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They arrive at the lobby of the grand hotel by sundown, the gentleman and his escort, and are immediately clocked as an odd pair. One has to wonder very little to understand why. There's the boisterous, grizzled old man, and his taciturn male companion; following him around like a rude luggage-carrying shadow. While one smiles, the other glowers. Only one of them speaks to the staff, and it's always the former. The second's job is to look eternally impatient, and brooding, like he doesn't want to be here.
They look far from related. They bear no engagement rings. They barely acknowledge each other's presence, so it's not as if there's the telltale push of a relationship to be analyzed, if anyone had to guess.
They seem to be here on strict business purposes.
Rich people, the receptionist thinks, not even daring to interject about beds or the lack thereof when the speaker only requests a single, big room— the biggest one they've got!— rich people are fucking weird.
She averts her gaze when the second stretches out his hand for the keycards, loosening long and stony brown fingers from underneath leather gloves, as his superior whistles on down the hallway with the rolling suitcases thrumming behind him. And it’s not out of fear, no, but something in him warrants intimidation.
Dirk doesn't mind the looks as much as he used to.
Lately, he thinks all of it is a bit funny. Harley greets the staff, Harley shows airport officers their passports, Harley introduces them to business associates and strangers alike as 'Mr. Harley & Strider', Harley shakes the hands, signs the contracts, gives the speeches, pays the expenses, provides the seating, makes all the boring small talk; Dirk simply stares. And eats, when he feels like it. His shades make him look unnerving, and are the chief reason why people usually opt to disengage after a quick "Who's, ah, is that your bodyguard? He has a sword, you say?"
All in all, it's not a bad life. Worst part of it, by far, is having to deal with the uppity folk; gritting his teeth through pasty businessmen who treat him like an inanimate object and ask if he can be removed, being tasked with holding the drinks when they don't respect his place, or having to resist the urge to laugh when something really stupid has been said, but there's not enough privacy between him and Harls for him to riff on it.
He gets the pleasure to handle the keys to their rooms like a big boy, however, and this one is quite the showstopper.
"Shit, they done messed up and gave us a fucking palace." Dirk whistles low as the door unlocks, revealing the sight of gaudy and opulent decor. Painted porcelain vases, real and immaculate flowers, a small sofa and sitting chair. Patterned flourishes to the golden wallpaper. A sleek television screen mounted on the leftmost corner that is almost as big as the king sized bed is wide. An actual, honest-to-god functional fireplace.
Harley chuckles as he moves past, undoing the latch on his heavy wristwatch. It's a melodic and unassuming sound, but heavier than his customary chipper tune. Habit and keen observation betray him—Dirk knows immediately something's wrong.
"Enjoy it! We've got eleven hours to dilly-dally around 'til the next flight, then we'll be handing it right back, the way we found it." He says, in an imitation of excitement. The smile is peeling off him.
Right, the flight cycles. They've been riding on planes like the world's about to end. Tracking the elusive breadcrumb trail of an alien weapons dealer that's been crimping Skaianet's style with their shipments of modified tech at an absurdly affordable price. Harley thinks the bastards are so good he ought to give them a job. It's like the old saying goes: you keep your friends close, and invite your enemies to a private 5-course dinner date on your company's stead.
Dirk harbors a quiet sense of respect for how Harley can wink his way into running a multi-millionaire business. The character hasn’t failed him yet.
"What's next in the itinerary, chief?" Dirk asks casually, edging some friendliness into his words.
"Spain."
"Right, that's looking really promising. It's the biggest fish we've got so far. If we're lucky, it's on the hook." He warms up with every syllable, making a show of stretching his arms overhead until there's a brief pop.
"Mhm."
Short. Curt. Not much for conversation, then.
They're in Argentina right now, so that makes it about… no less than a twelve-hour flight until their next destination, if they're feeling lucky. He can tell Harley's not looking forward to it, given the way he's switched to one-word answers. The why is no secret. Their target has been giving them the runaround of the century.
Dirk watches his boss sit at the right side of the bed like his body weighs ten times its actual size. He rolls his stiff shoulders, stretches weakly, once, and then promptly focuses on getting his leather boots off.
Deciding to spark some conversation to clear the air, Dirk strolls around the room, investigating. This is a professional term on his field, which means he's fiddling with the hotel towels, looking through the chocolate basket, checking inside the minifridge (there's actual champagne inside, because of fucking course there is), poking at the AC, carding through the tableside menus for order, and in this scenario; pulling back the curtains to a massive running glass door that leads them outside. The view genuinely surprises him.
"Hey, boss, you might wanna see this. Looks like we got ourselves a whole private pool." Dirk boasts, playful. "A damn pretty one, too. Full view of the city line. If we're extra lucky, maybe there's temp control." He hopes the unspoken invitation will drip from his Texan lilt and weave itself into the root of the other man's mind.
Last time they got into a pool, it had been a natural one in Greece, surrounded by solid dark rock and with lights embedded in the padded borders. It had a tropical minibar built in the middle of it and everything. He got them sparkling neon drinks in exciting citrus flavors, toasted to nothing special, and showed off his strokes. Harley laughed when he spat water jets from his mouth like an unnaturally blonde dolphin.
It had been midnight, and it had been empty, and it had been far removed enough from the main building that they ended up fucking right there; Dirk's fifteen-buck gift shop speedo stretched clumsily over one half of his ass, his moans stifled by Harley's palm, both of them rutting feverishly like a pair of teenagers riding on the adrenaline of getting away with something risky. He felt giddy for most of the next day, basking on the bemused, complicit glances Harley would sneak his way, and the occasional squeeze on his bottom when they rode on a deserted elevator.
They weren't anything official. Hardly anything serious, if Dirk had to put a definition to it. Their relationship was professional first and foremost, but sometimes the old guy slipped. He got too emotional, or too caring, or too tense, and if Dirk offered himself as the right salve, he would take it without questioning or hesitation. It made for a splendid off-duty distraction.
The first time it happened it seemed almost instinctual. They had been discussing details of the plan like experienced co-workers, poring over the memory of a meeting with a small time CEO guy something-or-other, and Harley kept prompting him for his opinion. You were there, you saw that, didn't you? What'd you think, chap? Is he as dense as he sounded like? You think he's telling the truth?
It was exhilarating. He liked his jokes, his boss had told him, slapping his shoulder in a warm show of camaraderie— and he thought he had one keen mind for cracking information. Dirk had never gotten riled up so fast.
He supposes there could’ve been a far worse end to insinuating himself to a superior, if he hadn't been so… receptive.
But back to the present.
"Not much for swimming today, I'm afraid. I've got to sleep on a real bed while I have the chance." Harley replies with a sigh, pulling his leg from the first boot and rolling the sock off with it. "Far from me to keep you stranded, though, be my guest! I'll order us something while you're out and about."
Dirk returns the curtain to its original place, nodding to himself. Maybe the answer is something else. He kicks his shoes off nonchalantly, dropping his hat on the sofa and pretending as though he's undoing his belt for a quick dip outside, bidding his time.
He listens in for the cue. Harley pulls off his second shoe, and that's when Dirk approaches, secure and silent as the devil, smoothing his hands over the man's broad shoulders. This is the only position that allows him to loom tall over the other; it tricks him into harboring a false sense of control. His thumbs rub circles into the tense junctions of bone and muscle, stiff under the white shirt, and Harley hums, head leaning on his torso.
"Not to intrude, but intrudin' anyhow," Dirk says, and the old man huffs a mellowed laugh in response. "You seem stressed, Jake."
"Ah, worrying that you can tell. You think everybody knows?"
"Not everybody, no." Dirk undoes the first few buttons on his crumpled dress shirt, allowing his hands to infiltrate deeper. Harley breathes harder when Dirk is brushing his hands across the hairs of his chest. "Only those paying attention."
"You pay attention to me, Mr. Strider?"
"I'm paid to." Dirk grins.
"Right, yes, I sometimes forget about that." Jake stumbles on his own sentence, clearing his throat. He sounds definitely flustered. "Although I suspect backrubs weren't part of your paygrade when we first discussed it."
"No, I reckon they weren't.” Dirk shrugs, theatrically tipping his head to the side. His palms grip and push, feeling him up under the pretext of massaging. “But think of them like this: quality of life package upgrade. We don't want you blowing up in the middle of a meeting, do we?"
"Certainly not. Very thoughtful of— um, proactive, rather, if I must say…" He shivers when Dirk trails his fingers down his spine, practically hugging him while standing up. “Seems like your hands are as clever as the rest of you.”
Dirk nudges at the side of his head with his nose, awfully intimate.
"Let me blow you." He whispers, right at the crook of Harley's ear.
Jake goes mute. For a moment there's nothing, then the sound of him fiddling impatiently with his belt. Dirk makes quick work of his other buttons, pulling his shirt down from the shoulders.
He drops to his knees.
The view is different from there; now he's the one in level with the other man's stomach, patiently resting between his hulking thighs. Dirk watches him pull his belt off in long, stiff tugs, then stops his wrists short of undoing the zipper. His head signals an effusive "no".
"It's all yours, if you want it." Jake prompts with good humor, much to his assistant's embarrassment. "No need to be hasty, lad."
Harley gives him room, only apprehensive at first. Dirk can feel a pair of attentive emerald eyes drinking him in, no doubt logging his behavior as a small curiosity to be analyzed, over wine, at a later time.
Dirk steadies himself on the wrinkles of the older man's pants, tracing the folds of his inner thighs. The material of his trousers is so sleek it slides smoothly past his fingers. Jake's bare stomach tightens under his touch, from the anticipation of contact; and before Dirk can have a chance to register the intrusion he's having the protection of his shades robbed from him and slipped over the head as Harley puts his hands back.
He could make a fuss about it, but whatever.
He traces the growing volume on Jake's crotch with the length of his fingers, utterly fascinated by it. Dirk's never been a patient man, so although part of him really wants to tease, his mind has higher priorities, such as popping the button. For his part, Jake is more than happy to aid him in the task of pulling his pants down.
The sight of his heavy bulge contoured in dark cotton nearly brings Dirk's mouth to water. When he thinks about it, this is probably the clearest look he's going to get at Jake's cock, up till now. Sure—they've messed around a lot, but then it's always dark, or so late in the evening the memory melts into a haze of dreamlike recollection, or the happy buzz of alcohol blurs away all the crucial details. What a fucking bummer.
Wetting his lips, Dirk makes the first move to lean in, stuffing his face in the curve of Jake's groin. He mouths at the twitching lump of his growing semi, breath ghosting covered skin. Dirk's nostrils are filled with the husky, earthy scent of him. He weighs the tightening rump of Jake's testicles appreciatively with his tongue, and it's from there that he pulls his first sound.
Jake's breath stutters, half verbalized. He rolls his hips back against the warmth of Dirk's face, dragging his length across a willing, ready mouth, and finds himself unable to resist the impulse of closing his eyes and leaning into the sensation.
Dirk feels him engorging to his limit, cheeks flushed from the position he's in. Jake has no qualms about using him like a convenient cockwarmer, no shame about his wants, no doubt about whether Dirk's going to allow him, and Dirk luxuriates in the easy acceptance of desire. It feels like being put in his natural place.
Suddenly parched, Dirk drags the waistband of Harley's briefs down, in a fever to actually taste him. Jake's cock springs free from the elastic band like arousal is it's default state of being, boasting of a healthy, reddish tan to his dark skin, and Dirk is elated to wrap his tongue around it. It fills him up— he has to lodge it in his cheek to envelop it properly, squeezing the base with his hand.
Jake moans in response, his head lolling back. He gives the wetness of Dirk's mouth a couple of test thrusts, and winds up catching him by surprise. He sounds like he's almost choking, adjusting to the presence of his dick, before even that dissolves into euphoric whimpers. It's clear how much he loves it. Dirk’s left hand has come to cup his testicles in an almost appraising way, rolling them inside his palm, and that seems to be the last bit of confidence he needs to start sucking him off in earnest.
He's sloppy, at first. Looks a little bit like he doesn't know what he's doing, saliva dribbling down the corner of his mouth. Jake is solid and salty on his tongue, and the remnants of the earthy perfume he put on this morning only invite Dirk to get closer. Daring him to lose himself in the scent.
He bobs his head along the length of Jake's skin to get familiar with it, the size and shape, neglecting breath to sate his curiosity until it calls for a break. Pulling back, he's giddy to find some of it feels wonderfully familiar; and as for all the rest, he's an eager apprentice.
Harley growls deep within his chest when he pumps the tip, applying the tiniest bit of pressure to his grip, and it makes Dirk want to grin, self-satisfied and breathless. He continues his ministrations as he moves his mouth-focus even lower, sucking on his balls as his dick pulsates, beading with the first drops of precome. Already it glistens from spit, sweat, and newly budding pre-ejaculate.
One of Harley's rough hands comes to rest above his head, knuckles tangling in wild strands of sandy bleached hair. They tighten around his scalp in encouragement, balling into a firm grip when Dirk trails his lips along the side of Jake's throbbing length, mouthing loosely at him, as he prepares to swallow him up again.
Dirk flicks his gaze skyward to find Harley's eyes locked on him, his mouth ajar, following the way he worships his dick. Cocky, he gives him a smile and a long, languid lick, like he's servicing a lollipop. He wants to be watched. To be seen.
He holds Jake's eyes as he fits him once more within his mouth, sucking up the tip like it's the only bit he can take, like he hasn't done it seconds ago; parodying the charm of a bright-eyed secretary ingénue.
He thinks it's really fuckin' funny, is the point.
"You truly love this." Jake says, in an unreadable tone that may or may not be awe. "Don't you?"
Dirk moans when his hair is tugged to nudge him into looking up, lips popping away from the cock, face a mess.
"Sorry, boss." He feels a lusty heat settling inside his groin, fruitlessly squeezing his thighs together. "Can't help my—ah, vices."
Harley considers this, placing a hand around himself— Dirk follows his movement out of the corner of his eye, expectant.
"Go on. Open up."
Dirk blinks in surprise, heart rate ticking up. He obeys the order to the letter, regardless, opening wide and dutifully rolling out his tongue for use. From behind heavy-lidded eyes, Dirk watches the corners of Jake's mouth twitch.
With the hand still grasping his dick, he slides it over Dirk's tongue, seemingly for his own pleasure. Dirk waits for it to glide into his mouth, lapping at him and following the movement of Jake's hand, but whenever he gets close, it's pulled farther away.
"Look at you!" Harley actually chuckles, mirth oozing off him. "So sweet, dear, so sweet,"
He slides his length further out of reach, rubbing it against Dirk's cheek, making it sticky and wet. Dirk whines, despite himself.
"Such a darling little whore, you are." He slaps the bulky meat of his cock against the side of Dirk's face, completing the picture of his debasement. Scrambled hair, lost shades, flushed complexion—and a gaping mouth with a dick squeezed next to it. Picture-ready. "Such a diligent cocksucker, too."
Dirk is certain somewhere along the way he must’ve crossed a wire, because he takes this as a grandiose compliment, swelling with so much desire it almost hurts, desperately eager to please.
Jake seems to take pity on him. He drops hold of his head and digs his knuckles into Dirk's lapels, dragging him up. His legs are wobbly and weak, but he doesn't need to stand up— only to get high enough so Harley can kiss him, rough and dirty and full on the mouth. Dirk whimpers uselessly, licking hungrily into it, eyes fluttering shut. He wants to do good enough that it'll earn him more praise. He wants to impress him so he's called a good little slut again. Perhaps more desperately than anything, he wants Jake to use him as he sees fit.
He keeps his total attention on the man when they part, filled with subservient adoration. When Jake lets him go, equally as breathless, he tumbles on his ass like a dropped puppet.
"Come on up, enough teasing with you." Jake prompts, legs spread, arms poised to hold him. "I'll give you exactly what you want."
Dirk gulps, and scrambles to reassume his earlier position, catching sight of the pearly precum ebbing out of his twitching dick. Once he's back in range, Dirk takes his pleasure by licking him clean. He's urgent to get Jake's cock into his mouth again, lavishing the swollen head with his tongue, moaning reflexively as he teaches himself to take it deeper without stopping. He wants to perform as something truly impressive— to gobble him up whole in a stroke.
"There, there you are." Jake waits just long enough for him to have his fun, entranced by the whole process.
It's a mystifying thing to witness, these full lips of his. He almost forgets himself. Then he cradles the back of Dirk's head with both his hands, and satisfying his wish, fucks into his pretty throat in long, even strokes.
Dirk makes himself go slack, accommodating Harley like a live blowjob toy as he's made to swallow him up, digging his fingers into the other man's thighs for comfort; to keep himself grounded, and to leave a mark. His lips are abused thoroughly and to their fullest extent— he has to close his eyes to avoid seeing glossy. Involuntary noises climb out of him with the effort, a cocktail of exertion and pure bliss. And not only him. Jake sounds like he's at the end of his wits; breath running quick and ragged, like he's so, so close, and Dirk can almost taste his reward. The tip of Jake's cock rubs at the back of his throat and he can’t think.
Harley thrusts into his mouth until his hips stutter, and the movement itself becomes too much to bear. Jake twitches inside his mouth, cock pulsating with the effort of release. He coats his tongue in bursts of dense glossy white. Dirk squeezes his teary eyes as he unloads, wanting to make sure he's got it all, not a drop wasted, yet the need for breath fools him again and he pulls back a moment too soon, getting the last spurts of hot come shot directly into his lips and nose, leaving it dribbling off his face.
Swallowing is the easy part. He's exhausted.
Jake needs a moment to catch his own breath, holding his head in his hands like he can hardly believe what he's pulled. But when Dirk next lifts his eyes, the same familiar pair of arms is already coming to drag him up, this time to the bed, where he can get his face cleaned on the back of a shirt before it dries and crusts off. Jake unbuttons his jeans, muttering something about oxygen circulation. Dirk stares dazed at the ceiling, head fuzzy, smug as a motherfucker, as the tears accumulated in the corner of his eyes wither away.
Once he's capable of humoring rational thought, he catches sight of Jake looking over the dinner menus with a puzzled stare, coming to squat next to the bed. He has a wireless service phone squeezed between his shoulder and chin.
"Which one do you like best?"
He presents a selection of indexed cards, the same ones Dirk had glanced at earlier. Blue, green, yellow, red. They're all describing different menu courses, from personalized pizza combos to fresh barbecue on demand.
Dirk loosens one lazy finger to point up at the card that looks like it's got some fancy creamy soup upfront, with a side of traditional steamy empanadas. Jake's expression brightens, returning to the hotel phone to wrap up the order.
He permits himself to watch, lazy and curling around the pristine bed like a housecat, with nary a thought spared to guarding anything.
The old man speaks like he means it, brushing his dark hair back so its less of a crow's nest, and he chuckles into the receiver bright and true. His movements are lighter when he hangs up the comm, and when he turns around to meet Dirk back at the bed; his piercing green eyes are vivid, all-consuming.
And when he smoothes Dirk's sweaty hair out of his forehead, he'll whisper he's "incorrigible" and "unbelievable", horribly fondly, to which Dirk will retort with satire and half-hearted irony— but deep down he likes it, and he'll chase the touch of his hand. And he'll ask him to keep going, infinitely. And Dirk won't mind when Jake wiggles his jeans down, nor when he rucks his shirt up without a care, nor when his teeth find the way of Dirk's neck and wreck him, nor how his hand will slip under his briefs, dexterously teasing him. He won't mind when Jake makes him beg before he comes, filled up to the knuckles and still asking for more, making a mess out of his pants. He especially won't mind when Jake decides to keep kissing him through the ebbs of his climax, as he throbs and cries, finally, with the pulse of release.
And at some point after all this, Jake's going to tell Dirk to take a good shower, the way he likes it, and announce that they're both going to sleep on the bed while they have it (not that he ever had the intention of doing anything but). And he'll pretend like there hasn't been a seismic shift in their sexcapades, because it's just less troublesome that way, easier for what they have, but he's smiling into his bowl and giving him the glances again.
And Dirk will be forced to reckon it's not a bad life, at the end. Not at all.
Mostly, he does his job as told. And sometimes he eats, when he feels like it.