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Safe as Houses

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Miller walked into the safehouse to find Jensen on the couch with his shirt rucked up and Pritchard’s hands roaming up and down his chest. Pritchard was perched on his lap, legs bracketing Jensen’s on either side, and as Miller watched he pulled Jensen into a rough, angry kiss.

Even now, his instinctive reaction was still to back out of the room, turn away and pretend he hadn’t seen anything. Pritchard and Jensen were the ones with the established—well, the established something; it didn’t feel right to call it a relationship, exactly, but there was history as deep as ocean between them nonetheless. Miller was the interloper. The only reason he was here was because Jensen had vouched for him, had refused to let him die and then refused to leave him behind no matter how much easier it would've made things for Jensen in the aftermath of London.

But he was here now. And, as unbelievable as Miller still found it, they didn’t seem to consider his presence an intrusion.

He stepped through the open doorway that connected tiny kitchen to barely-larger bedroom. Pritchard broke away, turning to face Miller with an edge of panic that became relief once he recognized him.

Head tilted back, red marks already beginning to fade, Jensen didn’t react at all. He’d probably known Miller was standing there from the beginning.

"I thought you were working?" Miller asked. He eyed the computer set up in the corner of the room, left unattended with its monitors still glowing.

Jensen snorted, making his opinion on the idea of Pritchard’s work very clear, then hissed when Pritchard dug his nails into Jensen’s skin in retaliation.

"Code’s compiling," Pritchard said by way of explanation, his hands still tracing up and down Adam’s bare torso. "It’ll be a little while."

"And Pritchard doesn’t have any actual hobbies," Jensen added. Another little noise slipped from his mouth as Pritchard pinched one of his nipples and twisted.

Miller picked his way across the creaking floor and sat heavily on the end of the sagging couch, sending up a cloud of dust. Jensen glanced at him from his spot underneath Pritchard, and when Miller reached out and twined his fingers through Jensen’s hair his eyes went dark.

"I don’t know," Miller said, "I think this counts as a hobby," and pulled Jensen in for a kiss.

Jensen groaned into it and opened his mouth for Miller. He shivered when Miller’s hand tightened in his hair, Miller gripping it hard enough to hurt, and he made little desperate noises every time Miller bit at his lip or pressed him further against the back of the couch.

Jensen’s hands came up, tentatively, to rest at Miller’s side—and then Pritchard’s voice broke them apart.

"Don’t," Pritchard said. There was a red flush high on his cheeks and a hungry look in his eyes as he glanced back and forth between the two of them.

Miller would have never pegged himself as someone who liked to be watched, but there was something in Pritchard’s sharp focus that made Miller want to show off for him. It didn’t feel so different from the pride he’d taken as a much younger man in having his supervisors commend his sniping skills, which was—well, something to think about, maybe. Later. Much later.

Jensen raised an eyebrow, a perfect picture of cool indifference. It would have been more convincing if his hair weren’t a mess and his skin wasn’t red. "I don’t think that’s your call to make."

Pritchard stared him down. He said, in a voice caught somewhere between authoritative and nervous, "You should keep your hands up. Against the wall."

Jensen’s mouth opened—ready, Miller was sure, to bite back with some kind of insult—and then he stopped and looked at Miller. Waiting for an order, Miller realized a moment later, and he had to bite his lip against the rush of heat that sent coursing through him. Fuck.

"Sounds like a good idea," Miller said, short and sharp, trying to sound level-headed and very definitely failing.

"Okay," Jensen said. He nodded once and, with just the barest hint of hesitation, pulled his shirt over his head to let it drop to the floor. He folded his hands together and rested them against the wall’s lowest point, right above the top of the couch, then let his head fall back against them. His elbows pressed against the wall on either side of him, framing the rest of his body and making the lines of corded muscle in his shoulder stand out starkly.

It couldn’t be the most comfortable position in the world. But then, Jensen could take it, couldn’t he? His arms would never shake or grow tired. His muscles would never cramp. No matter how many times Miller saw it, it never failed to amaze him just how much power Jensen’s body held; he could’ve killed Miller and Pritchard both in a heartbeat, and instead he was here. Listening to them.

"God, you’re gorgeous," Miller said. He couldn’t have stopped his hand from tracing a line down Jensen’s arm and across his chest if he tried. His fingers circled the Typhoon ports, shallowly scraping at the intersection of skin and metal, and Jensen shivered under his touch.

"Don’t say that.The last thing he needs is even more of a swelled ego."

"Don’t worry, Frank, I’m sure he likes—ah."

Jensen’s words cut off in a shaky little gasp as Pritchard ground their hips together. They stared at each other, annoyance as much as arousal written on both their faces. Miller wasn’t sure whether Pritchard was about to kiss Jensen or punch him.

If the two of them were left to their own devices, Jensen would goad Pritchard over and over. He took a dry sort of delight in poking until Pritchard finally snapped and turned their verbal spars physical. (It had pissed Miller off when they first started working together, back before he realized they were anything more than a couple of coworkers who couldn’t put their personal issues aside for five goddamn minutes.) With Miller involved, he acted more respectful. More obedient, though he’d never dare say the word out loud; it made him uncomfortable sometimes just how much he liked the feel of it.

It was useful, though. It meant Miller could redirect things before they got to be too much. He smoothed his hand across Jensen’s ribs, down the flat planes of his stomach, and curled two of his fingers into the top of Jensen’s pants.

"You should take these off," he said, tugging slightly at the fabric.

Jensen swallowed. His arms moved slightly, but before he could pull away from the position he’d been put in, Pritchard was rising up from his place on Jensen’s lap.

"Lift your hips," he said, and as Jensen braced his feet against the floor he pulled his pants and boxers down in one go. Jensen lifted one foot, then the other, and before long he was sitting completely naked on their shabby couch.

Pritchard could say what he liked. Gorgeous was the only word to describe Jensen.

He was achingly hard already, his cock flush against the line of his torso. The points where his legs joined to his body—stark black against pale skin, the metal crawling high onto his hip bones, marked with lines of scar tissue that made his skin look like it had melted and reformed—had startled Miller the first time he’d seen them. By now, though, Miller was as used to them as he was his own body; they felt as natural as every other odd thing that made Jensen Jensen.

Jensen’s eyes had fallen half-closed and his cheeks were flooded with heat; he was breathing hard, though he sat perfectly still on display for the two of them.

Miller shivered. He lifted the hand that had been on Jensen’s hip up to his mouth. When he pressed his fingers against Jensen’s lips, Jensen drew two of them into his mouth and sucked gratefully on them.

"Fuck," Pritchard said quietly. He had tucked himself against Jensen’s side, watching the two of them. The look in his eyes, when Miller caught his gaze, was full of heat. "You want his mouth?"

Jensen made a little noise around Miller’s fingers. Tugging gently, Miller pulled them out far enough to ask, "Would you like that?"

"I…" he said, voice gone deep and raspy. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that—that sounds good." He glanced between Miller and Pritchard a moment, then to Pritchard added, with the slightest hint of uncertainty, "You should fuck me, then."

For a moment, Pritchard didn’t say anything. He looked almost startled, and Miller wondered suddenly whether the two of them had ever actually ever done that before. Most everything between the three of them had been brief, hurried things, hands or mouths or just plain friction in one of their increasingly-less-safe safehouses, a way to celebrate a mission gone right or take the edge off the adrenaline rush of a near-miss. Miller’d assumed that was because of their precarious living, or because they were still feeling out Miller’s inclusion into their close-knit partnership, but maybe…

In the next moment, though, Pritchard’s cockiness was back. He gave Jensen an arch smile, the very picture of confidence, and said, "Bossy, aren’t we? Don’t worry, I won’t make you beg."

"Right," Jensen said, "you’re doing me a favor."

"That’s enough," Miller cut in, already seeing this would go on forever if he didn’t intervene.

Pritchard helped Miller manhandle Jensen from his sitting position down to something close to horizontal, facedown on the couch with his knees tucked underneath him. The arch of his back was a perfect, elegant line, starting at Miller’s body and ending at Pritchard’s. He looked helpless like this, entirely at their mercy, and for all that Miller knew nothing could be further from the truth the thought still made him hard.

("Keep your arms behind you," Pritchard ordered as they started, and Jensen had obeyed without the slightest hint of complaint, had merely clasped his arms with hand grabbing at each elbow and kept them there while Miller maneuvered him downward.)

Pritchard disappeared a moment, then reappeared with a bottle of lube he’d apparently been keeping stashed somewhere. At least one of them had been prepared for tonight, Miller thought, because he was still half-certain this was going to end up being a particularly embarrassing dream. Himself and Pritchard still fully dressed, Jensen naked between them and looking up at Miller with an expression of pure need on his face… Miller cupped the edge of Jensen’s jaw, letting his hand slide across the coarse hair there, and tried to convince himself this was real.

Pritchard unbuttoned the top button of his pants, pushing them just out of the way enough to free his cock, and for a moment Miller was caught by the sight of him. Pritchard was still a near-stranger to Miller in many ways, and mostly he tried not to force familiarity (as if this doesn’t count as familiarity, he thought wryly, both of them about to fuck the same man), but he couldn’t deny Pritchard looked handsome like this, with his face drawn in concentration and his ponytail mussed and slipping free of its band.

When Pritchard glanced his way, he turned his eyes back to Jensen. Safer territory, as much as any of this complex tangle of loyalties could be safe.

"Ready?" Pritchard asked. Miller wasn’t sure which of them he was asking, but he nodded anyway.

"Stop stalling," Jensen said. "Even for you, it can’t be that complica—ah."

Even without looking, Miller would have been able to tell when Pritchard first pressed a finger into Jensen; he pressed his mouth against Miller’s palm, trying to muffle the low groan that had slipped from between his lips.

"Better?" Pritchard asked Jensen, taunting. The only answer he got was a low moan, and Jensen’s hips briefly twitching like he was trying to thrust into empty air.

"Shh," Miller said, rubbing his thumb against Jensen’s cheek, "look at you."

Jensen’s whole body had gone tight and tense. He was staring up at Miller, perfectly subservient, eyes focused only on him. His hands didn’t tremble where they were braced behind his back; Miller suspected they literally couldn’t. But the joints of his knuckles were flexing slowly, gold inserts sliding slightly upward before popping back into place, as if the very act of controlling his body was almost beyond him now.

Beautiful, he was beautiful, and Miller wanted to hold him down and make him sob.

Jensen mouthed at Miller’s hand, gasping out a, "Come on, please," and it was a moment before Miller realized what he was asking for; when it finally hit him, he started fumbling at his out belt so quickly he almost jammed his finger on the prong.

He hadn’t realized just how much he’d been aching, pressed up against his slacks, until he finally pulled his cock free. He stroked his hand up and down the length of it just for a moment, to try and take the aching edge of his desire, and at the sight Jensen made a little noise and tried to arch forward to be closer to Miller’s groin.

"Fuck," Pritchard groaned. "Whatever you’re doing down there, keep doing it."

He’d gotten a second finger inside Jensen while Miller wasn’t looking. From where he was on the couch, if he sat perfectly upright he could just see them disappearing into Jensen’s hole as Pritchard fucked him on his fingers.

It was an awkward angle, what with Jensen’s head being so close to the couch, but Miller managed to slide his hips low enough that he could slip the head of his cock past Jensen’s lips. Jensen sucked in a deep, desperate breath around him, then another and another, and before long Miller was deep inside Jensen’s mouth, the head of his cock just barely brushing the entrance to Jensen’s throat. He wanted to push deeper, but he held himself back; he didn't want to make Jensen gag.

"You feel so good," Miller told him, brushing a hand across his scalp. Jensen’s eyes shut for a moment, and then he closed his lips around Miller's cock and ran his tongue along the underside of his shaft.

Miller groaned and tightened his grip in Jensen’s hair. It never stopped amazing him, how good Jensen felt, and tonight seemed more amazing than most. They hardly ever got moments like this, where they were between jobs and not busy running for their life. Where they could just relax and pretend like they weren’t living under the sword of Damocles.

Jensen bobbed his head up and down on Miller’s cock, straining as best he could to try and take it all in, but it wasn’t long before Miller realized the angle simply wasn’t going to work. Facedown, with his arms crossed behind him, his range of movement was too limited.

He could ask Jensen to unlace his fingers, to stop lying there so perfectly self-controlled… but he had to admit, at least to himself, that he didn’t want to.

Instead, Miller said, "I want to try moving. Make a noise if that’s okay with you."

"Mm," Jensen said, without hesitation, and when Miller gave one first, hesitant, experimental thrust into Jensen’s warm mouth he swallowed eagerly around him.

Once he’d found a rhythm, things got easier. Jensen held his head steady for Miller, swallowing around him each time he thrust in and chasing the head of his cock with his tongue when he pulled away. Drool collected at the corners of his lips as Miller fucked his mouth. He looked absolutely filthy like this, fucked open and wanting, and Miller wished he could lean down next to Jensen’s ear and tell him how good he was being for him.

It wasn’t long before Jensen made a sudden, desperate little noise, losing the rhythm he’d set against Miller’s mouth, and Miller pulled his eyes away from Jensen’s face just in time to see Pritchard sliding his two fingers free from Jensen and pressing the head of his cock against his hole instead.

He leaned over Jensen’s back, pressing Jensen's mouth more firmly against the base of his cock with the movement, so he could get a good glimpse of how Jensen’s arse looked as Pritchard slid his cock into him. Jensen seemed tight, even after Pritchard’s fingers; Pritchard had to push the head of his cock against the entrance to Jensen’s hole for a moment before Jensen could open up for him.

Jensen breathed quick around Miller’s cock as Pritchard pressed further into him, squirming like he didn’t know what to do with his body.

"First time, Jensen?" Pritchard asked sardonically as he finally bottomed out inside Jensen.

It was meant as a simple jab, but from the noises Jensen was making—surprise and desperation together in his muffled groans—Miller couldn’t help but wonder.

Miller felt guilty at the thought; if it was really Jensen’s first time bottoming like this, he deserved something better than being stretched out on a ratty couch and sandwiched between his ex-coworker and his ex-boss. But Jensen’s eyes, when he looked up towards Miller again, were full of nothing but raw desire, and he was pressing his tongue against Miller’s cock like he was desperate for Miller to thrust into him again.

Jensen wanted this too, Miller reminded himself. Some part of Miller was always trying to shoulder responsibility, to feel in control by wallowing in guilt, but if he tried that here he’d only hurt Jensen and Pritchard both.

So, rather than pull away, Miller said,"Shh, Adam, look at you, you’re doing so well," and watched Jensen shudder at the praise as Miller thrust back into his mouth.

Pritchard was setting a punishing pace, thrusting into Jensen with his cheeks flushed and his hands grabbing at the spot on his hips where flesh met metal, and now it was all Miller could do to go along for the ride. He met each of Pritchard’s movements with his own, letting Jensen’s body shift back and forth with each movement. Forward onto Miller’s cock, then back again onto Pritchard’s; Jensen’s whole world had to exist between the two of them by now. Miller’s own world had narrowed down to nothing more than the feeling of Jensen’s mouth around them and the way Jensen and Pritchard’s bodies looked joined together.

"Fuck," Pritchard groaned. He glanced across at Miller and said, "I—"

"Okay," Miller said, not needing him to finish his sentence. Pritchard was close too.

Almost casually, Pritchard reached a hand under Jensen’s chest and wrapped it around his cock where it was trapped against his stomach. Miller felt Jensen’s muffled cry all the way through him.

He wasn’t going to last much longer. Miller thrust into Jensen’s mouth, hand tangled in his hair, the other resting on his shoulder—and then his eye caught Pritchard’s and all of a sudden he was struck with a stupid urge.

He leaned in grabbing for Pritchard with one hand, and pulled Pritchard into a kiss that surprised him as much as it did Pritchard.

It was awkward and clumsy, a startled sort of first time, but Jensen was between them and Pritchard looked so good when he was concentrating like this and it all made sense.

Miller jerked, one hand in Jensen’s hair and the other tugging on the collar of Pritchard’s shirt, Jensen’s mouth working him still and Pritchard pulling Jensen over the edge now, making him cry out with sound muffled around Miller’s body—

"God," Pritchard said hoarsely against Miller’s mouth, "fuck, Adam—"

They came like that, each of them pulling the other over the edge, not quite together but as close to it as Miller had ever had in his life. For a moment it seemed like that was all there was; Jensen and Pritchard and Miller’s own pleasure driving him forward, cresting over him until he couldn’t stifle the desperate noises working their way out of his mouth—

When Miller finally came back to himself, he was sitting on a dusty couch in a drafty, rundown apartment with paint peeling off the walls again. Somehow, the place still seemed nicer than it had before. He really must be feeling sappy.

After a moment, Pritchard pulled away from Jensen with a grunt, falling backwards onto his edge of the couch. He was looking at them both with an expression that fell somewhere between reluctant fondness and abject horror. He always got a little bit extra prickly right after they’d all been together. Miller could understand the impulse.

"Fuck," Jensen said, his voice as hoarse as Miller had ever heard it, as he pulled his mouth away from Miller’s softening cock. For a moment he tried to swallow around something, and then he leaned over and spat on the floor next to the couch.

"Ugh," Pritchard said. "That’s disgusting."

"Sorry," Miller told Jensen, "I should have—"

Jensen shook his head. "Don’t apologize. I liked it. Just… not the taste. I’ll clean it up."

"Wait, hold on, it can wait." Miller grabbed hold of Jensen before he could roll himself off the couch and pulled him closer instead. "Not like this place can get much dirtier."

Jensen’s eyes looked a little glassy still, his movements slow in that post-orgasmic haze; Miller helped him back into a sitting position, got him to rest his hands in his lap instead of behind his back, and gently rubbed at one shoulder while he waited for Jensen’s body to sort through whatever it must be experiencing right now. On Jensen’s other side, Pritchard was doing much the same—his head tucked against Jensen’s collarbone, his hand resting on Jensen’s elbow—though Miller suspected he’d deny it outright if anyone suggested there might be any tenderness in the gesture.

For a while all three of them were silent, none of them daring to be the first to move—and then Pritchard jumped up from the couch with a snarl.

"My code," he said, rushing back to his computer, pulling his underwear and pants and belt back into place as he went. "It’s got to be finished compiling, I'm wasting so much time. Fuck, Jensen, you had to go and distract me—"

Jensen didn’t even speak. He just turned his body a little more towards Miller’s, pressing up against him in a sleek, handsome line of flesh and metal, and raised an eyebrow as if to say, Can you believe him?

Miller couldn’t help it; he laughed, palm pressed against his mouth to try and choke it back, desperately avoiding looking at Pritchard.

"Oh, right, laugh it up. When this program’s the thing that saves your asses next time you’re running around like idiots chasing some lead, you won’t be laughing."

Well, Jensen had a point; Miller could hardly believe a man like Pritchard existed. Hell, he often found it even harder to believe a man like Jensen existed. Together the two were stubborn, inflexible, argumentative; they brought out the most aggravating in each other without even trying.

And yet, despite that, he was glad to have them both.