Chapter Text
“Was this a one-time thing for you?” Abrams asks while Arin’s in the bath. It seems he prefers a captive audience.
“Not if you don’t want it to be,” they say. He looks irritated so they amend it: “I don’t want it to be.” That softens him back up.
“Good. Me either.” For the first time in a long time, Arin feels like smiling for real. Then Abrams asks, “You always want me to top?”
“I mean, if— it’s not like I’ve never done it, but, um, probably. Mostly.”
Something about the answer seems to amuse him. “It’s what I’d prefer, mostly, but I’m happy when you’re happy. All I really need is to know I’m the reason you’re getting off. The rest is negotiable.” He’s kneeling beside the bath now. “Anything else specific that I should know?”
“I don’t know, really. I haven’t ever done all that much besides, you know, regular stuff.”
That makes Abrams sort of groan and laugh at the same time. He doesn’t say it, but Arin would bet money he’s thinking about the difference between their ages again.
At least it’s a good distraction from having to confess that their few weeks with Lash constitute the longest so-called relationship they’ve had since holding hands with Irene Kensington when they were thirteen. They tried a few times in high school, but it was always some sweaty, furtive thing with boys who either wanted nothing to do with a Fairfax afterward or who wanted them only because of the Fairfax name. Their adult experiences have been restricted to a few days at a time at most, primarily with men they hardly know and who will forget them easily later. In sum, it hasn’t left much room for exploration.
Abrams has mercy on them; he stops asking questions for now. Instead, his hand dips into the water to slide along their thigh. “It’s too soon. I can’t,” they complain, even as their legs spread.
“Oh, I think you can,” he says, low and dark, “but if you don’t want to…” He starts to withdraw his hand, and Arin grabs his arm to keep him in place. Victory is a good look on him.
It’s an excellent way to start the morning.
The evening is not much different. Abrams greets them at the door with his tongue in their mouth. When their knees turn to rubber, he finally lets them go. “You know what I’ve been thinking about all day?” he asks. His huge hands are around their waist, pressing in like they’re testing the give.
“I can make an educated guess.”
“The way I found you last night. Couldn’t get it out of my head.”
“Oh,” Arin says, surely flushing from the roots of their hair all the way down their chest. No matter what followed after, it was still humiliating.
Their embarrassment doesn’t slow Abrams in the slightest. His hands are everywhere, and his stubble prickles their neck, accompanying the wet slide of his mouth, kissing when he isn’t using it to speak instead. “What were you thinking about?”
If it were possible to blush more, they would. “I wasn’t snooping or anything, but I found your magazines.”
Abrams scrapes a hand down his face, but he’s laughing. Then he guides them back toward the bedroom, pausing only to kiss them or discard clothing along the way. By the time Arin’s ass hits the mattress, they’re both down to their underwear.
Abrams drops to the floor for a moment, only his flicking tail visible from the bed. When he emerges again, it’s with the magazines in hand. “Which one was it?” he asks. Abrams is always handsome, but right now, with his shirt off and his dirty grin cocked to one side and his hair disheveled, it might be the best he’s ever looked. It makes it impossible not to answer.
“That one,” they say, tapping Fiend, the one with humans and Ixians posing together.
Abrams lets the other two fall unceremoniously to the floor, and he shoves the magazine at Arin. “Show me what you like.”
They still don’t know how Abrams went from being so flustered to so confident. Maybe all he needed was to know they wanted him in return. Arin does not share that confidence or the lack of shame that comes with it. At this rate their face might turn red permanently.
Still, the idea of disappointing him feels worse. Arin takes the magazine in one sweaty hand, neck bent over it so they don’t really have to look at him while they do this. That doesn’t stop Abrams from crowding in close, big hands all over them. When he finally settles, it’s behind them, with one hand on their chest and the other petting the thin skin of their inner thigh.
He hooks his chin over their shoulder to see when Arin stops flipping. The first one they land on is one of the tamer ones, a slim human riding an Ixian’s cock. Then there’s the one of the Ixian taking two human dicks at once, which makes Abrams laugh, a soft puff of air against their neck. His fingers on their thigh are tracing the hem of their underwear now.
There’s one of a human on his back, tiny compared to the blue-green Ixian swallowing him down, then one of two Ixians together, one fucking the other with a huge purple cock strapped to the leather harness on their hips. They flip a bit faster; most of these are sexy enough, but they are variations on the same, and only the position and the chosen surface change much for several pages.
Abrams strokes them through their underwear now, until wetness seeps through the fabric. Their cock flexes into his palm, and their hips move of their own volition. All that does is slow Abrams down, until his touch grows lighter, more teasing. They can feel his hard cock digging into their back, making their breath stutter with the memory of the night before.
“Surely there’s more,” Abrams says, because Arin has forgotten to turn the page.
“Only one.” They flip to the dog-eared page, and there it is again, like a punch to the gut: the picture of one human with a muscular Ixian at each end. Neither Ixian’s face is even visible; the photograph cuts off at the shoulders for both, centering the man who looks so small between them. He looks content too, though, as if his favorite place in the world is right here, choking on one cock with another buried deep up his ass.
Arin’s breath catches, and it might be the image, or it might be Abrams’ hand slipping beneath their waistband.
“That’s the one?” Abrams asks, humid air fanning their neck.
“Yeah.”
“I like that one too. Did you think about yourself in the middle?”
“Yes.”
Abrams rewards them by pulling their waistband down, freeing their cock to the open air and sliding his slick fingers along it, grip loose and relaxed. His thumb rubs under the crown, and their hips won’t stop shifting with nowhere really to go.
“Which part did you like?” Abrams’ other hand slides up their body, up their neck. “The hair-pulling?” With that, he tightens his fist in their hair, blunt nails scraping lightly over their scalp. He doesn’t pull hard enough to hurt, but enough that every follicle seems to tingle, so much that their skin pebbles all the way down their arms.
Shuddering, they say, “Yes.”
He releases their hair, and his hand comes to rest at the base of their throat. “The collar?”
Their heart pounds like it’s trying to escape, and they’re not sure if it’s desire or anxiety. “I— maybe. I don’t know.”
Abrams chuckles against their neck, presses an incongruously chaste kiss to their cheek. “There’s not a wrong answer.” His hand just sits there, heavy, thumb resting on the vein thudding in the side of their neck. “Two guys at once, huh?”
“Yes.” Their voice is high and tight now. Uninvited, they can hear the memory of Lash calling them names, the almost affectionate way he’d say slut. They brace for it now, for the sick rush of shame and pleasure side by side, but it never comes.
“Was one of them me?” Abrams asks. His hand finally drops from their neck, huge palm sliding down their body to pull their hips back toward his. His cock is a rigid line grinding against their back. “Were you thinking of me while you touched yourself?”
His grip shifts on their cock, and Arin’s whole body goes tight for a second. “Yes,” they breathe.
Abrams groans, then he’s sucking a kiss into their shoulder, up the side of their neck. He grabs their jaw, turning their head until he can reach their mouth. The angle is strange and the kiss is messy, too wet with too much space between them, but it doesn’t matter.
Abrams’ hand wraps fully around their cock now, pumping evenly, smearing slick from the sensitive crown down the whole length of it. It speeds up, squeezing just tight enough, and they can’t help but fuck up into it, hips moving in awkward little circles.
They mumble something — even they aren’t sure what — against Abrams’ mouth and he lets them go, lets them rest their head back on his shoulder while he jerks them off, pulling them closer and closer to the edge. They move restlessly, legs spread and unable to ground themself. One hand lands on Abrams’ thick thigh and squeezes, bracing. He’s surrounding them completely, legs bracketing either of theirs, a big arm pressing them back against his warm body.
Their head is still full of the images too, now with the recent sense memory of Abrams’ cock moving hot and huge and overwhelming inside them. They haven’t gotten it in their mouth yet, but they can extrapolate. They know what it feels like when their jaw stretches too wide and they have to work to relax, to remember to breathe.
“Come on, I got you,” he murmurs, and they’re gritting their teeth, biting down on some strange animal noise as they spill all over his hand.
He strokes them through it, squeezing out every last drop until they’re writhing to get out of his grip. Only then does he let them go.
He helps them out of their underwear finally, and he doesn’t stop them this time when they try to get their mouth on his dick. Try is perhaps the most important part; it’s a struggle, and they end up mostly sucking the tip while their hand does the rest. Abrams does not complain.
He does clean them both up, and then he pulls them close, wrapping around them like a heavy blanket until his stomach growls and they both remember they haven’t had dinner yet.
The next morning, Abrams is in a rush to leave, but that evening he greets them again, this time dropping to his knees to suck them off against the door before he carries them to the bedroom for more. Over the next few days, he jerks them off on the couch and eats them out on the bed and fingers them in the kitchen and fucks between their thighs on the floor. They finally fit his cock down their throat on the third try, and he’s hesitant to make it too rough, but at least he pulls their hair again.
Between all this, Abrams likes to cuddle and tug them close and sometimes just touch like he wants to remember he can. His fingers somehow always find a hip or a hand or a knee or their lower back.
And there’s always talking. So much talking, actually, because Abrams wants to know what they like and don’t like and what they’ve tried and haven’t tried and want to try and— well, it’s a lot. They’re so accustomed to avoiding scrutiny that it’s overwhelming to suddenly be put under the microscope, even for what is ultimately a net positive.
Abrams knows who they are and still likes them, and if the Fairfax name is any factor in that equation at all, it’s only that Abrams likes them in spite of it rather than because of it. The relentless questions just mean he’s paying attention, and he’s sweet and affectionate, and if he’s more protective than they really need, Arin doesn’t think they can blame him, given both their circumstances and his job.
He doesn’t seem to expect them to answer every question, anyway. “What’s with that case?” Abrams asks precisely once.
“What’s with that book?” Arin shoots back, and the conversation ends there. Abrams doesn’t seem particularly upset by the exchange, just shrugs it off as one more boundary set.
The endless barrage of questions means Arin does get to ask their own, including the one that’s been wriggling at the back of their mind for over a month now, and especially the past few days: “Are you still not going to help me in the Maelstrom?”
One benefit of sleeping with Abrams, they suppose, is that at least he doesn’t brush it off this time. “I’m already working with someone, and I don’t think you’re gonna want to work with her too.”
“Oh?” They try to keep their face and voice as neutral as possible. Abrams would be so useful to have out there, and frankly without knowing exactly what the Patrons might want, Arin doesn’t want to work against him, and it would be nice to have someone they really trust there instead of only people they’re paying for the favor. But it’s a big ask, and maybe they don’t have the right to be disappointed yet. It hasn’t even been a week since they started sleeping together.
Abrams’ face falls; they’re not very good at hiding things from him. “Jeanne Geist. You know her, don’t you? From back then?”
Arin’s blood turns cold, and they can only nod.
“You think she’d recognize you too?”
“Probably.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I need her help to solve an important case, but I don’t trust her farther than I could throw her.”
“She’s tiny. I think that would be pretty far,” Arin says.
Abrams smiles as if it’s in spite of the conversation. “You know what I mean.” He clears his throat. “So it’s not personal. I’m just trying to keep your secrets. Keep you safe. But if you wanna risk her knowing, we could work together. I wouldn’t let her get too close even then, but I’ll leave it up to you.”
It’s touching, the realization that Abrams has been keeping their best interests in mind long before they started this new thing. “I’ll think about it.”
Abrams nods, and it’s easy to pull him down into a kiss. There is blessedly little talking after that.
It’s Arin’s experience that nothing good lasts long, and they’re right again. At least this time it doesn’t appear to have anything to do with their family, though.
The next evening is crisp, cold wind blowing in off the harbor again. Abrams doesn’t greet them inside the apartment. He catches them a block away, and he starts pulling them back the direction they came. His grip is tight on their arm, his steps so quick they have to scurry to keep up with his longer legs.
“You can’t stay with me anymore,” he says, voice gravelly.
Their pulse spikes and something sticks in their throat, but Abrams wouldn’t just end things by tossing them out unceremoniously. He loves his conversations too much. They steady themself, then ask, “Has something happened?”
“Someone’s been trying to intimidate me. My office has been broken into twice already. Now they’ve found the apartment, and I don’t think they’re planning to stop at intimidation.”
“Shit” is the only appropriate response to that.
Abrams’ grip gets gentler on their arm, but he doesn’t let go or slow his walking. “They fucked up my shitty furniture and some porno mags. Gonna cost me some time redoing paperwork. Who cares?” He glances sidelong at Arin, trying and failing to hide a painfully earnest look. “But you can’t go back there. I’m not going back there.”
“Okay. So what now? We could get a hotel or—”
“No,” Abrams says. “The sooner I get this book out of my hands, the sooner things go back to normal. I’ve already arranged to stay with Geist.” He finally lets Arin’s arm go, trailing down to twine their fingers together instead. “You’ve made it this far without me. You’ll be alright.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, and when Arin tries to pull their hand away, his grip tightens. “I don’t mean it has to be over. I just mean do what you have to do. Take care of yourself. I’ll check in when I can, and when this mess is over, we can… get back to it, if you still want that.”
They both fall quiet for a while, but Arin doesn’t try to pull their hand away again.
One neighborhood gives way to another, but Arin is so lost in thought that it takes them far too long to realize what’s happening. Abrams stops them in view of the same apartment building he picked them up from a couple weeks ago.
“You can’t be serious,” Arin says.
“If you’ve got a better idea, let’s hear it.”
“It’s a horrible idea. He probably already found some fan or something. Or, like, ten of them. I don’t know.”
“You know how many fights he’s lost?” Abrams asks after a moment.
“Like one. He doesn’t shut up about it.”
“One. One, in his entire career, and I’d bet money he’s got a gun tucked away somewhere too.” Abrams sucks in a breath. “I’m not saying I like him or any of this. I’m saying if I can’t be around all the time, I’d sleep easier knowing you’ve got somebody with that skill set at your side. And this one’s got a vested interest in you, personally.”
It really recontextualizes Abrams’ earlier do what you have to do. Flushing, Arin says, “His ‘vested interest’ was basically charging me rent.”
“Sure.” Abrams smirks in a way that is almost condescending. “But fine. Go knock on his door and see for yourself. If you’re right, I’ll escort you somewhere else. Your choice. But if I’m right, you stay right here. Deal?”
Fully expecting Lash to shut the door in their face, or have someone in there already, or to simply ignore their knocking, Arin says, “Deal.”