prompt: (Belated Trick) Desperate, fear-fuelled sex following a near-death experience.
It’d been chaos, complete with hellfire and brimstone and curtains of bullets. Azog had brought into play every rank of pipes, an army of lesser Demons with thick skin and nothing to lose. And Kíli had been sent into the eye of the storm – another of Chief fucking Durin’s brilliant ideas. Uncle, superior, it didn’t matter, Fíli was going to strangle Throin for putting Kíli in the thick of it.
Thorin held fast to his strict ideologies about Harlequins, or any creature that wasn’t pure-blooded homo sapien. A fucken riot when one considered that the whole god damned department was assembled to monitor Creature related criminal activity. Thorin had built his career on the backs of Creatures, the innocent and guilty alike.
His picture was in the paper, shaking the hand of the first government official Were-Man. Hypocrisy immortalized in black and white.
Kíli had been held hostage, shot at, tossed around like hot potato, evading the carnage through sheer luck, Fíli’s quick thinking, and the nimble acrobatics Harlequins were known for.
An inch to the right and Kíli’s brains would’ve been splattered all over Azog’s office wall.
Fíli growled in residual rage at the thought, shoved Kíli into the closed door of his—their apartment, following quickly after and pinning Kíli’s sinewy form in place with his broader, harder bulk. A thick arm on either side of Kíli’s head kept him exactly where Fíli wanted him. He captured Kíli’s mouth in a rough kiss that was more a display of teeth and tongue, devouring the salacious flavor of Kíli’s moans. Slick, sticky smacks filled the empty top floor hallway, replaced the memory of sharp screams and gunfire.
The sounds vibrated between them, ricocheting Fíli’s need higher and higher as Kíli squirmed and undulated beneath him, rolling their hips together. Fíli couldn’t think beyond having Kíli right there, alive and breathing and beautiful. In one fucking piece, no thanks to Fíli’s uncle.
Again, Fíli’s chest rumbled, a snarl creeping its way out of him before he could stop it. Distractedly, he slammed the key into the lock and twisted the doorknob. They spilled through the empty space and crashed to the floor, pulling, and tearing clothes off each other in manic, desperate movements.
The shreds of Kíli’s blood-soaked t-shirt joined Fíli’s jeans, tossed somewhere into the apartment. Neither bothered with their boots.
Fíli bit and licked his way down Kíli’s chin, throat, chest, his large hands pinning Kíli’s wrists into the hardwood floor above his head. Kíli whined, arched up into Fíli’s mouth as Fíli used the firm point of his tongue to toy with Kíli’s nipples, one and then the other.
He didn’t linger, however, eager to get his cock into Kíli right bloody now. In an impressive show of strength, Fíli grabbed Kíli by the hips and hoisted him around, flipping Kíli onto his hands and knees.
“Lube.” Fíli grunted, already spreading Kíli’s cheeks apart with his thumbs.
“Not this time.” Kíli panted and wiggled his arse invitingly, “Need to feel it.”
Fíli understood. Without hesitation, he lunged forward and teased Kíli’s hole with slow, light grazes of his teeth and wet swipe of his tongue. Kíli tasted salt-tangy and musky, and Fíli was sure he was about to go blind, his cock was so hard.
Kíli shoved back into Fíli’s ministrations, mewling and gasping obscenities.
“Fee,” He begged, “Come on!”
Obeying the command, Fíli straightened, enjoying the sight of Kíli on his knees, jeans trapped around his knees, arse swaying. He spat into one hand and stroked himself, gathering the dribbles of precome to further slick himself up. Distantly, he hoped it would be enough.
-
After, they lay side by side on the floor, the front door still open and their cocks still out, Kíli an absolute mess of blood, come and sweat. They panted, grinning at each other in the dark. It was then, looking at Kíli, lit by the dim light of the streetlamps outside, expression dopey and cheeky all at once, that Fíli understood that he was irreverently fucked.
Because, he realized, he was completely – stupidly – hopelessly in love.
prompt: (Trick) Something wicked this way comes… but oh no, he's hot.
Fíli hated himself so much in that moment, it made Azog’s career-long pursuit to see Fíli burn in Hell look paltry in comparison. He knew – k n e w – he shouldn’t have turned his back on the creature for a millisecond; had heard all the street lore and learned enough in the Academy about trading and imprintingand all the other fancy terminology, that he had a pretty decent grasp on an arsenal of hypotheticals.
Except that Fíli was exhausted beyond measure after a particularly gruesome, four a.m. shoot out that proceeded too many hours cramped into the fucking puny, department issued microcar. What amounts to the front end of Fíli’s personal sedan because the whole world’s gone green, and the COP thought it’d be a great way to sway public opinion in their favor.
Let Fíli tell you, it hadn’t fucken worked.
What’s more, Fíli’d been on shift for, going on, twenty-four hours without so much as ten minutes to himself – chasing leads and gathering evidence – that he was sure he stunk. He’d stripped down to the white tee he wore under his button-down, stained yellow under the pits and around the collar from a day’s worth of grease and sweat.
His button-down had been shoved under the lid of the dumpster behind the building, the left arm completely red-brown and stiff with semi-dried blood. His leather jacket was in equally poor condition, but it hung stubbornly on the back of his desk chair, shedding the stench of copper and sulfur and a day and night’s accumulation of stale BO.
At the desk behind his, Lickspittle stared darkly at Fíli’s jacket while he typed up his incident report, face purple and eyes watering.
Fíli hoped Lickspittle would choke on it.
His arm hurt, the skin around his stitches tight and pulling, and Fíli was in dire need of a week’s sleep. That case had taken everything he had and more. Bard, too, was swaying on his feet, eyes sunken and bloodshot, hair stringy, shirt wet in patches at the neck, shoulders, and upper back from the water he’d splashed over himself as soon as they’d stumbled back from the scene.
So, yeah, Fíli hated himself to the point of wanting to start his entire life over, but he figured it was pretty fucken justified.
He stood in the door a few seconds more, long enough to take a burning sip of the precinct's backwash coffee and feel it travel down his throat to his stomach, and then moved with as much purpose and authority as he could muster at seven a.m. on no sleep and considerably less brain function. It took a helluva lot of effort not to acknowledge what had occurred in the interrogation room after he’d stepped out.
Like he said, Fíli knew what it meant to be imprinted on by a Harlequin after what references called “transference”. But it was an entirely different thing to read about it in training and to experience it firsthand. For fuck’s sake, Fíli couldn’t even be certain that the creature in front of him wasn’t somehow a different one altogether.
The creature grinned at Fíli as Fíli dragged his chair back, the sound loud in the otherwise silent room, and took a seat across from them. All cheeks and crinkly eyes – now a warm, rich brown that reminded Fíli of cozy autumns under knit blankets, toes curled into fuzzy socks and the taste of spiced apple pie.
The eyes weren’t the only thing transformed, the creature had gone and done all of themselves at once, not bothering to consider that Fíli had swallowed enough magical horseshit for one case and was unequivocally done.
Chestnut hair spun into artfully windswept waves that fell to their newly broad, square shoulders. The shape of their face had gone from something almost indecipherably androgynous to overtly masculine, jaw sharp and soft simultaneously and bristled with dark stubble. Long, straight nose, heavy brows, features that could be as severe as they were sweet.
They shuffled closer to the edge of their seat, dropping their shackled arms onto the table between them and Fíli. Automatically, at the sound of the clattering chains, Fíli’s gaze flicked down. Thick, furry forearms replaced what had been bare white and mannequin-like. They tracked Fíli’s face for something they’d obviously found, their grin spreading, giddy and devastating.
Fíli’s heart thudded against his ribcage. He clenched his sweaty palms and cleared his throat.
It was the coffee, he told himself.
“Do you like it?” The creature asked, nudging their nose at Fíli, seeming to wiggle like a happy puppy though they hardly moved. Even their voice had changed.
Fíli coughed, sipped more coffee, pressed his lower lip between his teeth and released it with a sticky pop. When he glanced back at the creature, their eyes were trained on Fíli’s mouth, gone whiskey-smoke and heavy. Fíli felt his skin prickle and throat dry in response.
Fucking. Harlequins.
“You do, don’t you.” The creature said, dropping back into a slouch with a triumphant look in on their face. “I felt it as soon as you let me in.” They continued, stare boring into Fíli’s. Suddenly, their posture took on a sultry, sort of liquid grace that roused images of leather and velvet and sin in Fíli’s mind. “You want me like this,” The creature breathed, tilted their head back to expose their throat and moaned.
Instantly, Fíli was on his feet, chair flying backward with a clamour, and he smacked the metal table with his palms. His coffee spilled, paper cup rolling over the edge and plopping onto the floor.
“Enough!” He yelled, because Jesus Christ, even if the thing did, maybe, kind of embody all of Fíli’s sexual fantasies combined, they were still responsible for shooting an officer. After everyone had been cuffed. On the reasoning that the officer was a dick and didn’t need his big toe to survive.
The creature laughed, a bright thing, tinged crimson with mischief. “What’re you going to do? Throw me in jail?” They shook their head and tsked, “You know you’re not allowed to.”
Fíli leaned in and through gritted teeth said, “I can after forty-eight hours of this bullshit—” he flapped a hand between them, “And I will.”
“You won’t.” The creature said as if it were already decided and rose like a dancer, meeting Fíli over the middle of the table.
“What makes you think so?” Fíli challenged.
The chains clinked as the creature brought their hands down to support themselves, hinged toward Fíli so they could whisper in his ear, lips grazing against the sensitive shell as they spoke, “In forty-eight hours, you’ll be in love with me.” They eased back with a nip to Fíli’s lobe, resettled in their chair, sweet-as-pie smile tilted across their lips.
Fíli snorted incredulously. “I don’t think so.”
That he had to excuse himself to douse his head under cold water for five minutes was probably not the best way to prove the creature wrong, so sue him.
He couldn’t wait for the whole nightmare to be over and done with.
prompt: (Belated Trick) The characters from your verse, but… the one that usually does the protecting is now vulnerable.
“You’re an idiot.” Fíli croaked from his hospital bed, the first fingers of a sweet, glorious morphine high padding across his brain and through his limbic system and flushing through his body.
“You’re an arse.” Kíli responded, voice equally as broken. Harlequins were notoriously quick to heal, almost on par with Weres, but even Kíli’s unnatural metabolism couldn’t mend being hit by a truck, flung with the strength of an elephant on steroids, as swiftly as Kíli likely wished.
It'd been a case of wrong-place, wrong-time. Fíli hadn’t even been on the clock, finally accepting Kíli’s urging to enjoy his days off. They’d gone uptown to catch one of those black-and-whites playing at the old cinema, some Audrey Hepburn classic that Kíli adored, and Fíli was becoming uncomfortably fond of his Harlequin, couldn’t bring himself to say no.
And then some raging fucking lunatic Minotaur had crashed through the screen, howling and snarling, eyes bloodshot and horns filed to perfectly sharp points. Fíli had instinctively reached for a gun that hadn’t been there, calling out the Minotaur to drag his attention away from the other moviegoers. It’d worked, most of the patrons scrambled out like bats outta hell. Kíli, though? Had selective hearing.
“Twat.”
“Bastard.”
They’d corralled the Minotaur out of the cinema and into the mostly empty cark park behind it. Mostly empty except for the truck the Minotaur had launched in Fíli’s direction. The truck Kíli had been struck by, thrusting himself into Fíli’s space and knocking Fíli’s backwards several feet with his superior strength.
“Dickhead.”
“Moron.”
Thus, there they both were, resembling mummies in their various casts and bandages, more drugs in their systems than on the streets, cursing each other out for trying to out-hero the other.
“Dunce brat.” Fíli wheezed.
Kíli coughed, smacked his dry tongue against the roof of his mouth and said in sticky inflections, “Pompous prig.”
Both released cherryblossom sighs, content as they sank further into the sleepy embrace of the drugs pumping through their systems.
“Love you,” Kíli muttered, drifting to sleep as he spoke.
“Love you too.” Fíli answered, the reaction as knee-jerk as it was honest.
One of two of Fíli’s final coherent thoughts was that that was the worst possible moment to share how he felt for the first time. The second was his adamant decision never to take another day off again for as long as he lived.
---
note: i couldn't decide who protects who; they protect each other, stubborn fools that they are.
prompt: (Treat) What are the Halloween costumes of the characters from your verse?
Fíli: Big Bad Wolf
Kíli: Little Red Riding Whore.
“Absolutely fucking not.” Fíli was putting his foot down because there was no way he was allowing his Harlequin out of the house in lingerie that left absolutely nothingto the imagination. While his costume left far more on display – thigh, low-slung jeans, a wolf headdress and nothing else – the ribbon and lace seemed to give Kíli the air of being more naked than he actually was.
“Absolutely fucking yes.” Kíli countered, slinking across the living room and lowering himself into Fíli’s lap, knees on either side of Fíli’s hips. “Unless, of course, you can think of something more entertaining to do tonight.”
Fíli’s breath hitched, and his eyes drooped. Yeah, he could think of a thousand ways—things he could do that were more entertaining that watching his Harlequin shake it like a polaroid picture on some sticky bar at some seedy Creature club.
prompt: (Belated Treat) The characters from your verse, but… they both have magic! Mayhem ensues!
“Bard, I am so sorry,” Fíli said, voice deeply apologetic because he meant it, okay?
A low growl raised to a yip. Bard snuffled in annoyance, nails clicking against the vinyl of the breakroom floor as he spun in a circle. Fíli wasn’t sure if he was trying to get a grip on the body he now inhabited or if he was simply surrendering to new instincts and chasing his tail. Being a dog and all. A German shepherd to be precise. Not that the breed mattered, Fíli had turned Bard into a fucking animal and wasn’t that just the cherry on the sundae of this shitshow of a case?
G o d. D a m m i t.
“You should put your hands in your pockets.” Kíli suggested mildly, crouching low to inspect Fíli’s handiwork. “Don’t want Animal Services to lock up the entire police force, do you?”
“Har har,” Fíli mocked but did it anyway. The last thing he wanted to do was make things worse.
The whole thing had been an accident. Sort of. How was Fíli supposed to know Inferni were capable of transferring their magic to an external vessel upon their death? Elves rarely died and Inferni, in particular, were practically impossible to kill. It’d all been a fluke! And, naturally, Fíli had stormed in in the middle of it, stubborn to get the evidence he and Bard needed to keep a homicidal maniac in prison.
So, there he was, filled to the brim with unstable Dark Elf magic that was keen on doing whatever it wanted without Fíli’s permission. Exhibit A: Dog Bard. Exhibit B would have to’ve been the trail of missing floor (or ceiling, depending on which floor one was on) from the lift bank to their department.
“Who’d you kill?” Kíli asked casually, rising and spinning in a neat pirouette before settling against the table. “I bet it was Klarissa. She was due to meet her end. Such a slag.”
Fíli was stunned silent for a moment. “Don’t fuck about with this, Kee.” He warned.
“Or what? You’d twiddle your fingers at me?” Kíli scoffed, rolled his eyes, “Elven magic doesn’t work on Harlequins, Fee. You need to be willing to accept the intention of the wielder.” It went without saying that Harlequins were only open to the will of their Master.
Fíli wanted to rub the tension from his temples, but he was afraid of turning himself into a goldfish.
“Right,” He said, getting back on topic, “Does it matter whose magic this is?”
“‘Course,” Kíli shrugged, a gesture that screamed obviously only it wasn’t so obvious since Fíli had never heard anything about it. “If it was Klarissa, the magic is going to want to pass itself along to her kin. If it was anyone else—”
“Same deal, different kin.” Fíli finished. “Well, it wasn’t Klarissa.”
Kíli’s face crumpled.
Whatever his beef was with this Klarissa, Fíli would have to investigate later, right then he had freaky Elven magic to be rid of.
“It was Enid.”
“Aw, she was nice.” Kíli said, seemingly to himself, and then he perked back up, “Oh well.”
Fíli stepped into the space Kíli made between his legs, reluctant to ask but out of options, “Will you help me—”
“Yes.” Kíli beamed.
“I didn’t finish, Kee.”
“Right. Sorry.” Kíli rolled a hand, “Go on.”
Fíli started from the beginning, “Will you help me find Enid’s—”
“Yes.” Kíli interrupted again, big, dopey grin on his face. He practically vibrated in place, lunging forward and dragging Fíli into a tight embrace, “Oooh, we get to be partners! Finally! It’s going to be so great—”
Beside them, Bard snorted and dropped to his belly, resting his head on his paws and starting up at them in canine annoyance.
Several floating cars with pissed off drivers, two lightning storms and an orgy he dragged Kíli away from participating in, and Fíli was finally able to pass Enid’s magic to her next of kin. An Inferni Fíli was sure he was going to have to arrest down the line. But that was Future Fíli’s problem.
prompt: (Belated Trick) What is your characters' greatest fear?
Fíli has few fears; none that he’ll admit to aloud, anyway. Aloneness never turns to loneliness, falling gives him a sense of flight, death and heartbreak and injury are all inevitable lessons a person must endure in order to grow. He is somewhat afraid of the old Romanian woman who lives in 3B, snakes aren’t his favorite, and he could do without Bard’s youngest disappearing midway through a trip to the shops when under his supervision, but otherwise, his job has left him eerily desensitized.
However, as of late, he’s had to face the fact that if anything were to happen to Kíli, he’d murder everyone within a five-mile radius and then himself.
prompt: (Belated Treat) Magic spells scribbled down on post-it notes and stuck all over the place.
Kíli was crafted to be whatever his Master required. Every chromosome, each strand of DNA, was malleable as playdough for that reason. Some creatures evolved to blend in seamlessly with their environment, others spat or sprayed or mimicked or burrowed. It was nature’s way. Survival of the fittest. Thinning of the herd, and whatnot.
All that to say: As a Harlequin, Kíli was genetically inclined to obey as a means to survive. Fucking biologically predisposed to making himself exactly as Fíli needed him to be as soon as the transfer was accepted. Within seconds of their fledgling bond, Kíli was imbued with the knowledge of what would please Fíli most.
Although Fíli’s subconscious, his soul, his heart, his whatever-you-wish-to-label-it, was receptive and giving, the man himself was either purposefully ignorant or he’d lost a lot of brain cells somewhere over the course of his career, because, never before had Kíli been claimed by a Master who was so utterly and painfully unaware of what they wanted. Nay, needed.
Harlequins didn’t simply adopt the features their Masters preferred; they filled all the empty spaces their Masters couldn’t fill. Their strengths were their Masters’ weaknesses and vice-versa. And yes, okay, there was the slight evolutionary shortcoming of having to follow-through with their Masters’ every command, but no creature’s perfect, ay? Besides, it felt sinfully delicious to serve. The simultaneous release of dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin alone—mmng.
Kíli bit his lip and pressed his eyes closed as a pleasurable shudder ran through him at the thought. He was sitting cross-legged on the stem of Fíli’s Cloud Nine of a sectional, the part the unfolded into the moderate twin-sized bed Fíli ordered him to use. His eyes opened after the shudder passed, and instantly narrowed in distaste when they once again registered what they saw.
With all that said about Harlequins, having Fíli stamp a new addition into the fluorescent mural that was steadily creeping across every vertical surface was insulting. Practically unforgiveable. A slight against Kíli’s entire species. Yes, that’s right, he was calling Fíli a genephobic bigot. Or twat, for short.
Kíli harrumphed at the wallpaper of post-its, each boasting another rule Kíli was obligated to follow lest he be—actually, Fíli never specified what he’d do to Kíli should Kíli fail to follow his rules. Having an unobstructed link to Fíli’s psyche – a clear and constant impression of Fíli’s feelings warming the back of Kíli’s mind – told Kíli the threats were empty.
And, too bad, so sad for Fíli, his obscene collection of post-it notes weren’t magic spells that, when smacked into the bigger picture of post-its with aggressive authority, would brainwash whoever they were meant to brainwash. No, they held no power over Kíli’s actions. Only Fíli’s truest intentions did. And Fíli’s truest intentions didn’t demand that Kíli (Kíli tipped to the side, hand under him for support, and squinted at the clearest bit of chicken-scribble on a neon blue post-it on the lampshade)—oh. Kíli flushed a pretty petal pink, a wicked grin pulling one corner of his mouth up.
Fíli didn’t truly want Kíli to do not leave that bed at night under any circumstances. Even the boldly inked words, each line of each letter traced over multiple times to thicken the word and give it importance, didn't magically impress upon Kíli's inherent desire to obey. It just made Fíli a bigger knobhead.
A knobhead who, unbeknownst to everyone, including his bullheaded self, wanted Kíli to leave his fold-out in the middle of the night…
Kíli leapt to his feet in a catlike motion and pulled his borrowed t-shirt off, letting it drop to the floor. Then, he rubbed his hands together deviously and sashayed his way to Fíli’s bedroom door, giddy when he found it wide open, as if in invitation.
A genephobic, bigot, knobhead twat his new Master might’ve been, but he was sexy as sin and Kíli had every intention of helping Fíli discover and accept all the things in his subconscious-soul-heart-whatever-you-wish-to-call-it that he refused to acknowledge.
It was in Kíli’s very nature, after all, to serve.
prompt: (Treat) Describe your characters in percentages of their key traits/tropes.
note: i didn't exactly follow the prompt to a T. my brain decided to make a whole thing and so, here we are 🤷♀️
“It’s awful.” Fíli gloomed into his lager.
Bard barked a laugh, thumping Fíli’s back once before he gripped Fíli’s shoulder supportively, “I think it’ll be good for you.”
Fíli glared out the corner of his eye, muttered, “You don’t have to live with him.”
He gestured to the bartender, Rosie Cotton – a cherub-faced battleaxe who’d served the pair since they entered the force – and requested a shot of something strong.
“How wicked are we thinking?” Rosie asked merrily, sweeping two shot glasses off the rack behind her and twirling to knock them down on the bar in front of Fíli.
“I want to forget my entire life ever happened.” Fíli stated with more conviction than he’d ever possessed.
Rosie whistled, long and sympathetic, and grabbed a bottle from the shelf, upending it over the shot glasses with a seasoned flourish. She winked conspiratorially at Fíli. He pinked as he always did.
Rosie was a plump, pretty little thing with a halo of soft, blonde ringlets and summery hazel eyes. Awhile back, in the days Fíli still donned his blues, he’d tried wooing her, made a right fool of himself too. For every one of his teasing advances, Rosie had a perfectly sound reason why they shouldn’t.
Fíli hadn’t been hurt by the rejection, rather, he quite preferred the way things were between them now; harmlessly flirtatious, honest, and infrequent. Besides, Sam Gamgee, Rosie’s beau of six months, was a genuinely good bloke and Fíli thought those two made a better match than she and Fíli would’ve had she taken him up on his offer.
Folding her arms on the bar and leaning in, Rosie watched Fíli slide one of the two shots toward Bard and lift his own in salute, eyes squeezed shut in pre-emptive disgust. Both men choked as they swallowed. Bard smacked the bottom of his shot glass on the bar and coughed, Fíli sucked his teeth noisily and exhaled with his cheeks.
“Fucken A,” Bard wheezed.
“Good Ol’ Grand-Dad,” Fíli tipped his empty shooter to Rosie before placing it on the bar in front of her.
“Did it work?” Rosie said cheekily as she cleared and wiped down the area around Fíli and Bard.
Fíli’s shoulders hunched and his expression slackened into mourning. “No,” He replied sadly, “I think I’ll need a few more of those.”
He could feel the exaggeration of Bard’s eye-roll.
“Blimey, Durin, you make it sound like you’re being force to breed a hippo.”
“Fuck off, I’d rather be breeding a hippo than this.” He gestured vaguely to indicate his situation.
“It can’t be that bad.” Bard reasoned because he was a reasonable person with reasonable thoughts and a reasonable life.
He didn’t have Fíli’s tragic luck. Well, except for that one life-altering incident that made Bard Bowman a widower and a single father in one fell swoop. (Fíli winced and took a deep swig of his lager.) If Bard had been the one to claim the creature, they’d undoubtedly be a helluva lot less taxing on the nerves.
“You don’t get it,” Fíli pressed, flustered and stammering, and using his whole body to punctuate the severity of the situation he’d been thrust into against his will. “The dickhead’s 10% succubus, 20% toddler, 30% weasel, and 40%—”
“It’s incubus.” Bard interjected, voice flush with complacency.
Fíli stuttered in his speech, “What?”
“Incubus.” Bard repeated, “Is the male counterpart of a succubus.”
“It d o e s n ' t m a t t e r!” Fíli cried, about to get 1930’s work-whistle angry. At his wit’s end, running on adrenaline and annoyance. Sure, he’d finally managed more than a handful of consecutive hours’ sleep, but that didn’t make up for the constant prattle and/or sexual overtures being slung his way from sunup to sundown. And possibly the duration between.
The creature – Kíli, as they—he, decided to name himself – was a little shit.
Fíli had been forced to take a few personal days in order to ride out the consequences of claiming a Harlequin. His hand itched, the meat between his thumb and forefinger blazed red around the magical stamp that had appeared under the skin. It was ugly as sin. The liquorice and scarlet pattern of diamonds resembled a tiny patch of lizard scales, becoming darker and more permanent as the bond between he and Kíli settled.
Being forced away from the precinct meant Fíli had had to introduce Kíli to his apartment, a place Fíli hadn’t even allowed Bard to enter, and they’d been friends and partners for years. Fíli considered it his sanctuary, untainted by the impressions of others, where he could hole up and center himself at the end of every day.
It was an unbelievable find, too. Antique oak finishes and panelling in the two bedrooms, a working brick fireplace in the living area, original wood floors and large windows. The furniture he’d accumulated over the years complimented its vintage character. His pride and joy was the moss green, velveteen sofa that he used to section the living room from the dining area. French doors with muslin glass separated the main space from the narrow kitchen that occupied half the back end of the apartment, the loo filling the second half.
Fíli loved his apartment. Loved all its quirks and flaws and inconsistencies, the evidence of many lives lived in those walls, people who had come and gone, but had left their mark in some way. Be it the formerly wallpapered-over closet that Fíli had discovered when he’d stripped the walls, or the 1920s details in the kitchen clashing with the 1980s mural painted on the backsplash.
And now, Kíli was there. And not just there but there-there as in every-bloody-where, all at once, all the time, even surprising Fíli at one point when Fíli had been on the toilet. Had just waltzed in and perched himself on the vanity beside the sink, legs swinging back and forth, heels hitting the cupboard, chatting away as though it were perfectly normal to join someone while they took a dump.
Fíli was adamant he’d locked that door.
After supplying Kíli with a list of rules that Fíli had written on a series of post-its and had stuck to as many surfaces as were available – adding one to the new wall art every time he’d been prompted by some obnoxious act Kíli had performed – he thought Kíli would’ve calmed the fuck down and at least tried to be agreeable.
Kíli hadn’t. In fact, instead of keeping to the corner of the sofa Fíli had been kind enough grant to him (there’d been threats of locking Kíli in the second room until their forty-eight hours was over, and promises of being on best behavior), Kíli had somehow scooted his way into Fíli’s personal bubble in the span of an episode of Iron Chef without Fíli’s notice.
The worst part? Fíli couldn’t genuinely bring himself to think it’d been as awful as he was telling Bard.
Kíli had been a warm, solid shape against Fíli’s side, tucked into Fíli’s shoulder, hair that smelt of sandalwood and spice tickling Fíli’s neck. Somewhere along the line, Fíli’s body had begun to make decisions on his behalf and had gone so far as to drape an arm around Kíli’s shoulder. Had let his hand drift to Kíli’s hip when Kíli had curled into Fíli further, had draped himself over Fíli’s upper half with his head on Fíli’s chest and his arms around Fíli’s middle.
Kíli was kind of cute when he was at rest; not babbling his throat hoarse or slinking around while Fíli was in the middle of other things, skin glistening from the shower and clad only in a low-slung towel held up by wishful thinking.
“Either way, mate,” Bard said with a hint of regret Fíli knew was added for his benefit, “He’s 100% your responsibility.”
“Right.” Fíli waved to Rosie again, signalling for another round of shots, “In that case, I’m going to be 100% pissed in order to get through it.”
If Fíli woke in his bed the following morning, stripped to his pants, face shoved into the back of Kíli’s head, with Kíli’s firm, sleep-warm body held securely in Fíli’s arms, both hitching their hips in tiny, aborted movements—
Bard would never know he was right and therefore wasn’t.
