Chapter Text
Nanook: [Picture of a computer monitor, opened up to Khaslana’s wikipedia page. At this angle, a man’s legs are in frame. A masculine hand is resting on one knee.]
Khaslana: I get audited, you sick freak.
Nanook: What’s wrong with that picture?
Khaslana: I know what you’re doing.
Nanook: It’s a shame I didn’t get the picture I wanted.
Pinching Khaslana’s work cell from Phantylia’s Okhema Law records is the easy part. Getting his personal number was significantly harder. But Nanook never made it this far in life without a few shrewd gambles. What are a few threats of being sued for sexual harassment? He never mistook Khaslana to be anything but expensive.
Nan: Did you die?
Khassie: Meeting ended late.
Khassie: I SAID you didn’t need to come.
Nan: But I want to *come.*
Khassie: Disgusting.
Khassie: Where are you parked?
Khaslana is all stretched out around his c-
-ar seat. He has his head tipped back, back arched, foot pushing into the ceiling, and Nanook thrusts hard into him.
The leg slips to fall over Nanook’s shoulder.
“I’ve had Phainon exactly where you were,” Nanook drawled, and kept a tight grip over Khaslana’s ankle so he didn’t get it smashed into his face. “Moaning, in my backseat.”
Except, of course, Nanook had rearranged Phainon’s guts with the wrong type of head.
Headlights, and his car hood.
He wasn’t getting the insurance payout for that one; Phainon’s elder brother made sure of that. Nanook maintains he didn’t put up much of a fight to get any monetary claim. After all, why burn bridges with a senior attorney of his legal department’s most hated legal department?
He could get his payback in other ways.
“You’re certainly milking me for all I’ve got,” Nanook says, and punches another gasp out of Khaslana’s chest.
“Don’t talk about Phai, you dickhead,” Khaslana pants at him. “And will you hurry the fuck up?!”
“Hm,” Nanook observes Khaslana’s reddened face, his rumpled shirt, riding up to reveal his abdomen. No, he doesn’t think he will hurry the fuck up, actually. “I’m quite enjoying the view.”
Khaslana looks incensed. He twisted a hand in his own hair. “Get yourself off on your own time, bastard. I - ah - have a meeting to get to.”
“Should have thought about that before you came to my car.” Nanook snickers. “Came. Heh.”
“You’re juvenile,” Khaslana seethed, and then tossed his head back in a strangled moan when Nanook hit his prostate.
Nanook leaned forward and Khaslana smacked him when he tried to bend him over. But he let Nanook tug him into a position more comfortable for the both of them; Khaslana’s hips flush underneath him, Nanook curving in. Nanook dipped his head down to taste him; tracing the line of his tattoos, the sweat trickling down the lines of his neck.
Fingers came into his hair; it was Khaslana, guiding his mouth upwards. His words were breathy. “H-harder, you brute…”
Nanook fully crawls over him and pushes him into the car seat. He bites down hard; and Khaslana gouges his fingers deep into his back; and Nanook orgasms into him.
“Mmgh, you - uncivilized, disgusting-”
Khaslana blows his release on their clothes. Nanook shakes off his jacket and drops it below the car seat; Khaslana hisses and strips off his shirt. He was fully inked underneath, and Nanook was impressed upon that he should be forgiven for not assuming that this delinquent was a lawyer.
“I’ll drive you,” Nanook offers, because that was the sort of propriety you offered to someone when you came into their ass. Khaslana calls him a rude motherfucker. Pot, kettle.
Khaslana makes a face. “No, thanks.”
Nanook points out, “You don’t have a shirt.”
“Ugh,” Khaslana says.
Khaslana lives in a penthouse with his baby brother somewhere in the city. Nanook is not allowed to know the address. Apparently, turning up to his office building half-undressed is the less mortifying option. He has a change of clothes in his office. How often does he get ravaged out on the road?
“See you never,” Khaslana says without looking back, slamming the door on him. Nanook gazes at his ass and then snorts to himself, and drives off.
------
“W-what happened?!” Hyacinthia looks faint. She’s tilting on her side, and Anaxagoras delicately rights her on her feet.
“Spilled coffee on myself,” Khaslana says, still shirtless, rooting through his desk drawer for a solution to said problem.
Anaxagoras’s ever-present pen tapping (white noise) had ceased upon Khaslana’s bare chest in his vision. He clears his throat. “Is there a reason you chose to strip instead of simply returning with a coffee stained shirt?”
“It was a hot drink,” Khaslana says smoothly. He pulls his t-shirt over his head. It’s one of Phainon’s, which means it’s a little small; but luckily, the hideous pattern distracts from Khaslana’s… assets. The office breathes a sigh and the temperature drops a few degrees.
Aglaea raises an eyebrow, making no effort to contribute, as she sips a lukewarm coffee. Instead she asks delicately, “How’s your brother?”
“Going against medical advice and trying to get Mydeimos to take him to the gym.” I’ll just do arm exercises! Says the idiot. “Luckily, he refuses to entertain him.”
“You need a whole village with common sense to deal with a common fool,” Anaxagoras mutters, and Khaslana has to agree.
“It’s good to hear he’s in better spirits!” Hyacinthia chirps.
“Yeah, well,” Khaslana says. “Where’s my 3-o’clock?”
The office pauses. Aglaea says, “You’re not going in that. ”
“...The client is here for my legal expertise, not my fashion sense,” Khaslana argues.
Aglaea turns to Anaxagoras. “Give him your jacket.”
He whirls on her. “Wh- it’s not going to fit, woman!”
Khaslana says, “Would you rather I go shirtless?”
Aglaea seems to consider it. “I would rather you go shirtless,” she admits, “but then, I think I have a dress in my office that I can pin-”
“Goodbye,” Khaslana says, grabs his laptop, and walks out on all of them.
Khaslana returns home to Phainon attempting to make dinner. Phainon brightens up when he sees him. “Hey, bro - is that my shirt?”
“Nope.”
“I’ve been looking everywhere for that!” Phainon says. “Wait, did you wear that to work?”
“Do you think I’m insane?” Khaslana says.
“Yes?” Phainon wrinkles his nose at him.
“I didn’t wear it to meet clients,” Khaslana lies. “Just in the office.”
“Oh, ok,” Phainon chirps. “By the way, I went to the gym today-”
“Of course you fucking did,” Khaslana says.
“And they didn’t let me in.” Phainon pouts. “Did you pay them off?”
That is a good idea. Khaslana should have done that. “No, but I’ll thank whoever did it.” He walks around the kitchen counter and peers over Phainon’s shoulder. It’s a mistake, because Phainon grabs him by the collar, and jabs him where one of his tattoos hides a bruise, and says accusingly, “that’s new.”
“No, it’s not,” Khaslana says as calmly as possible, the only reason he’s not jerking backwards is because he’s afraid Phainon might lose his balance and break his other leg.
“Yes, it is,” Phainon says. “It's new-bruise color. On your neck.” Phainon should know, he gets those often (new bruises, not hickies. Khaslana would have something to say about those.) And he’s way too observant, Khaslana curses, because the dark ink of his tattoo should have concealed it.
“Come back with a warrant,” Khaslana says, and makes sure Phainon is properly braced against the table before he makes a strategic retreat.
