Okay, so this isn’t officially Prompt-a-thon! fodder, but inspired/shamelessly stolen from a suggestion by @sarlyne AGES ago and it’s been hanging around in my brain since. I had to get it out. The original post said:
“Headcanons that Lizzie one time accidentally presses 7 and not 6 on her speed dial, thus calling Red and ordering Chinese food from him without realizing it because he is too amused to say anything. And twenty minutes later he shows up at her doorstep with two bags of takeaway.”
Here’s what I ended up with. It’s, um…smutty. Like, REALLY smutty. Don’t read it at work. Or around other people.
Liz bangs into her motel room, slamming the door behind her in relief. Some days on the Task Force are longer than others, and this one has been nearly unbearably so. She roots her cell phone out of her bag, then drops it onto the miserable excuse for a desk, kicking off her boots with a groan.
She’s exhausted, annoyed, and ravenous — comfort food, she thinks, is the way to go tonight. She strips off her jacket and picks up her cell again, activating it as she unbuttons her pants. She’s undressing as she goes for the speed dial, and trips on her cuffs just as she taps at the screen, slamming into the bed frame, dropping the phone, and swearing as pain shoots through her shins. She hears part of a fuzzy greeting and manages to pick up the phone before the silence gets too long.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly. “I’m so sorry about that. It’s Liz Keen at the Highlander? Can I get an order of beef and broccoli, a vegetable chow mein, and an egg roll, delivered, please? It’s room 108.”
There’s a brief pause, then the muffled voice on the other end agrees.
“Twenty minutes,” it says cheerily.
“Oh, thank you,” she replies, but they’ve already hung up. They didn’t give me the total, she thinks — but it’s not as if she doesn’t know it by heart. She’ll just change and watch HGTV, and try not to think.
Red looks around the living area of tonight’s safe house with relative indifference — it’s nothing special, if comfortable, but has the advantage of being close to Lizzie’s motel. With the unusual pleasure of a quiet night to himself stretching out in front of him, it could have been a rat-infested warehouse and still worked for him.
He takes off his hat and jacket, lays them carefully over the arm of a stiff-looking chair, then wanders over to the much more appealing sofa and stretches out with a heavy sigh — it’s been a long day. And yet, despite looking forward to time alone, he is unaccountably restless. It’s too quiet. He loosens his tie and shifts position, trying to decide if he wants to eat, or read, or drink, or just try and sleep. His thoughts are interrupted by the vibration of the phone in his pocket.
That didn’t take long, he thinks grumpily, fishing the thing out to check the display. It’s Lizzie, though, and his mood immediately brightens.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Lizzie?” he asks cheerfully.
The only response is a muffled rustling, a loud thud, and then a string of inventive curses that make him smile. Just as he is about to call out to her again, her voice comes over the line, harried but friendly, and…ordering Chinese food.
He opens his mouth to correct her, but changes his mind almost instantly. After all, he thinks, I should eat, and some down time together might put us on easier terms.
Deliberately muffling his voice so that she won’t recognize him, he assents that he has her order, and, checking his watch, gives it twenty minutes. Hanging up quickly, he rolls off the couch and shrugs back into his jacket.
This should be fun.
The knock on the motel door comes just past the twenty-minute mark — not bad, she thinks. She’s been lounging in t-shirt and underwear; she slips into her robe and grabs her wallet out of her bag on the way to the door.
She opens the door without checking the peephole — a mistake she really needs to stop making, she reminds herself, as she comes face-to-face with Reddington instead of Dave, the delivery guy. She’s momentarily speechless at the sight of him, lounging against the doorframe, a cat-smug smile on his face, his fedora tilted over his eyes.
“Do you always answer the door like that?” he rumbles, a faint hint of disapproval in his tone.
“What are you doing here, Reddington?” she demands, hand clutching the top of her robe together. “Our case is over. Please don’t tell me you have something new for me now.”
His smile broadens, and he lifts a large, familiar, brown paper bag in each hand.
“Just dinner,” he says buoyantly, “as ordered. I took the liberty of getting enough to share — I haven’t eaten yet either.”
She gapes at him for a long moment, her mind scrambling. She remembers her fingers fumbling at the phone as she tripped, and flushes horribly.
“I guess…I guess I pressed ‘7’ instead of ‘6’,” she mutters. “Why didn’t you say something?”
He opens his mouth to give her the expected quip or suave rejoinder, but looking at her exhausted eyes and flushed face, what comes out instead is the unvarnished truth.
“It’s been a very long day,” he says simply. “I was lonely.”
Her eyes flash back up to his in clear blue shock. Then, wordlessly, she moves to the side of the door to let him in.
And so they sit, cross-legged, opposite one another on her motel bed — her still in robe and tee, carefully covering her lap; he, divested of jacket and hat, with his vest unbuttoned and his shirt sleeves rolled up — sharing cartons of Chinese food like the best of friends.
She tells him stories of her time at school, at Quantico, funny things and silly ones — nothing of Tom, or Sam, or the things that cut and hurt. He offers her ridiculous tales of people and places he’s known — no lessons or homilies tonight, just little fractions of his past that seem real.
He’d neatly toed off his shoes before smoothly folding onto her bed, and she can’t stop sneaking glances at his sock feet — they’re strangely sweet. Until, of course, her attention is drawn by the movements of his hands, with their grace and strength; by his wry smile and the laughing pleasure he takes in the bits and pieces she has to offer him.
She doesn’t know, really, when the wanting started, when her apprehension turned to affection, her nerves and mistrust into simple lust. But she does want — oh, she does — and has memorized the clean, straight lines of his face; has categorized his multitude of expressions; has dreamt of the the patterns of moving muscle beneath his skin.
He cares for her, she knows that now as unassailable fact, but she has never caught him looking at her the way she does him; has never seen that flash of heat in the back of his eyes that he has aimed at so many of the polished women they encounter. She wants, almost desperately, to see that look just once, for her; for him to see her, Liz, Elizabeth, a woman, and not just Lizzie, the child he gifted with a second chance over two decades ago.
He’s in the middle of a story now, gesturing with his chopsticks, his other hand sketching in the air. She’s mesmerized, watching it, lets herself, just for a moment, imagine him tracing the lines of her body with that same hand. She shivers a little, and catches his eye.
“Done eating?” he asks, his voice as warm and kind as it almost always is with her.
“Just thinking,” she answers quickly, reddening a little.
“Deep thoughts, then,” he says with a smile. “You looked a million miles away.”
She looks at him, hesitating, his familiar face and larger-than-life presence here, in her space, making her yearn, the warm affection in his eyes welcome and sweet.
She thinks of him, in flashes, breathing again under her hands, lips; coming for her bloodied and torn, fighting; holding her as she cries, again and again; then, kneeling, with a gun pressed to the back of his head. The lives they lead leave no time for wasted opportunities or hesitation, but there is plenty for regret, and she’s suddenly sick of it, of every last pretense left in her life.
“Red,” she says, fast, don’t stop to think, “do you think of me?”
He raises an eyebrow at her, clearly surprised, putting his chopsticks down carefully and pursing his lips.
“I’d have expected you to already know the answer to that question, Lizzie,” he replies slowly. “You and your welfare are…”
“No, not that,” she breaks in, feeling ridiculous and groping for the right way. “I just, I mean…”
It’s hopeless, she thinks unhappily, dropping her gaze. The repeated debacles with Tom have shot her confidence, and the kind bemusement in Red’s eyes is anything but encouraging.
But then, he reaches out and takes her chin in his hand, lifting her head so he can see her face again.
“You know you can tell me anything,” he says softly.
But she can’t, she really can’t, she has no words at all.
So instead, she leans in, grasping at his vest, and fixes her mouth to his.
It takes him a few seconds to answer her odd, nervy question — her voice so soft and anxious that he needs the play with the chopsticks to distract her from his surprise.
Does he think of her? If he thought any more of her, he’d lose his mind completely — his Lizzie, his shining light and second chance, more precious to him than any jewel, than any knight’s courtly lady. He is wondering just how to explain this to her, how to show her his reverence and care, when all his fine and treasured illusions crumble to dust as she twists her fingers into his clothes and kisses him, her mouth soft and warm and wet.
She isn’t just a beam of light but an explosion of it, a shock to the system that takes his breath and makes his body ache. She takes over everything in that one movement, until she’s all he can see whether his eyes are open or not.
It only lasts one shining moment, or maybe it’s an hour, he’d never be able to pin it down, and then she pulls back with a little hum, looking starry-eyed and smiling at him, everything about her gone pliant like warm wax.
“Lizzie?” He murmurs it softly, not sure what to say or do, off his stride in a way he hasn’t been in a very long time, as if he is seeing her again for the first time.
He touches his mouth without really thinking about it, feeling the echo of her there, changing everything.
Oh, it’s better, so much better than she’d thought or dreamed — and she’s dreamed plenty — his mouth soft and yielding and welcome. She can’t help the little sound of pleasure that escapes her — she’s wanted for so long, and there it is, finally, that look in his eyes, the realization of something more.
He touches his mouth like a man in a dream, and it sends a thrill down her spine. But she knows, if she gives him time, he’ll find a way out of it, find a way to resume his self-appointed role in her life like that flash of recognition never happened.
She shrugs out of her robe and rises to her knees in nothing but an enticingly thin t-shirt and underwear, and watches him flush, eyes warming, fingers flexing almost unconsciously. She can feel her own heat sparking inside, gathering, eager.
“I have this dream,” she says conversationally, stacking containers and leaning past him to put them on the floor. He can’t help but lean into her warmth in return, inhale her faint citrusy scent. “Well, I have a lot of dreams, but this one…this one’s my favourite.” She smiles at him, slow and feline.
“Lizzie…” Still questioning, but firmer, now, with something dark behind it. This woman is not his Lizzie, the idol of decades of patient adoration. This woman is prowling and sensual, making his insides twist into a hot knot, and what is she saying?
“You’re in the Box, all shackled up to the chair in that three-piece suit — the suits are ridiculously hot, by the way, though I’m sure I’m not the first to say so. It’s night; there’s no one else around, just you…and then me. I’m walking toward you, just like the first time, the first time we met, only now I’m naked, and you just watch me, silent and hungry.
“You can’t move, but you try anyway, you can’t just sit and wait.” She runs a finger down his cheek, so softly it’s like a breath of air. “You’re already hard by the time I get to you, I can see it, then I straddle your legs and feel you there, and when I kiss you, it’s…oh, it’s explosive, everything we both feel has no other point of release.”
“Lizzie.” A third time, and his voice is just a growl, his face fierce.
She moves closer to him, the space between them empty now, and puts her hands on his thighs, leaning in so close he can feel her breath against his face, pushing him, daring. The heat of her burns through the fabric of his slacks like a brand, and he can scarcely breathe, his mind scrambling to catch up.
“We kiss until we’re both crazy with it — I can’t keep still and you can’t move, and it’s unbelievable. When I can’t take it anymore, when I have to have you inside me, I reach between us and unzip your pants, but that’s all — just enough to slip you out. You’re so hard in my hand, straining to reach me, and then, then I take everything you’ve got. Not even a button is out of place except for your pants while I fuck you, and it’s breathtaking. I always wake up coming…”
“Lizzie.” A fourth time, and this time, any hope for control he ever had shatters like glass, and he wraps a hand around her neck and yanks her into him for a searing kiss. This might be a new idea for him, but right at this moment, he is unable to think of a better one.
Her deliberately coarse words, the flush of rose behind that porcelain skin, the curves of her body beneath her thin shirt — suddenly all he can think of is being with her, getting inside her, exploring every inch of her, and his fingers tighten in her hair. She lets out a sound that sounds like nothing more than a purr of satisfaction.
“Touch me,” she murmurs against his lips. “Raymond, touch me — I’ve thought it, dreamed it, I need it, I need your hands on me.”
Heat floods him in a tidal rush, and he strokes his hands down her back, then under her shirt to smooth over her waist, hips. He shifts so he can slide them around to her breasts, molding, rubbing, stroking, as he drowns in the sweetness of her mouth, tongues tangling, breath hot and short.
The tide within becomes a roaring fury of want, and he breaks away from her mouth to lay a trail of hot, wet kisses along her jaw, pausing to nip at her earlobe, relishing the sound she makes when he bites down. He lets his lips wander down her neck, the curve of it entrancing; tugs her shirt as to lick at her collarbone before lowering his head to her chest. He lifts a breast to his mouth, drawing on the nipple, sucking hard through thin cotton, pulling thready moans from her as her fingers dig into his biceps hard enough to bruise.
When both nipples are stiff and covered in circles of wet fabric, he pulls away to look at her, to let the cold air of the room hit her, to try and catch his breath and maybe even his sanity. But even as he shifts back, she’s following him, whispering a litany of need into him, how she wants him, his clever hands and supple mouth, his skin against hers; how she wants him inside her with a need she can’t resist any more.
Her fingers fumble feverishly at his shirt buttons, yanking until the fabric actually tears, and she laughs, the sound so intoxicating that he wishes he could bottle it. He sits still, waiting, while she peels off his vest, the pieces of his shirt, laughs himself as she grumbles at his undershirt and pulls it impatiently over his head.
Then, oh then, she’s right there, curling in his lap, her hands gliding over every part of him she can reach, and he’s clinging to her tee like a lifeline. She’s taking her time to tease, planting little lapping kisses along his shoulder, up the side of his neck to his cheek; giving a long pull at his mouth, sucking hard on his bottom lip. She’s rocking into him as her mouth roams, as her fingers dig and scratch and mark; he’s making animal noises of gratification and need, giving her his own words of desire in a hoarse voice.
She finds the scar on the other side of his neck, her mark on him, and nips hard, making his hips flex into her as he moans in an agony of pleasure. They’re nose-to-nose again suddenly, her arms wrapping around his neck, both already lightly sheened with sweat, eyes dilated and wild — hers hot and demanding; his piercing and hungry.
“Please,” she says, barely audible.
He schools himself to patience with some difficulty; cups her face in his hands and kisses her, long and deep.
“Undress for me,” he whispers back. “Show me, Elizabeth.”
She shudders, closing her eyes briefly, then unlocks her hands so she can strip off her shirt; kicks out her legs to wriggle out of her panties. His breath catches, looking at her, all creamy skin and slight curves and long legs, draped over his lap. He wants to touch and taste; to bruise, mark, claim.
“Lie down,” he urges, coaxing her with his hands to slide off him onto the bed. “Let me look at you.”
She does so without hesitation, licking her lips, anticipating; her nipples stiffen further and she feels another surge through her core under the heat of his gaze, so intense that it feels like fingertips on her skin.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, his voice rough and edgy. He runs a finger down her body from clavicle to toe, dazzled by the faint flush caused by the pressure. “I could never have imagined…”
He backs off the bed reluctantly to divest himself of the rest of his clothes, bending to pull off his socks and step out of everything in a big hasty pile. When he straightens, he sees that she’s watching him, that she has let her legs fall open, that she’s biting her lip as she rubs at her clit. He would have thought it impossible, but he swells further at the sight of her — he’s hard as a stone, throbbing with need, and ravenous for her.
The sight of him, stripped bare, his torso covered in grey-gold fuzz, his cock long and thick, almost twitching in eagerness as he remounts the bed, makes everything inside her tighten deliciously. She’s heavily wet already, her fingers sliding easily; this culmination of weeks, months, of restless dreams, guilty fantasies, and dangerous obsession just so much better than anything her mind could create.
“Here now,” he’s saying, hovering over her, “I thought it was my touch you wanted.”
He lifts her hand from her centre and presses it to the mattress above her head; then, moving smoothly, replaces it with his mouth, making her gasp. Her senses are quickly overwhelmed — the sight of his head between her legs, his shoulders strong and tense; the feel of his tongue lapping and probing, of his shorn hair on her thighs, of his fingers tight on her wrist, of his other hand gripping her hip; the sound of his mouth suckling as he devours her, of her own moans and cries, of the rasp of skin on the cheap motel sheets.
She starts to push into his mouth with mindless little jerks of her hips, the fingers of her free hand twisted into the fabric underneath her. He hums his approval, the vibrations causing another rush of heat; he slips his hand off her hip to drive a finger inside her, then another.
The burning tension is fast becoming uncontrollable, and she’s babbling now, Red, more and yes, just there and oh, oh, that feels so good and don’t stop, and then he’s crooking his fingers inside her and biting ever so gently, and she comes in a screaming, clenching release that shocks her in its intensity.
When she can think again, he’s working his way up and around her body with a series of open-mouthed kisses, sucking dark red marks into her skin, breathing in her scent, hands at her breasts again, kneading and tugging. She’s writhing underneath him by the time their eyes are level, pressing her body eagerly into his and offering filthy suggestions that make him bite down and push back.
He kisses her, when he’s there again, hard and deep, and he tastes of her and she revels in it. She reaches down between them to wrap her fingers around his aching cock, making him grunt into her mouth and quiver in her hand. She strokes the tip through her folds, coating him with her moisture and sighing as she rubs him against her clit. She’s bold and wanton and eager, and his need for her is like a living thing, driving him. She guides him to her entrance, then he flexes his hips and presses into her.
She’s wet with her orgasm and arousal both, but he’s thick and hard, so hard, and she cries out a little in pleasure/pain and clings to him, all arms and legs and possession. He kisses her again and again, deep and slow, stroking her tongue with his, tracing the contours of her body with light fingers, making her whimper and squirm. He rubs at her nipples with large, firm thumbs; whispers his own words of want and need and lust into her mouth, her skin — so hot, so wet and God, your skin and let me just and oh, the way you feel and Lizzie, Lizzie, I can’t stop. Everything together causes another rush of moisture and he pushes into her right to the hilt, wanting everything he can get of this soft, clutching heat, pushing against the mattress with his feet until she cries out again and digs her fingers into his back, clawing, not in protest, but to get closer.
They whisper brokenly to each other as he thrusts, their husky words, the wet sounds of their bodies, even the rhythmic creaking of the ancient bed making a music that neither of them will ever forget. She thinks she’s never felt anything as beautiful as his muscles under her hands, as the silken hard heat of him driving in and out. He’s lost in her, in her fierce desire, in her rasping sounds of need and approval, in the wet, hot core of her.
Her swollen clit is pulsing and aching; she arches into him, seeking, rubbing, meeting him thrust for thrust. She makes ardent gasping demands, harder and more and yes, there and faster, Red, and he can feel the orgasm start to uncurl at the base of his spine.
“Now, Elizabeth,” he orders, voice rough in her ear, breath hot on her cheek. “Come for me, now, sweetheart.”
And she does, as if it’s natural to obey, as if it’s that simple; she comes in a pulsing rush that steals her breath and makes her see stars, and she chokes out his name before she has nothing left. Her inner walls pull and flex around him, all greedy suction, and he tumbles over the edge after her in long spurts that leave him trembling and shaky.
He drops into her, swearing under his breath, wrapping around her tightly to try and regain even a semblance of self. She burrows into him, not bothered by his weight, holding him to her and pressing kisses to his chest and shoulders, soothing them both in equal measure.
When he can, he rolls to his side, pulling her with him, tucking her into him, safe and warm and his. She puts her hands over his and squeezes, flooded with contentment and wanting to share it. He kisses the top of her head, then rests his cheek there, savouring.
“Stay,” she breathes, needing it, and him.
“I may never move again,” he returns, thinking he’ll never get enough.
As her breath starts to quiet and lengthen, and her body to ease against him; as she starts to slip away into sleep, she hears his quiet laughing rumble.
Promptathon! @catherinemedici asked @minp1072 for a Rapunzel-inspired fic. It got a little…complicated, so I had to split it into two parts. I’m hoping you’ll all agree it’s worth it… Part 2 of 2! You can find Part 1 here.
Moving in this part of the world requires an amount of subtlety and stealth that chafes and frustrates. He needs to find her, now, needs to see her safe, needs it so viscerally at this point he thinks he might choke on it. Without Dembe’s constant, cool-headed, soothing presence, he would have gone mad long before.
Now, they wait for the cover of darkness to approach the lonely tower. They had located Madeline without difficulty — Glen’s information is unquestionably valuable, and worth the irritations of getting it. She’s living it up, enjoying the life of the billionaire with this Petr Mladek.
When they first arrived in Jesenik and there were no signs of Lizzie, there were a terrible few hours when he thought he had failed. It wasn’t until Madeline left the house alone shortly after midday, meeting up with a strange man and haring off, that they discovered the tower, hidden away in the foothills.
They’d gone back to town a discreet while after Madeline and her mystery companion, to make plans and prepare.
They have been ready for hours now, and Dembe is about ready to sit on him to keep him from moving too soon.
He just needs her safe.
She’s so tired.
The days have started to run into one another, all the same, with nothing to mark them but the daily blood draw. Her body cannot keep up with the pace of Madeline’s greed; she is thinner, diminished, weak, dizzy. Everything has taken on a hazy quality that makes her a little afraid.
She’s telling herself a story, a story of herself and Sam when she was a child, just to pass the time, when she hears it. Maybe. A noise? There are never noises at night, other than birds and animals. She must have imagined it. Or maybe she’s hearing things now.
She wonders how much longer she has to live.
Then she hears it again. Clatter clatter. Something that might be a voice.
She gets to her feet, slowly, carefully. She’s learned on her trips to the toilet that moving too quickly will make her fall, or sometimes vomit. On one regretful occasion, both. Supporting herself against the wall, she makes her way to the wide window and leans against the shutters for a long moment.
Clatter clatter.
She can feel the vibration against her body, and huffs in frustration. I’m trying, she thinks, I’m coming. It takes everything she can muster to push the shutters open even partway. It’s just enough for her to push herself into the gap and look out, look down.
Vertigo sweeps over her, and for one awful moment, she thinks she will fall. It’s the voice that anchors her again, floating up out of the dark, warm and deep and familiar. She feels the recognition of it right to her bones, and it gives her clarity and strength, strength enough to stay lucid.
“Lizzie,” it says, “Lizzie, hang on, sweetheart.”
She smiles involuntarily, sweetly. She looks down at the flash of light — the newcomer has lit a lantern, and made a small pool of gold around himself and his companion. She can just make out his features, creased in concentration as he pulls on a pair of slim black gloves. His companion is busy fussing with his clothing — doing what, she can’t tell.
He raises his face to the window, and the relief that floods her body makes her feel faint again.
“Just a few more minutes,” he says, his voice layered with calm reassurance. “I’m coming up.”
She laughs, in spite of herself, her voice so cracked and faint that she barely makes a sound.
“How?” she calls, as loudly as she can. “I can’t exactly let down my hair.”
He laughs too, at that, rich and warm with relief and pleasure.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lizzie,” he chides gently. “This isn’t a fairy tale, and I’m not your prince. Just sit tight — I’ll be there before you know it.”
He looks away again, adjusting something, speaking quietly to the man waiting patiently beside him.
Red, she thinks happily. Red’s here.
He lets Dembe readjust the coil of rope looped across his chest one more time.
“Are you sure about this, Raymond?”
Red grins. “Not in the least, my friend. But it has to be me. I’m sure,” and he pauses to glance up at the stone edifice in front of him, “it will all come back to me once I get going.”
Dembe sighs, but steps in close, bends down, and holds out his cupped hands. Red puts a foot in and reaches up as Dembe lifts, gripping the crevices in the stone with his fingers, digging in his toes, taking advantage of the sticky soles of his climbing shoes.
And he starts to climb, movements gradually becoming more sure — he knows he was right. It is coming back to him. Use your legs, he reminds himself, push up, don’t pull.
He feels, for what may be the first time in his life, a little bit heroic.
She leans on the windowsill, watching in dreamy astonishment. Raymond Reddington is rock climbing. Rock climbing up a tower wall to rescue her. She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or cheer him on. So she just watches.
It’s a sight to see, too. It’s easy to forget, when he’s cloaked in his usual armour of three-piece suits and savoir faire, just how strong he is. Watching him climb, lit by the halo of the lantern beneath him, you can’t miss it.
Clad in black, from watch cap to shoes, he moves with almost the same easy assurance up the wall as he does across a ballroom. HIs arms, searching and holding his body in place; his legs, supporting him, driving him smoothly upward.
It’s almost like a dance, she muses absently. I bet the view is even better from the ground…
And she watches, as he makes his way up the tower, to see her safe.
The climb seems to take eons.
Reach, step, push; reach, step, push.
He doesn’t look up, stays focused on the wall in front of him, keeping it clean and safe. He is damp with perspiration even in the cool night air; by the time the wooden shutters are within reach, his breath is short and rough.
The last pull, onto the wide sill, is the hardest, requiring mostly the strength of his arms to bring him into the opening. But he does it, driven by need, concentrating his remaining strength. And then he’s there, wedging his shoulder between the shutters, widening the gap.
He crouches on the sill, balancing carefully. When he looks up, she’s right there, waiting for him, smiling like he is the answer to every question she ever had.
“Red,” she breathes, reaching out to touch his face gently, as if she needs to make sure he is real. When she makes contact, her smile widens, her eyes start to swim. “Took you long enough.”
He huffs out a laugh, then hops down into the room. There’s no light but the moon trickling in, but he can still see her gauntness, the unhealthy pallor of her skin, the deep set wells of her eyes. But still, she is whole, she is smiling at him, she is real.
He steps forward and wraps his arms gently around her, pulling her into the shelter of his body, the simple relief of it seeping through to his bones. He presses his lips to her hair and breathes her in; beneath the sour smells of her long days of captivity, the essence of her is still there.
“Lizzie,” he says, murmuring into her, and it’s all he needs.
She has curled right into him like she belongs, her delicate frame fragile in his arms, but real. Her breath is soft and warm against his neck, and then, a featherlight press of her lips, seeking. They share a moment of perfect peace, standing together, before the world intrudes. The sound of the engine is harsh and loud, and makes her tense and quiver against him in recognition.
“Oh,” she whispers, panicky. “Oh no, she’s here, why is she here, now?”
Red curses inwardly — despite the care they had taken, she must have known he was there. Dammit, he thinks angrily. If they’d only had time to get back to the ground… Well, it is what it is. He releases Liz and turns to look out the window; sighs in relief. It’s only Madeline, alone in the basket of a cherry picker, approaching slowly. Dembe can handle the driver, he knows, and he can, he will handle Madeline.
She slides into the room from the basket without a twitch, familiar teasing smile on her face, her hands held out as if to welcome him.
“Raymond,” she purrs, taking his hands when he doesn’t move. “I wasn’t expecting you. Whyever didn’t you stop by the house, darling?”
Outlined by the glow of moonlight, the contrast between her and Liz is glaring. Madeline positively beams with health and wellbeing, her skin rosy and bright, her hair thick and long, her eyes keen and clear. He thinks she looks like she has shed a decade since he saw her last, and a terrible inkling of what she may have been doing teases at his mind.
“Madeline,” he returns stiffly, withdrawing from her grasp and taking a step back. “I’m not actually in Jesenik to see you.”
Her face falters a touch and she glances quickly at Liz, huddled against the wall behind him. She lets out a tinkling laugh.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why else would you come to this little corner of the world? There’s nothing else here that could possibly interest you.”
“You’re wrong again,” he says heavily. “I’m here for Lizzie. Just stay out of my way, Madeline.”
Her eyes flash, angry now, and she casts another contemptuous glance behind him. “For that?” she demands. “She’s nothing, Raymond, less than nothing. The best of her is already inside me, don’t you see?” Her voice has changed again, becoming needier, cajoling. “Look at me, not her. Aren’t I beautiful? Aren’t I young and lovely? I can be everything you want, I–”
“Stop.” He cuts her off, not wanting to hear anymore; he can’t stand it. “Are you mad? What is wrong with you? Do you honestly think that I severed ties with you because you have gotten older? Because you weren’t pretty enough?”
He has to stop to breathe, to keep from shaking her. All this, for what? A twisted, obsessive desire?
“But I’ve remade myself, darling. Just look at me, you’ll remember how wonderful it was, how we always come back to one another in the end.”
His eyes are grey chips of ice as he looks at her, his voice, when he speaks, is one of the most terrible things Liz has ever heard.
“When I look at you now, Madeline, I see nothing but an empty shell. If only you had found a way to renew the barren wasteland inside you, perhaps I’d take a second look.”
Silence.
Then, an unearthly shriek of rage as Madeline throws herself at Red, clawed fingers aimed straight at his face. Liz watches anxiously, not wanting to distract him, not daring to interfere with no strength left in her, as Red grabs Madeline’s wrists, as they grapple fiercely in front of the wide window.
Red should have the easy advantage, but Madeline is fueled by rage and hatred and obsession, and Liz’ heart leaps into her throat as she forces him back, back, until his hips hit the windowsill; as she keeps pushing, screaming, her teeth bared over him, until he is bent over the rock, as they teeter together.
For one precarious moment, Liz thinks her world might end. Then, somehow, he shifts his weight, twists his upper body, and suddenly, Madeline is gone, her scream changed to one of panic and fear, fading away into the night.
Red flips his body and peers down, searching.
“Dembe,” he calls coolly, “heads up.”
He turns back into the room just in time, as Liz collapses into his arms.
She’s in and out over the next several hours. Hazy, surreal images pass her by. Red, carrying her, as Dembe lowers the two of them to the ground in the abandoned cherry picker. Refusing to relinquish her to the steady bodyguard, cradling her in his lap as they drive away from the tower, from Madeline’s crumpled body. Red’s jet, quiet and opulent, his eyes on hers every time she manages to drag them open. His coat wrapped around her, to shield and protect, cocooning her in his scent. His voice, warm and soothing as he urges water on her each time. Quiet streets, leafy trees, the salty smell of the sea.
“Lizzie,” he says now, quietly but firmly. “Wake up a little, sweetheart.”
She’s still dizzy and faint, weak and sleepy, but the hours of rest and the fluids he has pushed on her have helped. Her eyes flutter open, and there he is, right there hovering, where she has already come to expect him.
Simple happiness floods her, and she reaches out and touches his face again, because she can, because this is real. He covers her hand with his, pressing it into his cheek and smiling at her.
“Would you like to bathe before you lie down again? It might help you rest better.”
“Oh,” she sighs, her voice still little more than a whisper. “That would be absolutely lovely, but,” and she truly hates having to say it, “I don’t think that I have the strength. Maybe tomorrow?”
He smoothes her hair back with his free hand. “Well,” he says slowly, “you can wait, if you want. Or, if you…if it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable…I could help you. I promise you, Elizabeth, I won’t…”
“Oh, thank you,” she interrupts him, not caring about the implications, not at all concerned about her body at this point. “It would just be so wonderful to be clean again.”
“All right then,” he says, and wraps an arm around her to help her to her feet and guide her into a bright bathroom across the room. He eases her down onto a curved wooden stool, then busies himself getting the shower ready. When things are arranged to his satisfaction, he slips back into the bedroom, returning in short order stripped down to t-shirt and boxer briefs.
He crouches in front of her, looks into her face.
“Okay, sweetheart?”
She nods, sits docilely as he gently takes his jacket from her, then peels off the stained and reeking hospital gown. If the bruises and needle marks on her arms, the stark white of her skin, the strained hollow thinness of her body shock or disturb him, he is careful to let nothing show on his face. He just continues to handle her gently, raising her to her feet and walking her into the tiled shower, already steaming.
The hot water feels amazing — she’s been cold for so long — and she sighs in pleasure and lets her eyes slip closed again. She feels Red’s strong arm around her back, supporting her, his other hand coaxing her head back into the spray, stroking through her hair.
“Just relax,” he says softly, so close to her that his breath teases over her cheek. “I’ll take care of you, Lizzie.”
And he does, such exquisitely tender care that she feels weightless and wondrous, every last inch of her washed clean, made new.
“Am I glowing?” she asks him dreamily, as he cards his fingers through her hair, rinsing out conditioner. “I feel like I must be glowing.”
He laughs softly, the rumble of it in his chest making her tingle. “No, you aren’t glowing,” he answers, stroking, stroking. “But you are without a doubt the loveliest sight I have ever seen.”
He reaches behind her to turn off the water, wet shirt rubbing against her skin. Lifting her easily out of the shower, he wraps her immediately in a huge, soft towel, patting her dry, then sitting her down again so he can take up another towel and rub at her hair. By the time he’s satisfied, she’s hanging onto consciousness by the merest thread, soothed into sleepiness, but not wanting to miss a moment of this time with him.
As he leads her back into the bedroom, she spots his clothes, folded neatly onto a chair in the corner.
“Red,” she says sleepily, “can I wear your shirt? If I can smell you…I’ll know that I’m safe.”
His heart skips uncomfortably in his chest; he crushes her to him briefly, kissing her head, cheek, neck.
“Oh, Lizzie,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against her skin, carrying an odd note she can’t remember hearing before. “I thought I’d lost you.”
“I knew you’d find me,” she answers, burrowing contentedly into his embrace. “I knew.”
A week passes, then two. She rests, regaining strength, letting Red fuss over her. He actually owns this house, he tells her, in the coastal town of Agde, France, on the Mediterranean Sea. Shielded from the street by lovely poplars, heavy with spring greenery, the cozy home quickly becomes her sanctuary. Red spoils her cheerfully, rarely leaving her side, talking endlessly to keep her amused, tempting her to eat with delectables that Dembe fetches from the local patisserie. She tells him of the horrors of her captivity, and he holds her while she weeps.
After the first few days, he coaxes her to walk with him through the quiet neighbourhood — they go down to the beach, where she revels in the fresh, salty air, the wide open space. It’s too early in the spring for there to be many people about beyond the locals, but it’s warm enough during the afternoons to be enjoyable. She collects the days like beads on a string, like softly-tinted photographs she will treasure, always.
He is as free as ever with his affection, taking her arm as they walk, holding her hand on the beach, bidding her goodnight with a kiss on the forehead or cheek. But she knows the feel of his hands on her now, so careful, so full of love, and she can’t forget. She wears his shirt to bed each night, and wishes he would stay with her.
She realizes, eventually, that if she leaves it alone, so will he. So one night, unable to sleep despite the comfort of her bed, her full stomach, the long day in the sun, she takes the step she needs. Leaving her bedroom at the back of the house, she pads down the hall to the room she knows is his.
His door is still open a crack, lamplight shining through. She hesitates, then steadies her resolve and slips inside. He is sitting in a low chair facing the window, cigar in one hand, glass of Scotch in the other, and doesn’t hear her come in. Her bare feet are noiseless on the carpeted floor, and she remains unnoticed until she perches on the arm of his chair, following his gaze out the window.
“You can’t see the water from here,” she observes quietly. “The trees are in the way.”
“The price one pays for privacy,” he replies drily, not moving, not looking at her, but enjoying the added warmth she brings. “Is there something you need, sweetheart?”
She takes a deep breath, lets her hand drop to rest on his leg.
“Just you,” she says simply.
He does move then, bending to carefully stub out his cigar in the ashtray by his feet, then shifting so he can see her. She’s still looking out the window, her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, her slim body enveloped in one of his crisp white button downs. Her hand is warm on his leg, and he thinks she’s smiling.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks cautiously. “Do you want to go for a walk? It’s still warm out.”
She turns to him then, her bare leg rubbing against his slacks. She looks at him, shirtsleeves rolled up, vest unbuttoned, face full of care and concern. Mine, she thinks, determined, mine.
“No, Red,” she says aloud. “I don’t. And I don’t think that you really do either.”
His lips part to answer her, but whatever reply he might have made is stalled as she reaches out to cradle his face in her hands. She leans in, slowly, imprinting the moment, and kisses him full on the lips, soft and sweet.
Thoughts chase each other through his brain chaotically. But they all fritter away in the face of the reality of Lizzie, kissing him, eliminating his ability to think of anything at all but her. He slides his arm around her hips, tugging her gently into his lap. The warm weight of her is both reassuring and enticing, and she sighs contentedly into his mouth.
Her hands slip from his face, one curling around his neck, the other wrapping around his back to pull him close. She traces his lips with her tongue, wanting to taste, to experience every part of him. He opens to her, helpless under her gentle onslaught, hands gripping her hips, clutching at the shirt she wears. She tastes of toothpaste and something undefinable and light; she smells of salt and sand and Liz.
He desperately wants her skin under his hands, needs to touch her everywhere he can reach. He lets go of the shirt and slides his hands under it, smoothing the skin over her hips and bottom, running his right hand up the line of her spine. She quivers against him, sinking deeper into his mouth, fingers flexing where she holds him.
He firms up his grip underneath her and lifts, standing up with her in his arms. He strides over to the bed and lowers her to the mattress, leaning with her but breaking their kiss, at last, to unbutton her shirt. She opens her eyes to watch him, a hot electric blue that he can feel on his skin. She’s completely bare under the shirt, and she watches his own eyes darken with hunger as he drinks in the sight. She grasps at the edges of his vest, peels it down his arms and tosses it. Her hands start to fumble their way back to his shirt, but she’s distracted by his mouth, which in that same moment has fastened over her breast.
He proceeds to make a feast of her body that leaves her writhing in an agony of want, her breathless moans a symphony in his ears. He leaves no part of her untouched, untasted — he brings her to the precipice with teasing fingers and a clever tongue, suspending her there as long as he can, spinning out her pleasure. When she finally falls, it’s with a whimpering cry that arrows straight through him, her arms and legs clutching around him before every part of her loosens and drops into the bed.
It’s virtually transformative, the sight of her, and he burns and aches with a need too enormous to contain. He rises up just long enough to strip off his clothes, kicking them aside without a thought. He covers her body eagerly, her arms coming up to bring him in, and he slips inside her while her body is still throbbing, hot and wet.
She whispers his name into his neck, murmurs endearments and emotions and need. He, beyond speech, suckles at the soft places — the curve of her neck, the dent behind her ear, the skin above her collarbone — desperate to mark her, to make her his and his alone. He moves inside her like it’s all he was ever meant to do; when his release finally comes, it’s in long, powerful pulses that make him dizzy.
He drops into her, can’t help it, he’s lost now, lost to her as surely as he ever was, breathing fast and desperate into her neck, arms wriggling under her to keep her close. She wants to laugh her triumph, her joy in him; to reassure him with words and touches; to wrap them both in the blankets and cuddle him back to himself — but she can’t do any of those things, can only lie with him, stunned and shaken.
When it comes at last, she thinks drowsily, it’s more powerful than any fairy tale.
Prompt-a-thon! Anon asked: Could you write a one-shot in which Liz and Red have a steamy phone sex session, please? @histoireeternelle & @minp1072 decided to tackle it together, because what could possible be awkward about that? We think it turned out pretty well — see if you agree…
Liz paced around the small room, unable to settle after the whirlwind of the past two days. She’d showered and changed out of the opulent gown she’d worn to the auction, but didn’t feel any more comfortable. If she was honest with herself, it was Reddington that was keeping her on edge.
The image of him on his knees, Yaabari’s pistol pressed to the back of his head.
His voice, quiet in the small underground room, saying her name. Lizzie, he’d said, when he thought that his life was over.
Her cell was in her hand before she really thought about it. Speed dial 7, Nick’s Pizza.
She fidgeted as she kept pacing, listening to the ring.
“What can I do for you, Lizzie?” Red’s tired voice asked.
She hesitated. He sounded exhausted, and a little sad. But…
“I just…I wanted to make sure that you were all right. That he didn’t hurt you. Yaabari.”
“I’m all right. Thank you for your concern. Now tell me what you’re really calling for.”
She clutched the phone a little tighter. “I heard you,” she admitted quietly. “When you were…when Yaabari…you said my name.”
In his apartment in Bethesda, Red slowly uncurled his fingers from the phone before he could break it. She heard. He wanted her name to be the last thing on his lips before Yaabari pulled the trigger, but she wasn’t meant to hear it.
“I’m not sure I’m following,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t hear the lie in his voice.
“Don’t,” she answered, her voice tinged with hurt and anger. “Don’t do that. I heard you, Red. You thought you were going to die, and you said my name.”
His eyes closed, Red swallowed noisily. He hadn’t anticipated this. He had to find a way to deflect, to distract her enough to make her forget she what she had heard.
“I… Where are you, Lizzie?”
There was a brief pause. “In my motel room. Where else would I be at this time of night?”
“It is late. Are you in bed?” This had to be the stupidest idea ever, but he couldn’t find another way to change the subject.
“I… Wait, what? Am I in bed?”
“Yes. Because I am,” he said, not really knowing where he was going with the conversation.
He really was in bed. The cage he had been living in for the past few days hadn’t been the Four Seasons, and he was exhausted.
“I didn’t mean to keep you up,” she answered, sounding a little mollified and a little embarrassed. “I…I couldn’t seem to settle. I… I’m gonna let you sleep. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t hang up” he said hastily. Yes, he was tired, but he didn’t want the call to end. “Um… What are you wearing?”
What was she… Liz dropped onto her bed with thump, not quite able to process what she’d heard.
“Did you…did you just ask me what I’m wearing?” she asked faintly.
“Well… You’re still here, so it worked,” he replied smugly. “So… What are you wearing?” he added, after a moment of silence.
“I…” She flexed her fingers nervously, the phone sliding in her suddenly sweaty grip. Was he trying to…start something with her, here, now? Could she do this? She looked down, a little self-consciously. She was ready for bed…
“I’m just ready for bed,” she said, a little nervously. “In a tank top and underwear.”
“Hmm,” he almost growled. “One might wonder if you had something in mind when you called,” he added, his voice deeper than usual.
“It’s what I always wear in the spring and summer,” she replied primly. “What about you, then? What does Raymond Reddington wear to bed?”
“Why, my three-piece suit sans fedora, of course,” he laughed. “The pillow would crush the brim.”
She laughed, too, in spite of herself. “Well, although that creates quite the picture, I’m pretty sure I don’t believe you. C’mon, Red — give a little.”
“Okay… Sleep pants.”
She waited, but he stayed silent, his breath the only sound in her ear. The image slid into her brain without her permission — Red, half-reclined on a sumptuous bed, in nothing but pair of pajama pants.
She gulped, and hoped he hadn’t heard it. “And?” she dared to ask. “Nothing else?”
“Nothing else,” he confirmed. “You’re not the only hot one here.”
She drew a shaky breath. He was flirting with her, she was sure of it.
“It is…hot,” she said, wondering where they were heading with this. “I don’t want to get under the covers.”
“Maybe you should...” he stopped there, not knowing how she would take his suggestion.
Curious, without thinking about it, she prompted him.
“Maybe I should…what?”
“Takeoffyourclothes,” he replied unintelligibly.
Oh, she thought, a little faintly. Oh my, he…we’re… And she shivered, all over.
“What was that?” she asked sweetly, hoping he didn’t hear the tremor in her voice. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Well… As you said, it’s quite warm today so… You could… I mean if you’re alone, of course...Not that I think you should be alone…” he stammered awkwardly. “Maybe you should take your clothes off,” he blurted out after a moment of silence.
She drew in her breath sharply; was this really happening? She could hang up. Or she could take a chance, take a risk…
What had been going through his mind when he thought suggesting she take her clothes off was a good idea? He would have left the bed to bang his head against the nearest wall if he hadn’t been half-hard already.
“I’ll have to put the phone down for a second,” she said softly. “Why don’t you do the same?”
“Er… Okay,” he replied, not believing she was really going to strip. But on the off-chance they were really doing this, he wanted it to be as real as possible. “Give me a second.”
Gently dislodging the cat sleeping on his belly, he kicked the sheets to the foot of the bed. Trapping the phone between his jaw and shoulder, he struggled to push his sleep pants down his legs. Spread naked on the bed, he could hear her moving around. So, she really was stripping.
“Red?”
“I’m here,” he breathed.
“I…I’m naked,” she said in a rush. “I turned down the quilt so I could lay on the clean sheets and get comfortable. Are you…are you…comfortable?”
“Are you… Where are your hands?” he asked, not answering her question.
No, he wasn’t comfortable. The thought of his Lizzie alone, naked in her motel room, was tantalizing, but all wrong. She should be here, with him, in his bed, where he’d be able to see her lovely nude body and feel her, soft and warm against him.
“One’s still holding the phone,” she answered. “The other one’s on my stomach. I… Have you taken off your pants? Are you picturing me?”
She sounded both eager and shy at the same time, and it was terribly enticing.
“Yes and yes,” he murmured under his breath. He could see her. In his mind’s eye, she was lying on her bed, her legs slightly apart, waiting for him.
“What am I doing?” she said, sounding a little more assured. “What do you see? Talk to me, Red…”
He closed his eyes briefly, arousal sparking hot within him, erasing the last of his nerves.
“You’re touching yourself. Your hand is on your breast and you’re rolling the nipple between your fingers,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Are you doing that? Are you touching yourself, Lizzie? Does your breast fit as well in your hand as it would in mine?”
She made a little sound into the phone that went straight to his cock.
“Yes,” she answered. “Oh yes, Red, it feels so good. I’m rolling my nipple the way you would a fine cigar. I can feel it right down to my toes. Does that excite you? Are you hard, thinking of me?”
He looked down at his fully erect cock lying against his lower belly, and closed his eyes, his jaw clenched. She was driving him crazy with mere words.
“Hmm, yes. Desperately hard,” he replied, his voice shaking.
“Really,” she said, her voice lower than usual, and a little breathless. “I…That sounds…a little uncomfortable. Maybe you should…take things in hand. Do you have both hands…free?”
The hand resting on his hip inched closer to his throbbing length. He had waited, restrained himself until she gave the word. He wrapped his fingers around his cock, a deep growl rumbling up his throat when he moved his hand, the phone slipping from its spot between his jaw and shoulder to fall on the pillow.
“Crap,” he grumbled, his left hand fumbling to retrieve the phone.
Her laugh bubbled through as he got the phone back up to his ear.
“I put mine on speaker,” she said, her voice amused and sly. “I don’t know if yours can do that… but it’s nice to have two hands available.”
He could hear the smile in her voice, see it in his mind.
“Wait,” he said, taking the phone from his ear to give it a dark look. “I know it’s somewhere…”
He poked at the buttons hearing Lizzie’s laugh faintly until the phone beeped.
“Fuck!” he almost yelled into the empty room when he realized he had cut the call off. Calling her back, he heard her laugh ring in his ear again. “I can’t do that,” he said grumpily. “Please, Lizzie, let me come to you,” he almost begged.
Liz hesitated, looking down at the phone beside her on the bed, wishing she could see his expression. But what difference does it make? she asked herself. You were already going to cross that line… Her hand was still cupping her breast, her other hand on her hip, her sex hot and aching.
“Lizzie?”
“Okay,” she said aloud, before she could rethink. “Come over. But…will you keep talking to me, while you drive?”
“Yes,” he breathed.
She could hear fabric rustling and his thumping footsteps, and imagined him searching for clothes, rushing to get out the door.
“Drive carefully, though,” she said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You better not,” he replied, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m only half an hour away. Where are your hands now?” he asked. The sound of his voice had changed suddenly, feeling closer.
“They’re waiting,” she said, “for you to tell me what you want them to do.”
“I want you to touch yourself, sweetheart. Describe it, I want to see you, feel you as if I were with you. Please, Lizzie,” he said, the sound of the engine humming now audible under his voice.
The needy edge behind his words made her blood hum, and her body flush with arousal all over again.
“My right hand is sliding down my body,” she said softly, her voice and skin both quivering. “Across my hipbone, and now,” and she let out a little moan as she reached her core, “now I’m there, and oh, I’m wet already, for you, Red.”
He groaned on his side of the line, the sound sending shivers up her spine — she wanted to see him, see his face, feel his body beside hers, in hers. She heard him take a sharp breath and knew he was with her. She knew his hand had moved from the steering wheel to land on his crotch. She could see him in her mind, his long fingers curling around his covered cock, rubbing at his length in rhythm with her voice.
“I’m moving now,” she went on, eyes closed, watching the Red in her mind rather than the ceiling. “I’m rubbing my clit.” She let out a sighing breath; it felt so good, even though it wasn’t really him. “If it was you, how would you touch me, Red? Would you press hard, or be gentle? Would you tease and tantalize, or make me come as fast as you could?”
“I would worship your body with my hands and tongue. I would suck on your nipple until you begged me to go lower. I would kiss every inch of your skin. I would bury my head between your legs, my tongue would tease you, circle your clit before dipping into you, drinking your wetness from its source. Oh my God, Lizzie, you taste so good.” He was almost whimpering by the end, the need palpable in his voice.
Every nerve in her body burned as she listened to him describe what he wanted; the ache in his words making it seem as if he could really taste her. She stroked herself firmly, wetter and wetter, coating herself as the tension built.
“I…I can feel it,” she managed to reply. “Your hands on me, your mouth. I’m hot, everywhere, God. I’m so close already. Can you…I want to touch you, too. Unzip your pants for me, Red, touch yourself and know that it’s my fingers, stroking you, all soft and hard and hot in my hand.”
“Let’s hope I don’t get pulled over,” he laughed under his breath, and she heard him fumble with his clothes, a sigh echoing in her ear when he freed himself from his pants.
“Does it feel good?” she murmured, so lost in him she had almost forgotten he wasn’t really there beside her. “Skin on skin? I’d wrap my hand right around you, wet and slippery; firm, but not rough, steady and not too fast. Is that right for you? Do you hear my breath getting shorter, feel the heat of my body through my hand? Do you want me, want to be inside me?” She could barely hold it together, now. “I want it, I want to come, are you with me? What do you need?”
“You’re killing me, sweetheart. I want to feel the heat of your mouth on me. I want to look down and see my cock slip between your lips. I want to feel you moan around me, the vibrations of your voice flooding my body with fire. I want to lie between your legs and slide into you inch by inch. I want to feel you come and scream my name while I fuck you.”
The coarse words made her shudder and moan, her free hand slipping between her legs to thrust two fingers inside herself as she circled her clit almost frantically.
“Oh, Red,” she breathed, “Oh, I want it, too, all of it. Your hands, your touch, your cock inside me… you…I…”
She couldn’t talk anymore; she hoped he would understand. As her fingers found the sensitive patch on her inner wall, as everything in her clenched, she cried out her pleasure for him, swept away on wave after wave of her release.
It was harder and harder to pay attention to the road — the sounds Lizzie was making were driving him crazy. His fingers gripped his cock almost painfully, his hand jerking up and down his length. He was close, oh, so close. And then he heard it. His name, moaned out as she came, sent a jolt of electricity through his body, heat coiling in his lower belly. He slammed his foot on the brake pedal, the tires slipping on the asphalt, her name on his lips as his world blackened, his eyes closing with the intensity of his orgasm.
He could still hear her short breaths echoing his own erratic gasps.
“Lizzie?” he called, his voice a mere murmur when he finally found the strength to talk.
“I-I’m here,” she replied, her voice shaken and raw. “Red, that was…Please, tell me you’re almost here.”
“I’m here,” he said, the slam of the car door reverberating in the night.
Wiping his sticky hand on his shirt, he almost ran to her door. He had to see her, touch her, take her in his arms, feel her lips on his. The moment he put his hand on the handle, the door opened and there she was. A man’s shirt — his shirt — hanging from her shoulders, kept closed with one lonely button, hid the soft curves he was dying to trace with his lips.
Their eyes locked, and time seemed to freeze for a moment until their bodies crashed into each other, their lips finally meeting in a messy kiss that made up in passion what it lacked in grace. His arms wrapping around her, he stepped into the room, kicking the door closed behind him, shutting out the night.
Promptathon! @catherinemedici asked @minp1072 for a Rapunzel-inspired fic. It got a little…complicated, so I had to split it into two parts. I’m hoping you’ll all agree it’s worth it…
I risked my life for you because I care about you. Deal with that.
Another night, unable to chase her words from his head — not with alcohol, not with drug-aided sleep, not with music or cards or anything. She echoes in his mind, her voice thick with emotion, her cornflower eyes swimming, her body tense in its borrowed finery, still shaking with the remnants of adrenaline and fear.
He droops wearily in a leather armchair, tumbler of Scotch dangling from the fingertips of one hand. It has been four long days and three longer nights since the auction. He has tried to give her space; has needed time of his own to rest and recover from what truly was an ordeal.
Now, he knows he won’t make it through another night without seeing her, knowing she is all right; that her heart and spirit are still whole. That she still cares.
Her head ached like she was coming off a three-day bender that had ended in a concussion.
What the hell had happened?
She’d gotten back to her motel after the auction, she was sure of that much. Then… then…
It was all blurry, like trying to see her memory through fogged over glass. She’d been upset — overwrought, really — the breakneck pace of that day and night, her first real undercover assignment, the Kings, Reddington–
Oh, oh, Reddington — Red, with a gun pressed to the back of his head, moments from death.
The image thickens her pain-induced nausea, her stomach roiling greasily; she rolls to her side in case she vomits. At least now she knows that she’s lying down. She gingerly lets her eyes slide open to evaluate her situation. The light is dim, thankfully, but it means she can’t make out much. She’s lying in a smallish bed; it’s not particularly comfortable, either. She’s clothed in what looks and feels like a hospital gown and she feels stiff and cold, as if she’s been lying still for a long time.
Her head snaps up as a banging thud breaks into her thoughts and light floods the room — she can’t quite suppress a moan at the stabbing pain it brings. As her eyes adjust, she sees someone has come in, standing silhouetted in a square of light across from her bed. A door? A window? She’s so dizzy…
“Hello, darling!” A tinkling voice comes from the shadowed figure, a voice that seems familiar. “Awake at last! I do hope you’re about ready to be useful.”
She isn’t there.
The dingy motel room is quiet and still, with nothing looking particularly out of place. She could be out, or working, but there is an air of emptiness to the room that doesn’t sit right. One upside to living in a motel has become a notable downside — the room is tidied every day, whether it suits his purposes or not.
He pulls out his current burner and calls her again, hoping this time she’ll answer, even if it’s to tell him off. When it rings, he spins on his heel furiously.
It’s there, on her nightstand, chirping away, and he goes hollow inside. She’d never leave her room without her phone. Where is she? Is she hurt? In danger?
He tries to still the torrent of his thoughts, to think logically. He’ll need Dembe, he’ll have to question the housekeeping staff… As he turns to go, he sees it.
The small, white envelope, his name scrawled across it in an all-too-familiar hand.
He opens it; reads its short, gloating message.
Oh no, he thinks, Oh, Lizzie.
Tucking the note away in his jacket, he takes a moment to run his hand over the soft grey fleece of her robe, laid neatly on the back of a chair. He brings it to his nose to try and catch her fading scent.
Now all he has to do is find her, find her and see her safe.
“Madeline Pratt,” Liz says, her voice hoarse and rusty with disuse.
“Elizabeth Keen,” the other woman returns. “That is your real name, isn’t it?”
Liz shrugs awkwardly. There seems little point in dissembling now.
“Why am I here?” she asks. “What do you want from me? There’s no one to pay ransom, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Oh, I think I could get a good price for you,” Madeline replies, her voice light and amused, her hand trailing over the end of the bed as she circles the room. “I think our dear Raymond would give me whatever I asked for to ensure your safe return.”
She laughs at Liz’ flinch on hearing his name. “You don’t like that, do you?” she says, sitting beside Liz on the bed. “That I can see it? His preoccupation with you, his obsession? If you think everyone who knows him, who sees the two of you together can’t see it, then you’re even more foolish than I thought. But you listen to me, you little bitch,” and her voice was suddenly tight with rage, her face pushed into Liz’. “He’s mine, do you hear me? You can’t have him. And the best part is, you are going to help me get him back.”
Madeline pushes up from the bed in a rush and stalks back to the lit opening — it is a window, Liz can see now — boosts herself onto the wide sill, then disappears out of it as if it were a door, heavy wooden shutters closing behind her.
Liz is left lying in bed, her aching head spinning, to wonder both what the hell just happened, and what Madeline has in store for her.
They work quickly, in sync as always, the perfect fit. Dembe, running searches, gathering information wherever he can. Red, making phone calls — cajoling, manipulating, calling in favours wherever he can, threatening when he must.
Another day has passed already, and he still hasn’t pinned her down. All he knows for sure is that wherever she has taken Lizzie, it isn’t on American soil. And it’s a wide world out there.
He firmly blocks thoughts of what Madeline might be up to, and focuses everything he has on finding her. His fear spurs him like an angry hornet as he paces through his days.
She doesn’t lie idle while Madeline is gone. As soon as she can bear it, she sits up, then stands, swaying a little as she takes stock of the room.
Like a prison cell, there’s the bed, a toilet, and a bare sink — she supposes she’s just lucky that there’s plumbing at all. Beside the bed stands a piece of what looks like medical equipment — all tubes and dials and buttons — the use of which she cannot even guess at, but which sends a little thrill of fear through her. Surprisingly, a large mirror hangs on the wall kitty-corner to the bed. The room is circular, walled in dull grey stone, and unlit. What light there is in the room comes through cracks in the wooden shutters on the large-ish window.
Most importantly, there is no door.
There’s no way in or out of the room but the window Madeline used. When she manages to drag herself over to it and shove open the heavy shutters, she quails.
Like the worst cliché ever, she’s locked in a tower, at least ten stories off the ground.
What on earth is she going to do?
A lead, a thin one, thanks to Dembe’s relentless searches. Six months previous, a construction contract, stonework. No location, or details they can use.
But it’s something.
He needs to go farther back, he thinks, maybe all the way back to a year ago when he last saw her before the Kings.
What baffling game is she playing, here — and how long has she been playing it?
When Madeline comes back, Liz is waiting, seated quietly on the bed. She’s hoping to get more information out of her captor — or at least some food. She’s been in this tower at least a day, and has had nothing but a few handfuls of water from the sink.
The sudden clatter of the shutters makes her jump, but she doesn’t move. Since she’s watching this time, she sees that Madeline is using a cherry picker to get up to the window. This time, there’s a man with her, carrying a heavy black bag that makes Liz suppose he is a doctor. She thinks uncomfortably of the machine behind her.
Madeline is smiling, and Liz is sure that it doesn’t bode well for her.
“And how are we this afternoon?” Madeline trills. Her smile widens, and she tosses something over to Liz, who catches it in reflex. “Hungry?”
Liz looks at the object in her hand. It’s an apple, large and shiny and red. She looks at it for a long moment, aware not just of the risks but of the irony of it all. She’s too hungry to care too much, though, so she bites into it and eats eagerly.
The man, the doctor, moves around the bed silently and starts to fiddle with the machine beside the bed. Not wanting to think too much about what he might be doing, Liz focuses on Madeline. She has stepped into the room and is admiring herself in the mirror, fussing with her hair.
“I rather thought that you had no further use for Reddington,” Liz remarks, tone casual. “Since you sold him out to the Kings.”
Madeline turns to look at her, eyes narrowing. “That,” she says icily, “was merely the next move in a game we have been playing for years — a callow child like yourself could never hope to understand.”
“A game?” Liz is suddenly furious, rage welling up like bile in her throat. She swings out of the bed, anger giving her strength. “A game? You gave him to monsters, who sold him to a man who wanted his head. Literally. I saved his life with seconds to spare, seconds.” She stops herself with difficulty, breath heaving, fists clenched.
She sees with some satisfaction that Madeline has paled, that her eyes are shocked and wide. A heavy moment passes as they stare at each other, and then Madeline seems to shake herself.
“If not you, it would have been something else,” she says coolly. “Raymond has an unerring ability to get himself out of trouble, and I’m sure this would have been no exception. He doesn’t need you, that much is certain.”
She turns back to the mirror, smoothing her hair, tracing her own features with a delicate finger. Liz sits back on the bed, at a loss. Was Pratt truly this cavalier, this foolish? Or does she actually believe that her actions had no consequences?
“We’re ready to begin, Ms Pratt.” The doctor’s voice interrupts Liz’ thoughts, and she turns her head to look at him. His face is impassive, but she thinks his eyes hold a little worry.
“Get on with it then,” Madeline snaps. “I don’t need to watch, do I?”
“Certainly not if you do not wish to,” the doctor answers politely. He looks down at Liz and gestures. “You should lie down, Miss,” he says. “It will be much easier.”
He has a thick accent, some kind of Slavic, she thinks, but she can’t place where. She’s evidently much farther from home than she’d hoped, and her heart quails a little. She lifts her legs onto the bed and reclines, leaning against the wall. It won’t hurt to cooperate for now, until she knows more about what’s going on.
“What are you going to do?” she asks, damning herself for being unable to keep the fear out of her voice. “What’s that machine for?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” the doctor says, relatively kindly. “It won’t hurt you. This is a plasmapheresis machine, yes? It draws your blood, then separates the plasma from the blood cells, and returns the cells to you. You may become a little tired, sleepy, but it won’t hurt, okay?”
She nods, not able to think of a reasonable reply, mind whirling with horrified thoughts about why on earth Madeline Pratt wants to collect her blood plasma.
The doctor lifts her arm and ties a rubber strip about halfway between her elbow and shoulder. He rotates her arm so her palm faces up, then lets it rest along her thigh.
“Make a fist, please,” he asks politely, neatly swabbing the inside of her elbow with an alcohol wipe.
She complies, because she can’t fight them both, because Pratt almost certainly has a gun. She sits passively while he taps her arm gently with a gloved finger, finding a vein. Offering a faint smile, he neatly slides a needle into her arm, and they both watch her blood begin to flow down the tube attached.
The machine whirs and clicks gently, something is spinning and circling, flashing red.
Her fear threatens to choke her, and she thinks of Red with a desperation that surprises her.
A dead end.
Their only lead has turned into a dead end, literally — the mason on the other end of the stonework contract is dead, body found six weeks after the date of the contract, in a slum on the outskirts of Vienna.
“She certainly won’t be there,” Red says aloud, pacing, thinking. “Madeline would never be so careless. But we can likely concentrate our efforts in Europe, likely in the East. She has contacts almost everywhere…” He trails off as his thoughts outstrip his voice, racing to contacts of his own, people he can use, places he can search…
“Raymond.” Dembe’s calm voice breaks into his thoughts, and he pauses, turning to look at his oldest friend. “We can’t keep going like this. It’s taking too long. The FBI must be looking for her, too — if we connect with–”
“No,” he interrupts firmly, mind rebelling at the thought. “Not in this, Dembe, no. Madeline will see that ham-fisted Ressler coming a mile off, and Lizzie…” His voice trembles a little, and it takes some effort to wrench himself back under control. “It’s the wrong tool. This isn’t the time for a blunt instrument.”
“Well, then,” Dembe replies, placing a heavy hand on Red’s shoulder in comfort, in strength. “Perhaps a visit to the DMV?”
It’s after the fifth, or maybe it’s the sixth, time the doctor comes that she starts to despair. He comes every day to take her blood, and although at least part of it is replaced, she knows she is weakening.
Madeline comes only once a day as well, to bring her a small meal before the doctor does his work, apparently not finding it necessary to take any particular care of her. Liz doesn’t know if it’s in contrast to her own sharpening pallor, shadowed eyes, and shaky limbs, but Madeline looks increasingly healthy as the days pass — her hair golden and shining, her skin vibrant and creamy, her eyes bright and alive.
This time, while Madeline is absorbed in her reflection and the doctor is bending over her to insert the needle, she clutches at his arm.
“Please,” she whispers, as quietly as she can. “What’s really going on? What is she doing to me?”
He shoots a nervous glance at Madeline, but she is lost to the world around her, humming softly.
“It is just what I told you,” he murmurs back. “I take your plasma, yes? That is all.”
“But why?” she insists, desperate for a glimpse of her fate. “What is she doing with it?”
“She…She takes it,” he answers, his whisper grim. “I inject her with it, right after we take it from you, every day.”
He slides his eyes Madeline’s way again, and inserts the needle, starts the process once more.
“She has been doing research, you see. She thinks she will be remade, be young again. You aren’t the first…” His voice trails off as Madeline turns around, smiling.
“Are we done yet?” she trills. “I don’t have all day, you know!”
“It takes time,” the doctor replied defensively. “You know this. Some more time is needed.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, then. We’ll just wait.”
She sits on the end of the bed, watching them, beaming.
God, he hates it here.
The smells, the humming noises, the people, the dismal air of defeat and resignation. Mostly the smells.
He watches Glen through the greasy window, fingers tapping absently at his knee. Now isn’t the time to make him wait, and he thinks their last phone conversation may have actually had an impact, because it’s only twenty minutes before Glen waves him in.
“Red,” Glen greets him. “It’s been a while. How’ve you been?”
“Busy,” Red replies briefly, unwilling to do the dance, even for a minute this time around. “What have you got?”
“Well, I’ve been poorly, off and on, not that you care, with my sciatica acting up and…”
The typical litany trails off as Red gets deliberately to his feet. He leans over, placing his hands firmly on the desk, and levels his eyes on Glen’s, letting every iota of the rage, frustration, and fear he has suffered over the last two weeks show in his face.
“Listen to me, you odious little rodent,” he says, his tone pleasantly conversational. “If you don’t tell me what you know and tell me now, I will paint this office with your intestines.”
Glen sits back, looking away. “All right, all right,” he says, testily defensive to cover his alarm. “I’ve got what you wanted, as always, I might add. There’s no need to treat me like a schmuck.”
“Where is she?” Red demands, not moving, not giving an inch.
“Madeline Pratt,” Glen says, handing him a slim folder. “Currently spending her time in Jesenik, at the home of oil baron Petr Mladek. Everything you need to locate her is in there.”
“Czech Republic,” Red muses, straightening up, mind racing ahead, making plans. “I can work with that…”
“She’s been there a while,” Glen continues, catching his attention again. “Months. Interestingly, there have been three unsolved missing persons cases in the Olomouc region in past three months or so. All young women, late-twenties, early-thirties. Could be your girl isn’t the first.”
Red nods his thanks, face impassive as his stomach clenches and burns.
Anon said: seeing a fic where Red & Liz go at it on the hood of one of his cars would make me a very happy camper!
Here you go!
Wandering the house they were staying in, Liz was looking for Red. After four days here, sharing his bed, she had woken up alone, surrounded by cold sheets. It was the first time his mouth hadn’t been on her when she opened her eyes. And she was missing his warmth and the soft moans he made when he made love to her in the morning. He had been insatiable. Since the moment they had breached that barrier in their relationship, he had worshipped her body at every opportunity. But not today. Today, she was alone.
She was in the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee, when she heard a muffled groan come from behind the door at the back of the room. She knew that door led to the garage, but had never been curious enough to push it open. Coffee in hand, she walked to the door and silently opened it. Taking a step inside, her breath caught in her chest. The room was immense and filled with vintage cars.
In front of her stood a red 1958 Plymouth Fury, the paint exactly matching the one she recalled from the movie Christine. She ran her fingertips along the hood, walking further into the room. A few feet away, her eyes stopped on a cream colored 1949 Buick Roadmaster Convertible. Rain Man’s car.
Frowning, Liz kept walking, her fingers brushing the immaculate paint of the cars. They all seemed to be iconic cars from old movies.
Here was James Bond’s silver 1963 Aston Martin DB5 and there a 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500 she recognized from Gone in 60 Seconds. She smiled when she spotted Sam and Dean’s black ‘67 Chevrolet Impala, shaking her head. Who’d have thought Raymond Reddington was such a movie geek?
Some weren’t movie cars. She could see at least two Mercedes S-Class sedans, near the garage door. They were obviously the ones Red used the most.
A soft grunt from the other side of the room startled her. Fascinated by the cars around her, she had forgotten why she had walked into the room in the first place. Listening carefully, she followed the metallic sounds she could hear from the far corner of the garage. Navigating between more vintage cars she didn’t recognize, she found what she was looking for.
A pair of legs clad in blue coveralls jutted from underneath the rarest car she had seen so far. James Dean’s ‘55 Porsche 550 Spyder. She must have made a noise, because the legs rolled from under the car, followed by Red’s torso and arms, and finally his head. He smiled when he saw her standing in front of the car, clad in one of his dress shirts and nothing more. From his spot on the floor, he must have had an eyeful of what was underneath the shirt, too.
“I was alone when I woke up,” Liz said, almost guiltily, when she saw his smile.
He jumped to his feet after dropping the tool in his hand and trailed his eyes over her body, his eyes darkening at the sight. Liz swallowed noisily at the sight of him. The coverall sleeves were knotted at his waist, his upper body clad in a stained white tank top, leaving his broad shoulders bare. She could see the muscles roll under his skin when he moved his shoulders and stretched his back, his spine cracking softly in the silence of the room. His hands were black with grease and some of it had spread up to his elbows. A single smudged stain marred his cheek.
He was gorgeous.
“You want to see my latest acquisition?” he asked, ignoring her words, a strange glint in his eyes.
“Sure,” she replied, a little bit disappointed he didn’t kiss her good morning or propose a shower.
His hand hovering over the small of her back, he led her to the other side of the garage, where the most recent cars were parked. He stopped in front of a black sedan, with sleek lines that were a joy to behold. She looked at Red, puzzled. Yes, the car was beautiful, but it didn’t explain the grin on his lips.
“This is a Tesla Model S,” he said, his grin still in place. “You might think it’s just another car, but it’s custom made. Put your hand on the hood,” he added.
He nodded his head in encouragement when she hesitated. Shrugging, Liz placed her free hand on the car for a second before taking it back, looking at Red. He nodded again and she followed his stare. On the hood, where she had touched it, a soft, creamy pink handprint was disappearing, eaten by the black paint.
“How…?”
“Thermochromic paint,” he said smugly, that strange gleam back in his eyes. “It changes color with the temperature,” he explained, taking a step forward.
He grabbed the cup in her hand before the coffee could spill over and, walking to the side of the car, laid it down on the floor next to the wheel. A sigh escaped Liz’s lips when he bent at the waist, the coverall hugging his bottom snugly. Feeling her eyes on him, he wriggled his ass playfully before standing up, smiling. He tilted his head to the side when he saw Liz worrying her lower lip before taking a step forward. Then another. Until he was standing a breath away from her. She was trapped between his body and the car behind her, exactly where he wanted her.
He took another step and her behind hit the hood of the car, her hands braced against the metal to keep her balance. His stare fixed on the material of his shirt stretched over her breasts and, from the corner of his eye, he saw red paint appear around her fingers and smiled smugly.
Good, he thought. Her skin was much warmer now than it had been when she put her hand on the car the first time. Since the moment he had bought this car, seeing the imprint of Liz’s ass in the paint had been one of his fantasies. Even before they breached that last barrier, he had had Lizzie in mind.
“The shirt,” she breathed when he put his greasy hands on her hips to lift her onto the hood.
He shrugged, leaning forward to kiss her chest where it was exposed by the open collar of the shirt, pushing her to lay her back on the hood. The bumperless car offered no purchase for Liz’s feet and she started slipping, her sweaty palms leaving red streaks on the otherwise black car. Red grabbed her thigh, stopping her movement, and put it around his waist, leaving a dark handprint on her creamy skin. Following his gesture, Liz wrapped her other leg around him, locking her feet behind his back.
Her core now pressed against the knot at his waist, Liz ground her hips against him, gasping at the sensation. The rough fabric of the coverall was doing marvels for her clit. She had been wet since the moment she saw him in those clothes, and was determined to get satisfaction soon. His greasy hands yanking her shirt open and his mouth closing on her left breast seemed to indicate he was in the same state of mind.
She groaned when he swirled his tongue around her nipple, teasing it into a taut peak. One hand braced against the car, he squeezed her breast with the other, smearing it with grease. She pushed at his shoulders, her breast slipping from his lips as he straightened, arching an eyebrow in surprise. Her legs sliding from his waist to the back of his thighs, Liz pulled at the knot — untying the sleeves, she pushed the coverall down his legs with her feet. She watched him step out of it, his hands grabbing the bottom of his top and yanking it over his head.
The sensation of his clothes against her had been amazing, but Liz knew how skillful he was with his tongue. And she had missed him in their bed when she woke up all alone. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into her.
Bracing his weight on his hands on each side of her, Red resisted.
“Is there something you might need, sweetheart?” he asked, grinning.
“Kiss me, or I swear to God…”
He smiled down at her, crooking an eyebrow. He loved bossy Lizzie as much as he loved tender Lizzie. She kept pulling at his neck for a moment until he decided to give in and closed the distance between their lips. But before he could kiss her, Liz put her hand on his mouth, stopping him.
“Not here,” she said.
Her hands slid from around his neck to his shoulders. He waited to see what she would do next and smirked when she pushed at his shoulders until he was kneeling on the concrete floor, using his discarded clothes as a cushion. Her legs were now on his shoulders, her bare foot caressing the back of his head tenderly.
“Here?” he asked, turning his head to kiss her knee. “Maybe not,” Red murmured when she sighed, her foot behind his head directing him where she needed him. He trailed his lips up her inner thigh, kissing and nipping at her soft skin. “Here?” he brushed his lips to the nest of curls at the apex of her thighs.
She moaned, the sound rumbling up her throat when he inhaled her scent deeply, filling his lungs with her essence. He could hear her pant, her back now flat on the hood of his car; he could see the red paint under her ass when she moved upward.
“Please, Raymond.” She finally gave in and begged.
Smiling smugly, Red slid his tongue into her, scooping up the moisture he found there, then ran his tongue up her folds to her clit. He could feel her tremble under his tongue, her back arched, her thighs tensed around his head, only his hands on her hips keeping her in place. She cried out when he closed his mouth on her clit, his tongue circling the tight bundle of nerves, never touching it directly. Her hips bucked against the grip of his hands, his fingers digging into her flesh to keep her still. His tongue now flat on her clit, he rubbed and circled, the tip of his teeth grazing her until Liz cried out, her thighs clamped on his head, the heels of her feet digging into his upper back. Red kept his tongue on her, prolonging her orgasm until she pushed feebly at his shoulders with her fingertips.
He sat back on his haunches when her legs released their grip on his head and ran his tongue over his lips, enjoying the taste of her. Looking up, he smiled when he saw her sprawled on the hood of the Tesla, patches of red paint, where her hands had tried to find some purchase on the polished metal, disappearing slowly. He could see her breasts rising rhythmically with her short breaths.
Moving her legs from his shoulders, Red stood up, his hands still on her thighs to keep her on the car. She was even more magnificent from this angle. The open shirt formed wings on either side of her body, the bright white cutting through the black of the hood; her dark hair was plastered to her sweaty forehead. His eyes traced the soft curves of her body, pausing on her breast where the imprint of his greasy hand stood out on her creamy skin, before moving to her hips, her ass surrounded by red where her body heat had activated the thermochromic paint. Looking down, he growled when he saw the moisture on the edge of the hood, and his cock throbbed in his boxers, begging to be buried deep into her heat.
“Hold on to me,” he murmured.
Liz opened an eye slowly, her foggy brain trying to understand what he was talking about. It took her a few seconds before she could manage to wrap her legs around his waist. She rolled her head to the side, looking past her shoulder to see what he was doing when she felt his hands leave her thighs. Bending at the waist to slide his underwear down his legs, she gasped when he kissed her navel. She felt him kick his boxers to the side and watched his hands land on the car on each side of her, his body hovering over her. She looked up and, meeting his feverish eyes, Liz opened her mouth to speak, but his lips crashing on hers silenced her. She moaned deeply when his tongue met hers; her taste still lingering in his mouth sent a shiver up her spine.
Her legs sliding from his waist to his hips, Liz used her feet to pull him in, his arms bending at the elbows to cover her body with his. She wrapped her arms around his neck to keep him in place and ground her hips against him. His cock, trapped between them, rubbed against her oversensitive clit, sending jolts of electricity through her body. She drank his deep growl from his lips when she moved again, feeling his hand sneak with difficulty between their bodies to position his length at her entrance.
They both gasped, breaking the kiss, when Red slammed into her, the sound of flesh against flesh reverberating in the room. Their eyes locked, they moved at a frantic pace, their hips meeting thrust for thrust, the sweaty skin of his chest rubbing against her breasts, his hands cradling her head; she felt heat coil in her lower belly, fire flooding her veins. His mouth kissing her eyes, lips, nose, forehead, interwoven with her name breathed with adoration, with each thrust of his hips, was adding the tenderness she craved. Her nails digging into his back, her back arched, plastering her breasts to his chest, Liz felt herself fall over the edge once again on a cry of pleasure, taking him with her.
She ran her hands over his back when Red collapsed on her, his breath puffing on her rapidly cooling skin; she tenderly caressed the nape of his neck when he kissed her shoulder.
“You okay?” he breathed, shifting his weight to his elbows and looking down at her.
“I think we need a shower,” she replied with a smile, before kissing his lips.
He kissed her back before straightening his back. He took in her soft curves, smeared with grease, until his eyes met the point where their bodies were still joined. He brushed a fingertip over her clit, making her whimper, before stepping back, his softening cock slipping from her heat. She was still sprawled on the car, her spread legs hanging over the hood. Red watched as the mixture of their bliss slid down the curves of her ass and onto the bright red paint of the hood.
Not bothering with underwear, Red slipped the coverall back on and knotted the sleeves around his hips, before turning back to Liz. He kissed her lower belly once more, interweaving his fingers with hers, and helped her to her feet. He wrapped his arms around her when she wobbled on unsteady legs, pulling her against his chest. She buried her head in the crook of his neck, her arms around him, and he lay his cheek on the top of her head.
They both needed a shower, but for now, the tenderness of their embrace was enough to keep them happy and warm.
Behind them, on the hood, the bright red shape of their joined bodies was disappearing slowly, eaten by the black paint.
Doctor Who/The Blacklist crossover- almcvay1 (concreteredhead)
A/N: I’ve wanted to do a Doctor Who/Blacklist crossover for a while, and then this opportunity presented itself. Implied Lizzington, and kind of sad. Be ye warned.
Raymond Reddington sat in the leather chair and stared at the fire. The tumbler of scotch in his hand was empty and as tempted as he was to pour a little more of the liquid painkiller, he didn’t really want to be bothered. Thoughts of Lizzie consumed him, much like the fire consumed its fuel. Grief was not at all a new emotion for him. He had loved and lost and mourned before. He had an entire life that had been laid to waste, and the hole that had carved inside him had never been filled. Lizzie seemed destined to become another empty space and he wondered if there was even anything left of his heart and soul anymore. He felt…hollow inside.
The grinding, wheezing noise broke the silence with which he had surrounded himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the slow materialization of the blue police phone box. It seemed Dembe would never stop looking out for him, no matter what happened.
The man who came out of the box looked much the same as he always had. But as he came to sit across from him beside the fire, Red noticed the small things. The bowtie was gone, replaced by a cravat. The usual jovial smile was absent, and the solemn expression made Red wonder what he had seen, what happened since the last time. He had always known the Doctor was much older than he appeared; this was the first time he had seen him wear his age so obviously. He was not grieving alone tonight.
“Can you…? You know what, never mind. I already know the answer. I’ve always known the answer.” Red rubbed his eyes, trying to ease the tired, dry feeling.
The man who was called the Doctor smiled ever so slightly. Of all the humans he had known, and he had known quite a few, Raymond Reddington had been one of the few to accept the limits of time travel and the fact that time could not always be re-written.
“I know she was precious to you, Red. I know you loved her. And she loved you. “
“Did she? After everything? I know she said it, but I just can’t stop thinking that I never told her everything. I never explained myself. I hate that she may have left this life never knowing how much I loved her.” The glass in his hand threatened to crack under the force of his fingers. The Doctor reached over and pried it carefully from his grasp. He carried it to the table by the window and poured a healthy measure of the liquor. He sipped it cautiously; this body had never really adjusted to the taste of alcohol. But if ever a night called for a drink, it would be this night. Red had lost his Lizzie, and his own family, the Ponds, now lost somewhere in time, forever out of his reach. The Doctor took another swallow of the liquor and let the burn of scotch merge with the pain of heartache.
The Doctor sat back down across from the heartbroken man he had kept a weather eye on since they met so many years ago. He once thought he had never met anyone with such a genius for trouble as Raymond Reddington, and thus far, he had not been proven wrong. Even Rory the Roman could not equal him in getting into life-threatening scrapes. The thought of Rory made the Doctor wish he had poured some more scotch.
“Who have you lost, Doctor? I can see it on your face, plain as day.”
“My family. Amy and Rory. They’re not dead, exactly, but lost. I lost them. “
“I’m terribly sorry, Doctor. I know your friends are so special to you.”
“I keep losing them, Red. They get lost, or they die or they decide to leave and I wish I could stop…needing them. Every time I tell myself, never again. But I always do, and this always happens.”
“Yes. I tried to tell myself that once as well. In fact, I managed for almost twenty years to keep myself away from her. But then I couldn’t do it anymore, I had to come back, I had to save Lizzie. And then it turns out that I’m the one who doomed her from the start.”
The Doctor nodded in sympathy. Being a time-traveler wasn’t the same as being able to see the future. There were always a million little elements, tiny grains of sand, and by changing one thing, you precipitate the very tragedy you meant to prevent.
He bounced to his feet, extending his hand to Red. He couldn’t save Lizzie Keen. But maybe he could give Red just a little bit of hope.
“Come here, Red. I have something to show you.”
Red found himself pulled into the Tardis. He had been inside once before, but it never failed to amaze him, the sheer size of it.
“I see you’ve redecorated.”
“Yes, a bit,” The Doctor whirled around the central control module, pressing and flipping; Red would never even begin to understand how it all worked.
“I don’t like it.” He allowed a brief smile at the glare the Doctor sent his way. It seemed colder inside than the last time he had seen it. All gray metal and white light. Perhaps it was a reflection of the Doctor at present. Alone and trying desperately to shut off the feelings that were responsible for his pain.
The whooshing, groaning noise was accompanied by a feeling not unlike air turbulence upon landing.
“Where are we, Doctor?”
“Baltimore, Maryland. The fourteenth of April, in the year 2026.”
Red stepped out on to a suburban sidewalk. The street was tidy, lined with trees and generously sized houses with well-kept yards. He followed the Doctor down the street and together they made their way through the hedges to a backyard where a birthday party was in progress. He could see Dembe’s daughter and her husband setting out paper plates and silverware. Samar and Aram emerged from the kitchen door with a cake, topped with ten candles. Seeing them grabbed Red’s heart in a fierce grip, that’s why the date had seemed familiar. Today Agnes would be ten years old. This was her birthday party.
He sank to his knees beside the Doctor, still hidden in the shrubs. His chest ached and his throat burned with unshed tears as he watched Cooper and even Donald Ressler appear with brightly colored gifts. Then he saw her, and if it was possible for time to stop, Red knew that it surely had. Agnes, it had to be her, came around the corner with another girl, Dembe’s granddaughter, only a few years older. She was small, with her mother’s dark hair and porcelain complexion. He watched with tears streaming from his eyes as she greeted her family, for that’s what he saw here, a family. Born from tragedy, but strong and loving.
The Doctor knelt beside him in the grass, watching as the candles were lit and the song, off-key as always, was sung. Agnes smiled and laughed and made her wish, closing her blue eyes. Red felt his heart skip a beat when he saw Lizzie’s eyes in that heart-shaped face. She opened her gifts with the relish of a happy child and Red found himself smiling as he watched her excitement. The last box was bigger than the others, and she had to stand on the bench to open it. Samar opened the card attached to the top of the box and Red strained to hear what she said.
“For a special girl who is ten today. This belonged to your mother and I thought you might like to have it. She loved you very much and I love you too. Happy birthday, love, Red.” Samar’s voice cracked on the last word and they all watched as the wrapping was stripped away.
The music box glowed in the sunlight and Red felt himself go weak, as though even his bones had been dissolved by his grief. It was the music box he had restored for Lizzie so long ago, and was now being given to her daughter. It hurt his heart to see it, to remember how she had wept in his arms that night, but there was the brilliant joy of seeing her child carefully wind it, closing her eyes as the song played for her. There was something here he needed, a feeling that he couldn’t name, but he had it now. It was time to go.
The Doctor was silent as they returned through time and space to the room that still seemed to be filled with sorrow. Red understood now, though. And it was something he had always known.
“You just needed a reminder, Red. It’s all a mixed bag, right? Good parts and bad, but one doesn’t cancel out the other. In fact, you can’t have one without the other. It’s taken me over a thousand years to learn that.”
Red sat once more in the chair by the fire. He could feel the sadness inside of him, but it didn’t seem as cold or painful anymore. It felt like the arms of an old friend, wrapped around his heart. He looked up to see the Doctor smiling at him. He needed to thank him, but the words wouldn’t quite come. But as they looked at each other in the dying firelight, he thought that the Doctor, perhaps, understood what he couldn’t say out loud.
“The ones we love never really leave us. Not as long as we remember them. They live forever.”
Prompt from @emilievitnux: So, Food!Porn!Prompt for @michelle-my-belle-99: Red is Hades, Liz is Persephone. Unlike what the story says, she never ate the pomegranate, but licked its juice from Hades's (Red's) chest when he ate one in front of her.
Note: Hi @emilievitnux! I’m not up on Greek Mythology enough to pull your prompt off to the letter, but hopefully this won’t disappoint. :)
It always happened at night. The aching. The needing.
The countless nights she went to bed thinking about him. His strong prominent shoulders, the way his fine suiting just dripped off of him like he was born to wear suits, the tight curve of his ass. She often wondered about his tailor’s view while getting up close and personal as he trimmed, nipped and tucked at Raymond's pants until he achieved a most perfect fit. He had a swagger like nothing she'd seen on any man and late at night as she wrestled with her thoughts in her dank and dark motel room, she assured herself that a man walks like that and talks like that when he likely is all that. Soon, her thoughts about him overflowed the cup of secretive nighttime loneliness into the waking day. Keeping the existence of those thoughts close to the vest could prove dangerous while working so closely with the man.
Keeping her jealousy in check was another problem. Sure, Madeline Pratt had history with Red and that she’d choked on over time in her effort to swallow it; but it was so much more than that. Samar, Alison in ID Services at the Post Office and that leggy blonde barista from the cafe where Red often suggested they meet - all were on the receiving end of way more attention from Red then she cared for.
And now he’d stolen her away in an unmarked van, hidden her in the heart of the freighter. It seemed, for the moment, she was the only woman on earth. The only other person on earth, really. It was clear, at least from the events of the last twenty-four hours, that she was worth risking his legitimacy and even his life, but he’d done so time and again and the missing ingredient had been her own willingness to see it, to accept it.
It’d been over a year since she’d been with a man, and, having been married to an egotistical, lying prick for five years prior to that had left her a wantonly unsatisfied woman. Keeping her subconscious tells in check was a work in progress and besides the way her eyes followed his lips of their own accord, she was fairly certain he knew not of the growing affection for him that gnawed at her insides. Lizzie sat in the corner of the sofa that night on the boat listening to him tell story after story. She pushed her food around her plate and observed as Red had no trouble with his. He wasn’t surprised when she flatly declined the pecan pie; being on the run was new to her and was surely taking its toll on her constitution. She’d go to bed having eaten next to nothing that entire day. Elizabeth Keen was no stranger to hunger.
Red stood before his collection of fine decanters in all their radiance with their various diamond and wedge-cut crystal stoppers. He carefully selected one before pouring two generous glasses and offering one to Lizzie. It wasn’t her brightest idea, drinking something so strong with a half-empty stomach, but after this day, it was more than called for. Earned, even. She thought back to her first week at the FBI academy and what she would have given for a cold glass of water. Endurance training in Virginia in the middle of July was anything but ideal, but she wanted it so badly she could taste it. When his back was turned, when he wasn’t aware, she looked on him with that same longing, like a stream in the desert. Elizabeth Keen was no stranger to thirst.
It was cool out on the open sea, so she didn’t miss the warmth of his hand seeping through her sheer blouse as it settled into the small of her back. Like a gentleman, he showed her to her room that night and though he lingered at her door’s threshold, he dare not cross it. She pressed her shoulder into the frame, looking up at him, watching him hesitate and think through what he might say next, what he might do.
“I hope the room is to your liking,” he offered with a small sad smile. For someone who wanted to give Lizzie the world, offering her a tiny room in a steel reinforced shipping container made his stomach pang with the guilt and grief over just how they got to this place.
“It’s nice. Not like I’ll be doing much sleeping, though,” she admitted coyly, fluttering her eyelashes and staring at the ground.
The pang flamed into a burning desire to grab her and meld their bodies together, if she’d ever allow it. He settled for a firm grip of her shoulder, gently massaging his fingers into her flesh until the shiver that ran through her from his touch forced her eyes up to meet his.
“Well. If you have any trouble, you know where to find me,” he said, his lips pressing into a thin line, then a smile. Dropping his hand, he turned then and crossed the hall to his own quarters and looked back once more over his shoulder before closing his door.
She tossed about in her bed that night, even given the well-appointed linens and sumptuous feel of the soft mattress beneath her weary frame. With no phone, no clock and no window, she figured it to be around two in the morning and that Red was sound asleep and since she most definitely was not, she’d have a snack. She remembered seeing his signature bowl of pomegranates on the kitchen counter when Red gave her the tour upon their arrival. She wondered just why a bowl of the fruit was placed in every safe house she’d ever been in. There were plenty of mysteries to Reddington, surely this was just another.
As she neared the kitchen, she noticed a tiny blue glow from a night light and upon entering, found Red standing in boxer shorts and a stark-white undershirt with his back to her. Hearing her, he startled and turned quickly, a knife in one hand a block of dark chocolate in the other.
“Lizzie? You scared me,” he breathed, panting. His eyes followed hers as they trailed down his undershirt with his visibly sculpted chest beneath to the slightly agape flap in his baby blue pinstriped boxers. Even in the dimly-lit kitchen, he saw the small smirk that played across her lips. Then she started to advance toward him.
“Scared you? I’m the only other person here. Were you…doing something you shouldn’t be? Maybe sneaking a little something for a sweet tooth?”
He stammered, the intensity of her gaze contrasted with the levity of her question throwing him momentarily off his game.
“Actually, I’m after a little something for a sweet tooth, myself,” she finished before he could get his words together. She rounded the corner, dragging the tips of her left hand around the marble topped island as she went.
“You’ve come to the right place. I’ve got some chocolate and pomegranates here. A little sweet, a little tart,” he said, turning back toward the counter to hide the growing length in his shorts. She stopped right behind him, the warmth of her presence soaking the cool air around him and flooding his nerves with electricity.
“Somehow, you’re always in the right place,” she said, sneaking her hands up his shirt and around to thread her fingers in the soft trail of hair at the bottom of his belly. His skin tightened on contact, breath quickening disobediently in response to her touch. She moved her hands to his waist, tightening her grip and coaxing him to turn to face her.
“I try to be,” he uttered, picking a plump, red pomegranate from the bowl on the counter. “How about that snack?” he finally offered, hoping to divert her attention from how embarrassingly hard he had become. She was pressed to him from the waist down, his bare feet astride her own. She nodded in approval but refused to move or release her pressure on him. Red dug his fingers into the rind of the fruit and pulled until he held a half in each hand. She took the one half from him and tossed it in the bowl with the others.
“You keep a bowl of these in each of your safe houses. Is there a story there?” she wondered aloud. A smile spread across his lips and a fire bloomed in her belly.
“I suppose I get a little carried away with my affinity for Hades and Persephone. Pomegranates are as sweet as forbidden love,” he answered her, holding up the half piece of the fruit between them, waiting to see what she’d do next.
“Bite it,” she ordered, her eyes wide and intently locked with his; her lips parted with exhalations of pure heat.
Oh Lizzie, was all he could think as he stood there dumbly. Obediently, he took the fruit into his mouth, carefully avoiding the toughened outer skin. She ground her hips into his as she watched his skillful mouth work the ripe flesh and its seeds. He moaned and a tiny trickle of scarlet juice escaped the corner of his mouth, ran down his chin and slowly dripped on to his stark white shirt.
“Allow me,” she whispered, running her hands up under the shirt, easing it off over his head and tossing it to the floor.
He took another bite of fruit, crushing the mouthful of arils as they gave up their exotic juice then covered Lizzie’s open mouth with his. She tasted of wild strawberries and as she opened to him, the heady combination of tart pomegranate mingled with her sweet essence sent him spiraling, down, lost and losing control fast. Even with her eyes closed, though, she was reading every signal he gave: rapid heart rate, irregular breathing, groaning through their joined lips under the agonizingly pleasurable work of her hands on him.
She broke the kiss, pushing her flattened palms against his chest and pulling back just far enough to cast a demure look up at him through her eyelashes. She wasn’t fooling anyone, let alone Red. He’d learned more about her in the last few moments than in the last three years. The fast rise and fall of her chest told him all he needed to know. He smiled at her crookedly long enough to watch her dip her head down to lap at the sticky juice on his chest. No more false restraint, then. Too long he had waited to stop now.
He pushed her sleep shorts off her waist and lifted her up to the countertop. He pulled and tugged her tank off and her perfectly taut breasts bobbed free. Red shamelessly took in the sight before him, Lizzie’s pure white skin and features highlighted in the dim light.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured, bowing to cup her breast, pulling the taut nipple into his mouth. Lizzie’s hands came alive on his skin, running her fingers from the nape of his neck down to the waist of his shorts, toying with the waistband before pushing them to the floor with the other discarded garments. He sank to his knees and settled his mouth over her, bathing her with his tongue. She wanted to watch, really she did, but the pleasure spiraled through her from the place where the heat and pressure pooled, spreading to her fingers and toes. She threw back her head, eyes closed, lost in it, lost in him. She was closer than she realized and, as she guided him to where she needed him the most, he sucked hard, and it was all she needed to go over the edge. He didn’t stop, though. He tasted every last drop, lapping and swiping his tongue in long strokes across her.
Still panting and not yet calmed from her high, she pulled him up to meet her lips, kissing him with more fire, more fury this time. Grabbing his hips and edging forward on the counter, she pulled him close, lining him up just so before pulling him inside her. For a moment, everything seemed to stop. Sigh after sigh floated passed his ear as she stretched around his length. Until he began to move again. The foreign sounds coming from Lizzie would have concerned him, had he not felt the tips of her fingernails start to dig into the firm, round flesh of his ass. She grabbed and groaned and pulled and pushed him hard, wrapping her legs around him then, locking her ankles tightly and increasing the friction.
They kissed again, hard and frantic and his hands fisted in her hair to direct her this way and that, giving him the best access to tease and taste. Lizzie released her hands from his neck and started to pull away. Red’s eyes flew open, suddenly worried he had taken things too far; but then, she glanced behind herself and, with the help of his strong arm, lay herself flat across the counter.
“Lizzie…my God,” he ground out through a tightly clenched jaw. She was even closer now, her heels pulled up to the edge of the counter, changing his angle yet again. He would never last long this way. Lizzie seemed to prefer this position, too, but; for his part, a dizzying rush of pleasure threatened to pull him under, the kind of pleasure so hard and so good that he had spent years hoping for but had forgotten to prepare himself for how it would actually feel. His thumb placed just so and rocking back and forth over her clit threw her quickly into a second dizzying orgasm with Red following closely behind in jerky, erratic spurts.
The two collapsed on the floor, propped up against the cabinets. He ran his hands up and down her arms, soothing her, bringing her down. Spent, her head rolled to the side, her cheek resting against his tight, sweaty chest. They cared not about collecting themselves; their night clothes still strewn about, strands of her hair clinging to his dewy, heaving chest. The gentle rock of the ship lulled the two to sleep where they sat, alone, but not isolated and more than ever, stronger together.
Could you write a one-shot in which Liz and Red have a steamy phone sex session, please?
Ooh, I bet @concreteredhead or @michelle-my-belle-99 would do wonderful things with this prompt... I wrote something along these lines (not M, but the suggestion is there) last year. Hung Up on fanfiction.net
Prompt-a-thon! From Anon: I'd love to see @minp1072's take on Red & Liz taking a bath (that ofc turns really steamy 😉 ). Here ya go! Prompt filled by @minp1072. Rated M for fluffy smut.
Note: Placed in the world of my existing fic, Gone, Baby, Gone, for the ease of an existing relationship. All you need to know is that after the shooting of Tom Connolly, Red took Liz to São Tomé, an island off the coast of Africa, to hide out in a borrowed beach house. This little interlude takes place after things have…progressed, some…
She wakes muzzily, her head full of cobwebs, or is it… sand?
She groans, blinking sand out of the corners of her eyes as she opens them. There was Red — Ray, she thinks, bemusedly affectionate — on his haunches beside her, a hand on her shoulder, his face lively with amusement.
“There you are, sweetheart,” he says. “You were dead asleep. Dreaming?”
Something flirts at the edge of her consciousness, gentle and warm, but it’s gone now.
“I… I can’t remember,” she answers sleepily, struggling to a sitting position. “What time is it?”
“About five-thirty,” he says, taking her hand so they can pull each other to their feet. “You’ve been out here for hours.”
She groans again, stretching out her stiff limbs. Everything feels gritty — she looks down to see that she is covered in sand. She puts a hand to her hair and grimaces at the feel of grimy tangles.
“I think you rolled off your towel,” Red offers, barely suppressing his mirth. “Are you sure you weren’t dreaming? About anything…in particular?”
He reaches out at the last and runs a warm hand over her bare, sandy belly. She shivers in response, and then again as she realizes how chilly it has gotten with the passing of the late afternoon sun. He wraps an arm around her, tugging her into the warmth of his body.
“Come on,” he says cheerily. “You can shower off the worst of it, and I’ll draw you a hot bath.”
She sighs contentedly, burrowing as close as she can and still walk, enjoying the haze of happiness, trying not to think about what it really means.
Marginally cleaner and warm again, she turns off the shower and sticks an arm out of the stall to grab her towel, and finds his hand, instead. Laughing, she lets him pull her out of the shower stall and into his waiting arms.
His eyes glint in that dangerous way as they slide over her body, naked and dripping wet, rosy pink from her afternoon in the sun. He licks his lips, almost unconsciously, and lowers his head to kiss her, sucking at the water droplets clinging to her mouth.
She murmurs into him, tilting her head for better access, slipping out her tongue to tangle with his. How she adores this side of him — the unfettered joy he takes in her, in their lovemaking; the way he can’t seem to resist touching and tasting at the least opportunity.
Just as her thoughts begin to blur, her hands fisting tightly in the back of his shirt, he pulls away from her with a little noise of regret.
“I promised you a bath,” he says softly, kissing her forehead, cheek, lips once more. “The water’s cooling while we stand here.”
She lets go of him reluctantly — another time, she’d forget all about the bath in favour of him, but she can still feel sand in all sorts of regretful places, and a soak sounds heavenly. He smiles at her — the wide, real smile that she prefers, that lights up his face and crinkles his eyes — and turns to the side with a sweeping gesture.
She laughs a little, and steps past him to the side of the large soaker tub. She can feel the heat coming off the water, and it teems with bubbles that smell tantalizingly of lemon and thyme. She eases into the water with a sighing moan of delight. He’s by her side almost instantly, kneeling beside the tub and stroking back her wet hair, encouraging her to lean into the slanted back.
She lies back obediently, letting the heat soak through her muscles, into her bones, wiggling her toes in contentment. Luxuriating, she looks over at him with slanted eyes, and offers him a slow, suggestive smile.
“Your shirt’s all wet,” she says. “You should take it off before you catch a chill. In fact, I think you’d better join me.”
He raises an eyebrow, then smiles back. Standing up, he peels off his soaked shirt, then loosens and steps out of his khakis and underwear.
“Move up?” he asks, then slides smoothly in behind her, shifting around with only little slaps of water to cradle her between his legs.
She shifts back into him with a murmur of pleasure, letting her hands drift over his thighs to drop back into the water beside them. He rests his cheek on her head, relishing the feel of her warm body against him, the easy comfort they now share. His arms around her, the hot water soothing, are all like a dream to him, even after long days of being together.
But a lifetime, he thinks ruefully, still won’t be enough.
She wriggles her toes again, and breaks into his thoughts with a heavy sigh.
“There’s still sand between my toes,” she says, a little cross. “I need to wash, but…” she hesitates, then turns her head to rub her cheek gently against his shoulder. “I don’t want to move.”
He chuckles a little, warming further at her words, her quiet display of affection.
“Why don’t you let me take care of that?” he says, and plants a firm kiss on the top of her head.
The feel of his strong fingers massaging shampoo into her scalp is marvelous — it makes her whole body go limp between his legs. He rubs and soothes, washing out the grit, fingers carding through the tangles with the utmost care. When he’s done, minutes later — or maybe hours, his hands have eased her away from reality so that she no longer knows — he reaches over the side of the tub and lifts a pitcher of clean, warm water for rinsing. Tipping her head back with the gentlest tug on her hair, he pours water over her, following the stream with a stroking hand.
He follows up with conditioner, making an equally thorough job of it, easing out the last of the tangles and knots. He rinses with clean water again, running his hands softly over her head again and again, down her shoulders, soothing and awakening all at once.
Putting the pitcher down, he reaches around her for the body wash; fills his hands with liquid soap. He starts at her neck, caressing with his fingers, soap lathering thickly under his hands. As he works his way across her shoulders, down her arms, his long fingers wrapping around her, digging in gently, she starts to droop a little lower in the water.
He chuckles again, low and deep, the vibrations echoing in her ribcage and stomach, sending little frissons of arousal through her. He slides his hands around her torso to cup her breasts, and her body starts to truly come awake.
She moans softly as he swirls lather over her skin, grazing her nipples over and over, until they are stiff and puckered, straining for more of his touch. As her breath starts to quicken, he strokes down her torso, over her belly, tracing her pelvic bones lightly with soapy fingers before moving on to her thighs, lifting them out of the water to ensure they are fully clean.
“Bend your legs,” he orders, his voice rough in her ear.
She complies, desire now a hot pool deep within that surges as he presses into her back so he can reach her feet, his cock long and hard along her spine. She can still feel the mark of his fingers on every inch of skin; she is clothed in his touch, restless with want.
Then she giggles as he rubs his fingers between her toes and along the soles of her feet; suddenly ticklish, she squirms back against him, rewarded by the hitch of his breath as she rubs against his hard length.
He gets more soap and runs his hands back up her legs slowly, circling her calves, tracing thin lines up her inner thighs. She shudders, laughter forgotten as quickly as it came, her body yearning. She moans, louder this time, as he reaches her centre and starts rubbing inward bit by bit, coming tantalizingly close, then easing away, teasing.
He’s touching her everywhere, everywhere but where she needs him, and she’s a live wire under his hands, every inch of her lit and sparking. She clings to his legs, writhing now, her head back on his shoulder. He’s murmuring things that she can’t quite grasp as he finally gives in, his thumb pressing firmly into her clit exactly as he slides two fingers inside her.
She gasps aloud, Ray, and it’s so much, too much, it’s overwhelming, and she’s aching for him, aching and lost.
He whispers his pleasure into her ear, “So wet, so ready, turn around now, come to me, Lizzie, love.”
His hands move to her waist, urging, and she struggles to turn, banging her knees on the tub as they shift so she’s straddling his legs, cradling him, now. She presses her forehead to his, their eyes locked together, her arms around her neck, as she sinks onto him with a small sound of pleasure.
They shudder together, complete here and now; she’s still soapy, slippery in his arms as they start to move together. His hands press into her lower back as she rises and falls over him, her eyes still never leaving his, their breath mingling, water splashing at the sides of the tub. She’s flushed, burning with arousal, with the build of her impending orgasm; she thinks she might just dissolve into steam and disappear.
“Come, now, sweetheart,” he breathes, hips thrusting into hers, tension cording his arms where they hold her. “I…I’m so close, Lizzie, please, that’s right, go over now…”
His words weave into the spell he has woven around her with his hands and body and care, and make everything more. It’s just enough to have her tumbling into a dreamy climax that spirals endlessly through her, no less intense for its sweetness.
On her sighing moan, as her hands tighten around the back of his neck, mirroring the clench of her inner muscles around him, he orgasms with her, sighing her name as he pulses inside her.
Replete, then, her limbs heavy with satisfaction, she meets his lips finally, her kiss fraught with an emotion she can’t name, her heart full, full of him.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs between kisses, his hands on her back stroking once more, gentling her. “My Lizzie, my love, you’re mine, Lizzie, mine…”
@histoireeternelle again!
@peanyc prompted: Red and Liz are stuck in the basement. And the Furby is watching, and commenting!
A/N: This fic is set in my The Admiral and the Profiler series. You don’t have to read it to understand. Just know that Red’s family never got killed/disappeared, he became Admiral and then SECNAV. Liz and Red are together and they have a baby boy named Samuel. Liz and Jennifer are friends since childhood.
“Lizzie! Can you come down for a second?” Red called from the basement.
He could hear people chatting in the living room, bottles clinking against glasses when one of their guests decided that the bartender wasn’t fast enough to refill their drink, and the music — that stupid pop music Jennifer loved so much. He was sure she had chosen the playlist for the evening just to annoy him. But it was her engagement party, and he knew he had to endure it for her sake. His precious baby was getting married, and he was in the wine cellar in the basement, looking for that stupid bottle he had kept for this occasion since the day she was born.
“Red?” Liz’s voice called from the kitchen.
“Downstairs!” he replied, and he heard her unsteady steps getting closer.
She had stopped breastfeeding Sammy a week ago, and it was the first time since discovering her pregnancy that she had indulged herself with alcohol. And she was already tipsy after only a couple of champagne flutes. She appeared at the top of the staircase, her hand on the opened door to keep her balance, and looked down at Red.
“What are you doing down there?” she asked.
“I’m looking for that bottle of wine I kept from the day Jenny was born. Did you move it?” he replied, climbing a few steps.
“No. It’s still in the wine cellar.”
Liz took a step forward, her foot catching on the piece of wood that held the door open, and lost her balance. She felt like she was flying for a second before her brain registered what happened and she cried out in fear. But before she could crash onto the stairs, two strong arms closed around her, and she landed on Red’s chest. He grabbed the banister to hold them up.
“You okay?” he asked, looking down.
“Yeah, sorry,” she replied, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt.
Both stayed silent a moment before bursting into a fit of laugher. They were still laughing when they heard the soft click of the door closing at the top of the stairs. Standing still, they looked at each other before, simultaneously, they both looked up at the darkness at the top of the stairs.
“Please, tell me we can open the door from this side,” Liz said, almost begging.
Red stayed silent, the shadows cast by the lonely light bulb hanging from the ceiling hiding his face.
“For God’s sake, Red! You were supposed to get someone to fix that door weeks ago!” Liz burst out, punching him in the chest before heading back to the top of the stairs, perfectly sober now.
She pushed and pulled at the door, trying the handle a few times before turning back to look at the man still standing below her.
“Are you going to stay there?” she asked angrily.
“It’s no use, Lizzie. This room was built to be an anti-atomic bunker doubling as a panic room — the door won’t budge, and they can’t hear us upstairs,” Red said, shaking his head. “Come down, someone will find us soon enough,” he added, waiting for Liz to take his hand.
Reluctantly, she grabbed his hand and let him lead her to the room at the foot of the stairs. It was mess — old furniture covered with boxes, old metallic shelves along the wall stuffed with more boxes and toys, and at the back, Red’s wine cellar.
“If it’s a panic room there should be a way to open it from the inside,” Liz said, looking for the control panel that should be there somewhere.
“I disabled it. I didn’t need a panic room, but the president thought that as SECNAV I had to have one,” he replied, almost guiltily.
Liz groaned at this stupidity. She knew it was no use arguing. Red was… Well, Red was Red.
“You’re lucky I love you so much,” she groaned. “You’re sure we can’t do something?” she asked, spotting the control panel behind a shelf.
She walked to the shelf, putting an old dusty Furby to the side, and looked into the control panel, poking carefully at some of the switches.
“Yes, I’m sure. I had the guys who put it in place turn it off and they’re going to change the lock on the door so it can open from both sides — they just… haven’t yet,” Red explained, moving some boxes from an old couch on the other side of the room. “Don’t worry, Jenny will realize we’re not around soon enough. And if she doesn’t, I’m sure Sammy will, and Kate will come to look for us,” he added, smiling at the now empty couch.
Liz watched him walk to the wine cellar and take a bottle out. He took a corkscrew from a peg on the wall and opened it. He crooked an eyebrow, raising the bottle, asking silently if she wanted some. She nodded, leaving the useless panel to sit on the couch. Red grimaced at the dust bursting from the fabric when he went to join her, bottle in hand.
“How long do you think we’ll have to stay here?” Liz asked, after taking a swig of wine.
“No idea. Jenny will probably think we went to see if Sammy was all right and Mr. Kaplan will think we’re still at the party. It might be a while until someone notices we’re missing,” Red replied. His arm slid around Liz’s shoulders and he kissed the crown of her head tenderly.
She wrapped an arm around Red’s waist, her other hand still around the neck of the bottle. She took a mouthful of wine; closing her eyes, she let the liquid roll on her tongue, filled her nostrils with its fragrance and moaned deep in her throat. She had missed drinking wine so much. She felt Red move at her side and soon, his breath was brushing her face, and she could feel the heat of his lips hovering over hers.
She swallowed her mouthful of wine just before she felt Red’s tongue brush the corner of her lips, drinking a lonely drop of wine that had escaped her mouth. She sighed, opening her eyes slowly. Between taking care of Sammy and the preparations for Jen’s wedding, it had been so long since they found the time to have a moment for themselves.
He smiled tenderly, brushing his lips across hers in a feathery caress, his fingertip tracing her collarbone, exposed by the low neck of her dark red dress. The bottle slipped from her fingers, rolling to the side, leaving a red stain on the floor. She threw her arms around his neck, pulling him to her, crushing his lips to hers. She didn’t lose any time, her tongue slipping between his lips; she moaned when their tongues met and started a duel they knew by heart.
His hands moved to her back and he slowly pulled her zipper down, his fingers tracing a line of fire on Liz’s spine. They broke the kiss, panting, and Red’s lips went to trace her jaw, his tongue teasing her earlobe before kissing his way down her neck, nipping lightly at her pulse point. His hands left her back to push the straps of her dress down her shoulders, forcing her to release her hold on his neck.
The dress now around her waist, she gasped when his tongue snuck between her breasts, still prisoners of her bra. She ran her hands across his chest when she felt the bra loosen its grip on her, and started to work on the many buttons of his dress shirt. As soon as he felt her hands on him, he straightened, looking hungrily at her. She pulled at the knot of his tie, loosening it enough to slide the collar out and kissed the exposed skin of his chest. She pulled the shirt from the waistband of his slacks and, pushing the shirt and vest open, she bent forward to kiss his belly, nipping wickedly just beneath his navel, smiling when she heard him take a sharp breath. She loved to drive him crazy.
“We don’t have all night,” Red breathed, the muscles in his belly tensing under her ministrations.
She looked up, a wicked smile on her lips and tore his belt open, sliding it from the loops in a swift movement, making the leather crack like a whip. She left the couch, bunching the skirt of her dress up; she slid her underwear down her legs before letting the dress hide her legs again, never taking her eyes off Red. She saw his hand move on his fully erect cock through his pants and couldn’t stop the moan that left her throat. She took a step forward and, standing between his spread legs, Liz crooked an eyebrow, her eyes on his crotch.
Smiling smugly, Red suddenly grabbed her hips and pulled, forcing her to straddle his thighs. They both fumbled a moment with her dress to push it out of the way before she could sit on his lap, her hot core grinding against his covered cock; he could feel how wet she was through his clothes. His hands slid from her hips to her ass, bunching her dress up, and squeezed.
“Nice ass.”
They both froze at the high-pitched metallic voice breaking the silence of the room.
“What the…”
Red’s hands still on Liz’s buttocks, he leaned to the side, his eyes going to the door up the stairs, but it was still closed. No one was there with them. He looked at Liz, his face mirroring her puzzled expression. When the room stayed silent, they both shrugged, Red’s fingers sneaking between her buttocks to tease her entrance from behind. The tip of his finger slipped into her wetness when she moved her hips, grinding against his hard cock to find some friction.
Her tantalizing breasts bounced with every movement of her hips and he couldn’t resist them any longer. Carefully, he closed his mouth around a nipple and brushed his tongue across the peak. Liz let out a moan, the double stimulation bringing her closer to the edge. Red growled around her soft skin when a sweet drop of liquid fell on his tongue. She had stopped breastfeeding Sammy a week ago, but now, with the stimulation of his mouth on her, her breasts were leaking milk. He sucked a little bit more forcefully, being careful of the soreness of her breasts, and felt his mouth flood with saliva at the taste of her.
“Gross.”
The same voice rang into the room. Liz’s nipple slipped from Red’s mouth, a few drops of milk dripping down onto his chest, when he looked behind her once again.
“What was that?” Liz asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied, scanning the room to find the source of the voice.
“So you heard it too?”
“Yes. Both times,” he replied. “I wonder…” he added, frowning, his eyes fixed on something behind Liz.
“What? What is it?” she asked, panic in her voice.
She pushed Red’s hand from between her legs and stood up, covering her chest with the front of her dress. She looked around the room before following Red’s stare to the shelf on the other side. The one with the control panel behind it.
“Wait… Its eyes were closed,” she said. “The Furby. Its eyes were closed when I moved it,” she explained when Red stood to stand beside her, his eyes on the hellish ball of fur on the shelf.
“You mean…”
“Hello.” The Furby’s voice cut him off.
Liz burst in a fit of laugher when she saw the murderous expression on Red’s face. She watched him walk to the shelf and pick the toy up. Turning it in his hands, he poked at the underside of the beast trying to find a way to turn it off.
“Ooohh” the thing said, obviously not liking being turned upside down.
“Oh, shut up, you!” Red growled, finding the switch at last.
The Furby’s eyes closed and Red put it back on the shelf, turning back to Liz with a proud smile on his lips.
“Where were we again?” he said, closing the distance between them and taking her in his arms.
“I think we were about to take care of this,” she replied, running her finger up the length of his cock.
He shuddered at her touch, thrusting his hips into her hand. She withdrew it, too fast for his liking, to put it flat against his chest and push him backward until he fell down on the dusty couch. With a wicked grin, she unbuttoned his pants and slid down the fly, pulling at the material until he lifted his hips. She slid his pants and underwear down to mid-thigh. He hissed when the cold air of the basement hit his burning skin.
Holding the skirt of her dress, Liz moved to straddle his thighs, his hands on her hips helping her to keep her balance. Fumbling under the fabric, she finally closed her fingers around his cock and placed it at her entrance before sinking onto him, their joined moans echoing in the room.
“Fuck, Lizzie,” Red groaned when she started moving.
“Precisely,” she replied breathily.
She was sliding up and down his length, her wetness coating him in the most delicious way, her hands braced on his shoulders, her full breasts bouncing in front of his eyes, still sporadically leaking drops of milk onto his chest. He was dying to take them in his mouth, to drink the sweet nectar from her nipples, but she was enjoying herself so much that he didn’t dare to break the moment.
“Deeper.”
Red’s hands tensed on Liz’s hips at the sound. He looked to the damned beast on the shelf and saw its opened eyes. Jaw clenched, he tried to concentrate on Liz’s soft cries, meeting her thrust for thrust.
“Faster.”
This time he knew she had heard it. Her hips lost their rhythm until she stopped moving completely, keeping him deep inside her. Her misty eyes focused on Red’s before she turned her torso toward the Furby watching them. Red groaned at the change of angle, almost spilling there and then. He took a deep breath to calm himself, his hands keeping Liz still.
“I’m gonna kill that thing!” he growled, lifting Liz from his lap to sit her on the couch beside him.
They both whimpered when he slipped from her. Standing on wobbly legs and grabbing the pants still around his thighs so he wouldn’t trip on them, he crossed the room, his cock, glistening from Liz’s juices, jutting proudly before him.
“Nice.”
Liz couldn’t stop the laugh that left her throat. The Furby was right, it was a nice view. Red’s cock bobbing up and down with every step, his ass exposed when he turned around. She bit her lip hungrily at the picture in front of her.
Red grabbed the toy from the shelf and turned it upside down once more. The switch was still set to ‘off’. He looked back at Liz, wondering if he should tell her, but froze the moment he saw her. She was sprawled on the couch, her dress around her hips and a finger buried deep in her core, her thumb brushing her clit. His cock throbbed at the sight.
“Oohhhh.”
Tearing his eyes from the spectacle of his Lizzie touching herself, Red looked down at the Furby in his hand. The twitch at the side of his mouth turned into a rictus when the toy opened and closed its mouth as though it was laughing at him. Hatred burning in his veins, Red flipped the ball of fur in his hand and threw it headfirst against the wall beside the shelf. The head cracking open was one of the most satisfying sound he had ever heard.
“Good niiiiiiii…” the Furby groaned as it hit the floor in pieces, its eyes closing slowly.
The beast was dead. Turning around, Red saw that Liz was still touching herself, her eyes closed, her hips thrusting, fucking herself with three fingers. Taking his cock in hand, he felt the sticky wetness of Liz cold on his burning skin. His hand moving on his length, he walked back to the couch. His free hand took hold of Liz’s wrist, stopping her hand, and she whimpered when he pushed it to the side. Kneeling between her spread legs, he repositioned himself at her entrance and slammed into her.
She cried out as he buried himself to the hilt in her hot wetness, her legs folding around his waist.
“Red!” she cried, her nails digging into the skin of his back, her feet on his tailbone pulling him even deeper.
He kept thrusting, his cock sliding in and out of her in a frantic rhythm; he was close, but he had to make sure she would fall over the edge with him. As if hearing his thoughts, Liz’s hand slid between their sweaty bodies; her fingers found her clit and they were both lost. As her inner muscles clamped down on him, he stilled, spilling himself deep inside her, her fingers on the tight bundle of nerves prolonging her orgasm.
His arms gave out and he collapsed onto her, Liz’s arm wrapping around his neck while the other one was still stuck between them. They stayed still, trying to calm their breathing, Red still buried deep inside her.
“Fuck!” someone said into the silence of the room, and they heard the door slam closed.
The voice had come from the stairs — they both knew they should recognize it, but in their post-coital state, their brains were still useless. Raising his head, Red met Liz’s eyes and they simultaneously realized who had been there. Jennifer. Jennifer had walked on them. Again. Red let his head fall back on Liz’s shoulder and groaned.
The door at the top of the steps opened again and they both looked up. The tiny form in the doorframe was lit from behind and they could not make out who was there. They were still joined and Red didn’t dare move, not wanting to expose them any further.
“I hope you’ve been careful, because I’m not taking care of another child!” Mr. Kaplan’s voice rang sternly in the room before she turned around, leaving the door wedged open on her way out.
“Oops!” the voice of the supposedly dead Furby screeched into the stillness of the room.
My masters in writing,
Is no good at hiding
My love for sweaty bodies,
Made up of all hotties.
Recorded at my leisure,
For your viewing pleasure.
Smut it be named,
It shan’t be shamed.
For the penises are thrusting,
To keep my skills from rusting.
I write fics about chicks,
And lots and lots of dicks.
Some with copious fluff and love,
It may be pure as a dove.
But more likely it’s about fucking,
Or maybe even sucking.
Fic writers are golden,
But don’t feel beholden.
We love to share our craft,
Together on a big smutty raft.
I’m toiling away at writing a massive penetration,
But I see you’re offended so I recommend defenestration.
@histoireeternelle here!
Anonymous prompted: Can someone write a dirty scene with Red/Liz/one of his cigars?
Here you go Anon, I hope you’ll like it
Liz had walked into Red’s office on a whim. He hadn’t forbidden her to enter that room, but after three days alone in the safe house — that looked more like Red’s country house than another borrowed property — the office was the only room she wasn’t already bored of. The house was nice, built entirely out of logs, furnished with dark wooden furniture, it would have been a cabin if it wasn’t for the size. The house was huge, lost in the middle of nowhere-Minnesota, centenarian trees in the front, hiding it from the dirt trail of a road that service it, and opening on a clear blue lake on the back. Liz would have loved to spend her days exploring the forest or diving into the crystal-clear water and bathing under the waterfall flowing into the lake, but of course, Red had chosen December to bring her there.
And he had left.
He had brought her there to keep her safe and, after only two days, he had left her on her own, saying he had things to take care of that couldn’t wait. And it was almost Christmas!
The office was similar to the rest of the house, the light wood panels of the walls contrasting with the dark desk she was now facing. Not a paper in sight, she observed. Red had been as thorough with this place as he always was. Liz trailed her fingers along the smooth surface of the desktop, pondering the possibility of sitting on the huge armchair behind the desk. She took a deep breath, trying to find Red’s scent in the atmosphere of the room — his scent had permeated the whole house — but then something else caught her attention.
On the other side of the room stood an immense fireplace. Two dark leather armchairs were sitting in front of the hearth; a small round mahogany table between them held a light wooden box, a bottle of Brandy, and two glasses. Liz took a step forward, her fingers leaving the desk, and worried her lower lip. This was Red’s place. She could see it in the pristine condition of the room when some others had been covered in dust. She could see it in the glasses and alcohol. This was his sanctuary and she felt like an intruder.
She had to leave.
But she couldn’t. As though her body wasn’t hers anymore, she saw herself walk to the fireplace and sit on the left armchair. The one the box was the closest to. No. Not a box. A humidor. This was where Red kept his cigars. Liz traced the complex design carved on the top with a fingertip before pushing slowly the lid open. The heavy scent of tobacco hit her nose and she closed her eyes, smiling when she realized that it was one of the fragrances that made Red’s scent unique.
Opening her eyes, she looked down into the box and shook her head.
“Oh, Red,” she said under her breath.
She had never cared for tobacco, but she knew enough to recognize a Cuban cigar when she saw one. And the humidor was full of them. That box was worth thousands of dollars. Extending her hand, Liz took out a cigar and brought it to her nose; behind her closed eyelids, she saw the way Red’s tongue would slip between his parted lips, touching the cap for a second before he would close his lips around the cigar. She had been fascinated by the sensuality of that tongue flashing when she didn’t expect it, and revolted by the fire she had felt running through her body. Her father had died of lung cancer and she was aroused by watching a man smoke.
She was still lost in her thoughts when she felt a shift in the air, the small hairs at the nape of her neck standing on end. Of course he had to choose that moment to come back. Still holding the cigar in hand, she turned her torso toward the door, not moving from her seat and looked at him.
Shoulder leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed on his chest, she saw that he had discarded his jacket and tie and his vest was unbuttoned, exposing his white shirt, open at the collar. Taking in his frame, she let her eyes trace his broad shoulders, the open collar of his shirt showing salt-and-pepper chest hair, his pants hugging his body in all the right places, trailing down his legs to find his sock feet.
Judging by the small smile on his lips and the light shining in his eyes, he hadn’t missed a moment of her ogling. Liz felt heat rise up her neck. Meeting his eyes had been a mistake; now that he had caught her stare, she couldn’t avert her eyes. She was frozen on the spot, the cigar still in her hand, the humidor still open on the table. Unable to move, she watched him take a step, then another, in her direction and her breath caught in her chest. The intensity of his stare was something she had never really seen in him. She had had glimpses of it when he had thought she wasn’t watching, but never like this.
She raised her head when he stood in front of her. His crotch was a breath away from her hand holding the cigar. She could feel the heat radiating from his body and saw his pupils dilate. Was he angry? Disappointed in her? She didn’t know. He inched forward and suddenly, she felt him against her hand. He wasn’t angry or disappointed. He was aroused. She could feel his cock already half-hard against the back of her hand.
From the corner of her eye, Liz saw his hand move and, slowly, he slid the cigar out of her grip, leaving her with two choices. And judging by his crooked eyebrow and the tilt of his head, Red was perfectly aware of that. Now that her hand was free, she could either lay it down on the armrest or flip it and cup him through his pants. He was holding his breath, she realized, seeing his chest still its perpetual movement and his heart beating furiously at the pulse point at the side of his neck.
They both let their breath out when the palm of her hand settled on the tense material of his pants. Eyes never leaving his face, she saw his jaw clench and heard the hitch in his breath when she closed her fingers around his cock. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word. He was waiting for her to take the lead. He would accept her decision, no matter what, she realized. She moved her hand an inch upward, as an experiment, and he closed his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. With his eyes closed, Liz felt she could move again. Her eyes reluctantly leaving his face, she fixed them on his belt. After a second of hesitation, she uncurled her fingers and, with her other hand joining to help, she unbuckled his belt and popped the button of his pants open before sliding his fly down. His pants slid down his hips, pooling around his ankles, and Liz’s fingertip traced the outline of his erection through his black boxers.
She leaned forward, her lips touching the burning heat hidden under the fabric and his hips bucked involuntarily. Her smile half-hidden by the tails of his shirt hanging around her, she did it again, her lips lingering just a moment longer, and she heard him sigh. She caught the movement of Red’s hand in her peripheral vision and shivered when, instead of burying it in her hair as she thought he would, he used his fingertips to push her hair backward, baring her face to his view. She looked up at him and smiled shyly. He returned her smile in bewilderment.
Slowly, their eyes locked; she inched his boxers down, her mouth closing on the exposed skin. Out of the corner of her eye, Liz saw his hand fist around the cigar he was still holding, crushing it, pieces of tobacco leaves crumbling from his fingers. She took the head of his cock in her mouth, her lips closing around the ridge, and sucked. She heard the soft cry that left Red’s lips and smiled, her teeth grazing his heated skin. They weren’t touching, their only link, her lips on him, but she could feel how tensed he was. The air surrounding them crackling with electricity.
Pushing his boxers down his thighs, she let him slide deeper into her mouth, engulfing him in her wet heat as much as she could, her tongue flat on the underside of his shaft. He was panting now, his breath the only sound in the room. Giving up all pretence, Liz closed her fingers around the base of his cock, her other hand sneaking under his shirt, caressing his lower belly; she moaned, the sound muffled by his length, when Red’s hips jerked. She could feel him tremble under her touch, his muscles moving in rhythm with her mouth. He was close, she could feel it in the way he was holding himself, trying to stay still while her mouth worked him in earnest.
He groaned when she let his cock slip almost all the way out of her mouth, her lips once again around the head, her tongue teasing the hole she found there while her hand moved up and down along his length. And suddenly, she felt it. The first drops of cum hitting her tongue just before he climaxed in her mouth in long, hot spurts. He slipped from Liz’s mouth when he took a step back, bracing himself against the back of the other leather armchair. A small, smug smile on her lips, Liz leaned forward and kissed the tip of his softening cock, startling him.
---
Red tried to focus his half-hooded eyes on Liz, still not believing what just happened. He had known she would be angered by his disappearance, but his business had taken longer than he expected, and he had needed to stop in Minneapolis to find her a Christmas present. Then, halfway home, the snow had turned the roads impassable. He would have been stuck in his car if it hadn’t been for the old couple who found him on the side of the road and let him spend the night in their guest room.
He had been able to get back to his car in the late afternoon and, once home, had found the house quiet and still. Thinking she was in the library or her room, Red had gone to his room, showered, and changed into clean clothes before going to look for Lizzie. After visiting those two rooms and not finding any trace of her, he had called out, fearing Lizzie might have wanted to explore their surroundings and found herself cut from the house by the heavy snowfall the day before. He had been on his way to get warmer clothes when he had spotted the door of his office standing ajar. On tiptoe, he had closed the distance and pushed the door open silently, a soft smile spreading on his lips when he saw her. Leaning his shoulder on the doorframe, he watched her take a cigar from the humidor and bring it to her nose to smell it, her eyes closing when the smell of tobacco hit her.
From the moment she had turned around to look at him, his memories were blurred. The mingling sensations of heat and wetness; the soft moans she had made, muffled by his cock deep in her mouth.
She was beautiful. And she had just sucked him off. He still couldn’t quite believe it, but his pants still around his ankles and his boxers on his thighs were proof enough of what just happened. And she was still looking at him. His Lizzie was looking at him with eyes dark with desire. The sound of the crushed cigar hitting the floor when he opened his fingers felt like an electroshock. In a swift movement, he grabbed the waistband of his pants and pulled them up, along with his boxers. He saw her flinch at his gesture and knew instantly what she was about to say. And he would hear none of it.
“I’m so…”
His lips crashing on Lizzie’s silenced her, his tongue invading her mouth when she gasped in surprise. He could taste himself on her tongue, arousal once again burning in his veins. She had sucked his cock until he came into her mouth. His lips pushing her to lean against the back of the armchair she was still sitting in, he snuck between the seat and the table to stand before her. When the need of air forced them break the kiss, he fell to his knees, looking up, waiting for her consent to keep going. His hands on the seat, on either side of her thighs, not touching her, he could still feel her tremble.
When she finally nodded, Red’s hands slid up her thighs, caressing her through the fabric of her jeans. He kissed her knee tenderly, his eyes never leaving hers as he inched his fingers up, reaching for the button at the waistband of her pants and popping it open before slowly sliding the fly down, mirroring her previous actions. He leaned forward, finally breaking eye contact, and pressed a kiss to the soft black cotton of her underwear. His nose filled with the scent of her arousal, making him growl deep in his throat.
His hands sneaking under her hoodie, Red brushed her sides before moving down the curve of her back to slide under her buttocks, urging her to lift her hips. He hooked his fingers on the waistband of Liz’s pants and pulled them down slowly, kissing her hip, then her thigh, his lips tracing a line of fire on her skin. He put the jeans down on the side, his hands sneaking between her closed knees to push them apart when she sat back on the armchair. Slowly, he made his way up along her leg, his nose nuzzling at her skin, feeling goosebumps spread on her skin.
Red nipped lightly at the tender skin her inner thigh, filling his nose with her scent when she wriggled under his ministrations. His hands closed on her hips and he pulled, her buttocks sliding on the leather, his body forcing her to open her legs even further. Red traced soothing circles on her hips with his thumbs to keep her in place when his tongue darted out of his mouth, licking at the darker spot on her underwear where her arousal had wet the fabric.
Her hand cradling the back of his head gave him her blessing to continue and, one hand leaving her hip, he pushed the crotch of her panties aside, baring her wet and swollen lower lips to his stare. He moaned, echoing the sound she made, when his tongue traced the heated skin, not yet breaching that last barrier.
Liz whimpered when his hot breath left her and his hand let the fabric of her panties slide back in place. He looked up at her, a small, reassuring smile on his lips, before turning his eyes to the humidor still open on the table beside them. She had seemed to love the scent of his cigars. Taking one out, he brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply, his eyes closed. He could feel her eyes on him, almost see the frown of her eyebrows. Tension seeped from every pore of her skin, the scent of her arousal heavy in the atmosphere of the room.
Opening his eyes, he fixed them on hers, touching the cigar to his lips, his tongue brushing the cap to wet it slightly before once again pushing her underwear aside. He traced her lips with the head of the cigar, feeling her shudder at the sensation, his body between her legs preventing her from closing them up.
“Shh, trust me,” he breathed, breaching the last barrier with the cigar.
She jerked when he brushed her clit in a feathery caress. Slowly, he rounded the tight bundle of nerves, never touching it directly, with the cigar. She was so wet. It took every ounce of self control in him not to throw the cigar away and fuck her here and now in that chair. But he had had his pleasure, and now it was time to reciprocate — they would have time for more later.
He pulled her even closer to the edge of the seat, sliding a shoulder under her leg, he took the cigar south, teasing her entrance while his mouth closed over her clit. He had to shut his eyes, feeling dizzy at the taste of her that flooded his mouth. He felt Liz’s nails dig into his scalp and heard the cry that left her throat when he flicked his tongue. She was trembling, her back arching with every touch of his tongue, her hand clasped the armrest so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
“Red!” she cried out when the cigar inched forward.
He chuckled at her response, knowing that the vibrations of his voice on her clit would make her wild. And he wasn’t mistaken. Liz’s hips jerked against his mouth and he slid the cigar deeper into her body. He knew that, with the wetness of her core, the cigar wouldn’t last, so he slid his index finger in along with the smoke.
Fucking her with cigar and finger, his tongue moved frantically on her clit.
The heel of her foot slipped against the polished hardwood floor when she tried to find some purchase under the assault of his tongue, the muscles of the leg on his shoulder tensing. She was close, he could hear it in her breath, feel it in the way her body responded. He added his teeth to her clit and she tensed. Her cries music to his ears, he felt her inner muscles grip his finger and the cigar. He kept moving until her hand released its grip on his head; throwing the cigar away, his tongue lapped at her, reveling in the taste of her climax.
With a last kiss on her swollen sex, he let her underwear slide back in place and sat on his haunches, her leg slipping to the floor. Her juices glistening on his chin, he waited until her eyes focused back on him before bringing his finger to his mouth and sucking it clean.
She whimpered deep in her throat and, with a strength he didn’t think she still possessed, she pushed herself out of the armchair and, kneeling in front of him, crushed her lips to his. His arms closed round her, plastering her body to him; with his fingers buried in her hair, he kissed her back.
Everything had changed; they’d have to adjust and learn how to be together. But they had time. They had time for everything now.
Prompt: Lizzie shows up late at night at Red’s door with nasty cuts after a bar fight. Red, being a caring and sassy nurse, things heat up while he takes care of her hand before they end up doing each other on the living room table. Filled by almcvay1 (concrete redhead), rated M for smoetry
A/N: Well, I used the couch instead of the table but I hope this satisfies.
It was almost one in the morning when a loud knock woke Raymond Reddington from his doze on the couch in the cozy townhouse he was pleased to call home temporarily. But Red was still Red, no matter where he was, so the gun was in his hand before his feet hit the floor. Late night visitors rarely came bearing good news.
Of all the possibilities that ran through his mind on the way to the front door, seeing Lizzie Keen slumped against the stair railing was not one that had occurred. He flung the door open with a savage oath, pistol now firmly tucked into his waistband.
“Lizzie?”
She stirred when she heard his voice, tilting her head clumsily to look up at him. He could see she’d been drinking as she tried to get to her feet; her usual grace deserting her under the influence. As far as he knew, she hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol throughout her pregnancy, but tonight apparently Lizzie had tripped and fallen into a bottle of whiskey. He wrapped an arm around her waist to assist her inside, nudging her until she staggered into the living room, where she promptly fell on the couch.
“Lizzie, where’s Amelia?”
Lizzie just looked blank for a moment, Red rolled his eyes. Tom’s recent betrayal and desertion had hit her hard, but he had been told she was doing somewhat better. This didn’t look like better.
“Lizzie? Where’s the baby? Who has Amelia Rose?”
She sat up slowly and now in the ample light of the lamp on the end table, he could see the bruise coloring her cheekbone, the abrasions on her swollen knuckles. He swore in every language he knew as he went to fetch the first aid kit in the kitchen.
“Amelia’s with Aram. He’s got her till morning. She’s fine.” Her words were only slightly slurred and raspy, either from the drinking or from the fighting.
Red set the kit on the end table as he moved her closer to the light, kneeling on the rug in front of her. She’d definitely gone a few rounds with the champ.
“Tilt your face to the light, I need to see how bad this bruise is. What have you done, Lizzie? You look like ten miles of bad road.”
“Someone tried to hustle me at pool. I took exception.”
“Should I be expecting the police? Do I need to call Marvin?”
“No. Clean getaway, Red. As always.”
He pursed his lips as he applied arnica gel to the bruise on her face, checking her neck and shoulders as he worked down to her hands. They were torn and bleeding sluggishly. He moved her fingers carefully, checking for breaks. She winced when he sprayed the antiseptic over the open wounds; he blew gently on them, trying to ease the sting as he applied the gauze and taped it down.
“Anything else injured? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Lizzie burst into tears. It surprised him so much that for a moment he just sat back on his heels, as though he were unsure how to deal with the sobbing creature on his couch.
He sat down next to her and she awkwardly turned into his arms. He thought about asking the reason for the tears, but then he connected the dots between the alcohol and the reference to her ill-fated wedding and came to his own conclusion. So he simply held her, stroking her back and shoulders, as much as he could reach. She calmed after a while and when she pulled back, her blue eyes were bright with tears, but clear, no longer vacant from overindulgence. She would have a nasty hangover, but she would survive.
Red released her shoulders and stood, collecting the first aid supplies.
“I’m going to make you some tea.”
Lizzie sat quietly on the couch, now that the buzz had drained away, she felt uncertain, even awkward in his space. She tried to keep her mind busy by examining the books on the shelves. It had been a long time since they had been alone together. First there was the trial, and the Cabal, then there was the baby and Tom. It still made her flinch a bit inside, how naive she’d been. In the end, she hadn’t even had to boot him out of her life, he had made his own hasty exit, not even three weeks after the birth of Amelia. She sighed and forced a smile as Red came back with a steaming mug of tea for her.
This man would never stop saving her. Even if it was from herself.
“I made you chamomile. Figured it would be easier on your stomach.” He carefully wrapped her hands around the mug and then took a seat beside her.
“What’s going on, Lizzie? Bar fights are beneath you.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. How did he always know how to make her feel small?
“I imagine you think many things are beneath me, Red. But there is ample evidence to the fact that I am no paragon of virtue and that I don’t always make good life choices.”
“So noted. So why the violence? The alcohol is understandable.”
Lizzie shrugged and sipped her tea. It burned her tongue, but it cleared the aftertaste of the whiskey. Now that her head was no longer spinning she could see how she looked to someone like Red. How sad, how lost he must think her, how very pathetic. It turned her stomach a bit but she made her choices and now she was owning the consequences.
“For the last few months, maybe longer, I felt...swaddled. Like my whole body was wrapped in cotton wool, and at first it was great, being with Amelia, trying to learn to be a mom. But then it began to smother me, all the attention and the security and...just everything. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t feel, I couldn’t even breathe anymore. So when Aram, who was the only one who noticed that I was going stir-crazy, offered to babysit Amelia anytime I wanted some “me time” I jumped at the chance. I needed to feel like a person again.”
“A person who gets into fistfights in bars?”
“It wasn’t like that at first. It was shopping with Samar, or lunch with a lady from my group therapy session. This was the first time this has happened.”
“I see.”
Lizzie set her mug on the table. She was done with this. Done with feeling like this.
“Look, Red, I get it. I know what you think of me, of my decisions. Usually you respect my autonomy even when you disapprove. And I’m sorry I came here tonight and put you in the position once again of having to take care of me. I promise you, it won’t happen again.”
She stood, glaring at him, and spun on her heel. Her bag was on the floor by the coat rack, she would just call a cab.
“Lizzie.”
She looked up from her purse, Red was standing in the archway to the living room. His hands in his pockets, his face...curiously relaxed.
“I think you are the strongest woman I have ever met. It’s not my place to judge you for how you handle things. I may have opinions, but I’m not holding you to any imaginary standards. We don’t always agree, but I have never considered you anything less than truly remarkable.”
The purse dropped to the floor as Lizzie marched over to Red, stepping close to him, invading his space, peering up at him as though she wished to measure the weight of his words. She studied him intently, and he held his breath waiting for her judgment. Could she see how far gone he was? Did she now realize the value he placed on her, not because of what she was, or who her parents were, but because she was Lizzie. And she was his, even if it was only in his own mind.
Her eyes softened, and she stepped back with a faint smile.
“Thank you, Raymond.”
She turned and retrieved her bag and slipped out the front door. He sagged against the doorway, eyes falling closed as his heart twisted inside. He had just turned away when he heard the door ease open behind him.
“I forgot something.”
He turned and she was right behind him, a wicked light gleaming in her cornflower eyes. He felt his breath stutter in his chest.
“You.”
“Oh thank god.”
His prayer of thanksgiving was cut off by her lips crashing into his as they stumbled gracelessly back to the couch. He tried to be careful, tried to mind her injured hands and bruised face as he attempted to devour every inch of skin he could access. It wasn’t easy, and there were a few hissed curses. They had been starved for touch so long, they no longer registered the hunger, but now it was awake and it howled to be sated.
She ripped the placket from his shirt as she fumbled with the buttons, but he shrugged it off and never counted the cost. He could hardly believe he wasn’t dreaming this. She was in his arms, so hot it seemed as though she had caught fire. He wanted to burn with her. Her skin was ivory pale as he stripped the clothing away. He knew that pregnancy and childbirth would have left their marks, but he couldn’t imagine her without them. His lips ghosted over every stretch mark, every curve, gentled over the dark rose of her nipples, smiling when she whimpered and arched into his touch.
There was little of poetry in this, nothing of love songs as they took and gave in equal measure. Muscles strained, dewed with sweat in the half light, as they fed the ravenous hunger for each other. Lizzie rose like a candle flame over him, taking him in with only the slightest of hesitation. The slow rhythm of her hips drew his control over a ragged edge, so he reached to add to her pleasure, pulling her with him over the edge, and into the event horizon.
Prompt-a-thon! From anonymous: Liz finds Red tied up on the bed a la Robert Downey Jr’s Sherlock and decides to play with him before freeing him.
Prompt filled by @pala-cor-meum (Spademyheart on Ao3) Rated M/E for smut
Liz decided to go undercover as a maid without telling Red. He had given the task force information on a new blacklister, but she knew he was holding something back. She wasn’t going to sit around and wait for him to play cat to her mouse this time.
He was going out of town for the weekend on business, and this would be a great opportunity to do a little snooping. Red had told them to just observe so as not to alert the target.
But a maid was inconspicuous; she could go in and conduct a search and no one would be the wiser. She couldn’t wait to see the look on Red’s face when she solved this case without him.
Dressed in the maid’s uniform, she was able to slip up to the penthouse suite without raising any questions. It had been a simple task to lift the master key from the friendly head maid earlier during her morning break.
Once inside the room, she immediately started searching. It wouldn’t do to have someone come back unexpectedly before she had a chance to find any intel.
She startled when she heard a noise coming from the bedroom. She held her breath, hoping she had been mistaken; her stomach dropped when a voice called out. “Is anyone there? I need a bit of help in here, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
The blood drained from Liz’s face as she recognized the voice. It couldn’t be, he was supposed to be out of town for the weekend. Her fear turned to jealous anger when she realized he only told her that because he didn’t want her interfering with his seduction of the lovely blacklister. Of course, she had no claims on him, but it still stung. While she had feelings for him, she was too timid to act on them, always thinking he would make a move if he wanted more than a professional relationship. She had half a mind to run out of the suite before he found out she was there, but the other half wanted to call him out for misleading her yet again. The latter won. She deepened her voice so she would sound different and called out to him.
“I’ll be right there, sir.”
He had one of his charming smiles plastered on his face waiting for the maid to round the corner. He thought it best to warn her before she came in the room so she didn’t think he was some weird pervert. “Madam, I need you to remain calm, and trust me, I’m a professional. Beneath this pillow lies the key to my release.”
She had no idea what he was talking about and frankly, she didn’t care. She practically pranced into the bedroom, giddy at the chance to catch him off guard; however, she stopped short and her jaw practically fell to the floor at the sight that greeted her. Raymond Reddington, the great Concierge of Crime, was sitting up in the bed with his hands bound to the headboard and a pillow strategically covering his private parts.
His expression matched her own — out of all the people he had been imagining over the past two hours coming to his rescue, she had not been one of them. He had made it clear to her that she and the task force were to observe from afar so he could have time to put his plan in motion, though things hadn’t gone quite how he had envisioned.
He recovered first, and smiled pleasantly at her as if he wasn’t trussed and helpless on the bed, thanks to years of practice thinking on his feet (well, in this case, not his feet). “Lizzie, I wasn’t expecting you, but I’m very glad you’re here.” He nodded to his wrists in case she hadn’t noticed they were tied to the bed. “I seem to be in a bit of a predicament.”
She stood there knowing she should say something, laugh at him at the very least, but she was distracted by his broad shoulders and his chest which was covered in what looked to be the softest, springy hair traveling all the way down into a veet before the pillow obstructed her view. She licked her lips, her eyes darkening with desire. She should untie him and make a hasty exit, but this opportunity would likely never present itself again. This was one of those moments that if not acted upon, one would kick themselves for the rest of their life. If he wouldn’t make the first move, she would. She pushed down the voice in her head taunting her that he didn’t want her and would make her stop. Well, if he did, she would be mortified and it would probably put a strain on their partnership, but they had been through some pretty rough patches before. She would eventually get over her embarrassment… she hoped.
She moved towards him with predatory grace, loving the way his expression changed from amusement to confusion. She stopped at the side of the bed and reached out to touch his chest and run her fingers through the hair there. She smiled when it felt just as she imagined it would. Now that she was closer, she could see the grey strands scattered among the gold. She bent her head and laid a gentle kiss on his lips before pulling back to gauge his reaction. His whispered “Lizzie” was questioning, but not a “no”, and that emboldened her further. She slipped off her shoes and socks, then slowly pulled off her slacks and hotel uniform shirt, watching him watch her with rapt attention. She left her bra and panties on in case he stopped her, so she could preserve just a little dignity. She climbed onto the bed and straddled his legs. He still hadn’t said anything other than her name, and she wanted to make sure this was okay before she went any further. She leaned up and kissed him lightly again before looking him in the eye.
“Is this okay?”
He merely nodded; he was afraid if he spoke now, it would break whatever spell had been cast. He had dreamed about her ever since the day she pierced his neck with a pen, but he never thought she would see him as anything more than a criminal. Even after their time on the run, she had kept her distance from him, always wanting to be professional.
Having gotten the green light, she felt excited and more aroused than she could ever remember being, and he hadn’t even touched her. She had never had a man at her mercy like this, and she liked it. She placed kisses along his jaw and down his neck, flicking her tongue out to taste the scar she had given him. He moaned softly, and she smiled before beginning her descent once more. She kissed his chest and licked his nipples, loving the small whimpering sound he made at first contact. Leaning up, she ran her hands over his chest and stomach, marveling at how solid he felt beneath her. He didn’t have a six pack, but that didn’t bother her in the least.
“You are magnificent,” she breathed out in wonder.
He bucked up under her, reminding her that she had yet to uncover all of him, and that he wished he could see her as well. “You have me at a disadvantage, but I’m sure I could say the same about you.”
She unclasped her bra and let it slide down her arms before letting it fall on top of him, luxuriating in the way his eyes widened and his pupils dilated. “How’s this?”
He strained upward to see if he could get one of the perfect globes in his mouth, but she backed away, giggling. It turned him on seeing her playful and smiling at him. “Perfection, just like I imagined.”
She grasped the pillow that was the last barrier between them, looking up at him again to make sure that he was still okay with all of this. At his nod she lifted the pillow and tossed it to the side.
She sucked in her breath at the sight of him; he was only half hard and already an impressive size. She looked back up and he wiggled his eyebrows and winked at her. She couldn’t help but smile back at the cheeky bastard.
She knew just how to wipe that smile off of his face though — she backed up on all fours and took him into her mouth before he knew what she was about. His deep moan made her touch herself, but it was not enough when she realized she still had her panties on. She jumped off the bed to divest herself of the small piece of material, but turned back at his protest.
He jerked against his restraints, believing she was going to leave him like this. “Lizzie, please don’t go.” He was pleading and he didn’t care. He wanted her and he knew now that she wanted him; he would go crazy if he didn’t have her.
She placed her finger over his mouth to quiet him. “Shhh, I’m not leaving, I’m just getting comfortable.” She quickly stripped and climbed back on top of him, smiling down at him with affection.
She resumed her position and took him back in her mouth. Setting a slow pace to drive him wild, she licked the tip as she pulled off him, then took him all the way in again, over and over. His soft moans were making her crazy, and the way his hips were jerking told her he was doing his best not to buck up into her. She reached one hand back to play with herself, softly moaning along with him.
Before long, she couldn’t take it anymore. She slid up his body and grasped him firmly, lining him up with her core before slowly taking him inside her. He felt so good, she couldn’t take it slow — increasing her rhythm, she ground against him every time she slid down, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. He was biting his lower lip and she could see he was holding himself in check — that was it for her. She climaxed intensely falling into his chest. He bucked up under her, pushing against her so she could ride it out. He was still hard inside her when her mind cleared. She reached up and untied his hands before settling back down against him.
He half chuckled, half moaned at her antics. He wished he could make this last for her and bring her to orgasm once again, but he was so close. Next time, he promised himself. He flipped her over and drove hard and fast into her until he saw stars and let go, exploding inside of her.
They laid entwined in each other's arms until their breathing returned to normal. Red was worried since she hadn't said anything for a while. He hoped she wasn't already regretting her bold behavior. He looked down and she smiled brightly up at him. His chest tightened with love for her.
Prompt-a-thon! From @filmsarefriends: Red walks in on Lizzie using a vibrator. Prompt filled by @minp1072. Rated M/E for smutty smut.
Sleep eluded her.
After weeks on the run, they had hit a small apartment for the night, one of many safe houses, but this time with a room of her own, a bed. Finally able to strip off her clothes to sleep; curled under clean sheets in a tank top and panties, comfortable and quiet.
Luxuries.
And yet.
She can’t sleep. Can’t rest. Can’t settle.
Did she… miss him? His quiet breathing beside her. The flip of pages as he read late into the night. His scent, that has come to mean safety and comfort and home.
She rolled over, annoyed with herself. And again.
Again.
Her skin felt hot and tight; her mind refused to settle.
She groaned into her pillow, and her thoughts flitted, of their own accord, to their last meet up with Mr Kaplan. To the moment after Red had taken the fresh go-bags to the trunk, and the older woman, with a twinkle in her eye, had pressed a smaller bag into her hands.
“There are some things,” she’d said quietly, “that he just won’t think of, dearie.” Then she’d winked. Winked.
She opened her eyes, and leaned over to rummage in the duffle on the floor beside her. She pulled out Mr Kaplan’s bag and propped herself up to dig inside. Chocolate. A small pack of tampons. What had turned out to be an incredibly filthy novel that she can’t read without blushing. And this. Small and innocuous.
Or, it would have been, if it hadn’t been purple.
She just needed to relax. Just for few minutes. Just so she could sleep.
She dropped the bag, tucked the little cylinder beside her pillow, and lay back, kicking her legs free of the tangled sheets.
She shut her eyes again, and tried not to think too hard about what she was doing.
His scent. His arms, tight around her after her near-shooting. His voice, deep and rich, reassuring. Telling her that she is his way home.
A hand drifted to her breast and she toyed with a nipple, already erect.
The smile that lights up his face. The glint in his eye, every so often, when he looks at her. The mobility of his expressive mouth.
She sighed, warmth seeping through her, and her other hand slid down her body.
He yawned, and blinked. The soft lamplight behind him suddenly seemed glaring; his neck ached with a cramp. He looked down at the book in his lap and realized he’d lost track of what he was reading some time ago.
Time for bed, he thought. Lizzie had gone some time ago, and he should be taking advantage of the chance for a real night’s sleep as well.
He stood and stretched, spine cracking, and yawned again. He might be exhausted enough to actually rest, tonight.
He wandered to the bathroom — peed, washed, brushed his teeth. It was nice to have the opportunity for normal routines.
He hoped Lizzie was sleeping well; she had gained a terrible drawn look over their weeks on the road that worried him. He paused by her door and listened, just to make sure.
It was quiet and dark; good, he thought, she sorely needs a restful night.
But just as he turned away, he heard her moan softly. Concern flooded him — was she ill? Hurt? Upset?
He opened the door gently and slipped inside the room. He was about to call her name when his eyes focused on the bed.
She wasn’t sick. Or upset. She was… She…
God, he thought, look away, get out of this room.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all.
She was stretched out, limbs long and pale, her back slightly arched, knees wide, head back, lips parted. Slim body almost bare, with her top ruched up under her armpits, her panties tangled around her ankles. One hand teased at a bare breast, rolling a swollen pink nipple between its fingers. The other was tucked at the vee of her thighs, making small, fierce movements.
She was so beautiful it knocked the breath from his body.
Inside the room, he could hear another noise, a low, consistent humming. As his eyes adjusted more and more to the darkness, he could make out the shape of something clutched in her hand.
It took him a moment, but…
Where on earth had she gotten a vibrator from?
As his mind put up a brief struggle with morality, he decided it really didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the delectable sight before him.
Heat coiled inside her, tingled through her fingers and toes. Her breath came in short pants, her eyes shut tight. The vibrator cupped her clit, surrounding it with sensation, driving her hard. Her breasts ached; her core was slick and wet.
So close, she thought, oh, so…
A faint rustle sounded, just loud enough to catch her attention between breaths.
She froze, startled. She opened her eyes cautiously, and saw him standing just inside the doorway, half-turned — whether coming or going, she couldn’t tell. His face was caught mid-expression, and as their eyes met, he made a little choking noise in his throat.
“Lizzie,” he rasped, his voice deep and husky. “I cannot express how much I regret this intrusion; I would never…”
He trailed off as a smile bloomed on her face; as her eyes dropped to the thickening bulge in his pants and then raised to meet his again.
“Are you sorry?” she asked. “Don’t be.”
Now that he was standing there, she thought there was no way she could settle for the tool in her hand, no matter how diverting.
“Lizzie,” he started again, but stopped abruptly when she shifted on the bed.
She dropped her outer knee as low as she could, ensuring he had a full view, and kept her eyes fixed on his face as she started to move her hands again, plumping and massaging her breast, pressing the vibrator back into her clit.
Her stomach trembled as his eyes went cloudy and dark; as his expression turned hungry and predatorial. He kicked off his shoes and prowled over to the bed, eyes hot on hers. He sat on the bed beside her, leaned over a little with one hand planted beside her head.
“Let me,” he said, and slid his free hand over hers, taking the vibrator from her.
She drew a sharp breath as he increased the pressure, as tension began to build again inside her. He shifted, not letting up, raising himself up and over her to straddle her legs. He traced the contours of her body with his free hand, making her quiver, winding downward until his fingers were stroking at her entrance, teasing. Her hands dropped to the bed and she clutched at the sheets.
“Red,” she whispered, “please.” Her eyes drifted shut and she pushed into his hands.
He licked his lips, let out his breath heavily. The wet heat of her was intoxicating; he eased two fingers inside her and she moaned again. He was hard and aching now, watching her shudder beneath him, listening to the soft cries that started as he thrust his fingers in and out.
“That’s it,” he crooned. “Just let go, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”
She arched further off the bed with a louder cry, coating his fingers, his hand, with moisture as she came. He flicked off the vibrator and tossed it aside, letting the heel of his other hand rub against her throbbing clit to ease her down.
Her eyes opened halfway and glimmered at him, heavy-lidded with pleasure. She pushed up on her elbows, then grasped his arm to pull herself up so they were face-to-face. They looked at each other, waiting, the air electric between them.
“Red,” she breathed finally, “are you going to kiss me?”
He raised a hand to stroke the side of her face, marvelling at the soft silk of her skin, surprised to see how he shook.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, “so gorgeous, you are.”
She flushed a little, leaned into his hand. “Red,” she said back, and closed the rest of the distance to press her lips to his.
His mouth was soft and warm and yielding; she immediately loved the feel of him. Her nerves jumped and tingled; she started to want, all over again.
She kissed him, and he was lost. HIs hands moved, one to tangle in her hair, the other to grip her waist and tug her into him. He had to taste her; he licked at her lips, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as she opened to him on a sigh. He felt half-crazed as he kissed her, drowned in her, the fingers of one hand still wet and slick with her release.
Gasping for breath, he tore his mouth away to burn a path down her neck with hot, wet kisses, her skin salty and damp. He wanted to mark her skin and claim her as his own; he suckled desperately at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, dizzy with lust.
“Red,” she said again, “Red, I want your skin, I want to see and touch and taste.”
His cock hardened further at her words, pressing painfully into his zipper. He managed to pull back from her; was gratified to see her face as driven as his, her eyes as wild as he knew his own must be.
He shrugged out of his vest as she fumbled at his buttons, then peeled his shirt down his arms. She kicked her feet, ridding herself of her panties, as he yanked the tank over her head and tossed it aside. She ran her hands down his body, her fingers light and teasing, learning him. She leaned in to nuzzle at his chest, licking and sucking, as her hands worked the buckle of his belt; unbuttoned and unzipped his fly.
“Just let me…” he managed, pushing away with great force of will to stand beside the bed. He stripped off the rest of his clothing, kicking it away and climbing back onto the bed as quickly as he could.
She laughed softly into his mouth as their legs tangled together, as he covered her with his body, as he dove back into her kiss. She pressed into him eagerly, wrapping arms and legs around him to pull him closer. The head of his cock rubbed along her core, spreading her wetness, gradually starting to slide easily.
She whimpered, clutching at him, her hips twitching; she started to nip little wet bites along his jawline, the curve of his neck, driving him. Shifting his weight, he grasped himself and set his cock to her, held still one moment.
“Please,” she whispered again, mouth tickling his ear delightfully. “I want you so, Red.”
He let out his breath in a long sigh and thrust into her, long and smooth. She fluttered around him and he groaned in appreciation.
“Lizzie,” he murmured, “You’re so lovely, you feel…” He began to move, pull and push, deep and slow, savouring. “Sublime, sweetheart.”
She drew a shuddering breath, started to speak, couldn’t. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and found his rhythm. They moved together well, in synchronicity, damp with sweat, skin sliding, breathing short.
He longed to freeze time, to stay in the moment, a flash of perfection. But she was hot and willing and clinging, touching him, stroking, panting little encouragements into his ear — yes, like that; please, Red; faster now; harder, just there; oh, oh, Red — and he couldn’t stop, couldn’t take it, could only obey.
He moved within in her now like a man possessed, driving into her over and over as she arched into him, her nails digging into his back. She cried out again, high and loud, stiffening beneath him, around him, coating him once more. He opened his eyes and pulled back to look, to see her face, and that was enough — he thrust again, hard, deep, and came in long, hot pulses, shaking with release.
He dropped into her as gently as he could, stilling himself. She tightened the grip of her limbs, welcoming, reassuring him, shaken inside with the intensity of their love making. They lay still for a few moments, then a few minutes, as their breathing evened out, as they calmed together.
When he felt her shiver a little, he rolled them sideways, then reached down and tugged up the sheet, the blanket. She curled into him like she belonged there — and, of course, she did. He pressed a kiss to her damp hair, then rested his cheek against her head, fatigue starting to overcome him.
Just as he started drift, she spoke softly.
“Remind me to thank Kate,” she said. “For the supplies.”
