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It's raining. It's been raining for several days - the rain that doesn't cut the humidity but leaves the city thick as soup. The sun doesn't even come out long enough to dry the pavement. Your undershirts are consistently damp, and your composure is consistently frayed. Your partner is tireless as ever, but even he’s beginning to fray.
"Detective, we've had a long day. It’s time to get some rest." Your voice sounds thin to your ears. You unequivocally believe that he has a reason for everything; things typically turn out for him even if you can’t see how at the beginning. Today, it felt like you ran half the length of Jamrock, stopping only to open several containers and watch Harry stare at walls. Then, inexplicably, he reconstructed things from the conclusion backwards, like someone had told him the truth and set him to go find proof. It worked. It shouldn't have worked. It always works.
You'd driven him home this evening because you were still worried about his leg. It had been three months - three weeks to get your transfer taken care of, two months and a week working together, dancing around each other.
The rituals - the cigarette at night on the balcony; he's down to one a day just like you. How he invites you in for coffee when you drive him home, and then you sit on the couch and listen to a milieu and sit, rigid, only daring to touch in specific and prescribed ways. Handing him a pen or a handkerchief. Bringing him a cup or a plate. Passing the game pieces. When his hand, burning, brushes yours, or when he stumbles and falters and grabs your shoulder for support. He reaches out for you instinctively.
There's a cigarette in his hand, lit, and he offers you a second. You accept and touch it to the end of his before bringing it to your mouth.
"I don't know why I do the things I do, Lieutenant." A small shock goes through you that he knows what you're thinking. He's reading you. He isn't looking at you when he says it, but it's reminiscent of the first time he said it to you. The first night in Martinaise, which was also the first time you rubbed one out to the shape his lips made when he asked you why you were so cool. Notably, not the first time the thought of burying your face in his chest hair sent a pang of desire down your body.
"What do you mean?" You’re not sure where he’s going with this, but he’s wanting something from you.
"I mean - the investigations. The running. The searching, hell, even the containers. It doesn't make sense to me. It's like a compulsion that drives me, and I don't know why."
"Have you tried anything to help you balance your... compulsion... with the rest of your life? Petanque, perhaps?" You adopt a disinterested affect. As if you could ever really be anything but interested in him.
"Of course I've tried. I joined a book club. I took up painting. I even asked for something to help me sleep. I can't do it." He seems to forget himself in his desperation.
You take a long, even breath. You want to take a risk; he makes you feel risky.
"Come inside. The rain will be starting again." You pull aside the balcony's grubby glass door and sweep the Vespertine blinds open with it. There's is no choice for him. "Sit." He's on the middle cushion of the couch, and you sit to his left.
"Why are you telling me this, detective?" Your heart batters at the walls of its room in your chest. You suspect he knows the way you feel about him already.
He is looking at you like you’re a saint.
“Please, Kim,” he says as he shifts on his cushion. “I can’t stop. I need your help.”
“Are you asking me to – help you sleep?”
“No! That’s not it. I need,” he looks away, and the red in his face rises, “I need you to help me turn my brain off.”
“I can knock you out, if you’d like, but I don’t think that’s what you’re asking for. Is it?”
“I – no, I’m not.”
“Then what do you want, detective?”
"I want you to make my brain stop. I want you to make me do – whatever you want me to. I don't care what it is. I just want it to be you." He falls to his knees, and you grip one wrist behind your back quite hard to suppress a reaction. "I know you can." He's staring up at you with such bold intensity. It’s not surprising to you, but you didn’t think he’d do it this way.
The man on your knees is yours and you don't even know why. Your own blank slate. Your clay to mold. The thing on which you impose your morals, your Dolorian sensibilities. Your sense of duty and your marble composure.
Few have looked a gift horse in the mouth as thoroughly as you have. Few could say that they considered the implications more thoroughly than you.
He is looking at you like you’re an Innocence.
And in that moment, you decide to become one for him.
You subtly shift, placing one foot between his legs. Maybe ten centimeters from him.
You're his everything, that much is clear. When he stumbled downstairs for the first time, reeking of piss, musk, and sweat (and somehow - inexplicably - rose and vetiver) you were a goner. Maybe he really does have supra-natural powers. Seductive powers.
"Kim?" You've been staring at him in silence for longer than could possibly be comfortable for him, especially with his shot leg only barely healed raw. You're being cruel.
"Khm. I apologize. I was... lost in thought." You shift your left boot forward subtly, planting it only a few centimeters away from his splayed legs and pointedly look down. You're glad you'd polished them this morning, but they’re still lightly coated in grime.
You want him to grind against it, but more than that, you want him to know that you want it without having to tell him. With anyone else, this would be an unreasonable expectation, but with Harry - sometimes he knows what you're thinking before you've fully formed and parsed the thought.
That's why you're partners, some piece of you rises up to say.
"Will you be good for me?" You lift his chin further than can be truly comfortable, but he allows himself to be led without complaint. “If you can be good, I can help you.”
"Kim." Of course I will, his eyes say. You believe him like you always have. And then he's moving, pressing the seam of his pants against the toe of your boot. A sharp intake of breath - yours - and a soft, drawn-out moan - his.
You can feel the swell of him and the warmth, the wetness of you against him. Sure, he's powerful - but he's utterly bent to your authority. You wonder if he ever got this way with Dora. Part of the problem may have been that she simply didn't know what to do with him.
Fortunately, you do, and you wind your left hand in his hair, dragging his head even further up and back, and lean down to kiss him. He leans into you, almost tumbling forward, and you brace yourself to hold the warmth of him, the desperation of him.
"Please, Kim," he's gasping, and the only reason your lungs bother to stay in your chest is to keep pumping air, pumping blood, keep you standing and holding him while he rubs his cock on your boot. You feel his hips start to shake and you push him back. He's so beautiful when he's obedient.
"Your leg, Harry," you say, and guide him up to his feet. He leans his forehead against your shoulder, breath returning to him more steadily. He whines and it's the most perfect sound you've ever heard in your life, and you feel a little selfish for denying him. Not selfish enough to change your mind from what you've decided you'd like to do with him, though.
Lucky thing that his bedroom is just around the corner from his primary room because you can't wait more than a moment before you turn to kiss him again. His lips tremble with hesitancy but press heavy onto yours. It only makes you surer that you want this, but you have to ask.
"Do you know what you are doing?"
"What, like - sex? I don't remember having sex, but I remember what sex is, and I think I remember how to do it."
"Yes, but - no. I want you to understand the seriousness of this to me. Let me put it this way.” You hold on to him but don’t allow him to kiss you yet.
“If you'd prefer a person to help you explore, I'd ask you the favor of finding someone else. I won't be your experiment." You're very, very still as you drop your hands from his. A shiver runs through you.
He - Harry - places his palm flat against your cheek and gazes into your eyes. His skin is searing, velvety.
"For me it's only ever been you. For this iteration of me. Since I woke up." He acknowledges that the black hole of before has swallowed the prior. This way is better, you think. Maybe it's better that he had the terrible things first. The call, and the response - But then ... all those tooth marks and all that blood. Everything he forgot.
You don't usually think like this, but he's gotten inside your head and made a home there over the past few months. You shake it off, wanting most to respond to him. To affirm him.
His other hand comes to rest on your hip, and you offer no resistance as he guides your face to his with the hand that's been resting on your cheek. "Do you?"
Of course. You're only a hair’s breadth away, lips to lips, forehead to forehead. You hope he can hear your affirmation in his uncanny way without hearing. You know that he can.
You don't know how it happens, but you're kissing him again, and he's dragging you into him by the small of your back. Your hands tangle in his hair at the nape again - he liked it so much before, and he likes it more now - and he's moaning. You're breathing heavily, almost panting, you realize.
With your feet barely on the ground, you move him forward until his calves hit the back of his bedframe. It's old but sturdy - wrought iron, you notice absently. He sits down hard. He's hauling you up to sit on his lap, giving you a better angle to slide a hand from his hair down his shoulder to his chest and grab at his tits.
"Take off your shirt," you say between kisses. One fumbling moment later, the buttons are torn off his shirt and skittering across the floor, the shirt landing in a heap. You don't look to see where because you're too distracted.
He's got broad, pale shoulders, the look of a man who's done exercise but only indoors or shielded from the sun, and that even is covered by a thick layer of fat and a beer belly. His neck has a hint of a tan that the beginnings of the summer has gifted him. He's got impressive chest hair - more impressive than your own, but somehow that makes you want him more. You pinch one of his firm, rosy nipples, and he makes the most heavenly sound. You decide you want to hear that sound, the deep throaty moan, every day for the rest of your life.
He's perfect. He doesn't even know it.
You want to give him the world, but you settle for sucking on his neck, testing him with a small bite. It'll leave a mark - he'll have to wear a scarf tomorrow. Perhaps the teal. You imagine him in nothing but the teal gauzy scarf.
He's like a buffet in front of a starving man, and it takes all your composure to stay on track and not immediately bury yourself in him, curl between his ribs and never leave. Instead, you switch your hand to his other nipple, flutter your fingers across his tits and watch his shoulders tremble.
His fingers clutch at the bottom of your shirt, so you lean to give him better access to pull it over your head and throw it over your shoulder. He presses his whole self against you, burning and absolute, soft but unyielding. Although you knew it conceptually, you now recognize how powerful he really is. He could break you in half, you think, and realize with a small shock that you'd let him.
The press of his hips against yours reminds you that this is not idle, leisurely time. You have a purpose and a goal, and the most direct way to get there is via the cock grinding against the join of your legs.
Your hair is mussed and he's halfway to wrecked, but there's one last important thing you must tell him. With some hesitancy, you pull back.
"Harry," you say, holding yourself still at great effort, "there is something you should know about me if you want to go any further."
"Anything," he pleads, lids half-closed.
"Focus, detective." He notices your rigid shoulders, your porcelain posture, the use of his title, and opens his eyes wide and attentively.
"I have... a non-traditional body." He cocks his head in question.
"What, like... non-human? Tentacles? Are you packing a cloaca down there? Whatever it is," he shrugs, "I'm pretty sure I'm down for it."
"Khm. No." The tips of your ears redden. "I'm... I don't have a cock. At least not in the way you are probably expecting."
"Oh. I'm - I'm sorry. How did it happen? Can I ask?"
"Harry." You're smiling now, most of the tension gone. Although he hasn't ever articulated, you believe him to be bi-sexual, though you didn't quite expect that level of eager adventurousness from him. "I didn't lose my cock in an accident. I never had one to begin with. I was born - different. I simply have a vagina instead."
You can see the pieces slide into place in his head, a sizzle of electrochemistry as he comes to understand. Before he can ask, you cut him off.
"It's a long story that I will tell you another time. For now - you want to fuck, yes?"
"I want anything you'll give me."
"Lie back, then." You push your flat palm against his chest hair and then rise to your knees. He's reaching toward the button of his pants, but you bat him away and undo them yourself, tugging them down and off so that he's fully naked with you above on your knees.
"Kim," he moans as you run your nails down his torso past his belly button. "I need to see you," he pants, shoving at your waistband. You let him remove your pants, first one leg than the other, and he stares wide-eyed and decorated in wonder.
"May I?" You meet his eyes. You've never been wetter in your life.
"Of course, my Harrier," and he runs two fingers down the length of your cunt while you shudder above him. He's still staring at you, cock bobbing freely into his stomach. You won't - can't look away until he does.
His fingers linger on your dick while he stares up at you, clumsy, messy, calloused. Your hips shift to slip yourself between his first two fingers, fucking them while they're pressed together to give you the friction you crave.
Harry is breathing heavily; his eyes open wider than you've ever seen. "Please, please," he chants, a fat drop of precum weeping out of him. You grab his jaw, perhaps more roughly than you should have - and press into his cheeks to part his mouth.
"Tell me what you want," you breathe, almost a whisper, rocking against him. “Be specific.”
“I want – oh, Dei, I want to eat you out, I want you to sit on my face and grind on me, I want you to use my mouth, please, please, please.” He dissolves into hopeless begging, but you’ve heard what you need to hear.
“And you’ll get it.” You slide up to his face and lower yourself on his mouth as he grabs your ass with those big hands and pushes your cunt into his face.
“Finally, a better use for your mouth.” You twist and glance behind you to watch his cock bob before letting yourself enjoy him. You want to cum before you fuck him – it’s been a while for you.
He’s enthusiastic, which is two-thirds of the battle. He focuses most of his attention on your dick and takes instruction readily when you nudge him into just the right spot or put your hand on his forehead to push him harder. He has natural talent, but no training, something you can easily remedy later.
For now, he’s sucking your cock into his mouth, and you bite down on your bottom lip and grab onto him as you cum in his mouth. You’re not one for a long, drawn-out production, but he’s watching you with stars in your eyes.
“So good for me,” you whisper as you recover. “Would you like your reward?” He hasn’t even touched himself, a testament to how willing he is to please you.
“Mm,” he says, nose still between your thighs. You climb off to stretch briefly and grab a condom while he pants, starfishing on his bed. “That was amazing, Kim.”
“I haven’t even touched you yet,” you say, self-satisfied and a little smug.
“Yeah, but – it was just you and me in that moment, nothing else.”
“I would certainly hope so.” You roll out your neck before coming back to kiss him again, sliding a hand down his torso and letting your fingernails catch in his chest hair on the way to his cock.
“You don’t have to, I can…” he trails off as you circle your hand around the base of his cock and grip it. Not firm enough to be mean, but enough to show him you mean business.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” His eyes are trained on you. “First, I’m going to put this on you - ” you hold up the condom and tear the packet open with your teeth “- with my mouth. Then, you’re going to stay perfectly still while I sit on your cock. Finally, as your reward, I’m going to ride you. Do you want that?”
“Yes,” he whispers. Using your left hand, you put the condom on his tip before using your lips (praying that you can do this, the ultimate cool move, in one try) to roll it all the way down to his base, taking him into your throat as far back as you can go. He’s big, and it triggers your gag reflex a little. Your gag translates itself into a couple of pulses in your cunt.
“Are you ready, my Harrier?” As you pull off, dripping spit, you fold your knees under you and arrange yourself comfortably, checking that there’s not too much pressure on his bad leg and that he’s propped up with a pillow below his neck.
“Please,” he begs, “I’ll be so good for you. I’ve been so good for you. Please fuck me, Kim.”
“If you wish,” you say, and sink the head of his cock into you. You’ll need to take him in increments, adjusting to the size. He’ll split you open. One day, you’d like to take him all the way to the root in one go.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasps. “You’re – you’re so tight.”
“Khm. Keep talking.” You take him what feels like another inch, and then another. He’s splitting you open as you walk the razor edge between pleasure and pain.
“And wet, oh Dei, please, I’ve never felt this before.” His hands come to rest on the side of your ribcage, stroking up and down, encouraging you. “How are you real? I want to do this all the time, always in you, fucking bury my cock inside you.” It’s nonsense, dirty talk, but you feel it deep inside you and slide down a little further. You can feel the ghost of his pubic hair and you know you’ve almost got the whole thing.
“Stay still.” You stroke a hand down his face. “Just a little longer for me.”
In that moment you’re absolutely sure he’d do anything for you. You knew from the moment you met him that he’d take a bullet for you as you would for him, but you only fantasized that he would do this. All that bulk, taller than you, stronger than you, and he voluntarily submits to you without complaint. You don’t even have to work for it.
You take a deep breath and take his cock all the way, clenching down and letting a half-stifled moan escape your mouth. He throws his head back, appearing temporarily overcome. It gives you a dizzy rush that you can make him do that.
“You’ve been so good.” You know you’ve told him so many times, but there’s more love in you for him than spoonfuls of water in the ocean. More than memories in pale.
And then you’re fucking, you’re moving gently with him even though you told him to be still. He’s huge inside of you, a pleasant ache that you know will dissipate after a few moments. Your hands find their way to his wrists and hold them.
“Oh!” He tosses his head when his motion is limited. He’s using his core to hold his hips steady as you pick up your pace. He’s worshipping you, you realize with a start. Letting you control his movements, letting you set the rhythm. Letting you take from him instead of the other way around. You have all the power here.
"Give up the ghost, Harrier," you say as you make a fist at the nape of his neck and drag his head backwards by the hair to give him an open-mouthed kiss. “Fuck me.”
He’s feral like it’s his first time, shaking with the effort to sink into you again and again but not fighting your hands on him. He’s stronger than you, could shake you off if he really wanted.
“Kim, Kim, Kim,” he’s moaning, biting down on his own lip. You savor the drag and push of him, snapping your hips against him.
“Harry,” you breathe into his neck, biting down at the join of his shoulder. He’ll have more than one mark tomorrow. Good, you think smugly. Let them see. Let them speculate.
"This is what sex is for," he says fervently, shuddering against you as he rolls his hips into yours. He clutches your face with both hands. Any other man would have bruised you, but his gentleness is fierce. Consuming. He could eat you alive; you could lose yourself in him.
He hits just the right angle, and you cry out, feeling your own orgasm approaching again. You use a hand to messily rub at your own cock before you clench down on him. “I’m going to – “ is all the warning you can give him.
There’s a sudden warmth and a pulse as you realize he’s cumming with you, his hands still on your face. He’s looking so deeply at you that all you could possibly do is maintain eye contact and cum together. You’re merging, you’re more than the sum of both your parts.
Then it’s over, and somehow, you find yourself back in your body and on top of him, both out of breath. Forty-something years old, depleted, and hopelessly in love with him.
He clutches you to his chest, hugs you so tightly that you feel every individual rib. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he chants. You can do nothing but hold him in return for several moments as you come down. Eventually, you shift, turn on your side and curl your arm around him so that he can rest his cheek on your shoulder. His facial hair tickles, but you don’t mind.
"Hardcore to the mega," he whispers into your ear. You laugh and press his head into the crook of your neck. "Yekokataa."
"It's the place to be." You don’t even think before you say it as you press a kiss to his head and absently untangle a strand of his hair. You both need to shower, but you’d like to savor this moment a little longer. You'd do this every day if you could.
Maybe you can love him enough to turn off his brain, give him some consistent respite. Maybe only sporadic. Either way, you’re willing to try again, and again, and again, until duty, death, or age take you both. This world is his, and he’s yours.