rivers_bend

I… don't really have an excuse for this. There are people I could blame, but I won't. I'll just claim rabid plot bunnies and leave it at that. Thank you to my angel beta, who is, now I think about it, one of the people I could blame for this, too. ♥

Title: Three is the Magic Number
Characters: Robert Downey Jr./Kiefer Sutherland/Rob Lowe
Words: 3,000
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not know any of these people and neither believe nor mean to imply that any of this actually happened. Not even in the 80s.
Enticements/Warnings: Drug use, 80s clothes, questionable judgment calls.
Summary: It's the late 80s. Robert and Kiefer are party hopping, and run into Rob Lowe. Sex, drugs, and sex ensue.



They're at their third party of the night, even though it's only ten o'clock, because at the first one Robert saw the host mixing up drinks in a plastic bucket. Generic vodka and blue Kool-Aid. Same plastic bucket Robert used to keep under the kitchen sink in his shit-ass apartment so the leaking pipes didn't totally ruin the floor, and okay it wasn't the exact same bucket (he hoped) but still. And though people, including Kiefer as it turns out, might laugh to hear Robert of all people saying so, a guy has to have standards. At least that early in the evening. Robert would have been happy to stay at the second party, which was packed with starfuckers, some of whom were just his type, but Kiefer had spied a girl he'd almost considered taking out a restraining order on, and yeah, he'd changed his mind, but still, he figured he didn't need to put temptation in her path, so they'd left almost as soon as they got there. This party, though. This one looks promising. Quality booze, and if Robert isn't mistaken, the guy in the corner is always carrying some pretty good shit.

Robert is just taking a second look around and wondering where he should head first when Kiefer elbows him in the ribs.

"Bet you can't get him to give you a hummer," Kiefer says.

Robert looks in the direction of Kiefer's thrust-out chin and sees Rob Lowe on one of the low-slung sofas, with his arm around a girl, his fingers flirting with the plunging neckline of her blouse.

"He's already given me one. He's not very good at it."

"Bullshit."

"You think he is good?" Robert would be surprised if Lowe and Kiefer had ever had a thing, but stranger hookups have happened.

"I think he's never blown you. Fucking liar." Kiefer elbows him again, which needs to stop, because the guy has seriously bony elbows.

"Not lying." Robert doesn't really care if Kiefer believes him; the guy with good candy is heading down the hall with a group of girls all with long blonde hair, and he wants to follow.

"Hundred bucks you can't have him on his knees by the end of the night."

"Jesus, Sutherland, you want him on his knees so bad, why don't you put him there?" Candy guy is out of sight now, and this house is fucking huge. Robert's annoyed. "Or do you just want to watch? Tell you what. I'll find us a room with a mirror, and fuck your face. How 'bout that?"

He expects to be told to go fuck himself, and he is, but Kiefer shivers a little and gives him a look of feral hunger first, which is unexpected, but more to the point, interesting. "Two hundred," Robert counters. "And I'll let you watch."

"Who says I want to watch?" Bastard's pretty good—sounds almost totally convincing. But he's not gonna get an Oscar for the performance, because his eyes flick too quickly to Lowe over on the sofa, back to Robert and then back again to Lowe.

"You so totally want to watch. Go find us an empty room."

Robert laughs when the fucker actually does it without another word of protest.

He's not sure how he's gonna get Lowe away from the girl; she's seriously hot and looks willing to do just about anything, and while Robert's met a few guys who would just as soon suck a dick as get a blowjob themselves, Lowe isn't one of them. But before Robert has to tax his brain too much, a second girl comes up to the first, just as hot, but she's crying, really going for it, fists clenched and shoulders shaking, and either they're like sisters or the hot girl is no stranger to star fucking, because she doesn't even look back, she's up and out the door with her friend so fast.

"Too bad," Robert says as he sits down next to Lowe and hands him a beer. "She looked like a sure thing."

"Drama, man," Lowe says, tipping the beer back, half of it gone in one swallow.

"Fucking drama." Robert looks down at Lowe's lap, subtle lowering of eyelashes, and sees the guy is working on a boner. Good stuff. "Can do you better than beer if you want," he adds, tipping his head toward the hallway down which Kiefer disappeared.

"What you got?" Lowe takes another gulp of the beer, eyes eager.

"Let's see, shall we?"

Lowe follows when Robert gets up and pushes through the crowd.

Kiefer's halfway down the hall, hand on some twink's chest, blocking the door he's standing in front of, keeping the guy out.

"Just want my coat," twinky says, and Kiefer tells him to fuck off. It sounds like this isn't the first time the words have been exchanged.

"What's your coat look like," Robert interrupts.

"Red. Like James Dean's." The guy sounds petulant as hell.

"Get him his coat, Sutherland," Robert says, then, "James Dean, huh? I would have pegged you more a Don Johnson man." The guy is wearing Z Cavariccis for fuck's sake.

"Fucking Miami Vice can fucking fuck off. Crockett and Tubbs can suck my fat one."

Robert changes his mind. Not a twink. Just a dickhead. Kiefer comes back with a red jacket and shoves it at the guy. "Here. Now seriously. Fuck off."

Robert grabs Lowe's wrist with one hand and uses the other to push Kiefer back into the bedroom. "Who the hell leaves his coat in a bedroom at one of these parties anyway?" he asks.

"Think he just forgot it. He was coming out buttoning up his pants when I got here."

"So what have you got?" Lowe asks again once the door is closed.

Robert cups his dick, says "Got a pipe you can smoke," his grin half mocking, half hopeful, all charming.

"You wish," Lowe says, and turns like he's gonna leave. But Kiefer steps up, pulls a vial out of his pocket, waggles it in Lowe's direction. "That's more like it," Lowe says.

There's a dressing table over by the window with a mirrored top; clearly these are not gonna be the first lines of blow it's seen. Kiefer spills out the powder, Robert pulls the blade out of his wallet and divvies it up, and they both step back to let Lowe have first choice. He takes the fattest line, of course, and is already grinning, a little manic, when he stands up to leave room for one of them to take his place. As Robert bends over he sees Kiefer pull a bottle of Glenlivet out from under one of the pillows on the bed and hand it to Lowe.

They sit on the bed and pass the booze around until the coke edge is gone, and then they do another line. Lowe is talking a mile a minute about some shit that Robert just cannot follow. Kiefer is fidgeting with a—jesus, is that a switchblade? The guy has got to stop playing thugs. It's starting to go to his head. "Put it away," Robert tells him, and then, "Lowe if I put my dick in your mouth will it shut you the hell up?"

"What makes you think I'm gonna suck your dick?"

"What makes you think you're not?" Robert gets his hand on Lowe's fly, and there's no way he could miss the twitch of the guy's hips, or the way his cock is getting fat already.

"I'm not a cocksucker," Lowe says, but he doesn't do anything to push Robert off his dick.

"That's what you said last time. Then you let me come all over that pretty face of yours." Robert levels his gaze at Kiefer as he says it, liking the way his eyes go wide at the thought.

"That was—" Lowe breaks off on a gasp as Robert squeezes his cock through his jeans.

"That was what? Different? Why? 'Cause we were drinking gin instead of whiskey?" Robert is palming Lowe rhythmically now, squeeze, slide, squeeze, slide, and Lowe is panting, mouth open and eyes a little glazed. So is Kiefer.

"Fuck you," Lowe says, but his fingers are edging up Robert's thigh toward his fly.

"We can fuck if you'd rather. Sutherland here likes to fuck, don't you?" Robert gives Kiefer a look that says, get your hand in here, and moves his own hand down to cup Lowe's balls, leaving Kiefer room to stroke his dick. "You could suck me while he fucks you, how about it?"

Lowe barks a laugh, half incredulous, half (and Robert's pretty sure this isn't just wishful thinking) turned on. But, "No one is fucking me in the ass," he says, and he almost sounds like he means it. He's obviously given up on trying to pretend he's not a cocksucker, though, because he's using one hand to push at Robert's hip and the other to undo his zipper.

Once Robert makes the connection between that and an impending blowjob, he moves up against the headboard and spreads his legs so Lowe is sitting between them. Kiefer's behind Lowe, but when he catches up with what's happening, he rolls so he's on his side next to Robert, with a view of the action.

"Not making a sex tape, here," Lowe mutters, giving Kiefer a disapproving look.

Robert cups his jaw and turns Lowe's attention back to his dick. "Don't worry about it," he says. He wonders if Kiefer's presence would be less offensive to Lowe's obviously delicate sensibilities if he were otherwise occupied, so Robert grabs him by the scruff and drags him farther up the bed. Kiefer comes more easily than he expected, digging his boots into the comforter so that they're face to face. Before Robert even knows he's gonna do it, he's hauling Kiefer down and kissing him.

That gets a sharp inhale from Kiefer and a low moan from Lowe, and Robert's not gonna complain about that, so he shifts to get a better angle, and bites Kiefer's mouth.

"Ow!" Kiefer says, but he bites back, Robert's lip, then his cheek, then his jaw, and that works out really well with the hand Lowe's finally got on Robert's dick, so he's not complaining about that, either.

Without releasing his grip on the back of Kiefer's head, Robert uses his other hand to shove at his pants, trying to get Lowe to pull them lower, get better access. Robert can't see what he's doing, because Kiefer's biting his throat now—he better not fucking give him hickeys; it's the middle of fucking summer, and turtlenecks are out—and his head's in the way, but Lowe gets the idea anyway, and with a graceless tug gets the damn pants around the tops of Robert's thighs.

"Oh, fuck," Robert says as finally Lowe's mouth is on him, licking, sucking kisses, getting him wet.

Kiefer stops what he's doing, twists so he's leaning against Robert's side, head on his shoulder, taking in the view.

"Oh. Fuck!" Robert says again when Lowe opens his mouth and goes down, sucking hard, lips right up to where his fingers are gripping Robert's shaft. "You've been—jesus—been practicing, haven't you?"

"Fuck you," Lowe pulls off to say. "You saying I wasn't good last time?"

Before he gets an answer he's got Robert's dick in his mouth again, bobbing, sucking, fuck only knows, and Robert could probably manage another oh, fuck, but that seems a little redundant.

Shifting at his side, and Kiefer's got his own dick out, idly tugging, thumbing the head. Robert takes his hand off Lowe's neck and strokes a finger up Kiefer's dick, can't really reach to do more. Lowe's going to town, but Robert doesn't want to come yet. Wants this to last, so he tugs Lowe off, aims him at Kiefer's crotch, says, "Suck him, too."

It never occurs to him that Lowe will refuse until he doesn't, just leans over Robert's thigh, noses Kiefer's thumb out of the way and laps at the head of his dick.

Kiefer whines and his shoulder jerks in Robert's armpit, and the hand that got shoved off his own dick fists in Lowe's hair. He flops back, falling away from Robert's side, giving Lowe more room to work. It also gives Robert a better view from his perch up against the headboard.

"Oh, yeah," he encourages. "Suck him. Christ. Like that." He kind of wants to pull up Kiefer's shirt, leave teeth marks on his chest to match the ones he can feel hot and throbbing on his own throat, but his legs are trapped under Lowe's weight, and also, the sight of Lowe sucking is really good from this angle.

Lowe has definitely been practicing, though to be fair to the guy, the last time they did this they were in a tiny fucking bathroom, and he was trying to give head with Robert's dick only half pulled out through his fly. And there were more drugs. Robert's pretty sure about that. Though who the hell knows what Lowe was up to before they got here.

"Me again," he says, because his mind is wandering, and he doesn't want that to happen.

Kiefer whimpers, but he lets go of Lowe's head when Robert shoves his hand away. "Be a good boy and share," Robert says.

Lowe comes back, left hand fisted around Robert's cock, holding it steady so he can suck the head, right hand still on Kiefer, jerking him uncoordinatedly. Kiefer wraps one hand around his dick, helping Lowe out, and grabs Robert's arm with the other, holding on too tight, but hell, Robert can relate to the need for something to hold on to. He's practically tearing through the comforter with the fingers he hasn't got in the shoulder of Lowe's shirt.

The plan, and he does have one, is to make Lowe go back to Kiefer again before Robert comes, but that doesn't work out so well with Lowe jerking him fast and hard, mouth closed around the head of his dick. He doesn't even give the guy any warning.

Practice or not, Lowe still doesn't swallow apparently, because he jerks away as soon as Robert starts coming, spitting over his own hand and Robert's dick, swearing crossly.

"Sorry," Robert says, and he sounds about as sincere as he feels.

What Robert doesn't expect is Kiefer to lean over and start licking come and spit off his stomach.

"Ugh," Lowe says, which should probably kill the mood but really doesn't; it just makes it seem filthier and that much better.

"Never knew you were a comeslut," Robert can't help saying, even knowing he's risking Kiefer stopping.

Kiefer just holds up a middle finger, and with his tongue, chases a gob of come that landed on Robert's hip.

It can't make Robert hard again, but it makes him really, really need to get a dick in his mouth, so he pushes Kiefer off and onto his back, sucking him down in one swallow.

He gags, comes off, swallows again, a little slower this time, and Kiefer must really like jizz, because before Robert can even worry about how he can't breathe, Kiefer's coming. Robert has no trouble swallowing—he's not gonna chase it down and lap it up, but swallowing's all good—and when he doesn't even let a dribble leak from the corner of his mouth, he can't help but shoot Lowe a smug look.

"Whatever," Lowe says. "Who's taking care of me now?"

Robert's inclined to let him take care of himself, let him jerk off over Robert's stomach and let Kiefer lick it off again, but before he can voice this most excellent plan, Kiefer's struggling up onto his elbows and gesturing for Lowe to come closer. And okay, that works too.

In the years he's know him, Robert hasn't ever considered swapping blowjobs with Kiefer, and now he's wondering why the hell not. Sure, crossing that roommate/fuckbuddy line can be awkward, but good sex is good sex, and the guy certainly seems to know what he's doing, if the noises Lowe is making are any indication.

Lowe's on all fours, hovering over Kiefer's mouth, arms shaking, hips jerking in counter to Kiefer's grip on his ass meant to control Lowe's movements. Robert can't see much of the action, but Lowe's face is pretty, all flushed and sweaty, and Robert can tell the moment he's about to come, which is not something he's ever really bothered looking at before. A second after Lowe's face changes, his arms give out, and he comes with his ass in the air, orgasm-pink cheeks peeking over the top of his pants, shirt rucked up under his arms.

Finally he starts squeaking, and practically jerks his dick out of Kiefer's mouth, saying, "Stop. Damn it, stop!" before, released at last, he collapses down onto the bed, on Kiefer's other side.

They must make a hell of a picture, all lying there, dicks out, but otherwise fully dressed, and Robert wonders for a moment if anyone thought to lock the door. That makes him tug his pants up, tuck himself away. Kiefer rolls his head to the right and catches his eye, giving him a sly, and frankly pretty evil-looking, grin that Robert can't help returning.

"Well. That was fun," Kiefer says, doing up his own jeans.

Lowe grunts something unintelligible from Kiefer's other side.

Robert holds out his hand to Kiefer for the two-hundred bucks. When Kiefer just looks at him blankly, he holds up two fingers and snaps his fingers.

"Bastard," Kiefer mouths at him, but he digs his wallet out of his pocket and pulls out some bills.

Robert pockets the cash and heads for the door. With any luck that dealer stuck around after he finished with the blondes.