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Polnareff was no stranger to being shoved into a dimly lit single person bathroom- at clubs, restaurants, bars, you name it, he had an uncanny ability to end up with a hand on his back or his ass or in his hair. This time, though, there was no hand on him to push and pull, only the cold steel of a gun biting into his spine that pressed him forwards under the flickering fluorescent light. The music from the bar thrummed through the thin walls of the bathroom, shaking the metal stalls to the pounding of the bass, some synth heavy top hundred remixed to hell and back. The sound crashed over and around him, wrapping him up in silken threads like some intangible cocoon of notes and macaronic vocals. It would almost be a peaceful moment to recoup from all the drinks he’d been handed and how the music hammered at his ears, but the calm was broken as he was pushed against the stall door. The metal seeped what warmth the alcohol had provided to his bare shoulders and wicked it away.

“Open it, ‘fore someone comes in.” The threat hung clear in the air, floating in and out of the sharp scent of bleach and anti-bacterial sprays. His hands fumbled with the little latch on the door, and the two of them nearly fell through into the stall with how heavy Polnareff had been leaning on the metal. He stumbled forwards, gun no longer pressed against him, and turned to sit down on the water tank behind the toilet. Ahead of him, Hol Horse took a long moment to try to get the latch locked again behind them, pressed far enough forwards that their legs touched, his Emperor pointed down towards the dingy linoleum flooring. It nearly broke the scene, just the faintest ghosts of smiles flickering across their faces before he was being crowded up against the wall again. His knees fit around Hol Horse’s legs like they’d been made for him, thick and strong and slotted against his thighs where he could hold him closer and grab for his face.

That would definitely break the scene, though, and Polnareff wanted this to be perfect- more so than anything they’d tried to pull off had been. Not that any time before this had been bad, and he was sure there never would be, not while the two of them were like grease spat into a fire under the stars.

Incendiary.

He had opened his mouth for Emperor too quick to have been real, no struggle, no fight, just warm drink-wet lips and the taste of gin on his tongue. The metal, though a stand, felt as real as the porcelain against his thighs, cold and heavy on his tongue as it was eased past his lips and into his mouth. Above him, Hol Horse exhaled slow and easy, no sight to catch his skin and tear it open. Ultimate control. He almost disliked the lack of a chance of misfire, no danger hanging over his head to color the moment red with fear. (Not that, were there a chance of a misfire, Hol Horse would ever let it happen. For all his bravado and gun-flipping, the man had incredible control over standard guns and his stand alike.) Barring that, the weight of the barrel in his mouth and the taste of steel washing away the drinks he’d had, cutting through the haze in his mind and bringing him crashing into reality… there weren’t many things that could top that feeling.

The moment it seemed safe, that Polnareff’s teeth and lips and tongue would be intact and whole, Hol Horse relaxed. He could feel it in the way the angle of the gun in his mouth changed, lowering, more casual, less stress on his arm so that they could stay there longer. As long as they needed to, he was sure, though the idea made his jaw ache. The two of them, so slow and careful, creeping centimeter by centimeter down his throat until he could feel skin on his face.

Though his breath had warmed the metal, his mouth cooled as it emptied, barrel drawing back before pushing forwards again, just as slow and as steady as ever. He was half on the way to losing it, to pulling back against the wall and demanding he hurry it the fuck up already, they didn’t want to be in here that long, people would notice- but then there was a hand in his hair ruining the gel from earlier and he couldn’t remember why he’d been impatient. It was perfect, like it always was, he was fine and safe and in good hands. He’d leave the bathroom in one whole piece as he always did, no extra holes or metal in his body, not if Hol Horse didn’t want him to.

The barrel of the gun tasted like salt and sweat, sulphur, warming metal, something so incredibly familiar to him- too familiar to believe that he could immerse himself in any sort of scene. It always went like that, they could start as strong as they liked, but they would break it so quickly again. Maybe they knew each other too well, maybe they were just too head over heels for each other to do anything but grab at each other. Maybe they should try handcuffs next time. Leather, metal, silver, gold- ropes, wrapped up in blood red silk, his mind was fucking racing. He knew that the man above him could tell that he wasn’t paying attention to him, tongue gone still from where it had been mouthing at the barrel of the gun. It angled down, sudden, pressing against the back of his tongue and into the softness of the back of his throat- it made him gag, once, twice, and then it was pulling back again. Hol Horse looked concerned- confused- for just a moment until Polnareff smiled up at him, lips red and swollen and beginning to split right down the center.

“Yeah?” He barely breathed, voice a hoarse whisper in the stall. Polnareff didn’t trust himself enough to respond, just let his tongue hang out of his mouth to wait for his Emperor again.

As the gun pressed forwards, he did his best to slot his tongue into the muzzle, sharp with gunpowder. It was too narrow to get more than just the tip of his tongue past, the sharp edge of the metal pressing into the flesh of his tongue. Hol Horse shuddered- his gun shuddered with him, knocking against his teeth for just a brief moment- before he regained his composure to groan down at him. It was loud, almost too loud for the little stall. The next movement had him sliding his tongue down the flat underside of the barrel, coming to rest against where Hol Horse’s finger rested against the trigger guard. Even then, knowing that there could be no way to fire it unless he absolutely wanted to, he was being so safe and careful with him. His heart pumped faster, cock finally straining up against his suddenly too-tight pants-- rather, he’d just started to notice through the haze of the alcohol that had settled over his mind. He could sit there for hours, jaw aching as it was held open, but Hol Horse couldn’t. The gun began to move, pulled out all the way as slow as he could, and with practiced precision, thrusted back in once more. Polnareff knew better than to move, to risk breaking a tooth or bruising his face or worse, upsetting Hol Horse by making him think he’d hurt him.

The gun left his mouth soon, too soon, and he chased it with his tongue like his life depended on it. The shine of his own spit on the barrel, frothy and thick, had him folding forwards over his waist with a low gasp- Hol Horse’s lips came crashing back down against his just a few moments later, and off to his left, the near-deafening crack of his Emperor firing made Polnareff’s hips jerk upwards and left his arm to toss up around Hol Horse’s shoulder to bury in his hair. The bullet left a hole in the wall, and for a quick, quiet moment in the echoing stall, he was terrified that someone would come in- that someone outside would panic- but they’d done this before. No one else could hear it, but Christ Above, he could. He’d never been more thankful for the flexibility of a stand before, the ability to make it quiet, to make it loud, to leave Polnareff’s ears ringing but hearing intact.

Hol Horse let go of his hair, and he knew he wouldn’t get it looking anywhere near decent again that night. He moved his mouth to speak, to try to goad his partner into action, but then Emperor was between his legs and the top edge was pressing flat against the line of his cock and the click of the hammer was somehow the loudest thing he’d heard all day in that tiny little metal stall.

When he fired, Polnareff jerked forwards and shouted- it was too much, too fast, and Hol Horse’s hand was already clamping down over his mouth in an attempt to muffle the cry. The bullet stayed suspended in the water where it hit, like the water was gel and the bullet had just been dropped from above instead of fired so incredibly close to him.

“Darlin’, shush.” It’s as kind as it is firm, fingers pressing into the soft meat of his face. (He wants them to leave prints, marks, claiming him and maring his porcelain skin, but he knows- he knows Hol Horse would feel so bad for hurting him, so worried that he would drag up some long-forgotten anxiety, but it doesn’t stop the raw want from crawling up his chest.) He nods his agreement, a promise to be quiet for now, and he follows the receding palm with a gentle kiss.

“Mon cher,” His voice is so raw, so painful and fucked out already, and they’d barely been at it for more than a few minutes. “M’ncher.” He was drunker than he thought, words slurring together. His hand settled on his shoulder, holding him in place- had he been moving?- as Hol Horse pressed his lips to his jaw. Then from his jaw to his neck, brushing soft kisses against his pulse and worrying flesh between his teeth.

For the briefest of moments, he thought of Dio.

And then it was Hol Horse again taking residency at the front of his mind, the hand on his shoulder sliding down to follow the curve of his chest with an open palm, cupping and grabbing and squeezing and fuck, he loved it when his boyfriend played with his tits. His shirt went with the hand, finally sliding down over the crest of his pecs where it had been threatening to slip down all evening as he moved, leaning over the bar to laugh with someone or moving closer to Hol Horse when he was feeling a little stranded. The urgency of the scene they’d tried to keep together had faded and relaxed into something else, something slow, drunk on beer and gin, on love. He could feel the way Hol Horse sucked dark marks into his skin, and then there were two hands on his ass and he was being lifted, turned and pressed up against the stall door.

His and his boyfriends cocks lined up like they’d been built to slot together- the door shook with how quickly Hol Horse began to move, grinding against him with uncoordinated rolls of his hips. He clung to him with one hand, ready to bring forth his Chariot if he needed to catch himself, but the other was much too busy popping the button on his pants so that he didn’t ruin them too badly. Almost as an afterthought, he undid the button at the top of Hol Horse’s pants as well- and then it was over, just as quick as it had all happened thanks to the alcohol flooding through their veins, and Polnareff had to bite down on his lip to keep from screaming right there in the bathroom. The gentle stutter of his hips and the way his boyfriend groaned above him let him know that he was following him right over the edge of his orgasm, the head of his cock catching and slipping forwards to paint a second line of cum across his stomach. Thank god for vinyl tube tops.

They stood there, together, braced against the door, for a few moments- breathing slowly and enjoying their proximity.

“Let’s getcha cleaned up, cherrie.” The French, coming from his mouth with his accent, is more endearing than anything he’s heard, even if he’d heard him say it a million times before. Hol Horse let his legs go carefully, unsteady and bucking like a newborn deer, and unlatches the door after he wipes his stomach clean.

“I can’t believe you ruined my hair.” It’s the first thing he pouts about once he regains his composure, reaching up to touch the crumpled mess he can see in the mirror. In their reflection, his boyfriend is already leaning over to ruin it worse- though he doesn’t care as much as he sounds like he does, he knows it- so he ducks and spins around to face him.

“C’mon, let’s just rinse it in the sink. Lil’ cowboy bath.” He laughs, winding an arm around Polnareff’s middle just to hold him again for a moment. He laughed as well, leaning into his chest with a content sigh before pulling away and heading towards the sink. It wasn’t the first time he’d washed his hair in a bathroom like that, and when he pulls up from under the faucet again, it falls around his faces, brushes his bare shoulders to send rivulets down his skin. Reaching around his chest, Hol Horse gave his top a good tug for the trip back through the soundscape of the crowded bar towards the street again.

Neither could keep their hands to themselves for the entire walk back, grabbing and squeezing and holding, until they collapsed in a sweaty mess on top of their bed to fall asleep in each other’s arms.