This is by far the most unprofessional day of Damen’s career.
When they had arrived at The Rising — an underground club crawling with enough criminal activity that kept the Secret Intelligence department busy most days — earlier this evening, his and Laurent’s mission had been simple: observe Toraus and his companions.
They hadn’t actually expected the idiot to trade his illegal, exotic furs right there and then. The ensuing chaos had been pretty standard, actually.
What wasn’t standard was Lazar’s minivan popping two of its tires as they had pulled away. That had resulted in one of the other agent’s car to pull over for them, except his car had already been crammed with the boxes of coats, shoes and belts that had been confiscated, and there was only one seat left.
After trying to cram the boxes into different positions, calling another backup vehicle that promised to be at the scene in an hour or so, and Damen and Laurent snapping at each other on the side of the road, this had been the compromise they had reached: complete and utter unprofessionalism.
Damen had slid into the seat, the large, wooden box digging sharply into his ribs, and then Laurent, god, had placed himself delicately onto his lap.
Mercifully, the ride isn’t long. That fact, however, does little to distract Damen from the solid, warm weight of Laurent, who keeps shifting every minute or so for whatever fucking reason.
“Can you —” Laurent starts, then huffs, trying to shift again.
The problem with the shifting is this: Damen’s body is going through some incredibly inappropriate Pavlovian type response and he’s getting hard. This is, obviously, not a good thing, and is the exact reason why he’s avoided Laurent since his orientation.
Laurent has been working in Organised Crime for only three months. Before that, he was in Records, stuck behind a desk. Damen used to see him sometimes, head always bent, furiously typing encrypted notes into the System.
Back then, Damen had briefly — incredibly briefly — considered asking him out. But Laurent had a boyfriend who always buzzed for him every Thursday at noon for lunch and by the time Damen realised the mysterious boyfriend had stopped showing up, some months later, it was too late: Laurent had been promoted and Damen had become his supervisor, and there were extremely strict rules regarding that.
(Actually, there are strict rules regarding dating amongst agents in general but it doesn’t matter. Damen is a professional. His profession goes above most things, even sweet, intelligent blondes who make his gut and heart twist).
Laurent shifts again.
Right over Damen’s cock.
Damen’s body tightens, breath caught in his chest over the realisation that Laurent knows now that he’s —
Damen grips Laurent’s hip tight, just a small, sharp squeeze. “Will. You. Sit. Still.” He hisses, like a snake.
Laurent, trained to be obedient — and doesn’t that fuck with Damen’s head most days — stills. From here, Damen can see the back of his neck going red. “I’m sorry, sir,” Laurent says, meek.
Damen exhales. “I’m sorry,” he says this time, gentle, as though he’s trying to tame a wild animal. “I didn’t mean to snap.”
“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Laurent says quickly. “It’s just — cramped.”
“Yes,” Damianos agrees. To the agent driving he snaps, “Can you go faster?”
“I — of course, sir.”
Damen sighs again. Then he has to grit his teeth when they go over a speed bump.
God help him.
When they finally arrive at Headquarters, Laurent scrambles off of him as quickly as possible.
Damen remains seated in the car.
“…Sir?” Laurent’s voice floats to him.
Damen closes his eyes. “Go ahead, Laurent. I need to check these boxes for… things.”
“Um…” Laurent peers at him. “Should I help?”
“No. Thank you. Good night.”
“… Good night, sir,” Laurent says, and with one more confused glance, he heads up the long stairway.
As soon as he’s gone, Damen rests his head against the cool glass and tries to calm his erection.
It takes thirty minutes.
When Laurent walks into the conference room, Lazar wolf whistles loud enough to jerk Jord awake, who blinks blearily at Laurent before he falls off of his chair.
Nikandros chokes on his coffee mid sip; it dribbles down his chin and chest, and Stavos, next to him, turns so red, Damen can see him purpling around the edges of his temple.
Laurent’s gaze is steady, even as his cheeks warm in colour at the sudden attention. He crosses his arms in front of his chest as he sits down.
Damen also feels like he’s going to have a heart attack soon, but he makes sure to keep his voice firm as he says, “Before this meeting starts may I please remind you all of inappropriate work behaviour.” He glares at Lazar as he says this.
Lazar looks suitably offended. He scoffs: “Oh come on boss! Laurent walks in half naked and I’m not supposed to cat call?”
“Yes,” Damen says through gritted teeth. “That is exactly it.”
Lazar frowns, but doesn’t rebut it, and Laurent crosses his arms tighter.
“Laurent,” Damen says, and Laurent’s wide eyed stare snaps over to him, “why have you decided to come into work half naked?”
Damen makes sure not to look too closely at him.
“I —” The colour intensifies on Laurent’s face. Damen’s come to realise that on the field, no matter what, Laurent manages to stay composed and calm. It’s here, in his daily life, where he is fumbling and illicitly sweet.
It drives Damen out of his mind.
Laurent swallows, tries again. “I was… out. And dressed like this when I got the call to work and — Agent Theris said it we were dealing with an urgent matter so I…” He trails off and not a single person in this room can keep their eyes off him.
“Where the fuck would you go dressed in a chiton about three sizes too small?” Lazar wonders aloud.
Laurent blushes. “It’s. The only size they had.”
Damen wonders if this is some sort of test.
He clears his throat noisily. “Alright. Why don’t we just start.”
His tone is hard to ignore: soon everyone is hurrying their gazes towards him, eager to start as well.
The meeting doesn’t take too long. As Damen dismisses everyone, he says, “Laurent. Stay back for a moment, please.”
Everyone files out — Damen notices Stavos takes his sweet time, casting Laurent furtive looks as he gathers his papers, until Damen glares at him.
The room clears, and the first thing Damen notices is how high the skirt of Laurent’s chiton is. It turns out Laurent is lily white all over.
Laurent bites his lip. “Is there a problem, sir?”
Damen has watched enough porn for his mind to swiftly take a dive down the gutter.
With great effort he says, “Laurent, you can’t walk around the building dressed like that. It’s inappropriate.”
“Of course, sir,” Laurent is amicable. “I really am sorry. My local pub does this trivia night and it’s usually themed and everyone dresses up. Tonight was ‘Classic Greek’ so I thought I would —”
“Yes,” Damen cuts him off because he doesn’t need to know Laurent does trivia nights in his spare time because he’ll explode otherwise. “Listen. There’s no time for you to go home and change — I need you to take first post until Lazar comes back with — here.”
Before he can really talk himself out of it, Damen shrugs off his suit jacket.
Laurent’s eyes widen. They briefly roam over his chest, before he quickly snaps them up to Damen’s face, waiting.
Damen hands him his jacket. “Put this on. It should cover — most of you. More of you.”
Laurent nods, running a hand over the arm of the jacket to keep it from creasing before he shrugs it on.
It should look ridiculous. Laurent is muscular, yes, but he’s also slender, and shorter than Damen. Svelte. He’s svelte… and Damen is not.
Except Laurent takes his breath away.
The jacket is too short, but covers more of his leg, and it completely covers his bare chest and very pink nipples.
Laurent rolls up the sleeves and then looks up at him in approval. Damen nods, heart racing.
As Laurent leaves — Damen determinedly starts shuffling his files as he does so — he realises that his favourite jacket is now going to be fragranced with Laurent’s smell: a deep, comforting jasmine scent that Damen can recognise on any day.
“Laurent,” he calls, just as Laurent is about to shut the door. When he has his attention, Damen says, “Do not — under any circumstance — return that jacket to me. Do you understand?”
Laurent’s face carefully shutters. “Yes, sir,” he says, curt, and then shuts the door with a resounding click.
“Oh! That one!”
Damen smiles at the clerk. “Let’s see it then.” It comes out more strangled than he intended: Laurent’s hand, wrapped around his bicep, is a distracting vice.
The clerk — their prime suspect and the most infuriating man Damen has had the displeasure of knowing — grins predatorily at Laurent before he pulls out the velvet tray of diamond rings. He picks out the one Laurent had chosen, a tear shaped, ugly slab of diamond.
The clerk reaches out to put it on Laurent, but Laurent deftly pulls away his hand and turns to Damen. He bats his eyelashes and coos, “I want you to put it on me.”
“Alright,” Damen says, smiling, even as his heart jolts at the sight of long, golden lashes fluttering. He keeps his hand tight around Laurent’s waist — a necessity for their undercover personas, obviously — and slides all seventeen carats on Laurent’s finger.
Laurent coos again, a soft, sweet sound that rushes to Damen’s dick.
“I think it’s too small,” Laurent pouts, blinking up at him. His hand unwraps itself from Damen’s bicep and presses against his chest. “I want something bigger.”
Damen squeezes Laurent again. He tries to think. He can’t remember what he’s supposed to say.
Laurent, however, seems to have perfected this strange, bratty sugar baby character he has adopted and sighs loudly. He turns beseeching eyes onto the clerk. “You’ll help me, won’t you?"
The clerk is salivating. Damen frowns.
“I have a twenty carat —”
“Too small,” Laurent pouts again. “You must have something better. Daddy wouldn’t have brought me here otherwise.” This last part is directed at Damen, complete with a put upon expression of mock outrage.
But Laurent’s words prove to be effective: the clerk, infatuated with Laurent’s beauty, stupidly rushes to the back. He’s gone for a while, but neither Damen or Laurent move away from each other. The scent of jasmine floats around them.
Damen shifts closer. Laurent doesn’t seem to notice, or mind; he only makes a humming noise under his breath.
The clerk pulls back the heavy black curtains, carrying a large glass case.
“Oh!” Laurent says, wide eyed and excited.
Damen sighs in relief. Just as they expected: Crown Princess Maria’s vintage thirty-five carat diamond ring sits nestled in the plush velvet inside the glass case.
Laurent throws him a smile that floors Damen. It makes him fumble with his badge, and by the time the clerk starts running, Laurent jumps over the counter and apprehends him.
Shit, Damen thinks.
Starting from next week, he’s going to limit the amount of time he spends with Laurent.
Damen doesn’t spend less time with Laurent.
Instead, halfway through the month, Damen assigns himself onto one of Laurent’s cases. For necessity: Damen has a quota to fill, and all the other agents have too many open cases for him to jump on to.
Laurent welcomes Damen with a brilliant smile and says things like, “I’m so glad we get to do this.”— as if this isn’t just some stupid work procedure.
It’s not even a particularly interesting case — a string of government files being hacked with no source pattern; pretty standard stuff. In fact, Damen is sure Laurent can handle it on his own.
He still stays on it, though.
On Thursday evening, as Damen is processing his last few closed cases for the month, he notices movement in Laurent’s cubicle.
It’s not unusually late, but most of the agents have gone home. Damen is tempted to leave, too, honestly.
But Laurent is hard at work at his cubicle, mouth furrowed as he stares at his screen. It makes Damen want to…
“Hey,” he says, approaching Laurent without quite meaning to. “Let’s take a break.”
“Oh,” Laurent looks up in surprise. He bites his lip. “I —”
Damen winces. “Ah, it’s fine. You don’t need to —”
“No!” Laurent scrambles up so fast, his empty coffee mug tips over. He flushes, and scrambles to catch it. “Um. I mean. Yes. Please.”
Something warm and pleasant unfurls in Damen’s chest.
When they sit down at the cafeteria at the end of the hall, Laurent sidles up close to him on the bench, next to him, rather than across. Their thighs touch, the heat of Laurent intoxicating.
Suddenly, Laurent makes a jerky movement, then consciously tries to tamper it.
“Oh, yes, sir,” Laurent says quickly. “Just — my back is sore.”
Damen runs his tongue over his teeth.
He shouldn’t be acting on this. It’s unprofessional.
Very deliberately, he settles his palm over the space between Laurent’s shoulder blades. “You’re tense,” he says, a little surprised by how stiff Laurent is.
“Hmmph,” Laurent’s noise is a choked up sound. He bites his lip. His eyelashes flutter. “Yes…” he says, the sound a gentle, steady exhale.
Damen pushes down, lets his hand feel the warmness. Laurent shifts into the touch. His breathing hitches. His eyes fall shut, and Damen notices the delicate skin, the way blue veins criss-cross over in an intricate pattern.
He squeezes again, and this time, Laurent moans. It’s a soft sound, but it’s captivating.
Damen takes his hand away.
Laurent turns to him, confused. Damen winces again. “Sorry. I should — I remembered I have some things to clear up.”
“Oh,” Laurent says again, frowning. “Okay.”
Damen has to make a quick detour to the bathroom.
Kashel is sitting on his desk when Damen returns from his fourth meeting of the day. She has a obnoxiously sparkly headband on, with the words, ‘Merry Christmas!’ written in loopy calligraphy.
“It’s the second of December,” Damen says, deadpan, and she glares.
“I know, you asshole.” She shoves a box under his nose. It’s filled with loose, scraps of paper. “Pick one.”
“Damen. I refuse to have this conversation with you every year. Pick a name.”
Damen sighs and fishes around half heartedly. When he picks one up, she nods in satisfaction, jumping off his desk to leave. Over her shoulder she calls out: “Limit is thirty dollars!”
“Too expensive!” Damen calls back, and chuckles when she makes a face.
He unfurls the little note.
As their section gathers into a makeshift circle and begins to unwrap presents from their secret santas, Damen realises he’s screwed up.
He’s completely forgotten the office’s inside joke of gifting phallic shaped, or phallic inspired giftware. When the fourth dick shaped candle has been opened to uproarious laughter, he clenches his fists in panic.
His own gift — a mug with crude penises drawn all over it — makes him panic even more.
When it’s Laurent’s turn, Damen considers bolting. He manages to stay statuesque in his seat as Laurent makes a show of shaking the box near his ear. But Laurent opens the gift neatly, with gentle fingers.
His eyes widen when he sees the box: a sleek, black one with the label charls written in type block.
“Oi!” Lazar shouts. “Who didn’t get the memo?”
Everyone laughs, except Laurent who opens the box up and picks up the silk, cornflower-blue scarf with one hand. It flows over the tips of his fingers like water.
The circle moves on, but Laurent continues to stare reverently at the scarf.
And then his eyes meet Damen’s.
“This — is. Bad,” Damen breathes, mouthing along Laurent’s jaw. “Unprofessional.”
“Mmm,” Laurent says.
Jasmine lingers in the air, and Damen kisses him again, addicted to the shape and feel of Laurent’s mouth against his — since the first time just an hour ago, in the darkened corner of the room as the Christmas party had raged on.
Laurent pushes himself up onto his elbows, which are going red from being pressed to the wood of Damen’s desk. His moans are lost into Damen’s mouth, and Damen doesn’t know if he wants to swallow them up or let them dispel around them.
“Can you just —” Laurent pulls off the kiss to pant, mouth red and wet, “Fuck me already. I’ve been waiting for so long.”
“How long?” Damen says, desperate to know.
Laurent licks up his jaw, the noises sloppy. “Since I sat on your lap.”
Damen laughs, burying his face into Laurent’s neck. “So only a few years behind me, then.”
Laurent looks at him, wide eyed. “Years?” he says in awe, and Damen has to kiss him.
Ten minutes later, Laurent has to bite into Damen’s shoulder to keep the rest of the party from hearing him scream. Damen likes that so much.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Damen breathes, hooking Laurent’s milky leg over his shoulder, driving deeper into him, into the suffocating heat. Laurent pants below him, completely flushed and sweaty and fuck; it’s the most beautiful thing Damen’s ever seen. He tugs on Laurent’s lips from between his teeth, hungry and completely unrestrained. Laurent groans gravelly, bucking his hips unintentionally, finger nails trailing down Damen’s sweaty back. With hooded eyes, he pulls Damen down, chest against chest, legs wrapping around the waist as he kisses him deeply, warm and wet. Laurent pants against his mouth, fingers pulling at the hair at the base of Damen’s head—and fuck, it turns Damen on more than anything.
Laurent spreads his legs wider to take Damen deeper, and the latter groans in approval as he sees all the red and purple bite marks decorated all over the inside of Laurent’s creamy thighs.
“Fuck Damen—” Laurent throws his head back, and Damen’s stomach tightens at the needy way Laurent calls for him, “I’m coming.”
Damen doesn’t last long after that.
Later, on the carpeted floor of his office, with Laurent cuddled against his chest, snoring, Damen sends an email to HR, requesting a meeting first thing on Monday morning.
He also sends an apologetic email to the cleaning crew.