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I'm either late for Monday (it's porn) or failing at both Tuesday (it's not fluff) and Wednesday (there's no bumming).

Title: Believe
Characters/Pairing: Dan/Jones/Pingu
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~3200
Summary: Pingu leaves the Trashbat party with Jones and...
Notes: Is possibly what happens after my "please make something nice happen to Pingu" [ profile] booshbattle ficlet (Peace and) Fucking Off. Probably not really, but [ profile] thickets went and gave me IDEAS. ;) Thanks to [ profile] the_reverand for advice on this and a bunch of lovely people on Twitter (BTN represent!) for encouragement and support. Any fail is wholly mine. And if it's not immediately apparent, this Dan and Jones have nothing to do with any other ones I've ever written.

He never knew this bar existed. It's not self-consciously underground (rusty-dusty-Mexico-Jackson-Fucking-Five-yeah?) enough to be on Nathan's radar, but it is literally underground. Jones leads him by the hand down crumbling stone steps below a TV repair shop with its graffitied shutter down, through a door with a yellowing handwritten sign proclaiming it Auntie Sam's. Jones greets a few people and nobody looks at Pingu like they've seen him in his pants on the internet. It's dark and there's glitchy techno blaring over the bar, but it's quiet enough in the dim neon corners not to have to shout.

"I've never been here before," Pingu says, clutching his pint in a death grip. There's some sort of shock setting in, the reality of having actually walked out of the party against Nathan's express orders. Pingu doesn't do that, not ever. Maybe Alex Pinkerton would have, but he's not sure he even remembers who that is. Alex should have got the fuck away the minute Nathan put firecrackers in a residence hall toilet and fell on the floor crying with laughter. Fuck my tits, it's just like Pingu's Lavatory Story, yeah?! Clean it up, Pingu. But he didn't get away. Don't be like that, mate, it's just a laugh! You and me, right? We're gonna take the fuck over. One of them did, anyway.

Jones is a much better thing to concentrate on as he sparkles out a grin. "Reckon I'd've seen you here if you had." He nods at Pingu's glass. "You gonna drink that or strangle it?" It's nearly a surprise to be able to take a sip and set the glass down carefully on the table without getting it shoved into his teeth or knocked into his lap. Pissed yourself again!

The reality of Jones is even bigger than the idea of him (metaphorically; literally he's rather surprisingly short). Mostly Pingu overhears things from Claire about the noise he makes and the minefield of broken toys and dismantled appliances and Dan being a twat who won't tell him to shut up. Pingu's seen him out with Dan a couple of times, Dan laughing and seeming not quite so terrifying and the two of them sitting awfully close together, and so Pingu has his own ideas as to why he might not tell Jones to quiet down. Nathan says he doesn't know his pitch knob from his own knob, but he does it with that nervous quiver in the back of his throat that he always gets when he knows how full of shit he is.

It's so easy to be swept up in Jones's enthusiasm as he waves hands adorned with leather and random crap and sketches out what he wants for his gig on the back of beer mats. He scoots his chair up next to Pingu's so he can stop turning the drawings around. Their knees are touching and Jones smells of party-crush sweat in a way that's not at all unpleasant.

"Aw, you oughta smile more," Jones says, nudging Pingu's shoulder when he can't help one at being told one of his suggestions is 'fucking ace.' Their fingers brush when Pingu passes the biro back and it's hard not to stare when Jones licks his lips, even though he must be imagining any come-hither that might be lurking behind it. No one looks at him like that unless it's Nathan doing exaggerated impressions of whomever he's assuming Pingu's infatuated with that week. Jones certainly shouldn't be.

So it's a surprise when Pingu's mid-sentence about vector animation and Jones leans over and kisses him. It's quick, almost done before it starts, just lager-cool lips and a tiny swipe of tongue, stubble against his chin. "Sorry," Jones says without looking the least bit sorry. "I been wanting to do that for about an hour now."

"I...what about Dan?"

Pingu's the sorry one when the smile drops of Jones's face and he knows he was right about them. "We're well fucked-up, Dan and me. That's nothing to do with it." Pingu looks down at the table but Jones grabs him under the chin and tilts his face up. "It ain't. I like you, alright?" He's so serious that Pingu wants to believe him. Does believe him when Jones lays a hand on his cheek and kisses him again, softly at first, then harder when Pingu shivers with the arousal shocking through him like Jones himself might be electric. All he can do when Jones slides a hand up his thigh and says, "Come back to mine?" against his ear is nod.


The flat reminds him of a cross between a fortune teller's tent and a recording studio, scarves and fabric and guitars and machines everywhere. Worn notebooks and ashtrays full of fag ends and a purple jacket on the back of a chair remind him Dan and Claire live here too and give him a panicked pause, but they wouldn't be doing this here if Jones thought they'd be coming back anytime soon, surely. Pingu hovers stupidly in the doorway for a moment.

"Change your mind?" Jones asks. "'S alright if you did, we can have a coffee and--"

"No! No, I...want to." He nearly had changed his mind, but somehow hearing he's what, allowed? to say no makes him want to say yes.

"C'mon, then."

He's not sure what to expect when Jones leads him to a settee, maybe something a bit perfunctory without a lot of fanfare, but Jones pulls him down astride his lap and grins up at him until Pingu gets the hint and leans down to kiss him. Jones is only passive for that long, though, twisting his fingers into Pingu's hair and sliding a hand up the back of his shirt as soon as their lips touch. Jones is kissing him like he's searching for something he needs, but Pingu doesn't know what it might be or even what to do with his hands, which he finally lets settle on Jones's shoulders.

Jones is really, really good at kissing, and no one's touched him like this in so long he's afraid he might come in his pants just from the slight friction of Jones grinding up against him. Even through two layers of denim, he can feel the heat of Jones's erection. He did that, he made that happen. He made Jones want to kiss him and made him hard. At the same time that makes Pingu's head swim, it makes him braver, makes him break off the kiss to pull Jones's shirt over his head and not worry what Jones is going to think of how skinny he is when his own shirt comes off in turn. Whatever Jones is seeing must be different from what Pingu sees in the mirror, because Jones smiles appreciatively and gently bites one of his nipples. Which feels strange. Not bad, but strange. He can't help wondering if that's something Dan likes. That's not something he should be thinking about, though, especially not now, even if it does make his breath hitch a little. Jones stops after a moment anyway and starts sucking at Pingu's neck, which he does like, and makes him squirm and let out an embarrassing sort of whimper. Jones laughs, not unkindly, and tries different spots to see what those do like he's testing circuits.

Pingu realises he should be doing something too, other than moaning and flailing, that is. He reaches down to try to get at Jones's belt, but he's wearing about three of them and none of the buckles are where they should be. Jones has to do it for him in the end. He leaves his pants on, which are a blinding shade of lime green, and Pingu doesn't feel too badly for laughing at them a bit. "What've you got, then?" Jones says, flushed and cheeky as he tugs open Pingu's belt (just the one, but never again to be gone without, and always tight).

"Nothing exciting," Pingu mutters.

Jones nudges him to stand up and lets Pingu's jeans drop to the floor. He looks up and shakes his head. "Y'don't give yourself enough credit, mate. I think it's well exciting," he says against Pingu's stomach, and then lowers his head to mouth along the outline of his cock through the cotton (always black now, and there was never any stain in the first place, damn it).

Pingu's knees go weak and he has to brace his hands against Jones's shoulders. "Jones--"

A door slams and Jones's head snaps up. "Claire?" he calls, reaching down for a blanket that's on the floor.

There's some sort of crash in the hallway, and then a too-familiar voice says, "No."

Pingu starts looking for somewhere to hide, or his shirt, or fuck, something, but Jones has stopped trying to cover them and looks relieved. "It's alright," he says. He catches Pingu's hands to stop him scrambling about and pulls him down onto the settee.

Maybe he's got it all wrong. Maybe Jones didn't mean what Pingu thought he meant and Dan's not going to care beyond perhaps being a little annoyed about people having it off in the front room. But then Dan's in the doorway, still wearing the collar part of the Preacherman costume, and it doesn't sound all right at all when he takes in the scene before him and says, "What the fuck is this, Jones?"

"Fuck's it look like?" Jones says. "Take that stupid collar off."

Dan looks surprised to find it still around his neck and gives it a disgusted look before he throws it on the floor. "Teaching me a lesson?"

"When've I ever? It's nothing to do with you, Dan."

They seem to have forgotten Pingu's there, and he's not entirely sure he wants to remind them. Dan's wounded glare on Jones is bad enough without getting pointed at him. But he feels ridiculous sitting there in his pants, and whatever this is, he shouldn't be in the middle of it. Dan surges across the room, too steadily for as drunk as he was at the party, and he hasn't forgotten Pingu after all because when he bends down and grabs Jones round the back of the head and kisses him, he keeps his eyes open and looks directly at Pingu with some kind of smug triumph.

Jones's eyes are closed, though, and he's combing his fingers through Dan's hair. He doesn't open them when he pulls back to say, "I am well beyond fucked-off with you, Ashcroft," low enough that Pingu's fairly certain he wasn't meant to hear it.

"I know," Dan sighs. He's not looking at Pingu when he kisses Jones this time, and it's really difficult to look away from. Nathan's exposed him to probably collective days' worth of porn over the years, but that was all fake tits and naughty nurses, or else nightmare-inducing levels of disgusting. They're kissing like it's not for show, like it means something, and it's one of the hottest things Pingu's ever seen, if not the.

But maybe if they were well fucked-up already, Pingu's just making it worse. He was too dazzled by Jones to think about consequences. He's bad about that sometimes. "I should go," Pingu says.

They stop kissing and both look at him, and then back at each other. Jones puts a hand on Pingu's leg. They're either staring each other down or there's some kind of silent communication going on that Pingu can't decipher. Instead he looks down at the chipped black lacquer on Jones's short fingernails.

"Stay if you like, Pingu," Dan says in a gruff undertone. He kisses Jones on the forehead, straightens up and walks off.

Then they're alone again. Jones squeezes Pingu's thigh and there's what might be the sound of a shower turning on. "Maybe this wasn't a good idea," Pingu says.

Jones sighs. "Maybe not. I sorta thought it'd go a different way." He chews at his thumbnail and little flecks of black stick to his bottom lip. He still hasn't moved his other hand.


"I thought it'd just be you and me, yeah? But then when Dan turned up-- He ain't never been bothered before, just sorta grunts and walks on by, but I thought maybe as he knew you...."

Oh. Right. Stupid, stupid Pingu. "He'd be jealous?"

"Well, he was. Can't say I didn't like it. Thought he might stick around, though."

That slams an image into Pingu's head that makes his mouth go dry.

"You fancy him!" Jones says. A grin that dirty ought to be illegal.

"No! I-I don't." Pingu loves the Preacherman! I'm well in with him, yeah? You want me to tell him you need a good arse-ramming? Better wash your pants, though.

"Aw, 'm just teasing, c'mon." Jones slides over and behind him and wraps his arms round Pingu's waist. "Nothing wrong with fancyin' the pants off Dan. Think I wrote the fuckin' book on it." He says this soft and low in Pingu's ear, and Pingu can't help shivering.

"Why this, then?" he makes himself ask.

"Won't touch me sober, will he?" It's such a statement of fact that it nearly hurts, but Jones punctuates it by sucking on Pingu's earlobe.

"I thought we weren't--"

"You really don't want to, I'll stop."

The thing is, he really does, would even without Jones shifting so Pingu can feel his erection against his lower back, even without Jones latching onto a spot behind his ear that makes him unable to hold his head up. "Don't stop."

"I won't then." Jones slips a hand down into Pingu's pants, gripping his cock firmly.

"Oh, my god."

He knows by now that Jones laughing doesn't mean anything bad. It's just a pleasant vibration against his neck. "Fuck, you're so hard," Jones murmurs. Pingu feels Jones's free hand go between them behind his back, then gasps as he's shifted back a little and feels the sweat-moist heat of Jones's cock along the cleft of his arse.

His eyes are torn between rolling back in his head and watching Jones's hand working up and down. He has to run through code in his head to stop himself coming, writing a stylesheet for the flat, a bracket for each scarf, because he doesn't want it to be over.

"I was about to suck you off before, d'you want me to?"

It's high and choked when Pingu says, "Yes."

But then he looks up and freezes. Dan is leaning against the back of the kitchen worktop, hair wet and wearing nothing but a towel round his waist with a very obvious bulge at the front.

Jones stills; he's seen him too. Pingu would think the world's been paused if not for the pounding of his heart.

"C'mon, then," Jones says after a moment, and he's not saying it to Pingu.

It seems like there are a few frames missing between that and Dan kneeling on the sofa in front of Pingu, towel dropped somewhere en route, and kissing Jones over his shoulder. He can hear the rasp of Dan's beard against Jones's face and one of Dan's hands is on Pingu's hip. He's not sure if Dan knows that or not, but he must be able to feel his cock pressing into Pingu's stomach.

Jones and Dan pull apart with a wet smacking noise and Pingu opens his eyes to find Dan looking at him.

"You're in or you ain't," Jones says.

Dan's eyes dart sideways briefly. They snap closed and he pulls Pingu into a kiss. It's nothing like kissing Jones. That reminded him of dancing, maybe, if he ever did that, or sugar. This is like being dragged under a tide, deep and dark and rough.

"Ah, fuck, that's gorgeous," Jones says, pushing up closer and harder against Pingu's arse.

Pingu reaches down and closes a nervous hand around Dan's erection, ready to be shoved away, but Dan just rumbles out something that might pass for pleasure and grips a fistful of Pingu's hair. Jones is stroking Pingu's cock in time with the movement of his own hips, and it's too much, but all he can do is make a stupid noise into Dan's mouth and grab at Jones's arm. Jones gets the hint and stops. He moves out from behind Pingu and nudges him and Dan apart.

"Promised Pingu somethin'," Jones says in response to Dan's raised eyebrow at him climbing down onto the floor.

And then Pingu doesn't really know what else is happening, because Jones's mouth feels like fire on him, and he's seeing stars from the first teasing swipe of his tongue. Pingu's still touching Dan but he can't manage to do much other than sort of twitch his hand about. Then that's gone, and he feels Jones moan around him, so Dan must be doing something, and it's easier just to think about how it feels like his brains are being sucked out through his dick and how soft Jones's hair is when he buries his fingers in it.

He comes without warning, an electric shock like all the rest of this has been, but Jones just sucks and swallows and maybe laughs a bit, and when Pingu opens his eyes in the last spasms, he sees Dan lying on his side in front of Jones, hands on his arse and Jones's cock balls-deep in his mouth.

Pingu sort of feels again like he shouldn't be here when Jones sighs out, "Dan," into his thigh.

It's like the whole of Jones explodes when he comes, head thrown back, throat bared and back arched, and almost the moment it's over he drags Dan up and kisses him, and Dan makes a sound that's almost tortured as he comes over Jones's hand.

No, maybe he shouldn't be here, he thinks, looking at Dan with Jones held tightly against him, whispering something in his ear that makes Jones smile. Maybe he was just the means to whatever it was they needed. But Jones raises his head and gives Pingu some of the smile too, holds a hand up to him in an echo of the gesture that ultimately brought Pingu here. He reaches out and Jones laces their fingers together and squeezes. "Alright?"

"Yeah," Pingu says, and actually, he is. Maybe this isn't something that just came along and happened to him the way so much seems to. This is something he did. Just this once, because he wanted to.

Jones gives him a lingering kiss goodbye in which Pingu imagines he can taste all three of them, and promises to phone him about the animation. Dan doesn't kiss him goodbye, but Pingu wasn't really expecting it.

He also wasn't expecting Dan to follow him into the street, but there he is in nothing but rumpled thrown-on jeans, lighting a cigarette and catching Pingu up. He doesn't seem frightening at all anymore, not even when he narrows his eyes and says, "You tell anyone about this--"

That was something he's more or less been assuming. "I won't."

"If you happened to. You can tell Nathan Barley I licked your balls for all I care, but leave Jones out of it."

Pingu smiles because there's a missing piece slotting into the puzzle, a line that wasn't quite in the right place, and he's beginning to understand. "He'd never believe me anyway."

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