Chapter Text
Ah, Psamanthe. Home to the floating cloud city of Olympus, luxury spas, exotic food and drink, where all the rich and beautiful came to play and fritter their not-exactly-hard-earned cash away.
Or, at least it had been, up until six months ago, when that giant Phase Rift they’d turned into a tourist attraction, had become increasingly unstable and forced the entire population of Olympus to promptly evacuate their little slice of heaven.
Which, of course, made perfect sense for the Syndicate to use it as the latest stage for the Apex Games. Of fucking course.
Not that any of the Legends were strangers to IMC tech gone-awry: Elliott couldn’t help but throw a concerned look in Wraith’s direction whenever they were teamed up together and near that inky, black void in the sky, but knew well enough she needed her space from him. But still, sending them into the arena after the goddamn thing had begun to threaten to tear the planet, time and space asunder?
“Exploit of labour, I’m tellin’ ya,” Elliott sighs dramatically, ducking back behind the wall he’d been scouting from, and sliding down to the floor so as to trade some of the cargo in his backpack with his teammates’. “This shit gets weirder and weirder, and they just chuck us back down here like a bunch’a lab rats!”
Ajay throws him a withering look.
“I can tell yuh a thing or two about ‘exploitin’ labour’,” she snorts, her hand shooting out and snatching Octavio’s as it reaches for a syringe. Just the barest narrowing of her eyes, and Octavio loosens his grip around the medical pack without any argument. Something passes in the air between them, something that was exclusively them — that Elliott knew better now than to question. Octavio’s face was completely covered by his goggles and mask, as always, but it was as if Ajay was able to read the expression that it concealed perfectly. Maybe she could. Back when his brothers were still around, Elliott had been able to walk into a room, see their back turned and still sense what kind of mood they were in, whether it was better to enter, or beat a hasty retreat.
“Ah, don’t ‘mind her, amigo,” Octavio pipes in, accepting an ammo cartridge as he spoke, bouncing up and down where he was crouched on his robotic legs. “This city got no more than it deserved.” He loads the bullets into his pistol, before firmly locking the magazine into the gun with an audible click. “Bastardos.”
Elliott throws a look over his shoulder, in the directions of the Gardens, from which they’d just made their way from. Weird, unstable, shifting entity or no, Olympus was by far the most stunning and opulent locations he’d set foot in…well, in his entire life. It wasn’t just visual: the heady fragrance of cherry blossoms and scent of the city’s leafery clung to the air; present, still, even when a thermite suddenly sucked in all the oxygen and set the plumages aflame. The gentle rush of the artificial, crystalline-clear rivers that lapped around his boots, the brush of crumpled, amber leaves catching in his hair — it was like nothing he’d ever experienced before.
Certainly, a far cry from Solace and its dead, clammy heat — the clustered city he’d grown up in, where there was no such thing as standing still; you moved or got swept away by the crowd. The city’s name, the planet’s: sometimes it felt like a mockery.
‘No such thing as ‘solace’ on Solace,’ the soldiers had used to say, during brief stints or stop-overs during the war as they brooded over their drinks in the Lounge. Elliott hadn’t ever truly understood what they meant, until he’d finally left his home planet.
“Hey, you can’t deny this place is a hell of a lot better than your classic Outlands shithole!” Elliott declares, fastening up his satchel again. “Look at it. You got some actual colour out here. Compared to King’s Canyon and its....marshiness.” He scrunches up his nose in distaste.
“Pah. Might look pretty, but I’m tellin’ yuh...ain’t no amount of roses that can cover up the rotten smell of corruption.”
Elliott scratches his stubble, idly.
“Didn’t think corruption would smell so much like lavender.”
Ajay’s head whips around with an expression so fierce that Elliott finds himself already cringing away from what was sure to follow, cursing his own stupid compulsive foot-in-mouth syndrome, when —
“You wanna see some real beauty, compadre,” Octavio interjects, casually stuffing a few extra grenades in his satchel. “Then let me and Che take you out to El Chiringuito back down on the planet. No more of this sky city mierda.” He waves his hand absently without looking up, as if to indicate their entire surroundings. “I like flying through the sky much as the next tío, but it's nowhere near as fun when you got all this solid ground beneath you, eh?”
Elliott wasn’t sure about that part, but the stuff about showing them a good time back planet-side sounded interesting enough.
“El Ch—chi— eh, you know what, I ain’t even gonna try, El what-now?”
“S’a beach club,” Ajay replies — sounding somewhat less irritated than she had before Octavio had interrupted. She was still frowning slightly, but at the younger man this time. “We used tuh’ go there a whole bunch when we was kids, but…” She trails off into thoughtful silence, biting down on her lower lip before lowering her eyes back to her supplies.
Well, damn. There was clearly some unspoken history there, but another one of those spaces between them where he knew he was not welcome to tread.
“Heeeey, a beach club! That sounds pretty sweet!” Elliott grins, and slaps Octavio on the back. “I like your thinking, my guy! The beaches back on Solace are made mostly of sand, rock and juuust the right amount of sprinkling of defunct IMC machinery to really set the mood.”
That earns him a soft chuckle from Ajay, and Elliott feels a little of the tension leave his body at that. Octavio snaps his pack shut, and springs to his feet in one agile movement before promptly beginning to sprint on the spot, as if discharging stored-up energy.
“Wheeeewww! My legs are cramping from all that sitting still!” He unholsters his R-99, twirling it deftly. “So! We ask our amigos about la fiesta en la playa after the match, sí? Then we can paaaaar-tay!”
“That’s if we survive this match, yuh damn fool,” Ajay retorts, pushing herself back to her full height and smacking the back of her friend’s head. But she was smiling, in spite of herself. “Big if.”
All three of them startle suddenly as an explosion sounds in the nearby distance, shaking the building they were standing in so much that each of them has to grip onto a wall. They lift their eyes, simultaneously, as a huge metal scraping noise resonates above them, and the ceiling begins to cave in over their heads.
“Oh man, oh fuck, that’s not good —” Elliott yells, backing away from the crumpling steel, and seizing up in panic when his hands find only wall, no doorway, behind him. “Oh fuck —”
He’s dimly aware of a whoosh of something being thrown through the air, before a hand grabs him by the back of his neck, and with surprising strength, forces him around and throws him out the window.
Elliott has only a split second to yell out in terror as he’s sent hurtling through the air and to the ground, before realising exactly what he was plummeting towards. He twists his body as he falls, so that he lands on his feet, poised to spring, and launches himself off Octavio’s perfectly-placed jump-pad back into the troposphere.
He can just about make out Octavio’s ecstatic yells over his shoulder, as they use their jump kits to give them an extra boost in order to surprise the enemy teams.
“Eyyyyyy, Witt! Consider this a warm-up!”
Smoke is filling his nostrils and the din of gunfire rings through his ears. He feels every synapse in his body fire up, alert, battle-hardened adrenaline and instinct taking over his senses. Elliott pulls his Wingman from its holster, smooth as silk, and uses the targeting suite of the digital threat to unload a full clip into a foe whilst midair.
Their comms ping as they lightly land on their feet, informing him that he’d taken out the last of that squad. Ajay whoops, clapping him on the shoulder enthusiastically — before using that grip to shove him backwards and launch herself forwards into a slide towards a discarded Trident.
Elliott is still trying to steady himself on his feet, when Octavio sprints past him, lobbing a grenade over the Trident and grabbing onto its side. When Elliott’s vision finally stops spinning and comes into focus, he’s faced with Ajay grinning down at him from the pilot seat of the Trident, and Octavio hanging off the handle on the right-hand side, waving both his free arm and leg eagerly into the air.
“Three enemy squads remain!” the speaker booms. Ajay throws back her head and cackles, throwing caution to the wind and firmly pressing down on the Trident’s horn in order to encourage Elliott to hurry up.
“Yuh wanna party with the best? Gotta’ prove yuh’self to the rest. Try t’keep up, Witt.”
He hears the roar of the thrusters, and —
“Hey — hey, hey, HEY! — no, NO FAIR!”
Elliott races after them, as fast as he can, but he’s not a fucking motor vehicle and sweet fucking hell, what was being back in this city doing to Ajay? He always knew that chaotic side of her existed — hell, you weren’t best friends with Octavio Silva by being boring, in any shape or form, but she seemed more easy to rise to his bait ever since the Games had travelled here and —
His breath is coming short in his chest at this point, and he’s half-considering ducking behind a wall to try regain the function of his lungs, never mind his legs, which went numb quite some time back when —
There’s a thrumming noise flooding his ears, then the feel of heat further burning up his face, as a Trident pulls up right in front of him.
“Can’t expect an old man to keep up with Che and Silva, eh, hermana? Especially back here in our pueblo!” Octavio slaps the side of the vehicle with a cheer. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go! We’ll drop you back at the retirement home afterwards, anciano!”
Elliott makes an exasperated face but hops onto the side of the car, catching the handle to steady himself as Ajay revs up the engine.
“Whatever happened to respecting your elders?” he protests, but his complaints are lost to the wind as the thrusters fire up and they abruptly shoot forward at full speed towards the sound of nearby gunfire.
If they survive this match, Ajay had warned earlier, and Elliott gulps as he casts a glance at his two teammates throwing back their heads and laughing maniacally.
If.
Somehow, Elliott is less afraid of the fight they were heading towards than of his companions in that moment.
***
When the klaxon had sounded and the announcer had declared them the victors, Elliott had been lying face-down in a field of grass, wondering if the taste of soil was going to be the last thing he remembered in his all-too-short-existence.
Fortunately, having Ajay on his squad meant that she had the head-start on the evacuation ships, hooking him up to her drone with a merriment that he and his broken body weren’t quite able to share.
“Duncha worry, Witt,” she had chuckled, ruffling his hair. He was too dazed to complain: hell, his hair was probably too thick with a mix of post-match blood and sweat to even really matter anymore. “Jus’ yuh wait. Silva ‘n I will show yuh a real good time.”
Had his jaw not been dislocated from a well-placed punch with the butt of a Mastiff, courtesy of Caustic, he might have even protested that he’d had enough of Ajay and Octavio’s idea of fun. All he’d been able to do was grunt disparagingly, which the medic must have took as some sort of agreement.
She’d gently cupped the back of his head, and smiled down at him. There was the distant sound of dropships arriving, but his head had been too clouded to even truly understand what their arrival meant.
“Mmm…mm… Ma…”
He hadn’t even been aware of the syringe, until it was plunged into his neck. His body gave one final spasm, then a shudder, before settling into a peaceful oblivion.
Mmm...mom…
***
“Mmmawwww...maaawww….”
Ramya is grasping his chin between her thumb and forefinger, scrutinising him closely as she carefully assesses his jaw.
“Looks like they cleaned you up, nice ‘n pretty, Witt,” she declares, dusting her hands together as if she’d been examining a piece of gear. “Nothing that a decent pint can’t sort out, eh?”
She finishes her examination by delivering a sharp smack to his cheek. The shock forces a yelp from him, and he raises his hand to caress the injured skin as he watches Ramya retreat into the crowd, yelling for who needed another round of shots.
He grinds his teeth, irritably, before taking a long swig of his beer and settling it back on the bar table he was leaning against. The Syndicate were kind enough to cover the hospitality, booze, and food bill for the Apex Legends. So long as the Legends stood outside the building the appropriate amount of time, waved to the crowd, delivered everything a person expected a Legend to be.
But hey, a free hotel bar was a free hotel bar. Not that every single Legend took advantage of these post-match celebrations: no one exactly wanted the murderbot here (well, except maybe Pathfinder, despite how much the others tried to convince him it was a bad idea). The only person Caustic had ever shown any interest in was Natalie, and after everything that had gone down, he knew well enough to keep his distance. So did Crypto, for that matter. He’d never actually admit it to anyone, but he did feel…somewhat sorry for the guy. It wasn’t exactly like he’d actually done anything, besides being framed for treason for standing too close to Wattson or whatever batshit reason Caustic had for holding a grudge like that against him.
Elliott idly traces the rim of his pint glass with his thumb, as he gazes across the room to where Natalie was standing, giggling at something Pathfinder was telling both her and Wraith. Remembers how when Natalie had been hurting at that time, he had barely even paid her any notice, had been too busy being stupidly outraged at the comparatively inconsequential fact that Crypto was older than him.
Ramya had been right. He needed to try listening more.
He’s interrupted from his brooding by a sizable hand landing on his shoulder in greeting, and giving it a gentle squeeze.
His heart starts fluttering like a flock of birds all bursting from a tree, because there’s no mistaking that touch for anybody else’s. It’s accompanied by an all-too-recognisable chuckle that sets his cheeks ablaze and a thrill coursing through his body.
Makoa Gibraltar. Apex Legend, Solace’s local hero, esteemed SARAS rescue worker, and oh, yeah, secretly Elliott Witt’s boyfriend.
***
It had all started a month or so ago, shortly after they rebuilt the other creepy murderbot for Loba, a project that had most definitely resulted in more harm than good. Well. In maybe every way except for this.
Because it had been after that argument in the bar, after it had seemed like everyone had turned on one another, after Loba stormed out vowing to face Revenant all alone, that Elliott had emerged from his living quarters above the Lounge and found an uncharacteristically glum Gibraltar hunched over the drink he was nursing.
Elliott was most definitely not the most qualified person to help out someone with personal troubles, or give any form of advice, but hey, he knew how to pour a decent drink which counted for something. So pour a drink he did, and a few more drinks after that, all on the house, as he listened to Makoa confess his fears for the integrity of the group. It didn’t come as that much of a surprise that Crypto wasn’t the mole — the guy was a lot of things, but a murderous robot sympathiser, he most certainly was not — but Caustic being even more of a bastard than he’d realised was a shock. He felt stupid for even thinking the guy was capable of changing his ways.
Gibraltar eventually bid his farewell as more customers began to filter into the Lounge, to the point Elliott was unable to continue igorning his duties and leaving them to the decoys to take care of.
“Thanks for that, bruddah,” Gibraltar told him as he shrugged on his leather motorcycle jacket.
“For what?” Elliott asked, finishing off the last of his own drink. He felt strangely disappointed that the other man was leaving.
“The drinks. And the chat. I needed that, y’know?” He paused, eyeing Elliott curiously. “Do you, uh...think we could do this again sometime?”
The question took him by surprise: all the more because Makoa seemed strangely...bashful?
“Do this....uh, yeah! Totally! I mean, it’s a bar and all… And I mean that like, it’ll be here! And I’ll be here! If you want a drink! Or a chat!” Oh, God, all the blood in his body felt like it was rushing to his face in that moment. How did he always manage to make such a fucking mess of something as basic as opening his mouth?
And yet, Makoa was smiling at him as he tucked his bike’s helmet under his arm.
“Alright then, brother. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
It turned out to be the first of many more evenings, and many more drinks and chats. Elliott had soon found himself eagerly anticipating them, to the point he started picking out outfits for that night with Makoa in mind. That he’d spend the entire day in the hours leading up to it distracted, wondering what to call the flurry of emotions and confused feelings that raced through his mind when he thought about Gibraltar. What they meant. If they even meant anything.
It’s possible he didn’t even know at the time — that it was more than pure denial and just genuine uncertainty given that up until then, his history of romance was ‘you looked good in the club that one time’, and rarely lasted much longer than the following morning.
So one night, when the drinks had been flowing and the bar had never gotten quite so busy that Elliott had to get back to work, so Gibraltar had agreed to stick around for another beer after closing time, Elliott was genuinely shocked when all his confusion suddenly made sense.
It’s as they’re seated at the bar, with Makoa in the midst of telling some story that Elliott can barely remember, about the perfect level of tipsy and more relaxed than he can remember being in a while, that it happens.
They had swung their bar stools to face one another in order to better converse, and Elliott was trying to recover from doubling over laughing at some retelling of a prank that involved changing out Anita’s smoke grenades with paint bombs. He wobbled on his unsteady seating, and just about caught himself from falling to the floor — or, rather, Makoa caught him.
He’d grabbed him by the shoulder, and, using his considerable strength, was managing to hold him upright. Elliott was all too aware of how furiously he was blushing, made worse by the fact that he knew he couldn’t blame his blush entirely on the fool he’d very nearly made of himself. It was impossible to not think about how easily the other man was propping him up. Or about how very close Makoa was in that moment.
He steadied himself with a hand on the bar, letting out a breathless laugh as he tried to recover.
“T-t-thanks,” he chuckled, nervously, “these — these stupid damn things,, I — been meanin’ to fix ‘em, but, uh…” He trailed off, when he realised Gibraltar wasn’t saying anything, and, not only that, he had not let go of Elliott’s shoulder. Slowly, he raised his eyes to find Makoa looking at him curiously, as if he was trying to figure out some kind of mental mystery. He reached out, tentatively with his other hand and pushed back Elliott’s artful mess of fringe, tucking it behind his ear. Elliott’s breath caught in his chest, clutching the side of the bar tight and just staring at Makoa.
It dawned on him that he was partly too scared to move out of fear of doing the wrong thing. Of doing something that might make Makoa stop touching him like this.
But Gibraltar didn’t stop, he let his knuckles drift down the side of his face and come to rest under his chin. Tilts it up, so that he met Elliott’s gaze and then just let the question hang there in between them.
Would they?
There were probably a hundred different reasons why this wasn’t a very good idea, but Elliott hadn’t been able to think of any. They were eclipsed by the way he could feel Makoa’s pulse quicken when he laid a hand on the side of his thick neck, by how surprisingly soft his skin felt, by how plush and enticing his lips looked when they were this close.
And then there hadn’t been much room for thought at all.
***
That first stolen kiss had fortunately, lead to many more — Makoa brushing past Elliott in the bar with just the barest lift of his eyebrow as he made his way to the restroom, causing Elliott to suddenly toss whatever glass he’d been filling into the hands of a nearby decoy and hustle after him. Discreetly, of course. Or at least he liked to reassure himself of that, but it was hard to worry too much once he felt muscular arms wrap around his waist, barrel him against the wall of a cubicle and devour his mouth hungrily.
More still, as the others filtered out of the HQ’s gym after a training session, chattering whilst the pair of them lingered behind, making a show of ensuring all the dumbbells and other equipment had been neatly stacked away. Then, once they were sure they were alone, eagerly reaching for one another, hands slipping and coasting over sweat-soaked limbs as they drank in the taste of one another, all heat and salt and wanting.
Not to mention all the times mid-match where they’d come so close to getting caught, the only reassurance that they had not was the fact it wasn’t plastered all over the Outlands News’ Stations that evening.
It had only been two weeks ago, shortly after the last of the Lounge’s patrons had stumbled drunkenly out the doors and into Solace’s clammy night air, that the question of what this actually was finally came to bear.
***
Gibraltar had wasted little time pushing Elliott up against a wall in some dark corner in the Lounge, Elliott’s greedy mouth already open and searching for Makoa’s lips. His hands slipped around and up his broad, thickly-muscled back, fingers threading through his dark hair and pulling it loose of its top-knot. He tightened his grip, meaningfully, wrenching a grunt from the larger man, pulling away but only to mouth across Elliott’s stubbled jaw, his breath hot against the sensitive skin of Elliott’s neck.
Elliott moaned a little at that, pulling Makoa tighter against him. They were playing a dangerous game here: Ramya saw this place as much her home as Elliott did, and as such, never bothered to give much heads up as to her coming and goings. Meaning, she could walk in at any moment and likely no amount of explaining would cover for the fact that Gibraltar was here with just Elliott and that the two of them would be looking considerably dishevelled and out of breath. Making this, of course, all the more exciting.
Makoa nipped his neck lightly, but rather than relinquish the skin, held it gently between his teeth. His tongue darted out, making at first quick lapping motions over the captured flesh, before biting down that bit harder and sucking with enough force that it was bound to leave a mark.
Elliott didn’t care. Fuck it, he relished the thought. Let them think, he figured, groaning as Makoa crowded him further up against the wall, snuck a hand beneath his shirt and toyed with his pierced nipple.
Let them…
Fuck, but it had been weeks now, and there was only so much teasing any sane man could take, let alone Elliott. He ground his hips against Makoa’s with a pithy whine, eyes squeezed shut and his fingers slipping from his partner’s hair to anywhere he could grip more forcefully. His neck, his shoulder blades, his biceps; all that mattered was getting that extra friction and getting it now.
“Ah — ahhh — Makoa — Fuck!”
He felt Gibraltar’s cock thrust against his own, through the fabric of their clothes, and Makoa pulled away, seemingly flustered.
Flustered, but his expression unsure in a manner that made it clear that the awkward matter of them both dry-humping one another against a wall wasn’t entirely to blame for its cause.
“Ell —” he gasped, snatching Elliott’s tumble of curls with enough force to tug his lolling head back to meet his gaze. “I wanna —”
Elliott bit back the urge to respond that so did he. That this had been all that had been on his mind for weeks, now, probably even earlier — probably from the first time he’d ever laid eyes on Gibraltar himself, all the way back in the Solace local papers or on the news channels.
But he knew the moment he gave in, Makoa would see him for what he was. Nothing much more beyond the façade of Mirage, just the shaky, unstable mess that was Elliott Witt: a man barely able to hold himself together, let alone maintaining anything beyond a casual rough and tumble in the hay.
Or on a table in his bar. Whatever.
“I wanna — but — ahhhhh —”
With considerable effort, Makoa eased his hold around him, dropping Elliott that couple of centimetres back to the floor. And with it, Elliott’s heart sank to a pit in his stomach.
Here it came: he began to reach for his belt, his mouth open and preparing some bumbling excuse for how he had always known this wasn’t meant to be anything, just some casual fun between friends, blowing off steam, what have you, when —
“I don’t want this to be some casual thing, if we’re to keep going,” Makoa murmured, snatching Elliott’s bearded jaw in his sizable hand. “I want to know...this is something.”
Elliott must have looked as stunned as he felt, because Makoa hurried on.
“I don’t mean — unless you want! What I mean is...ahhh, I ain’t too good at this.” Makoa scratched the back of his neck, whilst Elliott stared in confusion. Hang on — surely that was his line? “My last break-up was...tough. Made me realise I don’t wanna do this kind of thing again, unless I’m sure of who I wanna do it with. You get me?”
Elliott thought he got him. But he was too scared to even nod his head, for fear that was the wrong answer. He felt like a prowler in headlights, one leg raised and poised to give flight: not yet sure whether what was coming next was good or bad.
Gibraltar just smiled. That warm, reassuring Makoa Gibraltar smile. The one that made people feel like everything would be okay.
Elliott wished dearly that a lifetime of abandonment issues and harsh realities didn’t hold him back. Would let him simply seep into it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Ell,” Makoa asserted, more firmly this time. He brushed away the mop of curls that fell across one side of Elliott’s face, smoothing them into place — before they inevitably sprang free again. “I know this is kind of sudden but… We don’t have to tell anyone or anything, y’know, we can take it...you know....” His dark eyelashes fluttered shut, and it’s about the only thing Elliott could fully focus on in that moment because he was still having difficulty realising any of this was real. “What I mean to say...well, you think maybe we could be dating dating?”
“L-l-li— like boy — boyfriends?” His voice came out several octaves higher than he'd care to admit.
Gibraltar dropped his hand.
“Well, it doesn’t have to be — we can just —I just — I like you, Ell, and I want that to mean —”
Elliott cut him off by digging his fingers hard into Makoa’s hair, pressing himself against the other man’s broad chest and standing on his tip-toes so that he could breathe, wet and hot, against his ear.
“Boyfriends,” Elliott panted, the words feeling lighter on his tongue than he ever could have thought possible. Gibraltar sucked in a ragged gasp, and, much to Elliott’s delight, settled his hands around both cheeks of Elliott’s ass, lifting him up with frankly ridiculous ease, pressing him up and hard against the wall.
He gasped, legs instinctively snapping around Makoa’s waist and wasting little time rocking his hips against his thigh.
Makoa grinned, whilst Elliott rained urgent, needy kisses against the corner of his mouth.
“Boyfriends.”
Later — much later — lying in bed with Gibraltar’s tattooed arms wrapped around him from behind, while Elliott basked in the feeling of aching muscle and dried sweat and rumpled bed sheets — it dawned on him, that he should be scared. This was the part that he always fucked up: the intimacy, the partnership, the whole ‘letting someone in’ thing. And worst of all, if he fucked up, it would go beyond screwing up a friendship, It would be fucking over Makoa.
And he did not think he could handle that.
But — as if sensing his boyfriend’s unease, even through the haze of half-sleep — Gibraltar made a contented noise, pulled Elliott back against him and pressed a lazy kiss against his shoulder.
Funny, that.
All the fears Elliott carried with him every day: his dread that they’ll finally learn his brothers are dead, his fear that his mother would come to forget him, the lingering, ever-present panic that he would inevitably let everyone he cared about down and ultimately be left alone — it’s like it drained out of his body with that one kiss, even if just for a couple of moments.
He allowed his eyes to close, let himself dare, for just a moment.
That maybe this could be real.
***
He’d surprised himself, honestly.
Elliott had been expecting himself to perform some kind of act of spectacular fuckery-uppery in the first week or two, as soon as it fully dawned on him that he was in a serious relationship. And sure, there had been the occasional moments where self-loathing and fear had overwhelmed him to the point he believed the best course of action was to convince Gibraltar that this was a bad idea. But it turned out, Makoa’s patience was seemingly limitless. He had been there to hold Elliott’s hand during each panic attack, reassure him of all his crippling self-doubts, and remained utterly unphased by any of the Elliott Witt Meltdowns he’d been unfortunate enough to bear witness to.
He’d always bragged he was like a rock, that it took a lot to break him. Elliott hadn’t ever thought it possible that any fortress was immune to the kind of storms that he tended to attract.
Consider himself proven wrong, in the best kind of way.
***
“A prize for the champion squad!” Makoa announces, setting a pint of beer on the standing table Elliott was leaning against.
He allows his hand to linger on his shoulder just a moment longer than necessary, before releasing it and coming around to settle at his side. He takes a swig of his own drink, then awards Elliott with a grin. “Close one though, eh? Hell, should give ya credit for surviving on a team with Octavio ‘n Ajay alone back on their home turf. Those two....ehhh, let’s just say they should never be left alone with explosives and the opportunity to blow up somethin’ pretty.”
“I noticed,” Elliott replies, rubbing his still throbbing jaw with a grimace. He doesn’t miss the way Makoa glances at him when he mentions ‘something pretty’, nor the wink he flashes at him, and Elliott fights the urge to press the cool pint against his cheek. He settles for the next best thing, which is taking a long slug from it. “Said they’d make it up to me, show me a real ‘good time’. Some kinda fancy beach club back on the planet, or something? El… El Caso, Casa, whatever. Only,” he frowns, unable to help himself continue to skeptically press the pads of his fingers against the muscles of his still-tender jaw. “I’m wondering now if I should be more afraid of those two’s idea of a good time.”
Gibraltar chuckles, turning his body towards him.
“Put them hands away, let me see.”
Elliott looks around them furitively to see where the rest of the bars' occupants were looking, his mouth falling open and ready to dismiss him if they were. However, the sudden motion causes the injured muscle to spasm and he lets out a low hiss of pain.
Makoa very, very gently takes his chin between thumb and forefinger, laying his free hand steadily on Elliott’s waist so that he can better guide his face towards him to study. It takes serious willpower to not simply melt into that grip; especially as Makoa locks their gaze, and smiles, almost bashfully. How Elliott would love to press himself up against his warm, broad body, bury his head into his thick neck, inhale the strong, earthy scent of wood and soil and salt water that clung to his skin thanks to his profession, and allow himself to simply drown in it.
He very nearly does, so lost in how very tangible his closeness allows these temptations — only just about managing to catch himself by grabbing the wrist of the hand that Makoa was currently cradling Elliott’s jaw in.
Gibraltar tilts it to the left, fingertips lightly grazing over his cheekbone, before shifting to the right. That side had been the actual point of impact for the butt of Caustic’s shotgun, and so Elliott winces the second that Makoa’s digits hover over the now-faded bruise. They back off, immediately, and Elliott can feel just the barest squeeze of his waist. He feels heat rise in his cheeks. He couldn’t even begin to express exactly why, it was just the simple..synchronicity of it all, how Gibraltar knew how far to push and when to take away, in the most literal possible way.
It was a manner he was used to, once. In the workshop, with his Mom: the two of them side-stepping around one another as they went about their work, like it was a kind of dance. As natural as breathing.
Makoa appraises his cheek, humming softly as he does so. If anyone was watching them, Elliott is sure he look an absolute fool: staring up at the larger man, his eyes like saucers and his cheeks still burning.
Gibraltar shifts, and Elliott swallows a thick, disappointed feeling as he realises that the other man is satisfied enough with the healing of his partner’s injuries to leave them be — but then, Makoa’s thumb catches on the swell of his bottom lip, allows it to linger a mite too long. All the time, maintaining eye contact with Elliott’s startled stare, the curve of his mouth promising a smile.
His thumb rests weightily on his lower lip, and Elliott cannot resist himself. It’s been Makoa who has been teasing him with the thrill of demure, yet brazen acts of affection, after all. His tongue darts swiftly out, licking the pad of Gibraltar’s thumb. Makoa is still sucking in a reactive gasp at that, by the time Elliott darts away and raises the pint he'd been gifted to his lips with a smirk.
A thrill runs through him when he hears just the barest of an eager growl rumble from the other man, feels the way he bumps against the table, just the barest snag of one of his thick fingers looping through the waistband of his jeans. Elliott’s breath catches in his chest, trying his utmost to scan for the nearest bathroom or exit outside the hotel, or, hell, even their rooms where the Legends were being put up, damn who might see them, when —
“Eyyy, there’s the campéon!” comes a familiar yell, accompanied by an enthusiastic thwack on the back. Elliott tries to not choke on his beer.
“Well done in the Ring today, best friend! You and our other best friends did very well, but I’m always excited to cheer on my most best of best friends!
“Ah, Path, we gotta’ work on your friendship rating skills... But cheers, Witt for managing to keep up!”
Fuck. So much for sneaking away.
Makoa drops his hand so quickly, that Elliott genuinely is unable to tell if any of their incoming audience noticed what had just transpired between them. Multiple shots of an unknown liquour are abruptly set down in front of him, their contents sloshing over the sides of their glasses. He has a moment to gawp in confusion, before even more people crowd around the table that he and Makoa had been leaning against.
“I had a bet,” Wraith informs him, her mouth concealed behind the Appletini she was holding.
“As did I!” Natalie adds, her face aflush. She looks like she’d already lost — or won? — several bets of her own. Elliott opens his mouth to ask what exactly they’d bet on, when —
A bartender arrives with four more shots, and Elliott’s stomach sinks briefly at the idea he was supposed to drink these too. Thankfully Ajay and Octavio promptly grab a shot glass, each, and lift them in salutation towards their third teammate.
“Ta’ watching this city burn,” Ajay laughs, clinking her shot glass against his. “Even if it might just been a bitta thermite.”
Elliott knocks back his drink in a single slug, and — oh fuck, was he really expected to drink more of these? No one had mentioned what kind of alcohol he was being gifted, and hey — what was this bet — and —
“Oh, darling,” Loba nonchalantly remarks, whilst Elliott is still pounding his chest furiously. “You could have given him a little warning.”
“I’m known for my skill, not my bedside manner,” Ajay retorts, her lips quirking up into a smirk. “Silva here could tell yuh’ a thing or two about that.”
Octavio is too busy tossing back another shot — of what Elliott was now realising far too late was a particularly potent form of liquour, known as ‘Final Frontier’ — to immediately answer. He drains the glass and lets out a ‘whoo!’, slamming the table for good measure as he does so.
“De puta madre! This stuff is the best!” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, before pulling his mask back over the lower half of his face. “Not our fault el viejito can’t handle it.”
Elliott groans, rolling his head forward and clutching his temple in exasperation.
“Why am I being ganged up on here? We won the damn thing!” He points at Ramya. “You don’t see me gloating about how many times you got bamboozled today!”
“Because you know if you did that, you’d be spotting a nice shiner to accompany that lovely dislocated jaw of yours’,” his former roommate answers cheerfully. Elliott drops his gaze to glare sullenly at the second shot they’d lined up for him. He does know that.
“‘Ahh, we’re just windin’ ya up, amigo,” Octavio laughs, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll make it up to ya. How about that beach club Che and I promised ya?”
“You promised Elliott a beach club?” Natalie cuts in, sounding incredulous.
“Naw, naw, not like that! A trip to the famous El Chiringuito! Psamanthe got plenty better to offer than Olympus.”
“El Chiringuito?” Loba’s voice is uncharacteristically...soft, and almost wistful. Elliott is surprised to find that when he chances a glance in her direction, she’s wearing an expression to match. “It’s still here?”
“Sí,” Octavio confirms, “and still makes the best margaritas in the Outlands. No offence, compadre.” He snickers, and jostles Elliott at his side.
“Some taken,” Elliott replies dryly, lifting the other shooter and grimacing at the acetonic smell.
“Aw, come on, Witt. En’t nothin’ like some sunshine and ocean to soothe those aching old joints of yours’.” Ajay was perched with her elbows on the table and resting her chin between her hands. When Elliott looks over at her, she winks playfully. Not for the first time, he wonders why he’s always the target of the “old guy” jokes, when Gibraltar, Wraith, Anita and Loba — hell, even Pathfinder — were also standing here.
“Excusez-moi,” Natalie interjects, her eyes widening. “But are you all propositioning...a day at the beach?” Her face lights up, nearly as brightly as it does when Elliott engaged in the odd engineering conversation with her, every now and then. “Could I come too? I have heard many times that the beaches of Psamanthe are one of the many wonders of the Outlands!”
Elliott was pretty sure he could count all the wonders of the Outlands that he’d seen, in his thirty years of life living here, on one hand, but it was probably best not to mention that.
“More the merrier, right hermana?” Octavio finally unhooks his arm from around Elliott’s neck. “Hell, let’s make a day of it! We can rent out the whole place, all on the old man’s pesos.”
He feels the warmth of bare skin brush against his shoulder, as Makoa reaches over to take one of the remaining shots set in the centre of the table. The bigger man’s face remains perfectly neutral, but Elliott doesn’t miss the way he purposely angles himself so that he presses up a little closer against his partner than is necessary. He murmurs a husky “’scuse me,” just under his breath as he draws back, and Elliott feels like his skin is burning from where they’d just touched.
Absurdly, his cock twitches. That shocks him enough that he abruptly throws back the booze he’d been putting off having to drink, triggering another coughing fit as what feels like liquid fire sears down his throat and bursts into a roaring flame in his gut.
The whole table erupts into laughter, and for once Elliott doesn’t mind. But the situation isn’t exactly helped when Makoa lays a steadying hand on his back, chuckling and giving it a reassuring rub. Goddamnit. Elliott could feel the tips of his ears burning. At least he’d be able to blame the red face and breathlessness on the coughing. But the ‘soothing’ weight of Gibraltar’s large palm splayed across his back has him unwittingly summoning memories of those hands holding Elliott steady against him as he mouthed across Elliott’s jaw and trailed kisses over his neck, of them snaking down his spine and beneath the waistband of his underwear, of flipping him over on the bed and guiding him onto all fours, his hand right about where it is now as he gently pressed Elliott down into the mattress...
Oh, God. He shifts awkwardly, cursing his brain but especially his dick, which was now most definitely showing an obvious interest. Makoa’s hand falls away, but not before giving his ass a light pinch under the table, out of view of the others. Elliott throws him a startled look, and motherfucker — he was smiling at him, clearly completely aware of what he was doing to Elliott.
Makoa turns back to the group, lifting his own shot in salutations.
“Sun and sea, count Gibraltar in!” He throws back the hellfire drink without even flinching. That earns him an enthusiastic cheer from the younger members of the group, and seems to satiate those who had been, up until now, looking skeptical at the notion of a beach party with their peers. Anita, Loba, and Wraith all raise their own glasses to cheers Makoa, before easily knocking it back.
Elliott bites back a grimace. It wasn’t painting the most flattering picture of his skill as a bar owner, if his colleagues all seemed to handle their alcohol so much better than he did.
“Shit,” Anita sniggers, cocking a brow at Elliott. “Final Frontier gets your panties in this much of a twist, Witt? You wouldn’t last a second at a Williams family reunion. When I make it back to Gridiron, I’ll send you a bottle of Great Grandmama’s moonshine.”
“Please don’t,” he groans, pressing two fingers to his temple. “The room is spinning enough already as it is.”
“Oh no, you ain’t using that excuse to get out of the next round,” Ramya snorts, pointing an accusing finger his way. “I’m all paid up on rent and you got those pretty prize winnings of yours’ to fritter away on makin’ it up to all the people you shot at today. C’mon, c’mon, chop chop. All this talk of beaches got me bloody dehydrated.”
Elliott’s eyes go wide and his heart sinks.
Oh, no, please no.
Because no matter how many gruesome images he was trying to mentally conjure up, or silent prayers he said to his dick, anything he could think of to get rid of this stupid fucking raging hard-on — it was all for naught. It was like battling through a fog to try focus on anything except Gibraltar: how close he was standing, still, the impossible heat radiating off him, his muscled forearms resting folded on the table and consuming Elliot with thoughts of just how easily the larger man was capable of picking him up. He could probably lift him up right here, press him up against the nearest wall and fuck Elliott right then and there, without Elliott’s feet ever even touching the floor.
Fuck. Fuck. His cock strains against his briefs, painfully, and it’s hard enough not being able to provide it any relief, there is absolutely no way he’s gonna be able to walk anywhere without someone noticing. The tall bar table that they were all currently crowding around was the only thing saving him from utter humiliation right now, at the very least — at the worst, a great deal of questions he wasn’t going to be able to answer
“Well? What are you gawping at, Witt? Hop to it.”
“Aw, c’mon Rami, to the winner go the spoils, right?” Makoa pushes himself upright, and claps a hand on Elliott’s shoulder. Oh, God. His skin burns beneath Gibraltar’s hand like it’s being branded. He really hopes the others just presume his face is so scarlet as a consequence of the booze. “Next round’s my treat.” He squeezes Elliott’s shoulder, and Elliott is helpless but to turn his gaze to meet his. It’s a weird sort of conundrum, really, being hopelessly grateful to the person who got you into this problem in the first place.
Makoa’s dark eyes twinkle with a playful light that betrays any pretence of good being a good samaritan. He was enjoying this far too much.
“Don’t worry, brother,” he says with a grin, “You can pay me back some other time, yeah?”
He’s dimly aware of Ramya scoffing and tossing a few choice words in their direction, before losing interest in the pair or them; apparently appeased with the fact that she was getting a drink sent her way one way or the other, never mind who was paying for it.
Elliott dares a quick glance around them. Sure enough, no one was paying that much attention to them now that they knew more booze was incoming, and instead, were currently listening to some story about Octavio’s brief dabbling in the art of fire poi.
Satisfied that everyone is suitably distracted, Elliott flashes him a wink and leans in as if to whisper something over the din of the crowd. He shifts his body, laying his fingers lightly on top of where Makoa’s hand still rests on the table, curls them just enough for his nails to catch against Gibraltar’s calloused skin. The other man’s breath hitches in his throat, inaudible to anyone but the pair of them. He can feel Makoa’s pulse quicken beneath his touch.
He tries to keep his expression neutral, as he drops his other hand between Gibraltar’s legs and grazes his knuckles over his crotch.
It's significantly more difficult to keep his face devoid of any reaction, when it becomes very apparent to the pair of them that Makoa was well on his way to dealing with a dilemma similar to Elliott’s current predicament.
“Best get over there before Ramya notices,” Elliott purrs, cupping Makoa’s bulge. He’s not sure what’s more rewarding in this moment: the way he can feel the other man quickly stiffen around his grip, or the rising blush colouring his cheeks. “Or else so much for my knight in shining armour.”
He releases his hold on him and turns back to the table as casually as if he’d been doing nothing more than asking Gibraltar to grab him a water whilst at the bar. Fortunately, their brief aside had been eclipsed by Loba and Octavio challenging one another to some kind of well known-but-deadly Olympian drinking game, whilst Ramya took bets from the other Legends on who would be the victor. An increasingly despondent-looking waitress was scribbling down the various and frankly sickening types of alcohol that apparently accompany the game, so Elliott feels fairly confident — smug, even — that he’d gotten away with it.
“You,” Makoa’s whispers in his ear, his voice low, close. “Are gonna be payin’ me back for more than just a round of drinks, later.”
Elliott smirks, but keeps his eyes fixed on the rest of their group, lifting his neglected pint and licking his lips.
“I’m counting on it.”
***
What was supposed to have been ‘a few drinks to blow off steam' had turned into ‘drinking themselves stupid until the bar had kicked them out come closing time.’
Elliott is the pleasant kind of buzzed, when they collectively stumble out of the bar, the sort where the world takes on enjoyably hazy tinge and his limbs move with a naturally lazy, languid ease. Natalie clings to his arm for balance, red-faced and giggling as they pause to watch Octavio take the last swig of a champagne bottle before holding it up in the air triumphantly.
“Whoo! The party is only just beginning, amigos!” He staggers, but recovers before Path can swoop in to catch him. “Meet here, a las diez de la mañana, and we’ll show you how to really par-TAY!”
He tries to accentuate his point by punching the air whilst also trying to perform some sort of kickflip that he’s clearly far too inebriated to successfully pull off, and so this time Pathfinder does catch him, just short of falling flat on his face.
“I’ve got you, friend! And I have successfully translated for our friends who do not speak Spanish: Octane wants us to meet here tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning, to have an even better party! Whoo hoo!” The MRVN’s display screen flickered to a pixelated image of a parasol propped up on a sandy beach. “If this is not really a party by human standards, then I am very excited to see what else is in store!”
“Ohh... Il est quelle heure?” Natalie whines, raising her watch to her eye level. She had a habit of talking to herself in French when she was drunk. “Oh, non, non, non…” She pushes herself upright and rakes both hands through her ruffled blonde hair, blinking blearily. “Mais qu'est ce qui m'a pris, j'aurais dû me douter que Loba gagnerait... Bon, je dois dormir! Je vais pas être bien demain…” She suddenly pushes herself up onto her tip-toes and presses a light kiss to Elliott’s cheek, much to his surprise.
“Goodnight, Elliott! You behave now!” She delivers her farewell in English, holding his gaze for a moment. Her lips twitch up into a mischievous smile, releasing her hold on his arm and tittering as she strolls towards the hotel elevators, smoothing her hair down all the while. He wonders what she means by that.
When Elliott turns back around, he’s surprised to find the hotel foyer is almost empty.
Almost.
Makoa Gibraltar is standing there with his arms folded and wearing an amused look.
“Wh — what happened to everyone?” Elliott asks, blinking blearily in order to try clear the haze around all his senses.
“They’re all staying on the other side of the hotel. Different elevator. Everyone ‘cept you ‘n Natalie, that is…” Makoa grins, his face also flushed an endearing shade of red. “...and me.”
A thrill runs through him as Makoa’s suggestion sinks in, and much as he’d like to play it cool, alcohol has him grinning and blushing like a fool. He hasn’t forgotten Makoa’s promise earlier, nor had his cock.
As fun as the prospect of drawing out their flirtation in public was, they have an early day ahead of them and, to be perfectly frank, Elliott was far too horny to wait much longer. It takes all that he has to simply incline his head, running the tip of his tongue over the swell of his lower lip as he offers him a sultry smile.
Elliott turns on his heel, sauntering over towards the elevator with no small amount of swaggering his hips. He bites back a grin, making an effort to keep his focus on the elevantor's holographic floor sign lighting up, as the lift makes its descent.
A pair of hands slip around his waist, large thumbs skirting over the curve of his hipbones and hot breath ghosts against his ear. Elliott shudders, his fingers fluttering urgently at his side as his self-restraint fails.
Just one kiss, he thinks to himself. Just one.
He turns around right as the elevator dings behind him, its doors finally opening, and Makoa tightens his grip around his hips and hurries him in.
As soon as they’re inside, his partner slams the ‘doors closed’ button. Elliott can’t even see if anyone had been running to meet the elevator, and frankly, he doesn’t fucking care.
Because as soon as the doors slide shut, all semblance of self-control immediately falls to pieces.
He lunges for Makoa, his mouth already open and eager, only to be slammed back against the wall of the lift. Makoa snatches his wrists when they reach for him, pulling them up and above his head, pinning them there. Elliott whimpers, going lax against Gibraltar’s touch, his tongue, his everything.
He feels the other man’s knee slip suggestively between his legs, and fuck, he’s been too far gone now to even pretend to tease. His thighs part, a little too easily, and Makoa’s leg slips between them, wasting no time grinding his own significant length against Elliott's erection.
Oh, fuck.
“Makoa…” he pants against his wet lips, greedily rocking his hips to meet his partner’s movements. “I wanna...I can’t wait anymore, tonight’s been…”
He runs out of words, because words mean time spent not kissing Makoa, and that, quite frankly, sounds like an absurd idea. After spending the last twenty-four hours just picturing these lips, he would be a fool to not just simply give in to this, and he can tell Makoa feels the same because he’s kissing him harder now, snatching Elliott’s thigh and hitching it around his waist, thrusting against his cock with increasing urgency,
This was becoming too much. Elliott’s so goddamn fucking horny at this point that getting fucked in a public elevator is looking more and more like a pretty decent idea.
All they have to do is make it to the hotel room. Somehow.
The doors ding, and Elliott has to very literally untangle himself from Makoa. It thrills him to see how disheveled his boyfriend looks, the effect he has on him; his face flushed a deep crimson and hair a mess, chest heaving with the effort it takes to breathe. It looks like he, too, is mentally weighing up the pro and cons of just giving into base desires right here and now, because travelling those extra few metres to the room seems unfathomable.
It’s not often Elliott is the voice of reason, but he has at least some semblance of realisation that sex in a hotel elevator was a damn sure way to get caught, and not particularly wise when you were both not only in early days of a relationship, but celebrities to boot. Thus, he manages to reluctantly break apart, and slip out from where Makoa is pinning him against the wall, but not without sneaking in a cheeky grab of his hard-on as he does so.
“My room is this way,” he purrs, backing out of the door. They can’t really touch one another properly — at least not indecently — without raising questions, so he offers Makoa his most promising smirk instead. “If you fancy a nightcap..”
Makoa can't help but laugh, but his eyes burn with a wicked promise. He squeezes Elliott's sides as he presses a quick, furtive kiss on the top of his head before dropping them altogether once they step out into the hallway. He does his utmost to not just sprint towards his door, and he can tell Makoa is doing the same, yet they somehow just about manage it.
Rounding the corner to his room, he just about feels bold enough to reach behind him and catch Makoa’s hand, when he sees —
“Ramya?!”
They both come to an abrupt stop: so much so that Gibraltar realises a second too late, and knocks into Elliott’s back, sending Elliott staggering forward several steps, before steadying himself on the door of a nearby room.
Ramya is standing outside his room with her arms folded and a single eyebrow raised.
“So,” she begins, “Octavio appears to have confused his room with mine, and is now lying face down on my kingsize mattress. And no amount of kicking him is getting him to wake the hell up. Really, I thought being a bloody Legend was supposed to come with perks?” She waves her hand, as if dismissing the thought. “Anyway. I’m out of a damn bed and given that you owe me an innumerable amount of favours, I think I’m right to say your bed is mine, eh?”
Elliott’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to protest but no words come out. He’s mildly outraged but Ramya is correct, he does owe her every fucking favour under the sun, but also…
Oh, God. There was no chance of hiding his arousal — or Makoa's, for that matter — out here in the open, if they continued to stand out here and debate the issue. He can tell Ramya is pretty sloshed herself, so likely hasn’t noticed — yet. Best to get this situation resolved as quickly as possible, no matter how much he wants to tell Ramya to go knock on someone else’s door and drag Makoa into his room with him.
Gibraltar seems to be of the same mind.
“Well, Rami,” he announces, clapping Elliott on the shoulder. “I’ll see you at the beach tomorrow, eh? Hope for your sake you’re as good at volleyball as you’ve always boasted.”
He chuckles, and Ramya flips him off.
“If I ain’t, blame it on Neeta. Betting all me fuckin' money on Octavio…” She groans, massaging her temple with her thumb and forefinger. “I shoulda listened to Ajay — as always. Anyway, Witt, let me in before I pass out in this fuckin’ hallway, mate. Whole bleedin' world is spinnin...”
He gives a strained smile, having to visibly contain himself from fucking deflating that he’s not geting laid tonight. Makoa is still so goddamn close.
It’s very tempting to just come out with the truth, especially if it means having an orgasm in the next hour or so, depending on how patient Gibraltar was feeling, but this was most definitely not the right way to go about it.
“Suuuure…” Elliott relents, eventually. “I mean — sure! You can, uh — absolutely! Stay here! But, uh, the couch is pretty small, and —”
“Couch? You’re going on the bloody couch! And hurry up — I’m knackered and I need to be up good and early to give Octavio a good arse-kicking.”
Fuck. There was no way out of this one, short of suggesting he stays in Makoa’s room and that would be sure to invite some questions. He forces a smile and pulls out his key card.
“Alright, alright, Elliott to the rescue...again. I’ll, uh.” He clears his throat, too nervous to actually look at Gibraltar in case he ends up losing what little self-control he has altogether. “See ya at the beach tomorrow, G, yeah?”
“Sure thing, brother.”
He wonders if Ramya can hear the disappointment in their voices. Probably not, given the way she was repeatedly slamming the door handle in order to get him to open the door faster.
And with that, Makoa makes something of a hasty retreat. Elliott watches him go, with a mix of reluctance and envy. At least Gibraltar was gonna be alone in his room and could take care of his pent-up horniness. Which...was a mental image that was doing nothing to help Elliott’s current predicament.
He hurries to open the door, before Ramya gets the opportunity to turn her attention on him properly and notice the way his dick was straining against his jeans. Fortunately, she barrels past him as soon as he unlocks the door, and makes straight for the bed with an exaggerated yawn.
“Bloody Octavio… I’m gonna stick so much sand down that wanker’s shorts tomorrow.” She stretches out her arms, then collapses face-first onto his bed, not even bothering to get under the sheets. She continues to mumble various threats and complaints into the pillow, until her words become muffled snores. All in the short space of time it takes Elliott to grab a spare duvet from the cupboard and head to the sofa.
He slumps down onto the couch with a sigh and kicks off his shoes. It was small — and Ramya was significantly shorter than him. He supposes it’s more sleep than he would have been getting than if he and Makoa had been able to carry out their original plan, but still…
His phone buzzes, interrupting his train of thought. When he pulls it out and sees that it’s an image attachment from Gibraltar, a wave of fresh arousal crashes against him so hard that he actually shivers. He stands up, throws a glance at Ramya to ascertain she was still passed out, then hurries as quickly and quietly as he can manage to the bathroom, phone in hand.
Sleep could wait. He had more pressing matters to attend to.