Title: In Any Other Language
Ship(s): Jassekiel
Rating: M, 18+
Word Count: 1,663
Summary: Ezekiel's a lot smarter than he looks, Jacob has a bit of a wicked streak, and Cassandra's got a thing for foreign languages.
Also posted on my AO3.
“How many languages do you speak?” Jacob demands, sounding a little cheated as Cassandra sits in a chair beside Ezekiel's desk where they've cornered him in his office, the only one that actually has a door.
Ezekiel folds his arms over his chest, shifting his weight slightly as he leans back against the desk. “Just four. Not fluent or anything, not like you,” he replies. He hadn't exactly planned on telling his lovers that he spoke other languages at all, because there wasn't a whole lot of need for that particular skill set, not when they had a linguist already. But apparently, he talks in his sleep still, a habit he thought he'd lost a long time ago. And apparently he sometimes talks in his sleep in languages other than English, too.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Cassandra asks curiously.
“Didn’t matter. Cowboy's better at it anyways, so what’s the point?” He doesn't know why they're making a big deal out of this. So he's got a couple phrases down, doesn't mean he could pass for a native like Jacob could if he tried.
Jacob huffs and unfolds his arms, stepping forward and reaching up to take Ezekiel’s face between his hands, kissing him soundly. “Jonesy, I don’t care if you’re not fluent. I’d just like having someone other than Flynn to talk with. You can practice with me. You don’t use it and you lose it, right?” he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs over Ezekiel’s jaw. He smiles for a second and then says in German, "I imagine that this, Dutch, and French are three of your four languages. Am I right?"
Ezekiel blinks at him in surprise. "How'd you—?"
"You were speaking German in your sleep last night. That, Dutch, and French are the three main languages of Belgium."
Now he smiles, winding his arms around Jacob's waist. "And I would know the languages of Belgium because...?" His German is a little rougher around the edges than Jacob's, but it's still damn good, if he does say so himself.
"Because every diamond in the world passes through Antwerp at least once, and you're incorrigible."
He laughs aloud at that. Damn, the cowboy knows him well. "You're right, but my Dutch is for shite. I can order coffee, but that's about it."
Jacob only shrugs. “I can help you." He glances over at Cassandra again, and his expression changes slightly, intrigue and a bit of heat coming to his eyes; curious, Ezekiel turns a little in his arms and looks at their girl. Cassandra's staring up at them with a slightly glassy-eyed look on her face, a flush rising to her cheeks. "I think our girl likes us speaking other languages,” the cowboy remarks, this time purposefully laying the accent on thick, observing the way she shivers and presses her thighs together almost impulsively.
“I think you are right, Mr. Stone,” Ezekiel replies quietly, intrigued as well, not only by her reaction, but by the look on Jacob's face. Suddenly, he is very, very glad that they cornered him in his office, the only one with a door, a door that happens to lock, too. “I would go so far to say as it turns her on. Do you agree?” He's known that nothing gets Cassandra going better than them showing off their skill sets. Competence, magic, and escaping danger in general were her aphrodisiacs, but he's never put thought towards the idea that it's not just the knowing other languages that turns her on, but speaking them.
“Oh, I think I do, Mr. Jones.” Grinning, Ezekiel starts to move around the desk, reach for her, but it surprises him when Jacob catches his wrist and tugs his arm back. "Not yet. I want to see how far we can get her," Jacob says, switching to French; a wicked smile spreads across his face when Cassandra inhales sharply, her toes curling in her shoes. Still holding his wrist, the cowboy backs up a few steps and sits down in Ezekiel's chair, pulling the thief along next to him. Cassandra starts to stand up, breathing a little faster, but Jacob shakes his head. "Sit down, Cassandra, and stay there," he orders, pointing to the chair. She doesn't speak French, but his intent is unmistakable either way. She sinks back into the chair, her gaze flicking between them eagerly.
"You've got a naughty streak in you, don't you?" Ezekiel asks in French; his accent is more noticeable in French, but he's better at it than Dutch.
Jacob winks at him, his fingers lightly squeezing around the thief’s wrist, rubbing circles on the soft inner skin. “Come over here, Jones.”
He flushes a little as the cowboy tugs on his arm again, pulling him closer, and he gets a leg over, straddling Jacob’s thighs. The chair creaks a little but holds up, thankfully. Good thing he doesn't do cheap equipment, or they'd have a big problem in a minute. The historian runs his hands up underneath Ezekiel’s jumper, nibbling on the shell of his ear. “You should see her face right now. Do you think she’s wet already?” he asks huskily.
Ezekiel wriggles against Jacob’s lap, making the man rumble pleasurably. “Are you kidding? Did you see her face when you told her to sit down? Her knickers are probably soaked through by now. I wonder what her synesthesia makes of all this? Or do you think she just likes the language?”
Jacob hums low in his throat and nuzzles against the side of Ezekiel’s neck, surely leaving a bit of stubble burn. “I don’t know. But I’m really starting to like this. Do you speak Spanish or Italian?”
“Italian. Pizza’s great there.”
The cowboy smiles and nips at his jaw playfully. He switches to Italian next, running his hands all across Ezekiel’s back and sides beneath his jumper but not pulling it off, leaving them both fully clothed. He murmurs largely sweet nonsense, affectionate praise and snatches of poetry; Ezekiel doesn't know half of it, but he returns the favour in his own way. He might not be fluent, but he knows a few choice phrases that have Jacob's ears turning pink. The callused tracing of his fingertips over Ezekiel’s ribs makes him shiver happily, goosebumps spreading across his skin. “She looks like she’s about to come right now, just from watching us. What do you think does it for her more, Jones? Seeing us like this, or hearing us?”
Ezekiel runs his fingers through Jacob’s thick hair; he’d been letting it grow out a bit, and he could feel the beginnings of curls starting to come through. “Depends. Is she touching herself? She always touches herself when she watches us.”
“No. But it looks like she’s about to break the arms off the chair,” Jacob rumbles back.
He kind of wants to glance back and look at her, but this game is a lot more fun than he’d anticipated. They were so going to do this again. He rolls his hips a little against Jacob’s lap and is rewarded with a low purring growl. "Are we turning you on, Cassandra?" he asks without turning around, raising his voice a little to make sure she knows he's talking to her; she whimpers a little at the sound of her name. "I mean, if you're getting off just hearing us talk dirty, imagine what'll happen when we get our hands on you. We'll have you seeing so many stars you won't be able to count them all, not even with your super brain."
Jacob bites gently at the side of Ezekiel's neck and abruptly switches back to German, "And when we're done, we'll see if maybe we can't get you to babble in another language or two. I bet we could if we tried, don't you think, Jones?"
Ezekiel glances at the cowboy, watching his face, and he's torn between wanting to roll his eyes and laugh. The wanker is taking notes for later. He keeps switching languages so he can see which one really makes her squirm. And it seems that German might be the winner. He starts to turn around, wanting to see their girl's face, but Jacob tightens his arms around him, keeping him still. "No, not yet. She's almost there."
"I bet I know what'll get her over," Ezekiel replies, and before Jacob can ask, he gets the cowboy's belt undone one-handed and shoves one hand into his jeans, squeezing him through the thin material of his boxers. Jacob tightens his grip spasmodically, gasping and letting out an impressive stream of growling curses and swears as his hips arch up. Over the sound of his growling, Ezekiel hears Cassandra let out a small cry and grins victoriously.
When he turns around, their redhead's slumped over in her chair, shivering all over with her thighs pressed tightly together and her hands locked white-knuckle tight on the arms of her chair. He pulls his hand free of Jacob's jeans; the cowboy makes a vaguely displeased noise, but Ezekiel gives him a look that promises patience will be very well rewarded. He stands up and walks over to Cassandra, crouching on his heels in front of her. "Well, Fräulein, are you sure you want Jacob and me to be practicing languages? We might never get anything done again," he remarks in English.
Cassandra's head snaps up so fast he's surprised she doesn't give herself whiplash, reaching out to grip his arm tight, digging her nails in. "If you don't, I will have to kill you," she hisses back, still breathless and flushed.
Jacob joins him on her other side. "Maybe we'll just save the practicing for home, then?" he suggests with a slow, devious smile. "And speaking of home, I believe there's a lovely big bed waiting for us, meine Lieben. Shall we?"
She shivers a little bit and smiles at them both. "Only if you help me. I don't think I can walk yet."
Title: Yours, Mine, Ours
Ship(s): Jassekiel
Rating: T
Word Count: 834
Summary: They keep taking his shirts, but Jacob's not complaining. What's his is theirs, and they look too good to argue.
Also posted on my AO3.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much plaid flannel in one place before,” Ezekiel remarks one morning, when he’s the first one up and is poking through Jacob’s closet curiously. His shirt is on the floor somewhere in the jumble of clothes, but it’s stained beyond all recovery and smells like musty crypt air.
Jacob raises his head a little but doesn’t try to move, given he’s pinned by Cassandra sprawling over his chest. “I like flannel. You could always just not wear a shirt, too,” he suggests slyly and is rewarded with a devious smirk from the thief.
“Can’t do that, love. You two wouldn’t be able to resist me,” Ezekiel replies, which is probably true. Jacob already feels smug as all hell seeing the red scratches striping Ezekiel’s shoulders and the purple hickeys on each hipbone. He delves in the closet and comes out with one of Jacob’s older flannel shirts that’d started life as blue and yellow but had washed out into a dull grey. It’s too big on him, hanging loose around his shoulders and covering his hands, but it looks…good. “Huh. I think I see what you mean, cowboy. This thing’s pretty comfy.” He turns back the sleeves enough to uncover his hands, buttoning the cuffs so they don’t fall again, then comes over to the bed, leaning forward to kiss Jacob soundly. “I’ll go start coffee.”
When Cassandra gets up, wakened by the smell of coffee, she ignores her own clothes in favour of pulling on Jacob's t-shirt, skipping downstairs in nothing else. Jacob follows her down, and finds that they're irresistible even with clothes on. They effectively and thoroughly christen both the counters and the kitchen table before they even start on breakfast.
It becomes kind of a ‘thing’ after that. Whenever Cassandra and Ezekiel come over to Jacob’s place, they’ll end up wearing his clothes the next morning. Jacob won’t lie—it makes him feel good, warm down to his toes, when he sees Cassandra shuffling around the kitchen in one of his band shirts, or Ezekiel buried in one of his hoodies. He doesn’t mind when they borrow his clothes for a few days, either, because when he gets them back, he can bury his nose in them and smell them in the fabric.
Sometimes, though, he doesn’t get them back. Jacob knows that they are officially no longer his when he’s sorting the laundry and sees that one of them (most likely Ezekiel) has taken a black Sharpie and written ‘E/C’ over the faded ‘JS’ he still writes on all the tags, a holdover from his younger years when his clothes constantly got mixed up with his brother’s. He smiles and folds the shirt up, setting it in a new pile. He finds three more reclaimed shirts and puts them in the bottom drawer of the dresser, where Cassandra and Ezekiel keep their pyjamas. It’s mutual territory, since her nightwear usually consists of t-shirts and sweats that are at least two sizes too big for her, therefore fitting Ezekiel as well.
They don’t just rob him of his clothes, though. A few days after one of his shirts gets reclaimed, a new one will have taken its place on the hangers in the closet, freshly laundered and waiting. Well, not new, new. Whenever he needs clothes, he goes to thrift stores and secondhand places because he’ll be damned if he’s going to spend anything more than fifteen dollars on a pair of damn jeans. That’s what they get him, too, even though he knows that if Ezekiel had his way, it’d all be brand-new and possibly designer, a thought that makes Jacob shudder. The thief means well, he knows that, but still. Cassandra keeps a good hold on Ezekiel’s leash, though.
It’s the clothes that finally clue Flynn in, too. The senior Librarian has been entirely oblivious to their relationship, even though they haven’t exactly been hiding it. They try to avoid PSA at the Library as a rule, to be at least a little professional, but it's not a secret. Eve and Jenkins both know, but Flynn’s still unaware, somehow. But he finally starts to pick up on something when Ezekiel shows up one morning wearing a Metallica shirt that hangs too loose on him to be his, and when Cassandra comes in with a Sooners hoodie tied around her waist. At first it’s just a few confused, narrow-eyed stares, but it finally sinks in when instead of going home to change shirts after an unfortunate slimy accident, Ezekiel just puts on Jacob’s flannel shirt instead. Flynn starts sputtering incoherently, pointing between the three of them.
“We’re dating, mate, don’t hurt yourself,” Ezekiel tells him, trying and failing not to sound smug as he turns back the sleeves and buttons the cuffs.
Still yammering, Flynn drops heavily into a chair, looking like his brain might've short-circuited for a moment.
Only Jacob notices Eve surreptitiously slipping Jenkins a ten dollar bill.
Title: Domesticity and Other Improbabilities
Ship: Jassekiel
Rating: T
Warnings: may cause toothache from excessive sweetness
Words: 621
My muse kind of abandoned me for Fleve Week, and I didn’t get any prompts to help it along, either :’( But I am up and running this week, kicking off Jassekiel Week with a bit of fluffy goodness, also posted on my AO3
It’s Jacob’s house they end up moving into eventually, because of the three of them, he’s the only one with an actual house. Ezekiel moves from bolt-hole to bolt-hole, rarely stationary for very long, and Cassandra’s flat is more like a particularly large walk-in closet. But being a world-renowned art geek can actually pay very well, and his maternal grandfather (the one that actually likes him) left him a bit of money, too.
It happens gradually, in slow degrees. Ezekiel’s expensive cologne shows up in the bathroom. Some Cassandra’s jumpers end up in the wash with his shirts. Books on astrophysics are on the shelf next to the Iliad, and there’s a climbing harness and rigging hung in the hall closet next to winter jackets. Jacob doesn’t mind; it’s nice, makes it feel more...homey.
One night, Ezekiel and Cassandra come over for dinner like they usually do...and they just don’t get around to leaving again. It feels good, to roll over in bed and curl against Cassandra’s warm curves, or to wake up to Ezekiel sprawled over him like a climbing ivy. For all he likes to poke fun, the thief is a terminal snuggler. Jacob usually ends up in the middle, and that’s just fine with him. He doesn’t mind being the little spoon, just so long as he gets to hold someone else, too.
Other little things start to appear, making it less ‘his’ place and more ‘theirs.’ Like the proper copper kettle that has a permanent place on the stove, or the basket of knitting that’s surreptitiously appeared next to the armchair in the living room. A lock pick set has taken up residence in the Odds and Ends drawer, and the new glass vase on the kitchen table is always full of flowers. There’s never less than four different kinds of jam and jelly in the fridge, and there’s Vegemite in the cupboard next to the peanut butter.
Jacob’s the most domestic of the three of them. It’s a role he’s used to, since his old man crawled in his bottle and never came out after his mother died. Ezekiel says that he’s their wife, and Cassandra laughs until she cries the first time she hears him say it. Jacob doesn't argue the term, though. One of them considers physics a hobby and not a career choice, one of them thinks that a heist of the British Museum is a romantic night out, and one of them can name every influencing style of architecture on a city block. Not to mention they work in a magical Library and have a carefully-rebuilt gargoyle as a pet. A stunning example of normality, they are not. If he’s the wife, well...that’s that.
A year after the ‘official’ moving in, Ezekiel gives him a frilly white apron like nobody’s mother ever really had and a string of pearls. It’s half done in teasing, half in sincerity. Jacob wears the apron when he cooks, though, and there’s times when he’ll lay in their bed and run the pearls through his fingers over and over. Ezekiel blushes when he does, and Cassandra asks one night, when they think Jacob’s sleeping, if Ezekiel got them just as a joke, or if because pearls are Jacob’s birthstone. Ezekiel doesn’t answer, but that’s an answer all it’s own.
A few weeks later, though, and Cassandra finds a pair of silver earrings shaped like tiny owls with small diamonds set in their eyes, tucked away in her knitting basket. Ezekiel doesn’t really wear jewelry, but when he finds a braided surfer bracelet with a piece of raw garnet tied in hooked on his climbing gear, he doesn’t ever seem to take it off again.
