'Poolside' - a story based on Episode One of 'Mad Dogs' starring John Simm, Philip Glenister, Marc Warren, Max Beesley and Ben Chaplin.
NB: Contains scenes of an adult nature.
Title: Poolside (3/?)
Author: Edzel2 (with heartfelt thanks to my Beta, Jinxed)
Genre: ‘Mad Dogs’
Previously.... ‘Doesn’t bother me, Bax – but do you really want Alvo on your case in the morning?’
‘Let’s not talk about them,’ Baxter murmurs, and Quinn smiles....
Summary: Baxter means to take Quinn to task for his verbal tongue-lash over the use of inappropriate vernacular – and gets a tongue-lashing of quite a different kind...
"What the f**k was that all about?!" Baxter hisses at Quinn as they almost collide at the top of the stairs; he can hear Rick and Woody's voices in the hallway below and Alvo's response so they won't be overheard, but his natural caution prevails.
Quinn gives him the kind of level, patient look Baxter imagines he probably gives errant students and suddenly he feels the years drop away from him.
"Oh, yeah - right. Keeping up appearances, sorry. But you are...” he shrugs off the embarrassment and mimes tugging one off before turning back to the stairs. "Technically, of course..."
"Come 'ere and say that again," Quinn says, sotto voice, and grabs Baxter's arm.
Baxter needs no further persuading, although clearly he's worried about the men in the hallway below; keeps shooting furtive glances at the staircase as Quinn pushes him against the wall, hand palmed over Baxter's swelling arousal.
"Quinn... Fuck, mate - we can't, not here, not with..." he nods towards the stairs, swallows. "They're waiting..."
"Let them. I'm on holiday - no one tells me what to do or when to do it." He leans in, eyes boring into Baxter’s as he rubs the other man’s groin.
"I agree... Uuhhh.." Baxter gasps, hips jerking forward into Quinn's hand. "But not here...” reluctantly he pushes Quinn's hand away and grabbing the other man by the arm, pulls him through the nearest doorway.
For the next minute, the only sound coming from either man is muffled groans and gasps as they each fumble with zippers and buttons, each desperate to touch the other’s overheated flesh, their mouths locked together in a battle of lips, teeth and tongue.
‘Hang on, hang on...’ Baxter pulls away, pulling awkwardly at his glasses and stepping over to the nightstand to put them out of harm’s way. ‘Steaming up,’ he says awkwardly to Quinn, who remains standing by the door; he’s an incongruous sight, Baxter thinks, standing there in a pale blue and already sweat-stained shirt, his fly open and his fist wrapped around his swollen cock. His face is flushed and while he isn’t quite frowning, annoyance at the interruption doesn’t seem far off and Baxter’s gut clenches with a curious mix of excitement and fear. Why should he be afraid of Quinn? He wonders, and steps forward, hand automatically dropping to grip his own length.
‘They bother you, don’t they?’ Quinn mumbles as he pulls Baxter against him so that the heads of their cocks bump together; he shudders.
Quinn flicks a nod towards the nightstand. ‘The specs. Wearing them, I mean.’ He pulls a face. ‘You always were a vain little sod.’
Baxter steps back, his face indignant. ‘No, I wasn’t. And I just had a new pair – can’t get used to them.’
‘Yeah you were – cocky little bugger.’ Quinn’s thumb swipes over the head of Baxter’s cock and the smaller man gasps and pushes back.
‘Bet you wear contacts.’ Baxter squeezes Quinn’s cock and feels the warm slickness of Quinn’s excitement slide down his fingers.
‘Bloody don’t – my eyes – are as perfect – as the rest... ohhh fuuck....’ Quinn’s cock trembles and erupts over Baxter’s shirt.
‘Fuckin’ ell, Quinn... now I’ll have to cha...’ Baxter’s eyes open in surprise as Quinn drops to his knees and tongues the tip of his cock.
‘Just bloody shut up for five seconds, will you?’ Quinn pulls Baxter’s hand –slick with his own juice – away from his cock and lunges forward, swallowing it deep and gulping around the swollen flesh, groaning quietly so that Baxter gasps and comes without warning, his jerking hips forcing Quinn’s nose up again Baxter’s belt buckle as he trembles helplessly through his orgasm. As the spasms subside and Quinn rises to his feet, Baxter leans forward, panting, to lay his head against Quinn’s chest.
‘Bloody hell-fire...’ he swallows, chest heaving as he fumbles with himself, wincing as he knocks the sensitive head with his fingertips.
‘Yeah. Jesus set aside a special place just for the likes of us,’ Quinn mutters darkly as he tucks himself away. For a man who appears as unfit as he does, his breathing is already evening out whereas Baxter is still gasping through the aftermath.
‘Didn’t know you were a religious man, Quinn,’ he ventures once he has caught his breath. He wipes his palm on the front of his shirt, grimaces and starts to unbutton it.
‘I’m not. Thought you might be.’ Quinn disappears into Baxter’s en-suite, since that’s where they seem to have ended up, and looks around the small white-tiled room curiously as he washes the other man’s fluid from his palm. It’s meticulously tidy, much like his own room, he notes. But whereas Quinn’s space is tidy in a haphazard kind of way, everything in Baxter’s is set out neatly; toothpaste, brush, comb – they’re all lined up like little soldiers on the shelf over the basin. Perhaps he’s OC, Quinn thinks. Certainly he’d always had a tendency to want everything just so...
‘Do you mind...?’
Quinn’s musings are interrupted as Baxter pushes past him to lob his soiled shirt into the rattan basket set by the bath. He steps aside and reaches for a towel as Baxter turns the tap on, grabs soap and starts furiously lathering his hands. He doesn’t look at Quinn and the bigger man sighs, puts the towel back in the ring beside the basin.
‘What’s your problem, Bax?’
‘What d’you mean?’ Baxter glances up quickly before turning back to his ablutions. ‘I don’t have a problem.’
‘Well forgive the psychologist for making an observation here, but clearly you do.’ He nods at Baxter’s exaggerated hand-wringing as the other man glances up at Quinn again, consternation wrinkling his brow. He glares, before turning the tap off and grabbing the towel in abrupt, irritated movements.
‘I’m just washing my fucking hands, Quinn! Christ...’ he throws the towel down onto the side of the basin, misses and turns away, stalking back out into the main bedroom. Quinn leans down and retrieves the towel, putting it almost gently back into the metal ring before turning to follow Baxter.
‘Yeah... right.’ He murmurs to himself. Baxter is busy selecting a fresh shirt from a small selection hanging neatly in the wardrobe – Quinn suspects that the shirts are hung up in day order – two hangers to the right are already empty and Baxter removes the third without consideration and shuts the door before Quinn can nose further.
‘I’m going to swap my shirt, Bax. I’ll see you downstairs. Thanks, by the way – don’t know about you, but I needed that. Must be this heat.’ He’s at the door before Baxter can make any reply and closes the door softly behind him.
"Christ, what kept you two?" Rick's gimlet eyes look them up and down as they reach the kitchen, Quinn in the lead and his usual stony-faced self. Rick still looks hung-over, Baxter thinks, and hopes that he's a better sailor than he is a loyal husband. And then he feels a twinge of shame as he recalls his own history.
"Yeah - you weren't getting all cosy-cosy up there, were you?" Alvo pouts, kissing the air as he walks past them to grab a cool box from the table top.
"Don't be ridiculous,", "F**k off!" Quinn and Baxter speak simultaneously and Alvo wiggles his eyebrows at them suggestively before disappearing through the door into the too-bright sunshine beyond.
"He's just joking, Bax," Rick claps a mortified Baxter around the shoulders, pulling him into a brief hug. "We didn't really think you two were having it off up there." he lets go and pushes ahead, childishly eager to get through the door after Alvo.
Baxter can only swallow and straighten his shoulders resolutely as he follows. He doesn't look at Quinn.