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God, his head hurt. It really fucking hurt. Were there still glass shards in his hair?
“Ow.”
“Quiet. I’m almost done.”
Lamb’s fingers pressed against the cut at River’s right temple, none too gently. Where he’d gotten medical gloves from, River wasn’t sure; his head hurt too much to think about it much further. He let out a sharp hiss, more to express displeasure at the situation than out of any real pain.
Lamb moved toward him again. He jerked his head away, swallowing down the subsequent nausea. “Are you digging a fucking hole in it?”
“Well if you’d sit still,” Lamb replied, the still said with more than his usual brand of contempt. He dabbed a piece of gauze–again, where the fuck had he gotten gauze from?–on the cut. “I’m not the one who fell through a fucking window, am I?”
“For the last time, I was pushed–ow!”
“Oh, shut up." How had they made their way to his office? River was trying to recall, and coming up short; the headache currently making him feel like someone was trying to scrape out his basal ganglia didn’t help. Nor did Lamb, who was as forthcoming as ever regarding whether or not they’d managed to make off with the man they’d been sent to find. Which is to say, he’d said fuck-all.
Were he to judge by Lamb’s nonchalance, River would reckon that things–whatever they were–must have resolved. But then again, who knew anything as far as Lamb was concerned? Fuck, but his thoughts felt like fish flitting about in a stream, there and then not, sliding out of his grasp just as he closed his fingers. If he really concentrated–Christ, was that rough–he thought he could almost remember Lamb shining a light in his eyes, his jaw working in concentration as he tilted River’s head back and forth.
It was hard to trust those memories, though. Or what there was of them, anyway. It was not his first concussion, nor would it be his last, but he could confidently state that the experience hadn’t gotten much better.
“Pipe down and lie still, now.”
Speaking of concussions, he was on a bed–a bed? How had he made it to a bed? No, wait–it was a sofa. The sofa in Lamb’s office. Right, that’s right, he was in Lamb’s office.
The side of his head still felt sticky; he laid his head down. When he lifted it up, it peeled off the pillow. There was a throb behind his eyelids, and he thought he could dimly remember his assailant coming up behind him. The sound of footsteps on the carpet had been the only warning he had had before his head was rammed into the-
“I said- lie still. Christ, it’s like trying to teach a Chihuahua the fucking tango.” Lamb’s hand came down on the front of his shoulder, forcing him back; he hadn’t noticed himself trying repeatedly to sit up, and he slumped back down. “There you are. That’s better.”
River let out a sigh he wasn’t aware he was holding. His eyes fluttered shut; the exhaustion he’d been fighting for the better part of the last few hours crept in, the kind of peculiar aching tiredness that makes it impossible to sleep. “Did we at least…did Shirley catch-
“No.” The frown in Lamb’s voice was palpable. “How any of you made it into the service is beyond me.”
“Hmm.” Words felt thick on his tongue. “And you’re the shining ideal, is that it?”
“I dunno, Cartwright, but I’ve never been shoved out of an upstairs window. It’s like you enjoy getting pummelled.” The floor creaked as Lamb stood, going to his desk to retrieve something. There was the sound of drawers opening and shutting, something rattling, and then the smell of cigarette smoke permanently embedded in Lamb’s coat was at his side again. A hand was on River’s face–Lamb, River’s chin between his thumb and index finger, as he steered River’s face towards the back cushions. There was the soft click of a needle driver snapping shut. “What I don’t have is any more lidocaine, so do try and keep your head still. I don't want to hear you whine about how my stitches fucked up your pretty face.”
Something liquid was poured into the cut; saline, most likely, though how Lamb had procured that either, he didn’t know. Lamb’s fingers were still gently wrapped around his chin–the feeling of them brushing against his throat sent an electric shock down his spine. God…really? Now? He knew he hadn’t been touched in a while, but-still. Blessedly, he was able to turn his front away in time. He fought the urge to cross his legs, biting back a whine as he felt the sharp prick of a needle sink in at the wound’s edge. “Ow, you- ow.”
“Fucking hold still.”
“I’m trying.”
Lamb smacked his shoulder, a nice reminder of pain and bruising he’d momentarily forgotten was there. “No you’re fucking not. D’you whine like this with every minor scrape?”
River grimaced, forcing himself to lie still. “And where were you when it all went down?”
The needle tugged at one edge of the skin, a forceps pulling at the other; he pressed his hand into his mouth, biting the side of his index finger to avoid crying out as the thread slid through after it. He felt lightheaded; Lamb tied and cut the suture, quiet for a moment before he answered. “How many times- I was trusting my joes not to kill the fucker I want to interrogate, you knobhead. Fat load of good that did me.”
River groaned, from equal parts pain and exasperation. “Coe. For fuck’s sake.”
“He says he only cut the prick’s carotid after he saw him give you the plunge. I’d almost think he likes you.” There was a particularly sharp poke, and River yelped. “God only fucking knows why. If you’d broken your neck in the fall I would’ve toasted the bastard.”
“You are such an- ow!” Christ, he was going to pass out.
“That’s two,” Lamb said, his thumb pressing gauze on the wound again. “I think you need about two more. Can you be a good boy and power through?”
River swallowed.
It was not an overly unusual statement for Lamb’s standards, by any means. It shouldn’t have caused a problem. But the thing was, well–it did. Because despite River’s relative trust in his abilities to control certain… reactions, he still hadn’t figured out certain–well, other reactions. To be fair to himself, was there anything that anyone could do about them? Probably not.
But did that make him wish, with any less fervor, that he could sink through the floor? No. Not in the least.
He swallowed, desperately trying to ignore the way that he suddenly felt dizzy. However–Lamb or not–being called a good boy apparently had activated something that his limbic system liked. Quite liked.
Fuck, but did the words have to keep pounding in his fucking ears like that? Now of all times? He crossed his legs. Swallowed again. Turned his face towards the cushions, attempting to- adjust his body in the same fashion as earlier-
Lamb’s hands stopped moving. He let out a sort of disbelieving laugh. “Christ.”
Fuck.
Concussed or not, it wasn’t hard to understand that he’d- seen. River’s gut twisted. Nice as it had been to live in delusion, he–really shouldn’t have expected any less. He cursed his own luck. And then he cursed Lamb, internally, just because.
It really didn’t help that Lamb wasn’t helping. For fuck’s sake, the jolt that Lamb’s thumb just barely brushing his face gave him was almost worse. “Excited, are we?” The bastard actually fucking chuckled. “For a while there I thought you might be catching a fever! Imagine that.”
“Shut up,” River grit out. “It’s not- my head’s all fucked, is all.” He squinted open his eyes, wincing at the brightness of the light, and batted at the shadow of Lamb in his peripheral vision, halfheartedly attempting to push him away. Lamb was still just–hovering, staring down at River with an aura of smugness.
He was never going to live this down, was he? God forbid his reaction just be something out of his control. Good boy certainly wasn’t still ricocheting around his head like a mad bull in a pen, urging him to writhe in place, twist one leg over the other, unsure if he would rather rut against something or attempt to hide his raging fucking-
“Right.” Lamb still hadn’t let go of his chin; he bit back a groan as he let his head be moved again, or maybe a whimper. Not that it mattered–skin prickling with unwelcome arousal or not, his head still really fucking hurt. “Was it the pain? Or the daddy issues? What kind of masochist am I sewing up here, Cartwright?” River hissed as the needle stuck his temple again. It was made worse by the fact that there was still genuine fucking amusement in Lamb’s voice, as if he couldn’t quite believe the material he’d been given to work with. “And here I’ve been berating you free of charge! I ought to file for compensation.”
“Fuck y- ow! Lamb!”
“Oh, shut up. It’s not me popping a stiffy, is it?”
The noise that escaped him sounded miserable even to his own ears. “Please stop mentioning it. It just- it makes it weird.”
Lamb dug the needle in for the last stitch with pointed vigor. “Well, I suppose since you asked so nicely. But it’s no matter, Cartwright, really. We all already knew you’re a ponce.”
River frowned. He ought to say something about that, even if how he might do so without causing himself more problems eluded him at the present time. But he was distracted by Lamb’s hand clapping down on his ribcage, once, twice, then resting his hand there. He blinked his eyes open with a wince.
Lamb smiled. “Broken rib, I reckon.”
“Then why the fuck would you-” River breathed out through his teeth, slowly. Lamb said nothing, observing him with a rather irritating patience. He breathed in and out several more times until it no longer felt like his chest was on fire. “Never mind.”
“So you can learn something,” Lamb said. Then he stood up, stumbling a bit as he braced his hand on the sagging cushions. “Now shut the fuck up and go to sleep. You got lucky it didn’t hit anything, but I’m not fixing the stab wound again if you pull the stitches.”
He wanted to protest–to complain that, despite his state, he could still do something. But his resolve to do this was blunted, somewhat, by the revelation that he’d completely forgotten he’d been stabbed. That would explain the persistent numbness and pain in his lower back he’d been feeling. And the fact that he wasn’t wearing his own shirt.
How had they made their way to Lamb’s office, again?
He slipped under, to the sound of drawers being open and shut.
Lamb’s office was dark, more often than not. The lights and grimy windows did little to add any ambience; there was always a faint whiff of sweat and smoke that clung to the furniture. It took River a precious few seconds to place that smell upon waking up, but when he did, he regretted it.
He woke in a cascade–his nose wrinkled, then his mouth grimaced, until finally, he blinked his eyes open to the light filtering in through those dusty windows. He immediately shut them again–dingy office or not, the world felt overly bright–and groaned softly, on instinct stretching his limbs out like a cat.
It was then that the world tilted into place, and he froze. He was in Lamb’s office. He was waking up in fucking Lamb’s office, with no recollection as to how or why. Another revelation quickly followed–his entire body felt like it had been through a meat grinder.
The high-pitched sound he made was somewhat embarrassing, as he briefly wondered if he’d been used as a punching bag. A headache slammed into him by force, and he set the heels of his palms on his eyes to rub them. Then something brushing up against his right thumb gave him pause–something soft. Gauze?
What the hell had happened yesterday? He wasn’t sure how he could feel any worse.
“Well,” a voice sounded from behind him, answering that very question. “Look who didn’t die overnight. That’s a shame.”
Briefly, River wondered if blowing his brains out might not be an unreasonable course of action. He struggled into a sitting position, hissing as bright pain blossomed in the left side of his lower back. “Lamb. Whatever this looks like, I promise-
“You promise what,” Lamb interrupted, shuffling over to his desk and flinging open a drawer to pull out a bottle. He dropped into his chair, eyeing River with contempt. “That you aren’t here because you ran off half-cocked again, hoping to catch the bad guys first? Bit late for that, wouldn’t you say?” He tipped the bottle into the ever-present glass on his desk.
River frowned. It would be quite beneficial if he could remember the who, what, where, when and why of–well, everything, really. Unfortunately, the previous day was covered in a strange sort of fog. It was as if a thick film were over everything, the details of their assignment dropping off into blank nothingness. Lamb snorted.
“Careful, Cartwright, you think any harder you might hurt yourself.” River watched him rest his feet up on his desk. As he regarded the glass in his hand, Lamb’s face took on a rather strange half smile, the kind that would activate the self-preservation instincts of most. Unfortunately for River, he was not awake enough yet to be in that majority. “You don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re doing here, do you?” Whatever he saw on RIver's face made him smirk. “Fucking useless.”
The pounding in his head wasn’t making a good case for hanging around. It felt like a throbbing ache behind his eyelids–not as bad as it had been when he first awoke, but bad nonetheless, and likely to worsen with every second spent lingering here to be berated. He inhaled sharply, bracing himself to stand, and–nope.
Lamb reclined, watching him flop back onto the sofa. He scratched at his face and yawned. “Is that all you got?”
Closing his eyes for a brief moment of respite, River leaned his head back and wondered what he had done to deserve this. His back was now hurting something awful, and by the way he was breathing, he was fairly sure a couple ribs were cracked. Touching his fingers to his temple revealed taped-down gauze, and sneaking his fingers beneath it, stitches. His neck was sore, his belly tender, even his hips and knees were aching. He ran his tongue over the inside of his lip, unsurprised to taste blood.
When he opened his eyes, Lamb was staring at him. “What is it you want me to say?” River asked. “I’m sorry? I don’t even know what for.”
Lamb shook his head. Then he downed his drink, leaning forward to set the glass back on his desk. “Your complete and utter inability to ever get a fucking clue should be studied, Cartwright. I mean that.” There was an unlit cigarette wedged in his fingers; he considered it a moment, before a lighter appeared in his hand, and he took a long drag. It wasn’t until he had exhaled smoke that he spoke again. “In my palace of shit, you are the crown fucking jewel of stupidity.”
River, living up to that title, did not immediately make another attempt to leave. “Okay, sure. Are you going to actually debrief me about this, or-
“You shut your fucking mouth,” Lamb cut in. His tone was dangerously even. “The only reason I haven’t knocked your fucking head in is I spent valuable fucking time last night stitching it up.” He took another drag. “You want a debrief? Here’s your debrief. You are here, you utter fucking incompetent, because you ran in ahead of everyone when I expressly told you no, took a wallop to the head and a knife to the back, and then fell through an upstairs window.”
Silence settled in the air between them. When River spoke, he felt mildly like the floor had dropped out from under him. “And I’m… still alive.”
Lamb’s face twisted in irritation. “Believe me, we were all disappointed. But not to worry. Shirley dragged your carcass to the car.”
“Shirley did. Shirley. Got my entire dead weight into a car.”
“That’s what I just said, isn’t it? I’m debating firing her for it.”
“What was she- didn’t we have, I don’t know, a- a target yesterday?”
Lamb took another drag. “Oh, we did. Past tense.”
River fidgeted. “And? What-
“And Coe fucking killed him, you moron. Weren’t you listening last night?” Lamb coughed into his hand. “Oh, that’s right. You fucking concussed yourself.”
“I didn’t- I mean, surely there was something that-
“Did you not hear me? You fell through a fucking window!” Lamb grimaced, debating with himself before he stabbed the cigarette out on his ashtray. “Then you got your fucking AIDS all over me. Bleeding like a stuck fucking pig.”
“I don’t have AIDS,” River said defensively, wincing as soon as it left his mouth. "I don't- that doesn't-
“Well isn’t that a relief.” Lamb poured himself another drink, then paused. His eyebrows lifted as his gaze flicked up, down and up again, taking in River’s continued presence. River, meanwhile, continued to demonstrate his characteristically keen lack of self-preservation instincts, in that he did not get the fuck out of there.
“Shall I keep going?” Lamb said. “I’ll send an invoice.”
River frowned. The ache in his back, which had been a dull throb upon waking up, was quickly becoming too bothersome to ignore. He watched Lamb tip his glass back, and it was then that something Lamb had said finally registered.
“Wait, you said knife to the- did I get fucking stabbed?”
“Quick as ever, aren’t you?”
“I got fucking stabbed. And you didn’t take me to- I don’t know, a hospital?”
“If I did, you would’ve thrown yourself out the car.” River opened his mouth, and he snorted. “You said, and I quote, ‘Lamb, don’t take me to A&E or I’ll throw myself out this car.’ The only reason I didn’t let you is I know that somehow, Ho would’ve obtained a video of it to wank to later.” He leaned back in his seat, resting his hands over his abdomen. “I wouldn’t have minded a video, but the thought of him jerking himself in the office is rather distasteful, wouldn’t you say?”
It was a few seconds before River remembered how to speak. He knew, logically, that concussions could make a person act bizarrely. But somehow he felt more confused than he had when he first woke up. “I don’t even…this whole thing is- so many HR violations.”
Lamb gestured vaguely, looking around the room. “That’s what I said. Can’t have Ho popping boners at your distress, can we? We already have someone for that.” He groaned. “Christ, that’s right. You don’t remember that either.”
The sofa cushions felt ratty under his fingers, with too much give to them to really push himself up. But this conversation had taken an–odd turn, to say the least, and against all odds, his self-preservation instincts finally began to kick in. He swallowed down a wave of nausea as he tried, one last time, to lurch to his feet.
Lamb watched him sway, grappling with the sofa’s arm to avoid losing his balance. He made a shooing motion as River turned to the door, a mocking smile on his lips. “There he goes!" He paused for a moment, then added, "Now be a good boy and step to it."
River’s feet dropped out from under him.
As his brain scrambled to compute what had happened, a pained noise escaped him, much like his dignity. He was dimly aware that his face was pressed into the stained carpet, and the heels of his palms were stinging from where he’d tried to catch himself. His knees throbbed. His ribs were screaming. There was also the small matter, he noted, without much understanding, but with a sinking feeling rivaling that to one of his previous major fuck-ups, that his dick was hardening.
He groaned, content to just lie there face-down for a moment. Fatigue lingered at the edges of his vision; he closed his eyes, exhausted. Lamb’s voice echoed from above. “Solid start, Cartwright. Down the stairs, now. You’ve got a busy day ahead of you.”
River’s own voice was muffled against the floor. “Just–shut up. Please.”
“Excuse me?” Lamb said, incredulously. “This is my office. You don’t ever tell me what to do.” There was the sound of a drawer opening, and then the pack of cigarettes he’d had earlier landed on River’s back. “Get up and move.”
“Can’t.”
“I said move.” Another pack of cigarettes smacked into him. “I’ll keep finding shit to throw.”
“Go ahead and do that,” River said. “It won’t make my fucking legs work.” He wasn’t sure he could do anything more than crawl at the present moment, and like hell was he going to do so to get away from Lamb. There was also–well, another reason he had no intention of getting off of his front just yet, but hopefully that would simmer down soon enough.
Inconvenient timing, though, in any sense. Christ. River swallowed, curling in on himself. Well, maybe he could still play it off.
“They were working just a second ago!” Then Lamb quieted for too long, and the sinking feeling grew. “Hold on. Dare I-” He barked out a laugh, even more incredulous than before. “My word. Don’t tell me. Again?”
Unable to stop himself, River shifted. Heat flared in his groin. “Again? Again what?”
“What is it, Cartwright? D’you like it when daddy is nice to you?” He snickered, standing up. A foot began to prod River’s ribs, jolting him with pain. “Roll over, boy.”
And Christ a-fucking-live, if he’d been at half-mast before, he’d certainly gone past that point now. He curled in further on himself, biting back a whine, but Lamb was worming his boot beneath his belly, digging into bruised flesh, and with a yelp River flipped over on his back, grabbing at the foot and flailing, and-
“There he is.” Lamb’s leer down at him would haunt his nightmares, he was sure. “I’m ashamed of you, Cartwright. Sexual harassment is no joke.”
River swiped viciously at Lamb’s foot and missed. He breathed in, out, choosing to focus on the feeling of the floor pressing into his back rather than just how fucked he was. The thought of giving Lamb enough ammunition for three lifetimes more than warranted consideration of throwing himself off a bridge; that this seemed to be the second time it had happened, given context clues, was suffice to make him wish he could spontaneously combust right here.
“You’re the one who-” he swiped again at Lamb’s foot as it prodded his ribs, earning him a chuckle, “-won’t stop saying- disgusting shit.”
“Well now you’ve got me afraid to say anything nicer! I say ‘well done’ and you might pop one!”
River glared. “Since when do you ever say well done?”
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all day.” Lamb smiled. “Maybe we can work through those daddy issues, yet.”
“Shut up, just- shut up.” River turned onto his side, away from Lamb. He briefly entertained the thought that he might simply will this entire situation away, if he wanted it enough; unfortunately, after squeezing his eyes shut and reopening them, that did not seem to be the case. Regrettable.
Against all odds, he managed to get himself up onto one elbow, gritting his teeth against the pain as he tried to sit up. But his progress was eliminated when Lamb squatted behind him and harshly pressed his fingers into one of River’s broken ribs. His arm slipped out from under him, gasping and flopping onto his belly as his vision blanked.
“Lamb, what the fuck-
“What did I say about telling me what to do?” River tried to crawl away, but a knee landing firmly on his back pushed the breath out of him. Lamb leaned his weight down and felt for the ribs he’d targeted before; once he found them, he began gently kneading the area with his full hand. A confusing mix of agony coupled with arousal and shame flooded River’s thoughts. He whimpered, his skin suddenly feeling too-hot, muscles crying out.
Because clearly this situation demanded even worse circumstances, his dick, which had been flagging, was back to full-mast. He pondered the grim thought that this was the first physical touch he’d had in months. “Lamb- Lamb please,” he said.
If Lamb heard him, he didn’t let on. His knee was perilously close to the stab wound, and River knew better than to think he wasn’t aware. He continued kneading River’s ribs, somehow shifting even more of his weight onto his knee. River groaned into the floor. When Lamb spoke, his voice gave no indication he was particularly bothered about anything. “Begging already?”
“Lamb, I-” he ran his tongue over his teeth, hissing out slowly. “Lamb,” he repeated. Articulating anything beyond pain was out of the question.
“Yes, that’s my name. Don’t wear it out, now.”
River panted, clenching his fists and unclenching them. He didn’t dare bang one against the floor. Partly in that he didn’t want to be found like this by any of the other occupants of Slough House, but more because he didn’t want to find out what Lamb would do next if they were. Most of all, however, because the feeling of Lamb’s hands on him was starting to feel almost, well–nice. In a twisted sort of way.
He was more than a little afraid that if he thought about that for long enough, it may prompt a few self-discoveries about himself he would have rather been left unaware of for all eternity.
At the very least, he would just have to sit there and bear it. No crying out, no banging on the floor, no–nothing. Eventually, Lamb would be satisfied that he’d tormented River enough, and then he’d let him go. There was little reason to expect a change in such a consistent pattern.
Except–well that wasn’t what he ended up doing, was it? No, after a while–minutes, hours, River couldn’t tell–rather than let up, his knee instead rocked back, directly onto the stab wound. River yelped, vision greying at the edges; the confusing mix of physical sensations veered sharply into pain.
“Lamb- Lamb-” he tried.
“Quiet down. You don’t want anyone coming in, do you?”
“Please, god, please-
“What did I say?”
“Lamb, what-
“What. Did. I. Say.”
“Don’t-” River gasped. “Don’t tell you what to do.” Lamb lingered on him for a few moments more, to prove a point; then, blessedly, his weight was gone, and River was sucking in air and coughing in equal measure. Despite Lamb moving away from him, the sound of the wood floors creaking sent a new spike of fear into his heart. “I’m sorry,” he babbled, “I’m sorry, please don’t- don’t-
“Oh, shut up,” Lamb grumbled. He dropped heavily into the chair at his desk. “Come here.”
River swallowed, turning his head as he struggled onto his hands and knees. The pain was almost tolerable, now. “What?” He said, hating how his voice sounded.
Lamb’s legs were sprawled out wide. He patted his knees, raising his eyebrows. “I said come here.”
Weighing his options was out of the question–he had no intention of a repeat performance. Prior reservations gone, he crawled on his hands and knees, over cigarettes strewn on the floor and stains on the carpet, until he was invading the space between Lamb’s legs. Tired and pained, he fell against Lamb without thinking, resting his cheekbone on the inside of Lamb’s thigh. Lamb didn’t say anything, though–he just watched it happen, his hands resting on his lap expectantly.
With a slow calmness he did not feel, River inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, eyes closed to the world, knees aching, until his shaky breathing evened out. Lamb smelled like his office, smoke and sweat; fortunately, for the time being he seemed content to observe River lean himself against him and breathe rather than inflict any further torments.
River had almost begun to convince himself that Lamb must have forgotten about him, when a hand that could almost be mistaken for caring combed through his hair. It rubbed a couple circles into River’s scalp; then, slowly, Lamb’s grip tightened, and he led River’s head by the hair, pulling him closer, almost dragging him up the inside of his leg. River shuffled forwards on his knees to keep up, biting back a whimper. The side of his face was almost pressing into Lamb’s hip.
“Look at you,” Lamb said, uncharacteristically fond. His left hand rubbed back and forth through River’s hair, absentminded. His right thumb pad pressed down River’s bottom lip. He sat there a moment, the pressure from his thumb light. Then he withdrew it, gripping River’s chin between his thumb and index fingers, the rest of his fingers braced beneath. “Pathetic. Anything for a bit of affection, is that it?” He patted River’s cheek. “I’m not your daddy, River.”
River responded, for reasons he could not fucking articulate if a gun was held to his head, by opening his mouth and attempting to suck on Lamb's fingers. If Lamb was surprised, he didn’t show it. He tugged lightly on River’s hair. “What’s this, then? Close your mouth, son.”
River blinked his eyes open. Lamb was staring at his mouth. River stared up at Lamb. Lamb stared at River. An uncomfortable silence descended.
River shifted; Lamb made eye contact with him, eyebrows raised, and he averted his eyes, wetting his lips. Finally, the silence grew too much to bear. “I thought that’s–I thought that’s what you wanted,” he tried, weakly.
Lamb was still rubbing slow circles in his hair. He took several long, pointed seconds before he replied. “Do you even hear yourself, Cartwright? I just told you. I’m not your daddy.”
The hot, prickling feeling on his skin was back, and stronger than before. He blamed it later for his…less than well-thought-out actions. “You don’t- you don’t want me to-”
“To suck me off?” Lamb finished. His hand stopped moving. “I sit on your fucking stab wound, and now you want to blow me?” When River didn’t reply, he barked out a laugh. “Well! You know what, Cartwright? I’m actually impressed. I’d figured by now you must have hit rock-bottom, but lo and behold, you’ve found a fucking shovel.”
“You’re the one who- keeps fucking touching me.” Lamb’s grip on his hair tightened painfully in warning, and River hissed. “You keep- talking about my dick. How the fuck am I supposed to take it when you say come here?”
“I told you that to see if you’d learned your lesson, you fucking fuck-up.” Lamb tilted River’s head back, towards the ceiling. River bit his lip, tears prickling at his eyes, when suddenly Lamb’s grip relaxed; then his hand drifted downward, nails scratching the back of River’s head at the base, and with the sudden relief coupled with affection, it was impossible not to melt against his lap again. He heard Lamb chuckle. “Pathetic. I’m puzzled at what you’re hoping to accomplish, I really am. Tell me, do you get on your knees for every boss?”
“I only came over because I can’t stand,” River said. His voice was muffled by his face being pressed to Lamb’s thigh. “You fucking tormented me, but I still came. That learned enough for you?”
“Do you want a gold star?”
“No,” River said, petulantly. He lifted his head, doing his best to glare. “I want you to admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“That you want me to suck your dick.”
Lamb stilled; then he guffawed, and resumed dragging his nails up and down the back of River’s head. River fought the urge to relax into the touch. “That’s an HR violation if I ever heard one. Think your grandfather’d be proud of you right now?”
“What would he say to you?” River countered. Lamb’s hand drifted back up to the top of his head. “Last I checked, panting over one of your employees isn’t very Berlin Rules.”
“The thought of your granddad hearing you beg to suck my dick is ten wet dreams rolled into one,” Lamb said. He smiled. “But it’s cute you thought that would make a difference. I’m starting to see why he kept you around. You’re like a puppy that can’t stop pissing itself.”
“And you’re a dirty old pervert. Does it even work, anymore?”
“When it needs to.” Lamb leered down at him. “It’s amazing how fatherless you are. You'd have made a killing in Soho back in the day, if you weren't too stupid for any pimp to take the risk."
“You have such a fascinating mind.”
“Not that you fucking morons appreciate it,” Lamb said. “You know, usually this involves less lip, more tongue action. Stay close to the head and not even you could fuck it up.”
“So you admit you want it?”
“I admit that I want you to fuck off, but it seems you’re dead-set on whoring yourself out first. So go on, then, if you think you’re up for it.” Lamb gestured at his crotch. “Make me proud.”
River swallowed. With Lamb’s last few words, the pounding in his head was gone, replaced with dizzying adrenaline; a part of him still couldn’t quite believe that this was really happening. He shuffled forward on his knees, ignoring the burning pain in his side as he grabbed the insides of Lamb’s thighs and dragged his hands up to Lamb’s fly.
He glanced up, cautious; Lamb, who had somehow procured yet another cigarette from somewhere–probably the floor–was clenching it in his teeth to light it. Pointedly ignoring him. And it wasn’t quite anger that lit up in him at the sight, River thought later, but–well, something perhaps worse. In the moment, he thought nothing of it–just the way his own dick was already hard, and the apprehension of being caught by someone coming up the stairs. What he found, however, after much self-reflection, was that in that moment, he really did want to make Lamb proud.
He swallowed again. His hands fumbled with the buttons, the zipper–
“Christ,” Lamb interrupted, dropping a hand on River’s like a bomb. He undid things easily enough, and then–his dick was out. Lamb gestured towards it. “I have to do everything around here. Come on, sweetheart, after all that talk? Get to work, now.”
He really ought to examine why Lamb of all people calling him pet names sent a shiver down his spine. Lamb took another drag of his cigarette. Well, no time like the present.
Slowly, tentatively, he took Lamb’s dick in hand, feeling it start to harden in response. He’d only ever done this a few times before, and it had admittedly been a while. Again, he swallowed. Lamb was watching him, and well–Christ, but just once, he’d like to wipe that smug look off of his face.
He lifted it up, taking Lamb’s balls in his other hand, and squeezed, gently, licking his lips to wet them and opening his mouth to take the head in, the flat of his tongue flexing back and forth at the head’s base. Out of practice or no, it immediately started to have an effect–Lamb inhaled sharply, though this was the only outward sign he gave that he was feeling anything as River swirled his tongue over the foreskin, feeling it retract. He pumped with his hand on Lamb’s dick, twisting it near the head.
“That’s more like it,” Lamb said, almost as if to himself. He held a loose grip on River’s hair with one hand, the other holding his cigarette up to his lips. He grunted as River’s tongue curled upwards, flicking, undulating, muttering a curse as his balls were rolled back and forth between River’s fingers. He breathed out smoke. “Good boy.”
To what would have been his mortification in any other circumstances, River groaned. His own dick felt heavy, arousal flooding his groin in an instant. Lamb let out a sort of breathy laugh, the fingernails in River’s hair scratching at his scalp, as if petting him.
“Got a complex, do you?” Lamb said. His voice sounded breathier than usual as his grip on River’s hair tightened. “That’s a good boy,” he said again, almost as if it were experimental, rubbing the back of River’s head with his other hand once, twice, his fingers catching on the hair there, and the arousal that had been pooling in River’s gut suddenly was uncomfortably tight, the feeling of a dick in his mouth combined the soft, gentle, almost-caring touches getting him so hard it hurt.
He lost track of what little sense he’d had for how long this went on, how long it had been going on, what Lamb was even saying; only when he felt Lamb’s balls start to tighten, heard his breath hitch did he remember that he hadn’t actually sucked a dick in quite some time. He especially had not–well, swallowed, in some time.
So if the speed of it into his mouth was something he was…unaccustomed to, well-
It must have hit the back of his throat somehow, because he coughed. Violently. Felt like he was choking on his own spit as he instinctively withdrew his head, shutting his eyes as the pounding heat in his groin was overshadowed by the trigger of his gag reflex. It felt like it lasted forever; some of it got on his chin.
And then, without any sort of ceremony, it was over. He spat out what was left in his mouth onto the floor, gasping for air–only to be struck by the sudden thought, in the way that many before him had been struck by the objective insanity of their own sex acts post-coitally, that the reason he currently felt like he was being waterboarded was because his fucking boss had just came in his mouth and on his face.
He panted, and again pressed his cheek into Lamb’s thigh. His knees, which until now had only been aching, were starting to hurt almost the same as everything else did. There was also the matter of that he was still painfully hard. Lamb, meanwhile, was eerily quiet. He was still rubbing lazy circles into River’s sweaty hair, almost as if he’d forgotten he was ever doing it in the first place, before he abruptly began to tuck himself away, almost unbelievable in his nonchalance.
Panting as he was, River almost didn’t register the light pats to his cheek. Nor did he hear the way Lamb said his name, not until the third or fourth time Lamb said it.
“-wright. Cartwright,” Lamb said, and something about the tone of it gave River a sinking feeling. This time when he patted River’s cheek, it was–harder. “Wake up, now.”
River frowned, not comprehending. Then Lamb’s hand, which until now had been almost soothingly tangled in his hair, tugged harshly. River hissed. “What- ow!”
“I’m not a washrag, am I? Off you get.”
River grabbed at Lamb’s wrist, annoyed to find that his grip was firm on River’s hair, just enough to provide the tension for slight pain. Worse, it wasn’t doing anything to his erection; if anything, his dick felt harder. “But I can’t,” he whined. As if to make a point, he shifted his weight to lean back; his ass was on the floor, now, knees splayed out carelessly on either side of him, and it would be obvious to anyone with Lamb’s point of view what he was asking.
Lamb, however, was unmoved. He did release River’s hair, instead stroking a thumb on River’s mouth, where there were still–rapidly-drying droplets. God, but it would crust on his face if he wasn’t careful.
The tone of Lamb’s voice wasn’t quite condescending, but it was close–like he had to be slow and patient to teach River anything, but was trying to hide his disdain. And somehow, this made the tight feeling in his dick worse. Which, he reasoned, was probably something Lamb knew, ergo why he was doing it. “Need I remind you, Cartwright, that you’re in no position to ask for anything?” He chuckled, again. River was quickly growing to hate that sound. “Look at you. You just sucked your boss off like a common whore. Where do you get off making commands?” He took River’s chin in his grip, tilting it up with strange gentleness. His face was unreadable, his fingertips almost tickling River’s throat.
River swallowed. “Please,” was all he said. Lamb stared down at him, a foreign expression crossing his features.
And then River was–well, he was hoisted up, wasn’t he, almost pulled onto Lamb’s lap, until he was straddling one of his thighs. It all happened together–the pain in his ribs and back melted into something fiery-hot pooling in his groin as Lamb’s hand found the back of his head again, so he tipped his forehead into Lamb’s shoulder and grabbed at his shirt, muttering curses to himself as he started to rock, hump Lamb’s thigh, and then– and then there was Lamb’s thumb somehow finding the head of his dick through his clothes, and rubbing steady circles on it, all while Lamb muttered alright now, there’s my boy, that’s a good boy over and over again in his ear, until he eventually let out a keening whine, hips jerking without any sort of coordination, and he came so hard his toes curled and his vision went white.
It was several seconds before he became aware of himself again. Well, aware was a strong word; he was awake and present, yes, but his only real thoughts were of the uncomfortable, sticky sensation in his pants, and the feeling of Lamb gripping his ass. He breathed in and out, endorphin rush slowly giving way to the familiar aches covering him head to toe, and for the second time that morning he was struck with the clarity of mind that only occurs in the post-coital period.
When he’d caught his breath, he leaned back to find Lamb gazing up at him; if he angled his head just right, he could almost convince himself there was affection in his eyes. He averted his own gaze, but by then it was too late; Lamb’s impassivity had already morphed into suppressed laughter. “Fuck me!” he said. “Complexes on top of complexes for you, aren’t there?”
Getting off of Lamb’s lap would probably be the smart choice, but River was not known for those. He unlatched his fingers from their grip on Lamb, feeling ridiculous as he settled his hands on his thighs. “Really? You’re the dirty old man, remember?”
Lamb smirked. He patted River’s ass condescendingly, doubtless enjoying the heat that rose in River’s face. “Don’t feel bad, Cartwright. I know you see me as a father figure. Didn’t stand a chance, did you?” He ran his hands up River’s sides one last time, watching him shiver. “Now get the fuck off my knee. And clean yourself up.”
Rather than argue–or point out Lamb’s hypocrisy–River finally displayed a modicum of wisdom. He swung his leg over, hesitating for a moment; then he managed by sheer force of will to stand, shuffling painfully off towards the bathroom.
He thought he felt Lamb’s eyes on his back; had he turned his head, he might have seen Lamb looking back. But try as he might, he couldn’t quite bring himself to look Lamb in the eye again. So he shuffled out the door. The work of Slough House went on.