Fictional F•cking

• this is the devil in me speaking but I feel like he’s a biter. not like as like a ‘oh I gotta mark you’ way but in like ‘I don’t wanna make too much noise’ because he does get kinda embarrassed

• driest texter alive so if he gets sent a nude he doesn’t respond the little ‘read 5:30’ thing just pops up under the pic and he’s home like 20 minutes earlier than usual but if he’s away on a mission or something he just doesn’t text you again until he’s almost home because he doesn’t know what to say

He's a lucky, lucky man. But lucky men shouldn't be spoiled this much, especially a world-class slut like re4og Leon S. Kennedy. You're giving him, too much for his worth. For what he's giving. Sure, he's got a pretty piece piercing your cunt, but what else is he doing there laying and taking all the pleasure in the world?

Lift your hips and watch as he slips out fully, still hard as ice poking at your entrance. His face twisting in confusion, and bratty need to have you back squeezing around him,

"What- What're you doing?" He'll whine, pinching his brows, trying to pull you back down, and buck up into you, irritated red tip begging to be let back in matching his erratic humping of the air.

Such a demanding tone and movements, who does he think he is? He really does think he deserves all that and more, but no. You know he doesn't. Not with that attitude. "Stay still" You scold, dragging your hands down from his chest to his pelvis, shoving and holding it down to the bed so he can't move a millimetre closer.

"Nmm- No what the fuck?!-" Leon's whining now, brat. Hissing and almost crying at the lack of friction. He doesn't get this often, someone else to keep his bed warm at night or slick his cock, and now that he does, he's being denied.

Then you move, someone better shut that loud mouth of his. Has a mind of his own, even knee-deep saving the President's daughter Leon has to make his mouth move. So tonight it should be for better use. "Mmf.."

How were you supposed to know that the poor thing would get so turned on after affixing the device to him?

So here he was, cargo pants pulled down to his thighs, painfully aroused, despite his inability to get fully hard.

“Poor baby," you tease, a mix of diluted cruelty and faux sympathy in your voice. “You wanna cum?”

Leon nods quickly. His pale bangs fall in his face.

"Yes, baby, please.”

You smirk a little, kneeling on the bed before situating yourself over him. Bending over, you begin kissing his neck while walking your fingers down his body to where the plastic cage sits. You brush over the sensitive flesh of his cock before moving to cup his heavy balls.

“You wanna cum so fucking bad, don’t you? You naughty thing,” you whisper to him, words filled with snark and amusement as you knead his sac.

“Fucking christ-“ he groans as he attempts to buck his hips into your hand.

“I don’t think so,” you murmur, reaching under your bed to pull out the special box of toys you stashed for nights like this.

Tipping off the lid, you pull out a dildo that’s similar to Leon’s cock,  both in skin tone and in glorious length, before setting it down near his thigh.

“If you want to cum,“ you tug his black t-shirt over his pectorals, squeezing the muscle freely, “you’re gonna have to earn it.”

Leaning back toward him again, you kiss down his body, making your way to where he demands your attention most. You start to lap at the ash brown strands of hair that make up his happy trail as he begins to fidget even more.

You place the dildo in front of his actual cock, which is now straining against the confines of his cage, and use a little suction so that it sticks to his skin. You tease the tip of the fake cock with your tongue while giving it a couple strokes in your fist.

“Oh baby, that’s not fair." He bites his lip as he watches you, unable to look away.

“What’s not fair?” You kiss the tip before sucking the silicone into your mouth, taking it as far as it’ll go before coming back for air, dropping a pool of saliva onto the now slick material.

“Your punishment? Or the fact that you needed to be locked up in the first place?”

You sink down onto the dildo again, bobbing up and down slowly, putting in your best work while maintaining eye contact with him the entire time.

His hips rock slightly, not with enough force to make you pull away, but not hard enough to get any sort of pleasure. He squirms, white knuckling the sheets that lay beneath him as he endures your sweet torture.

Your hand reaches down to fondle his balls once more, causing another groan to choke its way out of his throat.

“God-“

You moan around the plastic dick, the dampened vibrations blooming in Leon’s navel. Unrestrained, his hand reaches toward your head, preemptively trying to guide your wanting mouth further and further on the dildo.  You swat him away, pulling off the cock with a small wet pop.

“You better start fucking begging.”

You kiss down the shaft of the dildo and over his cage before you reach his testicles, going back and forth between kissing each one while your fist moves back to stroking.

“Baby-“

“I said fucking beg, Leon!” You demand.

"Please, baby, fuck, please let me cum.”

“I’m not so sure you deserve it,” you suckle one of his balls into your mouth, moaning around it.

His back arches wildly now, his plump ass a good few inches into the air. Your fingers are met with his own as he jerks the dildo messily, tightening your grip on the material as pleas and whimpers fall from his lips in quick succession.

You ponder his words for a moment, suckling on the skin as he bargains for your compliance. You can see he’s at the end of his rope, his teeth digging into the skin of his lower lip as he holds back the orgasm he so desperately craves.

“Cum for me, pet,” and with one final suck that hollows out your cheeks, he’s twitching in your mouth, the reflexes in his hips jerking slightly. His seed oozes in between the slits on the cage, effectively soiling himself.

Your smirk down at him as his high begins to wane.

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It’s over.

You’re not sure it ever really began, but watching Claire sling her backpack over her shoulder, motorcycle helmet tucked under her arm, you know it’s over. She’s not mad. It’s nothing that you did. She just can’t continue on like this, that’s all. No hard feelings. Water under the bridge. You’re still friends. Nothing has to change.

It’s over, and she’s back at your place the following weekend. Crashed out next to you on your couch, heels kicked up on your coffee table, she looks like she never left. 

You wish things would change. You wish this wasn’t so tense, wish the silence didn’t feel like it was crushing you. Every movement is magnified, every breath, every uncomfortable shift. You’re hyper aware of the smallest details. Claire seems infuriatingly unbothered. Her foot bobs carelessly. She pulls her hair from her ponytail with no concern for how it spills over her shoulder, how the scent of her shampoo drifts over to you. (Coconut. Not her usual scent. You wonder if she’s just mixing things up or if she’s showered at someone else’s place, and the jealousy of this imagined transgression carves out a cavern in your chest.) 

If there’s any part of her that feels the tension the way that you do, she doesn’t show it. The TV drones on in the background, a cooking competition show from the mid-2000’s. Claire scrolls through her phone, one arm propped up behind the couch - behind you. She doesn’t like this show. You know she doesn’t like this show. She made it a point to tell you how much she hated it every time it was on, yet she sits next to you silently. This is less affection and more apology.

Her hand settles against your ankle to get your attention, showing you a text from someone at work and complaining half-heartedly about their incompetence. She doesn't move her hand away. This is how it always starts with Claire. Innocently enough that it doesn’t draw attention, not until her hands are helping you out of your clothes and laying you back against the closest surface.

You should pull your leg back. She wouldn't push you. You know she wouldn't. She would accept your silent refusal without a fuss, any awkwardness wiped away without so much as a word. She’s good like that - good at making you comfortable in the face of confrontation. Her hand strokes along your calf, thumb rubbing circles into your tense muscles. You sigh, somewhere between a noise of enjoyment and exasperation at how readily you’re giving in to her again. Her hand rests against your knee only a moment before sliding up to your thigh.

“Claire,” you say, voice a warning.

“What?” She feigns innocence, setting her phone aside. Her fingers curl, knuckles pressing circles against your skin.

You give her a look - the kind a mother spares a child who’s been misbehaving - but otherwise say nothing. Your attention turns back to the TV, trying to focus on the show. If you fill your head with the dramatics of reality TV, the dramatics of your life will pale in comparison, surely.

From the corner of your eye, you see Claire’s smile thin to something mischievous. She scoots closer to you, her leg pressing against yours. Her arm slips down from the back of the couch, wrapping around your shoulders and curling you closer to her, close enough for her to mouth at your neck, to nip at your earlobe and send a shower of sparks down your spine.

Your body ignites at her touch, the yearning you had prayed to fade surfacing so quickly that it makes you ache. Any pretenses of disinterest fall away so quickly it’s shameful. You arch into her, turning your head to capture her lips with yours. She stops, pulling back from you, so close and so far.

"No, no, keep watching," Claire says, the pattern of her breathing not even disturbed. She turns your head back to the TV with two fingers against your jaw. Her hand glides down your neck, glancing over your collarbone, pausing its pilgrimage only to cup your breast. She holds you there, feels the weight of you in her palm, and then her body’s slipping between your legs, knocking them wide with her knee. Her mouth latches onto your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your pulse.

It’s going to hurt, you think. Her teeth catch at your collar bone, the strap of your tank top shuffled down your shoulder. She sucks her devotion into your skin, the mark mottled and darkening even before she runs her teeth along it to ensure it takes. She squeezes your breast firmly, thumbs brushing over your nipple, aching and peaked under your clothes.

She pulls back from your skin, wedging her nails between her teeth and prying her press-ons off.  You groan, swat at her limply, murmuring ‘gross’. She tosses them aside, and a moment’s irritation passes through you. You’ll have to find those later.

But for now? She has you fucking pavlov’d. Your knees fall apart for her, skin prickling as the back of her fingers trail against your inner thigh. Her fingers drag against your clothed cunt, not nearly enough pressure to even begin to unwind the coiling knot in your stomach.

She hums, her hand laying flat against your stomach, just above the waistband of your panties. She waits for any sign of protest. When you offer none, she hooks a finger under the elastic, tugging gently.

"This okay?" She asks.

You should say no. You should tell her that you’re going to bed, that she can have the couch, that you can’t keep doing this.

The thought crosses your mind as you’re lifting your hips to help her. Your hand cups her jaw, tugs her up to your face. You kiss her to satisfy a bone-deep need for her, your mouth falling open for her tongue to claim - and she does so eagerly.

She pulls away from you to work her way down your body, kissing a wet trail down your skin and stopping to free you from your shirt. Bared to her, she sits back on her thighs to admire you, her eyes half-lidded and lips swollen red. Her gaze flutters between your tits and your cunt, brows pinching together. This is the toughest decision she’s had to make all night.

Her hands grasp your hips, tugging you down the couch. There's a power in her grip that you don't often see, and it makes your stomach squirm. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, stifling a giggle. The corner of her lips lift into a smile. She leans over you, taking a nipple into her mouth. For a moment you think she’s made her choice. You arch into her mouth, whine sharpening into something high and needy when her fingers pinch your neglected nipple.

But she pulls away from your with a wet, sloppy noise. She presses your tits together for a moment to kiss both of them, and then she’s making her way back down your body. Her hands squeeze you until she rests between your thighs.

Her arms slip under your knees, hands coming around to brace the top of your pillowy thighs. She pauses, a dreamy sigh floating from her lips. She urges your hips up again to tuck one of the couch pillows underneath you, and then she’s settled, encouraging your legs to rest over her shoulders and lock you there once you oblige. Claire's cheek pillows against your thigh. This has always been where she looks most at peace.

Claire doesn’t eat pussy. She worships it. 

Any vestiges of shame disappear the moment her head dips between your legs. Her tongue laves a worshipful path against your heat, bottom to top, savoring the journey and moaning her adoration into your skin.

If you could see her, see the way she admires your cunt with such reverence, you might push her away. She kneels at your altar and laps at the communion your body offers her so willingly. There's forgiveness in the act, collecting absolution on her tongue. Her fingers dimple the flesh of your thighs and tug you closer, and for a moment it feels like she needs you just as much as you need her.

The sounds coming from her are sinful. She suckles your clit so eagerly that you have to fist a hand in her hair and tug her back, the sensation too much, too quick. She pulls back, kissing your folds gently in apology. Her tongue shifts to swipe flat and broad over your folds. Her nose nudges against your pudgy clit, just enough sensation for you to lay back, boneless, moans falling from your lips.

She takes her time with you, savoring every moment she spends with her lips around you. There’s no reservation in the way she slurps and sucks at you, no shame in how she drinks down everything that you give her and returns it back to you in a moan, a hum against your skin that leaves you buzzing. If she could taste your moans, if she could kiss you quiet at the same time, you could die happy.

Her tongue churns against your clit, steady and predictable. She makes no effort to pin your hips down. Her shoulders roll with every buck and twitch, holding you to her, relishing the way that you writhe. Her finger presses into you, and you swear to god you hear her laugh against you. Another finger joins the first, the resistance negligible. You can’t tell which noises are from Claire and which are from the way your body greedily sucks her fingers in.

She knows your body well, but she rushes nothing. Her fingers curl into that spot inside you that makes you wail. Your hand fists in her hair, trying to hold her mouth in place, your voice high and desperate when you plead, “there, right there, please, Claire.”

Your thighs clamp around her head, hips rutting against her face. Her fingers grind against that perfect, spongy spot inside you and fuck, you’re gone, back arching, heel digging into her shoulder blade. Your toes curl, the pleasure erupting and spreading hot through your veins. Her tongue curls against your clit, lips shifting into a smile against you that you can picture with such perfect clarity even as your vision blurs. She coaxes moan after broken moan from you, not satisfied until your voice turns to a whimper, until your hands push feebly at her shoulders.

She pulls away from you with a last lurid lick. A shudder shakes your body, and she’s quick to soothe it, pulling you into her arms.

Claire slides up your body, her hands skimming reverently against your sides. Her weight presses you into the couch, her cheek resting against your stomach. In the gleam of the TV, her mouth shines with spit and you.

"Who got kicked off?" she asks casually, her breathing already evened out again.

"I dunno. Think I blacked out for a little."

Claire laughs, her hands squeezing your waist. She plants a kiss on your stomach and nuzzles closer. “That good, huh?”

You roll your eyes - not that she can see - and tug her hair just hard enough to be playful. Not gonna dignify that with a response, you think.

The moment is comfortable. It’s warm, familiar, even.

It’s over, you remind yourself. Her backpack is still by the door, ready to be picked up on her way out. You try to sit up and she presses you back down, whining that you’re comfortable, that you’re warm, and soft, a perfect pillow, please, baby, just hang out for a little. She plants a gentle kiss to your sternum and whispers promises of cleaning you up in a moment.

It’s a lie, you know that. You’ll both fall asleep here. You can only hope that you’ll wake with her still in your arms.

Greying hair never looked as good as it did now, falling against flushed features. Never looked as good as it did as it did now, with your hand entangling itself in the long, shimmering locks, brushing them back and out of the agent’s face whilst hazy eyes found themselves upon your own features. Leon wasn’t expecting you to beat him back to the hotel room, but considering the circumstances of his latest rendezvous with the rest of the team… The surprise is rather pleasant.

And little did he know his evening was about to get even more pleasant from here on out.

“Don’t tease…” Leon breathed out, trying his best to mask the needy tone with a charming grin and the subtle massaging of your hips.

“But I’m not,” You cooed, more than happy to lean back and encourage him to give chase; he did. “I’ve got you right… where… I want you.”

The emphasis in your tone was enough to raise his suspicions, but not enough to warn him of the way you’d casually pull him into another intense kiss. Hands wandered, though this time the garments were shed as the two of you vied for your position on top. Needy moans meshed with breathy laughs, lips eventually wandering away from each other and across newly exposed skin. Leon’s were the first to traverse, leaving hickeys across the taut muscles in your throat and staking his claim. Yours mirrored the actions and grew confident at the realization that what you left behind would peek over his shirts; announce to the rest of the world that he was yours, even if the matter of ‘who’ remained a mystery. Strong, calloused hands wandered down your frame, grasping and kneading eagerly. Yours followed, sliding across his torso and lightly scratching at scarred flesh; taking the time to admire all the uniquely shaped tissue beneath. Lips grow more and more enthused in their own exploration’ yours find themselves wrapping around Leon’s cock, his normally focused eyes lidded as he watches you sink down beneath him.

It doesn’t take much work to have him unwound, all but begging you for more attention.

You give it to him in the form of nudging his legs with your shoulders, encouraging him to sit back and allow you to slip wet fingers against the outer portions of his anus, teasing at the delicate bundle of nerves before slipping in to stretch him around you. Gently as you could, you worked at him with your fingers, all the while continuing to use your mouth, creating an exhilarating mixture of sensations that effectively erased any lingering tension within Leon’s body. His moans grew breathier, chest heavy with want as he sunk against the sheets and lazily entangled his hand in your hair.

“Just like that…” He panted, tone wavering as he’d bit back a hopeless whine.

You pull back, as if not to speak but to coax that whine through his tumbling fortitude. It works; he whines your name.

“You think you can take me?” Your fingers continue their rhythmic motions, thrusting in and out. Emphasizing each thrust in with a subtle curl to brush against his prostate.

“I—Mnn…. I know I can.” A lopsided grin forms on his lips; he’s challenging you.

You accept it. You withdraw easily, giving him a coy command to stay in place whilst finally pulling your own bottoms off. First your outer layer, which sheds to reveal the comfortable bulge in your underwear. The pair is tighter than you’d normally wear, but you’d known the emphasis would be well enough to capture his attention.

“That a gun in your pants, or…?” He snickers as your expression falters. Your eyes flicker to his.

“Really, Leon?” You almost wish it was, despite the amusement in your tone.

You can’t help but roll your eyes as you give his leg a playful nudge with yours, pulling back before he can retaliate and stepping over to your nightstand to retrieve the small bottle of lube you’d purchased on your way back. As you stepped back to the emptied space between his legs, he’d sat up on his elbows and held out a palm. Curiously, you slid the bottle to him and watched as he sat up to squirt the liquid into his hand. Wordlessly, he ran calloused fingers across the skin-like surface of your packer. Rubbed his palm against the subtle curvature in a way that naturally adjusted the prosthesis to a more erect position, allowing the beaded up lube to slick the shaft and sprawl across the tip.

Once the packer was sufficiently lubed, Leon couldn’t help but tease you; attempt to get payback for the miserably needy state you’ve put him in. He leans back on the bed and dramatically poises himself for you. You all but pounced at the opportunity, aligning yourself to him and sinking in. Immediately any remaining fortitude faded, your chests pressing together as you’d made him take every inch of you. He was eager to receive it, though, as his hands found themselves rested on your waist as you’d established a rough, rhythmic pace. His lips parted, unable to press together as he’d given in to his pleasure. Moans and whines filled the air between you and traversed through the thinned hotel walls, but neither of you cared. Not then; not when your own mixed in as the rutting sensation against your t-dick became prominent. Your head found itself buried in his neck, lazily pressing uncoordinated kisses to the marked skin.

“So, what was that about a gun?” You teased, words barely able to escape you as your head grew dizzy with pleasure. And from the broken up laughter you’d received in response, it seemed Leon was in a similarly intoxicated state.

…

The inside of the house is warm, and welcoming to guests. You would expect much more furniture, but it seems the victim and his wife were into minimalism. Already slightly judicial about their taste in such matters, but you aren’t here to evaluate this. This is a murder case. Probably.

“Sorry for the disturbance, Miss..?” You asked as soon as you noticed a figure standing in the kitchen, the voice echoed and filled the void of this space.

“Ada. Ada Wong” she says and you could swear your heart sank at the sound of her voice. The air became hot as the woman turned to face you. This is unexpected, not for her, cause she seems to enjoy your loss of control. Her face is all you can see, like there is nothing around you both; brown eyes with a playful look intended only for you and plump, rosy lips tugged into the most tender smile you can ever imagine. The soft rays of the sun fall on her skin, looking like a classical painting of spring. Always in the dress. Red color. A faded memory of the book emerges in the back of your mind, a useless one but still interesting enough to remind you of itself, recalling many meanings of red. In some ways, this hue became dear to you, even a favorite over time without a realization. Red is love. Red is passion. Red is desire. Red is the danger. Ada is the red color, so bright and calling to your heart. This woman has captivated you, she holds your heart in her palm, nails dig into the soft tissue of your pumping muscle, while you try to disentangle from the webs she has created for you, again.

Giving a thought, if fate is real, then it is stalking and messing with you since the last case you had before you moved into this town. Recalling it even shortly, makes your tie tighten around your neck. Like a deserved knot for your oversight and lack of professionalism. The death of a man was concluded as a suicide, cause of the lack of evidence against his wife, the suspect for whom you got attracted. The thought of her has been lingering in your mind for three years, filling with dread and yearning.

You’ve never brought up this again. The guilt is still there and you are too much of a coward to kill yourself, but the gun was always in the back of your mind.

“Detective” Ada‘s voice interrupts your endless turbulent thoughts. “tea? Coffee? Or just water?”

“Tea would be nice” You clear your throat before sitting on the chair. It is weird to look finally into her face more comfortably without guilt or shame burning your body She didn’t change. Another feeling pools in your gut; a peaceful warmth. Something you missed so much after three years of drowning yourself in self-loathing. A teapot of fine china is already hot, poured into two cups, already prepared for someone. This feels like she was waiting for you, another dumb and hopeful thoughts fill your heart as she placed two cups of warm tea. She is sitting on the opposite side, making it much easier to look into her face when she is in front of you.

“Thank you, so….” you clear your throat, looking down at the pale yellowish liquid reflecting your face. So tired. Is it white tea? Stop wandering off, focus. “The body… your husband. When did you find him?”

“This morning” Ada explains, her slender finger traces the rim of her cup. Her eyes don’t leave your face, like a predator looking for a weak spot. “Yesterday. He didn’t come home, didn’t give too many thoughts. I suspected he was drinking with friends. Like men usually do” You can feel her foot tapping against yours, probably an accident. Maybe the space is narrow, you try not to fall into senseless hope.

“Not a pleasant experience to discover his corpse, was it?” You try to keep the conversation alive, finally taking a sip of tea to soften the dryness in your throat. Floral and delicate, with subtle fruity notes in it. Clearly a white tea.

“Mm,” she hums absently. The death didn’t faze her at all, even a thought about her husband didn’t seem to be pleasant, either sad - just clear indifference. Your thought process stopped when her foot lightly brushed around your ankle before shamelessly running up to your calf, but this time it was clear - she was doing this to tease you and the same gentle smile doesn’t leave her lips. “What should one expect from a man with bad habits, mm?”

“Bad habits?” You echoed her words, keeping eye contact, but you crumble under her gaze like a sand castle after a sea wave hits it. Again those vague answers of hers. Ada nods with satisfaction written all over her face. If she was a cat, she would be a purring mess.

“Debts, multiple debts.” She explains to you with a sigh, her finger stopped toying with the edge of her cup. Unfortunately, your attention is not on the case right now as her foot moves slowly up to your thigh. You can’t keep your hands to yourself, to ignore her little game and flirting feels like torture. You grip gently her ankle, giving it a tender squeeze. The thick fabric of her black tights underneath your fingertips feels so familiar, like holding something that belongs to you. Your palms, with a slow and careful motion, drift up, giving into an urge to caress her calf and enjoy the little moments you both can afford.

“Ada…” you swallow hard, calling her by her name shifts the entire situation into a more private and intimate one. The gears in your head work overtime right now. A warmth that was born in your chest, growing its roots deeper into your body and there is hope that conflicts with your work ethic, you promised yourself to be a professional. There is a need to pull her closer, you feel like love is possible for you for once. Three years of not seeing each other. ‘I missed you’ on the tip of your tongue threatens to escape. You fear if those words will be voiced, even accidentally admitting your longing for her it will lead you to die from the broken heart. “…Did you kill him?” But all you can say will lead to a disaster, this is no exception, and her eyebrows furrow briefly before pulling her leg away. Your hands clench to keep the feeling of her body for a little bit longer.

“False accusations and damage to one’s reputation are a crime, detective” Her words are like a pike being pounded into your chest, leaving you breathless, and they are a reminder of your own unprofessional behavior in the past. Compromising the case and letting her go, even when you had shreds of evidence against Ada. There is nothing wrong with leaving right? Shame and guilt are too much to bear, avoiding any confrontation of them. You stand up quickly, almost spilling the tea.

“Yeah, sorry… for my behavior” you mutter with furrowed eyebrows, feeling tension in your jaw. “I need to go, we will contact you again soon”

This was quick, letting one of your colleagues deal with this while your mind was absent and not listening to anything. A day passes quickly, not noticing how hours flew, but this is for your own good. Returning to your apartment feels so lonely right now, lonelier than it has even been and the only sound in it is your breathing, still processing what happened today. Your mind is like a turbulent air before the storm, like a cold rain smothering your face and shading your vision. You can’t focus on anything else when Ada is inevitably back in your life.

Is she affected by this reunion like you are?

…

As time flew, you realized how easy it was to find information about the dead man and how your precinct may just leave this as an unsolved case. Ada was right about his debts, but another interesting fact was left out. Not sure if she didn’t know or she was hiding it. He was working for the government in the past - this complicates things. No wonder someone killed him, he knew too much for someone’s taste. And if it wasn’t someone from higher-ups, other organizations may have held grudges. Despite of your weakness towards a woman in red and trying to avoid any confrontation with your guilt, you couldn’t keep your curiosity at bay, delving into her past and trying to find at least something. Rather disappointing research, but maybe you got lucky cause she seems to be a mercenary or an ex-one. Not clear.

As of good news; little escapades, both of you had indulged in before, returned. Should you be ashamed of that? Yes, but at the sight of Ada you forget about anything, her presence is the cure to dawning shame. With that, December felt peaceful and warmer than it should be, maybe that’s on you, cause people still cover themselves with clothes, trying to keep the warmth of their bodies. Maybe you got more vigilant or something has changed, but it is strange to see iris at this time of year. Not like you are going to complain, you always liked Iris, those flowers were simple and cute, not sure about their meaning, but still the sight of them gave you a jolt of hope in your body. Too bad, the only flowers you received were yellow tulips. Maybe you need to read something about flower language… Her hands brush against your coat, pulling away from another wave of thoughts in your head and you halt in your movements when she pulls its edges to face you. Her expensive perfume washes over your senses again, like a kiss from the ghost - barely here, but leaves you to crave for more. If love had its own aroma, then Ada would smell like it.

“Detective is so carefree, you are going to get cold” She says, shaking her head. Her fingers drum on the fabric before shifting to your scarf. It seems you didn’t tighten it properly, looking a little bit messy and not covering your throat. “that won’t do”

You hurried to see her, but this will be your little secret.

“Are you worried?” You inquire with a smile, the tail of your brow raises, but she doesn’t answer. Her fingers brush lightly against your skin, leaving a burning sensation from that ghosted touch while she adjusts your scarf. Not wanting to end this moment, instinctively you don’t let her hands retreat. Your hold of one of her hands keeps the closeness, you could swear a brief surprise flashed in her eyes. A curiosity flashes in your mind, bringing your fingers to crawl up to inspect her fingers. Rough and dry skin on that dainty hand. “you don’t take care of yourself either”

“Are you my caretaker now?” Ada teases with a smile on her lips, letting your gaze check the calloused skin of her palm. Not a secret for you that she knows how to use guns and the condition of her hands is just a confirmation of that.

“I may become one, is there a vacancy?” You tease her back and she rolls her eyes at your words. You know Ada isn’t annoyed, but still, it is entertaining to watch her little and subtle reactions to your words or actions. You reach for the pocket in your coat, a weird habit to keep a mini hand cream. It is useful when one travels around, but it has been a long time since you left the borders of this place. Maybe after this mess, who knows. You quickly removed the tap of the tube to butter the cream, gently spreading and massaging her hand. There is a silence between you, a calming and comforting one, not being afraid to not speak cause words are not enough to express yourselves. Her skin underneath your fingertips feels so dear to you, spreading gently cream as a light breeze hits your frame, bringing more of her perfume into your senses and you wish you were closer. With a final touch of this caring gesture, you bring her palm closer to your lips to press them shortly, to drown in the tenderness of the moment. You kept eye contact, to see her reaction and to someone else’s gaze she wouldn’t seem fazed, her own eyes can’t hide a wave of affection passing by. Your grip loosens and her hand finally retreats, a ghostlike feeling of her skin is still burning hot on your lips, like a short-lived mark. The rendezvous didn’t last long after that, enjoying the silence between each other until you had to separate.

“Thank you for this” a quick message after getting in your car, a little habit. She usually ignores your SMS. This time, three dots appear.

“You like wine?”

“I don’t have preferences, why?” You aren’t picky with alcohol when there is a need to forget something.

“Tomorrow night, me, gorgeous detective, and wine? ;)”

You can see your own face on the screen of your phone, looking so dumb right now; can’t keep that smile at bay, can you? This sounds like a date, but it is not one, is it? Maybe Wheel of Fortune still works well. Your ability to stay calm and control your emotions with her is so bad, that your colleagues would tease you if they saw you. Indeed a love-struck idiot. Biting your knuckles and trying to not text quickly back, she doesn’t need more evidence of your infatuation.

“Perfect, my place”

…

A glass of wine, another one after emptying the previous one in no time. Glass after glass, hands intertwining together and the minds are fuzzy thanks to the alcohol. Sitting in the kitchen, clinging to the feeling of touching her hand or play with her fingers like a giddy teenager.

“Ada?” You whisper, staring at her and observing her elegant stature.

“Mm?” She hums absently, looking down at her empty wineglass with a ‘barely here’ expression. Pausing cause your eyes noticed a gramophone, that wasn’t used in a while, but it still was kept with you in case there would be a need to use it. And it seems this is the perfect situation to dust off your old collection of vinyls. After making a little rattling, you are standing in front of the player, not really trying to choose a specific vinyl record, there are many of them and it is more exciting to choose something random without giving it too much thoughts. Not like your tipsy mind is good for this.

“Ada” your voice is a little bit louder, after putting a record on the player, as music gently fills the space between you both.

“Detective?” Her eyes dart to your face, meeting each other’s gaze; this is a perfect moment to pull her out of the table. You do that, feeling lightness in your head as you try to get into position for dancing, but failing miserably after a step. This is a reminder that you are a detective, not a dancer. You will blame this on alcohol, just in case. For a moment you regret this, maybe it was a bad idea to initiate a dance cause you suck at it, never took any dancing lessons, and for what? To have this skill buried and not used? Your awkward and clumsy movements seem to be amusing to Ada cause it seems a smile threatens to escape. Such an embarrassment. Standing there with a light blush burning your cheeks and trying to collect yourself. Yeah, alcohol is the one to blame.

“Cute” Her hands take yours to put one of them on her lower back, you hold her hand and she puts the other one on your shoulder. Of course, Ada knows how to dance. “repeat after me. One, two, three…” The rhythm is simple. One. Two. Three. Trying not to step on her feet, while she guides your movements as you repeat quietly the same words.

One…Two… Three.

Until they blend into the music coming from the vinyl player, spinning in circles in the living room, one step forward, another one to the side. It is simple enough. Ada seems to enjoy herself right now; black strands move with every step you take, her eyes are again full of something playful and tenderness that leaves you breathless. Your hand on her lower back pulls her closer, not noticing the closing distance between you. She squeezes your hand, feeling your fingers being intertwined. You can’t lie to yourself, this feels good like the only place to exist in this universe is this room. A long dream from which you wouldn’t want to wake up. For a brief moment, the music stopped with your bodies, short silence fills with heavy breathing before they get covered with new tones coming from the recorder. Music is still on, the composition changed but you don’t listen to it anymore. Your eyes linger on her lips, in a romance movie this would be a hot moment combined with love confession, but… It is weird, you can’t really let yourself indulge in something more intimate with Ada. You just stand there, your lips hovering over hers in a short distance. A kiss would be the next step, so… Why don’t you kiss her? Murder case, be professional. Something dug into your heart, aching longingly for something that never existed. The entire murder case feels like another lame excuse you pull to cover your inner turbulence over the betrayal of your work ethic. Three years passed and still can’t get over this, not accepting that you are no better than an incompetent asshole you call a coworker.

“Did you zone out?” Ada says, her fingers caressing your cheek, pulling you out of your self-loathing. Your lower lip trembles, trying to recollect yourself before nodding. She smiles, looking amused by this situation, and you are not sure if this is a bad thing or not.

“Sorry, I am not myself these days” you mumble, looking at her fingers before catching them in your gentle hold. Taking the moment to give a soft and quick kiss, before letting them go. Ada tilts her head and you don’t feel confident anymore to look into her face again. “… work is getting the best out of me” Standing silently, light sways of your bodies in the rhythm of the music as her chin rests on your shoulder and you are not sure if it is her heart you can hear, or just confusing with your one. You can feel her pressing more against your chest, any self-hated thought disappear as if they don’t exist and don’t torment you when your bed is empty, she is like a painkiller for you.

“It is late..” you say, pressing the button to stop rolling the recorder, while the other hand is still resting on her lower back. Keeping her close. Making a woman drive to her home sounds awful nor you should do that under the influence of alcohol - you are a respectable person, after all. Unfortunately or not, your place is not big, leading her to your bedroom. The room is silent, soft, and gentle silence, not threatening at all. You let Ada lay down while you sit down on the edge, the bed resounds at the weight of your bodies. Tonight, your coach is going to be the place to sleep, in spite of the need to join her too. The face of a dead man flashes in your memory, a good reminder to stay still and not fall in your weakness.

“And what if I did kill him?” Her murmur made you shiver and focus your attention on her frame - she looked at you with a heavy gaze. Your jaw tenses, swallowing hard at her timing. Can she read your mind? Her words feel like a cold tidal wave approaching from afar to swallow you deeply into its embrace, to fill your lungs but instead of salty liquid, it is your confusion.

“What?… Is that a confession? In that case, I should arrest you” jokingly you say, shrugging your shoulders, a motion to ease the anxiety throbbing in your chest. No answer. In the dimly lightened room, your eyes are still able to catch her just smiling at you, her fingers brushing against the inner skin of your wrist, a silent plea to focus on her. Your next words are a breathless whisper, wanting a confirmation of your suspicions. “… did you?” There is another pause like she is conflicted about what to say next.

“Don’t think too much, not good for your tipsy head” she whispers back, looking down at your wrist. Another vague answer but this was enough information for you. There is no reason to stay in this room, you return to the empty living room, leaving her to sleep in your bed silently.

…

You left early, she still was sleeping in your bed. December mornings are cold and dark, but today somewhat it is worse, the chilliness of the weather seeps into your bones in spite of wearing warm clothes, they don’t shield you from heaviness in the chest or the anxiety that makes your fingers numb - useless. The gloomy atmosphere of the morning made you realize how your mind is always responsible for the image of the world you see. Today even with the thought of Ada in your bed, it is dark and colorless. Maybe that’s an after-effect of the alcohol, not you, but at the back of your mind, it is just another lame excuse. You can’t really focus on anything, not something new these days. But this time your suspicions just got confirmed twice - the case will remain unsolved, and they won’t bring it back. No wonder, it is hard enough to catch members of criminal organizations and your precinct is full of incompetent and corrupt people. And Ada was probably just carrying out her commission, you should have arrested her after that confession, but also there are no evidences other than words to confirm, not really a reliable source.

Ada is probably not in the city anymore. This makes your heart ache.

The day came to its end, leading you back home. Like many days before all this, sitting on the chair with a glass of alcohol to make your head feel light and ignore your mind, likes to remind you about your gun. The idea of cold and sour metal of the barrel in your mouth has returned, but quickly buried with alcohol. This is a mess, a revulsive one, making you less vigilant about your surroundings. To your surprise, Ada is still in your apartment, you realize this after noticing her standing in front of you and looking down at your not-so-happy state. Her fingers gently reach for your chin, tilting your head to have a better sight of you right now, the touch burns on your skin, keeping silence between you alive.

“Bad day? Booze isn’t a good way to cope“ Ada was first to break it, her other hand brought a chapstick to your lips, softly and tenderly applying to them. It smells like cherry. You want to deny her touch, making a scene and throwing her out of your place. “it is a depressant, hon”

“…what are you doing here?” You ask, ignoring her words.

“What?” She pulls away her hands from you, leaving tingly remains on your face of her tenderness. You pause, trying to gather words as your eyes drift, hiding yourself from her. Not wanting to meet her gaze.

“You should go home, I… ” There is another pause from you, looking down at the floor for a brief moment before setting your gaze on the half-empty glass. Everywhere, but not on Ada. “I need to work, you are an obstacle” You know where it goes. You could take her in but you don’t, again. There is a silent understanding of what is going to happen now, a similar situation that led to bitter-sweet goodbyes before, but this time you will pray to every God that your ways will never connect again. Deep inside both wish for different circumstances, maybe a different reality where she holds you after a particularly hard day. But the image is weird, alien to you cause it wouldn’t be Ada, not her style. Something suggests, there are no other possible universes where both of you are together. Another realization hits you hard, maybe speaking before thinking was not a good idea in your case. This is one of the last moments of whatever you both had, there is no going back, you really won’t see her anymore. Dread and hope combine, creating another dark lump that tries to crawl out of your throat.

“I’ll see you around then” she says, glancing at the watch and trying to ignore her own growing turbulent feeling in her chest. Something is coiling around her neck, not visible to your eyes, making it harder to breathe. Similar to you. She needs to leave and this is hard to digest even to her. A weakness, but indulging in something sweet for the last time is worth it. The idea of not seeing her anymore is hard, there would be no giddy feeling every time you see her or little moments where you care for each other. You reach for her wrist, pulling Ada closer and the expensive sweet scent of her perfume embraces you in a gentle love. Looking into her face makes something stir in your guts again. Ada hides her expressions so well, but not from you; her eyes speak the truth, and the hint of bitterness and sadness rush and disappear in her gaze, making this separation harder to endure. Your lips brush on the flesh of her inner wrist like a ghost, giving soft kisses, while you try to imprint the feeling of her to your memory.