae yanked his arm halfheartedly, scowling. “What are you, my mom?”
The room was cramped-stacked crates, faint smell of oil and cleaning fluid, a single flickering bulb overhead. Robert turned on him fully now, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's talk without an audience."
Flambae rolled his eyes, Robert stared at him, unamused. "You think this is funny? You burned a teammate, Flambae. One who's been on the job less than a week."
"I said it was an accident!" Flambae snapped. "He jumped right in my line of fire. What was I supposed to do, stop mid-attack and ask him to move nicely?"
Robert's voice stayed even. "You're supposed to have control. Sure, the Z-team isn’t full of saints, but for fuck sake, have some common sense and don’t burn your team.”
Flambae scoffed, a dismissive roll of his shoulders, then met Robert's gaze with that familiar, infuriating smirk plastered across his face. He said nothing, simply letting the silence stretch, heavy and defiant.
Robert took the silence as an invitation to lean in, jabbing a finger against Flambae's impeccably tailored lapel. "I've already cut one limb off this body. Thought that would be enough to get the message across to the rest of you. It did get you working harder. So tell me, why are you actively trying to sabotage us now? Why are you being so needlessly destructive?"
The arrogance in Flambae's eyes flickered, replaced by something unreadable. The air in the tense office seemed to thicken, pressing in, and Robert noticed the subtle, almost imperceptible hitch in Flambae’s breathing. He frowned, a sliver of surprise piercing his anger. Was the hothead actually listening? Was the reprimand finally sinking in? Flambae, the undisputed apex predator of the Z-Team, always so cocky, always so certain…
Robert’s gaze drifted, drawn by an almost magnetic pull, downwards. His eyes widened, fixing on the undeniable, unmistakable bulge straining against the fine material of Flambae’s costume. A wave of heat, hot and mortifying, washed over Robert, a flush of vicarious embarrassment and sheer disbelief.
Flambae cleared his throat, a rough, aborted sound, his eyes snapping away to fix on a point somewhere over Robert's left shoulder. Robert's gaze scorched back up to his face. "Are you serious? What in the absolute hell, Flambae?"
Flambae's jaw tightened, a crimson flush creeping up his neck. "Don't flatter yourself, Robert. It's the situation. The… intensity. Not you."
Robert's initial shock gave way to a slow, wicked grin. "The 'intensity?’ What, do you get off on being put in your place, Flambae? Is that your secret kink?"
Flambae's face burned a furious scarlet. "Keep your voice down!" he hissed, glancing nervously at the closed door.
Robert actually laughed, a low, incredulous sound that was entirely inappropriate for the gravity of the situation. "Oh, this is rich. The confident Flambae, the man who thrives on outmaneuvering and outshining everyone, gets a hard-on from a dressing down? From being reprimanded?"
The raw, mortified humiliation etched across Flambae's face, usually so composed in its arrogance stirred something within Robert. A low, almost strangled "Goddammit" escaped his lips, a prayer and a curse rolled into one. He didn't think, didn't hesitate. He simply reached out, hauled Flambae in by the front of his costume, and crushed their mouths together.
The kiss was utterly consuming, hot, and punishing. It wasn't gentle; it was the sharp, frustrated relief of a man who’d been arguing all day and was now operating purely on adrenaline and annoyance. He couldn’t tell if it felt better or worse that Flambae was kissing back with the same intensity.
Flambae made a choked sound, a quick, defeated noise that died in his throat, but he didn't pull away. He melted, almost instantaneously, his hands reaching to clutch at Robert’s shoulders as if needing an anchor.
Robert shifted the angle, his hand digging possessively into the back of Flambae’s neck, crushing the material of his uniform against the coarse stubble growing along Robert’s jaw.
When Robert finally broke away, he kept Flambae tethered closely, their chests heaving in unison. Flambae’s eyes were unfocused, stunned, and glazed over with an arousal that was still humiliatingly evident against his trousers.
“Look at you,” Robert snarled, his voice a low, rough vibration, laced with contempt and something dangerously close to wonder. “Is this what you wanted? You act so cocky and for what? Does it help you think you’re big?”
Flambae managed a shaky breath, his scarlet cheeks looking almost painful against his pale skin. “Fuck you, what is this— 20 questions?,” he retorted, though the words were a flimsy shield.
“Just, shut up,” Robert muttered, his fingers flexing against Flambae’s neck. “This whole confrontation, the defiance, the confident persona. How desperate are you for someone to put you in your place, Flambae? You’re so arrogant, so convinced of your own superiority, that the only thing that gets a rise out of you is being taken down a peg.”
Robert yanked the rest of the costume off of Flambae, tossing it carelessly onto a stack of empty cardboard boxes, exposing a body that was unsurprisingly broad and smooth beneath the tight fabric.
“If this makes you behave on shift then good,” Robert said, pressing his body flush against Flambae’s. The oppressive heat radiating off the man was intoxicating, an aggressive counterpoint to Robert’s weary exhaustion. “And, for your information, starting your own fires to put them out does not get you more points.”
Flambae's breath hitched, his body betraying him as he pressed closer despite the flush of shame burning his skin. He tried to summon his usual sharp retort, but all that came out was a shaky exhale, his cock throbbing painfully against the tight fabric of his underwear.
Robert's free hand slid down, palming the hard bulge through Flambae's boxers. Flambae jerked, a muffled groan escaping as Robert squeezed, fingers tracing the outline of his erection with deliberate pressure. 'See? This is you, Flambae. Hard and leaking just from a little pushback. Bet you've been jerking off to thoughts of someone finally shutting you up.'
Flambae's hands fisted in Robert's shirt, torn between shoving him away and pulling him in. 'Shut... fuck, Robert,' he gasped, hips bucking involuntarily into the touch. The door loomed in his mind, a flimsy barrier against the world outside, but the risk only made his pulse race faster, his dick twitch under Robert's grip.
Robert chuckled, low and filthy, pulling the man’s underwear down with a swift tug. The sound echoed too loud in the tense silence. He stared at Flambae's cock—thick, flushed, and already slick at the tip. Robert wrapped his hand around it, stroking slow and firm, thumb circling the head to smear the precum. “Look at this mess. All that big talk, and you're dripping for me. Say it—admit you love being taken down a peg.”
Flambae's head fell back against the wall, a groan slipping free as Robert pumped him harder, twisting at the base. His thighs trembled, the humiliation twisting into raw heat that pooled in his gut. 'I... it's not... oh god,' he stuttered, but his body arched into the strokes, chasing the friction. Robert leaned in, nipping at his earlobe, breath hot against his neck.
“Wrong answer,” Robert spoke, speeding up his hand until Flambae's hips stuttered, pre-cum slicking the way. He pressed his own hard-on against Flambae's thigh, grinding to let him feel the evidence of his own arousal. As much as i’d love to hear you scream, we do have to be quiet— so maybe I should be the only one coming, you seem like a loud guy...'
Flambae's resolve shattered, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “Fuck no, Robert... fuck, just make me cum. I need it, i’m quiet— super quiet.' His voice cracked, eyes squeezing shut as Robert's fist tightened, jerking him relentlessly. The pressure built fast, coiling tight, before Robert let go, forcing him to a halt.
Robert chuckled as Flambae groaned, licking a stripe up Flambae's neck, tasting salt. “Don't worry, not done.” He then spun Flambae around, pressing him face-first against a storage rack. Robert yanked his own pants down, exposing his ass.
Flambae's breath came in sharp bursts, his cheek flush against the cold metal rack, the dusty air clinging to his skin. His body still buzzed from the halted release, limbs heavy and unsteady, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to let any weakness show. His cock hung slick between his thighs, a faint twitch betraying him as Robert's rough hands clamped onto his hips, fingers bruising the skin there.
Robert pressed up behind him, his breath scorching Flambae's ear. “Bet you love it when someone talks you down, probably even Mecha-Man.” The irony was funny. He ran a hand through the man’s ponytail, while his other hand squeezed Flambae's ass, prying the cheeks apart with no gentleness.
Flambae tensed, his knuckles whitening on the rack. “Aye, you speak too much, you know?.” The words came out gritted, defiant, even as a shiver ran through him when Robert's thumb grazed his hole, the touch sending an unwelcome spark up his spine.
Robert snorted, ignoring the protest. He spat into his palm, the wet sound cutting through the quiet, then rubbed it over his fingers, slicking them up. “And you don’t? Very funny.” He pressed one finger against Flambae's entrance, pushing in slow but firm, the spit easing the way just enough to breach the tight muscle.
Flambae hissed through his teeth, body rigid as the intrusion stretched him. “Shit, shit,” he muttered, but he didn't pull away, his hips shifting slightly despite himself. Robert twisted the finger deeper, probing until it nudged that sensitive spot, drawing a sharp inhale from Flambae. His cock stirred, swollen, brushing the shelf below.
“Quiet,” Robert murmured, adding a second spit-slicked finger, forcing them in together. He worked them apart, stretching the ring with steady pumps, the obscene squelch filling the cramped space alongside Flambae's controlled breaths. '”Fuck— you’re tight. Bet you've been ignoring this itch for too long.”
Flambae's face burned, a mix of anger and heat coiling in his gut. He rocked back once, involuntarily, then stopped, growling low. “Just do it”, his voice rough as Robert's fingers dragged over that spot again, making his thighs quiver.
Robert pulled his fingers free with a wet slide, leaving Flambae empty and clenching on nothing. He hawked another glob of spit onto his hand, stroking it over his freed cock, the thick length throbbing as he lined it up. It nudged Flambae's hole, hot and insistent.
Robert pressed the blunt head against Flambae's rim, circling slowly to spread the spit, teasing the tight ring until it fluttered under the pressure. Flambae's breath hitched, his body tensing as the tip breached him just enough to stretch the outer muscle, popping past with a slick give. Robert held there, savoring the vise-like grip, his cockhead lodged inside while Flambae's walls quivered around the intrusion.
Flambae's fingers dug into the rack, knuckles whitening, a low whine escaping despite his efforts to stay silent. The slow burn built, Robert's shaft sinking deeper with each controlled push, the spit easing the way but amplifying every sensation as Flambae's body adjusted.
The rhythm built gradually, Robert's hips canting to hit different angles, probing the depths with precise, unhurried strokes. He pulled out to the crown again, watching Flambae's rim cling to his shaft, pink and slick, before plunging back in—slow at first, then picking up a teasing pace. Each entry dragged along Flambae's prostate, sending jolts through his body, his cock twitching untouched below. Robert's free hand roamed, pinching a nipple, then sliding down to cup Flambae's balls, rolling them as he seated himself fully at last, his pelvis flush against Flambae's ass.
He didn't pull back immediately, instead circling his hips to stir the length within, stretching Flambae from the inside out. Only then did he start the real rhythm—pulling out halfway, the drag exquisite and torturous, before slamming back in with a wet smack. Flambae grunted, the fullness overwhelming, his walls gripping the invading shaft like a vice.
Robert's hand snaked around, fisting Flambae's erection without asking, stroking in rough sync with his thrusts—tight pulls on the upstroke, loose twists on the down. “Yeah, yeah— you feel so good..” The words punctuated each deep drive, Robert angling to grind against that spot inside, prolonging the build with expert control.
Flambae bit back a sound, his body betraying him with every involuntary clench, the pressure mounting despite his silence. Robert varied the pace—slow, grinding rolls to let the stretch linger, then sharp, piston-like thrusts that buried him to the hilt, his cockhead kissing the deepest walls. Sweat slicked their skin, the air thick with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, wet and obscene. Flambae's hole fluttered around him, milking the shaft with each retreat, and Robert chased the edge, drawing it out until Flambae shattered first.
He came with a stifled curse, spilling over Robert's knuckles in hot spurts, his hole pulsing wildly around the pounding length, clenching in waves that nearly pulled Robert over. Robert groaned, burying himself deep one final time, hips grinding as he unloaded, hot cum flooding Flambae's insides in thick, relentless pulses, filling him until it leaked out around the base.
Flambae’s knees buckled as he flopped onto the storage floor, come still leaking out of him. “I mean,” he wheezed, his voice thin and reedy, trying to inject some of his usual theatricality, but failing miserably. “I was expecting… well, a reprimand for hurting that janitor boy. Not planning to have been fucked.”
Robert exhaled, zipping his pants back up, some seed had gotten over his trousers but he could wash it out. “I think neither of us were.”
Flambae nodded absently as he tugged his clothes back on, movements stiff and careful. Robert caught the subtle wince in his movement and felt a twinge of guilt tighten in his chest.
“You, uh—need a hand, or…?”
Flambae shot him a quick glare. “What? No. I’m fine. You can go, Jesus.”
Robert gave a low whistle. “Right. With that attitude, I’d be tight too.”
Flambae huffed, clearly holding back a sharper response. After a beat, he muttered, “I’m usually the one that gives it, so shut up.”
Robert smirked faintly, buttoning his own jacket and running a hand through his hair. The air had cooled into something awkward but less heated. He nodded toward the door. “Alright, well, I’ll get out of your way. You want me to grab your drink or something?”
“Just go,” Flambae groaned, tugging at the sleeves of his costume.
“Suit yourself,” Robert said, his tone light but tired.
He slipped out, shutting the door quietly behind him. The corridor was still, empty—thankfully so. No witnesses.
As he stretched his shoulders, his eyes landed on Flambae’s water bottle sitting abandoned near the break room door. He hesitated a moment, then picked it up and placed it by the storage room entrance.
A small, silent peace offering.
Robert lingered just long enough to sigh, then headed down the hall, One of these days, this team’s gonna kill me.