A Rope of Sand

“You want another, big guy?”

“Considering it,” Abrams answers. It’s been the longest weekday of his life, which is why he’s parked his ass at Jezebel’s on a Tuesday evening. “Fuck it. Yeah, let’s have another.”

Fern’s service is always excellent, but he’s especially quick tonight when the number of patrons can be counted on one hand. Abrams is the only one bellied up to the bar.

Fern places a fresh napkin and the next glass of scotch in front of him, and he doesn’t leave. “What’s got you looking so sour tonight?”

“I’m not doing a bar confessional. I’m not that cliche.”

Fern grins, big and bright. “As your friend, then, not your bartender.”

Abrams buys himself a second with a sip. The problem with being a detective is that cases where he’s able to spill his guts entirely are rare. He’d be out a job if he couldn’t respect people’s privacy. 

After a moment, he says, “Sometimes you think you’re tailing a cheating spouse, but it turns out she’s stepping out to summon an eldritch monster instead.” 

“Are you sure she’s not still cheating?”

Abrams considers it, then decides that another drink was a great idea.

Fern leaves him to stare into his glass, but that doesn’t mean he’s left in peace. Someone crowds in at Abrams’ elbow.

“Aren’t you a tall drink of water?” The voice belongs to one particularly muscular human, if not an especially tall one. He’s got a strong jaw and stronger chin, a thick mustache that hides his upper lip and drapes downward, and a brow that sits heavily over his narrow eyes. 

“How often does that kind of thing work for you?” Abrams asks. He’s a little mad that his curiosity is real.

“All the time.” The guy’s smile is as cocky as everything else about him. Worse, Abrams is pretty sure he’s seen it before, which means now he has more questions. 

“Why do you look familiar?”

Before the guy can answer, Fern does it for him. “Jacob Lash,” he says. “The usual?” 

Lash nods then turns expectantly back to Abrams. “Ring any bells?”

“Right. From the Bear Pit.” He doesn’t bother to hide his disdain. “Nobody’s shut that place down yet?”

Lash’s smile stays fixed in place. “Don’t know why they would. It’s legal. Legal-ish.” Abrams snorts. Legal-ish really means Wraith has more cops and politicians in her back pocket than anybody else in this town.

Fern interrupts wordlessly to set down a cocktail napkin and a glass of something that looks vaguely like Abrams’ own drink. Then he makes himself scarce again, the traitor.

“Didn’t think you were that kind of detective, anyway,” Lash says.

“And how would you know what kind of detective I am?”

“Seen you around. You’re kind of hard to miss.”

“Haven’t really noticed you around here.”

“I didn’t mean here. I meant that other bar you go to.”

“Oh, God.” He might be blushing. He doesn’t need everybody in this city knowing where he picks up the rare one-night stand. No wonder Lash is so forward. Abrams tries to deflect. “Wouldn’t a big, scary pitfighter like you normally be against that kind of thing? You know, too macho for it?”

“You think The Lash isn’t secure in his masculinity? How could I not be?” Lash flexes, which is so stupid, but he has a point. “Besides, the only thing manlier than one macho dude is two macho dudes.”

“Oh, God,” Abrams says again, but this time he’s laughing ⁠— resentfully, but laughing nonetheless. This fucking guy.

Lash looks smug about it, and maybe he has a right to. Abrams’ mood was in the dumpster before he got here. At least Lash has proven to be entertaining. 

And he is handsome. More rugged than Abrams’ usual type, but then again, his usual type is never so sturdy. Abrams is pretty tall in Ixia; here among humans, he’s a giant. He lives most days in fear he’s going to break someone’s bone by bumping into them. It’s exhausting. If nothing else, at least he knows Lash can take a hit. 

Fuck it.

He throws back the rest of his drink. “Alright. Audition’s over. You wanna get out of here?”

When Abrams stands, Lash’s eyes travel the full length of his body before he follows suit. “Thought I’d have to sweet talk you at least another minute,” Lash says, then he drains his glass and slides a few bills across the bar for Fern.

“What can I say? You’re a real charmer,” he says as dryly as he can. It shouldn’t, but somehow Lash’s laugh drags a reluctant smile out of him. 

“My place or yours? Or we can just step around the corner…”

Lash has got to be fucking with him. “I know people here. Absolutely not.” Abrams’ apartment is close, but he’s pissed off too much of the criminal element in this city to let some guy he just met know where he lives. “Your place.”

He’s grateful when Lash leads him in the opposite direction of his own apartment. They don’t talk much on the way there. They both know what this is. Small talk isn’t the point.

Abrams finishes a second cigarette before Lash finally stops walking. 

They don’t waste much time talking upstairs either. Abrams presses him against the wall of his apartment and seizes his mouth in a kiss right away. It can’t last long, not with the way he has to bend down, but while he’s there, Lash kisses back, messy and hungry and far too self-assured.

In the time it takes Abrams to shrug out of his coat and suspenders, Lash has already stripped to the waist. And okay. He’s a cocky bastard, but maybe he’s earned some of it with that body; the torso is everything the arms promised and more. Abrams shoves him onto the bed, then climbs in to devour him whole. The bed complains, but it holds. 

He’s not usually rough with humans, not the first time. Something about Lash makes him reconsider the policy. 

Maybe it’s the way Lash bites right back into the kiss no matter how ugly it gets, or the way he laughs when Abrams pins his wrists in a one-handed grip above his head. He flexes, testing, but he doesn’t try to escape. 

With his other hand, Abrams gropes freely, squeezing one plush pec, then twisting hard at one nipple. A grunt, a breathless laugh, that’s the most he gets out of it. No complaints, no signs Lash isn’t into it. 

When Lash has had enough of holding still, he simply yanks an arm free; no wonder he was so serene, if he could escape the whole time. Abrams’ blood burns in his veins. 

Tugging on the top button of Abrams’ trousers, Lash asks, “You gonna take these off, or am I gonna make you come in your pants?” 

Abrams puffs out air, not quite a laugh, then he’s rearing back to pull his tie over his head and unbutton his shirt. 

With both hands free now, Lash sits up to help, but only so far. As soon as the shirt is open all the way, he shoves it off Abrams’ shoulders, then grabs it, tangling it right at the wrists so that Abrams is bound up tight. Turnabout is fair play and all that, but he didn’t expect Lash to be strong enough to keep him there. Lash has all the leverage; Abrams is stuck unless he wants to rip his shirt. Maybe stuck even then.

Smugly, Lash sucks one nipple into his mouth, opens wide and takes in as much of the surrounding flesh as he can. His teeth scrape then close in.

While his mouth works at Abrams’ chest, his hand finishes unfastening Abrams’ trousers, taking some of the pressure off his straining cock. He doesn’t touch it though. Instead he circles around back and undoes the buttons that keep Abrams’ tail secure. 

“You one of the sensitive ones?” he asks, lips shining with his own spit.

“Yeah,” Abrams breathes.

His eyes have to close when Lash’s mouth gets back to it, back to the same tight, raw nipple as before, then mouthing his way to the side, tongue slick and almost ticklish on the sensitive skin between pec and pit. He licks, sucks, and Abrams is strung too tight to squirm even if he wants to.

Lash’s fingers part in a vee, sawing down either side at the very base of Abrams’ tail. A pleasant buzz moves through his body. It’s hardly the strongest it could be, on the top and sides like this. But it’s nice. It mingles with everything else, and trapped between Lash’s hand and mouth like this, the sensation feels like more than it should.

Lash finally gives that side of Abrams’ chest a rest, moving to the untouched nipple and biting down. Abrams’ hips surge forward again. Of course Lash wouldn’t stop with the tail. His fingers lift, circle to the underside, right where it meets his body, stroking so gently compared to the bright pain of his teeth. Oft-neglected nerves light up, static racing along his spine.

“Fuck,” Abrams mumbles, head rolling forward like it’s too heavy for his neck now.

“That’s the plan.” It says a lot that Abrams isn’t even annoyed by the easy joke.

It’s been too long since someone bothered with his tail, and now Lash’s fingers stroke from the hidden underside of it and down into the crack of his ass, circling over his hole before sliding upward again, back and forth from one sensitive spot to the other, until he’s bearing an impressive amount of Abrams’ weight as he slumps forward, hips moving in some fruitless effort to get himself off. The best he gets is uneven rutting against Lash’s stomach, his boxers dragging wet fabric over the head of his cock, but none of that is enough. 

Abrams takes a deep breath, locking his thighs to keep his hips from moving seemingly on their own. “Thought you wanted my pants off.” His voice is far steadier than he feels.

“I want a lot of things, Detective, but we can start there.” That shit-eating tone is back, equal parts grating and thrilling. He yanks Abrams’ arms back one last time, laughs at the way it forces his chest forward, then lets him go. He doesn’t offer any help untangling the shirt. 

It’s fine. Abrams isn’t going to let that happen again. 

Once he’s nude he climbs back into the bed, feeling Lash’s appreciative stare wash over him. “Big all over, aren’t you?” Lash asks.

Abrams takes him in from head to toe, smirks, then says, “You’ll get the job done, I guess.”

It makes Lash laugh, ego so big that no insult can penetrate, apparently. 

He doesn’t seem to mind when Abrams pushes him down onto his back, and certainly not when big blue thighs straddle him. Abrams fingers himself open, which Lash pouts about only as long as it takes to distract himself with the tail again. 

He’s sinking down on Lash’s cock in no time, fighting against gravity to savor each inch. Whatever insults Abrams may have slung, he can appreciate the way it stretches him, fills up the empty space inside him, presses into every inch of the aching walls around it. 

It’s been too long since he’s picked anyone up. Longer still since he’s done this. Long enough that it feels like a revelation all over again.

His ass meets Lash’s hips. He squeezes down, makes Lash curse. Slides up again, drops faster this time, then again and again. Once the rhythm is set, Lash thrusts up to meet him. He doesn’t let Abrams rest, not even when his thighs begin to burn. 

Abrams doesn’t know who’s leading and who’s following at this point, and maybe it doesn’t matter. His ass is spread open on a fat cock that’s hitting farther than most humans are likely to get, and Lash’s greedy hands are rough and hot all over his skin. Pleasure is tightening in his gut, pulsing deep with every thrust. 

Sweat gathers at his hairline, under his arms, behind his knees. Lash’s touch feels damp now, slipping over his chest and thighs, anywhere he can reach. Finally, his fist closes around Abrams’ cock, ruthless as he wrenches him closer and closer to the edge.

His cock punches upward and his hand twists and smears slick all down the length of Abrams’ dick. Abrams hangs right there at the precipice for a moment, then Lash grabs the root of his tail and wrings, and Abrams would shoot off the bed if he weren’t so busy coming, seizing around Lash’s cock with his eyes shut and mouth open. 

Lash follows quickly after, still inside him, yanking his hips down and holding while he thrusts once, twice, then turns to a pile of loose limbs beneath him.

After an orgasm like that, Abrams is inclined to be nice. He gives Lash some room to breathe, dropping to the bed beside him, chest still heaving. 

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Detective.”

Abrams laughs, still breathless. “Could say the same about you.” 

“Me? I think my reputation speaks for me.”

“I don’t know shit about your reputation outside the ring.” Well, that’s not entirely true. He’s heard exactly one thing about Jacob Lash beyond his prowess as a fighter, and it’s not remotely complimentary. Out loud, Abrams says, “You’re not so bad when you’re too busy to talk much.”

“Flatterer,” Lash says, and Abrams snorts. He’ll get up in a moment, but for a few minutes post-orgasm, he can accept that Lash might only be an asshole ninety-five percent of the time.