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The noise hits Razlo first. A wall of it, voices rising and falling, overlapping, a cacophony that sets him on edge, the blade of a knife without a hilt to grab it by.
His vision is still a haze of static, his hands and feet buzzing with pins and needles, heart pounding, a rush of adrenaline bracing him for the inevitable fight. He’s unarmed, no weight in his hands, but that isn’t going to stop him, that isn’t going to keep his wrath back from anyone who dares to raise a hand against him, against Livio —
But there’s no pain.
No pain, no smell of cooking meat and burnt sugar, no blood-loss headache, no deep muscle ache of strain, no skin pulled too taut by the brief appearance of scar tissue before that too heals over.
He listens, carefully, to what he hears.
The bright swell of sound isn’t gunfire, and the voices he hears are loud but they aren’t urgent — a crowd around him, unmoving, gathered somewhere. He can pick out the voices of trainees he recognizes, the thud of skin on skin.
He squints his eyes open. He’s surrounded, but no one’s looking at him — they’re all staring towards the makeshift ring in the middle the training field.
Combat training.
Right.
He’s getting… better at this. Better than he used to be, before the augments, when his and Livio’s body was still frail and weak, when Livio was so goddamn scared of everything. When all Razlo knew how to do was find the quickest way to make whatever was scaring him stop, and only think about what came next when the only heart beating was their own.
Razlo draws in a deep breath through his nose, lets it out slow, settling his racing heart just in time to not immediately throw a punch when a metal elbow jams into his ribs.
He turns, dropping his gaze. Lesley is right up against his side, like she’d been leaning in towards Livio when the handoff happened. She’s looking up at him, brows drawn together.
“Check,” she says, so low it’s almost under her breath.
Razlo gives her a shove. She moves with the momentum, stepping out to widen her stance, and throws her shoulder against his side. Not hard, not to him — Razlo barely feels it. He rolls his head to crack his neck, settling his arm around Lesley’s shoulders, wrapped around her chest like he’s considering a headlock. He’s not. “How’d you tell?”
Lesley shrugs against his side. “Your dog’s acting up.”
She’s right. Across the training yard, Lockjaw’s sitting up, the tail-like stump left over from the reconstruction of her spine from biped to quadruped knocking against the ground, head tilted.
“Not a dog,” Razlo grumbles. giving Lesley’s neck a squeeze. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth.”
There might only be a dog’s worth of brain left in Lockjaw’s mask-strapped face, but there’s a person under there, whatever trainee she was before the experiments. She might not even know it anymore, but Razlo does.
Razlo can feel her; the sharp, warm hum of her presence in his brain whenever she’s close to him, just external enough that he knows she was enforced on him, an addition — not quite like how he and Livio are.
Lesley scoffs a laugh, elbow pressing hard against his ribs, and Razlo thinks for a second she’s going to start scuffling with him, something to do with the coiled-up tension of the hot day and the violence swelling up around them, before they had their turns in the ring.
Then Master Chapel’s voice rings out, loud, and Razlo doesn’t even process the words before he’s moving, called to heel.
He can really hear the fight, now that he’s listening for it. Ragged cries of pain, and a familiar laughter.
Razlo wraps both arms around Sidney and wrenches him off of whatever poor fucking sap in his weight class he got paired with today. There’s a lot of blood. Raw muscle, exposed bone.
“You fuckin’ menace,” Razlo growls in Sidney’s ear, squeezing him hard against his chest. “There are goddamn rules to this.”
“Fuck off,” Sidney spits, kicking so hard at Razlo’s shin that the bone would splinter if Razlo’s body weren’t built the way it is. “They should have paired me with you.”
Razlo drags him out of the ring, the crowd of gawping trainees parting at his back, giving him room to throw Sid into the dirt. He doesn’t bother to offer him a hand up. “Not in your fuckin’ weight class anymore, Sid.”
Sid pulls a pissy expression, getting to his feet, spitting a mouthful of blood out into the dirt. The trainees stay back, like Sidney might be one of his own explosives walking, rigged to go off at any minute.
Pretty accurate, actually, Razlo thinks.
There’s a gurgle from behind them, as whatever trainee Sid was fighting gets dragged off to the side. He’ll get one of his vials dumped down his throat, a dozen years carved off his lifespan, but he’ll live.
Something churns in the pit of Razlo’s stomach. Like he took buckshot to the gut, and there’s stomach acid seeping out. Sid’s right. They should be paired together — Razlo’s the only one who knows Sid, the only one of the trainees who’s not been too chickenshit or too dead to fight him more than once. If it’s not Razlo, Sid just tears the poor fucker apart.
Well, he tears Razlo apart too. But Razlo can handle it. It’s what he’s for. It’s what he and Sid have always done, for as long as they’ve healed from whatever they do to their bodies.
It’s just, logistically, a goddamn nightmare. And not just because of the weight-class bullshit designed to keep the trainees from killing each other.
Mostly, it’s because it’s not like Livio knows Sid, much less how to fight him — for both their own goods, Razlo’s done his damnedest to keep them apart. It’s the one line Sidney knows better than to cross.
And Razlo’s right, too — ever since the second round of drugs, he’s been two feet taller than Sid, and twice as bulky. Fighting him now means Sid fights dirty, just to keep the playing field even.
Master Chapel only puts up with so much pain heaped on Razlo’s back, for all that Razlo keeps telling him it’s all he’s good for.
Lesley’s metal elbow jabs into Razlo’s ribs again, and he swings around, catching her by the wrist. She stares him down, unfazed. “Our turn.”
Razlo doesn’t miss Sid’s ever-souring expression as he turns away — spiteful, bitter, just the barest hint of warning — but Razlo just rolls his eyes. He’s not fucking scared of Sid.
He tries to put Sidney out of his mind as he follows Lesley into the ring. He likes fighting her. She’s shorter than him — everyone is, these days — but she’s closer than most of the trainees, built like brick wall, and her metal arms put a force behind her blows even the augmentations can’t always match.
And she doesn’t try to rip Razlo’s guts out through his cunt every time they fight.
She does almost break his goddamn shins as soon as they start sparring, diving low to the ground, under Razlo’s guard, and wrapping those metal arms — prototypes for the one implanted in Razlo’s back, that he isn’t getting out because Livio’s sick of sewing their shirts back together — around his knees, trying to knock him down.
Razlo goes low, to match her. Sid likes to fight on his feet, Nicholas likes to fight from a distance, but Lesley fights low to the ground, so Razlo curls his shoulder and throws his body down in the dust beside hers, wrapping his arms around her waist, keeping her body pinned close to his as he stops resisting her grip and instead follows the pull, driving one knee up into her face.
He feels her nose break, smells the hot rush of blood. Lesley doesn’t make a sound beyond a grunt of pain. She kicks out in return, bracing a boot on his shoulder. She can’t exactly shove him away, but she gains herself enough leverage to get her other leg free and kick him in the chin.
Head spinning, Razlo rolls away from her, spitting out a chipped piece of tooth. Lesley’s face is covered in blood, her eyes wild as she flings herself at him.
A rib cracks when she connects, both hands extended, solid metal against flesh and bone, but Razlo manages to get an arm around her neck and—
He doesn’t squeeze. He holds her, restrains her, but he doesn’t snap her neck, doesn’t rip her head off. Doesn’t.
Lesley tenses, like she can feel his barely-there restraint. His chest moves under Razlo’s arm, like she’s drawing breath to speak—
—her back arches against him, her arms lurching up like she’s guarding her face. Adrenaline shoots up Razlo’s spine, and he kicks against the ground, but too late to knock away the explosive that detonates inches away from their tangled bodies.
Sid’s cackle is unmistakable, even over Lesley’s cry of pain and the ringing in Razlo’s remaining ear. Lockjaw’s terror bolts through him.
Blood soaks through the front of Razlo’s shirt.
A whistle rings out, sharp and clear. Stand down. The adrenaline of the fight bleeds from Razlo’s limbs, the empty space filled just as quickly with a rot-black frustration, edged red-hot with fury.
He hefts Lesley’s body off of him, pushes himself to his knees and braces himself over her, in case Sid tries anything else. She’s half-conscious, one hand clapped over her ear and the other clasped against her gut.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“How bad?” Lesley’s voice is muffled. Razlo rolls her onto her back, pushes his fingers past hers into the gut wound to fish out the dark metal jutting from her flesh. Blood oozes out, but it isn’t deep. None of the shrapnel wounds are, but there are a lot of them.
“Wait here,” Razlo growls, ignoring Lesley’s grumble that she’s not exactly going anywhere, pushing himself to his feet.
Sid is grinning, like he’s expecting to be praised for giving Lesley a gut-full of shrapnel.
Razlo wants to punch him in the mouth, but that would only make him grin wider.
“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”
Sid scoffs. “What’re you going to do about it? Fight me, next time?”
He’s so goddamn hungry for it. And Razlo’s hungry for it too. Sid’s made him hungry for it, gotten the blood roaring in Razlo’s ears. His hands curl into fists at his sides, ready to throw Sid into the dirt, right here among the whispering trainees, Chapel’s presence across the yard hot on the back of Razlo’s neck.
Sidney’s leaning forward on the balls of his feet. His whole body jonesing for a fight.
Lesley makes a noise from behind him, a faint groan of pain. Fully aware he’s leaving his back open if Sid decides to lunge at him, Razlo turns toward her.
She’s sitting halfway upright, one elbow braced underneath her, blood smeared down her face.
Razlo goes to her, pulls her to her feet. Lesley barely stumbles, catching herself on his side before wrapping her arm back around her bloodied middle, letting Razlo lead her along.
With the resignation of long practice, Razlo ignores the taunts Sid slings after him, the cursing and the jeering, tinted with his laughter, the ever-present delight at pulling something off that Razlo doesn’t expect.
Piss-hearted coward, didn’t know they took your spine when they gave you that shiny new arm, don’t you know a good fight when it’s asking for you?
He knows. Sid’s the best fight he’s ever had. Best fuck. Best friend.
Sometimes, he wonders if he’s anything to Sid but a place to cut his teeth.
*
“Clothes,” Razlo says, depositing Lesley on the bed, as he strips off his own shirt. “You need drugs?” He has a cache of painkillers, the good kind, usually saved for major surgeries, that he’d cajoled out of Chapel, mostly for Livio.
Lesley grunts as she struggles to peel her shirt off. “Don’t bother, just get this shit out of me before I grow over it.”
Razlo leaves the box of good drugs where it is and goes back to the bed, feeling like dog following the wrong master. Like how Livio says Lockjaw gets, when Razlo isn’t around.
He gets Lesley’s shirt off, letting himself the slightest bit of indulgence in lingering over the scars under her pecs, before kneels down in front of her like a supplicant to pick the shrapnel out of her stomach.
“Sorry about him,” he says, eventually. One of Lesley’s hands is settled against the plate in the side of his neck. “I don’t—” he trails off with a huff. “He doesn’t listen to me anymore.”
Used to be that Razlo was the only one Sidney would listen to.
That’s why Chapel let him live, instead of putting him down like the bad dog he turned out to be. Same reason he let Razlo keep Lockjaw. She listened to him, sometimes. Let him call her to heel.
Razlo had promised to take care of her. Tend her, feed her. Make sure she wasn’t anyone problem but his own. Even if she couldn’t be useful like they wanted, a perfect obedient drone for their perfectly obedient soldier, he could keep her if he kept her good.
Same way he’d promised to take care of Sid.
“Sometimes I just wait for Master Chapel to tell me to kill him,” Razlo says, mostly to Lesley’s open wounds.
Lesley scoffs. “He knows you wouldn’t. I’ve seen you, when it’s just you and him,” her voice twists with — something. Annoyance, maybe. Spite. “It’s like there’s just the one soul between the two of you.”
Razlo doesn’t have a soul. Livio might. He’s not sure about Sid. Seems like the kind of thing that would make him laugh, that sharp-edged, bright cackle that makes Razlo’s stomach swoop with delight at amusing him, even more so now that getting Sid in a good mood is harder than ever.
Fuck does a soul matter? Sid would say, and he’d put his fingers on Razlo’s chest like a question, and Razlo would carve himself up for Sid to touch inside, or carve Sid up so he could touch him, put their fingers where no one else has ever touched inside each other, a sort of sex that isn’t sex, though there might be that, too — just the eagerness of possibility, the way their ever-healing bodies are endlessly explorable.
He doesn’t say any of that. Doesn’t answer at all, doesn’t ask her what she means, why she said it like that soul they apparently share spit blood into her breakfast — just pushes his fingers into the last of the gashes in Lesley’s stomach. The muscle jumps under his opposite hand, as he tries to hold the wound open and reach in at the same time, but his fingers are too wide.
Instead, he braces his hand on either side of the wound and pulls it wider, leaning in to get his teeth around the shard of metal, pulling it clear of her.
Lesley whistles, low, as he spits it off to the side. The scent of blood is hot in his nose, bright and almost disorienting, and there’s something else underneath. Musky and distinct. He hadn’t smelled it out on the training field, surrounded by sand and sweat and hot metal and crowding bodies, but here, with just her and him—
“What?” Lesley asks, raising an eyebrow in obvious amusement. “You want to suck my dick, or something?”
Razlo has to think about it, licking his thumb to rub a streak of drying blood from Lesley’s stomach. She’s healing up already, slower than he would but more cleanly than Sid does, no need to reopen the wounds and make sure her organs haven’t doubled by mistake.
It’s really only Lesley and Sid that ask him questions like that — well, Lesley asks. Sid phrases what he wants like a question. Razlo learned that one early on.
Chapel just gives orders. Livio never asks for anything, so all Razlo can do is guess.
“Yeah,” Razlo hears himself say. His hands are on Lesley’s calves, wrapped around the warm muscle. Her metal hands are on his shoulders, one hooked around the back of his neck, toying with a curl of hair growing out at the nape of his neck.
Lesley lifts her hips, and Razlo pulls her shorts and underwear off of her. She is bleeding, like he thought — Razlo’s body hasn’t ever had a consistent cycle, but when it does hit a pattern, it’s the same pattern as Lesley’s, and there’s been an almost-imperceptible twinge in his gut since he woke up out in the yard.
Already bent over her, it’s easy to close the distance, bury his face in her cunt. The smell of her hits him like a wave, iron and sweat and that indescribable human scent of organ-blood, dried in the thick thatch of hair that covers her cunt. Her dick fits easily in his mouth, twitching to hardness under his lips. He laves his tongue over her folds, hair and dried flecks of blood catching in his teeth.
Lesley makes a gratified noise above him, a deep punched-out groan. She hooks her legs over Razlo’s shoulders, squeezing his head between his thighs, her fingers curled tight at the back of his head, metal joints catching in his hair.
She’s warm, her blood hot and pungent in his mouth, smearing into the stubble Livio must’ve forgotten to shave, her dick hard in his mouth. Razlo loses himself in it, earnestly, letting Lesley pull his hands from where they’re clasped around her thighs to her hips, pulling her closer, burying himself in her blood-wet cunt.
There’s a clatter from the window, just as Lesley’s thighs are tensing and quivering against the sides of his face. She freezes, but Razlo doesn’t, the ripple of tension down his spine assuaged by familiarity. There’s only one motherfucker stupid enough to break into Razlo’s personal room.
Sidney makes a hilarious spluttering sound as his boots thud against the floorboards, like he didn’t already know Razlo and Lesley fucked. Razlo had told him, after the first time. Three fingers deep in Sid’s guts, fondling his intestines as they squirmed, and Sid thrashed, swearing, but he’d gone back to sucking on Razlo’s tongue without voicing any complaints about him fucking Lesley.
Razlo’s not sure how Sid would react if this really was the first time he was finding out. He’s different now than he was, before the second round of augments Razlo got and Sidney didn’t, before Master Chapel had doubled down on training Razlo and wrote Sid off as a lost cause.
Master C had said it to Razlo’s face. That Sid was a resource sink, a danger to himself, to the other trainees, to the Eye, and then he’d pinned his gaze on Razlo and waited.
It was a mercy Razlo hadn’t expected, couldn’t ever forget — the chance to argue his case.
So am I, he’d said, instead of voicing the kicking, writhing thing inside him that screamed that even before Master C, long before Lesley and Lockjaw, Razlo only had Livio and Sidney. They couldn’t take Livio from him, but they could take Sid — even now, the only one besides his Master who wants Razlo in the place he belongs, blood-sodden and well-armed.
Chapel had let Sidney live. Let him stay — not that he would have stayed away. He never stays away from Razlo, for good or for ill.
It’s for ill more often these days, and Razlo doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.
There’s a fury coiled up in Sid’s chest that Razlo can’t scrape out no matter how deep he digs. He can’t ever seem to name whenever Razlo ask him what the hell he has stuck in his craw that has him so fucking irritable, lashing out at Lesley and picking on Lockjaw, until Razlo herds him off into to some corner to give him what he wants.
“Could’ve invited me,” Sid all but snarls. “You really playing favorites, Raz? Now? ”
Razlo lifts his head, licking a clot of blood from his upper lip. “Wait your goddamn turn,” he snaps right back, barely looking at Sid. He fills the side of Razlo’s vision like a creeping shadow, sand clinging to his dark curls, blood dried down the front of his At his height, he wouldn’t look nearly as dangerous as he is, if not for the look he always has in his eyes, blood-hungry and vicious. “Or I’ll tie you to the fucking headboard and you can just watch.”
“Yeah, Sid,” Lesley says, propping one ankle across her opposite knee, pulling her leg into a tight lock around Razlo’s neck, forcing his mouth back down to her cunt — not that he’s complaining. “If you’re so jealous, get over here and prove you can be better to him than I can.”
Jealous? Razlo thinks, latching back on to Lesley’s dick, wanting to at least get her off before he has to deal with the roiling stormcloud of Sid’s approaching presence. He’d never thought of Sid as jealous. Razlo had made sure he knew, before Sidney even knew his name, that he could never put Sid first — it would always be Livio, and then Sid. And when Master Chapel had taken Razlo as his disciple, had laid his life on the line to claim him, he’d taken the second slot. Sid had been angry, then — needy, bitter, but not jealous. He knew how the Eye worked. How Razlo’s loyalties were decided — be necessity, not by desire.
Really? You’re jealous of Lesley? Livio’s friend that I fuck? Her? he’d ask, if his mouth was free, but Lesley isn’t letting him up, and he honestly doesn’t want to know. Jealous. That’d make him jealous of Lockjaw, too — she can’t even talk.
Bullshit, he decides, sucking harder on Lesley’s dick. Sid’s just a fucking asshole. Always has been, always will be. At least he knows to behave well enough if he’ll get his dick sucked for it.
Sid’s boots scuff across the floorboards beside the bed. His fingers skim across Razlo’s shoulder, gentle for a moment, before his nails dig in, scraping a welt into his skin. It hisses, heals. Sid throws himself onto the bed with a huff. Razlo can imagine without even looking the way he’s crossed his arms, surly and so goddamn judgemental. Didn’t bother to take his boots off before he got on the bed, by the sound of it.
Lesley makes a noise, an uncertain little hm in the back of her throat. Razlo licks at her cunt, gathering the blood between her folds onto his tongue and focuses in on her dick, until her thighs shudder and squeeze tight, a much more reassuring groan rumbling from her chest. Her fingers curl tight against Razlo’s scalp and the side of his neck.
When the last shivers of her orgasm have faded, she lets him up, leaning back on her hands as Razlo catches his breath, licking blood and smeared fluids from his lips and chin, picking a hair out of his teeth. The hair on her chest and stomach glitters faintly with sweat, cutting through the dried streaks of blood where her wounds have healed over.
Lesley’s hair is coming loose from its tie, long sheets of copper falling over her shoulders. She shifts her weight, rubs a hand down her face, and reaches back to unwrap it, sweeping loose strands out of her face. She meets Razlo’s gaze for a moment, then her eyes shift away.
Sid’s sulking by the head of the bed, just like Razlo thought, eyes half-lidded and hungry. Getting sand on the bed. His legs are spread, his dick just starting to tent those tight shorts they all wear to training.
Razlo strips out of his own sweat-tacky training clothes and climbs onto the bed, rolling Sid onto his back and pinning him to the mattress, one hand splayed across his chest, the other holding himself up right.
“You bleeding too?” Sid asks, reaching up to smudge his thumb against Razlo’s mouth.
Razlo half-shrugs. “Probably. What, is that what you broke into my room for? Get your mouth on my dick? Make up for ruining my fight? Or are you just here to get sand in my bed?”
Sid scoffs at him. “Like you give a shit. Why do you even bother? It’s a waste of your time. You know Chapel thinks better of you than training in the pit.”
Lesley makes a noise of obvious disdain. Razlo feels a sharp pull in his stomach he has no name for — like a fleeting mimicry of the sensation of being torn in two.
“You seemed like you were having fun,” he says, instead of turning his head.
“Well,” Sid replies. “I’m not you , am I?”
Something about the tone of it clues Razlo in that it’s one of Sid’s traps — whatever Razlo says will be the wrong answer.
He considers pretending to fall for the bait, satisfying Sid with a fight instead of a fuck,, but he relents to the tug of arousal building heat between his thighs, bending to bite down on Sid’s shoulder, scraping the flesh with his teeth until he draws the faintest taste of blood.
Sidney shudders underneath him, hips jolting up against Razlo’s thigh braced between them, half-hard. He stays quiet and pliant for just moment before he’s shoving on Razlo’s shoulders insistently. Razlo lets himself be moved, laid out on his back, his head coming to rest where Lesley’s still sitting at the foot of the bed, watching him.
One of her hands settles on his head, playing with his hair. Her eyes meet his, then dart up to Sid, and Razlo doesn’t lift his head fast enough to catch if they’re looking at each other or not. When he looks back, Sid is staring at him, grinning earnestly for a beat before he buries himself between Razlo’s legs.
Some of the tension wrapped around Razlo’s spine slackens, just slightly. Lesley’s fingers move through his hair, and Sid’s mouth is warm and urgent and eager against his cunt, sloppy and insistent, like he’s on a mission. Like it’s some kind of competition.
Jealous, something in Razlo’s head pipes up. He shoves it away, leaning back and closing his eyes, letting the white heat of arousal fill him up, scrub the frustration and the churning discomfort that rises up whenever he finds himself in a quiet room and the anxiety at the back of his neck, knowing he’s unhooked himself from Master Chapel’s leash, and the growing annoyance with the argument Sid and Lesley are apparently having while he’s not looking, whatever she knows about him and him about her they aren’t fucking sharing because what does it matter — it’s all just a way to fill the days before the bells ring and everything goes quiet again, like Master C’s always told him to wait for.
He lets it go. Lets it all fall, like blood and bullet shells to the sand. He flexes his hands against the sheets and breathes, deep and slow, tries to stop chasing his goddamn thoughts in circles. Focuses on Sid’s hot, wet mouth, the intensity radiating outwards through his hips and thighs, Sid’s hands kneading and clinging at his calves, the tension building slow and sharp and sweet in the pit of his stomach.
There’s a soft brush against his shoulder. He opens his eyes to slits, and Lesley’s leaning over him, something unreadable in her expression. When she meets his gaze, she leans in closer, kissing him deep and almost careful, indulgent with her tongue against his, balancing out the eagerness of Sid’s mouth on his dick, the twin shocks of pleasure setting his nerves alight, burning brighter, hotter—
“Hey!” Sid snaps. “Wait your fucking turn!”
Lesley’s head jerks up too, a snarl in her voice. “Maybe you should hurry up, then?”
The sudden chill of empty air on his wet dick — along with the sudden adrenaline-fueled thud of his heart against his ribs as Sid and Lesley’s voices rise threateningly — kills Razlo’s buzz right at the worst time. He groans, arching his back against the bed, but there’s nothing to catch his hips on.
Instead, he kicks out, catching Sidney in the chest with his heel, throwing him against the headboard so hard it almost cracks. Distantly, he’s aware of Lesley twisting sideways and springing to her feet, getting herself out of the way as Razlo surges upward, grabbing Sid by the throat before he can catch his breath.
“Can you focus on anything that’s not a fucking pissing contest for five fucking minutes!” Razlo shouts, feeling the hot pulse of blood in Sid’s throat. Fucker’s smiling at him. Not the slightest bit fucking perturbed.
Lesley mutters something that sounds like Jesus fucking Christ under her breath.
Razlo can’t fucking blame her. He pins Sid flat against the bed, leans his weight on his throat, just long enough that Sid’s eyes start to widen.
“Can you just fucking behave? ” Razlo growls. “Trying to do you a goddamn favor here—” his gaze snaps over to Lesley, hovering by the end of the bed with her mouth twisted in a scowl like she’s smelled something rank. “The fucking both of you, what do I have to fucking do with you?”
Sid leers up at him. “Fuck me.”
Lesley barks a laugh. “Yeah, Raz. Fuck him. And he can eat me out. See if he’s actually all that good with his mouth.”
For a second, Razlo’s pretty sure Sid’s going to argue about it. Instead, he purses his lips and looks up at Razlo. “Let me get a sample, first,” he says, jerking his chin beckoningly at Razlo.
Obligingly, Razlo leans down and kisses him, letting Sid lick the lingering taste of Lesley’s blood out of his mouth. Sidney chews on Razlo’s lip like he’s trying to prove something, and maybe he is — just as Razlo leans into it, Sid pulls his head back and leers. “Fine. I’ll behave.”
Razlo knows mockery when he hears it. Instead of gratifying it with a response, he lays Sid out in the middle of the bed, all sweat and flush and coiled tension, his eyes sharp as ever and and his legs splayed like an invitation. His hair is slicked to his temples in places, puffed up in others, an uneven framing to his face, his eager grin.
Lesley settles herself straddling Sidney’s face. “No teeth, little man,” she warns him, smacking him lightly on the cheek. Sid draws a breath like he’s going to raise a new kind of hell, but Razlo wraps a hand around his dick, and he apparently decides it’s not worth the fight.
Sinking down on Sid’s dick is a fucking relief after the first ruined orgasm, and Sid jolts his hips up to meet him, shivering. Razlo watches his squirm, his jaw working as Lesley rides his face. A thick bead of blood runs over his lip. His tongue catches it, an obvious shiver going through him at the taste.
With his heart already racing, and Sid spread out beneath him, hips working desperately as Razlo fucks himself on his dick, it doesn’t take long for Razlo to bring himself back to the edge. Panting, grinding the heel of his hand into his dick, he raises his eyes from Sid’s mouth to Lesley’s face. She has a hand in her hair, holding it back from her face, the other bracing herself on the bedpost.
She raises an eyebrow at him, then drops her hand from her hair and catches Razlo’s wrist with it, squeezing tight for half a second before she lets go.
It’s a bewildering bit of contact, lingering on his skin even as the urgent heat of arousal pulls his attention down and in, tensing and quivering, clenching down hard. Sid arches beneath him, groaning around Lesley’s dick, making her cry out too, her hand jumping to Razlo’s shoulder to steady herself—
Razlo isn’t sure who comes when, or who it is that’s the first to shift their precarious arrangement, but Razlo ends up flat on his back on the bed, skull aching like it tends to when he stays in control of the body for too long.
He almost dares to close his eyes and see if he sinks, but Sid throws himself heavily onto his chest, so Razlo doesn’t risk it, wrapping an arm around his middle, pulling him down against his chest.
Their heartbeats slowly steady out, together.
Lesley’s dressed, when she next steps into Razlo’s periphery, gathering her hair back into a tie.
“Well?” Sid asks, looping two fingers through one of Razlo’s nipple rings and toying with it. “Did you get what you wanted out of him?”
Razlo wonders if Sid feels his heart thud, at that.
He doesn’t see Lesley roll her eyes, but he doesn’t need to. Her sigh is loud enough. “I dunno, Sid, what do you think? What do you think I get out of any of this?”
Good fucking question.
Sid doesn’t answer, and Lesley doesn’t wait for it. The door bangs shut behind her.
“Who does she think she is, huh?” Sid scoffs, resting his cheek on Razlo’s tit. There’s blood on his chin, slicked across his teeth. “Like I give a shit,” he mutters right after, as if that convinces anyone. “Needy fuckin’ bitch.”
Razlo squeezes Sid tighter, shoving his head down against his chest. “Shut the fuck up and go to sleep,” he mutters, working his fingers into Sid’s sweaty curls, wishing he didn’t know exactly how pissed Sid will be when he wakes up and Razlo isn’t there.
Did you get what you wanted? he almost asks, but he doesn’t really want to know.