Author's Chapter Notes:
This is a filler of sorts... I hope to update regularly.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Rebirth.
It was this recurring dream she had.
Large brown eyes peered out from the blinds’ slits, ensuring the IA agent was well out of sight. He was gone- and with that half confirmation her slight figure slipped through the meager crack of the heavy door, her head pounding from the surge of effort on her part.
…It was something she could taste. Like the soft tip-toe of something benevolent and sweet, disappearing on the wet of her tongue like the briefest memory. Something that had her not quite sure of where she stood amongst the things in her head- the things she once perceived as certainty.
Selene’s face appeared gaunt and distressed beneath the sallow lighting- on account of the vitriolic cocktail of trepidation and anger brewing beneath her flesh. Of which were the effect of the provocation of squaring her shoulders with reverence she did not possess, all in a ploy to bear her accolades as her figure ate up the corridor with each stride. She hadn’t an intended destination- she simply had vied for a means of escape and her feet were catching up to the whim fleeting through her head.
But all she could register through her walk down the tight vestibule past lax faces of that of coworkers and of humming mechanisms and the hushed vocals of personnel- was the curtly hastened staccato of her thick boot heels as the hard sounds reverberated in her piqued ears and matched the erratic thrumming within her chest.
This must be it, she mused.
That amongst the sterile shades of green and slate walls was the end of things to come, much like death- sinews burning away beneath her nose, its billowy flesh sliding and dripping away unmasking the bitter truths of what it was- well, death. You just couldn’t quite cover up the smell of what it was.
Her tongue darted out quick and feverish across her lips, tasting the perspiration salting the bow of her lips and electricity in the air. And just like that, a thought and he was there: a familiarly powerful frame, falling in sync with her gait- breaking her away from her malicious stupor of modes of career suicide.
And from her peripheral vision she saw her partner give signal for them to walk on and then finally, to enter the captain’s vacant office. Deferentially, Selene followed his almost stocky bulk within.
They stood in the small, stuffy space and he looked at her expectantly. The door releasing a sound of exhaust as the mechanism coughed and sighed heavily upon its hinges as it shut the rest of the world off from them. His bottle green eyes met hers in question as pensive, thick fingertips scraped into his flaxen weeks old scruff- the dense hairs making their individually distinct concertos.
“I saw Roald tear out of here like a bat out of hell,” Sucre commented.
Granted their previous encounter this was not what she expected, but nonetheless she made due watching as he removed his overcoat and rainwater peeling away like a vapors freefalling from humid glass- her eyes were unexpectedly caught between eating up his bulk and finding every which direction but his gaze directly.
She watched him silently- steeped in her battle ready stance. Her readiness- coupled with the heady exodus of sweat, his particular brand of Marlboros (of which he now partook in like clockwork of patting his pockets, then gripping the cloth across his thighs), and bourbon this early stealing from his pores.
He’d cleared away a few items from a nearby chair and consequently placed mileage between them. Something she was not sure she could reconcile with.
She waved her hand in declination nonetheless, making an effort to somewhat ignore the almost eager look on his face. “No, standing is good right now.” She had begun to pace- and rounded with a rear march.
“I can fix it,” was what she said.
Fuck.
He sighed heavily, his face instantly falling- passing a hand through his sandy blond crop. “I’m afraid to know what the fuck that means.”
Upon seeing the shadows deepening on her usually guarded face, his heart stopped and his stomach dropped like a ton of bricks. This was not good. In the past, he’d seen her plenty of things he’d seen a generous part of the self-proclaimed bitch’s vocabulary- but pensive and tense weren’t there on part of her volition.
His hands they trembled slightly, fighting to do something- useful, well apart from touching her (which was out of the question) he could very much strangle the son of a bitch. If Roald, that limp dick son of a bitch, could manage to whittle his grass-eating ersatz political climb escapade into her fucking back yard- well, shit was definitely hitting the fan.
But he settled for something nearly as effective- searching for a fucking cigarette.
He came up empty, of course. His blood boiled below the thin surface, and his face glared out beyond the scope of the office as he reclined into empty air feeling the weight of the path he had begun since he’d left his unit on this particular morning. Sticking his fists into his slacks and perching upon the desk looking like a poster boy of finesse- if fate had some kind of twisted fucked up sense of humor.
“Not as I would’ve liked.” Selene cut him a look, swallowing hard as she drank in the damp slicked back hair, slacks, and penny loafers. Her mouth went dry, sobering from a fleeting memory of this exact room and- even to the Superintendent’s desk-, much like this one- where he now nonchalantly roosted with the thin dress shirt struggling against his expansive chest and unrefined, brooding eyes- as though he were equally unfazed as her cool exterior might’ve come across.
He was the only one she could recall that could make penny loafers look like that.
She cleared her throat, to get her back to the task at hand. “It wasn’t as if we were discussing quarks or damn metaphysics but I couldn’t help myself and just walked right into what the bastard wanted.” Her hands gestured her frustration at every hard syllable.
“So, what now?” He straightened somewhat, the muscles in his jaw working. “What’s to fucking fix? You said anything I need to worry about?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t know anything, Anton- right now it feels like he’s grasping at loose sand. But if nothing less, I’ve steered his little mayoral crusade towards a scapegoat. Shit.”
His face went white three shades. From his low perch, Anton Sucre jolted forward. “What the fuck do you mean?”
“Relax,” she said and could almost feel him against her splayed palm and fingers. “He’s extremely intrigued, anyone could figure as much. And I bet a little emasculated at how I dismissed him. Plus, he believes we’re hiding something. So put the two together.”
Sucre shot to his feet and stood before her steadfast, their heights almost equal. She rose above him though, as she did most men. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
She came up short, a pause and there was the fissure in her armor as she saw the betrayal mirrored in his eyes. “And I don’t want you lying- or doing stupid shit to cover for anything.”
“You just give me the chance,” he challenged.
His chest heaved slightly and he moved into her sphere- a few feet between her and him- and his hands from gripping her. But they only hung limp at his sides indecisive and trained. He could kill a man in three breaths and with sure strokes could ride a woman through her best toe-curling fuck but when it came to this woman, this enigma, she posed his prevailing obstacle.
“Just give me the chance,” he repeated- this time his voice rasping from heat and the earlier remnants of the tobacco smoke.
His eyes crinkled as the grin at his mouth met his olive eyes. It was the heels, he mused.
Sucre’s obvious amusement was lost on her, glee or carefree banter was far from her line of thinking. Her fingers tentatively touched the back of her neck- the light throbbing had now become a full fledged stab of pain at the base of her neck- at the slightest turn. “It’s not funny,” she breathed.
Immediately Sucre responded to the unease of his partner.
“Let me see,” he murmured not awaiting permission, ignoring her light resistance.
He turned her back to face him. “Is the transplant still hurting?”
There was an unmistakably rigid interruption signaling through her body at the whisper of his rough fingertips slaking across the sensitive skin at her neck. She gently swatted at the weight of his hand but nonetheless hers went still- frozen beneath his as he took the opportunity to feel along the exposed skin at the hairline, about the port.
He wasn’t touching her anymore with hands about modus operandi, or casework, or even… But his body was now in line with hers, forcing a pliancy only a woman could afford a man. His body flush and hot against hers and the bulk of his erection nestled at the small of her back. Her body going soft and full at once as he drew on the breath she released almost as though she wasn’t her own in entirety, that somewhere along the way this man had confiscated a piece of her.
The pain at her neck, momentarily forgotten.
Her tongue flicked across her lips, pink and- and even if she couldn’t admit it: eager. Her breaths drove out thick and humid. “I-I’m fine.”
Her hips, way past her sovereignty now, grinded soft circles against him. And he in turn planted airy kisses along her neck, his tongue like scorching tinder laving on a predetermined course.
And she figured death was just as gratifyingly explosive as this. As her palms fell against the desk’s edge- digging hard into the meat of her hands, and the snaps between her legs were yanked and he was there firm and demanding against her sex.
He waited, a stratagem for her next breath- as his fingertips teased her outer lips, slick and ready for him- until he would delve deep.
She had this recurring dream…
His labored pants were at her ear, pushing the both of them over the edge. And the warm pooling in her womanly parts, the rigid dark peaks of her breasts rioting against the fabric separating her from him. A second digit and he stretched her nicely, her hips and body responding by bucking against him as he pumped his fingers steadily.
She counted. She counted hard taps against her ass as she empathized with the hard cock at her back and guessed the level of discipline it took for him not to spring himself and have her stretched and splayed. She thought of nothing. She counted the severity of notches upon the unvarnished wood at her knee, at the absurdity of boots in the summertime, and even the *kinicks* of the soft back and forth motion of his shoes against the lino at their feet- and that possibly the underlying scent he carried with him was of shoe shine.
The ambient moans of their lovemaking filled the small interior and drove them deeper into the hiatus from accountability- through her gritted teeth and the lick of her lips and the focus of each well dexterous stroke. And it didn’t take her long to suppose his motives with her as she bit against the ebb trembling her inner walls. She trooped on and rode it out, her entrance suctioning and milking the length of his fingers unapologetically.
A choked whimper escaped her as she widened her legs and received more of his efforts.
Quite suddenly, she gripped his wrist setting her own pace finally pleading, her body begging release. But suddenly, he slipped from her inch by inch as she wound her fingers desperately about his in means of separation.
She faced him with her body radiating a kaleidoscope of unvented energies and craving him, trembling fingers redoing the snaps of her leotard, with the hot creeping into her neck and face and the breath leaving her mouth heavy with discontent.
The air crackled with the pop that connected against his jaw.
“You son of a bitch,” she said through gritted teeth.
Chapter End Notes:
Long time in coming rough copy I needed to post (just to get the procrastination away), hope you all enjoyed.