I have to apologize. Two months, not a note and I just upped and abandoned you. But, here is an extra long chapter, which if I'm honest, was painful to write. Not so much the subject (I'm great on it), but the plot itself starts to thicken (there's a plot?), not to mention writer's block decided to finally rear it's head. We also opened up a clinic and it's been a bit hectic. On top of that Homestuck happened (someone send a rescue unit).
The truth? I was being a lazy bastard. I think Procrastination's my second name.
Thank you to everyone who has both favorited and story alerted this silly thing, because thanks to you, Monster is still alive (kinda).
"Ever seen a scene like this?."
A blonde cop made a face, something between a grimace and a look of pity, at the remains of a ripped body. Sure, death was normal in Chicago, but damn, there were bits and pieces all across the alley and the blood splatters were over exaggerated. Hell, it even looked like some monster flick was taking place instead of, you know, actual real-life scenario crime scene. Whatever had attacked the, err, person wasn't human but that came to a stop when you factored in the lack of hands, feet and head. Whatever 'it' was had wanted to keep their victim unrecognizable. It sent a chill down his spine and it looked like he wasn't the only one. Most officers in the scene were so unsettled they were giving the rooftops nervous glances.
A woman, also blonde, bit her lip as she took another picture of the woman's body, but her eyes kept darting over to the carnage with obscene fascination.
"Oh, c'mon Daniel, you're taking the fun out of forensics! It's like we're in a novel, or a tv show or something, like CSI and this is our very own chapter. But it's odd isn't it? The male, well, what's left of him got all ripped up and the girl just has this lone cut to her stomach." She takes another picture and pouts, more in concentration than confusion. "Maybe he didn't have the heart to rip her apart?"
"Hannah, please stop trying to feel sorry for whoever did this, it's freakish. Maybe some psycho decided to take advantage of the." The cop made hyphen motions with his fingers. "Animal attacks' that have been happening lately. But tell you what. I think it's all bullshit, and I think I have a pretty good idea what's actually going on."
"Nice to know both of your opinions."
The blonde officer straightened out while the female chuckled, going back to searching for more clues.
"Ah, Sgt. Bellamy, sorry we were just-"
"I know, I know. What with all these attacks you'd think someone would raise a brow, but you throw the general public something like an animal attacking and they're calmed down. It doesn't help that the zoo's lion escaped."
Officer Hannah Mueller went over to the mangled remains and took another set of pictures while Daniel Cross rummaged through the girl's bag. Sergeant Paul Bellamy watched the scene with a frown in his face, not at all comfortable with what he was seeing. This was, at the very least, the thirty-third attack since December of last year and they still had no leads. Cross rummaged through the girl's bag and gave a victory whoop.
"Well, well, at least our girl has a name. Leila Marino, age twenty-seven, born right here in the Windy City. Poor gal, she lived just a couple more blocks from here."
Hannah frowned and reached to the ground at something that shimmered, just barely in the ground with the wide-eyed curiosity of a fiver year old. "Add something more to the odd list."
She raised, with the tip of her pen, a lone necklace with a rather strange metal amulet. It seemed like some sort of 'A'.
"I don't think this is Choppy's."
"Did you just call our Jack Doe, 'Choppy'?"
She chuckled, placing the necklace in an evidence bag. This woman had such a weird sense of humor. Then again, homicide department was full of weird humored people so, what have you. Their captain clapped his hands, gaining everyone's attention.
"Alright people. We have work to do, I want to know who this man was, and I want it yesterday. Cross, tell Vidic that our 'animal attacks' aren't what we thought. I think he'll want to do a press conference for that one."
He nodded and began to walk towards his unit. With his luck, he'd probably get all the paperwork topped on him like always, and if it worked out like always he'd also have to file the goddamn paper work and. He stopped suddenly. He felt a chill suddenly, something cold, familiar, even felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He quickly looked up at the roof, blue eyes wide and paranoid. There was nothing there, but just seconds ago, he could have sworn something was watching him. Ok, too many horror films, gotta stop that. He shook his head, entered his unit and left.
On the roof and safely hidden from the commotion, a lone hooded figure snarled and jumped away quickly.
Rebecca had had enough. She wanted to know. If she and Shaun were known for one thing in particular, it was poking their noses where they didn't belong (her by being the biggest conjunction of gossip in the entire campus and Shaun by searching up conspiracy theories. Mmm, gossip.)
Desmond at the moment was her biggest kink.
Ever.
She'd searched his social security number, his birth certificate, his credit history, hell, even his job status and taxes, and you know what she found?
Nothing.
Nada.
Absolutely, and utterly nothing. Not even a Facebook! What sort of illiterate shit did not have a Facebook? Or a tumblr!
This of course, was done behind Shaun's back because the dumbass was so utterly enamored with Des that he didn't fucking see that there was something inherently strange about him. But seriously, that was grade-A creep. How the hell did he get those odd jobs Lucy said he had? Did he even really have a job? She'd start on something like being illegally in the country like her bff Beatriz, but Des didn't look Hispanic. Actually, he did kinda look Italian...
Getting out of context here, Beccs. Now she found herself completely immersed trying to find any records on the parkourist, because A) she was bored as fuck and this was real fun, not like the fuck ass boring raids she'd been on as of late (school work could go fuck itself) and B) what if the guy was being searched by the cops or something?
She was the official ass saver for Shaun, so she couldn't just leave it at that. What if he got himself killed or something? Fat chance that was going to happen on her shift. If she'd saved him from getting run over by a truck once, she could save him from some creepy stalker (even if said stalker was handsome).
But, see, that was her problem. She was already two months on this like a hound and she found nothing, and now it was actually worrying her. How could the entire information of one man just not be there? It couldn't be through hacking, unless he was a government official, but that was a negative (yes, she'd checked.)
So no birth certificate, thus, no social, no credit, no taxes, not even pictures, and worse off, no address either, not even a P.O. Box. Did that mean he was a hobo? It didn't make sense to her. She was going to get to the bottom of this, one way or another.
She wasn't about to let Shaun get hurt.
Guy still owed her twenty bucks.
"What is it Vidic."
"Mr. Rikkin, we have a more detailed report on the attacks. It appears it's human in nature."
"'Appears to be'? I need more details, Vidic."
"The bites found in the remains were not only too long, but also too small to be of a large feline. We also found what seems to be a tooth inside another victim's spleen. A witness also reported that whatever it was that's attacking our people was human."
"We have a serial killer on the loose?"
"I'm afraid so. The worst part is we found a body in the river. It's neck had been ripped open and when the autopsy came in, the body turned out to be, well, bloodless."
"A serial killer with a blood and cannibal fetish? The tabloids are going to be delighted with this. I'll inform the media, but they don't need to know about the vampire-like draining. We don't need this to become a scandal bigger than it already is. No fingerprints, no leads, nothing. The best we can do right now is warn everybody to watch their backs."
"There's something else."
"Yes?"
"The woman we found, Leila Marino, she was untouched. She has no family, but perhaps Ms... Lucy Stillman can answer why she was out so late."
He's done his research. As a matter of fact, he's poured more hours into this than any of his works combined. He's rather proud to admit that he's so informed on the subject, he could very well get a Ph.D. on it. But then again, arriving at some party and telling people you're the master of all things sex between two men is your area of expertise is not the best conversation opener. He understands the positions now, knows of the prostate which is what makes Desmond moan like a whore (and yell louder at the dirty talk), and understands the importance of stimulation as well as the use of the condom, because he's only slept with one person, but god knows that with that face, Desmond sure as bloody hell has slept around.
What he doesn't get is how a guy like Desmond (Mr. Parkour, Mr. I'm-so-bloody-manly-with-my-ripped-body, Mr. I-exhude-testosterone-with-my-stupid-tattooes-and-my-stupid-bike-and-all-the-other-crap-I-own) is rather complacent about who does or doesn't top. And in the process how this makes him the girl in the relationship.
Isn't the one in the receiving end the girl by default?
Then why the bloody hell do both Rebecca and Lucy insist he's the girl? No, he is not obsessing about it, stop looking at him like that! No, he is not having either a fit or an aneurism because of it either, thank you very much! It doesn't make sense. He'll be adamant to admit it, but he seriously thought the one to receive was him and yet somehow, Desmond was the one being pounded into and he was still the bloody girl in the relationship! It didn't add up! So he decided to throw caution to the wind and actually did something he never thought possible, something he'd only be caught dead doing.
He asked the Internet for advice.
Yes, he knows, horrid. Somebody call the loony bin, Mr. Hastings has officially lost it. But he posts the question anonymously in a gay forum and leaves it like that, hoping that he'll receive an answer or two.
He receives three hundred.
In the first hour.
He barely reads through the first five before he abruptly gives up because they're too graphic and at the same time too detailed for his tastes (and vulgar.) Wonderful really to read about how one man tends to have 'hide-and-fuck' night. He does not need the details.
It's not like he can suddenly go up to Desmond and say 'Hey mate! Would you like to bugger me tonight? After all you mentioned position wasn't important to you, so what do you say?' An attention getter he's sure, but not one he's willing to say out loud. May the beast the woman wrote of devour him before he willfully begs for sex. It's mundane and ridiculous.
He grumbles under his breath and pages idly through the Codex, something that seems to soothe him with a strange sense of familiarity. He's amazed at how well preserved it is, or the fact that he can thumb through it without any protective gear (oh he knows how delicate these things are and what a pain in the arse they can be to handle). Asking was out the window. Advice from a third party, no thank you. His eyes widened and he snapped the book closed.
Oh, he had an idea now.
He smirked. So not the best idea, but an idea nonetheless and one he was sure had to work. A man can last only so much with blue balls. The plan was simple. Every time Desmond made a move, he'd reject it, ignore him, or make as if he had something more important to do. There was a flaw to his plan, but it was easily lamp shaded with the fact that Desmond was male, and thus, he tended to think with the head on his pants. Then again, Desmond wasn't the most aggressive person he'd met (he always bent to his whims. Among other things) so there was the drawback of the blue balls being suffered by himself. Not to mention Desmond always backed off when he said he didn't want to do anything...
To bloody hell! If it worked, it worked, if not, then he'd just forget the issue altogether, dammit! It wasn't in his list of imperatives to get buggered in the ass anyways! (Nobody could look into his head and laugh at the fact that he did want to get buggered.)
Not that he could actually carry the plan out right now. He hadn't seen the bloke in very well over a week. Not even a bloody text. He glared at the Codex and began paging through it, stopping at page and looking without looking. He blinked at the man in the picture and gave a hum. He has a hood on, with leather straps on his chest, but what makes him squint a bit is the scar.
On his lips.
He stares. Now, that's just a coincidence isn't it? He reads through the text, someone else's handwriting along the lines of the margin and under the torso of the drawing. If he reads correctly, the Codex explained about the ascension to power of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. A betrayal by Al Mualim, who left the Assassin's in a state of turmoil because of his allegiance to the Templars, a fight against Altaïr's former Master and his subsequent disappearance to stop Genghis Khan, blah blah, blah, he-d already read that. It had little notes as well of a malady, a disease of some sort that the writer described as more of a curse, something the writer desperately sought the cure to.
Shaun snorted and tossed the Codex to his bed. It was like some horrid fan fiction (and had he read some) and about history of all things with real people. Who in the bloody blazes would waste their time writing ridiculous made up stories about non-existent or even dead people? The front door opened and he heard Rebecca hustling about, cussing to herself.
"How was your day?"
More cussing. He snickered. Good to know the world (or at least his roommate) was just as miserable as him. He peaked out to watch her drag something.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?"
"Just chillaxin' here, Shaun, would it kill you to fucking help me out?"
He smirked. "Well depends on what you're dragging in."
"Dude, shut up and just help me already!"
Death to those who assure that Shaun smirked, because he's too suave for that (no, on second thought, he did smirk.) He helped her, of course, because he was a gentleman, even if she wasn't such a gentle woman herself, and because his curiosity was getting the best of him.
"Where in the blazes did you get all these stupid things from?" He opened one of the boxes to find old files, books and magazines. "No, wait, don't answer that, more importantly, why do you have them? Is this a new ploy to make your room even less habitable?"
"Part of a project. Dude wanted a password, I wanted this. Fair trade and all that."
Englishman with a frown, coming through. "Because giving away sensitive information for useless information is an obvious fair trade."
"Obviously."
He sighed, no longer wanting to know. A folder caught his attention and he opened it, eyebrow raised and critical. Old records from sometime around the 1940's. Oh wonderful, she was investigating the old illegal trade of alcohol. Only Rebecca. For a second, he wants to keep looking, because his inner Historian is interested, but he merely leafs through the folder and places it back with the others, helping Becca with the rest of the boxes.
If you squint, you can see a picture slide out and fall under the couch.
"Mss. Stillman?"
Lucy blinks out of her reverie, wondering if Leila's ever going to show up so she can have her day off. Where was she anyway? Instead, she gets these two who flash police badges and she pales(mentally). Had they found out? Was she a clue to get to Desmond and Sixteen?
"Detective Vidic and Officer Cross, we're here to ask you some questions."
She placed her best smile, the one she always used when her Dad was in a particularly grouchy (or in his I'm-way-older-than-you-let-me-sulk-dammit moods).
"How can I help you Detective? You here for some specs about a body?"
"No, we're here because of Mss. Marino."
Her smile fell. "Leila?"
"We found her dead earlier this week. You were on her speed dial and we wanted to ask you if she was in any sort of illegal behavior."
After dead, all Lucy heard was a whistling noise. Dead. She took a gulp, eyes wide, unbelieving. The last thing she'd spoken to her was a warm goodbye, see you tomorrow. Why hadn't the body been sent here? Did they send her to another hospital? Blonde hair shook with her in a negative, though she kept all of her internal questions to herself.
"No, not that I know of. I mean, she was a good friend of mine. I would've known if she was into anything bad."
The officer took out a little pad and wrote down what she said. She bit her lip and thought. Maybe she could get Des to check this.
"I see. Ma'am, we ask you this because we found her with a knife wound. The thing is, on the crime scene, there was... well, scattered gore, and the only hand we managed to find matched not only the remains, but the fingerprints on the knife as well."
It felt like her stomach was being filled with lead. The officer kept asking her questions, gave her his phone number, asked her to keep in check, but inside, she could feel a deep seething rage. Desmond had been there, him, along with Sixteen. The description of carnage was not lost to her, she knew perfectly well how... 'excited' Sixteen got when he was hungry. Had he stood by and watched as Sixteen fed while her best friend simply died? As she bled herself to death? She waved the officers goodbye with a tight smile and minutes after they were gone, she screamed.
Betrayal is such an ugly thing to feel, but what could she do? No, the real question here was, why hadn't he done a single thing to get her somewhere safe? Save her like he'd done countless times with other people? With Shaun? Even after her shift had ended (a shift that no longer would be filled by Leila, she thought bitterly, angrily)she still felt angry. The sense of betrayal would not leave and had her gripping the steering wheel too tightly (and as a matter of fact, she didn't even want to use the fucking thing. It had been a gift from Desmond when she'd graduated).
Fuck this. She'd had enough. Every time she thought that maybe, maybe, Desmond did have some humanity in him, he went and did something, something like this. She parked out of the warehouse, got out, feeling the anger still pumping through her veins like battery acid. She wanted answers, no fuck that, she wanted retribution. This had been brewing for some time and she was not going to back down just because he was a centuries old vampire that could kill her with just a flick of his wrist. She was sick and tired of being intimidated into submission when something liked this sprang up.
Lucy walked with long strides towards the large fridge room where both Desmond and Sixteen were actually being complacent with each other. It was rare for them to play like they were, peaceful, placid, with Sixteen lucid enough to play cards, but she didn't care. She approached the man that had raised her, given her a home and enough of a push to educate herself. This man who she called father. The man who called her daughter, who loved her and was there for her, through the good and the bad.
"H-H-Hi Lucy!" Sixteen beamed, hands full of cards, feet swinging excitedly on his stool. His smile wavered as she abruptly forced Desmond to look at her, turning his seat with determination.
"Woah, Luce, what's wr-"
She slapped him.
Sixteen yelped, as if he'd received the slap. Desmond blinked several times, eyes wide and confused. He turned up towards her, wanting to ask but she slapped him again.
"L-L-Lucy!"
"Why! Why didn't you help her!"
Desmond still had that confused look, both cheeks red, but she knew that would disappear shortly. Sixteen was shivering now, though the cold had nothing to do with it. She snarled and punched him.
"Why didn't you help Leila!"
No answer, but there was recognition in his eyes. She didn't care. She kept punching him, feeling sick satisfaction when his nose gave under her blows. Sixteen gave an anguished screech and jumped, looking down at the assault from a rafter, yelling and begging her to stop. She did, eventually, when he had a split lip, the broken nose, several bruises and a black eye. It didn't help at all though. It didn't stop the tears from falling. Sixteen was giving a pitiful wail, long and sorrowful and she was dimly aware that he was going into hysterics.
"You could have helped her." It was hard keeping her voice even.
"She wasn't family."
The blonde blinked. Had he just..?
"What?"
"She wasn't family. Contrary to what you think Luce, I don't go around helping each and every single person I see in trouble."
"Oh, but you helped Shaun back when you didn't even know him."
"Don't you get Shaun into this." He snarled. It shook her a bit, seeing his eyes go from the calm brown to that inhuman gold, but she stood firm.
"He isn't family either and he's my friend. Is it because you couldn't fuck Leila? Is that-"
"Don't you fucking start, Stillman."
Now she froze. He never cussed at her. Never. He'd tease her with 'Lucy Miles' now and then, so for him to be using her actual last name meant she'd crossed the line. Her blue eyes, however, kept glaring, incensed further as she watched the lip begin to mend itself, the bruises begging to fade away. He stood up, the black eye residing and by the time he was right there in front of her, the only traces of him being beaten up was a thin sliver of blood coming from his nose. His pupils were switching from thin to wide. She could guess the smell was agitating him.
"I'm not going to explain to you every single thing I do. I didn't save your friend because she was already dying. What? You wanted me to Turn her? We know how great I am with that."
Lucy's eyes momentarily rose to where Sixteen sat huddled in the rafter, giving soft sobs and muttering to himself. She bit her lower lip, frustrated above the maelstrom of emotions she felt.
"It's what humans don't get. There's one option open and they take it without even thinking about the consequences. I don't help someone you know and you decided it's alright and dandy to get pissed off at me. To make matters worse, Sixteen lost the Creed I gave him and the fucking cops found it, and to make that even fucking peachier, we were on the news tonight! They're warning people to be careful, not to travel alone and all that shit that makes feeding more of a hassle. You think I'm going to worry about some dead woman that isn't my problem? She was dying, we were starving. Just be fucking happy we didn't eat her."
Desmond all but walked out, snarling under his breath but Lucy spoke up.
"The police came to my job, asked questions. Don't worry, Altair, I didn't say anything concerning either of you."
His eyes became slits as he looked behind his shoulder and this time, she did shiver. Even after all these years living with him and she couldn't help but feel that he wasn't human every time she looked into those gold eyes. There was... something wrong. A coldness, something that should have died centuries ago.
Sixteen jumped down and nervously shuffled towards her, hugging her and patting her back. It was only then that she finally let out a terrified sob, the gold still imprinted in her mind's eye and she cried. She cried because she was both frustrated and terrified, and the worst part was that there was nothing she could do. Going to the police and admitting to knowing who the murderer was would be useless because she had the sinking feeling that Desmond would get to her first, daughter or not.
Sixteen cooed gently at her, silver eyes shining and staring at the place where the other had just left.
It's quite surprising when a minute from finally entering lucid sleep, his cellphone decides to go off, not to mention that it's Desmond and that's the only real reason why he gets up (if it had been on of his teammates he'd tossed his cellphone. Out the window). It's just a text, yes, but the words Buzz me in are the most he's heard from him in weeks. He grumbles under his breath and gets up wondering if instead of a boyfriend he has a cat.
At least Desmond doesn't leave hairballs.
He buzzes him and sits on the couch, bleary-eyed and blinking owlishly, holding the red bathrobe close (and his only viable source of warmth at the moment. He should have at least worn a pair of the bloody git starts making any comments about it, he'd kick him out, no 'ands' 'ifs' or 'buts' allowed). He's not completely sure if he zones out or not because what feel like seconds later, Desmond's entering quietly and shuffling his hoodie off.
"Did you fly from the first floor?"
Dumbfounded is a good emotion to describe what he feels when Desmond actually glares at him. There's a quick flash of something, but Shaun's too pissy and too sleepy to care.
"Yeah, and then I came here to suck your blood off."
"If we're going to go about with vampire references, then I taste terrible."
"That's what you think."
Shaun raises a brow because for a second there, it doesn't sound like a joke and he feels a chill. "Bad vampires jokes aside, what's gotten your knickers up in a bunch?"
"Knickers?" And now he's smiling, as if a second ago he didn't look like he was going to rip something to shreds. "Who uses 'knickers' in a normal conversation?"
Patience is a saint's virtue. Shaun is not a saint. "Why are you here, Desmond?"
The smile he had a minute ago vanishes. He is the owner of Desmond, bipolar cat extraordinaire. Yours for only twelve easily forgotten installments of something ninety-nine. "You don't call in weeks and then you suddenly reappear at-"He squints, looks at his cellphone and groans "four in the bloody morning. Is this going to be constant because if that's the bloody case, I don't think I want to be a part of it."
"You too?" He's bearing his teeth like some animal, and for a second he has the oddest thought. It's something cold and almost-he mentally shakes it off.
"The sentence is too vague for me and I honestly do not care at this moment."
"Fuck you, Shaun."
"Oh, excuse me if it turns out I wasn't the sob and comfort pillow you were looking for. Do you want me to go search for it though?"
They're both standing quite close now, although he's not certain when he got up. Might have been all the pent up stress and anger he's had as of late. He's seconds away from punching the bloody idiot (he's sure he's going to lose but he has no patience or self-preservation instinct left on him. Here lies, Shaun Hastings. Got killed in a brawl. Knew he couldn't win but got the satisfaction of punching an arsehole.)
"For fuck's sake, I get here from having to fight with Lucy and you want to fight too? What the fuck is wrong with you people?"
"How about we start with the fact that you can be an ungrateful bastard! I have patience, but I'm sure you also have your limits! It happened once and this is the bloody second time you just leave me hanging. I am not going to pine over your absence and then accept you with open arms like some bloody woman!"
The thought of punching Desmond had crossed his mind but now he realizes with a sort of shock and sick satisfaction that he didn't just think it. They're both dumbstruck, Shaun staring at his now throbbing fist and Desmond gingerly touching his bleeding lip. It's odd how hormones and moods work because seconds after, like some goddamn switch being turned on, they're kissing, desperate and harsh. Bloody hell Desmond has never kissed him like this before, angry and demanding, groping with force to the point where it actually hurts.
What were they fighting about?
He doesn't have a bleeding clue, because by the Queen he's snarling, mouth moving from lips to neck and oh God he bites him. It's not even one of those little 'teeth grazes skin' bites, no bugger that, it's 'I'm going to rip your skin open, so fuck you!' bites. He can feel the droplets slide from the wound but they're quickly lapped away with a moan and Shaun feels a spike of momentary fear. Is this really Desmond? It can't be, not with the way his hand abruptly reaches down and carries him up, grinding their hips together. It seriously can't be him, not with the way he's ripping the bathrobe open and forcing everything away. Or how easily he's holding him up with that one arm, hips in a constant movement and is this really Desmond?
The same fingers that had been gentle now leave angry, red marks on his skin and he digs blunt nails into the clothed back. The resulting groan makes him shiver and he feels his back hit the wall. When the hell had the idiot moved? His eyes closed as he felt another brush and he grabbed the black shirt, forcing him to kiss him again but also trying to get the blasted thing off. His other leg wraps around his waist and they both moan as they grind again. If this keeps up he's sure they're going to have an unwanted mess.
"Wait, wait."
"What?"
"Lube you bloody wanker. You either go get it or I'll punch you again."
"You-You son of a bitch!"
Shaun paled a bit as he was boxed. See, now he wanted a rape whistle. And pushing him was out of the question because he'd fall flat on his ass. He felt him thrust again and he bit back a moan, brown eyes confused at the sheer rage in Desmond's eyes. Where had the adorkable bloke run off to? Wasn't he the one always either angry or irritated? Though if he were honest he was feeling a bit of a thrill at this little display of domi-. No, never mind, he's confused, only confused.
"You think I'm some inconsiderate fuckass who's just going to fuck you raw? Is that what you want or is that what you need?"
As he said this he gave another thrust, though a lot harder. It made him hiss and arch because it was borderline painful and bloody hell he'd actually liked it.
"I have enough problems on my goddamn bowl to burden not only your great grandchildren, but ten generations of your spawn and still they wouldn't be done! But no!" He began unbuckling his pants and Shaun's heart rate went up three speeds. He pressed him closer to the wall and began lathering his left hand in lube (where the blazes had he gotten that from!) and abruptly pulled what was left of his clothes down (well, up, but, cut him some slack!)
"You cuss me out, Lucy cusses me out, my supposed best friend still cusses me out after a decision I made ages ago, and I have had enough torment! You will be quiet! You will be pliant! And you will like it you ungrateful, motherfucker!"
The first finger made him yelp because he was not expecting it and because bloody hell it was weird. He wanted to voice a complaint but the parkourist made this growl from the back of his throat and he snapped his mouth shut. A second finger followed and this time he did whine a complain which was shut up with a searing kiss. The third had him gripping the clothed shirt and squeezing his eyes shut, because ow. He was not going to admit that he was hard as fuck. The fingers moved slowly, even with the angry look which slowly dissipated to concentration and then, sudden surprise.
"You..?"
Shaun glared. "I what?"
"You're a virgin?"
"Oh ha ha! Real funny, let's laugh at the twenty-six year old virgin. Either move the bloody fingers, do something or let me take over, pliancy be damned, just, just bloody move."
No, he was not begging, sod off.
Whatever fight had been in Desmond visibly left, replaced with concern and a bit of... something he couldn't place. Some of the anger filtered back in and he kissed him again, the fingers moving finally in scissoring motions, slowly in, slowly out, all the way until he felt knuckles on his arse. He moaned, back arching and he thought at the top of his head that Becca could come any moment and see them fucking on the wall. You know what? Sure, whatever, have her watch. He'd have something more to goad at with her.
"It's going to hurt." Desmond warned him, one brow raised.
"Oh, really? It's going to hurt! I wouldn't have guessed you limey piece of-!"
You know, in retrospect, it was better being shut up with a kiss than with an arse full of dick. He clenched his teeth and practically hugged the very livng breath of the limey bastard because it hurt! It hurt and it burned and oh my god. He liked it! Not only had he been a closet case, no he was a masochistic closet case! No, no, no! Not true, not real! The past sentence is non-existing! He was not whining! He was not moaning and trying his absolute best to just soak in the feeling of fullness.
"F-Fuck, you're tight as hell."
They were both panting and sweaty by now. He was going to need a bath after this. He wasn't sure why he gave a tentative nod after he felt some of the burn go away and then he felt it sliding out, then back in, slowly. By god, this was torture wasn't it? It wasn't just the pace. It was the look on Desmond's face, all concentration and flushed cheeks, teeth set and rigid as he kept the slow pace. It was his arms, the muscles under his skin tight while he held him. It was the fact that they were fucking against the wall and it was wonderful. It was the light burn, turning into something else with each thrust. It was the thrusts themselves, the mere motion making Shaun moan and he wondered if this was the best part. And then when he thought it couldn't get better, it was that little moment when he changed his angle and oh my bloody god.
He was in bloody heaven.
He didn't give two shites about anything except that Desmond please not stop. He was saying so too, brain and voice chords no longer connected and he takes it all back. He takes back the thing about seeing white, about being unable to think, he takes it all, everything back. It becomes tumbled, a mess and it's just Desmond, him and no one else and his cock, he will worship it and its owner so long as the fucking didn't stop. The sudden tightness in his stomach, the burning heat, Desmond kissing him harshly. It all added nicely and he came harder than the first time they'd had sex because he just hadn't known.
He feels the last thrusts and then they're both panting, hips bucking still with tiny aftershocks. He feels high off his bloody mind, so much so, it's ridiculous. He felt rather happy, not to mention sated when a thought struck him rather violently and he punched Desmond again.
The git hadn't worn a condom. He was a sneaky little bastard.
"Ow! What the fuck, Shaun!"
"Next time, how about giving me a warning that you're going to release all your pent up frustration on me so I can buy some condoms? Or, I don't know, give me at the very least some smoke signals. I'm guessing you can at least do that? Put me down already."
There was this little, evil smile on Desmond's eyes that made him think that maybe that hadn't been his most wonderful ideas. It was later confirmed when he pulled out and dropped him on his arse. Yes, it hurt like a bitch, but the git at least had the consideration to get him up. He punched him again for good measure.
"Then how about next time you want me to fuck you, you actually say something? I don't mind switching, you know."
"You goddamn lunatic, help me up and shut your mouth before I decide your sex privileges are non-existent."
It was astounding what a little shag could do to people. He was going to be sore as hell the next morning and he could already feel trickles on his thigh. God, he needed a bath.
"I'm sorry."
Shaun looked up from where he was picking his clothes up and raised a brow.
"Be a little more specific, love, you have about a ton of things to be sorry for and I'm not going to be content with only a general apology."
It was worth scolding Desmond to see him shuffle about (made more ridiculous as he tucked himself in his trousers).
"I'm sorry for not calling you."
Shaun nodded, making his way to his room where it was a little warmer and he could properly take a bath without the-oh my god, had Rebecca heard?
"I'm sorry for yelling at you."
"What else?"
His shuffling for clothes was stopped as the other grabbed his hands and kissed his knuckles, eyes downcast. No, he's definitely not blushing or feeling butterflies in his stomach, that's silly, why would he.
"I'm sorry for fucking you like a whore."
He slapped him. He just had to go and make a rude comment with a bloody straight face didn't he? Of course, the brute was laughing and trying to get him close while he kept trying to punch/slap him away to no avail.
"Wait, wait, and I'm sorry for being a douche."
"Well, at least you actually admit it. It doesn't mean I've completely forgiven you."
The feeling of lips, soft and warm on his own made him frown a bit.
"I love you."
"Oh, no, don't you start!"
Another kiss, this time with a smile.
"I love you."
"Stop it, stop it! Why are you so such a bloody sap!"
Another kiss, another smile, another 'I love you' until they were both in the bed and wrestling like teenagers, Shaun yelling about sappy Americans and Desmond yelling his unending love and devotion. This could not get more ridiculous. Oh, no wait, it would in a few seconds. They settled down after a bit, Shaun giving Desmond a dissaproving glare as the tanned male nuzzled his chest.
"You are going to be the death of me."
"I hope not."
The Brit snorted. "I still don't understand why you have a penchant for being so overly dramatic and spitting the 'L' world all over the place."
"Lesbian?"
"Very funny, Scott Pilgrim."
His hands seemed to have a mind of their own because one was idly tracing patterns across Desmond's back and the other was thumbing the scar on his lips.
"I love you."
He bit his lip. It always felt... strange to be told such a thing. You go on most of your life believing you'll never find your better half and suddenly he's right there spewing sugar and rainbows at you.
"Don't say it if you don't mean it."
"But I do."
He snorted and placed a kiss on the tanned man's forehead. "Stupid American. Now, if you don't mind, I am going to take a bath. I feel sweaty and there's something in my inner thigh that I want ot get rid of."
The beer in his hand was cool and familiar. Was he really going to go back to this? After years of rehab and cleanig himself and he was going to relapse because of a simple amulet? Hell yes, he would. Jesus Christ, a fucking Creed. How long ago had he seen his last marking, apart from the one artfully hidden on his arm? If there was a Creed here, in Chicago, that meant that there was also an owner of it. And that owner sure as fuck was not human.
The fridge closed and he turned bitting his lip. Running away from the Order was no simple business, and neither was it easy to run from the actual high ranking members. After all, every single Master was a-
"Hi, Danny."
The beer almost fell out of his grasp. He yelped out of fear, but the bottle was easily caught and balanced on the tip of a tennis shoe. Those gold eyes he'd run from the moment he'd become independent enough shone from underneath a white hood. He kicked it up and caught it by the neck, raising a brow.
"Really? After ten years and you're going back to this? You gonna go back to Charlie afterwards?"
He stared at this monster, who only smirked and sloshed the liquid, opening it with one hand. He gave it back politely, though it was snatched away quickly, blue eyes glaring with mistrust.
"This isn't a family visit. What do you want?"
"Nothing. Can't I just visit my charge?"
"Oh, yeah, sure, real big coincidence that the moment I find a Creed at a crime scene my Pop decides it's a great moment to visit."
The monster smiled, sitting on the table and leaning on his knees, smiling in what anyone else would describe as a charming manner. He knew better.
"So then you know why I'm here."
"I owe you nothing. How the fuck did you get in here?"
"You granted me access to everywhere you resided remember?"
Daniel Cross internally cursed, staring at the demon, the monster, this, this fucking asshole. Motherfucker was feeling smug, he knew.
"What do you want?"
His Pop smiled and waved with one hand. "Get the Creed back."
"What?" He sneered, face showing his disbelief. "You want me to steal a piece of evidence? No, wait, scratch that, an important piece of evidence?"
"That's not the worse I've asked of you."
It was true. But this was something that could potentially fuck up his new life. It had taken him blood, sweat and tears to get himself in the police and he was literally just a few days of probation away from working as an actual detective in the Homicide unit. Was he going to throw all his work to shit just because this thing was telling him to?
"You don't have to. I'm sure I can get it on my own. But if I do..."
The smile on his face started normal enough, but then it grew, and grew, and that son of a bitch was intimidating him!
"Fine, fine! Just, fucking stop that! Jesus Fucking Christ."
The smile went back to normal and he shivered. Fucking asshole loved doing that. Godamn fuckass. He stood up and pointed to the beer.
"Throw that away, I need you sober. I'll see you in a month."
Just a blink of his eyes and the apparition was gone. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and slid to the floor. By god, he hadn't changed at all. He was still the manipulative bastard he remembered, and he still had that infuriating scar on his lips. He was in some serious shit right now. If he didn't listen to his Pop, he was dead. If he stole the Creed back, he was dead. He was fucked either way. This had to be the proverbial motherfucking cherry of his day.