Confusing
A "Wild Target" fanfic by waspinthelotus
"So I was wondering… if it might'nt be you. Confusing me. Without meaning to. Without realizing. Without either of us realizing."
"Confusing you…?"
"Sexually."
It has just sort of happened. In the way that flowers grow or little babies are made; in the twisted tangle of limbs that was to develop, like some painting that Rose would have counterfeited, a Picasso or DeKooning. In this case life imitated art, if just for a moment every evening, each person contributing in their own dysfunctional little way.
Of course Victor Maynard hadn't imagined this sort of arrangement taking place, occurring in his bed even. A lifestyle of fastidiousness and French and cold-blooded murder had made him nearly immune to the erotic charms of women, or men. More often than not his physical arousal was reserved for the sound of a finely tuned orchestra; with every note in place, and every instrument serenely relevant.
Murder was much like music to him and he had trained his hands to play death like a harp. The confidence with which he held his gun declared his status as a virtuoso. Professional Killer, composer of the death rattle.
But like music, and some may believe like death also, there was more beneath the surface of Victor. Little impulses that he had neglected to investigate. He was, in a word, confused. What pieces of his purpose (which was assassination) which had been previously tied in unison now lay shattered. In one unthinking motion he had committed career suicide. He had saved Rose's life.
Was it her coquettish ways, her bold and fearless disregard for right and wrong, her kleptomania, her slutty boots? These charms had never worked on Victor before. He was also old enough to be her father. Although, she was beautiful. So was the ginger-haired lad they had seemingly hooked. Victor could understand beauty: he liked to stare at through glass.
What was indeed different was the forced captivity. Hours locked in the safehouse; a cupboard full of bottle after bottle of gleaming champagne. Birthday parties. Tony's incessant baths. There was nothing much else to do. They were, after all, being hunted. Victor was in charge of protecting them, not realizing that he would fall in love with both of them.
"How much do you weigh?"
A fairly innocent segway into a devious action.
For someone who had not done so in ages, Victor was surprisingly good at making love. Rose's lips were incredibly soft. She made short little sounds in his ears. He knew where to touch her without asking, where her trigger was, and how to make her 'go off'—gun analogies worked well.
He knew that she wanted above all to be in control. While this did not manifest in her fornication (she loved to be pinned down, bitten lightly, her hair wild in her eyes and wrists tied to the bedpost), it did so in her application. He found her in Tony's bed the next evening, with Tony in it.
More deer-in-the-headlights looks from Tony as Victor gazed in on them. Rose squirming in his lap, her white breasts thrust in Tony's flushed face. Freckled back with his arms wrapped around her. "Stop blushing, you silly boy," Victor chided and walked away. He could hear their soft gasps down the hall.
Some how or another they wound up sleeping in the same bed. Champagne the likely suspect.
Too many legs; each set indistinguishable from the next. A kiss shared between friends. Tony's hand sliding along Rose's breast. Victor's hand between her legs. Lips and tongues cautiously colliding.
"Should we be doing this?" It was Tony and he was whispering.
Victor was inside of her and Tony was watching. He stared into her eyes, her face and open mouth, cheeks blazing, brow creased at the complexity of stimulation. His heart rose to his throat and remained there.
She closed her lips around his and breathed her orgasmic whimpers into his mouth. She called his name. "Tony… Tony I love you."
It was easy to take turns making the other come. After all, two pairs of hands tended to work better than one. Some nights it was Tony instead of Rose, sinking into the pillow, eyes clenched shut at the mutual sensation of roaming touches, overwhelming him and eliciting strings of creative curses.
This was this glorious six-legged creature writhing in orgiastic bliss. Of course it was Rose who was most often hot between them and such a perfect thieving slut and both of them loved her so. She had every right to deny them or desire them; three amigos, three criminals, three lovers locked. But regardless of the configuration, each night they slept together, warm and safe in a multiple embrace.
A Big Happy Family.