Fic: Tinder Dry (2/5)
Title: Tinder Dry (2/5)
Author: Gategurl/The Readers Muse
Character/s: Lester: (Lester/Danny/Becker), (Danny/Becker)
Word Count: 3,621 (WIP)
Rating: M (slash, threesome, aftermath of sex pollen, adult language, complete warnings in authors notes.)
Warnings: Sequel to Smoke Stack Heroes. This ficlet will not make much sense if you haven’t read that fic first, as this installment follows directly after SSHs leaves off.
Summary: "He'd given up on secrecy and professional decency two hours before noon, drawing the line at squirming in his chair as his arse put up a tantrum at the whole notion of sitting, conference calls, and paperwork."
Notes: Thank you once again to the lovely
fififolle for the beta. And to everyone who commented and posted in my question thread earlier this week where we debated the type of whisky Lester might prefer to drink. You were all so helpful!
Tinder Dry
Chapter 2
He wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed or inequitably aroused as the two men breathed in his scent. Shirt crushed between them as they kissed roughly. Lips and tongues demanding entrance as Quinn slammed Becker up against his battered locker, pinning him against the hard metal as the older man lanced down. Lips following the curve of the younger man's profile until his teeth glinted in the low light. Baring his teeth for a split second before he lurched forward and sunk his canines into the soldier's neck. Deepening the wound he'd made earlier as Becker spasmed and cried out. Coming in his trousers as Quinn buried his hand in the man's hair and yanked, tracing the edges of the seeping wound with his tongue.
After that, things got sort of… frantic.
Because in no time at all Quinn had Becker pinned, ripping at the fastenings of man's trousers until he sent buttons and clasps pinging off behind them as Danny freed the man's straining length. He seized the shirt from the man's pleasure-slackened grip the same moment Becker's head fell back against the lockers. Moaning wordlessly as Quinn wrapped the garment around the man's leaking erection and started jacking him off with it. Bringing him off with what was undoubtedly his own scent rising up between them.
Holy fu-
Something deep in his brain nearly howled at the sight of them like that, lost in pleasure over his mere scent. It appealed to some baser part of him he hadn't realised he'd had until the night before. Some elemental part that had remained untapped until his higher facilities had been stripped from him, leaving him vulnerable to instinct and base drives that had both startled and thrilled him in turn.
To see them like that, desperate, needy, and all but coming over themselves at the mere smell of him on some sweat stained, half forgotten scrap of cloth… Well, good god. He couldn't even process it. It was beyond his comprehension.
He didn't even want to hazard a guess at the state of his blood pressure as Quinn pumped his release into the soiled garment mere seconds after Becker's face screwed up in that tight, pleasure-pain grimace as his cloth-covered cock jerked, and he spurted into the dark grey fabric. Lips parted in a low, throaty moan as their sweat slicked foreheads tipped down, kissing listlessly through the aftershocks.
For fucks sake, the bastards were going to give him a bloody heart attack.
Absurdly grateful for the cover of his desk, he hissed a breath of air between his clenched teeth, barely managing to suppress a groan as he pressed the flat of his palm down on his aching cock. Desperate for some form of relief as his hips threatened to arch, the sensation of that phantom pressure causing him to swallow hard as his prick throbbed in response, feeling his balls tighten as a curl of pleasure simmered in his gut.
God, if he didn't find some way to-
The unexpected sound of Lorraine laughing from just outside the room nearly had him windmilling out of his chair. Hand whipping out from underneath his desk as if it had been burnt as he fought to school his breathing, eyes skittering from the paused footage to the sight of Lorraine and Jenny hunched over a bunch of papers his secretary had spread across her desk.
Shit, what the hell was he doing? He was at work for Christ's sake!
But in spite of it all he still couldn't quite bring himself to close the feed. Keeping it paused and half buried underneath a mountain of tabs as he turned his attention back to the stack of files on his desk. But as many proverbs about good intentions tend to suggest, his moral fortitude lasted right up until Lorraine knocked on his door with his afternoon tea, clucking with disapproval as she caught sight of his lunch half finished and chucked in the bin before she returned a few moments later with a small stack of biscuits and a pointed look.
The bloody woman was worse then his mother. And twice as keen if the small pack of Nurofen she'd placed beside it was anything to go by.
He eyed her over the rim of his mug as her siren-red stilettos clicked back towards her desk. Not for the first time considering the possibility that his secretary had the innate ability to read minds. Only to nearly choke at the mere thought. Christ. Knowing his luck lately…
He was halfway through the stack of biscuits and on his second mug of tea before he gave up on all pretences of working and switched back to the paused footage, bringing it up to full screen before he gathered himself and pressed play.
His abused shirt was still crushed between them as they slid down into a tangled heap on the floor. Clearly losing the willpower to stand as the shirt hung from Quinn's fist like some sort of sordid banner. The grey fabric now stained a dark charcoal with sweat and come as they rubbed against it, smearing their fluids deeper into the ruined garment as the smell of him rose in the close space. An act that only seemed to excite them further.
He swallowed hard. Fingers trembling as one hand came down to rest against his thigh. Rubbing the beginnings of a warm sweat into the expensive Italian wool as his nails dug into the meat of his thighs. Desperate and all but lost to everything save for the siren call of confusion and growing lust stirring in his blood.
However, after a long moment it seemed as though some sort of consensus had been reached. There were no words exchanged, at least none that he could discern through the footage. Because with another near brutal kiss they separated, hands brushing against each other as they righted each other's clothing, trading feral grins and pleasure darkened looks as they stalked from the room in concert.
He followed them as they ghosted from hallway to hallway. Letting go of the worried breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding onto when they met nobody on their way out of the building and onto the main street. They hailed a cab about a block and a half away from the ARC before he lost them in the late evening gridlock, already well aware of where they were heading.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling in a slow rush as he fought gravity and won. He ran a hand through his hair and rolled the kinks from his neck, body and brain humming with tension as he caught a glimpse of Quinn and Becker slipping into the taxi. A textbook smudge of shadow-swathed lines and pixelated frames, paused in the act, caught red handed as it were.
Leaning back, he attempted to sort through his scattered thoughts, forcing his mind to focus as he fought to make sense of the larger whole. Fitting in puzzle pieces of memory as he reworked his tired mind. Convinced he was missing something rather drastic as he categorised and reshuffled two days worth of errant thoughts and mismatched memories.
There was something he was missing... Something obvious, hard edged, and…
He was caught completely off guard when he realised that it wasn't just the images or the memories that were dogging him, but something else entirely. Because try as he might he couldn't seem to let them go... Becker and Quinn. What it had felt like to wake up amidst that tangled pile for the second time, surrounded by errant thighs and criminally comfortable planes of flesh. Lavishing in the closeness, the utter ease of it, marvelling how it had felt so inexplicably right all at the same time.
He hadn't felt anything like it. He hadn't-
Fuck! This was supposed to have been simple, a mere blip in the radar of his otherwise normal life, a one off in more ways then one. Only it wasn't, at least not to him, apparently.
Damn it all to bloody hell!
And if he left an hour before Lorraine, easily four or five hours earlier than was his habit, he was careful to ignore the startled gazes from everyone in the main room. Too busy brewing in his own, self made hell hole of recrimination as he stalked down the hall towards the garage.
He was so deeply caught up in berating himself for his naïve, idiotic musings that he completely missed the heated look shared between Danny and Becker as they watched him walk down the length of the hall with his head held high. Palming his keys like they were some sort of a life line as he stalked towards the car park.
But if he was hoping for peace of mind when he returned home he certainly didn't get it. Instead he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Already fancying he could feel the beginnings of a stress headache building behind his eyes at the mere sight of the chaos that was his flat. …Lovely.
Papers, books, clothing, and knickknacks were still littered across the length of his home. The furniture either upended, out of place, or rumpled beyond salvaging as he skirted past his bedroom entirely. All too aware of the sight of what would greet him when he entered. The picture perfect aftermath of a Hollywood love scene, lamp shades askew as the duvet hung half off the bed. Throw pillows and sheets flung across the surface of the pale blue carpet like individual boats lost at sea.
There hadn't been much time that morning to do anything more then see to the worst of the damage before going their separate ways. Arriving just in time to see Lorraine beetle off down the hall to prepare his morning coffee. Godsend of a woman that she was.
All else considered, his flat was a bloody mess. And yet, in that moment, he suddenly realised that he couldn't even bring himself to care. In a way he had to marvel at it, knowing all too well how much he detested any sort of clutter or mess. But today? He couldn't bring himself to lift a bloody finger.
Instead he curled his lip and stalked right past the lot, ignoring the fluttering papers and cracked hardcover spines as he made for the dressing room. Mindless of the chaos as his brain buzzed, exhaustion and a growing sense of uncertainty hemming him in from all sides as he fought against the enormity of his own thoughts.
He shrugged out of his suit jacket without a word, slipping off his tie with his customary neatness as he undid his sleeves. Tossing the silver cufflinks in the dish beside his dresser as he set both his suit and tie aside to be cleaned and pressed.
He didn't even think twice about the indulgence as he flicked his shirt open to the third button. Exposing the bruise strewn crown of his chest and all but revelling in the sensation as the open air played across his unveiled skin. He hummed tunelessly as he unclipped his braces and rolled up his sleeves. Habitually stowing his watch and briefcase on the dresser before padding back to the kitchen barefoot, enjoying the sensation of the carpet hushing across the soles of his feet as he perused the fridge.
He raised an irritated brow as he took in the meagre contents. Realising he'd likely have to order in as he opted for the half full bottle of Pinot Noir he had chilling in the wine cooler. Pouring himself a generous glass, he picked his way in between the bits and pieces of torn clothing and toppled furniture before sprawling across the couch in a fit of easy grace. His limbs careless and unaccustomedly debauched as he sank into the butter soft cushions, barely able to hold back a sinfully grateful moan as he relaxed.
Christ, what a day!
He let his head fall back as he closed his eyes. Fingers massaging his temples as he mulled over the scenes that had played out on the CCTV footage. Even after the events of that morning he was stuck attempting to work out exactly where the three of them stood. After all, it wasn't like something like that happened every day. Even in their line of work.
Though, he supposed the point of the matter was that the events of the night before could be explained away. With the three of them caught in the grips of some overly amorous, pre-Cambrian plant spore. But the events of the morning after, and indeed his reaction to the footage couldn't. Oh, he could probably find some way to blame it on the pollen, it would be sinfully easy to in fact.
He could, but he'd be lying. And so would they.
When he'd invited them to his bed he hadn't been in the grips of the pollen or suffering from a weakened state of mind. He'd known exactly what he'd been offering. He'd known and he'd done it anyway, just the same as when they'd accepted. Bringing him down onto the mattress in an amicable mess of strong limbs and heated gasps, hemming him in until he couldn't tell which swathe of skin belonged to whom, or to whose lips he was demanding entry. Teeth tugging, owning, and giving way all at once…
He took a slow, appreciative sip, savouring the excellent vintage as he rolled the taste around with his tongue. He'd always been drawn to a good blend. It didn't have to be the best vineyard, or even the best year, but what he couldn't abide was sloppy blending. Makers that truly understood the art, for it was indeed an art, that was what made a fine wine.
His lips slipped from the rim of the glass as his tongue curled, chasing the flavour as he gave his mind its head. Stepping back from the firmness of his resolve as he let his thoughts trip into the grey, desperate enough to risk the consequences of his actions, and indeed his emotions as he struggled to understand why he couldn't let this go.
And in all honesty it didn't take long to dig to the heart of it.
After his divorce he'd told himself he'd sworn off complicated relationships. And he supposed, if he was being completely honest with himself, somewhere along the line that had become an excuse for remaining alone. For politely declining the odd, well meant offer, and eventually removing himself from the opportunity for such interests to form at all. Telling himself every time he let an opportunity walk through the door that it was better this way. Better for his career, his family, and for himself.
It was a load of complete and utter bullshit and he knew it. Good god, even to him it sounded unaccustomedly cowardly. It was so unlike his nature that even thinking about it made his stomach churn. And yet, he'd let it continue.
Because soon the term 'complicated' somehow came to encompass all relationships. A self made death knell to his love life. Standing as a metaphor for something he'd do just about anything but examine too closely as he'd shored himself away from the possibility of love, loss, and heartbreak.
Been there, done that, bought the bloody t-shirt.
So perhaps that was why he couldn't help but find it side splittingly hilarious that he'd gone from nothing but his left hand, to not one, but two bed mates. Two bed mates that were both very male and were his subordinates to boot. The irony behind it was utterly delicious.
He snorted indelicately, a small smile playing with the corners of his lips as he smothered a chuckle behind another healthy swallow. - Madame fate apparently had a sense of humour after all. He'd be sure to alert the proper authorities.
He was on his second glass and no closer to an answer to his current cess-pool of a situation when he was startled by a sudden knock on the front door. And for some reason he was more surprised then he figured he ought to have been when he caught sight of Becker and Quinn idling in the hall, just behind the peephole.
Bloody wonderful.
Mind awash with memories of what had happened the last time he'd open his door like this, he leaned against the handle, pressing his forehead against the cool, white washed steel for a long moment before he made to open it. Steeling himself against… well, whatever before he undid the lock and pulled the door open.
He wasn't sure who was more startled, him or the two men standing at the threshold of his door. Him, for finding them there, arms laden down with white paper bags, and them for… well, he certainly had no idea. After all, they were the ones who had knocked on his door. Not the other way around.
Although, it didn't occur to him until much later that perhaps they weren't so much surprised to see him as they were surprised to see him in the manner in which he'd appeared. Dressed down and reckless in the chase for his own comfort, he'd answered the door in nothing but his trousers and a shirt unbuttoned to the navel. Revealing the lean plane of his chest and the bruise strewn canvas of his pleasure- wrecked skin for all the world to see, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows as the sweet tang of wine stained the inside of his swollen lips.
To anyone else he might have looked wanton, a man on the prowl. And hell, perhaps he was…
Because he stared and they stared right back. And for a long and rather awkward moment no one said anything. Seemingly at a loss for words as the enormity of what had happened in the last forty eight hours finally descended.
"I trust this visit won't end in torn clothing and the all around destruction of my flat?" he finally quipped. Somewhat mollified to see that at least Becker had the good grace to blush. Trying and utterly failing to ignore Quinn's salacious wink as his eyes roved down the length of both of them. Taking in their casual dress and flickering expressions with interest.
But in the end he only glared and rolled his eyes. Secretly grateful for the man's irrepressible humour as the tension that yawned between them slowly began to lessen.
"We brought Chinese," Becker piped up. Waving one of the massive paper bags he had clenched in his hands as he flashed him a quiet smile. Brown eyes crinkling with honest mirth as he gestured towards the bags that Quinn was holding as well.
"A good thing too," Quinn remarked, "we saw the state of your fridge, figured you wouldn't say no to some take away," the ex-copper finished, letting the words air out like an explanation as he leaned into the door frame.
"And we brought whisky," Becker added, shifting a six pack of Guinness out of the way in order to reveal the small bottle of premium whisky with the air of a man fishing out a particularly satisfying prize. And with good reason, because even he raised a brow when he took in the label. It was a bottle of ten year old Talisker. Smooth and supple with one hell of a backdoor kick.
Now they were talking.
"Well in that case, come on in gentlemen…"
A/N: There will be two more parts to this particular story which I hope to have up soon!
On to Chapter 3
Back to Chapter 1