Title: Cheap desks don’t stain
Fandom: Almeida Ink
Rating: NC-17
Length: 796
Pairing: Ink!Murdoch/Ink!Lamb
Content notes: Explicit sex
Author notes: This is very definitely about the Ink versions of these characters and those versions only.
Summary: There are many reasons to dislike knickers week





All that squeamishness about knickers week, all the incomprehension about knickers in tins and Chanel perfume, and all that aversion to looking at the Page 3 girls. Murdoch had disguised it all as religious scruples, as morals, despite being a man who ordinarily looks on moral objections as nothing more than minor inconveniences. Even the people who look on Murdoch with almost superstitious eyes as an incomprehensible bringer of disorder would be surprised to know it was disguising this: him, bent over Lamb’s desk, clutching at it with white knuckled hands while Lamb fucks him.

Lamb smiles to himself at the thought and drives his hips forwards harder. Oh to be master of the man who bows to nothing and no one, even if only for a little while. He isn’t gentle, but Murdoch wouldn’t really want him to be. That’s not why he’s here.

“Ah fuck,” Murdoch snarls, half lying between the stacks of paper. He looks like a man drowning, open mouthed, flushed. His shirt is rucked up around his shoulders: he never got as far as undressing before Lamb pushed him down and fished the tin of Vaseline out of the desk drawer. Murdoch’s not the only man whose been over this desk, not the only reason that Lamb is prepared, although he has rules about not going after the girls in the office. Still, Murdoch’s arse is as pretty a sight as any woman’s. Lamb pulls back a bit to watch his own cock where it slides into him, obscene and gratifyingly real. It’s good to be reminded that Murdoch’s a flesh and blood man like all the rest. He’s so aloof at times, Lamb half expected him to be cold to the touch, not hot against his hips and thighs where they are pressed together. Murdoch groans and presses his mouth against his fist. It would be a moan if he let it.

The sound of him stifling himself makes Lamb want nothing more than to push him to the edge and over it. His hands are damp on Murdoch’s hips, every thrust is torturously good, but he won’t give in first.

“Come on, you bastard,” he finds himself saying. Murdoch mumbles something, too muffled for Lamb to hear. He sounds strained though and Lamb lets him shift a bit, so he can get one hand down to wrap around his own cock. If they’d been friends, Lamb might have reached around to help him, but it’s never been that way with them.

This is how he likes Murdoch most: just as human and dirty as the rest of them, hunched around his cock, working feverishly, every muscle straining. He’s braced against the desk with his other hand, sweaty and slipping and precarious. It can’t last long.

Murdoch comes first, inevitably, in a mess of garbled obscenities and gasping breath. He slips, has to grab for the desk with both hands, knocks a stacks of notes to the floor.
“Fucking careful!” Lamb grunts at him, too busy to really care. He rides it for a while, enjoying the feeling of Murdoch, clenching and shaking beneath him, before he lets himself go. Fucking as deep as he can go, he sinks his teeth into Murdoch’s shoulder through his shirt.

They sway for a moment: Murdoch taking their combined weight on shaky legs, the desk shifting. Lamb spits out the mouthful of shirt and leans his face against Murdoch’s back, pressed against salt wet skin and damp cotton. Then he pushes himself away, pulling out and wincing at the mess. Not his favourite part, the cleaning up. Nor Murdoch’s apparently: Lamb watches him yanking his clothes into place with something like violence. He hardly looks at Lamb and refuses the offer of a drink. Perhaps is goes against his views on workers not drinking with the boss after hours. Certainly he’s not going to want to think of Lamb in here tomorrow, meeting with his editors and none of them the wiser.

Murdoch leaves at his usual purposeful stride, the mask back in place. It doesn’t bother Lamb that he’s gone. It’s what he needs to do after this kind of thing and he’ll be back soon enough. Meanwhile, there’s nothing wrong with Lamb enjoying the extra freedom he’ll get with the paper this week and knowing he’s got the better of his boss in this encounter. His office stinks of sex and cigarette smoke.

He pours himself a whisky and sits at his desk. It’s a mess, but cheap desks don’t stain. There’s something to be said for not working at the perfectly polished desks of the better class of paper, however much it would horrify the owners of those desks to hear it. Perhaps this paper suits him best after all.