Work Text:
The grimy tile is cold under his knees. That’s the first thing he notices, really. He doesn’t want to think too hard about the texture of the stall wall. He’s had too much to drink, but he deserves to cut loose; wrapping up that last case was miserable.
He doesn’t do this often. Sometimes he wants to put a face to his bad idea, but once he does that, it becomes too personal, no matter how hard he tries to keep them at arm’s length. Personal is great when that’s what he wants. But blowing off steam? That doesn’t require a face, or words, or anything else.
Muffled through the wall, he hears the dim jangle of a belt opening, a zipper coming down. He doesn’t know shit about this guy except the sounds of his clothing. There’s a wet sound of skin on skin, before finally a cock shoves through the hole by Abrams’s face.
The private investigator in his brain who never shuts up observes that the skin’s on the lighter side, and a human shade despite the blood-heavy color. Cut too, which is not his preference, but he’s aware of his current situation. He wouldn’t have volunteered if he didn’t understand the likelihood of coming across a dick that wasn’t perfect. What matters is that it’s big and it’s hard and, most of all, it’s right in front of him.
He grabs it tight, adjusts himself through his trousers with the other hand, kisses the tip like he’s going to ask it to prom. He almost laughs to himself at the thought, but there are more important things here. He leans forward, takes it into his mouth, lets it sit heavy on his tongue. Salt bursts across his tongue, and his eyes flutter shut as he slides it in deeper.
The guy starts thrusting on the other side, hindered though it is by the wall between them. Abrams takes him in farther, feels the slick slide of it along the inside of his cheek, breathes in when he can. His head spins, full of this strange man smeared across his tongue and along his palate.
Alcohol drifts through him alongside the sudden spike of his pulse, making the room spin. He digs the heel of his hand into his lap, pressure that it’s tempting to thrust up into, but he can’t let himself get distracted, not until his job is done. He sucks in his cheeks and draws back, slurps up the saliva and the slime on this cock, then dives in again.
The case, the horrified victim, the stress, all of it melts away. Now there’s only the stretch of his jaw, the tight pull at the corners of his lips, the dribble of saliva that escapes down his chin. His head empties of thoughts. There’s something meditative about it, almost, the way he fuzzes over, the way his senses overflow with the taste and smell of this man. This is a good one too, just a little aggressive when he thrusts. It’s nothing Abrams can’t handle. Not much the guy can do through the wall.
If Abrams could stay like this all night, he would, but there’s a muffled groan on the other side, the thump of a fist hitting the wall, and he knows it’s nearing the end. Abrams echoes it with a moan of his own, fumbling with his zipper until he can pull out his cock. It’s fat and hot in his hand, leaking from the tip to ease the glide of his fist.
Abrams screws his mouth down on that cock as far as he can go, chin pressed against his fingers against the wall, and the cock twitches in his mouth. His own jumps in his grip, relieved he’s no longer neglecting it, so hard it hurts, and he speeds up his fist, trying to get himself closer. Heat and pressure build between his legs as he fucks his mouth onto that thick cock, precome and saliva foaming up between his lips.
There’s a strangled sound on the other side, a curse, another thump, and Abrams’s mouth is suddenly full of the guy’s come. He swallows it down dutifully around the cock still in his mouth, until the guy makes a sound and pulls back.
Abrams doesn’t care what happens after that. He moves aside, presses his forehead to the wall again to feel something cooler than his blazing hot face, and strips his cock until he comes with the guy’s taste still on his tongue.