#canlivewiththat

That was the line Len delivered deadpan, completely confident that his uppity manager and rich boy boss would hire a felon on nothing more than his good word. 

Which ends up happening. 

Mick is pretty sure it’s got less to do with Len’s glowing review and more to do with his size. He’s built like a brick house, all corded muscle and intimidation. Putting him between the clients and the crew is a hell of a deterrent. 

Queen runs a tight ship anyway, there isn’t a lot of trouble. But most of it Mick is able to circumvent with a long look or a couple of gravelly words. 

But he gets to bust heads every once in awhile. (That’s what he signed up to do. Bust heads. Not babysit queers and queens, which ends up being a hell of a lot more than half of his job.)

 It ain’t a bad gig. He drinks for free, he gets to hang out with Len. And the kids, because there’s no other word for all those dancers, they’re kids are all pretty decent, once they realize he isn’t trying to get into their pants. 

Flashy and cocky weren’t his type. 

His type was pretty, with glasses and a ponytail, blonde hair like a sunrise. 

Not that Mick was dumb enough to do a damn thing about it. Miss Felicity was a lady, she was classy. He would hold doors open for her, he’d ask her if she needed someone to walk her to her car. 

The Peter Rabbit ones?

It’s not like he’s the planning type. That’s what he’s got Lenny for. 

So when he’s three sheets to the wind and pleasantly warm all over, watching Len over the top of the half assed poker game and his brain helpfully supplies how red and sweet those lips look, well. 

It’s a foot on the seat of his folding chair, a knee on the table and then he’s tackling Len to the floor, lips connecting before head meets concrete. 

Mick kisses like he does everything. With fervor. He bites and he licks and he sucks, even when he feels that icy barrel pressed up against his ribs. Fuck it, if he was going to die, this was how he wanted to go. 

But then the gun is dropped and there were chilly fingers pressed against the scarred skin of his neck. 

He thinks about it, sometimes.

About slamming those slim hips right up against the nearest hard surface, and licking his way into a mouth still sweet from whatever Len has gotten his hands on. It seems like a given, him tasting sweet. You were what you eat, right?

He thinks about digging his fingers into pale skin until there were purple bruises in his wake, until the only thing his partner could even think to gasp out was his name, not the kid’s. 

About getting a fist around him, hot and rough and swallowing every sound, every bitten off mewl, because Len was all about control. About spitting in his palm and slicking him up, making him look him in the eye until he lost it all over his closed fist. 

“Put it down.”

A rumble, a vibration of words that hum through his chest. They’re holed up in some shit hole of a warehouse, surrounded by concrete and wide open spaces. It’s too big for him, too cold, but this is where Len wants to go to ground. 

So he goes to ground. 

Mick Rory isn’t a man to ask twice. 

The gun is plucked fingers that are cold enough to be clumsy with the first signs of hypothermia. Lenny’s pushing himself too hard, trying to reassert that he’s not shaken.

It’s bullshit. 

He crouches between Len’s spread knees, taking those uncomfortably cold fingers and cupping them between both of his hands. The burns make his hands smooth, skin pulled taut. 

Mick leans in, breathing out on their cupped hands to try and warm them.