This is not a love song

Most of the time, Wout didn’t think about Christophe listening in. The years of Christophe working as his handler meant that they’d shared almost everything- meals, injuries, living quarters, inane childhood stories. Christophe’s voice in Wout’s ear had simply become a fact of Wout’s life, not so different from bottles of hair dye in his medicine cabinet or the habit of checking for tails in reflective surfaces.

So that was why Wout felt a jolt of surprise when Christophe cleared his throat and said, “I’m going to sign off now.”

Wout unlatched his mouth from Mathieu’s neck. He had run into Mathieu at the hotel bar, and they’d made polite, meaningless small talk until Wout had invited Mathieu back up to his room. It wasn’t a coincidence. Wout knew that Mathieu was likely also here to keep an eye on an American ambassador with maybe a little too much discretionary income while he was on vacation to Dubai. Globalization meant that even competing and rival intelligence agencies ended up on the same jobs with the same targets, tracking the same information. Wout had run into Mathieu more than enough times to prove that theory out.

Said ambassador was two stories below them, entertaining a pair of sex workers Christophe had already paid off to snoop through the ambassador’s things. Mathieu and his handler had probably already done some variation of that too. Which meant that, when they met at the bar, both of them were doomed to be bored and restless until the man was finished with his business and eventually met up with one of his contacts in the area. Wout had equal odds on it being the Saudis or the Russians, but they didn’t have any solid evidence of either just yet.

So anyway, that was why he was kissing his way down the column of Mathieu’s neck. Wout had forgotten he was still wired up and Christophe could hear (and see, if he had pulled up the room feed on the monitors). The last few times he’d done this with Mathieu, they’d been off-the-clock, for lack of a better term. A day off, a chance run-in at an airport.

This time, Wout had been coming off an attempt to tail the ambassador’s assistant with Christophe keeping him apprised of the ambassador’s whereabouts.

Wout hadn’t officially signed off and disconnected his comms when he bumped into Mathieu. He remembered that now. How long had Christophe been listening? Maybe this entire time.

Mathieu, deciding that Wout wasn’t being proactive enough, undid the buttons of Wout’s shirt as he nibbled on Wout’s jaw.

Christophe said, “I’ll, ah, leave you to it.” His voice had the careful, deliberate diction it had when he was speaking to contacts in English.

“No,” Wout said out loud. It slipped out on instinct. He still meant it.

Mathieu’s hands stilled. He pulled back. A frown crossed his face. “No?” he asked.

Wout didn’t hear the tell-tale sound of the radio connection snapping shut, so he knew Christophe had heard him. Not only heard him but listened. Wout smiled at Mathieu, and the smile was more genuine than not. He grabbed hold of two fistfuls of Mathieu’s shirt and pulled him away from the wall. Mathieu didn’t resist. Wout said, “No, I want you here.” He pushed Mathieu onto the bed. Mathieu didn’t resist this either.

They were speaking in French. The first time Wout had met Mathieu, he had been pretending to be a French national, a tourist visiting Thailand. Wout had clocked him as another intelligence operative, but he didn’t learn Mathieu was really Dutch until much later. Wout had kept up the pretense in the intervening years, and now it was just a habit. Christophe’s Dutch comprehension was excellent, so it wouldn’t have mattered which language they spoke. Wout still liked that Christophe was hearing this in French anyway.

“All right,” Christophe said. Wout had quite a bit of practice reading the different inflections of Christophe’s voice. This particular tone was resigned and laced with apprehension.

Mathieu stripped off his shirt and his undershirt. His chest was as smooth as it always was. Wout didn’t know if he waxed or if he did some kind of laser removal, but it definitely seemed closer than what one could get with just a razor blade. Christophe’s chest was always dusted with dark hairs. Not as thick as Wout’s when he let it grow out, but still respectable. As much as Wout was used to Christophe’s hands on his body — patching him up, stripping him of his clothes — Wout had only ever touched Christophe’s chest once, after a bullet grazed his ribs in a shootout.

As Wout ran his hands over Mathieu’s bare skin, he wondered how coarse hairs would feel like under his palms instead. “I’ve been thinking about this,” Wout said. “All the time.”

Their mics filtered out ambient noises to carry human voices better, so Wout couldn’t hear Christophe’s reaction at first. Just dead silence. And then Christophe said, low and deadly serious, “Wout, what are you doing?”

Mathieu just rolled his eyes. “You know I’m a sure thing. No need to butter me up like one of your marks.” He shed his shoes and socks, tossing them onto the floor.

Wout shrugged. He smiled and didn’t care if it reached his eyes. “Maybe I’m just feeling a bit sentimental.” There was a moment, right before everything hit the fan, when the tension in the air would vibrate at its own frequency. Wout could feel it now, all the way into his bones.

“We don’t— This isn’t–” Christophe said. He was right. They didn’t talk about this. Christophe would pull off Wout’s clothes, and Wout would listen to Christophe’s voice in his ear. And they never let it go any further than that.

Mathieu snorted and tilted his head to the side. “So what’s on the menu for tonight?” he asked.

Wout peeled his shirt off, then undid his belt. He held it in his hands for a moment, thinking of the weight of it, the expensive leather, smooth and supple, then folded it in half. “I want you to hurt me,” he said. He held it out for Mathieu to take.

Christophe swore over the comms in three different languages.

There was a sense Wout had developed when working with assets, an awareness of exactly when they were on the hook, ready to be reeled in. Christophe was on the hook now. Agency policy meant that Christophe couldn’t break contact with Wout while Wout was in physical danger, regardless of the circumstances.

And, well, who knew what would happen from here. Mathieu raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t hesitate to take the belt from Wout’s hands, still folded in half, he gave the belt a few experimental flicks.

“That’s a lot of trust you have in me,” he said.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Christophe hissed.

Wout didn’t. That was the deal with intelligence work. For all the effort they did to buy and sell information, most of their decisions still had to be made with partial knowledge and educated guesses. He slid his pants down his legs. “I have a vision,” he said.

Christophe swore again, this time in a fourth language.

Wout’s Farsi was shakier than he would like, but they always picked up swear words first when it came to new vocabulary. Vision was the code word that meant Wout wanted Christophe’s eyes on him for backup. He wanted Christophe to see this happen.

Wout and Christophe had installed the cameras in Wout’s hotel room earlier for safety purposes. Paranoia was the name of the game. Even with all the risks they took, they had to have backup plans and insurance policies. Whatever modicum of protection they could provide for themselves.

Christophe said, “Alright, I’m patched in,” just as Wout bent over the desk, stripped entirely naked now. There were other places they could do this — like the bed — but this one meant that the camera in the far corner had the best view of Wout’s back.

Wout let his eyes drift closed. Christophe was watching over him now. Some of the tension melted from his shoulders. He always felt safer with Christophe’s eyes on him. Christophe was the best handler in the business as far as Wout was concerned. He had all the skills to become a field agent himself, if he ever wanted to. Instead, he decided to chain himself to Wout, to pull Wout out whatever shit Wout got himself into. Wout was forever grateful for that.

“Do you want a safe word or something?” Mathieu asked. Wout couldn’t see his expression, and his voice had a bland and neutral tone.

Wout shrugged, also using the moment to release some of the tension in his lats. “If I tell you to stop, then stop.”

“He better,” Christophe grumbled. He wasn’t the most talkative handler Wout had ever had. He kept focused on their objectives and would only occasionally drop wry commentary or a snide remark. Wout loved hearing it when he was out in the field. Not only the reminder that Christophe was there, but also the bright, fizzy feeling in his stomach when he had Christophe’s full attention. Wout wasn’t naive enough to call it “love”. Their jobs didn’t allow for that sort of softness and vulnerability. But sometimes, Wout let himself pretend it was the real thing.

“Sure,” Mathieu said. His tone was bored. He sometimes sounded lazy in a way that Wout was convinced was a front, a means to hide how much he really saw and heard. “Ready?”

Wout nodded. His skin prickled with anticipation. He didn’t get this as often as he wanted. Most of his hookups only had a hint of this intensity, the edge of cruelty that he craved.

The first hit was sharp. It caught Wout squarely across the shoulder blades. The sting chased its way up his spine. Wout was no stranger to pain. He welcomed it, even. The fact that he enjoyed the combination during sex was probably some sort of terrible byproduct of his job. Something was broken inside of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Good enough?” Mathieu asked.

Wout nodded again. The next hit was lower, off center, almost entirely on Wout’s left ribs. Harder, this time. Wout hissed through his teeth.

Another hit. Then another. Each one sent shocks through Wout’s nervous system. Wout craved sensation during sex, and he’d done all sorts of things over the years to get it. He liked the simplicity of pain, the sharpness of it. He reveled in the kiss of the leather against his bare skin. Arousal sang through his nerve endings.

Mathieu’s strikes were steady but unpracticed. It was the kind of skill of someone used to physical activity, but not used to flogging someone as part of BDSM play. It was an interesting factoid about him, something Wout could file away in case it was needed later.

Most of the time, Wout’s mind was a buzz of static. A list of things to do or to worry about or to note. The pain brought clarity. His world narrowed down to the moment. Fights were like that, too. He curled his fingers on the polished wood grain of the table. He didn’t bother swallowing down his moans. It would be good for Mathieu’s ego, and Wout wanted Christophe — he wanted Christophe to hear them.

He even let his eyes fall closed, reveling in the sensations. He wondered what Christophe looked like behind the monitors. Were his eyes dark with arousal? Were his lips parted? Was his cock hard in his pants?

Wout wished he could see. It felt unfair. Christophe could see him after all. The reddened lines on Wout’s skin. The twisted mixture of pain and pleasure on Wout’s face. The—

One of Mathieu’s strikes lashed across Wout’s hip. He’d been moving in an irregular pattern across Wout’s back, making it impossible for Wout to anticipate where the belt would land next. That had been good, even great. Except—

Wout’s vision blurred, throwing him back into the memory. It had been an ordinary fight. Three thugs who were hired muscle for a low level arms dealer. Cheap hired muscle. No skill or technique. Wout should have been able to handle them without even raising his heart rate. But he’d made a miscalculation, just a single moment of distraction. One of the thugs had a knife. The knife found its way into Wout’s hip, tore through skin and muscle and tendon. An explosion of pain so violent Wout had nearly blacked out from it.

He still didn’t know how he’d gotten out of there alive. The next thing he remembered was a hospital bed in the middle of the night, his head in a fog of painkillers, and the soft orange glow of the streetlights through the window. Christophe busted him out a few days later, and he’d refused to give Wout any of the details.

It wasn’t the pain Wout was feeling the echo of now. The pain had sucked, but what he’d hated was the humiliation of it. He’d escaped explosions and shootouts with barely a scratch, but all it had taken to feel his mortality, the fragility of his flesh and bone body, was some punk with a knife.

Wout squeezed his eyes shut and grit his teeth, fighting down the bile in the back of his throat. He refused to let even the tiniest bit of it show on his face or his body. He had no problem stripping himself naked and handing Mathieu a weapon, but he would rather summon every bit of torture training he’d ever learned than show this level of vulnerability to him.

Then there was Christophe’s voice, low and steady in his ear. “Hey, hey. Stay with me.” Wout pulled himself out of his fugue state enough to anchor himself to the familiar rise and fall of Christophe’s tone. When Wout got himself into trouble, he trusted Christophe to get him out.

Mathieu must have realized something had changed. The next strike didn’t come. “You doing okay?” he asked.

Wout’s throat worked, but no words came out. He just nodded. His thoughts were still slippery. Every time he tried to seize one, it evaded his grasp.

“You really like this, huh?” Mathieu asked. He dragged the belt across Wout’s back. The touch wasn’t rough, but it still sent jolts of pain through Wout’s nerves. “Suffering looks good on you.”

“He’s not wrong,” Christophe murmured. His voice was hushed, almost confessional. “You— you were beautiful. And you took it so well.”

“Yeah?” Wout asked out loud. The word came out a little slurred. Christophe wasn’t guarded with his praise. He would congratulate Wout on a picked lock or important intel finessed out of a contact. The boundaries of it had always remained strictly professional, though. This, though, made Wout’s cock twitch.

Mathieu said, “If I’d known you were such a pain slut, I would have fucked you up sooner.”

Christophe said, “It kills me every time I see someone else touch you.”

“You’ve had your fun,” Mathieu continued, “now I get to have mine.” He manhandled Wout, leading him to the bed. None too gently, but none too roughly either.

Wout put up a tiny bit of resistance, just to see what Mathieu — what Christophe — would do.

Mathieu narrowed his eyes. His fingers tightened around Wout’s arm. Not hard enough to bruise or cut off blood circulation, which meant he wasn’t being too mean about it.

“Be good,” Christophe admonished with the same sharp snap he used to report enemy movements or deliver access codes.

Wout did what he’d been conditioned to do after years of listening to that tone: he obeyed.

Mathieu smirked as Wout relented, letting Mathieu lead him to the bed. The sheets were soft and expensive, but Wout’s back still felt tender and sore as he lay down on them. In a good way. A reminder of what had, what was still, happening here.

Wout didn’t put up even a token resistance. He let Mathieu position him where he wanted him as Christophe murmured soothing words about how pretty Wout looked laid out like that, how good he was being, how obviously hard he was even from the awkward angle of the camera.

Once he was done arranging Wout how he wanted, Mathieu climbed onto the bed and straddled Wout’s chest. Mathieu said, “I’m going to fuck your mouth, and you’re going to lay there and take it.” He placed his thumb on Wout’s chin, and looked straight into Wout’s eyes. His cock was only half-hard, but Wout knew from experience how long and how thick he could get, how Wout’s jaw would be left sore and aching the next morning.

“Open up,” Christophe said, “I want— I want to see you take this too.” Now that they’d started this thing, he didn’t seem able to stop. Wout didn’t want him to stop.

He parted his lips. Mathieu slid his cock in with the same careless ease he did everything. Wout felt his mind go quiet. He was nothing to Mathieu but a warm body to be used. All he had to do was keep his jaw slack and his teeth covered.

“You have a mouth made for sucking cock,” Christophe said.

Wout let his eyes fall closed. He let himself imagine if– if it was Christophe there with him, if it was Christophe’s knees squeezing his shoulders as Christophe’s cock found the back of his throat. He had Christophe’s voice whispering filth and praise both into his ear, and Wout could almost, almost believe that it was real.

Christophe said, “Touch yourself for me. Not for him, for me.” Wout let out a moan around Mathieu’s cock, a new rush of heat rolling through his body. Christophe might not be physically present, but Wout was fucking him all the same. His hand found his cock, and he began to jerk himself off.

Mathieu let out a grunt and pushed in deeper. Wout relaxed his throat.

“Fuck. You’re being so good. You’re incredible.” Christophe’s voice had gone hoarse, raspy. Wout wondered if he was touching himself, too. His hand sped up. His grip tightened. He imagined Christophe at his desk, fly undone, hard cock pulled out over the band of his underwear.

Wout couldn’t speak, but if he could, he would say, This, this is for you. He spread his legs, made his movements as exaggerated and showy as possible, and hoped the cameras captured several different angles of it.

“I’m close,” Mathieu said.

“Come for me,” Christophe said.

Wout came with a strangled whine. It rolled through his body, leaving him fuzzy-headed and limp. His back still ached. His fingers tingled. Christophe whispered gentle, soothing words, talking him through it.

Above him, Mathieu groaned. He spilled into Wout’s mouth and down Wout’s throat. Wout wasn’t able to swallow it all down fast enough. Some of it leaked from the corners of his mouth.

He could feel Mathieu’s cock soften against his tongue. He blinked his eyes open as Mathieu pulled out. Mathieu’s skin was flushed pink, and his lips had twisted into a thin smile. Wout’s limbs felt heavy, too heavy to move. He could only watch through half-lidded eyes as Mathieu got dressed. Christophe had gone quiet. Wout missed the sound of his voice.

“Well,” Mathieu said. He was back in his dress shirt and slacks, and he was sliding his shoes on. He looked as put together and as neat as he had down at the hotel bar. “That was fun.” He finished buttoning his cuffs and then gave Wout a nod. “I’ll see you around.”

He didn’t bother giving Wout a second look as he left the room. The door closed behind him with a click.

A silence fell. Just the quiet background hum of the HVAC and Wout’s own heavy breaths. Goosebumps rose up on his skin. His mouth felt dry and sore.

He pulled himself up into a seated position. His back protested. None of the muscles in his body wanted to move or be moved. When he was somewhat upright, the door lock to the room clicked open. Christophe stepped inside.

He gave Wout a quick, analytical once-over, the kind he always did after a mission. His brow furrowed with concern, and then he strode over to Wout’s side. “Let me see,” he said, more of a demand than a request.

Wout turned, shifting so that Christophe could see the reddened lines on his back. Christophe located their first aid kit, rooted through it with his usual efficiency, and pulled out some cold packs.

Christophe placed them against Wout’s back. Wout hissed at the sudden cold against his overheated skin. Christophe said, “I suppose asking if it hurts is a little pointless.”

Wout shrugged. “It hurts the way I like it to hurt.” He breathed in Christophe’s scent, warm and familiar. He thought– he thought maybe there was an undercurrent of sex there, but the whole room reeked of sex.

“Okay,”Christophe said. He seemed determined not to let their skin touch, like it was some sort of boundary he refused to cross, despite all the other lines they’d already crossed tonight.

Wout glanced over his shoulder. Christophe’s face was closed off. His expression was a mask of professionalism. They were mere centimeters apart, but Wout had felt closer to him half an hour ago, when Christophe was an entire floor away. Wout was still naked. His belly was splattered with come. His lips were bruised and swollen from sucking Mathieu’s cock.

For whatever else Christophe was pretending, there was nothing professional about this. In another hour, they would put back on their personas. They would follow the ambassador to his contacts, and they would get on with their actual jobs. But here and now, they were on Wout’s wrecked bed and tending to Wout’s wrecked body.

Wout slumped backwards until Christophe needed both hands to take his weight. Christophe caught him. Wout knew Christophe would always catch him. Everyone had their polite fictions, the ones they needed to tell themselves to keep living their lives. This was one of Christophe’s. In Christophe’s mind, nothing had changed. They would continue on as they always had, and they could pretend tonight had never happened. Wout closed his eyes, relaxed into the comforting embrace of Christophe’s arms, and let him believe that.