Archive of Our Own

By the time Laurent extricated himself from the narrow, twisting, cavernous back rooms of Studio Virion, a single enormous oil painting protruding awkwardly from under one arm, the heavy double doors that led to the main building had been closed and locked. Laurent bit back a curse. The one time he'd let himself be talked into doing something helpful… He should have left Jord to hunt down his own stupid props. Of all the days for Nicaise to take his job as closer seriously!

Setting dignity aside, Laurent leaned the painting against the wall and thumped at the doors. “Hey!” He made himself keep this up for a long few minutes, but it was useless; he couldn’t tell what was happening behind the doors, whether anyone was even there. The doors weren’t moving at all under his blows. Laurent gave them a last thump and then gave up, leaning his forehead grimly against what felt like solid fucking oak. These heritage buildings were always wretchedly well-built. Not for the first time, he felt a dull throb of resentment for the excellent rental price which kept them here.

From behind him, tentative, came a voice: “Hey —”

Laurent whirled around, his heart leaping to his throat. The moment was so saturated with absurd, inordinate horror that it began to feel almost unreal, as though Damianos Vallis, the newest critical darling of the adult entertainment industry, might not be walking up the narrow corridor towards him.

He was, of course. Laurent was not yet so far gone as to have started hallucinating.

“Is it locked?” The way Vallis filled the corridor was obscene. His shoulders were so broad that they seemed to brush the walls on both sides. Laurent’s skin prickled with irritation. It was all too easy to imagine that overlarge figure blundering through the precarious shelves back here.

“No, of course not,” said Laurent, voice coming out sharp. He was painfully aware that there was no graceful escape from this situation, and even more aware that his inexplicable, unreasonable, and thus far rather successful avoidance of his studio’s newest hire had just come to an unceremonious end. “I make a habit of shouting and hitting doors for fun.”

Vallis had the nerve to dimple at him. Laurent averted his eyes and folded his arms.

“May I try?”

“By all means,” said Laurent, pressing himself against the wall with exaggerated care. The corridor was so small that Vallis still brushed against him in passing, radiating absurd warmth through the thin white shirt which made him look more like a porn star than a director. Then again, with his body, there probably weren’t any clothes that would make him look less like a porn star. Laurent pressed his lips together.

In front of him, Vallis had started wrestling with the door. Even covered, the working of his muscles was a ridiculous sight. After a moment he rolled his sleeves up to the elbow and got back to it, and Laurent’s eyes fastened on those strong forearms as though a magnet was pulling, inexorably and unforgivingly, at his attention.

He didn’t know how long Vallis spent trying to break the door down, but it was long enough that eventually the corridor flickered and went dark around them. The rattling noise of the doors being shaken faltered, then redoubled in intensity.

“You can stop,” said Laurent. Lights out meant that they’d locked up for the night. “Even if we get out of here, we’d be stuck in the building. And frankly I’d rather you didn’t break that door down. I think it technically qualifies as an antique.”

“Oh, shit,” said Vallis, “sorry — sorry,” and in the dark it was impossible to see what he was facing, but Laurent had a suspicion that one of those apologies had been directed at the door. He refused to find this charming.

“Do you have a phone?”

“I do, but it’s — old, the battery drains ridiculously quickly, and it was pretty close to dead last I checked —”

He heard Vallis pat himself down, heard the small a-ha noise he made under his breath, and then a white screen flickered to life in front of his chest, shining up at his chin. Somehow even this unflattering angle did not make Vallis look anything less than perfectly camera-ready. Laurent had never cared excessively about his appearance, having known from a young age that he was considered attractive; but he was gratingly aware now that he probably looked like an emaciated ghost by comparison.

“Three percent,” said Vallis. “And no signal in here, of course.”

“Of course,” said Laurent.

“Does that mean we’re in here until tomorrow morning?”

Laurent dipped his head. Vallis sighed.

“What were you even doing back here?” Laurent asked.

“What? Oh, Nicaise and Aimeric were telling me about all the stuff that ends up here. They told me I should take a look around so I’d have a better idea of, you know, the props and sets that I have at my disposal. It seemed like a good idea when they said it,” he said morosely. Laurent frowned. “What were you doing back here?”

“Hunting down an oil painting,” said Laurent, and pointed. “Jord wants to use it in his next film.”

Vallis pointed his phone in the direction that Laurent had gestured, then physically startled when he saw the painting in question. “Oh, wow.”

Laurent huffed a laugh. The stupid painting was about as corny as you could get, one guy suited up, the other one naked and kneeling and faceless, exuding the sort of sleazy, casual lechery that Laurent had worked hard to clean out of the front office and confine to the screen.

“It was commissioned by the previous management,” he said. “It used to hang in the hallway outside my office.”

“I can see why you’d want a change,” said Vallis. “What did Jord want it for?”

Laurent shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned, he can do whatever he wants as long as his next film comes in on time, under budget, and plays to the group sex market.” Jord knew it, too, which explained why he’d wanted this painting so badly; it was a fairly impressive piece of set dressing that he wouldn’t have to commission. Hopefully his shoot would involve its wholehearted destruction.

“Is that all?”

“That’s your job too,” said Laurent, “in case you missed the memo.”

The phone chose that moment to die on them, the light fading to leave them blinking in pitch darkness again. Laurent said, “I didn’t think we were paying you that little.”

Vallis huffed. “It’s old,” he said. “It usually makes it through the work day. I’m attached to my things.” For some reason that sent a pulse of feeling down Laurent’s spine, a queer, unsettled sort of warmth. Oblivious, Damen said, “Come on, I saw a shelf of candles somewhere back there.”

“Those will just make a mess,” said Laurent. “They’re for wax play.”

“I’m sure they can multitask,” said Vallis. Then, “I’m holding out a hand, by the way.”

“Because you’re so afraid of losing me in this closed space?”

“I don’t know if you noticed,” said Vallis, “but it’s a bit of a maze in here. And maybe I’m afraid of the dark.”

Laurent snorted. “As if.” But he put out one hand, moving it slowly through the blank darkness until he bumped into — Vallis’ forearm, it turned out. It was the smart way not to lose each other, that was all. It was the more bearable alternative to blundering around and bumping into each other with their whole bodies. Laurent fixed his mind on this point as Vallis moved to clasp their hands together, his touch warm and very gentle. His hand was as absurdly big as the rest of him. In the shelter of the dark, Laurent allowed himself to grit his teeth, unaccountably angry.

He let himself be pulled gently through the narrow corridor, hearing the drag of Vallis’ free hand over the wall as he counted the doorways they were passing.

“Vallis, do you have any idea where you saw these candles?” Laurent asked eventually, after — a frankly unacceptable length of time had passed.

“Damen,” said Vallis, “please.” And then, with that ridiculous smile audible in his tone, “Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise to have been locked in together. I feel like I’ve hardly seen you since I started here.”

Laurent’s heart was pounding so hard that he felt ill. “I would’ve thought you’d be glad of it,” he said. “It’s not usually a good thing to be hounded by the boss.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be hounded.” That infuriating smile was still in Vallis’ voice. “But the studio’s not that big. And Jord and Berenger and the rest of them are always talking about you.”

“So that’s why my ears are always burning,” said Laurent.

Vallis laughed a little, but it was more out of politeness than amusement. “I was,” he said, slower, for the first time a little hesitant, “starting to wonder if I’d offended you, somehow.” His hand tightened minutely, probably unconsciously, around Laurent’s, then relaxed.

This had been troubling him for some time, by the sounds of it. And to be scrupulously fair, Laurent had to admit that it wasn’t a wild conclusion. It was true that Laurent had been avoidant. It was even true that he’d had his reasons: it was a running joke among some of the older heads that Auguste de Vere was the only person that Damianos Vallis had ever driven out of the industry. Vallis was a famously supportive director; he’d gotten his start on Auguste’s crew, but their first shoot together had been their last, because something about conversing with him had convinced Auguste that he wanted to hare off and make weird documentary films about the arctic wasteland that was northern Kempt. And Laurent been brought into — the family business, as it were.

“No,” Laurent said now, pushing this aside. “Your work is successful enough to speak for itself. There hasn’t been any need for a one-on-one.”

“Right,” said Vallis. He did not sounding wholly convinced, but mercy of mercies, was at least polite enough not to push. “It was this one, I think —” There was the sound of a handle turning, and Laurent was drawn through the doorway with great care so that he didn’t bump anything.

As soon as Vallis started moving forward again there was another muffled thud and an, “Ouch.” Something skidded across the floor and thumped into the far wall. Vallis ventured forward again, slower, and then made a triumphant noise. “Here,” he said. “And — yes! Matches. Bless whoever organised this shelf.”

His hand removed itself from Laurent’s grip. A moment later came the hissing scrape of the match being struck, and the sudden glow of orange flame. Even that muted brightness was almost painful when it was illuminating Vallis’ face. By the time Laurent felt in control of himself again, Vallis had lit two of the long columns and was offering one to Laurent. His smile when Laurent took it was — Laurent turned away.

“We might as well be comfortable,” he said. “Come on.” He had to use his free hand to shield the small flame as he moved, so there was no chance — not that they needed to hold hands again anyway, now that they had the candlelight. Laurent quashed these thoughts, moving almost on autopilot until he found himself sitting, gingerly, on a wooden stool that belonged in a Kemptian-inspired kitchen. Vallis, having deposited his candle on the flat seat of an old-fashioned wooden classroom chair, and apparently blissfully confident in the studio’s cleaning department, had tugged the dust sheet off a wide leather couch and was stretching himself over three squeaking cushions which had once, Laurent was fairly sure, been part of a trite casting-call scenario. Vallis’ legs hung off the edge of the armrest, but he didn’t seem to notice. Probably he was used to it, with his ridiculous size.

“You don’t look very comfortable,” said Vallis, drawing his knees up. “If you want, you can have the other half of the couch — or we could probably squash together and fit —”

“No need,” said Laurent. He placed his candle carefully in the seat next to him — it was as thick as the ring he could make by touching his thumb and index finger together, so this task didn’t require much precision or much time. “Thank you. I’m fine for now.”

“If you say so,” said Vallis, a little dubiously. And he didn’t even have the decency to let the silence really settle between them before he said, “So, you like my work?”

“I didn’t realise you were so eager for a performance review,” said Laurent.

Amused: “I’m just making conversation —”

“About the kind of porn I like?”

“Professionally speaking, sure,” said Vallis.

“Well, professionally speaking, I’ve found that it’s not much use to rely on my personal tastes,” said Laurent. “Your videos perform well.”

“So you don’t like them,” Vallis translated, with infuriating bluntness.

“I,” said Laurent, and forced himself to stop. “Don’t take it personally,” he said. “I don’t think I could be said to like any of Virion’s output.” He could feel Vallis’ eyes on him, his gaze difficult to read.

“Is there anything you do like?” he asked. “Or is it all just — a numbers game, to you?”

“Of course it’s a numbers game,” said Laurent, sharp. “We wouldn’t get anywhere otherwise.”

“I didn’t mean —”

“Don’t bother,” said Laurent. “I don’t think you’re going to come up with a new way to call me a cold fish.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” said Vallis, sounding genuinely injured. “It’s just interesting to hear about. I don’t work that way at all. But there’s nothing wrong with not wanting it. It probably makes you a better judge of what works, right? Fewer biases.”

There were many things that Laurent could blame for his next words: the soft, intimate darkness, the flickering candlelight, the unexpected and unprepared-for closeness between them, the earnestness and sincerity which radiated from Damen’s face — but in truth, it was Laurent’s own weakness which had him saying, with a surprising thread of intensity in his voice, “It’s not that I don’t want it.”

Damen shifted, minutely, to look up at him. Even that was enough to take Laurent’s breath away. His whole body felt flushed, tight, hot. His cheeks were so warm that he knew they would be bright red even by candlelight.

“Well,” said Damen. Cleared his throat. “That’s nothing wrong with that either.”

They were gazing at each other, the air thick between them. Damen’s hand twitched where it lay beside him, and Laurent felt a queasy responding thrill work through him.

“So it’s just,” said Damen, “the filmed porn, that you don’t — resonate with?”

“I suppose so,” said Laurent. He didn’t say that he hadn’t had sex with anyone in years. He didn’t say that he had surprised himself by saying what he had.

“Because of the acting?”

Laurent shrugged with one shoulder. “Sure,” he said. And then — apparently he was full of surprises for himself tonight! — he said, “Maybe I’ve just been in the business too long. Everything’s a production. It’s all, you know,” another little shrug, “it’s excessive.”

Damen made a thoughtful noise. At some point he had relaxed again; he looked like a big cat in his element, lounging on the couch.

“What?” said Laurent, more than a little snappishly. The embarrassment of having said too much was starting to catch up to him.

“It’s just interesting,” said Damen. “I’d have said Virion is one of the better studios for that. Cutting to the stuff that matters,” he said. “Less bloat. Unless you meant the sex itself.”

“Well, that too,” said Laurent. He was horribly aware of Damen’s eyes, keen and piercingly interested and fixed on Laurent. “But I just mean —” He forced himself to take a breath, hating the way he was stumbling over himself. “Take your last release,” he said. “The edging and the striking and the ice. Doesn’t all that seem rather gratuitous to you?”

“No,” said Damen; but where Laurent had half-expected him to grow annoyed, there was only a faint glimmer of amusement. “It might not be to everyone’s taste,” Damen said, “but if you’re enjoying it, I don’t think it’s gratuitous or excessive, no.”

“And you enjoy it,” said Laurent. Damen’s full mouth curved into a little smile.

“Not quite like that,” he said, “on set. But yes. I like to think it comes through in my work. That isn’t the best medium to convince you, though, is it?”

Laurent raised his brows slightly. Damen’s features twitched, abashed, but he didn’t look away. “I just meant,” he said, “since you don’t enjoy the films, you wouldn’t get much out of them.”

“Enlighten me, then.” Laurent’s voice came out much steadier than he felt, drawn from the carefully cultivated demeanour of command which he used to control everything else in his life.

“It’s not that complicated,” said Damen. “It’s about what feels good. Surely it’s not a surprise to you that sometimes a touch of pain, or denial, or control… It makes the rest of it better.” Damen’s voice was lower now, very warm, very rich. He was still watching Laurent. He wasn’t moving; neither of them were moving. Laurent couldn’t even be sure they were breathing. All he could hear was the panicky, impatient patter of his own heartbeat. His throat was blocked by something too huge to comprehend. Damen was still looking at him, that warm, terrifyingly intense gaze. He said, “Or do you disagree?”

Something completely beyond Laurent’s control possessed him to say, “I don’t have enough familiarity with the subject to form an opinion.” He sounded prim. It was horrifying. Damen was really staring at him now, his face open with surprise.

“Would you like to?” he asked — and then, as the words hung in the air between them like a small series of black holes, Damen drew a hand over his face and said, “Nevermind, that’s so — I don’t know why —”

“Oh?”

Damen looked as though he was trying to sink into the leather couch. “I mean —”

“Are you trying to say you didn’t mean it?” Laurent’s voice was arch.

“I —” said Damen. Stopped. “I meant it,” he said finally, simply, straightforwardness winning out.

“Good,” said Laurent. His heart gave one hard throb in his chest, almost painful, and then resumed its rhythm. “Because in that case I think we have found a way to be useful to each other tonight.” He forced himself to meet and hold Damen’s gaze.

It took an immense effort, almost physical in its intensity. If at that point Damen had tried to say more, to keep the conversation going, Laurent would have stood up and left him there; he wouldn’t have been able to bear it. Perhaps Damen sensed that, or perhaps they were simply, unconsciously, a good match.

Damen sat up, then stood, and even that movement was impressive, the slow controlled unrolling of however many feet of him there was. Laurent’s body felt, simultaneously, on the point of combustion and frozen in place as Damen came closer — as he put his hands on Laurent’s shoulders, the touch deliberately light, barely there — as he leaned down —

The kiss was very soft, very shallow. Laurent’s hands flew up to Damen’s broad shoulders; when Damen smiled into the kiss, Laurent realised he was clutching with an intensity that was all out of step with Damen’s skimming, barely-there touches, and forced himself to relax his grip.

“Come here,” Damen murmured, and then his hands slid down to Laurent’s waist, coaxing, until Laurent found himself moving to the couch, not on top of Damen but perching beside him, feeling the cushions sink beneath his knees.

“What a cliché,” said Laurent. When Damen hummed enquiringly: “The casting couch.”

“We’re mixing up a couple of scenarios here,” Damen said thoughtfully. “Student-teacher is always popular, right?”

“You’re not exactly teaching me anything I didn’t know,” said Laurent. That had barely been a kiss.

“There’s nothing wrong with starting at the basics, sweetheart,” said Damen, smiling up at him. The combined force of that wretched dimple and the endearment set Laurent’s mind spinning even more than it already had been. Instinct kicked in just in time to say, “Don’t —” before Damen brought their mouths together again, and this kiss, deeper, blanked his mind entirely.

And then a moment later Damen had the nerve to pull away. “Don’t what?”

“What?” Laurent was looking at Damen’s mouth.

“What?” Damen swayed forward, then shook himself. “You started to say something. Don’t — what?”

It took a long moment to remember what Damen was talking about. “Oh,” said Laurent. “I don’t — it doesn’t matter. I’ve forgotten.”

“Laurent —”

“It wasn’t important,” said Laurent. Damen’s lips were parted, shining in the candlelight.

“But you’d tell me if it was,” said Damen. “Right?”

“Yes,” said Laurent. “But the only important thing right now is how you’re not doing anything.”

Damen laughed a little, low in his throat. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

The endearment, so casually given, sent another long pulse of embarrassed pleasure through Laurent. His entire body flushed helplessly, but this time he kept his mouth shut. And then Damen was kissing him, and he stopped thinking at all.

It was so easy to fall into it. Of course Damen was a good kisser, on top of everything else. His hand stroked along the nape of Laurent’s neck, exquisitely careful. Laurent had no idea how long they stayed like that, curled into each other, just kissing, only that it wasn’t enough — that the longer it went on, the more ravenous he felt, as though his stomach was eating itself from the inside out.

“This isn’t anything new, either,” he said, when Damen pulled away, and his chest swooped at the grin it got him.

“Give me time,” said Damen. “We’ve got all night, haven’t we?”

Before Laurent could conjure a suitably scathing response to this, Damen pressed his mouth to Laurent’s neck, soft at first, then increasingly — present, impossible to ignore, the pressure of his mouth — and then his teeth — Laurent made a mortifying, breathless sound. If he’d been standing his knees would have buckled.

“You’re so sensitive,” Damen murmured. His breath was hot over Laurent’s skin. His index finger came up to brush against the place his mouth had just been. “I can already see a mark.”

“Stop talking,” Laurent snapped. All that got him was another low laugh, so he took matters into his own hands and went for Damen’s buttons, fumbling them open almost at random until Damen was able to shrug off the thin fabric and fling it somewhere behind him, and Laurent was able to get his hands on that obscene expanse of warm flesh.

Damen was grinning, somehow luminous even in the dim haze of candlelight. Laurent pulled him down and kissed him hard, thrilling at the groan that resonated between their bodies. Damen’s fingers were digging into the soft skin below his ribs, just enough pressure to make Laurent squirm. It brought him back to himself enough that he lifted his head and demanded, “I thought this was supposed to be an educational experience.”

“You aren’t enjoying yourself?” asked Damen, pushing himself up slightly. He was still smiling, just a touch smug, as though he knew Laurent couldn’t honestly say yes. “I’m working up to it.What was it you mentioned — edging, striking, ice?”

“You should know, it was your film I was drawing from,” Laurent said. Then added, “I don’t think there’s any ice down here.”

“Edging and paddling is probably enough for one night,” Damen said, and his voice was so rich with fondness that it took all of Laurent’s concentration not to shiver. He didn’t manage to think of a single rejoinder before Damen was kissing him again, with the careful, single-minded absorption which said he could do this all night.

Laurent didn’t think he’d survive this for the rest of the night. He didn’t think he’d survive this for another minute.

Damen grinned again, that infuriating good-natured dimpled grin, when Laurent’s hands moved to his waistband, fumbling, clumsy — but he let himself be moved, leaning back and wriggling out of his pants, kicking the fabric away as Laurent performed his own, far less graceful, wriggle-and-kick manoeuvre. Damen’s hands were on the newly bared skin immediately, those wide hands running over Laurent’s thighs. Even the rasping noise of skin on skin was winding Laurent up. The warm, calloused scrape of Damen’s hands. The way that the ridiculous, overlarge span of his fingers engulfed Laurent’s leg.

Laurent was expecting the subsequent progression of events, obviously. It wasn’t a surprise when Damen wrapped a hand around Laurent’s cock, but Laurent felt like his whole body was seizing up, stomach heating, skin prickling. Damen’s touch was so much — so insistently, undeniably present. Even before either of them could move Laurent was overloaded with sensation. His hand had flown down to grasp Damen’s wrist. For a moment they held this faintly absurd tableau, both of them frozen in place.

Then: “Relax,” said Damen. His eyes were hot, fixed on Laurent’s face, far too perceptive.

“Your hand is dry,” Laurent snapped.

Slowly, Damen uncurled his fingers and removed the hand in question. He was still watching Laurent, gaze dropping as he brought his hand up and brushed fingertips over Laurent’s lips. Laurent was still holding onto his wrist, not exerting any force now, just letting it be brought along with this movement. Their eyes met again, and warmth shuddered down Laurent’s spine. He tightened his grip on Damen’s wrist and opened his mouth.

Damen’s fingers were — obviously his hand was big. Laurent knew that. Anyone could have said as much. But it was one thing to observe passively, and another entirely to feel it, the physicality of that fact, the obstruction in Laurent’s mouth. Damen pressed lightly on Laurent’s tongue, then moved with casual ease to touch the roof of his mouth, the space behind his teeth, the soft inside of his cheek. Laurent was excruciatingly aware that these were places nobody else had touched like this, with such searing intrusiveness. All he could taste was the salt on Damen’s skin. At some point his eyes had fallen shut. The whole world had narrowed down to this.

Laurent forced his eyes open. Damen’s expression was openly reverent, fixed on Laurent’s mouth. On his fingers, to be precise, where they disappeared into Laurent’s mouth. His arm was relaxed, allowing Laurent the control of his hand.

Laurent swallowed, felt the way that the movement impacted Damen’s fingers, the shifting motion of the knuckles being pressed upward. Then he pulled Damen’s hand away from his face and said, “I won’t suck you off.”

“All right,” said Damen. Just like that. He’d taken his hand back down — he brushed Laurent’s cock with the back of his wet knuckles, his newly wet knuckles. Laurent jerked and clawed, embarrassingly, at the couch beneath him. Damen said, “You’re so sensitive,” again, voice very warm.

Laurent wanted to say, You already said that. He wanted to sound very scathing and cool. He did not even manage to get a single word out, because Damen moved his hand again, and Laurent’s thoughts scattered. Admittedly he wasn’t the most frequent practitioner, but he had done this before. There was no reason for the slick glide to feel like this, like nothing he’d felt before, already shattering in its intensity.

Damen moved then, tucking the great bulk of his body, with surprising grace, between Laurent and the back of the couch. His hand was moving slowly and devastatingly over Laurent all the time.

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he murmured, his voice right next to Laurent’s ear. His own erection was pressing rather unmistakably into Laurent’s back, but it didn’t seem to be his current focus. “I’m going to keep touching you like this,” A slow, easy sweep of his hand up Laurent’s cock, “and when you get close, you’ll tell me, and I’ll stop.”

Laurent gritted his teeth. He’d asked for this. Still: “That sounds counterproductive.”

“You’ll have to reserve your judgement until we’re done,” said Damen. He nipped at Laurent’s neck, and the sharp little jolt of it travelled all the way to Laurent’s fingertips, to his toes. “But back to my plan. You’ll wait here —”

“For what —”

“— while I go and find some real lube,” said Damen. He was grinning into Laurent’s neck, the bastard. “And a paddle. Whoever organised these rooms didn’t think to leave everything in here with the furniture.”

“Ha ha,” said Laurent sourly. “I don’t even know where we keep those.” They got their supplies in bulk, obviously, so there would be plenty of it around somewhere, but it was a fucking maze down here.

“Don’t worry,” said Damen. “They’re in the same room, back near the entrance. And there was a shelf of really nice glass vials. I meant to ask where you got those, they’d be good in a period flick.”

“We paid,” said Laurent, “a glassblower. Is that really what you wanted to — waste our time on?” He clamped his lips together, but it was too late to take back the hitch in his voice. Damen pressed his advantage and twisted his hand again, slower, in just the right place — Laurent’s head fell backward. He swore, low and fervent. Damen smiled into his neck, far too self-satisfied, insufferable.

“I just like to hear you talk,” he said, moving his hand again.

“You like to hear me losing my composure,” Laurent snapped.

“That too,” said Damen. “Are you close?”

Laurent gritted his teeth so hard he was vaguely surprised that nothing cracked. “Not yet.” And then, after another moment: “Yes.”

He’d known what would happen, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear when Damen removed his hand. Laurent’s body twisted helplessly, thrumming with furious desire. He felt like a caged animal snarling at its first glimpse of the sun. It was a long moment before he brought himself back under control, for a given value of that word; he knew he was breathing, but it didn’t seem to be doing anything.

“I thought,” he said, with cut-glass precision, “you were going to get something.”

“I — right,” said Damen. He was already half upright; he’d been leaning over to watch Laurent face with ravenous attention. His hand skimmed over Laurent’s skin again, over his ribcage, as though to commit the feeling to memory. Then he sat up properly and extracted himself from the sofa just far enough to kneel in front of Laurent. The warm candlelight caressed his face, his strong features, the hunger in his eyes. “Do you want to come with me?” he asked.

Laurent scowled up at him. “No!” But he sat up anyway, pushing one hand through his hair as his feet found the cool concrete floor. Hot little sparks twitched under his skin; he kept clenching his hands, still keyed up, desperately unsettled. Not at all graciously: “I suppose if I don’t you’ll end up unsealing the one drum of bad fake blood we stuck back here.”

“Probably,” Damen agreed peacefully, standing and offering Laurent the use of both his hands. Laurent ignored him and stood on his own; he moved instinctively to brush off his thighs, just habit, to readjust his slacks after a long period of sitting, but this time all it did was remind him that he was naked. That he was still hard. So was Damen, but with all his taut and glistening muscle he wore it better. He looked like a walking advertisement for some kind of return-to-nature cult, he looked like someone ought to sue the studio for letting him stay behind the camera. He’d stepped backward to make room for Laurent, but one hand was still half-extended, and this time Laurent took it before he could second-guess himself.

Damen smiled at him, dimple and all, and Laurent felt a surge of the — stupid, humiliating anger he’d been forcefully ignoring for six months, that he could be made to want someone so much.

“Well?” he demanded. Damen blinked, then smiled a little wider.

“Nothing,” he said. “You’re very distracting.” Like that was an acceptable thing to just say aloud. He started to walk towards the door, bumped into one of the chairs which littered the room, then backtracked, adroitly keeping hold of Laurent’s hand as he reached for — “Candle,” he explained with another infuriating smile, peeling the now-shortened taper from where it was melting all over the wooden seat of the chair he’d balanced it on.

Laurent turned without another word and started moving towards the corridor. They navigated the room slowly, occasionally stepping apart to get around a new chair or stool that had been left in the open, but never letting go of each other. By the time they had reached the corridor the warm clasp of Damen’s hand was feeling almost natural, frighteningly easy to get used to.

Aside from that first bump in the dimness, Damen moved with easy, loping confidence, ducking occasionally to avoid the exposed pipes in the ceiling; he must have spent a solid chunk of time down here, familiarising himself with the various rooms. The silence as they walked was easy, comfortable. Laurent found himself growing keenly aware of Damen’s body, the smooth and economical movement of muscle underneath warm brown skin. His curls shifted, teasing, with every step. It was only when Damen looked backwards that Laurent realised he had been speaking.

“What?”

Damen’s smile was slower this time, knowing. But all he said was, “I asked what you meant by bad fake blood. It’s worth keeping around?”

“Oh — yes,” said Laurent. “This one was a delivery mixup. It’s fine for what it is, but Ancel refused to work with it. Something about the texture.”

“He does end up wearing a lot of it,” said Damen. His tone was suspiciously thoughtful; Laurent narrowed his eyes.

“Are you an avid watcher of XXX-pocalypse Now?”

“I try to keep up with what my colleagues are working on,” said Damen. Laurent thought about Damen getting himself off to Ancel’s ridiculous sexual escapades in zombie-apocalypse-wasteland New Artes, and then promptly made himself stop thinking about it. Damen was continuing blithely: “Berenger’s up to, what, the eighth instalment? It seems like a pretty significant part of our output.” And then, “What, are you not a fan?”

Laurent flicked his free hand. “It sells.”

“You really don’t care for the studio’s work,” said Damen.

“I told you that.”

“You did,” Damen agreed. But he was visibly more cheerful as they walked on. Laurent was so absorbed in watching him that it was almost a surprise when they turned into one of the storage rooms.

They were nearly back where they had first started, close to the thick locked door which was currently blocking their access to the rest of the building; someone had judged correctly that extra lube was one of the things you’d want to be able to get quickly.

Laurent left Damen to the task of wrestling with one of the sealed drums in favour of looking around. The room contained the more basic equipment, but that was by porn studio standards: paddles, whips, collars, cuffs, everything that was most portable and most likely to need a quick mid-scene replacement, ranging from fuzzy pink to shiny black. Laurent’s eyes lingered on the leather loops which had appeared in Damen’s last production.

“See anything that catches your fancy?”

Laurent didn’t let himself jump. He turned with measured calm to Damen, who had appropriated one of those period-style glass vials to fill with lube.

“Maybe one thing,” said Laurent. The corners of Damen’s mouth lifted, a slow, self-confident expression. Something about the sight of him made Laurent helplessly aware that he hadn’t come yet. That he’d been brought to the brink —

“I think I know what you mean,” said Damen. He retrieved his candle from where it’d been balanced on a neighbouring shelf and moved over to the rack of paddles. Laurent had no idea whether the following pause was real consideration or a tease. He had to bite his lower lip sharply to stop himself from saying anything embarrassing. He wanted Damen’s hands on him now.

Finally, finally, Damen picked out a paddle. He turned around and saw Laurent and smiled, really smiled, very warm and dimpled and with his eyes crinkling from the force of it. Laurent briefly lost control of his body: he stepped forward and pulled Damen down into a hard kiss, their mouths open to each other. Something clattered to the floor as Laurent felt himself shudder and catch fire. He hadn’t realised how close he was, how tightly wound, until this chance for release… He realised belatedly that he must have moved forward, that he had pinned Damen against a wide shelf of leather paraphernalia. That he was rocking slightly against Damen’s body. He could probably come just like this. Damen’s hand was spread over the small of Laurent’s back

Slowly, Laurent mastered himself and pulled away — if only to Damen’s shoulder, on which he rested his forehead and tried to breathe. Tried to close his eyes and clear his mind. It didn’t work; all he could smell was Damen. If he looked down he could see that Damen was hard, that they were both hard. He remembered vaguely that he’d meant to close his eyes.

Damen shifted where he had been pinned, reaching up and slightly behind himself to place his candle on top of the metal shelving he’d been pinned against, where it was least likely to be a fire hazard. He’d been holding onto that all this time, Laurent realised. It was a miracle they hadn’t burned themselves yet.

Then: “I want to suck your cock,” said Damen, which was so unexpected that for a moment Laurent could only blink up at him. Apparently taking this for reluctance, Damen said, “I know you said you wouldn’t. I want to.”

“Well,” said Laurent. He could hear the unsteadiness in his own voice, so unlike the way he had trained himself to sound in his professional life. “I mean, if you want to.”

Damen wasted no time in folding himself onto his knees, running both hands over Laurent’s hips and thighs and ass. Laurent blinked down at him. He was not an idiot. He knew there were people who liked this, who actively enjoyed it. It was breaking his mind slightly to think of Damen being one of those people.

Damen, who seemed intent on driving Laurent mad, leaned forward and set his teeth briefly to the thin skin over Laurent’s hipbone, a flash of exhilarating sensation. Then he sat back on his heels and looked up. “When you’re close,” he said, “can I stop?”

“You haven’t started,” Laurent said wrathfully. Damen dimpled up at him.

“I will once you answer me,” he said. Laurent’s skin prickled.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. Yes.” And Damen kept his word, leaning forward, lips parting.

Laurent swayed at the first touch of his mouth, had to catch himself on the metal shelf in front of him with one hand and Damen’s broad shoulder with the other. He’d never had this done to him; he felt as though someone was reaching inside of him and wrenching his insides around. Damen’s mouth was hot and lush around him, moving with exquisite slowness.

Laurent moved his hand to rest on Damen’s head, stroking through the curly hair. Damen’s eyes were closed, long lashes resting on his cheeks, but his enjoyment was clear in the rest of his face, the satisfied cast to his expression, his confident movements. He really did like this. Then his eyes flickered open and met Laurent’s, and he pushed himself forward until Laurent could feel the fluttering resistance of his throat, driving Laurent closer and closer to the brink —

And then, like the demon he was, he pulled away. Laurent swore at him, eloquently, but didn’t try to force the issue, didn’t even try to touch himself.

Damen’s hands stroked over Laurent’s thighs again, like he was trying to soothe an agitated animal. Laurent was — he had surrendered most of his weight, by now, to the metal structure before him and to Damen. His head was inside the shelf, resting on his arm and the miscellaneous pieces of leather in front of him. He couldn’t have stood on his own if his life depended on it.

“Damen,” he said, hearing the rawness of his voice.

“You feel it so well,” said Damen, and pressed his mouth to Laurent’s stomach. It should have been an absurd thing to say, but in that moment it made complete sense. Even the tiny movement of Damen’s thumb stroking his hipbone made Laurent want to burst into flames. He turned his face into the pile of mystery leather items and groaned. Even the cool air on his cock was almost too much.

Then — he jumped, nearly hit his head, swore again in his shredded voice. Damen was on his feet at once, encouraging Laurent to stand, supporting his weight, asking what was wrong.

At first Laurent didn’t have an answer for him. The experience had been so entirely sensation that it was impossible to translate it into words. A flash like a spark, the inexplicable sense of something shining — Laurent brought his hand up to the back of his neck. Beside them, another drop of wax oozed over the edge of the shelving unit and, without Laurent there to intercept it, landed messily on the floor.

“Oh,” said Damen, also seeing, putting the pieces together. “Did it — are you okay?” One hand came up to Laurent’s nape, where Laurent’s own hand was still resting.

“It’s fine,” said Laurent. “I’m fine.” It was true. Under his fingers he could feel the drop of wax, already hardened, pulling slightly on his skin; the shelf was so tall that it couldn’t have been very hot at all when it landed on him.

Damen looked at him a little longer, his gaze open and warm. Eventually he turned to retrieve the candle, and even that ordinary movement, the stretch of his arm — Laurent’s body thrilled. His mind was utterly distracted. Damen was saying something, but the sound of his voice only registered as a low, pleasant murmur.

“What?” Laurent asked. Damen smiled at him, eyes creasing sweetly.

“I said, I hope I remember to get this clean tomorrow.”

Laurent thought immediately of the couch they had settled on, the things he wanted to do on it. “Right,” he said, and then, “Hurry up.”

“You’re distracting me,” said Damen, but the accusation was very halfhearted. He retrieved his filled vial of lube from the ground, then went to pick a new paddle, and then finally took Laurent’s hand again and started moving back through the corridor, towards their room — their temporary accommodations. The trip passed in a haze, Laurent’s attention split between Damen and the candle he was holding, which was still steadily dripping wax. Laurent had never in his life understood the appeal of temperature play. He still didn’t understand it. If Damen had come in during his office hours and tried anything — if he’d tried anything even earlier this evening —

It wouldn’t have gone over well. And yet the spot on the back of Laurent’s neck still felt thrilling, like his skin was elated.

At this point their couch came into view, and Laurent let these thoughts be pushed aside. He put his hands on Damen’s waist and drove him forward. Damen was looking back at him, laughing a little — he resisted for just a moment to put his candle down, and then let himself be tumbled onto the couch, lying back against the dark leather, looking up at Laurent under his long lashes.

“Impatient?” he asked, voice curled low around the word. He was holding Laurent around the waist, grip soft enough that it was Laurent who was doing all the moving, just firm enough to be a warm presence.

Laurent did not intend to be tricked into begging. He kissed Damen again, hard, and felt that he got his point across. By the time he raised his head again Damen was breathless beneath him. Laurent moved to kiss his neck, not particularly gently; Damen seemed to like it. He kept saying Laurent’s name, hot and uncontrolled.

“Laurent,” he said finally, only this time he also pushed Laurent away. “I’m going to come if you keep that up. We still —” and he hesitated, just long enough for Laurent to notice.

“What?”

Naturally it was that easy to get Damen to spill his thoughts. “I know we agreed to use a paddle,” said Damen, sounding vaguely embarrassed to be saying this. “But can I — I want to use my hand on you, I want to feel it. Is that —” One hand came around to squeeze Laurent’s ass, oddly tender for how lecherous the implication was. Damen said, “Or do you want to stick to the plan?”

“No,” said Laurent, disgustingly breathless. His body was hot all over, but the place where Damen’s hand was resting felt like it had been branded. It was as though this idea had rewritten how Laurent received Damen’s touch. “That’s — I mean, that sounds fine. How do you want me?”

Damen let out a groan, and his head fell forward to meet Laurent’s shoulder. “You can’t talk like that,” he said. “I’m only human. Here, like —” His hands did most of the work of rearranging them, guiding Laurent to lie prone across his lap. His left palm settled over the place where the wax had landed, the sensitive nape of his neck. “All right?”

“Hurry up,” Laurent snapped, or tried to; mostly he hoped that the cushions muffled the undignified timbre of his voice.

The first strike was obviously — even with Laurent’s lack of experience — gentle. More a swat than anything, with no real force behind it; but Laurent’s skin prickled in the aftermath, both affected and anticipatory.

It was not particularly ceremonial or formal. Damen brought his hand down on the other cheek and Laurent groaned, shifting only because it was unbearable to stay still. His blood was hot, fizzing in his veins. He’d never felt like this before, he’d never visited the place that some of their performers talked about, where pain and pleasure became intermingled; he’d never considered it might be possible for him. He was sore, he knew it intellectually, but somehow the repeated sting of Damen’s hand on him was rapturous. Even without looking Laurent could see in his mind’s eye the way Damen would appear, how this would be easy for him, the strong muscles of his back and shoulders imbuing the swift downward motion with a kind of grace.

Just as quickly as he had started, Damen paused. Laurent waited for all of a moment before he shifted again, making a disgruntled, enquiring noise.

“You do like it.” Damen’s smile was audible. His hand landed on Laurent’s ass again, gently this time, teasing. And then — his grip firmed, pressing, kneading into where Laurent was currently red and sensitive. The noise which emerged from his mouth was wholly involuntary, then. The next slaps landed on him like the wax had, so purely sensation that they did not feel like the physical impact between hand and skin.

“Fuck me,” Laurent said, discarding everything else. He twisted about on Damen’s lap, trying to both pull himself up and shove Damen down. “Damen, come on, hurry up —”

He felt almost out of his mind with desire, with desperation. He’d never imagined it could be like this.

Beneath him, Damen made a breathless noise and scrambled to retrieve the small bottle of lube from where it had been dropped, to tip the liquid out. And then those clever fingers moved between Laurent’s legs, caressing, infuriatingly light —

“Move,” Laurent snapped. Tried to snap. He didn’t have any breath.

Damen pushed inside him slowly, tortuously. The muscles in Laurent’s thighs jumped. He felt it across his entire body, the dragging, all-encompassing sensation of Damen’s fingers inside him. Damen kept trying to slow down and being thwarted when Laurent ground down faster, harder.

“Yes,” Damen murmured, and maybe he was saying something else too, but Laurent’s mind truly did not have the ability to understand it right now. Damen crooked his fingers, twisting slightly, and Laurent made a noise he didn’t think he’d ever made before. And then Damen’s free hand came to hold Laurent’s cock, and it felt as though the world had snapped suddenly into high definition.

“No,” said Laurent, and batted the hand away. Looked down at Damen, now still. “I want you inside me when I come.” He was so close. It’d been — he didn’t know how long it had been since that first blindingly sweet kiss. Too long. Perhaps this had been building since Damen first joined Virion Studios.

“Laurent.” Damen’s voice was a groan, like it had been pulled out of him. “Yes.”

Laurent ached when Damen pulled his fingers out, had to push down on a swell of irrational displeasure. This was a logical, necessary next step to this encounter. It felt like an affliction, something that Damen had done to him, like he had inserted this new sensation of emptiness into Laurent’s body.

“As slow as you need,” Damen was saying, as Laurent positioned himself. “You can go — Laurent, fuck —”

Laurent made a breathless noise, hunched above Damen, panting. It felt vaguely ridiculous just to think it, but Damen was — big. Laurent’s mind felt fractured by the reality of him inside, focused obsessively on the stretch, the heat, the way his whole body was prickling. He could barely breathe around how good it was. He was already so close.

Damen shifted, hips rocking up, and the resultant wave of sensation pulled a low, desperate noise from Laurent’s throat. His next movement was entirely instinct, grinding down into Damen, chasing the feeling of fullness, of electric pleasure. When Damen made to move his hand Laurent batted it away again, saying breathlessly, “Don’t — I think I can — without —”

“Yes,” said Damen, understanding immediately, firming his grip on Laurent’s hips. He dug in his heels and his next thrust drove an impossible wave of pleasure through Laurent’s body, so strong that it felt almost tangible, like a net being cast over him, a hundred glowing hooks tearing through his flesh.

Laurent’s eyes closed, head falling back. Without his vision, the harsh wet sound of their bodies was all the more striking. His chest hurt; he kept forgetting to breathe. He felt on the brink of something shattering. And then Damen moved just right, perfectly, and the tension finally crested — Laurent cried out and came between them in long, sweet pulses.

When he next opened his eyes, he was slumped on Damen’s chest, uncaring of the sweat and the tacky come between them. His limbs were weak and drained, wrung out as though he’d been running for hours. It wasn’t a totally inaccurate comparison, really.

Beneath him, Damen was staying carefully motionless, barely even breathing. He was still hard, Laurent realised belatedly. He was still inside Laurent. His expression grew very taut when Laurent began to move again, slow and deliberate.

“Laurent,” he said. His hands were bruising on Laurent’s hips. “Isn’t it — aren’t you —”

“I like it,” said Laurent. His breath left him in a rush, almost a laugh, hardly believing that these words were coming out of his mouth. “I like how it feels. Come on, Damen —”

Damen hooked a hand around his neck and brought their mouths together, open and messy. Laurent groaned, let himself fall into it, kissing back with an intensity that surprised even himself. He’d never been so worked up so quickly after an orgasm. Damen rolled them over, crushing Laurent into the cushions, his movements growing increasingly erratic, his hand coming down to stroke Laurent between them. Laurent’s whole body felt like one exposed nerve, every touch ricocheting brutally through him, every movement balancing on that knife’s-edge between overstimulation and pleasure.

He was going to come again. He realised this a bare second before it happened, the orgasm ripping through him so fiercely that it felt like being burned from the inside out, like flames were licking at his bones. All he could feel was the sharp pleasure within him and Damen’s touch without, Damen’s hands on him, Damen’s body over his, the places where they were intertwined — Damen buried his face in Laurent’s neck as he came deep inside. That was affecting in its own way, warming Laurent like the low-burning embers of a steady hearth.

They were both breathing hard, hopelessly intertwined. Damen shifted his head, just slightly, nuzzling at Laurent’s neck. Impossibly, ridiculously, Laurent felt the sensation spark through his body.

“Really?” asked Damen. He was smiling. “Again?”

“Shut up,” said Laurent. And then, “Let me catch my breath.”

Damen laughed a little, raising his head and kissing Laurent’s jaw, quick and easy. “Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he said. His voice was so warm and so fond that Laurent put a hand over his mouth, because it was impossible to listen to him without starting to feel helplessly twisted up inside. Even that sentence had been almost unbearable.

Damen just kissed Laurent’s palm, then took his wrist and kissed that too, where the skin was thin and sensitive. Laurent’s stomach flipped over itself. He wanted to protest as soon as Damen moved off of him. Even after Damen settled back down beside him, he missed the closeness of their bodies together. But then Damen slung one arm over Laurent’s waist, pressed another kiss to his cheek, and that was — acceptable, Laurent supposed. He shifted so that they faced each other, so he could wrap his arm around Damen’s waist in turn, tangle their legs together. The leather of the couch was making awful sticky noises every time they moved; Damen was grinning into Laurent’s forehead about it. Or maybe he was just grinning into Laurent’s forehead, period. Laurent felt the same ridiculous urge, the giddy lightness in his chest.

Being comfortably situated in Damen’s arms only made that feeling harder to resist. Before he could stop himself, Laurent was saying, “I didn’t know it could be like that.”

Pressed together as they were, he could feel the effect of the words on Damen — the sudden catch of his breath, the way his grip tightened briefly on Laurent’s body.

“Good?” he asked.

Laurent leaned back and looked up at him. Damen was flushed, bright-eyed, a little rueful. Laurent said, “Now that is just fishing for compliments,” and the flush deepened.

“No,” he said. “I just —”

“Just what?”

“I want to hear it,” said Damen, in the tone of a dire confession.

Laurent’s stomach twisted again. He was growing dangerously familiar with the sensation. “Yes,” he said. “Good. Obviously. You’re very — accomplished.”

Damen put his face in Laurent’s hair, smiling hard enough that Laurent could feel it, the shape of his mouth. Laurent wanted to stroke his hand through Damen’s hair. Then, belatedly, he realised that he was doing it: the filter between impulse and action had disappeared.

“Well, you’re not so bad yourself,” said Damen.

Laurent snorted. “If I’m going to have to deal with your enormous ego, I want dinner first next time.”

Damen’s smile grew somehow, impossibly, bigger. “It’s a date,” he said. He lay back down, snuggling — there was no other word for it — closer to Laurent. His hand began to stroke Laurent’s back, a light, lovely touch.

“Putting out before the first date?” Laurent drawled. “How scandalous.”

“I’m not hard to get,” said Damen. He was still smiling. It was a line right out of a bad film, something from his uncle’s time as the CEO of Virion Studios, but Damen made it playful, earnest. He’d done that all night, actually; for the first time, Laurent thought of the other scenario that would have taken place on this couch, the wide-eyed ingenue, the hardboiled casting director, the limpid pleading: but sir, I’ll do anything for the role. Damen hadn’t been like that. Damen’s films, to be fair, were also not like that. There was a tenderness to them which was difficult for Laurent to watch.

Damen murmured: “Are you telling me to make the most of the time we have tonight?” His hand was venturing downward. Laurent made a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan.

“Not yet,” he said. “I need fuel if we’re going again.”

“We could bump up that date and go grab some food now,” said Damen, and then froze in a very unsubtle manner.

“Oh really?” Laurent asked silkily. “How could we do that?”

Damen groaned and, as Laurent had learned tonight was his wont, gave in immediately; somehow even that was hopelessly endearing, his inability to deceive. “There’s another exit down the back,” he said. “I really didn’t remember at first —”

“You were just caught up in the moment?”

“You’re captivating,” Damen said simply. Laurent felt the flush rise in his cheeks, travel down his neck and chest. By this point Damen had caught on that Laurent wasn’t angry, or at least that he wasn’t trying to move away, so his broad hand was back to sweeping up and down Laurent’s back, slow and distracting.

“And how long did it take you to remember the existence of the fire escape?” Laurent asked.

“It wasn’t that long ago,” Damen said, “it was only when we got up to get the lube — but I never said it was a fire escape.”

“What?” said Laurent. And then, a beat too late: “What else would it be?”

“You liar,” Damen said, rolling them, pinning Laurent underneath him. “You knew about it all along —!”

“Well, some of us have to be up to date on the studio’s health and safety measures,” Laurent started, and lost the rest of the argument into Damen’s laughing mouth.

“Have dinner with me,” Damen was saying, his voice hot and intimate in the space between them. “Come home with me.”

Laurent surged up and kissed him hard, clutching unashamedly at Damen’s broad shoulders. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, but his breathlessness betrayed him. His tone was an answer in itself. Damen smiled into his temple, and Laurent said, “Don’t be smug.”

“I’m not smug,” said Damen, very smugly. He kissed Laurent again, tenderly this time, very simple and very sweet, and only a little self-satisfied. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, and Laurent gave himself up to it, surrendering to the warm tide of impulse.

“Yes,” he said. “All right. Yes.” Damen’s grin was blinding.

The actual process of getting up and putting themselves back into a presentable state should probably have been humiliating, if only because the couch protested so loudly every time they moved. Their clothes had ended up on the floor, creased and dejected. Laurent didn’t feel any of it; he kept shooting sideways glances at Damen, kept catching Damen’s eye already on him, and the giddy thrill of the night would run over and over down his spine, through his body to his fingertips. Somehow they managed to dress themselves — Damen even made a good effort at wiping down the couch with the dust sheet, so that it seemed more disarrayed than debauched. It was still obvious what had happened on it. The thought of someone else seeing this was equal parts mortifying and thrilling.

“Come on,” said Laurent, the third time Damen went back in with the dust sheet. “You’re never going to get it all.”

Damen huffed out a breath and finally turned away. Even after everything, his smile as he took Laurent’s outstretched hand was enough to make Laurent’s heart skip a beat.

And then, as they approached the door, he remembered to slow down, waiting for Damen to feel the tug on his arm and turn back. When he did, Laurent said, “There’s something I want to do first.”

It had taken all of Nicaise’s courage to come in early today. A large part of him was sorely tempted to leave the angry studio head in the back rooms for someone else to deal with, but there was no evading an angry Laurent, and common sense said that it was better to get the fireworks out of the way as soon as possible. Even so, Nicaise was dragging his feet as he opened up the studio, flicking the lights on, doing the rounds diligently, and finally admitting to himself that there was no excuse not to go down and open the back rooms up, too.

A long and sleepless night had offered Nicaise some clarity: there were several ways the situation might have gone, but really only two outcomes. Either Laurent was in an extremely poor mood, or he was feeling uncharacteristically generous. As Nicaise saw it, the latter outcome depended on a long list of increasingly unlikely factors: that Nicaise had been correct about the sexual tension between Laurent and Damen; that they had communicated enough to fuck it out; that the actual fucking had gone well; that Laurent had not promptly screwed everything up in the aftermath. In hindsight, Nicaise had decided that he did not have enough faith in Laurent to believe that he had managed this. In either of them, really, but mostly Laurent.

Nicaise realised he was standing in front of the door to the back rooms, keys in hand. He huffed out a breath and knocked on it, half-expecting Laurent to start shouting through the wood.

Nothing. That should have been a good sign, but Nicaise found that he was still edgy. The door creaked plaintively when he pushed it open, and he nearly jumped out of his skin before he got a grip on himself. He’d been down here a hundred times. Laurent was just a guy. There was nothing —

The thought broke off. A few steps ahead, smack bang in the middle of the hallway, was a puddle of blood, jewel-bright and slick on the grey stone floor, trailing off as though someone had been dragged into one of the nearby rooms.

A sudden flurry of thoughts started to race through Nicaise’s mind. He was an accessory to murder — he was going to go to jail — he was too young and vibrant to go to jail — this hadn’t been the plan! He didn’t even know what happened! How was he meant to have known that getting locked up would turn either Damen or Laurent into a murderous lunatic?

He was thinking miserably about how he didn’t know which one of them was the lunatic and which one was the puddle of blood as he stepped forward. Laurent, the lunatic was definitely Laurent. Nicaise was going to find the mangled body of the industry’s hottest young director in one of these rooms, and he wouldn’t put it past Laurent to have done something straight out of an insane Kemptian-noir detective book and posed Damen like a very muscular doll, or chopped him into small pieces, or painted him green or something —

It spoke to the quality of Heston & Co.’s product that it wasn’t until he was like a foot away that he noticed it was both too viscous and too shiny to be real blood. And there hadn’t been a smell — Nicaise forced himself to kneel down and breathe in the faintly chemical, definitely-not-metallic air above the puddle.

“Bastard,” he said to the empty hallway. Then — because he might as well — he followed the dragging trail into the room where everything had clearly happened, and caught sight of the indecent state of the couch, and all its attendant gross dried-out bodily fluids — “Bastards!”

But he was grinning. Jord could take all his sensible arguments and shove them up his arse. Nicaise’s master plan had worked perfectly.