Eyes linger on the stain of blood. He licks his own lips as if to chase the taste.

The hits come and he hit back. Just once, hard, aiming for the kidneys.

His other hand tries to grasp for Cillian Quinn's collar, hold him in place.

Breathing hard, he stills, a temporary end to the conflict.

"Gavvie, what's got you all hot?"

Pain blooms from a sharp jab to his kidney, stunning him.

He staggers, struggling to remain on his feet, and finds his back against the wall. Temp's fist winds in his collar, holding him up even as his body attempts to double over and collapse. His muscles are tense, and he can't fight back.

Yet in spite of the crippling pain that forces his submission, his skin is flushed hot and his heart is thrumming.

His cheeks burn when Temp calls him on it, suddenly self-conscious. He won't make eye contact, panting as he glares down at the floor. It's spotted with his blood, red running down his lips and chin.

"Been a while since I had a good fight," he grits out.

Unfortunately for Gavin, Temp was more than adept at reading between the lines.

With a back to the wall, Temp, naturally, crowds Cillian Quinn.

Stepping forward to be almost chest to chest. It was usually how their games ended if Temp won, him being overly sultry and flirty. Gavin would rolls his eyes, maybe make a witty little remark, then they could laugh it off.

Except....

That free hand snakes up, quick, fingers on Gavin's chin to tilts his head up, meet his eyes.

"Pretty sure if I shoved my knee between your thighs Lil Gavvie would be awake to greet me."

It's as if the gears in his brain have been jammed, struggling to perform their regular function. This is how their fights usually end, he knows — Temp's no closer than usual, the flirting is normal, yet suddenly it's too close and too hot and—

Fingers on his chin send a violent shiver through him.

It's a fear response — he has been taught that this commands compliance, and there is no resistance as breath catches in his throat. Wide amber eyes lock with Temp's honey brown, and his throat clicks as he swallows.

He releases the breath in a shaky laugh as a hot wash of embarrassment and something else floods through.

"Piss off," but there's no heat behind the words.

He's got control of his faculties again now that the pain's worn off; something about the hand on his chin and the fist in his collar urges him to remain docile, but he fights back against it and lifts his hands to shove back against Temp's weight.

A smarter man would back off. Temp could see that was exactly what Cillian Quinn didn't. Yet, still, most people would back out, laugh it off, ruminate on the interaction later. Maybe even pit it out 9f mind and forget.

Temp wasn't most people. He would always leap before he looked, so to speak, as nothing was worse than an opportunity missed.

So instead of backing off, Temp slips the fingers from Gavin's chinup his cheek, under the ear, then behind the head so he can get a good grasp of those golden locks.

Then he presses in for a kiss.

Gavin's strong.

In a fight-or-flight situation, he'd be more than capable of getting away. His power as an avatar made him quicker, sharper, if only he used the miasma to his advantage — but he doesn't. He shoves against Temp's weight and when the other doesn't budge, he shifts to grip at the wrist of the hand still fisted in his collar.

He intends to put pressure on it, to break the hold.

Temp's other hand slides across his neck; Gavin shivers, involuntary, lips parting with a soft inhale before Temp's hand is in his hair and their lips are pressed together and Gavin's knees go weak.

The kiss tastes of blood and heat and Temp isn't met with resistance.

After a moment, he remembers himself, and the grip on Temp's arm tightens.

But it's not to break the hold.

It's firm, possessive, nails pressing into flesh. He kisses back but he's fighting, too, making a show of his own dominance as he tries to regain control.

Gavin tastes like blood and cigarettes.

Where the kiss was testing before, exploring, when it's clear this isn't not wanted he pushes back hard. Teeth sink into skin, his tongue pushes, and he's now more interested in devouring Gavin from the inside out.

It's wet and messy and slick, a teasing push and pull as much as it is his own battle.

A wet pop and he pulls away, lips bruised.

Only to attack a new angle, yanking at Gavin's hair so he can try and sink his teeth into the other man's throat.

A smirk would curl up against the skin.

It feels like he's burning from the inside out.

He chases the heat, bites back against the kiss until he tastes blood fresh on his tongue. Temp pulls away, and Gavin makes to chase with hunger in his darkened eyes.

But fingers in Gavin's hair wind tight and pull, controlling in the way they bare his throat for access. Teeth sink into tender flesh and a low groan rumbles through his vocal cords, rewarding the victor his spoils.

"Fuck."

In the heat of the moment, his native accent bleeds through.

He hums, licks over the wound to help soothe any stinging before pressing an almost soft kiss over the fresh mark.

Fingers slacker and Temp properly distangles himself, licks blood off his lips.

He keeps his grip, however, on the back of Gavin's neck.

"Gavvie," And his voice is lower, the rasp of intent there. "we keep this up and this gym floor won't be so pure anymore."

Breath shivers in his lungs, eyes closed against the brush of lips against his aching neck. This isn't — it's not how he usually does things, but there's no denying the unbearable flush of heat and want.

So when Temp pulls away, Gavin shoots a reproachful look.

Gavin's eyes are dark, breath shallow. Blood slides down his chin, traces a line over teeth marks in his skin.

He's incredibly conscious of the grip on the back of his neck. He could fight it; he'd never been allowed to before. But there's a certain power in allowing that hand to remain, to possess — because it is his choice.

"Never pure when we're done with it," and there's a low husk to his voice to match Temp's own. But he's more aware with some distance between them, conscious of the fact that they might be interrupted. He closes that distance, teeth worrying at the other's lobe. He speaks soft, like he's sharing secrets. "Bet you've been fantasizing about this for years."

There's a teasing rumble in his throat.

"You won," he purrs. "We can go wherever you want."

There's a hint of vulnerability in the invitation that he hopes won't be caught.

Unfortunately for Cillian Quinn, Temp is smart in his own way. The slightest tremble, the reading of a body; he always had to be good at it, be it when seeing a client push themselves too hard or the delicate shiver of a lover.

Temp is, in many ways, dumb. He gets confused easily, is bad at taking directions, and often doesn't think of the consequences of his actions. Even after being friends with Gavin for years, many people can rationalize that fucking your boss in a public room, where there were also probably cameras, was a bad idea.

Temp is stupid and horny and Gavin, who has never been into him before, is suddenly very into this. That strikes him as a bit odd.

Later, later. Because for now...

"Oh, right here, babe." His own shiver at Gavin's actions isn't suppressed. Let him see. Let Gavin know. Temp would preen like a peacock under the attention.

"Mister Underboss, taking what's his?" His smirk grew wider, voice lowering while he tilted his chin back in a cocky show. Heat dropped off of every word. "Anyone who saw, oh they would be so fucking jealous. I see how their eyes follow you. They would want to be me so bad."

His smile is wicked and inviting.

Like any good fighter, Temp takes his shots right to Gavin's ego.

They land sharp and effective, fire burning through him when Temp calls him underboss. Temp tilts his chin up and Gavin traces the taut lines of his throat with his eyes. His lips part, tongue swiping blood.

There are almost definitely cameras in the room.

There's a strong chance they might end up with a witness.

Gavin knows. Gavin doesn't care.

"That what you want?" He dips his head lower, scrapes his teeth along Temp's collarbone and bites hard. "You want them to see?"

Behind spite-driven lust is vulnerability. Try not to move on too quickly, Cillian.

But he hadn't moved on from Emma when he'd slept with Theo. This isn't moving on. This is coping, in the most carnal form there is.

He threads a hand through Temp's hair, almost a caress.

"Get on your knees, then, and give them a show."

Temp leans against the touch, shivers with a pure delight of being given exactly what he wants. Cillian Quinn had ran headfirst into a trap neither of them had known was set.

The idea that anyone could walk in, that anyone could roll back the cameras and see this.... he doesn't hesitate, slides down on his knees like it was as natural and breathing.

"Yes, sir." is purred out, almost reverent, before he goes for Gavin's zipper with his teeth.