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Filey Bay and Absolut

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“First round’s on me, fellas!” The rest of the crew cheered as Dallas pushed a stack of money towards the suddenly rather interested bartender.


It had been a difficult few months of planning, lying low, training, and avoiding getting into too much trouble. So, with another successful heist under their belts and the go-ahead from Bain to finally spend some of their hard-earned cash, the Payday gang had rented out the VIP area of a nightclub to let loose and unwind for the night. Annoyingly, another group were sharing the same space, but the group had been so eager to do something out of the safehouse for a change that they accepted the slight without much fuss.


Hoxton leaned against the bar, peering at the backlit cases of spirits available. “Got any Filey Bay , mate?” he asked, nodding at the whiskeys.


“They ain’t gonna have any’uh that shit,” Chains laughed, eyeing the dancers circling them appreciatively; he had been the first to suggest staying calm at the management for mishandling their booking after he’d seen the pretty women accompanying the other party. 


“Sorry,” the bartender shrugged. Chains shot Hoxton a smug grin.


Absolut ?” Wolf asked, eyes already alighting hopefully on the bottles stacked neatly behind the bar. 


“Bloody hell Wolfie, going hard already?” Hoxton thought about it for a moment, pausing as a dancer slid between him and his colleagues, winding an arm around Chains’ neck. The Englishman shrugged. “Go on then Wolfie, let’s share a bottle. It’ll stop Dallas whinging that we’re taking advantage of his generosity.”


“Alright!” Wolf practically buzzed with excitement as he received his bottle of Absolut Vodka and shot glasses from the bartender. In a flash, the Swede scurried off to a booth and Hoxton pursued him, winking at Chains as he left the bar and narrowly avoiding the arms of another dancer trying to snake its way around his neck. The woman in question had been sexy, for sure, but Hoxton was more interested in chasing after the man with the vodka. 


By the time Hoxton had made it to the table, Wolf had already poured shots for both of them, and Hoxton couldn’t help but smile at the Swede’s enthusiasm. 


“To Payday!” they toasted, and downed their shots in one. Hoxton couldn’t help the tiny grimace that graced his lips; Wolf took it like a pro, and poured them each another shot before the Englishman could say no. 


“Thanks for covering me earlier, Hoxitron,” Wolf said conversationally, glancing between Hoxton and the dancefloor. Hoxton could see the Swede was itching to go for a dance, but he wasn’t quite in the mood for dancing - that particular evening, he was far more interested in drinking. 


“Don’t let me keep you,” Hoxton said pointedly, smiling. 


With that Wolf shot off. Just as Wolf hit the dancefloor, clutching the bottle of Absolut (“how the fuck did he take that without me noticing?” Hoxton thought to himself), Chains, Dallas and a small entourage of women joined him at the booth, bringing more drinks. 




Hoxton didn’t see much of Wolf for a while. He had a laugh with his other crewmates, drinking steadily. He had begun to acquire the pleasant buzz that mixing booze will give you, and his cheeks were tinged slightly pink. Not for the first time he was grateful for the club’s forgiving lights - he knew he’d never live it down if the gang knew he was already tipsy, given how loudly and how often he boasted about being able to hold his drink. 


He was enjoying himself, laughing at the ridiculous story Dallas was spinning to impress one of the girls, when he glanced up and saw Wolf staring at him, standing at the entrance to their booth. The Swede was panting slightly, and his cheeks were also a little flushed. 


“What’s up, Wolfie?” Hoxton asked, a little louder than he’d intended - he was, perhaps, drunker than he’d realised. He leaned back comfortably into the seating, elbows resting casually on the headrest behind him. 


Wolf didn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes flicking to the pretty girls sitting in the booth. One was sat next to Hoxton, but was clearly taken in by Dallas’ stupid stories. 


“Y-you’re not interested in them, are you?” Wolf jerked his head in the direction of the nearest girl. She was thin and blonde, her backless dress showing off the slope of her back as she leaned across to titter and simper at the other heisters.


Hoxton raised an eyebrow. “Does it look like I am?” He took another swig of his drink. Wolf was still clutching the bottle of Absolut , and Hoxton saw that a significant portion had already been drunk. “Why? You jealous, Wolfie?”


He didn’t know why he’d asked it. It was the drink, most probably; it made you stupid.


Wolf blinked, and tilted his head a little. Slowly he approached, his face unreadable, eyes never once leaving Hoxton’s. Wolf took another step forward, and leaned down a little to peer into Hoxton’s face, doing so a little unsteadily. ‘The dumb bastard’s drunk,’ Hoxton realised, with a little smirk. 


“You’re not gonna kiss ‘em, are you?” Wolf asked, less loudly than before. He was so close Hoxton could smell the vodka on his breath, see how determinedly he was being stared at, unfocused eyes frowning and pinching until they became focused on his again. The hand not clutching the vodka reached out to steady himself, resting on Hoxton’s knee, and the Brit could feel the warmth of it burning him through his clothes.


It wasn’t the question Hoxton had been expecting, but he knew better than to do anything that would upset his teammate. “Wouldn’t dream of it, mate,” he said with as much sincerity as he could. The background noise of the club was fading significantly as the Englishman focused in on Wolf. He clapped a hand on the Swede’s shoulder, partly to steady the other, and partly because he liked where things were going.


For a moment, Wolf did not react. Then the technician, usually bent-backed and hyper-focused on whatever task was at hand, sagged and melted, a dreamy smile replacing the interrogative frown of before. He nodded, almost to himself, muttering something that sounded like, “Okay,” and leaned forwards to press his lips against Hoxton’s. 


Hoxton felt his eyes close immediately and opened his mouth to Wolf’s probing tongue. The kiss was sloppy but enthusiastic, and Wolf braced his knees on either side of Hoxton’s legs. Hoxton responded by taking hold of Wolf’s arse with both hands and pulling him forward to settle on his lap, rocking his hips up into the Swede, the move driven by a sudden rush of need for closeness, because they were finally doing this. There’d been sneaked glances and increasingly ludicrous nicknames yelled out during heists, and finally there was this


Wolf’s hand slipped behind Hoxton’s neck, brushing against his ponytail, the kiss becoming more intense as friction began building. Wolf ground his own hardening cock against Hoxton’s, and Hoxton felt satisfaction purr in his stomach when he heard the other man’s groan at the contact. 


Whatever else was going on in the club didn’t matter. Vaguely Hoxton could hear the sounds of Dallas and Chains whooping and jeering at them, but even that was replaced by the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears. His hands, still wrapped around Wolf’s arse, flexed and groped none-too-gently, extracting another moan from the squirming man in his lap. The pleasant buzz in his head was quickly being replaced by the growing pleasure in his cock, and he greedily drank in all Wolf’s little sounds and sudden spasms against his groin.


It was way too soon when Wolf broke the kiss, leaning back in Hoxton’s arms... 


… But he didn’t stop leaning back, and he slipped out of Hoxton’s grasp. Wolf fell backwards, slamming into the table and knocking glasses onto the floor. The girls squealed and tutted as their drinks splashed and sprayed their naked legs, and Dallas was about to begin chastising the Swede when Wolf toppled off the table and onto the floor, unmoving. 


Hoxton stayed where he was for a few seconds, as if needing some time to process the lack of weight in his lap and lips against his own. Then he sprang into action, ignoring the shrieks of protest from his pleasantly weighted limbs and fuzzy head. He was on his feet before he realised he’d even moved.


“Hey, Wolfie, you still with us, mate?” he knelt on the club floor at Wolf’s side, pushing the table out of the way. The Swede had not yet moved, his eyes closed, but he was still breathing fine - thank fuck for that. “Don’t just stand there love, get ‘im some fucking water, he’s passed out,” Hoxton barked at a nearby dancer, who scurried away to fulfil his request. 


Chains joined him on the floor. Not for the first time, Hoxton was grateful for the man’s military background. Chains eased Wolf into what Hoxton realised was the recovery position, and for the first time worry bubbled in his stomach. “Is he-”


“Don’t know just yet,” Chains interrupted gruffly, measuring Wolf’s pulse with his watch. He leaned in more closely to Hoxton as the seconds passed, and tilted his head very slightly in the direction of the girls. “Think one a’ them bitches slipped him something.”


A crease appeared between Hoxton’s brows. “How’d you work that one out? He’s been dancing all night-”


“Yeah, and drinking from that bottle… which he must’ve put down when he took off his jacket.” As surreptitiously as he could, Chains’ hand slipped towards the waistband of his trousers, reaching for the gun he kept there. Hoxton followed his lead to reach for his own handgun, bending over Wolf a little more than necessary to keep his movements concealed. The pair, crouched on the floor, didn’t need to look to know Dallas was doing the same thing. Tension bubbled between the three heisters, replacing the relaxed and jovial atmosphere from earlier. It was like being struck by lightning, being suddenly dragged back to reality from a dreamworld of peace and ordinary civilian life.


It wouldn’t be easy. Grimly, Hoxton cast his mind back. How many had there been in the other party booked into the VIP room that night? Were the staff in on it too? What about the security cameras? He glared at the table he’d moved out of the way, cursing himself - he needed to get Wolf behind cover - being one crew member down was bad enough, but to be one man down permanently would mean-


The first gunshot cut through the thumping beat of the music, and without thinking Hoxton grabbed the collar of Wolf’s shirt and dragged the man behind the relative cover of the table. Only then did he turn his attention to the goons shooting at him from across the dancefloor. 


“Take this, yer bastards!” Hoxton returned fire, retaliating. He took down at least one of the men shooting at them, spraying the dancefloor with blood. The man fell with a satisfying thud and didn’t get up again.


The confusion he had felt from Wolf kissing him and subsequently passing out was replaced by abject fear when the lights and music went out moments after the shootout began - the bastards had cut the power - confirming to Hoxton that this was a planned operation. If that hadn’t been enough, the tell-tale hum of night vision equipment activating had him glaring furiously into the darkness, willing his eyes to adjust.


Before he had any more time to think, he heard bullets whizz by his head, and he crouched lower behind the table. Luckily for him, even with NV equipment the opposing thugs were poor shots, and no match for the Payday gang.


“We’ve gotta get out of here!” Chains growled from somewhere to Hoxton’s left. 


“Emergency exit’s that way, we’ll take the stairs!” Dallas yelled - Hoxton could just about make out his crouched figure scrambling over to where he and Wolf were half-hidden.


“I’ve got Wolf, you lead the way!” Hoxton groaned as he hauled Wolf’s limp body across his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. More bullets pinged by him as he struggled to stay behind cover, and he grabbed at Dallas as the man ran past, taking potshots in the vague direction of the rival gang. 


The whole thing had clearly been a set-up, but their enemies did not have the smarts that they did, evidenced by the emergency access stairs being unoccupied. Whoever this gang were, they were a bunch of incompetent bastards who’d been really, really lucky. 


Chains led the way, with Dallas bringing up the rear and shouting encouraging words to Hoxton, who after descending a few floors was struggling with Wolf’s dead weight. 


“How does - a man who eats - so little - weigh so bloody much ?” he bit out between gasps for air. His legs were screaming and protesting as he almost flew down the stairs in their hurry to get out. Ahead of him he heard Chains frantically calling Bain for an escape vehicle, catching only snippets of words, but he caught the words “Wolf”, “slipped something” and “out cold”.


“Just two more floors to go, c’mon people! Move, move!” Chains yelled, just as the sound of footsteps and gunfire could be heard in the stairwell above them. Hoxton growled and powered forward, holding onto Wolf as tightly as he could whilst keeping them both steady and trusting Dallas completely to ensure neither of them got taken out. 


Whatever connections Bain had served them all well. As soon as the Payday gang burst through the emergency exit of the building, initiating a screeching alarm, an unmarked white van pulled up, braking so harshly black tyre marks left a streaky imprint in the concrete. With a final push of strength, Hoxton hauled himself and Wolf into the back of the van, with Dallas and Chains jumping in behind him. The doors slammed shut and the van started to move.


“What the bloody hell was that about?” Hoxton eased Wolf onto the floor of the van, panting heavily. He wiped the few droplets of sweat on his brow away with his arm. After a while he tucked his handgun back into the waistband of his trousers, and ran a hand through his hair.


Chains shook his head wordlessly, a grim expression on his face as he maneuvered Wolf as best he could on the floor of the moving van. 


“Anyone hurt?” When everybody shook their heads, Dallas sighed, then gestured to Hoxton, who had not taken his eyes off Wolf yet. “Hoxton, er - depending on what he was slipped, he might not remember what happened back at the club-”


“It’s alright, I won’t be telling him anything,” Hoxton said, somewhat irritably. He rubbed his hands over his face. Already Hoxton was running through the drugs database of his mind, considering what was the likeliest substance Wolf had been given. GHB was the first and most probable drug that came to mind, but only a blood test would determine that for sure. Screwing his eyes shut for a moment, he opened them to look across at Chains and Dallas.


Dallas and Chains exchanged an inscrutable look that seemed to communicate an entire conversation without a single word ever being exchanged. It was a skill gained from the years of living and operating together on the ever-increasingly high-stakes heists Bain sent them on. “If you’re sure…” Dallas spoke uneasily, then somewhat more confidently, a sly grin on his face, “... you were both into it, though. Looks like you were having fun.”


Chains allowed the serious look on his face to slip a little. “Yeah. I mean, one minute you were just talking, next minute you’re all over each other. We kinda thought it was a joke for a minute, then you pulled him onto your-”


“Yes, yes, alright,” Hoxton snapped, impatience edging into his voice, “did Bain say where he was taking us? We’ll need to get some blood tests going.”


“He’s already sending over a runner to the safehouse location with a stash of tests and meds, don’t worry,” Chains began monitoring Wolf’s pulse again, and the crew fell silent to give him the chance to do so easily. Hoxton all but scowled at the van floor, not speaking another word unless spoken to. To the others, it looked as though he was trying to melt the floor of the van with his glare alone in the vague hope it would revive Wolf.


The journey to an alternate safehouse - also hastily arranged by Bain as an additional precaution - only took around fifteen minutes, but to Hoxton it might as well have been hours. Chains took hold of Wolf and carried him inside, with Hoxton and Dallas hot on his heels. Chains took Wolf to his own bedroom to check him over. By some stroke of luck, the runner had already deposited enough blood tests to get to the bottom of whatever it was that had made Wolf black out, and Chains was able to get to work immediately. 


After a while of hovering over his crewmates and generally getting in the way of their work, Dallas took Hoxton to one side and put on a firm tone of voice. “Look. I get that you’re worried about him. But standing around just waiting for results isn’t gonna make him wake up any faster.” Dallas jerked his head in the direction of the first floor of the safehouse. “We haven’t stayed here in weeks. There’s bound to be some cleaning you can do, some beds you can change to make Wolf more comfortable when he comes to. I’ll let you know as soon as he wakes up. Just keep yourself busy.”


Hoxton folded his arms and sneered. “That’s women’s work, that is.”


Dallas returned the stare coldly. “I don’t care. Someone’s gotta do it. Might as well be you. Make yourself useful.”


To the surprise of everyone conscious enough to bear witness to the exchange, Hoxton kept his mouth shut, turned on his heel and did as he was told. Chains raised his eyebrows in surprise at his colleague for a moment before turning back to Wolf to monitor him. 


It was with an uncanny numbness that Hoxton set about making Wolf’s preferred room more liveable. Despite grumbling all the while about the so-called nature of the task, Hoxton changed the bedding on Wolf’s bed and laid out fresh, comfortable clothes for the Swede to wear when he recovered. His behaviour was mechanical, his hands working whilst his mind raced.


Over and over again his mind replayed the kiss he’d enjoyed, the weight of the other man on his lap and grinding against his crotch. It would be a pleasurable recollection if what had followed hadn’t been so bloody awful, seeing Wolf topple backwards and slam heavily into the table, his body lifeless and heavy.


It wasn’t long before Hoxton ran out of things to do, preoccupied as his mind was. This particular safehouse was cosy at best and cramped at its worst - there was a reason it wasn’t their usual place to crash and unwind - and there was only so much pillow fluffing he could do before he became irritable and worried again. To make matters worse, he had a small headache. Yanking his hair-tie out and making his way over to his own tiny bedroom - just large enough for a single bed and a small cupboard for his clothes - Hoxton lay down on his bed and closed his eyes.




It didn’t take long for the Englishman to awake with a guilty start. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep, feeling obligated to keep his eyes open in case there was any change in Wolf’s condition. His headache, however, had cleared, and for that he was incredibly thankful. 


Hoxton had barely had time to step outside of his bedroom door, before he was accosted by Dallas. The de facto leader looked tired, but less serious than before.


“GHB,” he confirmed, and Hoxton was struck by how intense his relief was. It must have shown on his face, because Dallas continued, “he’ll be fine, most likely. I’m waiting on intel from Bain on why we were targeted tonight, and by who. For now, we’ll have to lay low, take it easy for a few days.”


Right. The news was quite sobering. They had been celebrating a successful heist and stretching their legs after a recent, long-ish stint of self-imposed house arrest, so the news was not something either man relished. Fortunately, Hoxton knew better than to complain, but a grimace still made it onto his face.


“We moved him to his own room,” Dallas said, clapping a hand on Hoxton’s shoulder as he walked by to his own bedroom. 


That was it. No judgement, no wheedling encouragement to tell Wolf about their makeout session in the club, nothing. Hoxton was actually rather relieved; he wasn’t sure he had the capacity to argue. He’d been to enough bars and seen enough people suffer the side effects of so-called ‘date rape drugs’ to know that Wolf may not have been in control of his behaviour, that he was doing things he wouldn’t do under normal circumstances, that he might wake and be ashamed of what they had done. Alternatively, he might not remember a thing - amnesia was not an especially uncommon side-effect of GHB, after all. Whatever happened, he needed reassurance that they would still be able to work together in the Payday gang, because Christ , they made a hell of a team. Whilst Dallas and Chains are just as essential as Wolf and Hoxton, there was just something different about how the latter duo worked together. Wolf would threaten and intimidate whilst Hoxton fiddled about erasing security footage. Hoxton would successfully provide covering fire as the drill was getting fixed by Wolf. They worked well together if paired off to complete a task. Not only that, but Hoxton loved the lifestyle that was his reward for heisting, shooting and killing, and he knew that Wolf loved it too. They had no qualms about killing wave after wave of cops and SWAT teams, of terrorising civilians to help them achieve their goals. 


Neither of them would want to split from the crew at this point - not with the notoriety they had accumulated, not with how their bounty had skyrocketed to match that infamy.


Hoxton met with Chains en route to Wolf’s room, and the former soldier shot him a grin. “Reckon he’ll be awake before long,” he said, his voice full of meaning. Hoxton was surprised he hadn’t wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Make sure he drinks something!” Chains called as he inched his way around Hoxton in the cramped hallway, heading back to his own bedroom.


Chains hadn’t needed to tell Hoxton anything - he’d already left neon-coloured sticky-notes on the various bottles of water and medicine around the place, encouraging Wolf to ‘drink this’ in neat block capitals. Hoxton took a look at it all so he’d know what to do if Wolf was thirsty, had a headache or felt like he needed to puke, and then sat himself gingerly at the foot of Wolf’s bed, hoping that with his tentative sinking into the mattress that he wouldn’t disturb the man’s rest.


The arrangement had only lasted around thirty minutes when Wolf began stirring, and he gave a garbled groan. Hoxton grabbed the nearest water bottle.


“Fancy a drink, Wolfie?”


Wolf grumbled something in Swedish, muffled behind the press of his hand against his mouth, before finally opening his eyes. He blinked a few times and frowned - Hoxton saw his eyes moving to and fro - as he struggled to identify where he was.


“You’re at the safehouse. The shit one.” Hoxton paused, then clarified: “Actually, they’re all a bit shit. We’re at that proper pokey one downtown. The one where there’s not enough room to swing a cat about.”


Wolf didn’t speak, but the inflection of his grumbling indicated he had heard and understood. Straining his ears, Hoxton heard the occasional Swedish from his crewmate, some of it resembling the frantic swears that flew from his lips when faced with a particularly tenacious SWAT team. 


It took another few minutes before Wolf was capable of speech that was mutually intelligible for both of them. When he spoke, his voice contained none of the grogginess Hoxton had expected him to.


“Water… I’ll take you up on that water.” As Wolf drank, his eyes scanned the messages left for him by Chains, and he slowly nodded, as if accepting what had happened to him without question. Hoxton was grateful for the former military-man’s obsessive organisational skills, as it took the pressure off him to bear responsibility for whatever happened next. 


“So,” Wolf ducked his head for a moment. He wriggled himself into a sitting position, back resting against his pillows and the headboard of his bed. Wolf then puffed out his cheeks and shrugged, “er… I remember everything that happened. At the club.”


Anxiety surged in Hoxton’s gut. It felt like a pitcher of ice cold water had suddenly upended itself in his stomach. “You do, do you,” he said, somewhat tonelessly. 


“Ah. Yeah.” Wolf was now watching Hoxton very closely, gauging his reaction. It felt like he was being examined bit by bit, but Hoxton remained unflinching; he had done nothing he was ashamed of. 


Wolf continued his searching, and found none of the things he had been afraid of - rejection, disgust, fear. Hesitating still, he placed a cautious hand on the closest thing he could reach - which was Hoxton’s own hand - and waited for a reaction.


Hoxton was in no mood for tentative touches. He leaned in and kissed Wolf, his own hands on the other man’s shoulders and back. Wolf returned the kiss, but was smiling so broadly they were forced to break apart. Not wanting to back away, Hoxton rested their foreheads against one another.


“What’re you so happy about?” 


Wolf didn’t reply, instead closing the distance between them to press more kisses to Hoxton’s lips, his cheeks, his nose. 


“I’m just, ah… happy about this.”


Hoxton found himself smiling as well, but his attention was more focused on running his hands all over Wolf’s body, fingertips skimming over the small of Wolf’s back where his shirt had been tugged free. Wolf gave a low, rumbling groan that made Hoxton’s skin prickle pleasantly and he brought their lips back to meet again, melding together.


It was the same as it had been at the club - there was no romantic, gentle caressing of lips and tongues. It was a hot meeting of tongues rubbing together wetly. Hoxton’s hands flew to the buttons of Wolf’s shirt, flicking them open and pushing the shirt off his partner’s broad shoulders, running his hands over freshly exposed skin. Wolf shimmied awkwardly out of the shirt, not breaking the kiss. His own fingers worked on Hoxton’s shirt and pushed it out of the way, fingers skimming over rippled and raised and sunken scars appreciatively. 


Hoxton was never one to shy away from an opportunity. Realising their roles were reversed from the club, he crawled over Wolf’s form and sank into the other man’s lap. Wolf took the hint and reached around to cup Hoxton’s ass, and the Brit rewarded him by grinding himself down, only to groan in frustration. 


“Get these fucking covers out of the way,” he growled against Wolf’s lips, lifting himself up so that Wolf could whip the blankets out from between them. Before he could do so himself, eager hands on Hoxton’s ass tugged him back down, and both men began thrusting and grinding against each other, savouring the feeling of each other. Even with their trousers still separating their cocks, they could feel the other’s hardness and heat, and it felt damn good rubbing and grinding. All the while their hands wandered, exploring each other. When Hoxton ground down just right Wolf’s breath caught in his throat and his head tipped back, and the Brit all but attacked the pale column of flesh exposed to him with tongue, lips and teeth. Wolf jerked his hips at that, and Hoxton repeated the action, biting and sucking, and the cock pressed into his thigh gave a pointed twitch.


“Need more,” Wolf whispered above him, and Hoxton growled in agreement. His fingers strayed to the waistband of Wolf’s trousers, rubbing the sensitive skin there. Involuntarily Wolf’s hips bucked, and it gave Hoxton an idea. The Brit pulled himself away. Wolf attempted to follow him, but leaned back and gazed admiringly as Hoxton pulled off his trousers and boxers in one go. His cock jutted out proudly, and Hoxton rubbed the head, smearing pre-cum around it. Wolf licked his lips unwittingly, making Hoxton’s eyes gleam and his cock twitch, before removing his own clothes.


“I, erm… I’ve not got anything,” Wolf said meaningfully, grimacing in regret. Hoxton nodded and gave the palm of his hand a very exaggerated, wet lick.


“Next time,” he said in a voice full of promise, bringing his knees onto either side of Wolf so that he was straddling him. Then he aligned their cocks so that they were almost touching. Bracing his weight on one arm, Hoxton wrapped his spit-slicked hand around both their dicks. Wolf jerked and twitched immediately, and Hoxton groaned at the feeling of the Swede’s velvety cock rubbing against his own. 


It didn’t take long for Hoxton to establish a pace that worked for them both, Wolf’s hands returning to his arse as encouragement just because he could, because they had finally given in and done something about this mutual attraction they had for each other. 


“Not gonna last much longer Wolfie, bit embarrassin’,” Hoxton said warningly, and Wolf gave a breathy laugh - he wasn't far off either. Wolf squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the familiar sensation rising in his stomach, his hips jerking upwards, the wetness from his cock and Hoxton’s mixing and helping them to slide and rub.


“Fucl, Hox-” Wolf cried out, back arching as he desperately sought extra friction as he came, hot cum spilling onto his stomach and down Hoxton’s hand, which continued pumping him until a similar hot stickiness added to his own, and the Swede couldn’t hold back a huge grin at that, because they’d cum against each other, and something inside him sighed and said ‘ finally ’.


Hoxton took a short breather, leaning his weight off to the side so that he wouldn’t crush the man under him. After some time he groped around for his boxers and wiped his hand clean, before passing them to Wolf. “Better than nothing,” he said with a shrug.


Wolf hummed and accepted the boxers, wiping himself clean and inching closer to the wall to give Hoxton more room on the bed, before burying his face into the crook of Hoxton’s neck to make his intentions crystal clear - don’t leave. Stay . Fortunately Hoxton didn’t have a swift comment at the tip of his tongue about needy, clingy post-sex cuddles, so he wrapped his arms around his crewmate and pressed a kiss or two to the crown of his head.


“Gonna fall asleep if I’m not careful,” he said after a while, not wanting to overstay his welcome. Wolf simply buried his head even further into Hoxton’s embrace, and used his feet to kick the blankets back up the bed to cover them both somewhat. “Alright, alright then,” Hoxton said, amusement in his voice. Wolf hummed in contentment, and his breath took on a slow, deep rhythm that soon had Hoxton hypnotised. Finally, the Brit closed his eyes and slept peacefully through the night.