kit

You both ended up stumbling off the bar. Husk pushed you against one of the high tables, knocking over a couple of glasses that shattered on the floor. He kissed you roughly, growling, while his claws slashed at your shirt without any finesse.

"You're really drunk…" you laughed.

"So are you, idiot," he replied, biting your neck.

He easily turned you around and bent you over the table. His hands slid down your body until he yanked your pants down. You felt his hot breath on the back of your neck as he rubbed against you. His cock was already hard, thick, and throbbing against your ass.

Husk spat in his hand and prepared you with two clumsy but insistent fingers, growling under his breath.

“Don’t complain later…” he warned, his voice husky.

He lined up and thrust into you in one swift motion. You both let out a loud groan. Husk was big and incredibly hot. He began fucking you with deep, wild thrusts, fueled by the alcohol. The table creaked with each stroke.

“Fuck… you’re tight,” he growled, digging his claws into your hips.

You moaned against the wood, feeling him fill you with each thrust. Husk leaned over your back, biting your shoulder as he sped up. His wings spread slightly with pleasure.

After several intense minutes, he turned you over, lifted you onto the table, and positioned himself between your legs. He kissed you again, slower but just as drunk and desperate. He gripped your cock with his hairy hand and began masturbating you as he penetrated you again.

“I want to see your face when you come,” he murmured, his eyes half-closed.

His thrusts were strong and deep. The wet sound of skin against skin filled the empty bar. Husk was fucking you hard, grunting and muttering curses under his breath every time you squeezed around him.

You were on the edge.

"Husk… I'm going to…" "Come," he ordered huskily, speeding up. You came hard onto your stomach and Husk's chest. He groaned as he felt you clench around his cock, and after a few more brutal thrusts, he came inside you with a long, low groan. You felt him fill you with hot, thick spurts.

Husk collapsed on top of you, panting, still inside. His tail wrapped around your leg.

"This… doesn't mean anything," he mumbled, clearly lying.

You laughed drunkenly and stroked his ear.

"Of course not, cat."

They stayed like that for several minutes, sweaty, sticky, and drunk, lazily kissing on the bar table.

Husk finally lifted his head, a crooked, drunken smile on his face.

“Another round of whiskey?”

In all your years as a private investigator, you’d never had a case quite like this most recent one. What began as a typical ‘I think my husband is cheating on me’ case, ended up spiralling into the discovery of some shady secret society bullshit. It was a tough case, and just when you’d been about to drown under the weight of it all, your path crossed with Healy and March, who were working the same case as you. It was a relief to have a team of three heads rather than one, and both parties had information the other hadn’t yet discovered, leading to bright new insights and refueled momentum. 

Throughout the case, there had been multiple missteps and turn-arounds and plot-twists and shoot-outs that could have really ended terribly (well, could have ended terribly for the three of you, and did end quite terribly for the guys on the other side of the fight). But you all pulled through, and closed the case earlier this evening.

Now, the three of you are celebrating at some hole-in-the-wall bar that somehow manages to feel quite homey. You’re sitting on the middle barstool between Healy and March. At this hour, there aren’t many other patrons scattered about the small bar: Some guy’s passed out on the table across the room (but he’s fine). A couple have been canoodling in a back booth for who knows how long.

Holland’s been animatedly retelling the story of his standoff with one of the goons he’d encountered and fought off while you and Healy were separated from him. His story wraps up and your shared laughter peters out. A swell of silence takes over the moment.

“Well,” Healy’s gruff voice says from your left, as he taps his empty whiskey glass on the bar. “I’m gonna call it for tonight.” 

It’s late. It’s a very reasonable time to leave. You understand. But there’s a sad twist to the smile you give him as you nod. You’ve been through so much together and you’re not sure when you’ll get to see him again. 

He rises from his stool, pulling out his wallet. He slips out a few bills and places them on the bartop. Then slips out a business card and hands it to you, holding your gaze. “Call anytime, understand? For anything.” 

The gesture, coming from someone else, might leave room for you to wonder if they were making a pass at you. But from Healy it’s clear there’s nothing beyond a platonic sense of care and protection in the offer. 

You stand, blinking preemptively to keep your eyes from misting, and wrap your arms in a strong hug around Healy’s shoulders. “Thank you for everything,” you say as you squeeze.

He seems caught off guard for just a moment, then softens, returning the hug. “Our pleasure,” he says, his gruff voice softening in an almost avuncular way. 

As you mutually withdraw from the hug, he locks eyes with March, who’s slouched so far sideways over the bar his whole arm from armpit to elbow is flush against it, holding him up. His head’s propped on his hand. Beer bottle hanging limply from the fingers of his second hand. 

“‘Night, March,” Healy says, quick and casual.

March lifts his bottle, two fingers raised in some sort of wave-salute hybrid. 

“Get home safe, yeah?” Healy says, eyes back on you as he shrugs on his stormy blue leather jacket. 

You nod. “‘Course. G’night, Healy,” you say. 

And he nods, then heads out.

The interaction had been tender. You’d been through a lot these past few weeks. And it was the kind of goodbye that honoured that.

Holland, though, to your right, has been watching the interaction through squinted eyes. 

Was there something going on between Healy and you? You’d all gotten close over the course of the case. Spent a lot of time together. He wouldn’t put it past Healy to be interested. Who wouldn’t be? You’re wonderful. And brave. And stunning. And smart and delightful and funny and fierce and everything else that is good. 

Okay, so. Holland’s taken with you. He’d gone from interested to smitten after spending less than a week in your company. And smitten had fermented into pining and then into yearning over the remainder of the case. 

He huffed. 

Healy was his partner. And if something was going on there… With you… With Healy and you… That… would be a good thing. For Healy. And for you, probably. 

Not for March, though. Very very bad for March. 

He couldn’t help the bitterness that rose up his throat. 

He could be good for you. If you’d let him. If you wanted that. 

You could do much better, though. He pouts, peering down the dark neck of his beer bottle.

Healy would be better. Someone in a much safer line of business would be even better. 

But God he wanted to be the one to be good for you. 

You miss all signs of his rumination as you settle back into your seat. When you turn back to March with a small smile, you find him closed off. He’s swiveled the angle of his stool to face the bar. He’s hunched over slightly as he fiddles with the label of his beer bottle, the sticker wet and flimsy with condensation. A hint of a petulant little sulk hides behind his ‘stache. 

He removed his suit jacket on arrival, draped it over the backrest of his seat. Throughout the night his tie’s gotten looser. Sleeves of his white shirt rolled up his forearms. You try not to let your eyes linger on the way the blonde dusting of hair on his arms glitter in the warm light.

You draw in a breath and release it audibly. He says nothing.

“So,” you start, inviting him into conversation. Just a word to acknowledge the changed dynamic of the night. No longer a group outing. Just you and March. March is prompted out of the bubble of his thoughts by your voice, but only somewhat. He turns his face to you, squints at you, as if trying to figure you out. Finally he points the lip of his bottle toward you, and asks, “Who d’you think would win in a fight? Me or Healy?”

You raise your eyebrows in surprise at the question but play along. “Uh, Healy.”

“Wh–?” his face crunches into a petulant frown. He dismisses the notion with a little pff. “Name one good reason.”

“Well, you’re quite drunk,” you say, grinning.

He’s not that drunk. He’s only had, what, three drinks more than Healy? So, like, five drinks more than you. And he’s off the hard stuff for the night. Switched to beer! But then, he’d arrived at the bar on the buzz he’d been stoking all day. He isn’t incoherent, by any means. He’s lucid. He’s on the looser, swimmy-minded side of lucid. But lucid enough.

He tips the beer bottle again, as if pointing at you, as if it’s a natural extension of his hand. He’s got a lifted look to his features, like he’s just cracked some sort of code. “But if I wasn’t drunk,” he prompts.

“Healy.”

He deflates with a little grunt. “Could at least pretend to think about it,” he mumbles, and takes a dejected swig of his beer.

“Mm, sorry. You’re right,” you say, playing along. “Let me think.” You lean back in the bar stool, eyes closed, like you’re really mulling it over. “And if… oh, but if… mm… aaand, carry the one…” You open your eyes. “Still Healy.”

Despite himself, he scoffs his way into a laugh and you follow.

“Okay, what about…” His tongue darts out to wet his lip, then swivels his stool to face you more directly, leans back, arm draped languidly along the bar, chest unsubtly puffed. “A fight between me and your boyfriend. Who’d win then?” he asks, shrugging one shoulder, trying and failing at nonchalance. 

Oh. Your heart flutters.

You hold his gaze and assure him, “Don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Mm.” He nods in a slow, serious way, brows pinched in concentration as he considers this. “What about Healy or your boyfriend?”

You blink at the question and sputter out a chuckle. “... Still don’t have a boyfriend.” 

You see the moment his mind properly processes this, the inner machinations of his mind projected clearly through his features. 

“Oh,” he huffs out with a breathy laugh at his blunder and flushes, tries and fails to bury the blush as he sweeps a hand over his face. But his demeanor changes, no longer puffed-up but light and lifted and open. He’s got the dusting of a grin on his lips as he crooks the elbow of the arm on the bar and leans his head back onto his hand.

When his eyes find you again, there’s something simmering behind them. 

“What about you and me then?” his tone tips flirtatious. 

Your heart flips. Finally. 

The case is over, and he’s finally making a move.

“You and me?” you ask with a smile, eyes wide and glittering with interest.

“Yeah,” he affirms with a nod. Your lips just manage to part around a pleased response, when he follows up with, “Who’d win that fight?”

Oh…. The air punches out of your chest.

He’s not asking you out. He’s still doing his little bit. 

But he’s looking at you. He’s flirting. Progress is progress, you suppose.

“Me,” you reply, brushing your disappointment aside and relenting into a grin.

His eyes do a quick sweep of your frame. The look isn’t suggestive in nature. He’s taking stock. Pointing out your stature compared to his. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” you say, nodding. “For sure.”

He makes a baffled, amused face. He’s no martial artist, by any means, but he can hold his own. And you can too. It’s necessary for the job, and you’re both good at what you do. It should be a relatively even match. His confusion’s clear on his face.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” you add, to explain your reasoning, letting the tone of the moment turn tender.

Holland flushes warm pink. “Ah.” He doesn’t argue. Saves himself from his own bashfulness with another swig of beer.

“What about another kind of fight, then?” he suggests, voice playful and definitely flirty now. He leans in closer by a fraction. “Who’d win in a battle of wits?” He waggles his eyebrows. “Me.”

He barks out another baffled grunt of defeat at your immediate confident reply, jerking his entire form in a dramatic show of dismay. The movement has his seat swivelling beneath him, sending partway around in a circle, and he makes these twisting thrusts of his hips and knees to manoeuvre the seat back in place to face you.

You’ve always been one to turn giggly after a few drinks, and tonight, it seems, is no different. His reaction, followed by the awkward hip swivels, tips you into such a spell of laughter, you completely miss the way he lights up at the sound. 

And Holland March is nothing if not a dog with a bone. 

He’s been single-mindedly focused on this thing he’s been doing, trying to find any angle, any chain of events, any possible world where he comes out victorious over others, in your eyes. But then you laugh, and he preens and immediately flings that old goal into the dumpster in the back of his mind. 

New goal: More pretty laughter, please.

“Whattabout a pillow fight?” he asks, having landed back in place. He leans his head on his hand again, the gesture warm as he watches you.

“Me,” you reply through your slightly waning giggles. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Snakes and ladders?”

You sputter into a fresh bout of laughter at the suggestion. Snakes and ladders is a game of chance. But still, you point to yourself.

“Dammit!” he shrieks, his voice high and piercing. 

You startle at the sound and cast a quick glance around the bar. With wide eyes, you shush him as well as you can while you’re being swept away in the fresh rapids of your laughter, but he’s undeterred.

“Dominoes?” 

You point to yourself.

“Hopscotch?”

You wheeze at the mental image and point to yourself.

“Tiddlywinks?”

Your laughter goes silent. You fold at the waist and drop your forehead against the bar, cushioned by the back of your hand. You bang a closed fist against the bar once before pointing toward yourself again.

Holland’s gone warm all over. Must be blushing to high heavens. Eyes have maybe been replaced with thumping cartoon hearts. But he can’t find it within him to care.

“Tickle fight?”

You’re not thinking. It’s not a conscious decision you make. You’ve gone so giggle-drunk your wrist pivots of its own volition. Your finger points toward him. 

His eyes widen with surprise and delight, brows elevating near into his hairline. Because this is not only an absolutely adorable turn of events, but also quite a promising lead. You mean he can get you giggling and he doesn’t even need to be funny or clever to earn it? The goal-oriented part of his brain starts chiming like a slot machine that’s hit the jackpot. 

Your brain catches up with your hand a moment too late. A soft gasp interrupts your laughter and you sit up a bit. Your eyes go wide at your own hand, and you sharply close the traitorous finger into the rest of your fist, as if a statement you could retract. 

Holland sputters out a laugh. “Ah, I’ve got a chance there, do I?” he teases, reaching out to poke at your ribs, exposed by your leaning forward against the bar. 

You squeak at the touch and shake your head. “I didn’t mean that!” you insist, though a helpless reinvigoration of giggles are already sweeping you away, and your whole torso’s jolting sideways with every prod of his finger. Your elbow tucks in protectively but Holland works around it.

“No?” Holland chuckles. Lands another few pokes. “I’unno. Seems like you might be really sensitive. Told on yourself pretty good there, didn’t you?”

“Fuck off,” you say through snickers, batting at his hand. Your face has flushed hot and your abdomen’s beginning to ache from the exertion of sustained laughter. “‘S not fair. I’m already laughing! Ow.” You pout, an overdramatic bid for mercy.

“Mm,” Holland hums, the tone of it disbelieving. But he relents, withdrawing his hand. “Fair eno—AUGH!” He spasms at a fizzy burst of sensation between his ribs.

You both freeze at his response, even as you’re still fighting to recover from your giggle attack. Your hand stills in place where it had darted out to prod at him. Mischievous glee spreads slow across your face. 

His widened eyes meet your eager ones. The nervous anticipation fizzling within him is shoddingly masked by an attempt at a warning glare. 

“Think about what you’re doing,” he cautions, his pointer finger raised in a show of sternness, but it trembles. 

“I am,” you assure him, voice laced in innocence. “‘M thinkin’ this’ll be really fun.” 

You waste no time digging back in, and your touch sends Holland’s already thready composure crumbling.

Where Holland’s approach had been a step above timid, just a few pokes, yours is unbridled. 

Your clawed fingers have latched into the intercostal spaces of his ribcage and squeeze away with lethal precision. 

He fights it for half a moment, tensing and stammering out a fitful stream of shit’s and fuck’s before biology takes over. He dissolves with a wheeze into reluctant laughter, his body curling around the site of your attack. 

You’ve never seen him this way. His face all flushed and scrunched with merriment is, perhaps, the most adorable sight of your life. You can’t help melting a little, and chuckling along with him.

“Oh no. Seems like you might be really ticklish,” you parrot his own words back to him.

He shakes his head and eeks out a wheezy Shuddup, cheeks blooming rose red.

You turn your ear toward him. “Hm? What was that?”

As soon as he starts trying to form the words again, you dart your hand to his leg, squeezing just above the knee. A shrill yelp replaces any attempt at a response. He folds over, bumbling hands trying to reach for yours, blocked by the bar. 

“Oh, nothing?” you say, uber-casual. “Strange. Thought you had something to say.”

“God, shit,” he squeaks, one weakened hand finally finding yours, trying and failing to pry at your fingers.

“No, you’re right. That was cruel of me. This any better?” you ask, shifting your hand higher to squeeze at his mid-thigh.

He snorts, squawking through his laughter. His legs shift and kick aimlessly under your hand. The toe of his shoe bashes against the lower wall of the bar and, though Holland carries on unharmed, the bang reverberates through the space. “Shhh. Jeez, would you behave?” you tease, but don’t let up. You glance around the bar but nobody’s paying you any mind. The canoodling couple has left (or snuck into the bathroom). The passed-out guy’s snoring on the table. “People are trying to have a quiet evening here.”

He whines at your words but doesn’t retort. Just lets himself laugh as he reaches clumsily under the bar, across his lap, for your hand with his free one—the one not concerned with keeping the beer bottle dangling between his fingers from getting smashed or spilled in the fray. 

You leave his leg alone and take advantage of his exposed underarm, prodding into the hollow. His arm slams down to his side, punctuated by a surprised bark of laughter. And thank god these barstools have backrests or Holland would’ve ended up on the floor, with the way he throws himself backward in a fruitless attempt to evade your touch. 

You let yourself admire the way his hair bounces in the bar’s low light, his head thrown back, crow’s feet crinkling as he’s wracked with desperate, defiant cackles. His free hand finally finds its bumbling way across his chest to your forearm, but doesn’t wrench at you or push you away. Just grabs onto you as if for an anchor, grip strong but not too tight. His palm is warm.

“Uh oh, bad there?” you tease with a helpless, besotted grin. He’s too far gone to respond, poor thing. 

You let up a little, opting for light fluttery fingertips and nails where you’ve been deep-tissue wriggling. 

He sucks in a quick breath and curses, but it’s a paltry show of distress. With his shoulder jerked upward, ear angled down protectively, he disintegrates into giggles so bubbly you want to bottle them. You wonder, for one too-hopeful second, if he might curl so far to the side his head comes to rest on your shoulder, but he remains relatively upright.

When his curled-in stance proves to be ineffective protection, his head tips back again, and he slips down in his seat, revealing features that are undeniably mirthful. He looks so free and boyish a fresh wave of affection crashes over you. Your hand freezes in place.

He blinks his eyes open through the lingering giggles and the glimmer in the blue of them is far too reminiscent of the way a sun glitters on a lake. 

He’s had his eyes scrunched shut all this time, giving you the luxury of getting away with doing absolutely nothing to rein in the blatant adoration on your face. But eyes-open means he can see you now, and some alarm goes off in your mind: Shit, too vulnerable. Abort abort abort.

Your face flushes hot, and you slip your hand from the crease of his armpit, dropping it to your lap. You run your palms along your thighs as you turn back to the bar, clearing your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

You manage a glance back at him, and any notion that you’d been caught ogling him are quelled. He’s completely occupied with recuperating. Melted back in his seat, one arm crossed lazily over his middle, the other thrown over his eyes. His grin seems like it may be permanently stained across his face. 

You have to remind yourself, quite pointedly, not to watch the way his chest fills and falls as he heaves his way back to even breath. You bury your compounding blush by taking a sip of your long forgotten drink. 

“Y’okay over there?” you quip gently, grinning.

His shoulders shake with the remnants of breathy snickers. He doesn’t look over, but gives you the finger.

You snort. “It wasn’t that bad.”

He sputters, squinted eyes peeking out from under the crook of his elbow to fix you with an affronted look. 

“Oh, it wasn’t?” he quips with a wavering, slightly hoarse voice. I’m sorry, were you the one being tickled within an inch of your life? 

You roll your eyes and fix him with a dismissive look of your own in return. “Please, it was, like, two seconds.”

He scoffs, shakes his head, running a palm over his face. He sits up a little, righting himself in his seat, still grinning stupidly and failing to suppress it. 

“It was an eternity, actually,” he insists, all sass. He’s back to tipping the pointed end of his beer bottle at you, punctuating his point. It’s a wonder he managed not to drop the thing through the entire ordeal.

“Mm, was it? Oh, wow,” you mutter through a grin, and take another sip of your drink. 

His brow scrunches. He leans to get a look at you. “What? What’s ‘wow’ mean?”

You shrug. “Nothing. Just can’t believe you were tickled for a whole eternity and it never once occurred to you to, like…” You flick your eyes to the row of empty stools to his right “... move.” 

His eyes widen and his head whips to the side. 

Oh. Okay, yeah, he totally, very easily could’ve shifted over, out of your reach. Fuck. 

His face flushes red. 

He spins back to you, defiant and overly gesticulative. “Well forgive me for not being of sound mind, okay? Maybe I was a little too busy to formulate an escape plan while you were, fuckin’…” he trails off, lifting his elbow and plucking his fingers in the air between his arm and side.

You hold his gaze, brows raised, for a moment, to see if he’ll finish his sentence. And he does not. You chuckle into the lip of your drink. “Hm. Right. Fair enough.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, fair enough,” Holland mutters, playing at indignance, swiping a hand through his mussed hair. He brings the beer bottle back to his lips, chin tipped back as he downs the last of it.

You allow yourself a long, slow sip, and swallow, before glancing back his way. “Didn’t occur to you to say ‘stop’, either?” 

He sputters into his drink, reddening. Glares at you.

“You had fun,” you declare, holding his gaze, admittedly smug.

He swallows. Scoffs. “You had fun,” he deflects, snarky. 

“I did,” you agree, shameless and beaming. 

He rolls his eyes, slumps back into his seat. Goes even pinker. 

You chuckle softly and sit back in your seat, attention back on your drink, letting the moment cool to a simmer.

After a moment, you glance over—just to check in, just to make sure he’s not combusting under the force of his embarrassment—and find him shaking his head, toying with the now-empty bottle where it rests on the bar, failing to hide the aching fondness on his face. His attention turns, eyes catching yours, and you exchange a twin set of bashful grins.

Another best passes. 

You swallow the last of your drink and set the empty glass back on the bar. “So, guess I was wrong before,” you admit.

He looks at you, confused.

“Tickle fight,” you clarify. “Turns out I’d win that one, too.”