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The Sardine smells like whiskey and sweat.
Robert had only just settled in with his drink when a song assaulted his ears from the stage. The predictable perpetrator, Flambae, was either a terrible singer, or he was off-key on purpose just to piss him off further. Robert imagines it's a combination of both. He’s glad he's sitting with his back to Flambae, he doesn't need to see his shit-eating grin on top of the improvised diss track.
"And it doesn't even function anyway... because I have erectile dysfunction." Flambae sings, spinning the mic stand in a flourish. He's not exactly subtle with the way he keeps glancing over, grinning, waiting for him to react. Robert won't give him the satisfaction.
Invisigal snorts. "He speaking any truth? Or, singing any truth. I guess." She glances at Flambae just as he turns away from their table, performing the rest of the song with surprising accuracy to the original lyrics. If he had turned the entire song into a parody just to shit talk, Robert might've actually been compelled to react. Not that anyone in the bar besides the Z-team knows who he is; he's more surprised Flambae is willing to have random patrons assume he's the Robert he's singing about.
Robert deliberates a response, drumming his fingers along the rim of his drink. "He's got it half-right, surprisingly."
"What, that you have a tiny dick?"
"No, that I have erectile dysfunction." Robert deadpans. He's not even sure if he's joking or not. Invisigal blinks at him, before chuckling. Never one to be fazed.
"Well, it's better than having a tiny dick." She shrugs, taking a sip of her drink. "Cuz' then my dream would be sorely inaccurate."
"Yeah, real bummer. Can't risk ruining the fantasy." Robert humors her, before nursing his drink again. It's not like he's always had a limp dick. In fact, it's been a relatively recent issue. Turns out having his future as Mechaman precariously hanging on the edge of ruin, his father's death, the missing Astral Pulse, and dealing with the stress of a new job doesn't accumulate into anything worthwhile.
He's not even completely sure if it's a matter of actual erectile dysfunction, or that being depressed all the time kills any horniness that could've possibly been triggered. It's not like he's ever tried to differentiate the two, he hasn't jacked off since landing a job at SDN. Couldn't find the time, or the urge. Those two do seem to go hand in hand, based on his very brief online searches, after which he purged his browsing history until it was corporate blank. Something tells him that data is still floating around somewhere. He should invest in a VPN.
"And he's still singing—hey, where're you going?" Invisigal asks when Robert stands, draining the last of whiskey.
"Bathroom." He says, walking off. In truth, he just needs some peace and quiet away from the noise. He was going to develop a migraine at this rate, scratch that, he already has one. And with the extremely pleasant bouncer outside, he'll take his chances in the restroom instead of leaving. He shoulders past villains and patrons and villain-patrons, and he's relieved to find there's no line outside the bathroom.
It's instantly quiet the second he steps in, closing the door behind him. The blaring music fades to a distant thrum in the background. He stares at himself in the mirror, deciding to wash his hands just to have something to do.
The peace lasts for about ten seconds before he hears wretching coming from one of the stalls. Very familiar wretching. Taking his chances, Robert eases open the stall door (unlocked!) with his foot.
"Sonar man, you doing alright?" Robert grimaces. Sonar shakes his head as if to clear his ears, squinting back at Robert. His eyes are bloodshot. He's probably been hunched over that toilet for god knows how long, but how'd he get shitfaced from just a few drinks?
"Peachy."
Robert takes in the scene, skeptical. "Maybe ease off on the drinking." He suggests after Sonar very convincingly dry heaves. "Want me to get you some water?" He's feeling generous today. That and he likes to think he's a good guy.
Sonar shakes his head, finally flushing the toilet. "Nah. You're good."
Sonar pushes himself to his feet and leaves the bathroom in a daze. Robert tries to ignore how Sonar ignored the sink on his way out. Gripping the edge of the dingy toilet seat can't be sanitary, but then again, he's seen Sonar put bugs in his food. It must be a bat thing.
With the relative peace restored, Robert dries off his hands on his shirt. He's heard somewhere that air dryers suck up all the germs in the air and spit it back onto your hands. Not sure how true that claim is, but with half-flushed puke in the toilet behind him maybe there's some merit to it.
Robert splashes his face with cold water for good measure even though he just dried his hands, but the pounding headache is probably here to stay. Not even the buzz of cheap whiskey does anything to help. He tells himself Flambae's voice caused it. It wasn't unreasonable. Distantly, he hears Prism's voice in the bar, singing what sounded like her own original tracks. Which must mean—
"Hey, Bobert, hiding in the bathroom like a little bitch? I thought I'd find you here." Flambae's voice jeers as the door swings open. He smugly appraises Robert, glancing up and down his body. After a beat, like an afterthought, he kicks the door shut behind him, the hinges rattling. "Did you like my song? It was just for you."
"Yeah, I gathered as much. It was... something." Robert sighs, turning to face him. "Did you come here just to get my opinion?"
"No. I—" Flambae pauses, caught. "It's not like that, don't get it twisted okay? At least I didn't come in to puke my brains out."
Robert frowns. "You saw Sonar?"
"Yeah, he's totally piss drunk. High, too. Phenom— fuck, noman-man just took him home."
It must be the whiskey finally kicking in, because Robert lets his eyes roam freely before he catches himself. Down Flambae's ridiculously deep V-neck, his hips, then snapping back up to his face. Flambae raises an eyebrow, hand on his hip. "What? Like what you see?"
Fuck it. If only to get him to shut up. It'll either get him laid or incinerated, anyway. Robert surges forward, grabbing the collar of Flambae's suit, with much difficulty considering it's skin tight, and kisses Flambae. He tastes like the same whiskey he bought for everyone else, he's glad to know Flambae didn't toss it out of pettiness or something.
Flambae freezes for only a second before he's grabbing Robert's shoulders, prying him away. His eyes are narrowed in disbelief, but his cheeks are bright red. Robert waits for the hands on his shoulders to heat up and burst into flames, but it never comes.
"What the fuck?" He sputters, speechless.
"I don't know, I thought you'd like to know whether I can get it up or not." Robert replies. Flambae's eye twitches and he's sure he'll get burnt to a crisp now if not before, until their lips crash together again. Well, he won't waste the opportunity. Robert grabs a hold of Flambae's ponytail, conveniently, to drag him down to meet him instead of Robert rising on his toes. Flambae makes an angry sound against his mouth, but he follows him down without serious protest.
Robert palms down Flambae's chest, slipping under his bodysuit to feel warm skin. Naturally, Flambae runs hot as a furnace. He's a good kisser, too, though there's some reluctance like he's still in disbelief. His canines are surprisingly sharp; Robert grabs the back of his head with his other hand to kiss him deeper. His ponytail sure is handy. Flambae breaks the kiss after a couple seconds, breathing labored. "So what, you're trying to fuck in the bathroom? That's not very heroic of you, huh." He says, clearly trying to provoke.
"Hey, maybe this is exactly what I need to do to convince everyone I'm not a narc." Robert shrugs, hastily tugging Flambae's, or trying to, tug Flambae's bodysuit off one shoulder. It keeps sliding out of his grip, settling back in place, strangely slippery. "What the hell?"
"It's fireproof, idiot." Flambae grins. "The synthetic fibers and shit make everything just slide right off- like a, like a fucking slip and slide." Okay, he did not need that imagery. "Impressive, right? I designed it."
"Right, okay, cool." Robert vaguely remembers seeing something about Flambae designing his own suit in his file, he hadn't paid much attention to it then. But now to think he purposefully gave himself such a low neckline; with the way it tapers into a V it doesn't even show off much of his muscles, so it must mean he's just showing off skin for the sake of it. His cock twitches in his pants, and Robert freezes. No shot Flambae is the one to cure his waning libido.
Change of plan. "I'm not gonna try and wrestle with your fireproof clothes, got it." Robert says, pushing Flambae down. He does use considerate force, but Flambae can definitely shrug him off, so the fact he willingly kneels (even if with a skeptical scowl) isn't helping his boner. Flambae mutters something about the filthy floor under his breath.
Flambae catches on and immediately he tries to stand. Robert pushes him back down, though more like a suggestion than a demand. "I'm not going to suck your dick, Robert. It'd be like suckling a little birdie's thumb."
"Ugh, you have to stop with the imagery. Either way you're already on your knees, but... you can leave if you want, nothing stopping you." Robert says, with a purposeful lilt in the end. It's obvious bait, but Flambae is notoriously easy to provoke.
"Shut the fuck up," Flambae growls before he's shifting forward, ripping Robert's pants off and pulling them down just enough to free his dick. A button must have popped off his jeans from the force, but Robert's too tipsy to notice if it actually happened. He's more preoccupied with the hand holding his miraculously hard dick, and the look on Flambae's face. Priceless, but Robert would pay good money to see it again.
"I'm honestly surprised." Robert admits, snaking his hand back into Flambae's hair. "Didn't think I'd get hard for like a good year. Until everything calmed down."
"I'm just that attractive, I know." Flambae says sarcastically, though he probably believes it. He eyeballs his dick, as if measuring how much he can take, and swallows him down in one go. Robert scrambles at the sudden heat, god Flambae's mouth is hot, searing, even, if he wants to be dramatic. He grabs a fistful of his hair to ground himself, his other hand gripping the edge of the sink.
"Jesus, give a warning next time!" Robert hisses. Flambae makes a vague sound of disagreement as he swirls his tongue, as if acclimating to sucking dick again. He pulls off after a moment, catching his breath. Taking him all the way without warning clearly wasn't a great idea for Flambae either.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, panting. He still manages his smirk, all teeth. "Not bad, Robbo. Maybe I should rewrite my lyrics."
"It's not even your own song, you just parodied a few lyrics." Robert points out. Before Flambae can retort and the situation derails, he grabs the back of his head and slams forward again, deeper.
Flambae makes an outraged sound in the back of his throat and his hands fly up instinctively, palms pressed against Robert's thighs for leverage. His nails dig into his skin through his jeans and Robert smothers a groan. The wet heat of his mouth is almost addictive, but the rush of it being Flambae sucking him off hits harder.
Robert pulls back just enough to let Flambae suck in a ragged breath, spit a curse or two, before sliding back in, finding a rhythm. Flambae's hands grab his hips angrily, a low, involuntary whine escaping around his dick, muffled. His throat works around him easily, practiced, and he doesn't seem to have a gag reflex at all. Seems fitting.
"Didn't think you'd actually go along with it," Robert gasps mid-thrust, his grip on his hair shifting. "Thought I'd be burnt shit by now."
At that, Flambae forcefully pulls up, lips shining with spit. Robert resists the urge to thumb at his bottom lip, and fails. He reaches down and swipes at his lip, smearing the spit across his jaw, mixed with precome.
Flambae snarls and slaps his hand away. "You might as well be if you keep your attitude up." He spits. "I'm basically doing you a favor. You don't even deserve this, honestly."
"Okay, glad to see your spirit is back." Robert says dryly. With that he pulls Flambae right back in, and Flambae reluctantly parts his lips again. One of his hands leaves Robert's hip to grip onto the base of his cock, stroking what he didn't suck. Robert shivers at the sensation, hips bucking into him.
Flambae doesn't choke, but he does jolt a little from the force. His hand tightens in retaliation, warm and calloused. Robert shouldn't think about his hands if he doesn't want to come right away.
Minutes stretch—five, maybe ten, time lost as Robert blindly uses his hold on his hair like reins to drag him forward and back, forward and back. Flambae's fingers curl against Robert's leg, nails digging into his own palms.
Robert's been so deprived of sex that he's delirious (and tipsy) enough to think that this is possibly the best blow job he's had in his life. It must be the nostalgia speaking.
"Close—" Robert's rhythm turns erratic, breathing hitching sharply, before he abruptly yanks out entirely. Flambae pulls off with a gasp, coughing. He barely has time to blink before the hot stripe of white hits his cheek, then his lips, dripping down his jaw in thick ropes. The whole humiliating moneyshot. Robert watches in disbelief, tucking himself back in his pants hurriedly. "Uh, shit, I didn't mean to—"
"Now it's your turn to give a fucking warning," Flambae sneers through another involuntary cough, using Robert's own words against him. He wipes the brunt of it off his face with the back of his hand, before standing up. Evidently too quickly as he staggers back slightly. Robert offers a hand to steady him, and he's instantly slapped away. Point taken. "It got in my mouth too, fuck," He grumbles as he walks over to the sink, washing it off.
Robert hovers awkwardly, unsure what to say, when the door abruptly swings open and closed. He stares at the now re-closed door, dumbfounded, before it clicks. "Shit—Invisigal! I know that was you!"
"What? She was in here?" Flambae snaps, turning off the facet hard enough to dent the metal. His hands spark erratically, probably triggered from emotion rather than intent. "That fucking—"
"Invisibitch!"
Just as Robert opens the door, Invisigal's thrown clean through it, taking Robert down with him. Flambae backs up in time to not get taken down too like a bunch of sorry dominoes, and now the bathroom is even more cramped with three people crowded inside. Robert groans, winded, before shoving her off. "What the fuck? Why were you spying on us?"
"You can curse me out later, now's not the time—let me go!" Invisigal hisses as a giant mechanical arm reaches into the bathroom, grabbing her and lifting her into the air. The mechanical arm belongs to a man with disproportionally small arms, his face contorted with rage.
He can't shimmy into the bathroom with his mechanical arms making him too wide, so he settles for dragging her through it. Invisigal kicks at his face, arms pinned to her sides.
Flambae's already moving before Robert can pull his thoughts together, stepping onto the counter for leverage as his hand bursts into flames, tackling the man through the door back into the bar. With the doorway clear, Robert can see the entire bar in chaos, albeit Sonar and Phenomaman missing.
What the fuck was happening? The whiplash threatens to pick fright over flight, but Robert races out the bathroom anyway.
Robert grunts as Malevola hands him a cold drink, holding it to the side of his face to soothe the various bruises forming. Apparently the mechanical arm man had recognized Invisigal from when she was a criminal, and the entire bar fight had spiraled from there. Z-Team included.
They met Phenomaman at the local fast food restaurant afterwards, after he claimed: "I fully intended to return Sonar to his lodgings, yet he insisted on savoring the processed goods known as "fast food". He was quite persistent despite the delirium- so I deposited him here instead." Said Sonar was currently strewn across one of the tables, half-dead to the world, groaning at random intervals.
"How's the migraine?" Invisigal asks, nudging Robert. "Looks like it'll only get worse with that nasty bruise. And possible concussion, by the looks of you."
"I'm not talking to you." Robert grumbles, adjusting the drink after his head had warmed one side.
"Calm down, I'm just checking in." Invisigal smirks. Then, in a lower voice, "Looks like Flambae wasn't even half-right after all."
Robert reflexively glances over to Flambae, who had pointedly not spoken a single word to him after leaving the bar. Flambae meets his gaze, probably sensing someone staring at him, before scowling and turning away, grabbing one of the offered tacos aggressively.
"Who spat in your coffee? Feisty ass." Prism scoffs after he swiped it out of her hand. Robert glanced back at Invisigal. Like she hadn't watched the entire thing from the comfort of the moldy bathroom corner.
It was going to be an awkward dispatch tomorrow.