“Not like the Lash needs luck,” Lash is saying. Abrams would dearly love to tune him out, but he’s struck by morbid curiosity. And so he hears the rest: “But this bad boy’s gotten me through more fights than I can count without a scratch.”
He’s holding up two worn leather cords from which dangle cheap hunks of translucent white quartz, one apiece. They sway from his fist hypnotically, and Abrams once again finds himself actually listening to this moron.
“So you see the benefits,” Lash goes on. “It’s totally gonna protect us both in the ritual.”
“Why do you need someone else?” Abrams asks, entirely against his will.
“That’s just how it works. You can’t charge the crystal alone. That would be weird.”
“This whole thing sounds stupid.”
“Fine. I’ll take this once in a lifetime offer to somebody else.”
“You cannot bring this up with our teammates.” Abrams imagines Jeanne’s reaction. While he wouldn’t blame her for whatever she did next, for better or worse they need Lash alive if they want to succeed.
“I mean, Victor looks like he could use it,” Lash says.
“The undead guy? That’s who you’d ask next?”
“This is a macho guy only offer. A lady would fuck up the mystic vibrations. No bueno.”
The crystals clink delicately together as Lash gestures, then they return to their swaying. The idiot is trying to present it casually, but tension curls along his muscular shoulders and whitens his knuckles. This matters to him, no matter how stupid it sounds.
Abrams only gets one shot at the ritual. One chance to figure out the secret to this tome and unburden himself safely. He can’t control every outcome, but he can keep the Lash from performing poorly because he’s convinced his dumb good luck charm isn’t working.
Besides, it can’t be all bad. There’s not much lurking behind that caveman brow, but the shape of the face beneath it is striking, and the body it all sits on top of is sculpted with a devotion bordering on religious. One might even consider it the pinnacle of masculine beauty, if one were into that kind of thing. Abrams would very much prefer not to be into that kind of thing, and yet.
“Okay,” he sighs, plucking one cheap necklace from Lash’s fist. “Let’s charge these rocks.”
“Smart move, Detective. You’re gonna feel great.”
Already regretting his choice, Abrams clenches his fist around the rough cut quartz. “That is generally the case.”
Lash beelines for the viewing room, which would make sense if there were any privacy whatsoever. There’s not even a curtain, and that’s before they account for the family of shades that like to pop in and out of the area.
Abrams grabs him by the back of his suspenders. “You wanna jerk off to a newsreel?” he asks.
“Better than nothing,” Lash says. There’s color in his cheeks, and no telling what from.
“I saw a couch upstairs. Come on.” He lets the suspenders snap into the small of Lash’s back then ascends the creaking stairs two at a time.
The dusty room they find upstairs holds an equally dusty leather sofa not unlike the furniture near the fireplace. This one has slashes through the middle cushion, suspiciously enough like claws that Abrams has to do two circuits around the small room before he’s willing to concede that whatever creature did it is long gone.
“Relax,” Lash says. “I’m already here, ready to drop trou. No need to be nervous now.”
“Every word you say is another incentive for me to leave,” Abrams mutters. Lash rolls his eyes, but he takes the note.
Lash flings himself onto the couch with a groan of leather, tugging the necklace over his head. His legs and arms spread like he owns the place. With his mouth shut, it’s easier to admit he’s handsome, that the splay of his limbs is attractive. His thick thighs strain against his painted on jeans, and his chest threatens to burst out of that ratty old tank top. If his tits were any bigger, they’d have fallen out by now; if he were a woman, he’d have been arrested for obscenity.
Turns out he can only shut up for so long. “You just gonna stare?” Lash asks.
“I might.”
“Not how it works.”
“Convince me it’s worth my time,” Abrams pushes. He doesn’t even know why he’s being so stubborn, but Lash is uncharacteristically cooperative at the moment. Maybe he wants to see how far that goes.
Lash looks amused as he undoes the belt at his waist and tugs up the hem of his shirt. He’s not shy about yanking his pants open or freeing his half-hard cock. Heat crawls up the back of Abrams’ neck as Lash sinks into the couch, one arm propped behind his head now as he takes himself in hand.
“You gotta wear the necklace,” Lash says. His fingers are curled loosely around his thick cock, barely moving.
Right. The reason he’s even here.
Abrams hides his flush by yanking the cord over his head then shrugging out of his coat and holster. When their eyes meet again, Lash looks hungry. Whether his alleged need for the crystals is genuine or only pretext, he doesn’t make excuses for enjoying himself now.
Lash’s face flushes and his lips part as he gives his cock a long couple of strokes. It grows in his hand, straining into his touch. “Like what you see?” he asks.
“Shut up,” Abrams mumbles, all instinct and no venom. Lash’s responding laugh is satisfied, breathy, huge chest heaving out a sigh as Abrams fumbles with his own trousers.
Lash’s gaze lands like a punch, zeroing in on Abrams’ cock as it bobs in the stuffy air. His Adam’s apple rises and falls in time, and he remains blessedly silent.
Emboldened by Lash’s obvious appreciation, Abrams gives himself a slow tug. A long sigh escapes against his will. His grip tightens, and he does it again, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders and into his gut.
Lash stares like he can’t look away now, and Abrams understands the feeling. Lash’s cock stands full and flushed, wetness beading at the tip. He swirls his thumb in it, draws it down the full length again and again until his cock is shining with it. The rest of his body shines too, glowing with the sweat that’s begun to gather.
Abrams’ tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, and heat pools in his belly. He’s probably sweating too. He can feel damp gathering under his arms. He lets the suspenders drop and peels out of his shirt to save it from the worst damage, while Lash’s gaze traces his body.
“Gotta keep up, Detective,” he says, breathless now. The powerful muscles in his arm and chest jump as he speeds up. His exposed stomach clenches, shudders, and Abrams is helpless to do anything now but match his pace.
His knees feel rubbery as he pulls at his own cock, so he stumbles to the sofa, dropping heavily onto the other side. Maybe it was a mistake. Lash is within reach now, still flushed and gleaming with sweat. Abrams can smell him, and there’s too much spit in his mouth suddenly.
He doesn’t try to touch, but knowing he could fills his head with ideas. He fucks his own fist and thinks about rubbing his cock between those tits, into the furrow between hip and groin. Thinks about flipping him over and riding the cleft of his ass, rutting between his thick thighs. There’s no part of his body that isn’t infuriatingly fuckable.
“Come on,” Lash pants. Whatever he intends to say next gets lost when Abrams crosses the invisible wall between them, shoving the hem of that tank top into Lash’s mouth. Whether it’s with surprise or obedience, his teeth snap shut, and he groans against Abrams’ hand.
Lash’s legs spread wider and his hand speeds up, and he doesn’t try to speak again, even when Abrams goes back to touching himself. Lash’s eyes burn hot though, and he’s breathing hard through his nose, making a sound that’s almost injured as he fucks his own fist.
Abrams squeezes one of those impressive pecs, first the whole thing and then just the nipple, pinching until Lash grunts and arches. His brow furrows hard, and he’s panting now, almost there.
Abrams’ fist around his cock speeds up. He’s wet now, dripping on his own knuckles. He gropes clumsily at Lash’s chest, and he loses himself in the slick tunnel of his own hand, hips twitching with every downstroke.
Lash mumbles into the fabric shoved in his mouth, then his body tenses, spilling come all over his stomach. He shivers, hand slowly squeezing the last of it out. It slides over the contours of his shuddering stomach. Abrams watches, thinks about following with his tongue, thinks about where else to put his mouth.
It’s the last thought he has before the pressure in his belly finally explodes. His hips jerk as he comes, adding to the mess on Lash’s stomach.
He hovers over him for a moment, muscles feeling like jelly, before he retreats to his own side of the couch. Warmth suffuses his limbs, and he feels lighter all over, all the stress of the ritual momentarily forgotten. Without it, he feels stronger than he has in months, like all the aches and pains of his hard life have faded away.
He doesn’t know when he closes his eyes, but when he opens them again, it’s to a faint, warm glow. It’s coming from beneath his chin. There’s a matching one on Lash’s chest.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.
Lash hasn’t even opened his eyes, but he smirks. “Never doubt the Lash.”