...would you be interested in a short exploration of Angel actually CARING about creatures, as in, being very attentive to horses and gentle with dogs, as opposed to his attitude to humans in general? Could be a slice of life witnessed by a saloon bartender, or a stable boy, or just a private moment of peace.
Maybe not as fluffy as you would like, but here you go. @erebus0dora
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Rating: PG-13 (some swearing)
Pairing: None
Summary: It’s not always about the money, but that’s a nice bonus.
Length: Drabble
Approx. Reading Time - 8 minutes (200 words/minute)
Angel kept tight rein on his temper as he shuffled the deck. It wouldn't do to let anyone see his intent, not before it was too late. Pass. Cut. He flicked the cards across the table with expert precision, eyeing each of his competitors in turn. Not a good enough hand. Fold. He passed the deck to the man next to him.
Shuffle. Cut. Deal.
A small wager. Loss.
Shuffle. Cut. Deal.
Fold.
Shuffle. Cut. Deal.
A large wager. Win.
Shuffle. Cut. Deal.
A larger wager. Win.
Shuffle. Cut. Deal.
Fold.
In the guttering light of the backwater saloon, Angel raked in his winnings with a smug grin. Amateurs. Especially the one in the bowler hat. That imbecile had played right into his hand on multiple levels until the man had left the table with little more than the clothes on his back. Good. Served him right. Now that Angel had what he wanted, though, there was no point in sticking around.
"Gentleman." He stood, offering them a nod, and pocketed the cash. The hastily scribbled receipt of ownership, however, he kept between his fingers.
The stables were dark when he entered, but it didn't take much to find the stable boy curled up in the corner of the lone empty stall. He nudged the boy with his boot until he woke.
"Get my horse," he demanded, "and that red gelding with the white blaze."
The boy scrambled to obey, leading the paint mare to its owner before gathering up the tack.
"The gelding, boy," Angel barked.
"That one's not yours, sir," the boy replied. "It belongs to that short fella with the black vest and bowler hat."
"It's mine now." He waved the paper at him. "Now get the damn horse." The suspicious look the boy threw his way made him glad he'd gotten three witness signatures; he'd be damned before he got hung for being a horse thief.
He tied the mare's lead rope to one of the rings as he was brought his prize. With a shrewd eye, he looked the animal over, hands gliding over withers and flanks as he moved about. The chestnut beast was narrower than he generally preferred, but he'd known it would be. The cursory inspection would have to do; the animal didn't appear too lame for light travel.
He threw his saddle pad over the mare's back and began to tack up, keeping the gelding's rope in hand all the while. In a few minutes, he was astride the black and white horse and heading out with the other in tow. It took a couple of hours, but the small camp came into view as he rounded the last outcropping.
"Jesus Christ, Angel," the man at the fire cussed as the gambler rode in. "Another one?"
He didn't deign to reply. Dismounting, he tied the mare to the picket line and led the gelding closer to the fire where he could see it better. Its eyes began to roll and it pulled back on the rope, head lifting as it sank onto its haunches. A few snorts of distress accentuated its opinion. He made gentle shushing noises as he darted to the side, one hand up to draw the animal's attention to him while he turned them away from the flames. It quieted, but stayed at the end of the rope, ears flicking back.
"Easy, boy," Angel cooed. He took a small step forward, maintaining pressure on the rope. Changing hands, he snuck a little closer still. The animal's head turned so it could eye him, but it didn't pull away. "That's it. Good boy. That mean son-of-a-bitch ain't got you no more."
By the fire, his compatriot groaned and rolled his own eyes in exasperation. "What was it this time?"
Angel's eyes darted his way, a brief glare. "Bastard had a nasty set a spurs and no compunction about using 'em."
His disgust was evident. "You can't save them all."
"I saved this one," he replied defiantly. "If you don't like it, you can hit the damn road."
The man just shook his head and went back to stoking the fire. It wasn't snowing, but it was still cold in March. Angel had made it to the horse's shoulder by then and he stroked the beast with long, firm draws of his hand. Slowly, he made his way around.
It was in sound condition and lifted its feet without much fuss, so at least the farriers had been reasonably kind to it. He doubted the man in the bowler hat could have been bothered to check the hooves as Angel now did, working over the fleshy parts and dips and toe with careful precision. The shoes were nailed well, newly done from the looks of it.
Old blood was caked along its sides, scabbing over the places where the spurs had pierced without remorse. It flinched from his touch, so he left those places for now. The animal was already breathing hard enough; no need to torment it further. By the time he had passed behind the horse and worked his way back to its chest, he had reevaluated his opinions.
It may not have been as stocky or tall as what he usually rode, but it carried itself with a natural collection that could sometimes be hard to get even from reasonably well trained animals. It was better bred than he'd thought, but not for the kind of work that would be required of it out here. This was a horse better suited to that dainty stuff the English did.
A week passed. His companion left for better money. He kept moving. Another town, another poker table. Eventually, the wounds healed and all the gelding had to show for it were a few stray hairs of white. Angel itched to try the animal under saddle and, after a few more days, gave in to the urge.
He didn't really need a pack animal since he traveled lightly, so he hadn't asked for much in the way of work so far. Which meant it wasn't much of a surprise when, upon approaching the horse with his saddle, it danced away from him. It shied and dragged its feet, throwing up dust around the tree where he'd tied it. He stopped, waited for it to calm down, and tried again. With the same result. It took a half hour of such shenanigans before it finally stayed in place enough for him to lay hand on it.
"That's it," he praised. "Spirited thing, ain't ya?" He ran a hand over its withers and watched its ears. "I don't think this will be too bad. You'll see. You and me might get along just fine."
The snort it gave seemed a fairly straightforward response: I doubt it.
Piece by piece, he got the animal tacked up. Blanket. Saddle. Girth. Breast collar. By the time he was ready to try the bridle, risking his hands near the animal's mouth, the beast appeared to have gained some interest in the proceedings and tolerated his work. He reached over the saddle, waving his hand on the animal's other side. It glanced that way, but didn't seem bothered. He grabbed pommel and cantle, rocking the saddle, and received a similar response.
Tempted, he tested his boot in the stirrup only for the beast to suddenly dart forward a step. He laughed, having half expected it, and led it to circle around him before bringing it right back to where it had been standing. "Let's try that again," he commented and lifted his foot. This time it stayed still.
There were a couple more tests. Standing in just the one stirrup. Leaning way over the saddle and drawing the horse's attention again. More favorable responses. Slowly, he pivoted, swinging his leg over, and settled into the saddle. The gelding sighed, flicking an ear in his direction, but gave no other indication that he had bothered it.
A little pressure with his legs, a little slack in the reins, and they began to move. Oh. From walk to jog to lope, he encouraged the animal's pace. It moved...beautifully. He couldn't recall having ever owned an animal that flowed like this one. He lifted his hands slightly, giving the leg cues. If it was as well trained as he thought...yes! It lengthened its stride at once, responding to the subtle give and take of pressure with alacrity.
With a whoop of joy, he asked for more and they tore off across the landscape. The little chestnut gelding gave him everything. Quick turns. Flying lead changes. It never even balked at the unexpected sinkhole, collecting and carrying them over it as if it were all part of the plan. Heart beating wildly in his chest, he reined them in and patted the animal's neck heartily. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he scratched at the horse's mane.
"Yes, I think you and I will get along just fine indeed."
Otto octavious fluff please :) S/O in quedtion is into really gorey horror movies and they finally convinced otto to watch some 80s horror fic with them
This took an unacceptably long time to put together, but honestly, it’s because I’m not much of the horror-movie type. I watch them occassionally, but they’re not my prefered genre and I don’t usually write horror-anything, either. My apologies if this isn’t at all what you wanted. I guess we’ve now made clear one of my weak points. Sorry. 🥺
Warnings: mentions of blood/gore, gn!reader, suggestive content (no smut)
Note: This is pre-accident Otto.
Approx. Reading Time - 5 minutes (200 words/minute)
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Even the skeptical looks your boyfriend kept throwing your way couldn't dampen your spirits. Otto had finally, after months of your cajoling and wheedling, agreed to watch a horror movie with you. You rubbed your hands together and willed the popcorn to pop faster. At last, you carried the butter-drenched bowl back to the couch and sank into the cushions next to him.
"You're sure this one isn't as gory as the others?" Otto asked. "I've caught glimpses of some of that stuff you watch, you know."
You balanced the bowl on his knee and kissed his shoulder. "It's as much camp as horror," you assured him, taking up the remote. "And it's got a cult following."
"That doesn't reassure me."
Despite his less than thrilled tone or choice of words, he wrapped his arm around your waist, snugging you against his side as you hit 'play'. On the screen, the title card shown for a moment before the camera began to jerkily pan over swamp water. You grinned and shoved a handful of salty snack food into your mouth.
"Solid as a rock," Otto mumbled, echoing the dialogue. He sighed as he looked at you. "They're all going to die, aren't they?"
"Not all of them," you drawled.
Your next handful of popcorn was redirected by his hand on your wrist. He stole the kernels with tongue and teeth, making you shiver. Oh, so that's how he was gonna play it, huh?
"You'd better pay attention," you teased. "There's going to be a test afterwards."
He hummed and took your fingers into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around each in turn until he'd devoured all traces of the popcorn. He caressed the inside of your wrist with his thumb as he pulled your hand away again, knowing exactly what he was doing to you. "I'll keep that in mind."
You tucked your feet under you, the friction of your thighs hardly addressing the issue, and leaned against him, adjusting your hands so that you could stroke his knuckles. "Movie first, dear." If the man didn't kill you with frustration before then, that was.
"Are you saying I'm not allowed to mix pleasure with-" He looked dubiously from you to the screen. "-entertainment?"
"Just this once, that's exactly what I'm saying. Humor me?"
He relented, his faux-innocence giving way to fondness. "If it's that important to you."
You both turned your attention to the movie after that. Well, he did. You split your attention between the screen and him. The 'scares' certainly didn't seem to bother him, but it was still early and the film hadn't found its stride, yet.
Then the woods came to life and his arm tightened around you as he grimaced. It was all you could do not to grin like a maniac; that was the turning point for most viewers, after all. As the zombie leapt up with the pencil, he startled, too, almost hard enough to push you off the couch. Your bark of laughter wasn't stifled quickly enough to go unnoticed and he scowled at you, although the look in his eyes was far from negative. With a smirk of his own, he moved the bowl and pulled you into his lap.
"Otto," you chided, unresisting.
"Just getting comfortable." He wrapped both arms around your waist, repositioning the popcorn to your lap, and pressed his lips to the back of your shoulder. "I'm still paying attention."
"To me or the movie?"
"Both."
The more blood onscreen, the more his attention shifted to you, however. By the time the first zombie had been dismembered, he was nuzzling the back of your neck, his view of the screen completely obscured. You were tempted to take pity on him, except that the way he was playing with the buttons of your shirt was anything but fair.
"How many pieces?" you asked.
"What?"
"How many pieces was the zombie in?"
He stopped moving for a couple seconds. You could practically feel him trying to deduce the answer through logic. "Six?" There was a pause and then a quiet groan of resignation. "Seven," he corrected.
Well, how about that? Maybe he was paying attention after all. At least, enough for it to count. "Good job."
Given the way he pressed his forehead against your shoulder, a blatant attempt to hide his eyes, you almost felt bad for making him sit through the rest of the film. But he didn't make any attempts to leave and you still wanted to see if he would make it through the whole thing for you. That didn't stop him from working at your resolve, however. At the sound of the chainsaw, he moved his hands to your thighs, kneading the muscles as his thumbs teased just shy of providing any kind of relief. You squirmed.
"Otto," you admonished again.
"You seemed tense," he replied sweetly. "I just thought I'd give you a massage."
"Uh huh."
You never thought you'd regret having a sexy, attentive boyfriend. Good thing you still didn't, although you weren't sure you'd ever be able to watch this movie again without a very awkward response. What a shame.
Finally the last scream faded, the popcorn long gone, and it was your turn to catch Otto by the wrist and redirect his hands. "You get one shot at this question," you announced. He took in a deep breath, preparing for the worst. "Where was the cabin located?"
You could almost hear how deeply furrowed his brow must be, based on the tone of his voice. "In the woods."
"Yes, but in the woods where?"
"They didn't say. Do you mean in the mountains? Wait." He pensively brushed his nose against your neck. "They said they'd just passed something. Tennessee, wasn't it?"
"Ding ding ding."
You turned, rising up on your knees and wrapping your arms around his neck. He leaned back, arms encircling your waist as he dragged you closer. The kiss was gentle and chaste, a far cry from representing the heat he'd stoked in your belly for the last hour and a half.
"Thank you for watching it with me," you murmured.
"You're welcome. Now I'd like to forget I ever saw it."
You quirked an eyebrow. "I suppose you have an idea how to go about that."
"Indeed, I do." He tangled a hand in your hair, pulling you in for a deeper kiss.
Touch-starved Ricardo! 'You're legally obligated to keep holding me.' And 'I haven't been hugged in years.'
Oooh. I like this. Probably not what you were thinking, but it's what came to mind. Thank you muchly.
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Rating: PG-13
Pairing: DDA Evelyn Price x DDA Ricardo Morales
Summary: A witness interview doesn't go well.
Length: Drabble
Approx. Reading Time - 3 minutes (200 words/minute)
Ricardo can see the tension building in his co-lead. It's there in the set of her shoulders, but most especially in the way her hands are clenched against her thighs beneath the table. He's been watching it grow for the past hour, winding tighter like the click-click-click of a ratchet with every snide remark and scathing insult recorded into the deposition from their witness. Well, the defense's witness.
He'd been sure she would say something. He hadn't chosen to work with her for her meekness of spirit, after all, but she'd kept her tongue thus far. She was too professional to make a scene that could affect her career. Which meant he would have to address it.
"Alright, Ms. Grace. I think we'll take a break here," he announces, scribbling his last notes onto the page and closing the file. "Would you like anything? A drink or something to eat?"
Again proving herself the negation of her name, the young woman derides him for wasting yet more of her time. He takes it to mean she's fine as she is. When they leave the room, closing the door on the witness, he cups Evelyn's elbow and steers her towards his office. She doesn't resist, doesn't even act surprised.
The moment he gets the door shut behind them, she darts forward. It takes him by surprise and he nearly stumbles as her arms close around his waist. Hesitant, he lowers his hands to her shoulders.
"You're legally obligated to keep holding me," she informs him before he can say a word.
It provokes a laugh and the tension bleeds away. He looks fondly down at the top of her dark hair. "Why is that?"
"If you don't, I might just kill that horrible woman."
"That's a bold thing to say to a deputy D.A.," he observes, but holds her just a little tighter nonetheless. A beat passes, then two, and he can feel his heart rate dropping to restful, lethargic levels. "I haven't been hugged in years," he remarks quietly.
"That's a shame, because you're very nice to hug," Evelyn responds. Her arms relax, sinking around his hips. In turn, he shifts his arms lower on her back, holding her a little closer. "That's better," she sighs. "You're good at this."
He can't quell the smile that lifts the corners of his lips. "Gracias."
"De nada." She turns her head, hiding her face against his tie and mumbling something he can't make out.
Her breath warms his skin beneath his shirts. "I didn't catch that."
"This isn't very becoming of me, is it?" she asks a little louder from the same position.
He doesn't even need to think about it. "We all have something that gets under our skin. I'm not sure why this woman has gotten under yours, but I'm actually quite proud of how you handled yourself in that room. I, on the other hand, have a reputation for my temper."
"It is a hell of a temper," she agrees and he can feel her smile against him before she starts to pull away.
"Ah." He resists just a little, letting her feel his reluctance to let go. "Maybe just another few minutes?"
"Thank you."
She leans in again, shuffling further into his personal space, and he sighs as he curls his hands around her much smaller frame. It's fine if she thinks he's doing it for her. She doesn't need to know he's the one who yearns for the comfort of being held.
I hope I do this right concerning your muse asks: (how bout) Ricardo Morales/Evelyn Price. There’s a shooting in the courtroom after a verdict sends a criminal to jail. Evelyn gets hurt which makes Ricardo confess to her he loves while she’s in the hospital recovering! She also confesses that she’s in love with him as well. (Essentially, I was listening to I will always love you by Whitney Houston when I read your post ;D)
I don't know that there's a wrong way to request a Muse Kick, honestly. As much or as little detail/direction as you want to give is fine with me. ❤️ That is one angsty (but very good) song, so this might be fluffier than you wanted. Apologies, if so.
The jury foreman's words were permission for a rush of relief and excitement to sweep through the courtroom. Another win for justice, another criminal going to jail. Although his body language was attentive, Ricardo only listened to the judge's sentencing with half an ear. Evelyn might have been victorious in keeping the smile from her lips, but it danced in her eyes in that ever entrancing way he had trouble looking away from.
"Congratulations, counselor," the defense attorney remarked as he came over to shake their hands, first his and then hers. "But don't celebrate too much. I will win the appeal."
"We'll see," Evelyn replied. "That is, if you can find a means to appeal at all."
The attorney scoffed good naturedly. "There's always room for an appeal."
"You son of a bitch." Heads swiveled, looking for the unfamiliar voice that had spoken somewhere behind them. "You were supposed to get him off."
Ricardo had barely laid eyes on the woman, the defendant's wife, when his brain registered that her arm was already swinging upward in a manner he knew too well. The caliber didn't consciously come to mind, recognition skipping ahead to the only piece of information that mattered: he was stout enough to provide cover, not just concealment.
He turned, reaching for his co-counsel.
One blast. Two.
More, too fast to consciously enumerate, as there was a scuffle.
He had her in his arms, shoulders hunching as he wrapped himself around her. The chaos changed, gunfire conspicuously absent amid the flurry of voices, but he didn't trust that the danger had passed until he heard the rasp of handcuffs. Reluctantly, he relaxed his hold.
"Are you okay?" He cradled her face in his hands, looking for any sign of pain in her dazed expression.
"I think so." She blinked, lowering her eyes to his body as she looked him over. "You're hurt!"
"What?"
He stepped back in alarm, looking now at his jacket where she was clutching it. There, through the left interior pocket, was the unmistakable hole from a small caliber round. His hands moved frantically over his side, but he felt nothing. No pain or wetness.
"No, I'm okay. It missed-" Then he saw it. A darkening of her blouse just visible in that tiny triangle beneath the buttons of her own jacket. His eyes slid to the tiny perforation of the dark material, subtle enough to almost be mistaken for a decorative button hole.
Brow furrowed, she followed his gaze. "That can't be right. Getting shot is supposed to-!!" She gasped, knees buckling as nerves finally relayed the message to her brain.
"MEDIC!"
Ricardo never let her hit the floor, scooping her up. She had never seemed so small as she did in that moment cradled in his arms. "I've got you," he murmured. "It's going to be fine. You're going to be just fine." He made his way to the back of the room, long legs eating up the distance but still too slowly. God help anyone who dared get in his way.
"MEDIC!!!"
"Why, Ric, if you wanted a hug, all you had to do was ask," she teased, her eyes shut tight as she fought to smile for him.
Terror quickened his steps yet further.
~~~~~
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~~~~~
When she opened her eyes, she got the distinct impression it wasn't the first time she'd woken up. Her head was already turned toward the chair at her bedside and the sight made her heart swell. Fondness. Irritation. Concern. The part of her that wanted to hug him also wanted to chide him for not taking care of himself.
Who had Ricardo cajoled to get a whole table setup for his use? A stack of files. Two takeout cups pushed aside. Glasses perched on his nose as he hunched over his work. It was clear not only that he'd settled in with no intention of leaving, but also that he'd been there a while already.
Eventually he glanced at her, a flick of the eyes not because he'd felt her gaze but because he routinely checked her for his own peace of mind, and all the strain of his work fell from his features in an instant. The smile that came to his lips was bright and earnest, lighting up his whole face. She hoped the heart monitor she could hear somewhere in the room didn't betray her reaction.
"Hey, workaholic," she greeted softly. "This place is for the sick and injured, not the terminal overachievers." She licked her lips. That last bit had taken some effort to get out properly. They must have her on the good painkillers.
"They let me in on an exception. You were injured and I was sick with worry." He removed his glasses and came to stand beside her, his hand warm and comforting over hers. "How are you feeling?"
She shifted just a little, wincing through her self assessment. The way concern dragged down the corners of his lips made her want to reach for him, but her limbs were just a little too heavy. "I'm uncomfortable," she admitted, "but not in pain. I guess that will come in time."
"I'm so sorry." His voice broke a little. "I should have been quicker."
The shine of his eyes, with their dark circles and crow's feet thrown in sharp relief. The quiver of his lips as he fought for composure. The tremble of his hand against hers. She broke more than just a little, finding the strength to raise her arms for him. He bowed into her embrace, body rigid and hands infinitely gentle in deference to her condition. Her hand on the back of his head guided his face into the curve of her neck where she could feel unshed tears smear against her skin.
"No, Ric. You were amazing. You're my hero." She tried to hold him tighter, but the drugs made it difficult to tell if she'd actually succeeded or merely thought she had. "Don't blame yourself. I'm just glad you're okay. You could've been seriously hurt, protecting me like that."
"I hear such things are great for a public image," he muttered. The idea of him using such sacrifice for political gain was so ridiculous she couldn't help a snort of amusement. If the wane smile she could feel was any indication, that had been his goal.
After several minutes, too few in her opinion although she acknowledge the awkward position probably hadn't done his back any favors, he began to pull away. He teased, "I should stop before your boyfriend comes in. It wouldn't do for him to get the wrong idea." He looked away, briskly wiping his eyes.
"That would be pretty difficult, since I don't have a boyfriend."
His eyebrows rose. "Didn't you just go to dinner with him on Monday?"
"I did. To break up with him."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize."
"That's okay. He didn't do anything wrong. He just..." She studied the concern on his face. Her coworker. Her friend. "He just wasn't the person I want to be with."
"Oh." The hope in his eyes hadn't been obvious, but it's sudden absence was.
That was all the motivation she needed in that moment. "I don't know how close I came to dying. I never imagined dying in a courtroom, although I'm sure there are some people at the office who'd think it poetic since I'm just as much a workaholic as you, but it puts some things in perspective, you know? I-"
"I love you." Quiet. Unhurried. He spoke the words as a simple statement. It took the air from her lungs. The adoring, sorrowful acceptance in his gaze stopped her whole world. "I do. I love you. So whatever it is you want to do, you have my utmost support. You don't have to explain why you want to leave. Whatever you want to do next, I'm behind you one hundred percent."
"I was going to say..." The happiest of tears spilled down her cheeks as she reached for his hand, hysterical giggles bubbling up in her chest like carbonation. Her heart felt too big for her chest, crowding out the ache of her wound as it was jostled by her elation. "You misunderstand. I could never leave. What I was going to say-" Joy stole her words for another moment. "I love you, Ric. That's what I was going to say. I love you, too."
"You do?"
The shock of it buckled his knees and he sat heavily on the side of the bed lest he fall in the floor. She nodded, smiling. Tentatively, he framed the side of her face with his hand and leaned forward, his gaze firmly upon her lips. She met him part way. The kiss was warm and soft, a private slow dance they could indulge in for an eternity and of which they'd never tire.
"It's about damn time."
Ricardo snatched back like a schoolboy caught doing something he shouldn't, but she didn't let him get too far, arresting his flight with a hand on the back of his neck. They looked at Joe standing in the doorway. He seemed exceptionally smug, holding a vase of her favorite flowers.
Her eyes narrowed. "There was a bet, wasn't there?"
"Of course there was. Which of you spoke up first?" He closed a few files and set the flowers upon the newly cleared space.
"He did." She kissed Ricardo again, just a peck this time, but it was enough to steal the insecurities from his eyes. His shoulders relaxed, too.
"Damn. I thought for sure it'd be you." Joe held out his hand, clasping Ricardo's and then refusing to let go. "I hope I don't have to explain what the office will do to you if you hurt her, do I?"
"I'd let them."
"Good." He let Ricardo go and pointed at her sternly. "And you know that goes both ways?"
"Oh, good. I wasn't looking forward to lecturing everyone about sexism at work."
It took me a minute to come up with something for this one, only because I didn’t want to re-write something I’ve read from someone else (who arguably has written it better anyway) or copy a scene from the WiP I’m already writing. Not sure it’s very original, but here you go.
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Rating: Teen (lots of cussing)
Pairing: Angel x Prostitute
Summary: Almost got hung myself once. Didn’t care for it much.
Length: Drabble
Approx. Reading Time - 5 minutes (200 words/minute)
Angel had barely levered himself up from the bed, extending himself to reach for his boots, when the door banged open. Even before the whore screamed, before the double barreled shotgun had begun to swing toward him, he threw himself at the window. It shattered against his shoulder and he tumbled ass over teakettle onto the porch roof. He plummeted to the ground, landing with a terrible thud that drove all the air out of his lungs.
"Son of a bitch! Get him!"
Diaphragm still paralyzed, he struggled to his feet and staggered towards the hitching post. All at once his lungs expanded, greedily sucking in as much air as they could hold, and he fumbled to free the reins. There was ruckus inside the brothel now, heavy tread coming down the stairs at a rapid clip, and men yelling, women screaming and shouting.
He was already turning his horse, one foot barely in the stirrup, ready to gallop as soon as he got his ass in the saddle, when the first shot rang out. Fuck. That had come from across the street. Abandoning half the plan, he locked his hands around pommel and cantle and crouched low in the stirrup, throwing his other knee into the animal's side instead of over it. Muscles flexed and bunch, not unlike the way his own were coiled in that moment, and the beast took off.
Trick riders might make that sort of thing look easy, but Angel was no trick rider. He was just a man desperate to escape a potentially fatal situation. Jostled and snatched around, he clung to the saddle for dear life and did his best to guide the horse by reins alone. The gunshots faded a little as that end of town fell away behind him, enough for him to risk throwing himself over the saddle. It knocked the air out of him like a punch in the gut, but he got his other leg over as the beast threatened to bounce him off.
Ahead he could see approaching silhouettes. He slowed his mount for a stride or two, evaluating, then a shot whizzed by his ear. More enemies. "Shit!"
His horse sat practically on its ass as he demanded a sudden halt and they pivoted, launching off in a new direction. Blasting through the alley between buildings, praying no pretentious city types had dared to put up any fences, they raced to get out of town. He had just enough time to register that something was moving through the air in his direction, enough time to choke up on the reins but not enough time to convey any new information to his mount, when the oak board caught him in the face.
Blinded by the explosion of pain, he was driven backward out of the saddle, rolling over his horse's flank and smashing face down into the dirt just as he lost consciousness.
Waking up wasn't particularly pleasant, either. He couldn't breathe, couldn't smell anything but the rancid metallic scent of old blood. Which he could also taste, unfortunately, and it was just as foul. His whole face throbbed with the beat of his heart, but especially his nose. Definitely broken. Squinting, groaning, he took in his situation.
Hands bound behind his back. Rope around his neck. Seated on a chair. In the middle of nowhere and nothing. Damn.
"You awake, yet, you cheating son-of-a-bitch?"
He glared back at the ugly cuss who'd spoken and the posse at his back. "Yeah, I'm awake."
His words came out as thick as the glob of coagulated blood and saliva he spit in their direction. Even talking made his nose hurt worse, and he hadn't thought that'd be possible. He didn't need to ask why they'd strung him up. It hadn't been all that long ago that he'd taken their money.
"I told you you'd regret crossing me," the smug bastard reminded him.
"I didn't cheat you." He jerked his chin in their direction. "I didn't cheat any of you. You suck at cards, that's all. Shouldn't bet what you can't stand to lose. Everybody knows that."
"That right? Well, I guess you made your last bet, stranger."
The brute raised his gun, aiming somewhere under Angel's feet, and pulled the trigger. He heard glass shatter and the chair swayed dangerously. Eyes widening, he dared turn his head to look as best as he could. There were boards under his chair, layers of them with gaps between. If the broken glass was any indication, those gaps held materials that would destabilize beneath him with each shot they took. Another bullet came his direction, taking out another bottle from between the boards, and Angel shut his eyes to pray to a god he hadn't believed in for more than a decade.
More shots rang out then, a cacophony of them, and then other noises. Shouting. Yelling. Audible chaos. He opened his eyes again as a last shot faded into the hills. Standing on the other side of a field of corpses was a familiar face with a revolver in each hand and a third tucked into the front of her dress.
Never in his life had Angel been happier to see a prostitute, even if his grin brought fresh blood gushing over his mustache. Behind her, he could see his horse with his boots and hat resting across the saddle.
"I think I'm falling in love with you," he hollered to her.
Letting spent casings drop to the ground at her feet, she began to reload with ammunition purloined from the dead men. It wasn't like they would need it anymore. "Don't make me shoot you, too, sweetheart. I'd hate to lose my best customer because he lost all his good sense."
if you want to write it but okay if not. muse thing: Ricardo Morales - suspenders
I’m sorry this one took so long. The initial problem was too many ideas; I had trouble picking just 1. Then I technically picked 3, but the 3rd part is being unreasonably difficult, so I fought with it for a whole day before setting it aside. Again, my apologies for the delay. Here’s 2 “suspenders” stories, probably neither of which are what you wanted. 🙁 If my brain ever stops being problematic, I’ll reblog with the third part.
Other than the prompt, the two stories have no relation to each other. Consider them separate universes, I suppose.
Rating: Explicit (both parts)
Warnings: Part 1 - m/f, NSFW, Evelyn/Ricardo. Part 2 - m/m, mild Dom/sub, NSFW, TJ/Ricardo
Approx. Reading Time - Part 1 @ 9 minutes (200 words/minute), Part 2 @ 11 minutes (200 words/minute), entirety @ 20 minutes (200 words/minute)
~ ~ ~
~ ~ (1) ~ ~
Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he turned his head, but it was already gone. He let curiosity draw him from the front door, where he'd only just come home, to the living room, but his quarry wasn't there. A pair of sheer stockings were draped artfully over the back of his favorite chair.
Interest piqued, he moved past them toward the kitchen, but his prey had already moved on from there as well, leaving behind a familiar red tie half-knotted on the counter. He picked it up, letting it slink through his fingers, and scrutinized the mirrored compact that had been hiding underneath. The smirk came slowly to his lips, but only because he was taking his time to savor the intrigue.
Unhurried, he doubled back toward the bedroom. He straightened his attire as he went, tugging and smoothing until he'd shaken off the day's accumulated imperfections. He paused briefly just before the door, a second to school his expression, and then he stepped into the room.
Evelyn met his eyes through the vanity mirror and he very deliberately looked her over from toes to crown. Bare legs. Short, pleated skirt just shy of hiding the bottom curve of her ass cheeks. A too tight shirt hugging in all the right ways, too thin to hide her lack of bra. Leather suspenders tracking up her spine to a buckle, then parting over her shoulders. She stood with her feet apart, hips canted just so, a power stance that said she knew exactly how she looked and what it was meant to do to him.
He met her eyes again in the mirror, one eyebrow rising delicately, and stalked toward her. He splayed one hand over the front of her hip, fingertips gathering the skirt up another inch against her thigh, and bent his head to kiss the arch of her neck. With his other hand, he hooked his fingers around one of the leather straps and caressed it, dragging a knuckle up and down her abdomen in a way he knew to be tantalizing. He lingered in the contact for a moment.
"I believe these are mine," he murmured, letting his breath ghost over her collarbone as he gave the suspenders a firm little yank.
She shivered at his sultry tone. In the mirror, she could see he was looking down the front of her shirt where her breasts strained the flimsy material over them. "I think they look better on me," she countered. "Don't you agree?"
"Hhhmmm." He pulled her close, letting her feel just how much he agreed. "I'm willing to be convinced."
Of a sudden he snatched her around, broad hands on her hips lifting her high into the air. She squealed in surprise and delight, wrapping her arms around his neck. With a carefully controlled kick, he turned the vanity's bench and sat, lowering her to his lap. Dutifully, she parted her legs around him.
Turning her head toward the mirror with a finger against her chin, he lowered his head to her chest, mouth working open button after button. She bit her lip, holding back a moan at the image they presented together. A study of contrasts, him and her. Light and dark. Large and small. Gentle and aggressive.
She fisted her hand in his hair, which he'd grown out at her request, and leaned back. One of his hands moved between her shoulders, interlacing with the suspenders, and he pulled her further. She gave herself to his direction without hesitation, trusting that he wouldn't drop her. With the last button undone, he retraced his path upon her skin, relishing the way she moaned and giggled under his lips.
Slowly, he pressed her closer again until he could slide his tongue into her mouth, mapping the contours of her palate. He pushed the shirt away in increments, letting the glide and drag of his fingers give evidence to his worship, until it fell to the floor. She moaned, shivering under his gaze.
"My tie. My suspenders." He smirked. "You seem to like my things."
She leaned in, their noses just brushing against each other, as she whispered against his lips, "You have very nice things." Her hand slipped down to the heat between his legs. "Don't you want to share them with me?"
A dark chuckle rumbled through his chest and he slid her back, pressing against her thigh and pulling against the suspenders until she was just perched on his knees. Then he spread his legs, forcing hers apart in the same motion. Sitting effectively in the open air, which now licked at her moist, heated core with maddening coolness, Evelyn whimpered and grabbed at his thighs.
"Go on," he encouraged. "I thought you wanted to share."
While the way she bit her lip may have been coy, the gleam in her eyes was anything but. She parted his belt with near violent motions, abruptly gentling as she lowered his zipper and folded the fabric over the metal teeth. It wouldn't do to damage the velvety flesh she released from the constricting material. There was more of him than she could cover even with both hands and it never failed to make her squirm appreciatively. If she'd known when she first arrived at the DA's office what his slacks concealed so well...
He caught both her hands in one of his and pulled them away from his erection. Her pout almost broke his restraint, but he managed to turn the fond smile into a naughty grin. "Are you ready for me?" He guided their hands to her pussy, pushing her fingers against her own moisture. "You're going to take all of me, so you better be certain, sweetheart."
Groaning, she pressed two fingers into herself. He raked her skirt up against her stomach so he could watch, already dark eyes narrowing with his focus. Knowing he was watching her, knowing what he intended to do, it didn't take her long to fit three, then four fingers in herself. She was dripping for him, her juices pooling in her palm and smearing over her wrist, and she rolled her hips restlessly.
"Almost there?" he breathed, letting his thumb tease lower just above her clit.
"Ric," she growled in warning. He raised his eyes to hers and pressed the thick digit in alongside her own. She clenched around him, head falling back. "Fuck."
"That's the idea." He lazily pumped in and out of her a few times. "Do you need some help, hmm? Do you want me to open you up properly?"
"Fuck, yes."
She closed her hand over his, urging more from him, and he obliged, turning his hand over to replace her fingers with two of his own. After a moment of her rutting, he added a third finger and splayed them against her walls, feeling her sex trying valiantly to get more of him. He tipped forward, taking a nipple between his lips, and worked his tongue over the hardening bud. She bucked, whimpering, and ran her fingers through his hair. By the time he switched to the other nipple, she was panting and moaning without regard for whether she'd be able to speak later.
"Look at the mess you've made," he remarked, looking at the floor between their feet. "I do believe you're going to warp the hardwood."
"That's the idea," she shot back, looking down, but not to the floor.
"In that case..."
He pulled his fingers from her and, in one of those displays of power she'd become addicted to, he curved his hands around her ass and lifted. Suspended in his grip as if she weighed little to nothing, feeling his cock tease her folds as he took his time lining them up, she indulged herself with the feel of his biceps flexing under her hands. Then he was lowering her, cleaving her open in a way that made her eyes roll back in her head and the air rush from her lungs in a long, helpless groan.
"Good girl," he purred for her. "Take it all. Just like that."
"Yeeessss," she hissed, though she dared not yet move. "You always feel so good. Always fill me up just right."
"And I'm going to keep you full. Just. Like. This." He grabbed the suspenders, front and back, and snatched down, using the wide leather to crush her body onto his own.
She cried out, eyes widening as her mouth fell open, and clenched around him. After all the teasing, it had almost been enough to send her over the edge. Shuddering, she tangled her hands in his lapels and tried to lift, but he didn't allow it.
"You wanted me, sweetheart." The purr in his voice this time was almost menacing. "Now you've got me." Never letting up, he rocked her body, grinding her clit against him. "And I've got you."
Whimpering something unintelligible, she buried her face in his chest and let him have his way with her. The helplessness of her situation, albeit an illusion she knew she could break with a word, made her core throb. The friction. The stretch. The almost-too-much pressure of him massaging her cervix. She was racing toward her climax, toes curling as she dug her heels into his calves.
"Look," he demanded, voice rough.
She opened her eyes, turning her face toward the mirror. He was the perfect image of control. Still suited. Arms around her, hands crushing the heavy leather with ease. Jaw clenched as he held himself back for her pleasure. His eyes were locked on her, offering her that stunning profile she'd admired for so long. Surrounded by him, subjected to his attentions, she couldn't have asked for any better response to her seduction.
The first orgasm took her composure, stripping it away like so much smoke, but he didn't stop. The second left her a mewling mess, clinging desperately to him as he kept going. She begged and cursed, a string of filthy encouragements spilling off her tongue as she pleaded with him to just cum already. By the third she was a rag doll, sobbing with relief as she felt his cock pulse inside of her.
"One last thing, darling," he huffed, catching his breath.
Once more he lifted a finger to her chin, directing her gaze back to the mirror. He lifted her off his slowly softening cock, the flood of their essences cascading down her thighs and spilling over him. She whimpered to see it.
Then he readjusted them, closing her legs as he lowered her back to his lap. He cradled her against his chest, nudging her knees together near his hip and wrapping his arms around her. He stroked his hand through her hair as they recovered together.
Eventually, her heart stopped trying to beat its way out of her chest and she snuggled more deliberately into his hold. "You're evil," she chided playfully.
"It wouldn't do to let you think you can steal my things without consequence," he replied dryly, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face.
~ ~ (2) ~ ~
TJ determinedly refused to look at his partner as he came out of the changing room. In fact, he did his best not to look at anyone at all, gaze mostly on the floor as he continued his losing fight against indignity. The club owner shook his head, dismayed.
"This isn't going to work," the man remarked. "No one's going to buy that he's the dominant type."
"He'll be fine," Ricardo assured the man. "Besides, the suspect we're looking for specifically targets inexperienced Doms."
"Look at him," was the insistence. "He isn't looking anyone in the eye!"
"Would you give us a minute?" Ricardo looked at the man expectantly, raising an eyebrow when he didn't get the immediate response he desired. Grumbling, the man left the two alone. The detective turned to his partner.
"Don't say it," TJ preempted.
"Say what?" Ricardo stepped closer, working the buckles on the leather suspenders. He shortened each side by one position, then put a hand on his partner's shoulder to turn him around so the back could be adjusted as well. There, he lengthened the strap down the spine and tightened the buckles of the shoulder piece. The straps under the arms, too, got their own adjustments. When he was done, he smoothed the vest beneath it. "Unroll your sleeves."
"Unroll?" TJ questioned as he did so.
"They're too neat." Ricardo shook out each sleeve, in turn messily folding them a couple of times and bunching the material just above the swell of the forearms. Then he loosened TJ's tie just enough so that when he undid the top two buttons of the man's shirt, the collar splayed open. "There."
TJ finally met his partner's eyes, a smile hovering over his lips. "Is this better?"
Ricardo's shoulders twitched in a shrug, though he allowed a hint of a smile. "I guess we'll ask the suspect when we catch him."
The sting proved long, tedious, and infinitely embarrassing for TJ, who got to hear all of his colleagues' commentary through the ear piece without being able to reply, but ultimately it was fruitful. The dawn wasn't far off by the time everything had been resolved and, exhausted, TJ was looking forward to the lieutenant's gift of having the next day off. In fact, his only thought as he shed his jacket on the way to the bedroom was sleep. His shoes were kicked off somewhere along the way, to be dealt with later.
So when strong hands caught him by the suspenders, hauling him toward the office instead, he couldn't help his yelp of surprise.
"You didn't really think I'd let it go unpunished, did you?" Ricardo asked evenly as he drove the man before him. A quick motion snatched the chair out of the way and he pushed TJ down upon the desk, hand planted firmly in the middle of his lower back. "Did it occur to you to ask before taking my things?"
Wide awake now, TJ opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. Tentatively, he gripped the edge of the desk near his head and looked back over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sir?"
Ricardo glared at him. "I don't think you are."
With his free hand, he unbuckled the man's belt and snatched it from the loops. It slithered free with a hiss of leather and denim that made the hair on TJ's arms stand on end. The jeans were addressed next. They opened under those dexterous fingers and Ricardo pushed them down to the younger man's knees.
"Be silent." Ricardo flicked his wrist, the doubled weight of the belt leaving a pretty ribbon of pink across TJ's right ass cheek. He repeated the motion on the other side, eyeing the way the twin stripes came together. The detective bucked each time, but held his tongue. "That's good. Now tell me, what possessed you to steal from me?"
"I-" TJ licked his lips, trying not to grin. Even facing away, he just knew that Ricardo would be able to tell if he smiled. "The job was to look like a Dom. I only meant to borrow them."
"Is that right?" Ricardo pushed the shirt up so he could drag his blunt nails down TJ's back, leaving temporary streaks of red and white in his wake. "And did wearing my things feel good? Did you feel like a Dom?"
Hesitant at first, TJ shook his head. Then he shook it again, more emphatically. "No, Sir."
"No, it didn't feel good or no, you didn't feel like a Dom?"
"I didn't feel like a Dom." TJ lowered his voice as he added, "But it did feel really good to wear your leather."
"Good, because you're going to wear it just a little longer." With the pants out of the way, Ricardo fed the belt back through the loops of the suspenders and cinched it tight around the man's hips. TJ wriggled, daring to seek the feel of his lover's body. "Impatient, are you?"
"I want you to fuck me," he replied immediately.
Ricardo left a handprint on the man's ass cheek by way of reprimand. "Maybe I'll give you what you want, but you're going to have to be very good for me."
"Yes, Sir," TJ moaned. He took a deep breath and willed himself to stillness. "I'll be very, very good."
"I hope so." Ricardo fetched a bottle from one of the desk drawers and poured a substantial amount into the hollow of TJ's lower back. The shock of it nearly drew a sound from TJ's throat, but he swallowed it at the last second. "Be a good boy and warm that for me. And don't waste it. You might not get any more." He stepped away.
TJ almost stood up, just to see what Ricardo would do if he did spill it all in the floor. The thought of a serious punishment made him shiver, causing a few drops to leak down his sides and onto the wood beneath him. Remembering the papers he'd seen just before he'd been bent over, the ones now trapped under his chest, TJ strained not to move again.
Ricardo took his time hanging up his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, standing off to one side as he admired the man stretched over his desk. Knuckles white against the edge of the wood. Eyes closed, but face pointed toward the wall. Shoulders back and chest forward. Legs straight. Hips canted to further emphasis that pretty little divot of the lower back. It seemed TJ had been paying attention every time Ricardo took charge.
Ricardo unfastened his belt and pants, letting them hang open as he pulled his cock out. He could tell TJ knew what he'd done without looking, attuned as he was to those particular sounds, by the way the man's thighs and ass trembled. Another drop made its bid for freedom, glistening as it raced toward the desk.
He pushed TJ forward until the man's cock was caged against the desk and then nudged his feet together as close as physically possible. "Don't move," he instructed.
Running two fingers through the slick mess, he dribbled it over his cock, and then smeared his fingers down the back of TJ's thighs. Another swipe and he did it again, this time forcing his fingers between the two powerful sets of muscles. TJ gasped, a sound without vocalization, and barely refrained from spreading himself. Ricardo did it again and again, working his whole hand between the man's legs.
Then he gave himself a few lazy strokes and pressed into the well lubricated thighs. TJ choked on a distressed noise, frustrated to have what he wanted so close but so far. Not that it didn't feel unconscionably good to have that cock 'fucking' him, rubbing underneath his balls, but Ricardo's hands were on the desk and his thrusts were slow, imparting no motion to TJ's neglected erection. Ricardo had told him to be good, so he intended to be on his very best behavior. Flexing wasn't technically considered moving, right? He bit his lip lest Ricardo's sudden groan be his undoing.
"That's it. Clench for me." Figuring the risk would be worth the reward, TJ slid one foot behind the other until he could cross his legs, trying to provide the greatest friction possible. Ricardo groaned again. "Good boy. Just like that. Now stay nice and tight for me."
TJ did, but with each passing second his humiliation grew. Being used like that? He could be anyone at all. Male. Female. Other. Someone from Ricardo's past. Someone that had been seen once, somewhere, in passing. Just a convenient flesh-light at the right angle. The tips of his ears began to burn, his blush already warm over his neck and face.
"I'm tempted to finish like this," Ricardo told him. "Maybe I should even leave you here." He slapped his open hand against one of TJ's thighs, gripping it but not quite hard enough to bruise. "It would be nice to have you waiting for me when I finish my coffee."
TJ whimpered. "Please don't."
"Don't?"
"If you fuck me..." TJ looked over his shoulder again, hoping to win some kind of favor from the man. "I'll be ready to take that new plug. You can keep it in me while we sleep and, if you take me to bed with you, you can even fuck me before I wake up."
"That plan certainly has its merits," Ricardo acknowledged, once more dragging his fingers through the lube he had been careful to leave otherwise undisturbed, "but I don't recall asking for your opinion."
The press of that first digit into his body felt like victory, until he realized his dilemma. Legs crossed. Thighs taut. It made it difficult to relax around the intrusion, but if he did relax than he'd fail to provide the sensation Ricardo demanded of him and then the man might stop. He bit his tongue and continued to struggle to find a solution, writhing in frustration as a second, thick finger pressed in next to the first.
All that tension below his waist was tearing his restraint to shreds and Ricardo wasn't being merciful. Gentle, yes, but no less ruthless for that. He was working TJ's body open inexorably and with expert patience. Occasionally stroking his prostate from within, other times letting his thumb apply pressure against that external spot. Sometimes both at the same time. TJ might be a shuddering disaster losing his mind at the edge of an orgasm he was desperate to keep at bay, but he wasn't going to give up what he wanted that easily.
Ricardo swiped the remaining lube from TJ's back, directing the puddle down the crease of the man's ass and letting it run where it would. "Hands behind your back." TJ fumbled to obey, knocking a half dozen items from the desk into the floor. Ricardo smirked and wrapped the man's fingers around the strap of the suspenders. "Hold this and don't let go."
Ricardo pulled back, hands pressing down on his lover's hips as he nudged a knee with his own to buckle it, and thrust into TJ's well warmed, eager hole. Groaning, pushing back against him, TJ let his head fall against the desk. If it hadn't been for Ricardo's body pressed against him, holding him up, TJ was sure he'd have slid directly to the floor. His legs felt like jello, the exertion suddenly taking its toll.
"Are you getting tired already, my little thief?" Ricardo taunted, grabbing the shoulder piece of the suspenders and pulling on them.
TJ whimpered again. "You feel so good."
"And I'm going to feel even better by the time I'm done with you."
Using the suspenders for leverage, he began to fuck the man in earnest. TJ didn't last long, groaning as the slap of his cock against his own belly was enough to push him over the edge. Ricardo chased his own climax, not far behind, only to suddenly pull out, painting his lover's gaping hole and quivering thighs with his seed.
Exhaustion settled over him quickly. Ricardo pried TJ's fingers from the leather and pulled him to his feet, wrapping his arms around the man to hold him up. The mess they'd made of the desk could be dealt with later, but he happened to like those particular suspenders. He liked them even more now. He undid the belt again and gathered the various straps into his hand.
TJ went with him willingly, clothes discarded along the way, and he pushed the man onto the bed as he continued on to the bathroom. He cleaned himself and the leather, setting it aside before returning to his lover with a washcloth to clean him up as well. Finally curling up under the covers with TJ again in his arms, Ricardo hummed.
"Are you going to steal from me again?"
TJ smiled against Ricardo's chest. "I might."
"I guess I'll just have to punish you again tomorrow. To make sure you learn your lesson." Ricardo kissed the top of his head.
They both fell asleep before either remembered the plug they'd discussed. Oh, well. It could wait another day.
Your take on alien DNA infected Stephen. How he'd be changed physically, personality wise, would he change his career, etc.
I wasn’t sure which way to answer this, just as headcanon or as a fic, so here’s both. Fic is below the cut, because part of it is NSFW.
HEADCANON
How He Was Infected - Through their kiss. The exchange of other fluids was fairly minimal and largely in a single direction. As such, I don’t think he’d be infected to the same degree as the rat at the end of the movie, which came in contact with her blood / consumed some of her flesh.
Physical changes - I think he’d get the greater strength (as a defense mechanism, mostly), but for the most part he’d just be a carrier for the alien genetic material, not a hybrid like Sil. So his body would adapt to do that job as much as possible. Carrying the material in all of his bodily fluids. Making it as easy as possible for him to engage in sex (the most likely way to exchange bodily fluid). That sort of thing. The alien transformation, spines, etc. I imagine requires more genetic integration that he would have.
Personality changes - Other than being extra frustrated at his inability to have sex (lest he have more alien offspring or pass off his affliction), I think there would be minimal impact on his personality. He was already a horny nerd, after all. This would just ramp it up to 11. But he does understand the risks he’s taking, so I can picture him taking as many precautions as he reasonably could. Brings his own silverware to restaurants (if he goes out at all), drinks from a straw and never the side of the glass, etc.
Career - I think it would actually reinforce his decision to remain an anthropologist. What’s more appropriate for specializing in cross-cultural behavior than being a living embodiment of the ultimate cross-cultural exchange? That’s not to say he wouldn’t leave the job if he thought he was too much of a danger to people.
Other Changes - Since I imagine him as “just a carrier”, I think the genetic material would partially copy Sil’s instincts and partially mirror his own, as a default mechanism to carry the alien genetics as far as possible. See a male? Sil’s instincts say “get bred”. See a female? His instincts read “breed.” Only one of these could produce offspring (breed), since this genetic quirk of the alien species is designed to carry its DNA to a more suitable host and not meant for producing offspring directly, as it would if he’d ingested blood, for instance.
~ ~ ~
Warnings: mentions of canon violence, m/m smut, alien biology (mutation?)
~ ~ ~
After Lennox broke through his door, in time to save his life but not in time to prevent a horrendous mistake, things had moved quickly. Gunfire. Pursuit. Flames. Whatever Stephen thought about either having offspring or that Sil had managed to reproduce (with him!), the entire situation had been dealt with rather...permanently.
Not as permanently as he'd hoped, it turned out. Upstairs by the vehicles, waiting for SETI to resolve the complications that had inherently arisen from the destruction of public property and Fitch's death, Dan had looked at him strangely for a long minute. He couldn't articulate what it was specifically that tipped him off, but Stephen knew the moment Dan figured out that he was different than he had been a few hours before. The next instant, having been unaware of it himself, he figured out what that difference was. It had only taken a sharp, panicked shake of his head to keep the empath silent on the subject, at least for a while.
Later, after departing from SETI, Stephen and Dan had met up in the back corner of a hole-in-the-wall bar.
"Are you okay?"
Stephen huffed a nervous laugh. "No, I'm not okay. I don't even know what this is, except-" He ran his hands through his hair then clasped them together, working them over each other as anxiety got the better of him. "Except they can't find out."
"You need help," Dan insisted.
"I know. I know! But it can't be them. You saw how they treated Sil, what they did to her. Do you think they're going to be any kinder to me?!" His voice rose a bit in emphasis, but he was quick to quiet down, hunching over the table. "You can't tell them anything, Dan. If I'm lucky, they'll just kill me. If I'm not lucky..."
Neither of them wanted to hear the end of that sentence. "How can I help?"
"By not saying anything." Stephen sighed. He eyed the bar, but didn't dare order a drink.
"Besides that," Dan said. "There must be something I can do."
Stephen shook his head. "I don't see how, but I appreciate the offer." He reached out to pat Dan's hand in reassurance. As their skin made contact, he snatched away as if scalded, eyes widening.
"Stephen?"
Stephen shook his head again, trembling. "That wasn't good."
"I know. I can feel it, remember?" Dan scowled. "Her instincts are there."
"Oh, god. She's in my head." Stephen put his face in his hands.
Dan was careful to focus, willing himself to ignore the distractions of other patrons and Stephen's own emotional state. It required more control over his ability than he normally managed, but he found a way. "No." He sighed in relief. "No, it's not her. It's her instincts, but...it's not another person. Or alien."
Stephen peeked over his fingers. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
"What am I going to do?" he lamented. "I don't want to hurt anyone, but I don't want to die, either."
"You live in Massachusetts, right?"
"Yes. I teach anthropology at Harvard."
"Well, you have to go back there." Dan kept talking, cutting off Stephen's response. "If you don't, they're going to know something's up. They're probably going to keep tabs on us for a while, right? So it has to look like everything's fine."
"Oh, god." Stephen bowed his head again, forehead resting against the heel of his hand.
"I'll go with you."
"What?" His head came back up at that.
"I don't do well living in one place too long. I move pretty frequently." Dan shrugged. "We'll figure it out together. It'll be good to have someone you can talk to about it, right? And this isn't exactly something you can just share with a therapist. Trust me, I know."
So the arrangements were made and an agreement reached: if Stephen ever became a threat, Dan would put him out of his misery. Then began the tedious process of learning to understand his new dual nature.
Some things made themselves obvious. The need to reproduce, for instance, but twisted beyond his own usual desires. Around women, he wanted to breed. Around men, to be bred. He refused to do either, of course. It seemed most likely that Sil's DNA had been transferred by the exchange of bodily fluids, so he dared not even kiss anyone. If he'd thought himself lonely and frustrated before, it had only gotten worse by an order of several magnitudes. And those desires? They were only heightened by physical contact, no matter how brief or innocent.
Dan kept a close eye on his behavior, cataloging it as he noticed changes. Even ones that were a conscious choice on Stephen's part, like no longer touching anyone, went into the file. Those hours Dan couldn't observe him, such as when he was on campus or home alone each night, Stephen was obsessive about self-analyzing and reporting even the smallest details. Some of them Dan recorded, some he only pretended to.
Stephen had figured out early on that he needed some kind of outlet. Cognitive studies were out; he couldn't sit still long enough. So he'd taken up weightlifting, a solitary endeavor that he could pursue from the relative safety of his own home. It had been a good idea at first. His weight hadn't fluctuated much, a gain of less than thirty pounds, and his general size had remained about the same, a more refined definition the only visible evidence. In the first week, however, he'd gone from using modest weights to lifting the equivalent of another human being. By the end of the following week he'd run out of additional weight to add to the bar and refused to buy more.
Days felt like weeks, weeks like years. And months? Like decades. If the terrible restlessness was anything like what Sil had experienced, he sympathized with her. She'd never known a life without the atrocious drives that had led her to Los Angeles, had never learned how to think beyond the moment. It was only that, the awareness of the rest of the human race and the danger he posed to them, which allowed him to remain in control.
But still those instincts were starting to tear him apart. He'd passed all of his office hours off to his teaching assistant and withdrawn from all public functions that he could without garnering undue attention. The only thing left was to resign entirely.
"I...know someone," Dan told him one evening. Stephen didn't need to be an empath to recognize pity when he heard it. "Someone I think you should talk to."
"Oh?" He was exhausted, too much so to play games. "Just say it, Dan. You think I'm losing it. I think so, too."
"No," Dan sat forward in his chair. "Don't say that. I just think this other guy can help, that's all."
"Why is that?" Dan's lips twitched, suppressing a scowl if Stephen had to guess. That caught the anthropologist's attention and he straightened a little. "Who is this guy?"
"His name's Everett Roberson."
That name sounded passingly familiar, but he couldn't recall why. "What does he do?"
"He's an empath. Like me." Dan let his gaze drop to the floor for a second. "But better than me."
"And you think he can help?"
"I think he would, yes."
Stephen sighed. "Set up a meeting, I guess. Anything to stave off the inevitable."
That turned out to be a fairly complicated endeavor. "Rett's in the Seychelles," his secretary informed them, so Dan left his name. The return call came much quicker than expected, less than an hour, and it was the man himself. It was a brief discussion, little more than an exchange of 'I need your help' and 'I'll be on the next available flight'.
"So?" Stephen prompted when the phone call ended.
"It's going to take most of the day just for travel," Dan replied. "He says he'll meet us for breakfast tomorrow morning."
"I meant," Stephen enunciated pointedly, "you're not telling me something."
Dan averted his eyes. "About what?"
"About you two."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Ah, bullshit. Nobody just leaves an idyllic island getaway at the drop of a hat if there's nothing to tell."
Dan shrugged, but Stephen was certain he was blushing. "Everett and I had never met another empath before we bumped into each other."
"So?" Stephen prompted again.
"So nothing. He wanted to...experiment...and I didn't."
"Yeah?" Stephen laughed. "Sounds like maybe he still wants to experiment with you."
"Shut up, man." But Dan chuckled a little, too, before getting serious again. "I just- I don't know if you've figured this out, but I don't like being an empath. I don't like how vulnerable it makes me."
Stephen's humor faded, too. "I didn't know that."
"Well, now you do." Dan sighed. "Everett never minded being open and vulnerable. That's why I think he can help you. He's more in control of his abilities than I am and he's more willing to make himself uncomfortable."
"Hey, don't sell yourself short. You've helped me more than anyone. I can't thank you enough for that."
They met at a small restaurant around the corner the next morning, a mom and pop kind of place whose claim to fame was omelets and southern-style biscuits and gravy. Dan nudged Stephen when their guest walked through the door and Stephen looked up from his plate, heart stopping in his chest. Tall, broad chested, muscular, with dark eyes and darker hair. Dark circles under his eyes, too. Stephen knew why the name had been familiar, then.
"Professor Arden." Rett smiled as he joined them at their table. "Hello. I didn't realize you were the friend Dan was talking about."
"You two know each other?" Dan asked, brow furrowing.
Stephen struggled to clear his throat. "He audited my class a few years ago." Those instincts were going wild again, antagonized by the other man's proximity.
"Professor?" Rett prompted, brow furrowing. "Is something the matter?"
"I think we should skip breakfast." Dan gestured to get the waitress' attention, alarmed by the intensity of what he could sense from Stephen.
Rett reached across the table, plucking the straw from Stephen's drink. Before anyone could stop him, Stephen scrambling to do so, he pressed it against his tongue. For a few beats, the world simply froze. No one moved. No one said anything. Then Rett's eyes widened.
"What can I get you, hun?" the waitress asked as she came up to the table.
"I'll have a glass of water," Rett answered distractedly. "And whatever you think the best thing on the menu is."
"You got it."
The moment she turned her back, Stephen slumped in his seat and looked at Dan, panic visible on his face even to a blind man.
"You really shouldn't have done that," Dan commented resignedly.
"Yes, I understand that." Rett laced his fingers together and leaned on the table. "Why didn't you warn me over the phone?"
"What was I supposed to say?" Dan countered. "Hey, Everett, my friend got infected by an alien and now we need your help to- I don't even know what?"
"That would've been a start." Rett looked to Stephen. "Professor-"
"Stephen, please." For some reason, the instincts were quiet again. He wasn't taking it as a sign of anything good. "I think, under these conditions, you might as well call me by my first name."
"Rett," he replied, holding out his hand. Though he was hesitant, Stephen shook the man's hand and was surprised to feel...nothing. It was as if all those foreign instincts had simply shut down. "Well, conditions aside, it is good to see you again. Both of you." He offered Dan a soft smile. "I think we've got a lot to do in a short amount of time."
"Why did you do that?" Stephen asked, gesturing at the straw still held between the man's fingers. Rett offered it back to him and he took it.
"An exchange of bodily fluids can give me more information than proximity or even physical contact can convey."
Stephen shot Dan a look and the empath shook his head. "I can't do that."
"You could," Rett was quick to reply, "if you wanted to. But that's an old argument. I'll try not to bring it up again."
"Good." Dan stared back at him for a minute. "So, what do you think? Is there any hope?"
"There's always hope," Rett said confidently. "For instance, in a few hours we'll know if saliva can transfer the virus. It's a question you didn't have an answer to before, but you will now."
"What hope is there if it can be?" Stephen questioned. "Won't that just mean there are two of us doomed like this?"
"It will mean there are two of us," Rett agreed, "and you won't be entirely alone in this ordeal any more."
"Oh." Stephen blinked. He hadn't considered that to be a positive change, but Rett at least didn't seem to think it would be a negative one. "This isn't like the flu, though. It's-"
"Maddening?" Rett interjected as if he'd pulled the word straight from Stephen's mind. "Isolating? Painful? Yes, I got that. Whatever flippancy you might perceive with me, I assure you, I'm taking this very seriously. I wouldn't have grabbed the straw if I wasn't."
"How much do you know?" Stephen asked in awe.
"Everything that you were thinking about while you touched it, more or less."
Dan and Stephen may have lost their appetites, but Rett had not. He ate while they continued to talk. Before they left, heading back to Stephen's place, he convinced the waitress that 9am was a perfectly fine time for a milkshake-to-go. It didn't take much, just a few pleasantries and a smile.
"Do you always consume so much?" Stephen found himself asking as they made themselves comfortable in his living room.
Rett shrugged. "Usually? No. I wasn't able to sleep well on the plane so I'm using it as a means of staying awake. It feels like a bad idea to let myself sleep just yet, at least until we know whether a transfer has occurred or not."
"About that." Stephen worried his hands over each other. "Aren't you concerned at all? I don't know anything about your life, but surely this would change everything?"
"It would, yes. My life has been very different from yours, but it'll be okay. Change is just another adventure."
They made small talk for the next couple of hours, discussing inconsequential things like favorite movies and books, favorite foods, how many pets each person had had as a child. And all at once Stephen couldn't pull his attention from the man and Rett couldn't pull his attention from Stephen. Dan picked up on it, looking nervously between the two.
"Do you feel that?" Rett asked, voice low.
"Yes." Stephen searched his face. Like a great serpent rousing from slumber, those instincts were stirring again, sending flames of desire along his every nerve ending, but it was more subtle than it had been in the past. As if his instincts had some reason to be cautious this time.
"Which is it for you?"
Stephen licked his lips. "I can't tell. Can you?"
"No, which seems strange." He extended his hand, open and palm up. "It's a risk, but maybe...?"
Stephen stared at the man's offer for a prolonged time, all of their unanswered questions flitting through his mind.
"Stephen. Don't," Dan advised.
Stephen scowled, but he didn't need to ask 'why not'. "How are we ever going to know if I don't?" he asked instead. Dan didn't seem to have an answer to that.
"Can you walk away?" Rett asked.
"What?"
Rett stood, turning his back on Stephen, and the anthropologist launched himself to his feet, reaching for the other man even before he'd processed any intent to move. He managed to stop himself, but it was clear what had happened when Rett turned back to look at him. He clenched his hand tight and lowered it back to his side. Judging by the clenched fists as Rett's sides, too, it hadn't been as easy for him as he'd made it look.
"Did you feel anything different just then? While my back was turned?"
Stephen nodded. "Breed," he replied.
Rett nodded, too. "Be bred. But now I can't tell again."
"It must have something to do with the position," Stephen surmised. "What if I...?" Slowly, he convinced his feet to move. He felt his instincts shift, urging him to let the man breed him, as he faced away. There was a quiet growl, hot breath over his shoulder, and he jumped in alarm, but couldn't move otherwise.
"Breed," Rett murmured just a few inches behind him.
"Be bred," Stephen whispered faintly. It took everything he had to face the man. "That's another question answered."
"Yes." Rett took a step back, but Stephen took a step forward, unable to do otherwise. "Like recognizes like, I think."
"Yes." Stephen swallowed, hard. "We don't know the extent of the biological changes."
"Whether breeding could produce anything." Rett understood. "If one of us doesn't walk away soon, I suspect we're going to find out."
"I'm sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen."
"Nonsense," Rett said dismissively. "It's not your fault. If there's one thing I've learned it's that everything changes at some point. Everything. So I'm willing to help you find whatever answers there might be. Assuming you're willing to, as well."
"Dan." Stephen managed to look over at his friend. "Maybe you should go. At least for an hour."
"I think this is a bad idea," he replied.
"Noted." Stephen gave him a nervous smile. "I still think you should leave."
They remained silent and unmoving for several moments after the door closed behind their friend, waiting to make sure he had gone. Then their eyes met and both men shuddered, thoughts practically echoing between them. Rett gave him a grin.
"As I recall," he said thoughtfully, "you were rather timid with the ladies that one night we went out drinking."
"I suppose I still am. Once bitten, I guess you could say."
Rett brought his hand forward, brushing his fingertips against Stephen's. Electrical sensation danced along their limbs from that simple contact. He took a half step forward, all but closing the distance between them. The subtle tilt of Rett's head was the first clue Stephen got as to where they were going next and he dredged up enough confidence to lean in, pressing their lips together. Rett's hands closed on his hips, pulling him close, and he deepened the kiss, turning the push and pull of it into a dance-like exchange. It confounded those damn instincts, one moment driving him to submit and the next urging him to dominate.
"Interesting," Rett murmured. "Do you think we could teach it anything new, or is it forever going to be stuck in this binary understanding?"
Stephen looked back at him blankly. "Huh?" Instincts be damned; he couldn't recall ever being kissed like that before and all he really wanted was to do it again.
"Nevermind."
Rett answered Stephen's unspoken request by kissing him again. They made it to the bedroom at some point, clothes falling off along the way. Rett's greater experience guided their explorations, a conscious effort to keep them always on equal footing. While the power remained even between them, the instincts remained manageable. They oscillated between the predefined dichotomy both men had already become familiar with, but never lingered too long on either side of the exchange.
"Do you trust me to take another risk?" Rett asked, running his hands up and down Stephen's arms.
Stephen considered it, feeling the alien awareness shy from the question. What was it afraid of? Did Rett feel that same fear? "Yes."
"Lay back for me."
Stephen did, watching Rett slide down between his legs. The feel of the man's mouth on his cock made him buck, a groan fighting its way out of his chest. Met with something pleasurable that served no reproductive function, those alien desires churned impotently, unable to direct him to a course of action. That suited him just fine. Then Rett pulled away, leaving Stephen's cock to sway in the cool air of the room, and bent the man's knees toward his chest. The first stirrings of "be bred" were dashed to pieces by Rett's tongue in places Stephen had never considered a tongue might go.
"Oh." Rett dragged his tongue over him again, grinning. "That's unexpected."
Stephen shivered, brow furrowing as he fought not to close his legs. "What is?"
"Some kind of natural lubricant, I think. It doesn't really have a flavor, but it's very viscous."
"I'm...wet?!" He looked down his body incredulously at the other man and immediately regretted it. Rett was grinning up at him like the cat that got the canary, a hand on the back of each of Stephen's thighs.
"It does seem that way." He dipped his head, pressing his tongue into Stephen's body and thoroughly enjoying the way the man squirmed. "But don't worry. If one of us is getting pregnant today, it won't be you."
Stephen choked on air. "W-What?"
Rett moved up again, letting Stephen's legs fall around his hips as he nestled his erection alongside the other man's. Once again, those alien drives shied away. "It's probably the biggest risk. I don't think we need to tackle it today, but if it does come to that, then I'll do it."
"You would...?!" Stephen couldn't even voice the thought.
"I would," Rett confirmed and began to roll his hips. Stephen gasped, hands closing on the man's waist as he bucked up into the delicious friction. The younger man grinned again. "Since it can't seem to understand pleasure for its own sake, why don't we just focus on alleviating some of that frustration of yours, shall we?"
"Fuck."
Stephen pressed back into the pillows, letting Rett set the pace and then desperately trying to match it. It felt unconscionably good to have another human being rutting against him. He caught himself wrapping his legs around the man's hips, seeking for more, and blushed furiously. Rett chuckled, caressing the side of Stephen's face, and kissed him. Another few minutes and Stephen gave in, his seed painting their bodies a handful of seconds before Rett's joined the mess.
Panting, still slightly giddy, Stephen reached up and pulled Rett into another kiss. The euphoria of feeling like himself again for the first time in too long was intoxicating. All at once, he stopped, eyes widening as he pushed the man away again. "Oh, no."
Rett scowled. "That doesn't warrant an 'oh, no."
"How do you-?" Rett quirked an eyebrow at him and Stephen blushed. "Right. You don't think so?"
"No. I think it's a very good sign that your own desires are still intact." He kissed Stephen's collarbone. "It seems to me that should give you hope for a fairly normal life, if we can get these other matters under control."
"Other matters." Stephen snorted. "You say it like it's just some kind of inconvenience, not the potential for a planetary threat that could wipe out our entire species."
"We won't let that happen."
"No." He smiled a little, placated by that. "We won't."
A year later, Stephen was sure they had learned everything there was to learn about their 'condition', as Rett had taken to calling it. They weren't like Sil. There were no spines or claws, no visible transformation to be concerned about. They were carriers only, their bodies having adapted to pass the genetic sequence as effectively as possible to a more suitable host, but not to carry life of their own. An unfathomably huge mercy, that. And as long as they only engaged with each other, there were minimal risks of infecting innocents. Better yet, as long as they coupled regularly those foreign desires seemed to remain placated and docile even in the presence of others.
"You're all over the place, dear." Rett caught one of the hands wrapped around his chest and kissed the back of it. "It's very distracting."
"Sorry." Stephen leaned closer over the back of the chair, resting his chin on Rett's shoulder. He eyed the man's desk for several minutes, gaze roaming the piles of paper and haphazard scattering of writing utensils. For a technical writer whose work was among the most refined, the process by which he produced his work was surprisingly chaotic. "It's out anniversary."
"Yes, it is," Rett agreed mildly. "Was there something you wanted to do?"
Stephen scowled, but nuzzled into the man's neck. "No, it's fine."
"Good." Rett let the word hang between them for a bit as he penned the last line of the page. "I made reservations for dinner at that French place we found a few months ago."
Stephen pulled back, slapping Rett's shoulder. "You let me think you'd forgotten!"
Rett swiveled the chair around, chuckling as he pulled Stephen between his knees. "I should be the one insulted. You thought I'd forget something like this?"
"Well, it's just..." Stephen sighed, smiling a little sadly. "You're right. We're stuck with each other. Of course you're going to remember."
"No." He pulled Stephen into a quick but deep kiss. "You're stuck with me. I'm quite happy to get to be with you. And you wanna know what else?"
Stephen played along, cheeks warm with embarrassment. "What else?"
"I'm glad you're still the same man I was crushing on five years ago. I'd have been sorely disappointed if your run-in with an alien life form had changed you in any drastic ways."
"It did change me," Stephen laughed. "And I seem to recall that you enjoy those changes."
"They certainly make things more convenient," Rett acknowledged, sliding his hands under his lover's waistband and palming his ass. "Do you think we have time for you to fuck me before dinner?"
"When's the reservation?" he asked, already working on the buttons of the man's shirt.
hi!! i saw your updates on your ao3 tumblr prompts and requests and was wondering if your prompts were opened. if so, would you be interested in ricardo/evelyn first date and kiss! if not, it okay! loving your morales/price fics especially! hugs
This does not mean that my asks are open again (sorry), but the idea came to me and I had a burst of creativity during which I could get it down on the page, so I took advantage of that. Apologies, Anon, for skipping over the actual meal and conversation. I didn’t feel I could do them proper justice at this time.
Approx. Reading Time - 14 minutes (200 words/minute)
Author’s note: Evelyn’s dress is the one pictured at the bottom of the fic, one actually worn by the actress, Regina Hall, for an event.
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Even as he released a held breath, the jury having reached a favorable verdict, Ricardo had never really doubted the outcome. This had been Evelyn's case from start to finish and she had manipulated every aspect with the artistry of a Julliard graduate; he'd merely been the spokesman by dint of being the senior DDA.
And what a thrill that had been. When the defense had attempted to throw them a curve ball, Evelyn had merely locked gazes with him and discretely lifted the edge of the folder at the end of the table. A clue a half second ahead of his own brain putting the pieces together. He wasn't too proud of a man to admit that her competence would one day exceed his own. Hell, maybe it already did.
"Marco's?" he asked as they stood, referencing their usual place for post-victory dinners.
"No," she replied slowly. She took a second to straighten her files, clearly pondering something before she looked over at him with a sly grin. "I'm thinking something nicer."
One eyebrow went up. "Oh?"
"I'll make the arrangements," she announced, then pointed at him with the documents in her hands, "but you're paying."
"Oh." He laughed. "Well, just don't leave me out of those arrangements, then."
The smile that she graced him with, secretive and, if he allowed himself to be fanciful, a bit flirtatious, did wonderful things for his already elevated mood. "I wouldn't dream of it."
~~~~~
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When she texted him the time and location, he lost every scrap of coherence save one: Dios mio. It was a small French place known to him for two things, romance and a waiting list longer than his leg, and she'd selected a portion of the night kept most often by lovers and the soon-to-be-so.
He didn't want to contemplate how she had managed to acquire a reservation in so short a time, mostly because it got him to thinking about how important it was to her to go if she'd pulled strings to make it happen, which led him to thinking about why it would be important to her, and that led him to hoping... No, that was a step too far. It was a great restaurant with (according to its reputation) amazing food and she had more than earned such a reward after her dominating performance in court, a win that he acknowledged as hers regardless of which of them had clocked more time on their feet pacing between table and witness stand.
There was a fine line between drawing attention by rushing out of the office and leaving justifiably early after a successful day in court. Where that line was, he couldn't quite tell, but it'd be fine as long as he didn't actually rush, right? Somehow, four hours still didn't feel like enough time.
Some of his decisions were easy. Shower. Shave. No cologne. His hair was too short for any attempts at styling; a quick pass of the comb would do well enough. Brush and floss for his teeth and a gargle of mouthwash. He'd already cleaned under his nails in the shower, but he took time to clip and file them anyway. It was technically a work dinner, so a suit was the only option. As a lawyer, he had plenty of those.
Other decisions had him twisted in knots. Which suit? Which shirt? Tie or no tie? Shine his shoes or merely buff them? If he wore one of the nicer suits, which he probably should given the location, did he go with a pocket square or without? Surely he had one...somewhere?
No, no. He was thinking about it all wrong. He'd never known what to wear for a date, much less a not-a-date like he was now facing, and he was too old to try figuring it out now. The goal wasn't to impress, it was to not embarrass himself. So. Work dinner at a fancy restaurant. ... ... ... All black.
He could manage that. That was safe, wasn't it? It was unlikely he'd match whatever she wore, but at least he couldn't clash, either. Unless she wore all white. Wasn't there something about labor day? That didn't matter. White and black were complementary aesthetics. ... Right?
Shit. He was gonna give himself an ulcer.
Falling upon the end of his bed, he couldn't help but chuckle at himself as he ran a hand over his face. He had it bad. Well, that wasn't that new. It was just that he'd anchored himself with the rituals of the job and she'd pulled that rug out from under his feet rather effectively. Not that he blamed her for that.
Maybe he was quicker to smile for her than for others and he gave her opinions more weight than others', but that was just the natural course of things when you liked and respected a co-worker you worked closely with. She (hopefully) had no reason to suspect it was anything more than that. She was far too good at the job for him to want her to be in any way uncomfortable working at their office. Yes, he was biased on the matter, but she'd earned every consideration case after case. Years of consideration. As good as their co-workers were, there wasn't anyone else he wanted working next to him, especially on matters of life and death and truth and justice.
That was a sobering thought. It shifted his focus from lack of embarrassment for himself to comfort for her. The dinner should be about her and her success. It would be about her and her success if he had any say in the matter. It was common for several people in the office to attend these triumph dinners, so he'd simply make a special point of talking her up. More than usual, anyway. He could be forgiven that under the circumstances, he was sure.
That made it okay, somehow, that he take just a little more care in his appearance. Yes, he'd keep all the fabrics black, but he had some accessories that would go well with the understated look. A watch, cufflinks, and collar tips. All in very pale gold. All very simple, arguably simple enough to be called plain. His only particularly nice belt had a buckle to match.
He found himself nodding at the mirror. Yes, that would do. No matter what she wore, he wouldn't draw negative attention her way with his appearance.
~~~~~
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As he opened the door, straightening from the backseat of the taxi, his eyes were already searching for her. There was a multitude of people coming and going along the sidewalk, but there was no mistaking his co-counsel. Nor the immediate effect she had upon him, his heart pounding like a trapped hummingbird behind his Adam's apple and his gut plummeting to the bottom of his shoes. Somewhere between the two, his libido was doing somersaults in the newly vacated cavity of his chest. He was exceptionally glad he was still holding onto the supportive structure of the vehicle; if he'd already begun to approach, he wouldn't have gotten more than a step or two before making an unfortunate scene.
It was a small mercy that she was facing away from him, giving him a moment of selfishness to take in her beautiful figure while he tried to marshal himself. Bare arms. Mostly bare back, save for broad strips of material. She'd worn a black dress, something tight fitting that released at the hips to swish and flow, just brushing the ground. She half turned, clearly looking for someone, and his lungs imploded with a strangled whimper. The sheer panel that ran from the bottom of her ribs all the way down made one thing very clear: there weren't any underwear lines, not even nude ones.
Mouth dry, throat working compulsively, he fumbled cash from his wallet for the driver. He needed to get his head right, and not the one that was currently trying to take over. So she wanted to show off after a big win. So what? It was a nice restaurant. She wouldn't look the least bit out of place in there.
Work dinner, he repeated to himself. This was just a fancy work dinner. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and resigned himself to a gloriously frustrating evening. When he looked up, she had spotted him and approached, but her brow was furrowed, lips slightly downturned in concern.
"Is everything okay, Ric?" she inquired.
"Yes, of course. I was-"
He stubbed his foot against the curb and tripped, stumbling a couple of steps. She reached for him and he reflexively reached back, their hands coming together roughly. Arresting his attempted fall, he found himself breaking into laughter. So much for not embarrassing himself.
"I'm okay." He gentled his grip, barely cradling her hand. She'd worn pale gold, too. An assortment of bracelets and rings to match the delicate threader earrings that peeked from beneath her dark locks, all simple save for a few pieces with texture. Her small clutch completed the look, black and gold and just a splash of white. All that effort and he'd unintentionally matched with her after all. "You look gorgeous."
"Thank you." Her eyes fell to his throat, lingering there, and he couldn't help but wonder if she was judging the collar tips or that he'd left the top button undone, foregoing a tie. "You look great." Her eyes finally came back to his, a smile on her lips. "Very handsome."
"Well, thank you." He returned her smile. Maybe he'd overdone it, but she didn't seem to mind. "Shall we?"
Ricardo held the door and they approached the maître d' as she took the lead. "Reservation for Evelyn Price," she informed the man.
"Table for two," he confirmed in his book. A hostess at his elbow stepped forward immediately as he gestured to her. "If you'll follow this young lady."
Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. At least the single-file walk to the table gave him a moment to recover. Just the two of them for this dinner? He wasn't certain he was a strong enough man to withstand such temptation. And of course their table was near the fireplace at the back of the room. He was going to be the worst conversation partner she'd ever had. Pulling her chair for her helped settle a few of his errant brain cells, a gesture he hoped she took as polite and not overbearing.
"I've wanted to come here for months," she admitted as he took his seat opposite her.
"I hear the food's incredible," he said, eyes roaming their surroundings. Comfortably dim lighting. Dark, rich colors. Heavy fabrics. The only thing missing from the Hallmark cliché was a candle, a rose, and a violinist. "It's astonishing you were able to get a reservation on such short notice."
"Ric, I-" His gaze came back to her and his brows drew together at the way she wasn't looking at him, but at the table cloth instead. In a moment of shyness he'd never observed from her before, she glanced at him through her lashes. "I'd thought about not saying anything, but the butterflies in my stomach won't let me."
He sat up a little straighter. "What's wrong?" Her trepidation made him think the worst. Was she planning to leave for a different work environment?
"I've had the reservation here for, well, months. It just was a fortuitous coincidence that court went well today."
Table for two. He blanched. "If there was someone else that you had intended to come with, I can leave."
"No, no. It was always you that..." She trailed off, realizing what she'd said. Funny, how it settled her nerves. She met his eyes properly then. "No, Ric. You're the only person I had in mind when I made the reservations."
There went his heart again, jackrabbiting in his chest. At least it stayed in place this time. He let a smirk, an incredulous one, twist his lips. "And this way I'd pay for it. Very clever."
"Of course, you're paying. Call me old fashioned, but that's what a gentleman is supposed to do on the first date, isn't it?"
For a second, then two, her words hung unintelligibly over the table. His gaze caressed her hopeful expression, the cant of her head, the slight lift at the corner of her lips. His eyes traveled lower, to the way the deep 'v' of her dress hugged and lifted her breasts, to the subtle highlights and shadows that hinted at perky nipples.
He was a damn fool, but he didn't need to ask himself why he'd missed all of the now very obvious signs that she was attempting to seduce him.
He sought her eyes and asked, faintly, "Months, you said?"
"Maybe a year," she teased back.
It was difficult to carry tension in your shoulders when your soul was soaring somewhere around the moon. "Then I'd better be very generous in addition to a perfect gentleman. Do you prefer wine or champagne?"
~~~~~
~ ~ ~
~~~~~
He'd walked her to her door, fingertips scalded by and scalding her lower back as they ascended the steps. They'd already shared their awkward agreements about the night having gone well, technically already bid each other a good night. Now they lingered, neither eager to leave the other's company.
"May I...?" He turned toward her fully, hands hovering a hairsbreadth from her hips. He looked at her lips, tongue darting out to moisten his own, and his head tilted in a suggestive manner, forward and minutely to the side.
He'd frustrated and excited her in equal measure by being exactly what he'd promised, a generous and perfect gentleman, so it was only by an effort of will that she let him keep the initiative he'd shown instead of pouncing on him immediately. "Please, do," she encouraged.
Those long, elegant fingers settled over her curves and he shifted forward a step. The first brush of his lips was feather light. So was the second. She'd never known something that could hardly be considered a kiss could ignite her nerve endings so. The third was just enough to shift her flesh against his, to make her whimper. Then it was a proper kiss, the press and retreat, give and take of shared passion. When they finally parted, she was light headed, but he hardly seemed to be breathing at all.
"I've never seen you so careful," she murmured, hands wrapped in his lapels. "Won't you kiss me again?"
"You've never seen me want anything as much as I want you," he replied, leaning in to answer her request with action.
She groaned, leaning into him as he stole her senses with his unexpected skill. There had been an intention on her part to be a good girl, to send him home at the end of the date, but that part of her was rapidly packing up shop and taking a vacation. The looks. The touches. She couldn't remember any past lover making her feel so alive and they hadn't even gotten that far, yet.
He rested his forehead against hers, his breath teasing her palate as she panted for him. The deep, rich timbre of his voice resonated through her in a way she'd never imagined it could, melodic as he softly crooned. It was slower, more sensual than the version of the song she knew, and his rendition made her bite her lip.
"Loosen my lips. Faith an’ desire an’ the swing a’ your hips. Just pull me down hard...an’ drown me in love."
Dozens of words crowded the back of her tongue, but none could express her need for him as effectively as the way she threaded her fingers through his hair, both hands pulling him in again for another kiss. This one was as carnal as the previous had been chaste. She moaned into it, feeling him respond in kind. His hands tightened around her, drawing her close, his delicious bulk bowing over her much smaller frame. Only when she thought her legs might give out did she pull away.
"That may have been a mistake," she muttered, tracing the bridge of his nose with the tip of her own. "I think I'm going to want to hear you sing all the time now."
"For you," he assured her, "I'll sing every night."
