Oh look, I wrote another. "SPICE IT UP" YOU SAID. Now look what you've done. Yeah, in my head, Pyro's... kind of... really weird. "Coffee Break"/"Hot Date" - Pyro & You It wasn't exactly love at first sight, if you could call it love at all (not really). Interest at first sight, maybe. Curiosity. And who could blame you? Such a man was interesting at the very least. Tall? Certainly. Dark? Handsome? You couldn't tell for the life of you, and that piqued your interest. You're not exactly shy, but flirting seemed impossible - him not quite being the talkative type, so to speak. You're sure he noticed you one way or another - you've said brief hellos when eye contact was made in the hallways of the base, or when you collected garbage from around his room, if he was even around the area. A quick nod, a muffled greeting, an equally indistinguishable farewell as you went your separate ways moments later. Not much more, but enough to get you frustrated and wondering - what's behind that gas mask and for Christ's sake, why wouldn't he just talk to you? If you couldn't flirt and couldn't even talk, what step did you take from there? Well, it seemed to be that the next step was one of early-morning impulse as you knelt on the kitchen floor, fumbling awkwardly with the clasps of Pyro's suspenders as he leaned back against the counter, egging you on in short words, just about discernible from beyond the mask - "go on", "do it", "you got it". Okay, maybe not quite a logical step, but nonetheless one the both of you seemed to be alright with. The slightest happenstance was the beginning of it, simply enough. You, doing your job in the wee hours of the morning, unglamorously emptying garbage cans before the cooking crew would wake up and start on their tasks. As you were cinching up a final bag, a clattering from across the large kitchen alerted you that someone was not only present, but fixing themselves a pot of coffee. A bit of junior sleuthing - peeking around the white-tiled corner quietly - revealed that, oh, damn it, it was him. Not so far in the distance, a yellow-striped oxygen tank glared in the bright lights at you, strapped tightly to the broad back of the tall, stocky man you'd come to know as the Pyro. His breathing was audible, but easy, for the first time you'd heard. It seemed, to your great surprise, that the thick rubber of the mask that so sufficiently veiled his face was actually hitched just above his chin - strikingly bare strips of flesh shown in small spaces on the back of his neck where the edges of the mask began to climb. Intrigued beyond belief, you began to silently tiptoe towards the figure of Pyro as he continued amiably at fixing himself some coffee. It didn't surprise you much that he was making himself a drink at this hour - it was commonly known around the base that he was not only a resltess insomniac, but a caffeine addict. As you approached, it struck you that you needn't even tiptoe, as he seemed to be rather absorbed in not only making his coffee, but humming - a tuneless string of notes in low, raspy, but not unpleasant, vocal rift. On flat foot you continued until the gap was bridged, clearing your throat quietly before uttering a small "hey". The effect was not quiet what you expected - he jumped visibly, knocking the glass pot of coffee with his elbow, all the while scrambling to yank down the sides of his rubbery mask around his exposed face. In the end, seconds later, his face was hidden, and the glass pot - previously full of coffee - shattered on the ground, simmering in a brown puddle. His veiled gaze ripped from the broken pot to you as you backed, startled, away a few steps. Back to the pot, back to you, clearly frustrated. It only just suddenly dawned on you to apologize frantically, speaking in clipped-off "oops I'm sorry I didn't mean to"s. A heavy huff sounded from inside the mask, followed by something like "gfft grng" - "Good going." A blush crept into your face as your apologies got more frenzied. "Jeeze! I'm sorry! Look, lemme go get a replacement pot and a - ugh - a rag and a dustpan and a broom..." You trailed off as you turned on heel, embarrassed, booking it for the utility closet with a grimace on your face. When you returned - dishcloth and dustpan in one hand, broom in the other - his arms were crossed as he leaned against the counter, his head cocked in a way that silently (but efficiently) placed frustrated blame on the idiot coming towards him with cleaning tools. The redness in your face grew in intensity as you made eye contact through the distorting yellow of his mask lenses. You realized that "I'm sorries" were still flowing needlessly from your nervous mouth in a crude stream. You halted them as you bent down to mop up the coffee around the shards of glass before sweeping them up to escort them away to your trash bin. The second time you returned, you had the single other coffee pot in your hand, and the ruddiness of your face had finally begun to creep away. Awkardly, you (carefully) held the glass pot out towards Pyro, still looking rather disgruntled in your general direction. Coherent words finally floated to your conscience. "Look, I'm sorry," You said, handing the pot off to him, still speaking as he turned and set it down. A rather sordid idea crept into your head like the blush had to your face, and you decided to go out on a limb and gently touch his shoulder as he pushed the pot to the back of the counter. "I am sorry." You explained, speaking with a slightly different tone of voice as he started on the new bath of coffee, "I'd like to do something to make it up to you." Pyro shot a strange look over his shoulder, and just by that, you were sure he caught your drift. There was a wavering moment of silence, in which you were sure you were about to be shut down at what was already a compeltely humiliating time, before he cleared his throat and spoke through the valve of the mask, "gff m huh mndnt" - "give me a minute", you were sure. You hung back as the man, quite dedicated to his caffeine, prepared the second pot, watching in silence, thoughts racing, as he slid it into the machine, which began quietly whirring and grinding. Satisfied, Pyro turned around, still with that ever-so-slightly agitated air, and leaned his gloved hands against the counter. "Whffew hff nmnud?" The inquisitional infliction gave it away - "What'd you have in mind?" And there you were, just a short bit of convincing later, slipped conveniently to your knees on the floor and working the clasps of his suspenders, clinging desperately to the belt of Pyro's fireproof suit. Your heart pounded in your chest, and to your ears, it seemed just audible as his constantly labored breathing - now increasing in volume as his heart rate increased as well. One released - there was an audible metal clap as half of the heavy tank on his back lost its connection. A smirk plastered itself on your face as you felt the tiniest twinge of success, moving your hands to the remaining one on the left. Your fingers adapted slightly faster this time, managing to unattach it quicker, cringing just slightly as you heard the tank they suspended clatter, now loose, against the counter. There were still a few layers left between you and your goal, belt, pants, whatever was beyond that, if anything. You were sure that if you weren't so eager to experience this, the anticipation itself might kill you. The one thing already irking you so far was the almost complete lack of reaction from Pyro. It's not that it wasn't there - it could be, for all you knew - but it was undetectable, invisible under rubber and tinted glass. Instinctively, you'd look up for some sort of reassurance or emotion beyond his muffled encouragement, only to be staring up at the ventilation slots and the cold shine of dark lenses. Yes, quite irking, for a while, but in the end, you found it to drive you to create a reaction to strong you could see it through all that. Motivation if there ever was any. Exponentially easier work with his loosely fastened belt made the zipper and buttons of his pants not only viewable, but, moreover, accessible. Yes, after essentially flaying open the stiff material of his trousers at the zipper, the end point of your little race was almost visible - the almost comically vibrant sliver of orange y-fronts showcasing through the V of Pyro's open zipper, a bulge just beginning to grow beneath them (you found the slighest comfort in knowing he was feeling at least some form of growing excitement). The stifled encouragement from above had cut off, you realized, and you turned your head up towards the source, looking for something like approval to go on to the next step. Despite the silence, focusing your eyes on the eclipses of visible face through the mask revealed a pair of cocked eyebrows, no doubt accompanying a grin that was nearly expressive enough to be audible. When an enthusiastic couple of nods shook his face, you complied just as enthusiastically. A tentative hand hovered over the elastic band of the orange shorts, almost hidden under the hem of his undershirt, leaving no skin yet to be seen. You pressed onward underneath it, biting a lower lip, expectant and excited. The skin on his stomach was soft and warm, but ridden with a strange texture - scars, you realized, layer upon layer of them, a juxtaposition of burns and slashes. Odd but not unpleasant. You hooked a curled finger into the band of his underpants and slowly, coyly, began to pull, at first revealing a sparse thatch of dark hair - also etched into with needling, thready scars. It was an interesting view, and one you wanted more of. Done with the games, your eager hand yanked the soft material of his underwear as far away as his drawn pants would allow, bringing his semi-erection into your pleased view. Success at last, as far as you were concerned, and you reached up a capable hand to aid your conquest - only to be met with a strangely rough tap on the head (that was more like a smack, to be perfectly honest). Bewildered, your gaze wandered upward again as you heard the first words that had been said in a while, muffled and difficult as usual, but the message was nonetheless the same as he shook his head: he didn't want you to use your hands. Strange, but doable regardless. Placing your hand back down at the floor, steadying yourself, you inched forward slightly enough to plant yourself neatly between Pyro's boots. If he didn't want you to use your hands, you'd show him that your mouth was just as capable on its own. Inhibitioned, you leaned forward, taking an initial taste with a drawn-out, long lick, testing Pyro's cock from base to tip. It was an icebreaker of sorts, resulting in what sounded like a breathy chuckle from above your head. He stiffened further, wordlessly egging you on. It was encouragement enough, and you dove for it, taking the whole of Pyro's girthy length - there was nothing to compare against at that moment, but it must've been at least seven or eight inches - into your awaiting mouth, eliciting a sudden small gasp from Pyro, who tightened his grip on the counter behind him. You quickly found that nothing pleased you so much as to see him quietly pleased, and soon, you were moving your head rapidly, taking his cock down your throat as far as it would go - downed to the hilt, burying your nose in the coarse hair at the dip of stomach above his dick - before pulling away, leaving a spit-slicked trail beyond your mouth. There were several times when the tip of it jammed against the back of your throat, making you thankful for a weak gag reflex. To your pleasure, Pyro seemed to be enjoying himself quite a bit, as signified by the animalistic grunts that emanated quietly from that mask. Hardly having began, you felt a little jilted when he pulled away suddenly, twisting around, making whatever he was doing at the kitchen counter invisible from your point of view. Your first thought, a rather erratic one, was that he was grappling for a condom, but it turned out not to be so - but not to be too terribly wrong. Condiment. Hot sauce, to be exact, resplendant in its bright red bottle and warning label. When he held it out, it took only moments to realize the bizarre favor he was asking of you. Only a few moments more to shake your head slowly, unwilling and unready to make take such strange requests. To your chagrin, he insisted, not only tapping your head lightly and playfully with the bottle, but actually speaking once more, pressuring you, voice still heavy with slightly labored, excited breathing. He asked that question you could have almost predicted as soon as you shook your head - come on, didn't you say you wanted to make it up to him? Logic said to keep refusing, that he'd give up eventually and either let you finish or call it off entirely. That having been said, logic was not what was pumping adrenaline through your system at the time, and it would have no part in your decision making for a while. Reluctantly, with a little scared grimace, you paused to think before lifting a hand up for the bottle. He brushed it away once again. "Ahhlw mb," came Pyro's muffled voice - "allow me". In the mood to obey and almost desperate to please him despite your initial reaction, you obediently set your hand back down, watching as he removed one of his long, thick gloves - pulled off his large hand with a snap and set down on the counter behind him - and unscrewing the lid. You were temporarily captivated by the largest amount of flesh you'd seen on him to date in the form of his calloused hand and exposed forearm, scarred as you'd have imagined it, but also graced with an almost olive tone, not to mention the thick hair that grew between the latticed crops of scars. It made you all the more crazy with desire to see his face, but, if that wouldn't happen, just to jump his bones as you were originally planning. You were so involved in watching the twitching musculature of his arm move to remove the cap that you almost didn't notice when it was off. The ungloved hand shot to your chin, tipping it up, holding it in place with a strong grip. The gloved hand, bearing the bottle of hot sauce, planted the open mouth at your lips, having to prod just a little before you would allow it in (hard-to-get was your specialty). Pyro vociferated a little contented hum, pleased to see your mouth full of the stuff - and in the meantime, god, was it hot. You didn't exactly pay attention to the label on the little glass bottle, but now you were sure it was something intended for hot sauce afficianados. After the first gulp, you no longer made the mistake of letting it slide down your throat, instead pooling it under your tongue, in your cheeks, until it dribbled off your lips. Maybe it was just the fact that you never one for spiciness, but the burning in your mouth was intense. Yet, in the back of your mind, you might have enjoyed it for that very reason. The bottle began to retract just as your mouth overflowed. Pyro let go of your chin, setting the mostly empty bottle back on the counter behind him, cautiously watching as mottled-red liquid escaped the tight purse of your lips and splattered onto the previously clean white-tiled floor. Distracted by your pain (only now just beginning to slowly ebb), you didn't notice the ungloved hand gravitating to the back of your head. Pressed in closer by that strong arm, you couldn't stop the floodgate of hot sauce from gushing out as you opened your mouth to envelope Pyro's cock, now harder than ever. You could hear him hiss through his teeth as the excruciating spice lubricated your mouth's travels up and down his shaft, and as he writhed and squirmed beyond your lips, you found yourself becoming steadily more aroused. No telling what exactly it was - your pain, his pain, or maybe just his first show of unadulterated feeling. No matter the reason, you were now past the pain at hand and working on applying yourself to Pyro, making him sweat and moan without so much as the use of your hands. Without looking down, you knew a red puddle was forming beneath you, could feel the ocassional splatter and streak of sauce down your chin. It was somehow disgusting and exhillerating. By this time, most of the excess was either on the floor or on Pyro's dick. His one bare hand had entwined itself in your hair at the back of your head, forcing you up and down with a sort of gentle persistence. He was clearly enjoying himself, in spite of the pain that he must have been feeling - his breathing was incredibly labored, you could hear, rasping and whining from up above you, the ocassional grunt escaping the valve of the mask (but, as much as you'd like to imagine it, the lenses did not appear steamed up). You were sure he was just about to finish when the hand on your head stopped pushing, untangled itself from your hair. Looking up, you could see his chest rising and falling in rapid succession as he pulled himself out of your mouth. Your confusion got the better of you. "What's the matter?" You asked, dragging a wrist across your mouth, clearing away a red stain. He responded with a jerk of his hand upward and a short command - one to stand up. You did so, slowly, a little unsteady on your feet after so long balancing your weight on your knees. Pyro even helped you with the balance of his gloved arm, and you found the act endearing, making a soft smile touch your sore lips. He moved away from the counter, clearing the way for you, along with a rather curt request to bend yourself over it. Your reluctance resurfaced, both the obvious instruction and his equally obvious erection clues enough for what he was aiming to do. Regardless, you weren't bent on turning down his offer - no, but maybe getting a little more out of it yourself. The coy smile that had touched your lips turned sultry and a little devious as you took a step towards him. "I will," You promised, pausing to think, "But you've gotta do something for me first." The silence from him was enough to let you know that he was a little confused (not unlike you had been just a little while ago). Another approaching step and a hand extended towards him made Pyro flinch the slightest bit, unsure and skeptical like a cornered animal. Your hand went to the base of the rubber mask, and you could feel him begin to protest as you pulled it upward, but he stopped himself when you only disclosed the bottom third of his face - the edge of the gas mask blocking out everything above the end of his nose. You were extravagently pleased, although he seemed to be nothing special: sharp jaw, uneven stubble, a mouth twisted with a permanent smirk (the apparent result of a very old scar), all beneath an angular, broken nose. Lips slightly parted, in the midst of saying something, the words died. "That's all." You said, letting go of a contented sigh, "All I wanted, really." Well, not exactly. Just one more thing. With some effort to avoid the bulk of the overhanging mask, you tilted your head and leaned forward to plant a brief kiss on Pyro's marred lips. Hopefully just enough to leave the lingering taste of spice behind. The bottom half of his expression was somewhere between befuddled and pleased as you backed away, still watching him, and bent yourself over the counter as he'd requested, half-waving your ass as you did so - if he wanted your pants gone, he'd have to do it himself, those wags said. Sure enough, within no time he was behind you, reaching beneath your doubled waist to access the buttons and zipper of your pants with more precision than you'd have expected from him before. It seemed to milliseconds to you before your pants were loose around your waist, hanging, then off with your underwear in one felt swoop. You felt them hit the ground at your ankles, and in anticipation, you bit your lip - the pain wouldn't be as bad as your mouth seared now, you were sure, seeing how diluted the remainder of the hot sauce on Pyro's cock would be, but it would be painful nonetheless. You shot one final remark over your shoulder as you felt his hands grip your hips, ready to enter - "Be gentle?" Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the half-masked face of Pyro make an understanding nod, tightening his grip and aligning his dick with your entrance. One short thrust later, there he was inside you, and as you'd anticipated, it did hurt, but god, was it wonderful. You immediately let your forehead rest against the cool granite of the countertop, sight now made useless by the throbbing rapture going on inside you. You couldn't concentrate on a single thing but him and the white-hot mixture of pain and pleasure he was providing, both sensations burning. You were biting at your lip hard enough to draw blood, your fingernails digging into your palm at the same rate, your breathing coming to you in short gasps and moans as his pace increased. Pyro bent close to you, one arm reaching beneath your torso and grabbing at the skin beneath your shirt, his grappling hand adding yet another overwhelmingly pleasant sense to the menagerie. The way he was bent, his chin bumped the back of your head lightly every time he slammed into you, his breath hot and gasping on your ear. His grip tightened, the weight placed on you more heavy, every thrust more and more feverish, and you knew that he was about to go over the edge - not unlike you were, panting and groaning beneath him, more than happy to support his weight if it meant this would go on just a little while longer. The moment at hand was undeniable as he spoke, huffing and grunting: "I'm, guh... gonna cum..." Before trailing off into another assault of laborous pants and grunts. The sound of his voice, unfiltered and pure - despite deep, growling and rasping, just as its nature - was too much for you. You let out a final mewl as your insides clenched around him and a wave of overwhelming pleasure racked your sore body. In response, Pyro's cock twitched within your depths and shot off, his great pleasure audible in his dying groan. The both of you spent, after a moment's rest, you tried to stand to go and clean up - apparently to his displeasure, as Pyro wrapped his bare arm around your waist and pulled you back. You didn't bother protesting - in one encounter, you'd learned that it was extremely hard to say no to this strange man. He pulled you in to stand next to him as he continued where he left off - preparing his coffee. You turned away as you began to regain feeling in the nerves of your mouth that were apparently numb with pleasure, and every one of them was back to being on fire. Turned away, but didn't bother walking off, because he wouldn't let you. It surprised you slightly when you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning back, you saw that he had not only prepared his own coffee - black, of course - but a mug for you, too - mostly milk, from the looks of it. You took the hot mug with quiet thanks, reluctant to partake of the steaming liquid with your mouth still burning as it was. As he drank his own, uninhibited by any temperature as usual, he noticed your reluctance. With a breif and awkward smile - as if he weren't used to the act - he explained to you in that deep, smoked voice: "Milk counteracts the sensation of burning. There's plenty in there." With a cocked eyebrow, you looked up to him, but he was already back to drinking his own. You took a cursory sip and, sure enough, you felt the burning begin to abate. You still felt the mild tingle of your last experience down where it counted, but it served more as a pleasant reminder than a painful hinderance. The both of you drank in silence just as sunlight began to filter through the windows of the kitchen, letting you know that the cooking staff would be in there shortly. The revalation surprised you - it felt like you'd spent no time at all with him in here. You set down your mug, mouth sufficiently healed, and explained that you had to clean the floor up, not to mention clean yourself up. Pyro nodded with understanding, grappling behind him for his detached tank and suspenders, reconnecting them with much more ease than you'd worked them off. The thought made you smile. Your smile widened when he spoke, as it had already become accustomed for you to do. "We should get coffee together more often."