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June 2014 · AIIB Mission Month 1

T he day before the heist always moved quickly, and nothing about that changed just because they had someone new in their midst.

The penthouse seemed to thrum with energy as they all made their final preparations. The elevator stayed in constant motion between Herron moving equipment down and Dust carefully loading up explosives.

No one worked on the same schedule on the day of a heist, so there were no shared mealtimes. The Company grabbed sandwiches or leftovers or, in Vashvi’s case, not much other than energy drinks.

At eight , Dust had a question for Carrow and realized he had no idea where the man was or when the last time was that he’d seen him. He checked the office, the other labs, and even chanced knocking on his bedroom door.

“Looking for Carrow?” Leta asked, noticing his pacing.

“Yeah. ”

“Try the roof.”

So he did. And there the man was.

Carrow was propped against a railing on the far side of the roof, facing west. He’d already changed into his clothes for the job — abandoning the suit he’d been wearing earlier and donning black from head to toe. The sun had disappeared over the horizon, but its rays were still painting the underside of the clouds brilliant colors.

He heard Dust approach.

“Leta told me you’d be up here,” Dust said, as if that meant anything.

Carrow looked serious when he finally turned to Dust, but he didn’t look mad at having been interrupted. He held the stub of a cigar between two knuckles.

“Hm. She knows my pre-job ritual.”

“And what’s that?”

Dust leaned against the railing beside him, their arms brushing together.

“A nice cigar and a beautiful sunset,” Carrow said. “I’d offer you a cigar, but I only brought the one. And you’ve already missed the sunset.”

Dust smiled.

“That’s alright.”

“Do you do anything before you see action, Dust?”

“No,” he admitted. “I’d never thought about it. I guess I’m just too eager to get things done.”

Carrow nodded and continued looking out over the Las Abras skyline. Lights were coming on around the city.

“I’ve lost a lot of things in this business,” Carrow said. “More people than I’d care to think about. Sometimes it’s hard to see the big picture. So I come up here and I watch the sun set for what could be the last time. I have my cigar. It’s my last chance for those pleasures, if something happens, if I die. Then, I think about the people that I’ve lost and what I could’ve done to stop it from happening.”

Dust searched Carrow’s face. He hadn’t expected to catch the man being introspective, and he certainly hadn’t expected Carrow to actually share something like that with him.

“That’s a good thing to meditate on,” Dust said, finally, not sure what else he could add.

“I told you that your job is demo and redundancy,” Carrow said. Dust nodded. “I lied. Your job tonight, above everything else, is to keep my family safe. There is nothing more important than that.”

Dust considered his words. A plane pulled through the smog at the horizon, and somewhere a fire engine wailed.

“If our mission fails, if we miss the target — so be it. No job — no money, no score — is more important to me than the safety of those four people downstairs. You can fuck up the demolition plan. You can fuck up everything. But don’t forget your job — do not forget those four people and what they mean to me.”

“I understand,” Dust said.

“It’s possible that I’m wrong about you,” Carrow said. “But I think I want to add you to that list of people.”

Dust swallowed hard.

“I don’t think you’re wrong.”

Carrow didn’t smile, didn’t nod. His look was inscrutable. He stepped away from the rail and bent to stub out his cigar before pocketing the butt. Then, before Dust had a moment to react, to walk away or to ask a question, Carrow’s hands were on him, holding him gently by either side of his head, pulling him into a kiss.

Dust was shocked. He didn’t fight it. It was what he’d wanted to do since the moment he met the man, and he went soft and pliant under him, tilting his chin up to accept Carrow, riding the thrill as their lips parted, his heart beating hard.

The kiss was over as fast as it had started. Carrow stepped back, still inscrutable, totally unapologetic.

“If I die tonight, I don’t want my last regret to be having never done that — if only once.”

Dust was breathless. He didn’t know what to say.

Carrow turned without warning, heading back down into the penthouse.

“We have a problem .”

Leta’s voice was steady as she delivered the news through her comms unit.

Dust, squatting next to Herron on the promenade flanking one of the gardens on the museum property, craned his neck to see Carrow’s reaction. Standing up against the west wall, the man didn’t flinch.

“You and Wayles get out and meet us in the gardens,” Carrow said. “Let’s regroup. Vashvi, hold position.”

They all buzzed in their agreement. Herron nodded at Dust and they both crossed in the shadows to join Carrow. After a few moments, Wayles and Leta were striding up.

“What’s up?” Carrow asked.

“Kids,” Leta said, sounding particularly disappointed. “There’s a bunch of kids inside the museum.”

“Someone beat us to this?” Carrow asked, his face contorting in the shadows.

“No. They’re students,” she explained. “They’re setting something up in one of the back halls, and from the sound of it they’re way past deadline.”

“How the hell…?”

“Dunno,” Wayles said, sounding stressed. “They must’ve just come in because they weren’t there when I was in the van, disabling the security.”

“They weren’t there when I was setting charges,” Dust added.

“Not your fault,” Carrow said, letting a reassuring hand fall on Wayles’ shoulder. “Can we wait them out?”

“They’re breaking out goddamn coffee,” Wayles whined. “They’re settled in until sunrise, looks like.”

“So send me in and I’ll fix this ,” Herron said, their words sharp. The implication was unmistakable: Herron fixing the situation would mean it ended in mayhem — at least for the students.

“No civilian casualties,” Carrow said quickly. “The client was specific.”

“Well the client didn’t tell you that there would be civilians inside the target, did they?” Herron said. “Not our fault if some unaccounted for collateral damage happens because we weren’t kept in the loop about what to expect.”

“I got this,” Dust said, stripping out of his black jacket until he was down to his white tank top underneath it. “Wayles, c’mon.”

He tied the jacket around his waist as he walked, not waiting for the go-ahead from Carrow. Wayles trotted up at his heels.

“Roll up your pants legs,” Dust instructed. “Do whatever you can think of to look less… y’know, like a criminal element.”

Wayles snorted and mussed his hair.

“What’s the plan, Wrenshall?” Carrow hissed into his comms unit — they were already too far out of earshot for Carrow to stop them without drawing attention.

“Just give me 10 minutes,” Dust said. “We’ll get them out of there.”

And then to Wayles: “Take me to where you heard them.”

Dust and Wayles strode quickly into the hall where the students were working, both of them hefting the biggest cardboard boxes that they’d been able to fish out of the dumpster in the museum’s loading dock.

“Oh, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Dust said, pretending to be shocked by the presence of the students. He put down his boxes heavily with exaggerated frustration, stepping back with his hands on his hips to survey the hall. There were eight students — probably grad students judging by age — all in the midst of setting up what must be a capstone project in the flexible hallspace.

“Cohen’s kids are still here?” Dust asked, turning to Wayles and letting out a huge sigh. He turned back to the students. “Do you guys even realize what time it is?”

“Who’s Cohen? We’re not —” started one of the students. He stopped as Dust raised a hand and shook his head.

“I don’t care whose kids you are and who gave you permission to be here so late — you gotta get the fuck out.”

The students flocked to them, already protesting. Wayles struggled with the boxes in his hands.

“Put those down, goddamn it, Pete,” Dust said, turning to Wayles and fanning out his hands. Dust had lapsed into a half-Jersey accent, remembering and attempting to channel one of his favorite and most stressed-out instructors back at AIIB. “This is a problem — this is such a fucking problem.”

“We’re just running late,” said another student. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Late? Late. Goddamn 2 a.m. and you’re running late . Yeah, no shit,” Dust said.

“Just let us call Dr. Buccellati — we have permission to —”

“Oh, great, yeah, I’m sure your professor wants to hear that you’re here fucking up in the middle of a goddamn Sunday night. Let me just call Director Bauman — she’ll love that. Let me just call all of the curators at 2 a. fucking m. ”

“Hey, hey,” Wayles said, still struggling with his boxes. “Joel, it’s probably OK, yeah? They can at least keep working until we’re done for the night. What’s the harm, hm?”

“Don’t be a moron,” Dust said. “And would you put down those goddamn boxes? Arden's gonna have our heads for this — and I don’t even want to know who gave you the keys to this hall.”

“Dr. Buccellati gave us the —”

“What did I just say? ” Dust spat. In his peripheral vision, he could see Wayles trying not to laugh. “If you all pack up in the next 60 seconds and come back during real museum hours, we are going to go about our business swapping out the Urkesh exhibit and pretend like we didn’t just witness this particular piece of grad school fuckery.”

The students exchanged glances, not sure what they should make of the strangers.

“ The Erin Errington is like two minutes behind us. Seriously. You need to go before she shows.”

“Erin Errington?” one of them asked, clearly dubious.

Dust let out the most pained groan he could muster.

“Erin fucking Errington — do you kids even go to class or what? Decision Making for Conservation of Archeological Sites? ” he said, fanning out his hands again. “ Tourism and Anthropology in a Postmodern World? These titles mean zero to you?”

“Oh shit, Errington, yeah,” one of them said. Fabulous. At least one of them was buying Dust’s bullshit. “Shit, um.”

“Yeah, ‘oh shit.’ She’s not going to be pleased and she’s got Bauman on speed dial.”

“Look, maybe we should…” the same student said, turning to the group. “I mean, I’m sure Bucellati will let us come back during normal hours. The opening isn’t until 4 anyway. ”

“Her,” Dust said. “Listen to her.”

There were several more seconds of bickering, angst about grades and the necessity of extra credit. Wayles shot Dust a glance with a raised eyebrow. The tide was turning against the one holdout student who wanted to stay.

“Seriously, kids, clock’s ticking,” Dust said, sounding irritated.

“C’mon, let’s go back to campus,” the apparent leader finally conceded. Sighing and rolling their eyes at the two intruders, the students made their way towards the back door. Dust followed them, ready to lock the door behind them. He leaned out, watching them scatter to the dark cars in the staff parking lot. Dust shut the door, locked it, slumped against it, and retrieved his comms unit.

“They’re leaving,” he said, letting the anger and accent fall from his voice, 100% just him again. “You might as well just come in through the front fucking door at this point.”

“Well that was bloody brilliant,” Wayles said, joining him at the back door. He’d dropped the boxes the minute the students were out of earshot.

“Leta’s coming in,” Carrow said through the comms. “Dust, head back out here.”

It was tempting to walk around the museum now as if he owned the place, but Dust forced himself back into the mindset of a criminal. They were on a job, after all, and just because he’d fooled a group of grad students didn’t mean he’d be able to fool a cop.

It had been almost too easy to slip into another character. Had the talent for lying — for assuming and adeptly working a fake identity — been something latent and existing in Dust all along, or a new skill he had acquired only recently?

Lies stacked on top of lies in his head as he prepared to face Carrow and Herron again.

Herron may not have been impressed that Dust had found a non-violent compromise with the unwelcomed students, but Carrow couldn’t have been more pleased.

Something had told him that the kid would be more than a demo guy — and whatever quick thinking he’d just executed only strengthened that assumption.

He wanted to slap Dust on the back as he walked up, pulling his black jacket back on and smoothing his hair into place — but instead he remained neutral. No need to piss Herron off further by celebrating Dust’s success.

“Nice work,” he said once Dust was within earshot.

“All I did was buy us time.”

Carrow nodded.

“Time’s all we need.”

All that was left for the three of them to do at the moment was wait and keep an eye on their surroundings. Dust had already planted his explosives. Wayles and Leta had plotted the course to retrieve the items so carefully that it should be quick work now that they were actually inside.

As they stood in the shadows, Dust fidgeted.

“We gotta cut down this timeline,” he hissed to Carrow, impatient. “I don’t trust those kids to actually go home.”

“Herron, go around back and make sure they’re gone,” Carrow said, nodding. “Dust, you check the front.”

Both of them followed his order quickly and silently. He stood alone in the garden.

Sirens were wailing by the time Leta announced that she was emerging from a side door.

Truly, it didn’t faze him. These things happened.

“I fucking knew it,” Dust said into the comms through clenched teeth, sounding distinctly fazed . (Ah, well, Carrow thought. He would learn with time.) “One of those grad school assholes called their professor. Fuck .”

“Herron, can you draw them off?” Carrow asked.

“It’s my pleasure, boss,” Herron said. The smile in their voice was plain. “Vi, I’m gonna borrow your bike for a bit, OK?”

“Sure thing,” Vashvi said. It sounded like she was smiling too. “Leta can give me a ride, right?”

“Right,” Leta said, sounding breathless through the comms. “Carrow, I need you in the garden for the hand off.”

“Right behind you,” he said, striding up.

Dust was stuck on the other side of the museum building, not sure where he should be going, not wanting to ask and sound like a moron.

“We’ve got heat less than two blocks away,” Vashvi reported. The sirens were closing in.

Dust drew his pistol, holding it close to his body as he moved slowly around the corner. God damn it, he did not want to trade fire with LAPD tonight.

He heard Vashvi’s motorcycle before he saw it — and then there was Herron, half a block down from the museum, at the base of the building where Vashvi had set up. At some point between the garden and grabbing the bike, Herron had pulled the signature specter’s mask down over their head. They looked like the grim reaper come to life and moved like a spider. The sight still unsettled Dust.

The bike roared — Herron revving it and turning on the blindingly bright headlight to divert the cops the minute they arrived on the scene.

“I need a clear sign from everyone but Vi and Herron before I detonate,” Dust reminded them. He still had a show to put on, after all.

“Roger, I’m clear,” Leta said quickly. “Heading your way, Vi.”

“Clear here,” Wayles said. “Right behind Leta in the van.”

“Boss?” Dust asked.

The street was washed with red and blue lights as the cops turned the corner.

“Damn it, Carrow, you clear?” Dust asked turning back behind his corner and sprinting across the street. He needed to get clear, too, before it was too late to move off of the building. If Leta and Wayles were already in their vehicles, he was running out of getaway options and places to shelter from the blast he’d planned.

“Boss, where the hell are ‘ya?” Dust said into the comms. And then, as his heart pounded: “Anyone got visuals on Carrow?”

“Lost track of him three minutes ago, Dust,” Vashvi said. Her voice was distorted and Dust realized she must be running down stairs to meet Leta.

“Last contact was in the garden,” Leta said, cooly.

“ Fuck me,” Dust said, his blood running cold.

The hollow “ pock! ” of gunshots erupted on the street in front of the museum, and Dust wondered if it was Herron or the cops doing the shooting.

“I’ll circle for you, Dust,” Wayles said. “What’s your position?”

“The van’s too slow,” Dust said. “I’ve got to find Carrow, anyway. Just get out.”

A black sedan that Dust hadn’t even noticed screeched to a halt a few feet from where Dust was huddled behind a concrete piling. Carrow.

Dust sped into the street and slammed into the passenger seat of the car. Carrow was moving off before he even had the door shut behind him.

“Comms fucking jammed,” Carrow said, not looking over at him. “Everyone accounted for?”

“Everyone but you, boss,” he said. Then, into the comms unit: “I’m with Carrow.”

“I could use some backup,” Herron said calmly, the roar of the bike giving their words a strange, echoing quality.

“Where are they?” Carrow asked.

“Take a right and a straight shot — that’s where I saw them last,” Dust said. And then, to Herron: “We’re coming for you.”

They took the corner hard, just in time to see the tail-end of two police cars disappear around a corner two blocks away. Carrow gunned the engine, narrowly missing a parked car as they squealed past the museum.

“Tell Herron to head to Emerson’s. Vi, Leta, and Wayles need to redirect to the northern safe house,” Carrow said. Dust relayed the orders quickly.

“Wayles can head to the safehouse,” Leta responded, “but we’re backup until the cops are off Herron.”

Carrow didn’t bother arguing with Leta, and after a moment, Dust caught sight of Leta and Vashvi in an identical black sedan, following their path just a block behind them. Herron was drawing the cops towards the highway, Dust realized after a moment, watching their progression.

“We’re about to be on the 110.”

“I’m aware,” Carrow said. “Fucking maniac.”

The highway would have traffic, even at this time of night.

They lost track of Herron and the cops for a moment, but as soon as there was an on-ramp in sight, it was impossible to miss the string of mayhem. Herron was baiting the cops — three cars in all now — driving just slow enough that the cops didn’t lose them .

“Well, let’s draw them back,” Carrow said, flooring it as they reached the straight shot of the highway. A ripple of reaction rolled through the traffic as drivers noticed the cops, slowing and clumsily moving out of the way. Dust wished they’d just cut their goddamn sirens because the panicked drivers were making it harder for all of them except Herron to navigate the five lanes of traffic. Herron weaved a maddening path through the cars.

Dust rolled down the passenger window, the air rushing by them a sudden roar, and leaned out, emptying his clip with shots at the cops’ tires in front of them. It was no use — even if Dust were the hottest shot in town, Carrow and the cops were swerving too much. Apparently LAPD was too interested in the masked person on the bike to even notice the sedan taking shots at their tires.

And then Dust remembered. They were all clear. He’d nearly forgotten his entire point for the job.

Laughing, elated, Dust fell back into his seat and rolled up the window.

He retrieved a small tablet from the breast pocket of his jacket and thumbed through the screens.

“Brace yourselves,” Dust said into the comms.

One tap of a button and the sun seemed to rise early behind them. The sight of the blaze was instantaneous, but it took a moment for the sound of the blast to reach them on the highway. All of the drivers around them — including the cops — reacted as soon as the hollow echo of the explosion rolled over the 110. Carrow stayed the course, swerving around new vehicles, maneuvering around the cops as they slowed. Herron fell back at the same time until they were on the driver’s side of the sedan, coasting along with them. For once, the skeleton grin of their mask was a welcomed sight.

The sound of the cops’ sirens faded quickly behind them.

They had made it .

Carrow laughed hard, slapping the steering wheel. Leta, behind them now, was beeping and flashing her lights and Herron did the same. For a moment, they formed an abbreviated, grim parade, all celebrating Dust’s handiwork.

The moment passed but the elated mood in the car remained as Herron maneuvered off the highway and then Leta at the next exit. Carrow kept them going north, falling down to a more reasonable speed before finally turning to Dust and smiling.

“And that was…?”

“Several tons of explosives nestled around the perimeter of the museum,” Dust explained. “Enough to cripple the facade but positioned so that none of the artifacts were harmed — at least theoretically.”

Carrow laughed again, shaking his head.

“Surprised?” Dust asked, unable to bite down his own smile at the fact that he’d pleased his boss.

“Pleasantly,” Carrow said. “Yes.”

The poker face was gone — so far forgotten that it almost seemed like it had never existed in the first place.

“Where to now, boss?”

“Safe house south of here,” Carrow said. “It’s not far.”

The safe house ended up looking eerily similar to the house that Dust grew up in — at least from the outside. The old multi-story building was positioned on the beach and seemed to loom up on stilts. It was nondescript: just an old beach bungalow in a row of old beach bungalows, the sunbleached siding looking ghostly in the moonlight.

Carrow pulled them into the dark, open car bay and cut the lights. He grabbed a duffel bag out of the back and led Dust up the stairs, pausing to unlock the back door of the house.

The heady ocean air was stronger there, thicker, and Dust couldn’t fight the deja vu of the moment. He’d stood on other porches in the middle of the night, listening to the ocean and waiting to be let into a dark room. That was the reality of being a teenager on the Georgia coast — and even someone as uninteresting and bland as Charlie Judge had occasionally found himself sneaking around on summer nights.

Pleasure and familiarity flooded his system as past and present came together in the moment, mixing with the adrenaline of the night, and he found himself placing a hand on Carrow’s hip as the man let them inside.

The lock clicked behind them , the door separating them from the night beyond, and Dust stepped back, pulling his hand away — uncertain maybe. Carrow tossed the duffel bag away.

The silence of the safehouse was oppressive, and Carrow tried to make out the expression on Dust’s face in the dark. He ached for the other man, spurred on by the odd combination of elation at a job finished without injury, pleasure at having been right about Dust’s capabilities, and the manic joy of adrenaline coursing through his veins, still somehow not wearing off.

“Carrow —”

Carrow was kissing him before he could let doubt edge into the corner of his mind. He could have this. They could have this.

They crashed together — the heist, the night, the safehouse falling away from them.

It felt inevitable. Fated, maybe .

Every bit of adrenaline and want built to that moment as Carrow pressed the smaller man against the wall. Dust made a small shocked sound against Carrow’s mouth, half question and half pleasure. Carrow didn’t stop, and it only took Dust a moment to go pliant against him.

He tasted like the aftermath of explosions — like gunpowder and blood and ozone. Something crackled through Carrow as he claimed his mouth, kissing him deep and burying fingertips into his waist.

Dust moaned into the kiss and his hands moved frantic to the front of Carrow's shirt, fumbling with the buttons, arching against him. Everything about him was perfect — exactly the way Carrow had imagined it, Dust's tanned skin under his fingertips, the desperation in the way he moved.

He felt as if he didn’t have enough hands in that moment, wanting to trace every inch of Dust’s body, to memorize the planes of each muscle the same way he was now memorizing his mouth, his moans.

Out of breath, he pulled back but didn’t step away. Dust was breathing hard, holding him by the hips and rolling his body up off the wall to meet him.

“ Fuck , Carrow —”

“Ansel,” he corrected, equally breathless. For this moment, he could be something other than Carrow — the head of The Company, the man who had lost everything and regained more, the wanted man with his hands in every pocket. For what was left of the night, he could be someone who took risks, who indulged, who let himself feel pleasure and pain.

“Ansel,” Dust said softly, his voice almost reverent.

Carrow leaned in again, pressing a kiss into the thin skin just below his ear. It earned him a sweet gasp from Dust — and instantly Carrow wanted more, one hand keeping him steady against the wall and the other reaching down to stroke over Dust’s groin. He was already hard, the outline of a generous cock straining against the front of his dark pants. Dust arched against the touch, gasping again, and Carrow kept him suspended there for a moment, worrying the skin of Dust’s neck between his teeth while palming him.

Dust let his head fall back against the wall — didn’t attempt to reign in or muffle the sounds of pleasure at what Carrow was doing. He was already unhinged and Carrow hadn’t even gotten his shirt off yet.

Every muscle was still vibrating with adrenaline. It took all of Dust’s concentration to keep his knees from buckling as Carrow sucked a mark into his neck and worked at his belt buckle. The larger man kept him propped against the wall with his own weight — maybe sensing the fact that Dust might fall to his knees at any minute or wanting to make his bulk apparent. Again, Dust was struck by Carrow’s physical presence — the way he only ever seemed larger than life when he was this close, pressing hands on Dust.

Dust was throbbing hard and lost in sensations, coming out of the moment only when he felt the shock of skin on skin as Carrow got his fly down and worked a big hand into his boxers. The man moved confidently as he growled into Dust’s neck, tracing the shape of Dust’s cock under the garments, thumbing over his head, smeared with precum, before lightly twisting around his length.

Dust was gone . He was lost in it. He arched into the touch, pressed up against Carrow who only leaned harder on him as he stroked Dust, keeping him pinned against the wall.

Carrow kept his bulk holding Dust there and moved his free hand to cup Dust’s chin, examining him in the dim light as he moaned and worked his hips, urging Carrow to keep going. Without thinking, Dust ducked his chin and kissed Carrow’s hand, pressing hot kisses against his palm. Carrow sighed with pleasure and drew his hand back slightly, watching Dust with lust and then surprise as he explored the pad of Carrow’s thumb with his tongue.

He took the first knuckle of the digit into his mouth, stroking it with his tongue and sucking helplessly as Carrow’s other hand stroked his length. Carrow twisted around his shaft and Dust moaned around his thumb in answer before taking the thumb deeper into his mouth.

It was Carrow’s turn to moan, then, as he watched the digit disappear between Dust’s lips, felt his tongue working. His mouth fell open as he breathed harder, watching Dust work for a moment and then beginning his own rhythm, pressing his thumb into Dust’s hot mouth in time with his strokes.

He withdrew the thumb after a moment, moving to stroke Dust’s spit-slicked bottom lip with two fingers. The affection and tenderness was almost shocking. Dust parted his lips in answer, and Carrow pressed in.

Dust had no idea what the hell they were doing — and even less of an understanding of why it was turning him on. There was something raw and wrong about having his mouth claimed this way — and in the same moment, as he sucked around Carrow’s slowly-pumping fingers, something perfect. Exactly what he had needed.

Dust was pliant and lovely there in the dim light — all manic energy and eagerness as he alternately lavished attention on Carrow’s fingertips with his tongue and hipped off the wall, urging Carrow to keep stroking him .

His eagerness to please in itself pleased Carrow, made the man want to satisfy him.

Carrow began to sink down, stopping only as he felt Dust’s knees buckle to follow him. He drew his fingers out of the man’s mouth and planted a firm palm against his chest, keeping Dust against the wall as he took his new position. Dust let out a moan that sounded almost outraged as he understood the trajectory of what was happening and straightened himself against the wall, propping himself up now that he was no longer pinned.

With both hands freed again, Carrow dragged the garments down Dust’s hips, stopping for a moment to kiss the skin now exposed beneath the hem of his undershirt. He worked the tip of his tongue over one side of the deep V that spanned his hips and then moved to lavish attention on the other.

There was no part of Dust that didn’t seem to be perfect, from the noises he made to the reality of his body to the way he moved, still acting as if he were pinned against the wall even as Carrow sank to his knees to begin worshipping his body.

He freed Dust’s heavy cock, pulling his pants and boxers just a few more inches down his thighs, the man’s belt jangling and providing a tinny counterpart to their breathing, to Dust’s moaning. The moment was irresistible, better than it had been even in Carrow’s imagination.

Dust was already so desperate for it that Carrow imagined a scenario in which he could resist teasing the younger man and simply give him the release he wanted there in the dark. Carrow had no such mercy in mind, though, holding Dust’s cock by the base before painting a stripe up the underside, dragging his tongue slow and languid as if he had assessed the situation and could take it or leave it. Dust’s moans went higher into the air above Carrow and he couldn’t help but smile at the noise.

The young man was impossible and perfect and Carrow could not recall a moment he had enjoyed quite as much as this one, on his knees in the dark safehouse.

Carrow teased him , slow and relentless, and it was like nothing Dust had ever felt before that night. He’d seen the way the crime lord watched him work, seen the man’s dark eyes dart to his mouth with a hunger that was unmistakable. Dust had imagined that their chemistry would land him on his own knees — that it couldn't be the other way around.

Somehow the realization that Carrow cared enough to want to see him pleased added an extra layer of pleasure as the man continued to tease him, confident and unhurried.

Carrow worked methodically until he was swallowing rhythmically down Dust’s length. He couldn’t keep himself from burying his fingers in Carrow’s hair, curling and — when Carrow hummed around his cock at the contact — daring to tug a little. Everything about the moment was incredible, and when Carrow chanced a look up at him in the dim light, Dust almost lost it then and there at the sight of his hard-on disappearing between the full lips of the most powerful man in Las Abras — and certainly the most intriguing person Dust had met in his short life.

With a flourish, and maybe sensing Dust’s desperation, Carrow pulled off.

“There’s a bedroom,” Carrow said softly, tugging at the waistband of Dust’s clothes. The statement was so obvious it was almost laughable, but Dust couldn’t even muster a dry chuckle — his need for more was too urgent.

As he led Dust to the dim bedroom, his own erection neglected and uncomfortable, Carrow was struck with the odd notion that for the first time he appreciated the fact that Nick Short had kept stashes of lube and condoms in every safehouse.

It had irked him the first time he discovered one of Short’s caches — Carrow had been taken aback by how vulgar it seemed that the man would be thinking of sex in those post-heist moments of come down — and yet there he was in their safehouse, silently thanking the ghost of a man who had always rubbed him the wrong way.

They came together again in the bedroom, a mess of mouths and hands, Dust working to get out of his shoes, stepping out of his pants. Carrow was happy to keep undressing him, pushing the jacket off of his shoulders and stripping the shirt off of him.

Holy Christ was the kid ever perfect.

He could barely bring himself to appreciate the sight that stood there in front of him before he was leaning down, dipping to catch the hard bud of one of Dust’s nipples in his mouth to keep teasing, keep dragging those obscene sounds out of him.

Dust let out a sound of protest though, pushing at Carrow’s jacket.

“This isn’t fair,” he whined, tugging the hem of the shirt beneath.

Carrow smiled magnanimously. He didn’t think he was anything special — but if Dust wanted to see him, he wouldn’t deny him. Couldn’t, probably. He stepped back and shed his garments. Dust fell heavily to the edge of the bed, watching him intently in the dim light as he stepped out of his shoes, discarded his jacket and shirt, finally dragging his pants down but leaving the boxer briefs beneath.

He knew there was a dark smear of precum at the front of the garment, could feel the rush of air over his groin going cool and exaggerated over the release. He didn’t care — let Dust see it, let the kid know how badly Carrow wanted him, how much his body responded just to sucking him off, to having his fingers in Dust’s mouth.

He wasn’t ashamed by how badly he wanted to claim every part of Dust.

The younger man reached out, pulling him by the hips forward, humming at the sight.

Carrow smelled like cedar and sweat and brandy and Dust felt singularly pleased to press his mouth over the dark stain at the front of Carrow’s briefs. It was gratifying to see the evidence of how badly he was wanted — and even better was the raw, gravelly noise that Carrow issued as Dust traced the shape of his thick cock with his mouth through the garment.

He needed Carrow. It was past the point of want, feeling suddenly like a matter of life and death. Carrow could take whatever he wanted from Dust there in the dark — fuck his mouth, fuck him, it didn’t matter. He needed to be taken and claimed and entirely consumed. Dust palmed Carrow through the thin fabric, appreciating the heft of the member straining against his hand, and looked up at the other man.

“Would you fuck me, Ansel?”

“That’s what you want?” Carrow asked, half breathless, leaning into Dust’s touch.

Dust didn’t bother responding at first, instead hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Carrow’s briefs and dragging them down a few inches. He planted hot kisses at the base of Carrow’s cock, worshipping the inches that were exposed, revealing more slowly and lavishing every bit with his soft lips and eager tongue.

“Please,” he said finally. “ Please. ”

Carrow wasted no time, pushing him to his back and then urging him further up the neatly made bed. The mattress sagged under their weight as Carrow moved to strip himself of the final layer. Dust didn’t bother trying to hide his admiration: Carrow’s cock was perfect, hanging heavily between thick thighs.

There had been times in Dust’s life when he’d felt more than satisfied by fooling around with no clear trajectory, by rushed oral in the back of a car. But from the first sight of Carrow’s hard-on, he knew he wouldn’t be satisfied until Carrow was in him , claiming him fully, taking him to his limits.

After all — wasn’t that the natural conclusion of what he’d been after all along? He wanted more than inclusion in The Company, more than a simple job. He wanted to be wanted, to gain something beyond acceptance or even admiration. He had wanted to please Ansel Carrow since the moment he laid eyes on the man, and every time he had sensed that he was achieving that goal, he’d reaped an equal amount of pleasure in turn. What better expression of that than sex? What better way to be close to the man than to be filled by him, claimed by Carrow?

The older man took his time, miraculously retrieving lube and a package of condoms from the bedside table in the dark. It gave Dust no pause. If Carrow had fucked others in the safehouse, so be it. It was unlikely that they shared this electricity, this heat and hunger.

Dust’s appetite only increased as he watched Carrow work methodically, slicking one hand and then inching Dust further back on the bed, hitching Dust’s hips up and then pressing in a hot digit.

He hissed at the feeling of the thick finger he had been sucking on just moments ago. It had been so long since Dust had had someone, the feeling was almost foreign. Carrow responded immediately, slowing and breathing deeply, catching Dust’s mouth in a deep kiss that instantly helped him relax.

Dust felt drunk and wondered if Carrow must feel the same. The adrenaline from the danger of the heist was wearing off, but even still, every sensation was heightened. Every piece of their coming together felt larger than life.

Finally, he began to relax against Carrow’s hand, and the other man noticed, pumping into him slowly. Getting a first taste of what was to come, Dust rocked his hips up. Carrow hummed in amusement and pleasure, pulling out and sitting back on his heels again to slick a second finger. The pads of both fingers traced and teased him, just the way Carrow had so tenderly touched his lips a few minutes earlier. Dust moved his hips to meet him, craving the additional contact, suddenly more confident that this was what he wanted, to be stretched and then fucked.

“Please,” he whispered before catching one of Carrow’s earlobes between his teeth, worrying the flesh even as he ground his hips up and off the bed, craving more contact.

Carrow did not deny him. He pressed two fingers into Dust, allowing the younger man to meet him in the middle and work himself down against Carrow’s hand. The swell of pleasure was incredible, even as he willed his body to relax around Carrow’s fingers. He adjusted slowly but ignored his body altogether, almost wanting the pain, the stretch, as he fucked himself against Carrow’s hand, trying to establish a rhythm .

“Steady,” Carrow cautioned. “It’s not a goddamn race, Dust.”

“I want you,” he replied, desperate and half whining.

Carrow hummed with pleasure, as if he had been waiting for the words to roll off of Dust’s tongue since the moment they met.

“You knew I wanted you from the beginning,” Dust continued, urged on by Carrow’s sounds. “Please. I need you to fuck me. Just like this — face to face. Please, boss.”

Carrow’s muscles tensed at the word boss , as if it were a particularly rare piece of dirty talk.

He pressed a third finger into Dust, who whined and rutted against his hand, ready to demonstrate just how much he wanted all that Carrow had to offer.

Carrow took his mouth deep once more, kissing into Dust as he finger-fucked him, pressing his weight down, pinning him to the mattress in a way that was becoming more and more satisfying. And then he was gone, sitting back on his heels, opening a foil packet with his teeth, and rolling a condom down his generous length.

“We can stop — anytime you want to. Say the word.”

Dust puffed a laugh there in the dark.

“I don’t want to stop.”

And then the bigger body was back, above him in the dark, a hand lifting him by the hip as if he weighed nothing, another one guiding Carrow’s cock to his entrance. Dust was glad for the prep then, feeling the first taste of what the reality of taking Carrow’s hard-on would be like. They both sighed at the contact, the inadvertent teasing as Carrow lined himself up.

In an instant, he was pressing in. The sensation was overwhelming: too much and not yet enough, painful and at the same time so pleasant that there were starbursts behind Dust’s eyes as he squeezed them shut, willing his body to relax, to take Carrow’s length without resistance.

“With me?” Carrow said, his voice a half whisper. He sounded panicked.

“You’re good,” Dust said, opening his eyes again and catching Carrow by the back of the neck. “We’re good.”

Carrow nodded and continued to move, sinking slowly as he felt Dust going pliant under him. It was maddening waiting for his body to adjust and all the while wanting more.

Finally, then, after a few short strokes that almost felt like a question, Carrow sank in completely, his hips pressed against Dust. They paused like that, the air pulsing between them, Carrow looking at Dust like he was a rare gift and Dust unsure of what piece of this turned him on the most: Carrow’s physical power or his tenderness in that moment. He sighed, squeezing the back of Carrow’s neck and simply appreciating the sensation of being filled and claimed and safe here in the quiet, cool bedroom, his back against the strange comforter, a man above him in the dim light he’d only met the week before but who Dust knew so much about — who Dust wanted to know infinitely more about.

Dust couldn’t take it. He started moving his hips under Carrow, working his body up against him, urging the other man to move. Carrow issued a moan that was half growl, rolling his hips to meet Dust’s urgent little movements as he ducked down to suck a fresh mark into his neck. Each slow thrust had Dust yielding more, and he felt less and less as if he were balanced on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. As Carrow’s movements grew steadier, the pleasure swelled until Dust was grabbing for purchase along the muscles of his back, along his hips, doing anything to gain traction and work himself up against the other man.

Carrow was struck for what felt like the millionth time by how goddamned perfect Dust was — not only in that moment, but in all moments since they’d met, in the way he’d handled himself with The Company and made himself indispensable, with the way he’d been a salve for the wounds Carrow had caused by his carelessness in handling Short, with the way he’d been eager and hungry for everything Carrow had to offer.

His sounds alternated between broken moans of desperation and full, throaty appreciation as he took Carrow, went pliant under him. Carrow couldn’t recall a time when any body seemed to fit so wonderfully against his own — not Leta, not any of the men or women before her. The way their bodies worked together was heady and intoxicating and amplified by every noise Dust made, by every needy grasp of his hands, by the way he rolled his hips up to take Carrow deeper.

Carrow sat back, spitting neatly into his hand and snaking it between their bodies to stroke Dust, twisting around his length like it was something they’d done together a hundred times before that night.

It had been so long since he’d felt this opportunity for openness, for release, that he was quickly close to the edge, the pleasure already washing over him in waves, gathering in the pit of his stomach. He would’ve felt like a failure if it weren’t for Dust’s enthusiasm and the way his moans broke open at the touch of Carrow’s hand.

Dust was lost from the moment that Carrow began to touch him.

There was something like regret in the back of his mind and a kernel of fear. Was this the only time that they would come together? Would the man still want him when the smoke cleared and the adrenaline wore off?

Dust didn’t realize he’d been squeezing his eyes shut again, lost in the feeling of Carrow inside him, in the man’s hand on him. His eyes fluttered open to be met by Carrow’s, the dark brown irises catching just right in the limited light.

He looked so open. Human. Gone was the powerful predator, the boxer with untold strength. Carrow was just a man, and a million things seemed to be wrapped up in that look — all on display and there for the taking if Dust could just interpret them. Ansel Carrow wasn’t holding back in that moment, wasn’t shielding any part of himself. It made Dust bolder, steadier. It made him speak his deepest desire.

“Tell me this isn’t the last time.”

Carrow’s mouth dropped open, shocked maybe, and he shook his head. Their bodies worked slower as both tried to process this new layer of meaning.

“I need you to say it,” Dust begged, the words needier than he wanted, almost painful to hear in his own voice — but there was no taking them back. “Please, Ansel.”

Carrow slowed to a complete halt at the bottom of a stroke.

“If you don’t change your mind, this isn’t the last time,” he said, seriously. “I’m not going to force it on you.”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Dust said.

Carrow kissed him then, and it was different than it had been before. Dust’s own desperation was mirrored there, the kiss steady but hungry. He felt — in some way that Dust would never be able to articulate — as if Carrow were making him a promise. He would take Dust and accept him and claim him for as long as Dust would allow it.

His own orgasm swelled until he was throbbing, unable to determine the beginning of his release but knowing that it had started and couldn’t be taken back. He tensed around Carrow, pushing the other man over the edge abruptly. Carrow said his name once — a desperate, staccato syllable issued into the darkness — and then groaned, gutturally and gravelly but never missing a beat as he stroked Dust adeptly, coming hard into the body beneath him. Dust could feel the heat of his release even through the thin condom, the almost painful and surreal sensation of being filled even more, just past his limit as Carrow throbbed inside of him and Dust painted his own belly with hot streaks.

The orgasm was something beyond release. Dust felt as if, at last, he was taking off his disguise.

In some deep pit of himself, Dust Wrenshall shed the last vestiges of Charlie Judge.

He was not and had never truly been the quiet boy from the Georgia coast, bookish and capable and too afraid to be interested, to enjoy the rich life around him. He had always been Dust — before he knew Dust existed — had been simply biding his time and putting together the pieces that would someday become his reality.

AIIB was beyond an afterthought.

His world was full up with A.R. Carrow, with the family that called themselves The Company.