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"I think about biting your arms sometimes."
Flambae comes to a complete halt on the other side of the room, his paper takeout box of noodles set ablaze within his surprise-tightened grip.
Silence stretches throughout the meager space.
Which- you know... wasn't hard, given the general lack of people present in it. Maybe that's why Robert had deigned to say such a thing at all.
He'd been staring at the muscled man, blatant as the sun haloing his figure, for.. a while now. A few minutes, at the very least, with his heavy head propped on an aching palm. He'd been sitting in this room for longer, slowly being lulled into a half lidded doze by the warmth of the windows.
Lulled into too much honesty as well, apparently, after being practically hypnotized by the way Flambae's skin moved beneath his mesh sleeves.
Who even wore mesh anymore? Let alone out in the field, where they did battle. Didn't seem very practical, even if it looked nice.
And god.
Did it look nice.
Robert kenw Flambae was strong- it was impossible not to, not after seeing the man lift nearly 200 fucking pounds as a warm up. Not after everything he's done in the field, not after fighting him firsthand.
Something in his soul cringes away from that particular phrasing.
So he refocuses on the finer things. Like the sheer width of the active hero's biceps. Fuck.
It was another thing entirely to see the pay off.
There was probably more than a few things fundamentally wrong with him, if the first thought he had when he saw such a sculpted form was not "cool"- or some jealous, macho man stigma. When his first thought was not strictly indifferent appreciation but rather...
But rather how it would feel to sink his teeth into his bones and just... stay there a while. Just stay, until the ache in his gums faded and some long wound part of him relaxed.
The former hero runs his tongue behind and over his teeth at the thought.
"You what."
Oh.
"Hm?" is really the only sound Robert can bring himself to make.
Vaguely, he's aware of the flame patterned legs walking towards him. Vaguely, he can hear the thump-thump-thump of footsteps on tile. The way they're ever so slightly rushed.
It doesn't really register until eight warm fingers are clutching at his shoulders. Until thumbs are pressed to his collarbones like a brand.
Another part of Robert seethes that it's not a literal thing, that Flambae isn't actually running any hotter than normal. That his fingerprints won't etch themselves onto his skin.
"Bob Bob."
The fire hero shakes him, once. A simple back and forth rock that dislodges his head from his hand.
The fog behind his eyes, the fog in his head, clears just enough to take in the borderline panicked expression simmering in ember-orange depths.
"Wh-" that wasn't right.
"Robert."
"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
All... nervous.
There's ash being smudged into his skin now, he thinks. Leftover residue from their pyromaniac's scorched meal. That seething part of him soothes a little at it.
"I know there were some close calls on my missions today, but did I fuckin' piss you off or some shit?" Flambae asks him, dipping his head to peer at his willing captive.
And what.
Robert blinks at him slowly, hoping the sheer lack of light in his eyes comprehension on his face answers the question for him.
Why would he be mad?
Flambae had a pretty good shift, all things considered. Close calls, yes, but no fails.
"No...?" the dispatcher eventually drawls out, when it's clear Flambae is just getting antsier at his lack of verbal response, "Look... that wasn't- I was just.."
"Sick?" a three fingered palm presses against his forehead, and Robert sinks into it shamelessly. Whatever headache that had started to brew immediately ebbs away.
Logically, he knows Flambae can't check his temperature for shit- because his own runs so naturally high. But it's a nice gesture regardless.
It's welcomed.
"If you're sick, bitch, you should go home. Instead of- you know."
Another jostle.
"I still don't.. understand," Robert mumbles out, sleepy again.
It didn't really matter either, the former hero has to suppose. Not if it meant Flambae will keep holding him like this and warming his brittle bones.
"Don't understand- Bob Bob, you said you think about biting me."
...well, yes?
Who wouldn't? With all those muscles?
Normal people. Normal heroes, who didn't have a not-normal head that whispered things about legacies and being branded by fire. Being claimed and wanted.
"Have you seen your arms?" Robert says instead, opting for his tried and true method of sarcasm.
Was that sarcasm? Probably not, that was probably just- straight up commentary.. but he is so so tired. Cut him some slack.
"Fuckin' obviously. I'm very attached to them."
...again.. well, yes?
Be- weird if he had... arms that weren't attached to him. Like that one Reddit story of.. some dude toting around a stolen prosthetic leg... but with two flesh arms.
...wait-
Maybe he is coming down with something.
Flambae's palm is still kind against his skin, bringing freckles that have been long-faded by blue light back to the surface as it trails down to his cheek. Or so he thinks, with the way his gaze turns from wary to...
Well.. Robert would say enthralled if he hadn't been firmly reminded that he was no where near the fire hero's type.
The thing with teeth within his chest lets out a little pathetic whuff- a fighting dog denied a treat for its loss in the ring.
His thumb brushes the bow of his dispatcher's cheek, down lower to the corner of his mouth before balking away. Robert is just this side of loopy enough not to question it.
"Seriously, Mecha Bitch, this is fucking ridiculous," Flambae scoffs at him, practically supporting his too-heavy head now, "The sooner you tell me what I did to piss you off, the sooner we can move on with ourselves."
Confusion chases his drowsiness away just long enough for the former hero to look up. Mostly.. his gaze is largely just up through his patchy lashes. Up into vaguely amused orange irises, and softly moving chest movin with breaths.
That would be a nice thing to bite too...
"I'm.. not pissed at you."
The opposite, really.
"Bullshit. Then why do you want to bite me?"
What's so wrong with-?
A sound is wrenched from the back of throat, a little 'mmh' as warm fingers tilt his head just a little farther back.
Robert goes with it easily, obediently.
"That's a pretty concerning thing to hear, you know.. when you've seen your flat-assed dispatcher bite off thumbs covered in reinforced scales."
What?
Oh.
Ohh.
Yeah, okay, fair enough. He hasn't really displayed a very positive connotation with biting, now has he?
That's on him.
The dirt on that meta lizard's thumb still rankles him, even so many weeks passed the incident. It still makes him shudder, thinking about the way its nail and pad had traced over his lips and pried his teeth apart. How it'd held down his tongue with sick amusement.
He doesn't regret what he did, though. The alternative had been worse.
The thumb that bops his nose now, a kind press of coaxing rather than a mean demand, is much nicer by comparison. Much more preferred to the gums he'd scraped away brushing his teeth.
"Don't disappear on me, Bob Bob. We're having a conversation. It's rude."
His thumb smoothes back over to a freckled cheek. Robert finds himself slumping into it with relief, and desire.
"Don't wanna hurt you."
An immaculate eyebrow raises, "But you want.. to bite me?"
Yes.
"...no.."
A warm sigh blows his eyes shut, but the hand doesn't leave.
"You're so fucking weird, Mecha Bitch."
And the cold doesn't yet reclaim him.