Title: this is a gift
Author: alyse
Fandom: Blade: Trinity
Pairing: Abigail Whistler/Hannibal King
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: None/set post movie
Genres: Hurt/Comfort, smut, established relationship
Word Count: 7,300
Status: Complete, one shot
Disclaimer: Blade: Trinity, the motion picture, is owned by New Line Cinema. This is a not for profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Thanks to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aithine for beta reading duties. Any mistakes remaining are my own. Title and quote from 'Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)' by Florence and the Machine, because she is my writing music of choice at the moment. Written for both my ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kissbingo square: experimental (ice) and as a late birthday fic from me to those on my flist who have as great an inappropriate love for this movie as I do.
Summary: If King wanted sympathy, he'd be louder about it, and the fact that he's not pretty much tells her everything she needs to know.
-o-
I must become a lion-hearted girl
-o-
When Caulder finally pulls the truck to a stop, the sun is already high in the sky. Caulder sits with his hands on the steering wheel for long moments, fingers and palms neatly wrapped around it at two and ten, as the engine rumbles beneath and around them; Abigail can feel the pulse of it reverberate, bone deep, before he finally switches it off.
King is - for once - a silent presence by her side. Caulder, from the little she knows of the man, never says much on the best of days, and this day counts as both best and worst; he wears his silence like Abby and King wear the armour of leather and Kevlar that they prefer. But of the three, it is Zoë's silence that worries her most. Zoë sits perfectly still, not shifting or wriggling like a normal child on a car journey; her small face is pale, her eyes old and weary, and that says everything that Zoë can't.
Abigail pulls her closer, wrapping one arm around her until Zoë presses into her side, burrowing into her; Abby closes her eyes, turning her face up into the sun's warmth.
This isn't home, but it will do for now.
--o--
She leaves King to his own devices, ignoring the quiet groan he lets out as he hauls himself out of the back seat. If he wanted sympathy, he'd be louder about it, and the fact that he's not pretty much tells her everything she needs to know. Even King has his pride, as strange as anyone else - anyone who isn't Abby - might find that idea. At least he's upright, moving under his own steam, which is a win as far as Abby's concerned; the small victories are worth as much as the big ones sometimes.
Instead she focuses on Zoë, settling the girl into a bunk that Caulder's wife has put together in one of the back rooms that serve as sleeping quarters for this particular cell. It's far enough away from the main hub to be quiet, but close enough to hear anything that needs to be heard. Zoë is still too quiet, still too withdrawn, and she doesn't cry, not yet. Abby gets it, on some level at least. Abby herself has cried for Zoë's mother, but not for her own father, and Abby's tears for Sommerfield will have to be enough for now, at least until Zoë can cry her own.
It takes a long time for Zoë to fall asleep; she lies curled up on her side, eyes staring out at nothing, but every time Abby moves, tries to leave, Zoë's hand shoots out and catches hold of her wrist.
So Abby stays, stroking Zoë's hair gently until the girl finally closes her eyes, her eyelashes dark against too pale skin and her breathing evening out. Even then, Abby stays, Zoë's hair soft against her fingertips. She stays until Zoë finally rolls over and moves away.
Then - only then - does she go looking for the rest of what is left of her family.
--o--
Caulder has stuck King in another room, one just a little further down the corridor and just a little bit bigger than Zoë's. The bed is bigger than Zoë's, too, and King is sprawled across it, flat on his back, his eyes closed and his feet bare and oddly vulnerable; if it weren't for the cuts and scrapes still spiralling across his skin she'd think he didn't have a care in the world. She leans against the doorway, hip cocked, and takes him in, watching the way his chest rises and falls evenly and the way that his fingers are curled against his stomach. He's washed the worst of the blood away at least, and his top is cleaner than she remembers, no blood leaking through, but he still looks like warmed over shit. There's a bag of ice sitting melting on the small, Spartan bedside table next to him, and a bottle of bourbon next to it.
That's more like it.
She thinks he's asleep, the way he's stretched out with his face slack, but as soon as she steps into the room he opens his eyes, blinking blearily at her. The left one is bloodshot, puffy and sore - it's going to leave him with a hell of a shiner by tomorrow to match the cuts that have finally stopped weeping - and high up on his cheekbone there are three neatly placed, white butterfly bandages, ones that are probably hiding stitches underneath. Caulder's work, of course; Abby's not sure her hands would have been steady enough for it.
His face creases into lines while she watches him, deep furrows written there by pain and grief; she's not sure it's just for Sommerfield, or Hedges, or Dex, but she doesn't ask. In spite of his propensity for running off at the mouth, there are some things that King doesn't talk about, not even with Abby. She gets that, like she gets Zoë's silence, and she's smart enough not to push it. Instead she stares at him, saying nothing, until the lines on his face smooth out again, leaving a whole load of nothing behind.
"Gotta hand it to Caulder," he drawls, his eyes drifting shut again, and the way he relaxes is so self-conscious that she's not fooled for a minute. "Didn't know his joint ran to room service."
She snorts like she usually does whenever King says something he thinks is funny, which is most of the time. "Don't get used to it," she says and he smirks, something like genuine amusement curling at the corners of his mouth. Maybe that's why she takes another two steps into the room, then two more until she's standing by his bedside. Maybe it's not; maybe it's all the other things, things they don't talk about. During, in King's case, but not after and not about.
He opens his eyes again to look at her, shifting slightly on the bed to make room. That, she's sure, isn't a conscious move on his part; he's not usually subtle and there's no accompanying leer the way that there normally would be, pasted on to cover everything that goes on underneath King's surface. She doesn't dwell on it. There are too many other things swirling around in her head to worry about this, whatever the 'this' is that they have between them.
There's an empty glass standing next to the bottle, and the bottom of it is wet. She takes that as an open invitation, pouring herself a slug and losing herself in the mindless task of scooping a couple of cubes out of the bag to drop into it. They're slippery, and the wetness clings to her fingers long after she's let them go; it's something else to focus on.
King eases himself up into a sitting position, shifting up the bed until he can prop himself against the bare headboard. She doesn't miss how long it takes him, or how the movement lacks his normal grace, but he still doesn't say anything about it, no transparent ploy for sympathy, no putting it to his advantage with an eyebrow wiggle and a suggestion that she kiss it better; it makes it easy to follow his lead and stay silent.
"How's the munchkin?" He started calling Zoë that long before Sommerfield started reading the Oz books to her.
Abby shrugs, but it's exhausted, not dismissive. There are so many ways that she could answer that question, and all of them would be wrong. "Surviving," she says, because that's the most important thing. She doesn't know if King gets it but he nods, staring out the door like he expects Zoë to appear any second. Or maybe he hopes that the answers to every fucked up question they've never been able to ask will just slide through it, nice as pie, and make everything all right again.
"We burnt the bodies," she says. It's brutal thing to say, but then so was doing it. None of it - their deaths or her having to deal with the aftermath on her own - was King's fault, and he's smart enough to get that. She hopes.
He nods and, when she looks at him, his eyes are distant. He wipes his hands tiredly over his face and, for a second, he looks old, hangdog. Like the man he'll probably never get to be, with grey in his hair and grandkids on his lap.
She closes the bag of ice, spinning the neck absently between her fingers to keep it closed, and settles down in the gap he's left by his side. Her hip presses into his waist but if it pains him he doesn't show it, and he doesn't move away. He turns his head to watch her instead, his face still blank with tiredness, and she takes a swig from her glass, ice cubes clinking in the amber liquid. He keeps watching as she leans towards him; there are dark shadows beneath his eyes, and the cuts where his face split under fists and feet are vivid red against the paleness of his skin. The cheap bourbon burns going down, settling like fire in her belly, and the bag is cold against her fingertips as she presses it gently against his cheek.
For once he doesn't make a smartass remark, and she doesn't know whether to worry or be grateful for it. "Okay?" she asks him when she can't take the silence any longer. She doesn't look him in the eyes when she asks it; she doesn't need to look to know that he never looks away from her face.
"Just peachy. If only all my nurses were as attractive. Caulder's not a patch on you, sweetheart."
She snorts, but there's no heat in it. All of the heat is in King's skin; he's always warm when she touches him, but now the flesh under her fingertips is battered and bruised, swollen and sore despite the ice she's pressing against it. She's not sure whether that's a good or bad sign; unlike Caulder, she has no medical training, but King is focused on her, paying attention, and that's got to be a positive. Plus, for all that King irritates Caulder, the man is professional enough not to have dumped King's ass here if there was any real risk of fever or concussion.
"How's your head?" she asks. It takes her a second and King's sudden, delighted grin for the penny to drop. "Not a word," she warns before King even has his mouth partway open; he closes it and pouts a little, but she doesn't smile. Not quite and not that it fools him any.
"Well, if you leave me an opening like that..."
It's when she realises that she's already thinking of a way to work 'opening' into her comeback that she knows they've spent far too much time together. It should worry her more than it does, but there's an ease to the way it is between them that's lacking when she deals with the rest of the world, a give and take that's not all about her giving. So she simply snorts again, lifting the bag a little so that she can see the skin underneath. It brings her closer to him, and she can feel his breath, warm and a little sweet, against her skin.
She could lean closer; instead she pulls back, taking another swig from her glass. The ice rattles against her teeth, cold against her lips and stinging in the small cuts left by her teeth when she was too slow to duck. She opens her mouth wider until the half melted ice cube slides past her lips and then holds it there, against the raw part, with her tongue.
King watches her, and his eyes are warm.
The ice burns against the inside of her mouth as she stares down into the glass, rolling the liquid around in it and feeling the matching burn of the bourbon sliding all the way down her throat. It settles warmly in her belly, tingling in her veins; she's not much of a drinker, but she's not buzzed yet. High on adrenaline, maybe, but not alcohol.
She doesn't need to be, not when King keeps looking at her like that.
She doesn't look back at first, not this time, and after a moment King shifts slightly, a sigh escaping him. When she finally glances across at him, his eyes have drifted half-shut but he's still watching her from beneath his eyelashes. His head is tilted towards her and his face is too blank for her liking, all of the warmth melted away. It worries her more than she wants to admit; King doesn't keep much back from anyone within ear distance, and even then, the little he doesn't share with the world he usually doesn't keep back from her. Just the things that are too important, too raw to share, the things he can't deflect with a joke and a cocky smile. But Abby has her own secrets, and she won't force King to do anything he doesn't want to. The last person to do that was a vampire bitch turned to dust and ash, and good fucking riddance as far as Abby is concerned.
She takes another sip to keep her mouth occupied and, when she swallows, King's eyes track the movement of her throat. His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for her, but the movement is slow; slow enough, tentative enough that she could ignore it if she wanted to, let his fingers fall against the covers as though that was always where he was aiming.
She doesn't want to, not tonight, and hasn't for the longest time.
She leans towards him, slowly enough to let him deflect it with a joke or a smile or a biting remark if he wants to. When he doesn't, staying silent, she cups his face with gentle fingers. The taste of bourbon is on her tongue when she kisses him and she's not sure whether it comes from his mouth or hers. It doesn't matter; he opens his mouth under the gentle pressure of her lips and when her tongue slips inside, all she can taste is him.
His palm settles against her waist, in the gap left between her cropped top and her pants; when his fingers flex, the calluses on his fingertips scratch roughly against her skin. He doesn't pull her to him, but she leans in closer anyway, making sure that she braces herself against the headboard rather than putting any weight on his wounded shoulder. When his hand drifts up her back, slipping under the fabric of her top to slide his fingertips beneath her bra strap, her lips curl up against his mouth; she knows all of his moves, both in the field and out of it.
She pulls back. King's eyes are closed but his face is no longer blank. His expression is still tired, blurred by pain and softened the scruff on his cheeks that he hasn't had time to tidy up into his normal, neat beard yet, but there is colour in his cheeks and a small, pleased smile playing around the corners of his mouth. She has to fight not to kiss that smile away again, settling on running her fingers through his hair until it's even more tousled than usual. She'd never admit it to him, but she loves the way his hair prickles against her skin; her fingers are half buried in the tangled strands now, her fingertips flexing against his scalp and her nails scratching lightly against his skin. She hadn't even realised she was doing it, so lost was she in the feeling of his mouth, in the heat of his kisses.
Now that she's no longer kissing him, King's eyes drift slowly open again, and the small, pleased smile becomes a more familiar smirk. "Hey," he says, and his voice is gravelly, a little hoarse. There are bruises around his throat, left by one vamp or another. She lets her fingers trail along the line of them, brushing gently over his skin, and he tilts his head slightly, giving her access to explore. The trust in the move, in spite of all of his history and all of hers, takes her breath away.
"Hey," she says, a meaningless little sound that still means everything from I'm here to you're here and we both made it, covering everything in between. She leans in and kisses him again, pressing her lips against his cheek this time and taking care to avoid the cuts sliced across his skin. She's pretty sure that he's going to have scars to remind them both of tonight despite Caulder's best efforts, and she strokes her thumb lightly over the skin underneath his left eye where the skin is already puckered and white. Abby can sympathise - she has her own scars, ones that cut both inside and out. She knows the score, and it's not like he'll be any less pretty once they've healed, not as far as she is concerned.
She moves her mouth lower, tracing the hollow of his cheek, and he turns his head, moving into her touch. His beard prickles against her lips for a moment before his mouth lands on hers again, soft and warm, moving slowly. He hisses a little when she presses her tongue against the cut someone's fist left on his lip, but he doesn't pull away and the pained sound doesn't stop her. Instead she deepens the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him steady.
He still doesn't try to pull away - he's far too smart for that. Again, it's down to her to break the kiss and when she finally pulls away, sucking in a shaky breath, it takes him longer to open his eyes this time. When he does, the look in them has moved from warm to heated.
She smirks down at him, not missing the way his eyebrows shoot up or the amused look that blossoms across his face; it doesn't do anything to tamp down the need in his eyes. She's still smirking as she pushes herself up to reach the bottle, slopping some of it over the side of the glass as she pours. It runs down to her fingers and she moves the glass to her other hand, raising her fingers to her mouth to lick away the traces of bourbon that cling there. His hand twitches and his eyes track her. She doesn't smirk at him this time; instead the expression on her face feels more like a smile.
She settles back down onto the bed, swinging her leg to sit astride his lap, one knee on either side of his hips. As she shifts to get comfortable, his hands migrate to her ass and stay there, another familiar move of his.
"Abigail Whistler..." She loves it when he says her name like that, all rolling syllables with a grin underpinning every sound. "Are you trying to seduce me?"
She snorts, taking another swig from her glass. "Do I still need to?"
"Well, maybe I just want to feel special tonight." His pout would be ridiculous if he didn't do it so well and if his eyes weren't dancing over the top of it. She lets out that sound, the one that he has her making more often than not. It's half a snort and half a chuckle, and no one else has ever heard it from the stoic, reserved Whistler. No one but him.
"You're definitely 'special'."
He pouts harder and she grins, leaning in to capture his face with her free hand - gently, just in case - and pressing her mouth against his once more. His hands squeeze her ass as she slips her tongue past his lips and his tongue is there, ready to meet her. She ends up pressing her glass lightly against his skin, just to hold him steady as she explores the contours of his mouth, and he doesn't object, pulling her closer and wrapping his arms around her waist.
She slides her tongue across his lips and he hisses again when she finds the cut, pulling his head back until it's her breath brushing against his mouth, not her lips. She stares down at him, into his eyes that are blown wide as her thumb strokes lightly over his cheek.
The cut in his lip is bleeding again a little, split open by the pressure of her mouth against his. She lets go of him long enough to fish one of the ice cubes out of her drink and press it against the cut. Judging by his sudden wince, using one soaked in bourbon wasn't the smartest idea she's ever had and she leans in again to press her lips against the other side of his mouth in mute apology. He relaxes, his fingers stroking lightly along her spine as she presses small, scattered kisses around the uninjured corner of his mouth.
His fingers move to the nape of her neck, holding her gently as he moves his mouth over hers. The ice cube slips free of her fingers, tumbling down between them, and he jerks away from her with a heartfelt 'fuck' that drags a giggle out of her.
It takes King a few moments to capture it again, his fingers wriggling between them as she squirms away from him, more because she's ticklish than because the ice cube is melting against her skin. It feels good to laugh, almost as if she's forgotten how to over the last twelve to twenty-four hours. It's a sobering thought, but before she can go anywhere with it or let it overwhelm her, King is right there, pressing the ice cube against her exposed stomach.
"You bastard!"
He grins unrepentantly she jerks away. "Yeah, you love me." He drops the ice cube back into her glass and steals her drink for good measure, swallowing the rest of it down before he half-tosses the empty glass back onto the table. "But if you really want to love me..." He raises his eyebrow at her suggestively, "you might have to do all the work, Whistler."
She snorts. "Don't I always?"
"Ooh, harsh." The tone is jokey, but the look in his eyes isn't. "Is that a yes? Because if it is, you might want to close the door. Don't want Caulder to get more of an eyeful than he already has tonight."
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not."
She shakes her head at him, but levers herself off him anyway and moves to push the door at least partway closed, leaving enough of a gap so they can still hear Zoë, just in case.
When she turned back towards him, King is watching her, hands slack in his lap. He looks exhausted and her brows furrow in concern. "Are you sure you're up for this?"
"Am I conscious?"
"Yes."
"Well then..." The look he gives her says everything he doesn't need to and she rolls her eyes.
"And if you weren't conscious?"
"Wake me up, of course."
She shakes her head at him again, not bothering to hide her amusement at his antics as she stalks back to the bed. "So predictable," she says as she settles herself back down in his lap.
"Yeah, you love me," he says as his hands find their place on her ass again. She wriggles a little, just because she can, and his breath catches in his throat. "You wanted to know if I was up for this..." He pulls her a little closer until she's settled over his dick and gives her a smile that's downright dirty. "What do you think?"
She rocks her hips, testing, and his breath hitches again. He's starting to harden underneath her and his fingers flex convulsively against her ass when she does it again.
"I take it you still expect me to do all the work?"
His smirk is the only answer she needs and she rolls her eyes at him again as he moves his hands upwards, letting his thumbs stroke lightly over the skin at her waist. He moves his hands higher, skirting underneath the fabric of her top and pushing it upwards. She rolls her eyes at him again and reaches down to pull it off over her head. He doesn't waste any time once it's gone; her top has barely hit the floor before his fingers are easing their way underneath her sports bra, stroking lightly over the areas she knows from experience will be creased and red where the fabric has pressed in. Areas he knows from experience will be like that, too.
She pulls her bra off over her head as well, leaning in to kiss him again as his hands settle on her bare breasts. He thumbs at her nipples as his tongue slides into her mouth, tracing along the line of her teeth before it meets hers. She leans into his touch, pressing her hands over the top of his to push herself more deeply into his palms, needing that pressure, that surety of his grip. He makes a sound halfway between a growl and a groan, and his fingers flex again, his fingertips digging into the fleshy sides of her breasts, stopping just short of causing her pain.
His mouth breaks away from hers, his lips tracing a path down over her chin to her neck where he nips and laves at her throat. His beard scratches against her skin and she shivers, lost in the sensation of his touch. He's so damned good at this, driving her crazy both in the bedroom and out of it. His fingers are still playing with her breasts, but less roughly now, teasing her as he circles her nipples with his fingertips. Every now and then he lets his thumb stroke over one tight peak, and she lets out a gasp, shivering again as his mouth moves lower. He slides his hands up her back, holding her shoulders and supporting her as his mouth finally captures one of her nipples, sucking on it hard enough to have her letting out a curse of her own, one that she repeats in her head as he pulls away.
"Abigail Whistler!" He peers up at her, eyes still dancing and a grin spreading across his face. "My, the mouth on you..."
Damn him. She sinks her fingers back into his hair, tugging his face up towards her as she leans in until their lips are only inches apart and ignoring the gasp of pain he lets out. "If you want to see what my mouth can really do..." she growls, hot and low, and his pupils dilate, wide and black in his brown eyes.
She thought that would silence him, and it manages to do so for long enough for her to slide her fingers down over his chest and grab hold of the edge of his vest, tugging it upwards. He raises his arms and lets her pull it off over his head, giving her a cocky, self-satisfied grin.
Now that she can see him properly in the harsh fluorescent light, there are red marks scattered along his ribs, some of them already starting to purple. The sight of them makes the reason for his exhaustion - and his need for a drink - much clearer, but she doesn't say anything about it. He won't accept her sympathy when she offers it, just like she can't and won't accept his. She doesn't wish for anything different than what they've already got, but she keeps her touch gentle as she traces the line of his ribs, the dips and swells of his abdominal muscles. Her hand slides lower, tracing the outline of the ridiculous belt buckle he's wearing, one of far too many ridiculous belt buckles he owns. When he doesn't say or do anything to dissuade her, she moves her hand lower still, pressing her palm lightly against the swell in his pants while he watches her silently.
Not that Hannibal is ever silent for long. He's already opening his mouth, one smart quip or another at the ready, when she leans in again and says simply, "Shut up, King," kissing him for good measure to seal the deal.
He gives her a searching look when she pulls back, but he keeps his yap shut, at least for now, saying nothing as she rises to her feet, her hands moving briskly to the fastenings of her pants. Instead he settles down, watching her and being really obvious about it. The half-hearted glare she aims in his direction earns her nothing more than another flash of that grin of his, the look in his eyes completely unrepentant, and she shakes her head, pulling both pants and panties off at once and kicking them away.
There's a little disappointment warring with a healthy amount of appreciation on his face when she glances back over at him, and yes, normally she'd make a little bit more of a show than that for him. She's not a natural exhibitionist, by any stretch of the imagination - in fact she thinks it's a little stupid - but she's willing to indulge him every now and then. But not tonight. Tonight she just wants him in her, needs him maybe. Needs that connection and the knowledge that he's alive pressed as deeply into her skin as she can get it.
She packed their bags - hers and his and Zoë's - before she and Blade left the Honeycomb Hideout with Caulder, unwilling to admit that she might not get the pair of them back. Caulder has dumped all three bags in this room; she heads for King's and the wash bag she knows she placed neatly at the top. It's hard to think of it now, how she felt methodically packing away the things he'd need if he was still alive: razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant. Condoms. That had been the hardest one and her fingers had shaken as she tucked the small packet away.
She pulls a single foil wrapper out of the packet now, and palms it, ready. When she straightens up and turns around, King is blatantly staring at her bare ass. "Enjoying the view?" she asks tartly, and he grins, the laughter lines around his mouth written wide and clear on his face.
"It's a hell of a view, sweetheart."
She shouldn't smile - it only encourages him - but she has a hard time keeping it off her face. Not that it matters, not when she stalks back towards the bed, completely naked, and watches the smile fade slowly away, replaced by hunger.
She kneels down on the bed and then crawls over to him, on her hands and knees. He watches her come, his breathing shallowing out; he's too easy to tease sometimes, but she wouldn't have it any other way. She's reaching for his belt buckle when he catches hold of her face with both hands, his eyes meeting and holding hers seriously for a moment before he leans in to kiss her. It's slow and sweet, and it catches her off balance; he manages to surprise her every single day.
She won't let him ruin the moment with a smartass remark; when he finally pulls back, his fingers lingering on her skin for a moment, she takes a deep breath and then is all business, unfastening his pants with nimble fingers. As distraction techniques go, it works; he lifts his hips off the bed to help her pull his pants down, and she takes his shorts with them, easing the fabric up to slide it over his erection.
He's only half-hard; by now he'd normally be standing fully at attention, a Pavlovian response to seeing her naked. That, more than anything, tells her how much he hurts, physically hurts. But he lets out a soft sigh when she wraps her fingers around his length, and bites at his lip and closes his eyes when she tightens her grip. She slides his length through her fist, stroking her thumb over the end. "I thought you were going to show me what your mouth could do," he says, opening his eyes. The look in them is challenging and she grins in response.
She's not one to back down from a challenge from King, no matter how stupid it seems at the time, and this one is far from being anywhere near the stupidest suggestion he's ever had. She leans in closer, opening her mouth and taking in the tip of his dick, swirling her tongue around the end of it.
He bucks up into her, his hand settling in her hair, but he doesn't pull it or push her head down, not after the first time he tried that. She has teeth and he knows it. Even so, she takes pity on him, sucking him in as deeply into her mouth as she can take and still use her tongue.
"Jesus, fuck!" His fingers tighten in her hair, just enough to send a thrum of heat through her. He still doesn't push it, and she rewards him by sliding his dick slowly out of her mouth and then swallowing him down, just to feel the way he jerks at the sensation. "You've got a dirty, dirty mouth, Whistler. God, I love it."
Now that's her King, babbling inanely as she drives him out of his mind, and she wraps her fingers around the base of his cock, slowly jerking him off as she slides him in and out of her mouth. He's growing hard now, really hard, and she sucks at him as she slowly pulls him out of her mouth, creating a mini-vacuum that she knows from experience hits all of his hot spots.
His reaction doesn't disappoint her as he lets go of her hair to grab at the headboard behind him. "Oh, fuck me."
She lets him slide out of her mouth completely. "I plan to," she says, and he lets out the ragged little laugh that never fails to go straight through her, leaving her wet and wanting. She straightens up and settles over him on her knees again; when she kisses him this time, it's not soft and gentle but hard and wet. His hands roam over her body, his fingers sliding between her legs to stroke gently over her clit and then further back, testing how wet and ready she is for him.
She's ready. She reaches for the condom packet, King's hands still exploring the contours of her body, and tears it open with her teeth. He doesn't interfere as she rolls it down over his length; she knows how much he loves it when she does that, getting off both from watching her fingers as they move slowly down his dick and from focusing on how her touch feels, and she indulges him, enjoying the expressions that are flitting across his open face. When she has him fully sheathed in the condom, she pushes herself up, steadying herself with one hand on his good shoulder as she lowers herself back down again, guiding him into her with her other hand.
She's planning on hard and fast, the way they usually are when the post-adrenaline restlessness kicks in and they work it off in the best way she knows how, but he has other ideas, grabbing hold of her hips and slowing her pace. She ends up rocking rather than slamming down, a slow glide back and forth that somehow still ends up with him in her as deeply as she can get him. His lips find her throat, brushing gently over her skin, and his hands slide slowly along her waist, up her back, leaving her shivering and aching for something she doesn't want to put into words. Not out loud.
She closes her eyes and goes with it, loving the feel of him in her, listening to the words that he breathes against her skin, words that are - in spite of the gentleness of his touch - still distinctly Hannibal King. The fuck, yeah and a softly breathed Jesus; his you're so fucking hot, Abby and God, I love the way you feel around my dick. She listens to the words he says and the words he doesn't, the ones that are hidden away inside I love this and I love that and Jesus, what you do to me. She hears him, that's what matters.
She comes before he does; it creeps up on her slowly, like the tide maybe, slow rolling pleasure that sweeps her away before she's even aware it's coming. He holds her through it, pressing kisses along her sweaty hairline while she clings to him, panting and shivering as the aftershocks rumble through her with each move of his hips.
"You want my mouth?" she asks when she's able, pushing herself upright to look him in the eye. He hums slightly in thought, and she feels the vibrations of it where they're still pressed together.
"You okay like this?" His eyes are serious, though, and she slides her fingers back up into his hair.
"Give me a minute?"
"Sure." A beat, then, "So... should I time you?"
She laughs - she can't help it, not when he's giving her that smile, the one that says he's not so much delighted in himself as in her reaction. And himself, of course. Absolutely fucking shameless.
She leans backwards, bracing herself by wrapping her hands tightly around his biceps. This new angle takes the pressure off her clit where she's still a little sensitive; he catches hold of her elbows, and that gives her the leverage she needs to move up and down again, loving the way that the muscles of his upper arms flex and stretch under her fingers. He's a beautiful, beautiful man, but she'll never tell him that. His ego is ridiculous enough as it is sometimes.
King closes his eyes, letting his head drop back against the headboard with a soft thump; it would worry her if she didn't know how thick his skull was. His lips are parted, breath panting out of him, and she squeezes her inner muscles around him, all of that goddamned Pilates Sommerfield made her do (it will keep you flexible, Abby, and Sommerfield had waggled her eyebrows suggestively) finally paying off when he growls, soft and low, under his breath. His eyes stay shut, a little crease between his brows that has nothing to do with pain, and she smiles even though he can't see it.
"That okay?" she asks.
"That's fucking fantastic. God. Have I mentioned you're hot?"
"Once or twice."
"Fucking smokin', sweetheart. Do that thing again."
She tightens her muscles again, and he mutters a ragged, little, "Fuck." He lets go of her elbows and his fingers tighten on her hips instead. "You gonna come again?"
"No."
"Okay if I do? I'll beg if I have to. I'm pretty good at begging; Danica trained me well."
She laughs against his mouth, because sometimes that's all they can do. They're survivors, both of them, and they wouldn't be them without a little gallows humour. "Sure. Need me to do anything?"
"Be you," he says and opens his eyes to look at her. "Just be you, babe." That much she can do, keeping her eyes locked on his as she continues to move on him, taking him the rest of the way.
He shudders and clutches at her when he comes, letting his head drop down onto her shoulder as he surges up into her. She holds him close, her hand sweeping a path up the nape of his neck and into his hair as his breath huffs out, warm and moist, against her skin. She doesn't move away until his grip on her loosens and he pushes at her hips; then she simply rises up until he slips free and settles down onto the bed next to him.
She leaves him to deal with the condom. No reason why she really should have to do all of the work.
He stretches out next to her when he's finished, settling on his least wounded side so he can face her.
"Hey."
"Hey, yourself," she says, and if she weren't still so pleasantly buzzed from the bourbon and from coming, she'd wince about how unsmooth she sounded. Not that King is exactly the connoisseur of smooth, no matter what he thinks. "You okay?"
"Well, let me see." He furrows his brow in mock thought. "I just had this amazingly hot woman ride me like a pony... I think that qualifies as 'okay'."
She grins and shoves lightly at him, ignoring his too melodramatic oomph when her hand lands on his chest. He looks a little better, a little less worn around the edges, and if he can crack jokes about Danica Talos - in the middle of sex with her - then he's on the way back from whatever dark place he'd been headed. She still reaches out, though, and strokes her fingers lightly over the curve of his cheek, avoiding the cuts and the worst of the bruises. She can blame that on post-coital cuddliness if she needs to, although King has no cause to mock her for that when she's woken up more than once afterwards to find that he's draped an arm over her in his sleep and is pressed tightly against her. "You're going to have a lovely black eye," she says.
"Don't worry. I'll make sure everyone knows it was my ex-girlfriend who beat me up, not the current one." Asshole. She pokes him in the shoulder - the injured one - although she's careful not to do it hard enough or close enough to the entry wound to make him bleed again or to cause him too much pain. Caulder would kill her for the former, and she's not Danica Talos. She's not interested in the latter.
"Ow, fuck, Whistler." He scowls at her, but there's no real heat - or hurt - in it. "Okay, if that's the way you want to play it, I won't mention the 'ex' part."
"Not much luck with women, huh?" she asks sympathetically, "Maybe you shouldn't mention the ex when you're in bed with the current. Just a thought."
He gives her a look, one that tells her she's being a smartass. She should hope so. She learnt from the best, after all, and it's not like she misses the smug edges to his expression when she doesn't call him on the 'current' comment. They're almost domestic sometimes, she and King, and wouldn't Dex have a field day with it?
The thought of Dex hurts a little, but speaking of domestic...
"I gotta go check on Zoë." She pushes herself away from King - not missing the way his fingers linger as they slide away over her skin - and gets to her feet, all business now. It's easier to keep things that way sometimes, to make sure that those things they don't talk about stay neatly trapped under the surface instead of bubbling up. "Make sure she's okay."
"You coming back?"
She could - should - get her own room sorted out, but...
They stay under the surface. It doesn't mean they aren't there.
"Sure," she says, meeting his gaze and holding it for a moment that's just long enough. "I'm coming back."
After all, he came back to her.
The End
Author: alyse
Fandom: Blade: Trinity
Pairing: Abigail Whistler/Hannibal King
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: None/set post movie
Genres: Hurt/Comfort, smut, established relationship
Word Count: 7,300
Status: Complete, one shot
Disclaimer: Blade: Trinity, the motion picture, is owned by New Line Cinema. This is a not for profit fanfiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Thanks to
aithine for beta reading duties. Any mistakes remaining are my own. Title and quote from 'Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)' by Florence and the Machine, because she is my writing music of choice at the moment. Written for both my kissbingo square: experimental (ice) and as a late birthday fic from me to those on my flist who have as great an inappropriate love for this movie as I do.Summary: If King wanted sympathy, he'd be louder about it, and the fact that he's not pretty much tells her everything she needs to know.
I must become a lion-hearted girl
-o-
When Caulder finally pulls the truck to a stop, the sun is already high in the sky. Caulder sits with his hands on the steering wheel for long moments, fingers and palms neatly wrapped around it at two and ten, as the engine rumbles beneath and around them; Abigail can feel the pulse of it reverberate, bone deep, before he finally switches it off.
King is - for once - a silent presence by her side. Caulder, from the little she knows of the man, never says much on the best of days, and this day counts as both best and worst; he wears his silence like Abby and King wear the armour of leather and Kevlar that they prefer. But of the three, it is Zoë's silence that worries her most. Zoë sits perfectly still, not shifting or wriggling like a normal child on a car journey; her small face is pale, her eyes old and weary, and that says everything that Zoë can't.
Abigail pulls her closer, wrapping one arm around her until Zoë presses into her side, burrowing into her; Abby closes her eyes, turning her face up into the sun's warmth.
This isn't home, but it will do for now.
--o--
She leaves King to his own devices, ignoring the quiet groan he lets out as he hauls himself out of the back seat. If he wanted sympathy, he'd be louder about it, and the fact that he's not pretty much tells her everything she needs to know. Even King has his pride, as strange as anyone else - anyone who isn't Abby - might find that idea. At least he's upright, moving under his own steam, which is a win as far as Abby's concerned; the small victories are worth as much as the big ones sometimes.
Instead she focuses on Zoë, settling the girl into a bunk that Caulder's wife has put together in one of the back rooms that serve as sleeping quarters for this particular cell. It's far enough away from the main hub to be quiet, but close enough to hear anything that needs to be heard. Zoë is still too quiet, still too withdrawn, and she doesn't cry, not yet. Abby gets it, on some level at least. Abby herself has cried for Zoë's mother, but not for her own father, and Abby's tears for Sommerfield will have to be enough for now, at least until Zoë can cry her own.
It takes a long time for Zoë to fall asleep; she lies curled up on her side, eyes staring out at nothing, but every time Abby moves, tries to leave, Zoë's hand shoots out and catches hold of her wrist.
So Abby stays, stroking Zoë's hair gently until the girl finally closes her eyes, her eyelashes dark against too pale skin and her breathing evening out. Even then, Abby stays, Zoë's hair soft against her fingertips. She stays until Zoë finally rolls over and moves away.
Then - only then - does she go looking for the rest of what is left of her family.
--o--
Caulder has stuck King in another room, one just a little further down the corridor and just a little bit bigger than Zoë's. The bed is bigger than Zoë's, too, and King is sprawled across it, flat on his back, his eyes closed and his feet bare and oddly vulnerable; if it weren't for the cuts and scrapes still spiralling across his skin she'd think he didn't have a care in the world. She leans against the doorway, hip cocked, and takes him in, watching the way his chest rises and falls evenly and the way that his fingers are curled against his stomach. He's washed the worst of the blood away at least, and his top is cleaner than she remembers, no blood leaking through, but he still looks like warmed over shit. There's a bag of ice sitting melting on the small, Spartan bedside table next to him, and a bottle of bourbon next to it.
That's more like it.
She thinks he's asleep, the way he's stretched out with his face slack, but as soon as she steps into the room he opens his eyes, blinking blearily at her. The left one is bloodshot, puffy and sore - it's going to leave him with a hell of a shiner by tomorrow to match the cuts that have finally stopped weeping - and high up on his cheekbone there are three neatly placed, white butterfly bandages, ones that are probably hiding stitches underneath. Caulder's work, of course; Abby's not sure her hands would have been steady enough for it.
His face creases into lines while she watches him, deep furrows written there by pain and grief; she's not sure it's just for Sommerfield, or Hedges, or Dex, but she doesn't ask. In spite of his propensity for running off at the mouth, there are some things that King doesn't talk about, not even with Abby. She gets that, like she gets Zoë's silence, and she's smart enough not to push it. Instead she stares at him, saying nothing, until the lines on his face smooth out again, leaving a whole load of nothing behind.
"Gotta hand it to Caulder," he drawls, his eyes drifting shut again, and the way he relaxes is so self-conscious that she's not fooled for a minute. "Didn't know his joint ran to room service."
She snorts like she usually does whenever King says something he thinks is funny, which is most of the time. "Don't get used to it," she says and he smirks, something like genuine amusement curling at the corners of his mouth. Maybe that's why she takes another two steps into the room, then two more until she's standing by his bedside. Maybe it's not; maybe it's all the other things, things they don't talk about. During, in King's case, but not after and not about.
He opens his eyes again to look at her, shifting slightly on the bed to make room. That, she's sure, isn't a conscious move on his part; he's not usually subtle and there's no accompanying leer the way that there normally would be, pasted on to cover everything that goes on underneath King's surface. She doesn't dwell on it. There are too many other things swirling around in her head to worry about this, whatever the 'this' is that they have between them.
There's an empty glass standing next to the bottle, and the bottom of it is wet. She takes that as an open invitation, pouring herself a slug and losing herself in the mindless task of scooping a couple of cubes out of the bag to drop into it. They're slippery, and the wetness clings to her fingers long after she's let them go; it's something else to focus on.
King eases himself up into a sitting position, shifting up the bed until he can prop himself against the bare headboard. She doesn't miss how long it takes him, or how the movement lacks his normal grace, but he still doesn't say anything about it, no transparent ploy for sympathy, no putting it to his advantage with an eyebrow wiggle and a suggestion that she kiss it better; it makes it easy to follow his lead and stay silent.
"How's the munchkin?" He started calling Zoë that long before Sommerfield started reading the Oz books to her.
Abby shrugs, but it's exhausted, not dismissive. There are so many ways that she could answer that question, and all of them would be wrong. "Surviving," she says, because that's the most important thing. She doesn't know if King gets it but he nods, staring out the door like he expects Zoë to appear any second. Or maybe he hopes that the answers to every fucked up question they've never been able to ask will just slide through it, nice as pie, and make everything all right again.
"We burnt the bodies," she says. It's brutal thing to say, but then so was doing it. None of it - their deaths or her having to deal with the aftermath on her own - was King's fault, and he's smart enough to get that. She hopes.
He nods and, when she looks at him, his eyes are distant. He wipes his hands tiredly over his face and, for a second, he looks old, hangdog. Like the man he'll probably never get to be, with grey in his hair and grandkids on his lap.
She closes the bag of ice, spinning the neck absently between her fingers to keep it closed, and settles down in the gap he's left by his side. Her hip presses into his waist but if it pains him he doesn't show it, and he doesn't move away. He turns his head to watch her instead, his face still blank with tiredness, and she takes a swig from her glass, ice cubes clinking in the amber liquid. He keeps watching as she leans towards him; there are dark shadows beneath his eyes, and the cuts where his face split under fists and feet are vivid red against the paleness of his skin. The cheap bourbon burns going down, settling like fire in her belly, and the bag is cold against her fingertips as she presses it gently against his cheek.
For once he doesn't make a smartass remark, and she doesn't know whether to worry or be grateful for it. "Okay?" she asks him when she can't take the silence any longer. She doesn't look him in the eyes when she asks it; she doesn't need to look to know that he never looks away from her face.
"Just peachy. If only all my nurses were as attractive. Caulder's not a patch on you, sweetheart."
She snorts, but there's no heat in it. All of the heat is in King's skin; he's always warm when she touches him, but now the flesh under her fingertips is battered and bruised, swollen and sore despite the ice she's pressing against it. She's not sure whether that's a good or bad sign; unlike Caulder, she has no medical training, but King is focused on her, paying attention, and that's got to be a positive. Plus, for all that King irritates Caulder, the man is professional enough not to have dumped King's ass here if there was any real risk of fever or concussion.
"How's your head?" she asks. It takes her a second and King's sudden, delighted grin for the penny to drop. "Not a word," she warns before King even has his mouth partway open; he closes it and pouts a little, but she doesn't smile. Not quite and not that it fools him any.
"Well, if you leave me an opening like that..."
It's when she realises that she's already thinking of a way to work 'opening' into her comeback that she knows they've spent far too much time together. It should worry her more than it does, but there's an ease to the way it is between them that's lacking when she deals with the rest of the world, a give and take that's not all about her giving. So she simply snorts again, lifting the bag a little so that she can see the skin underneath. It brings her closer to him, and she can feel his breath, warm and a little sweet, against her skin.
She could lean closer; instead she pulls back, taking another swig from her glass. The ice rattles against her teeth, cold against her lips and stinging in the small cuts left by her teeth when she was too slow to duck. She opens her mouth wider until the half melted ice cube slides past her lips and then holds it there, against the raw part, with her tongue.
King watches her, and his eyes are warm.
The ice burns against the inside of her mouth as she stares down into the glass, rolling the liquid around in it and feeling the matching burn of the bourbon sliding all the way down her throat. It settles warmly in her belly, tingling in her veins; she's not much of a drinker, but she's not buzzed yet. High on adrenaline, maybe, but not alcohol.
She doesn't need to be, not when King keeps looking at her like that.
She doesn't look back at first, not this time, and after a moment King shifts slightly, a sigh escaping him. When she finally glances across at him, his eyes have drifted half-shut but he's still watching her from beneath his eyelashes. His head is tilted towards her and his face is too blank for her liking, all of the warmth melted away. It worries her more than she wants to admit; King doesn't keep much back from anyone within ear distance, and even then, the little he doesn't share with the world he usually doesn't keep back from her. Just the things that are too important, too raw to share, the things he can't deflect with a joke and a cocky smile. But Abby has her own secrets, and she won't force King to do anything he doesn't want to. The last person to do that was a vampire bitch turned to dust and ash, and good fucking riddance as far as Abby is concerned.
She takes another sip to keep her mouth occupied and, when she swallows, King's eyes track the movement of her throat. His fingers twitch, like he wants to reach for her, but the movement is slow; slow enough, tentative enough that she could ignore it if she wanted to, let his fingers fall against the covers as though that was always where he was aiming.
She doesn't want to, not tonight, and hasn't for the longest time.
She leans towards him, slowly enough to let him deflect it with a joke or a smile or a biting remark if he wants to. When he doesn't, staying silent, she cups his face with gentle fingers. The taste of bourbon is on her tongue when she kisses him and she's not sure whether it comes from his mouth or hers. It doesn't matter; he opens his mouth under the gentle pressure of her lips and when her tongue slips inside, all she can taste is him.
His palm settles against her waist, in the gap left between her cropped top and her pants; when his fingers flex, the calluses on his fingertips scratch roughly against her skin. He doesn't pull her to him, but she leans in closer anyway, making sure that she braces herself against the headboard rather than putting any weight on his wounded shoulder. When his hand drifts up her back, slipping under the fabric of her top to slide his fingertips beneath her bra strap, her lips curl up against his mouth; she knows all of his moves, both in the field and out of it.
She pulls back. King's eyes are closed but his face is no longer blank. His expression is still tired, blurred by pain and softened the scruff on his cheeks that he hasn't had time to tidy up into his normal, neat beard yet, but there is colour in his cheeks and a small, pleased smile playing around the corners of his mouth. She has to fight not to kiss that smile away again, settling on running her fingers through his hair until it's even more tousled than usual. She'd never admit it to him, but she loves the way his hair prickles against her skin; her fingers are half buried in the tangled strands now, her fingertips flexing against his scalp and her nails scratching lightly against his skin. She hadn't even realised she was doing it, so lost was she in the feeling of his mouth, in the heat of his kisses.
Now that she's no longer kissing him, King's eyes drift slowly open again, and the small, pleased smile becomes a more familiar smirk. "Hey," he says, and his voice is gravelly, a little hoarse. There are bruises around his throat, left by one vamp or another. She lets her fingers trail along the line of them, brushing gently over his skin, and he tilts his head slightly, giving her access to explore. The trust in the move, in spite of all of his history and all of hers, takes her breath away.
"Hey," she says, a meaningless little sound that still means everything from I'm here to you're here and we both made it, covering everything in between. She leans in and kisses him again, pressing her lips against his cheek this time and taking care to avoid the cuts sliced across his skin. She's pretty sure that he's going to have scars to remind them both of tonight despite Caulder's best efforts, and she strokes her thumb lightly over the skin underneath his left eye where the skin is already puckered and white. Abby can sympathise - she has her own scars, ones that cut both inside and out. She knows the score, and it's not like he'll be any less pretty once they've healed, not as far as she is concerned.
She moves her mouth lower, tracing the hollow of his cheek, and he turns his head, moving into her touch. His beard prickles against her lips for a moment before his mouth lands on hers again, soft and warm, moving slowly. He hisses a little when she presses her tongue against the cut someone's fist left on his lip, but he doesn't pull away and the pained sound doesn't stop her. Instead she deepens the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him steady.
He still doesn't try to pull away - he's far too smart for that. Again, it's down to her to break the kiss and when she finally pulls away, sucking in a shaky breath, it takes him longer to open his eyes this time. When he does, the look in them has moved from warm to heated.
She smirks down at him, not missing the way his eyebrows shoot up or the amused look that blossoms across his face; it doesn't do anything to tamp down the need in his eyes. She's still smirking as she pushes herself up to reach the bottle, slopping some of it over the side of the glass as she pours. It runs down to her fingers and she moves the glass to her other hand, raising her fingers to her mouth to lick away the traces of bourbon that cling there. His hand twitches and his eyes track her. She doesn't smirk at him this time; instead the expression on her face feels more like a smile.
She settles back down onto the bed, swinging her leg to sit astride his lap, one knee on either side of his hips. As she shifts to get comfortable, his hands migrate to her ass and stay there, another familiar move of his.
"Abigail Whistler..." She loves it when he says her name like that, all rolling syllables with a grin underpinning every sound. "Are you trying to seduce me?"
She snorts, taking another swig from her glass. "Do I still need to?"
"Well, maybe I just want to feel special tonight." His pout would be ridiculous if he didn't do it so well and if his eyes weren't dancing over the top of it. She lets out that sound, the one that he has her making more often than not. It's half a snort and half a chuckle, and no one else has ever heard it from the stoic, reserved Whistler. No one but him.
"You're definitely 'special'."
He pouts harder and she grins, leaning in to capture his face with her free hand - gently, just in case - and pressing her mouth against his once more. His hands squeeze her ass as she slips her tongue past his lips and his tongue is there, ready to meet her. She ends up pressing her glass lightly against his skin, just to hold him steady as she explores the contours of his mouth, and he doesn't object, pulling her closer and wrapping his arms around her waist.
She slides her tongue across his lips and he hisses again when she finds the cut, pulling his head back until it's her breath brushing against his mouth, not her lips. She stares down at him, into his eyes that are blown wide as her thumb strokes lightly over his cheek.
The cut in his lip is bleeding again a little, split open by the pressure of her mouth against his. She lets go of him long enough to fish one of the ice cubes out of her drink and press it against the cut. Judging by his sudden wince, using one soaked in bourbon wasn't the smartest idea she's ever had and she leans in again to press her lips against the other side of his mouth in mute apology. He relaxes, his fingers stroking lightly along her spine as she presses small, scattered kisses around the uninjured corner of his mouth.
His fingers move to the nape of her neck, holding her gently as he moves his mouth over hers. The ice cube slips free of her fingers, tumbling down between them, and he jerks away from her with a heartfelt 'fuck' that drags a giggle out of her.
It takes King a few moments to capture it again, his fingers wriggling between them as she squirms away from him, more because she's ticklish than because the ice cube is melting against her skin. It feels good to laugh, almost as if she's forgotten how to over the last twelve to twenty-four hours. It's a sobering thought, but before she can go anywhere with it or let it overwhelm her, King is right there, pressing the ice cube against her exposed stomach.
"You bastard!"
He grins unrepentantly she jerks away. "Yeah, you love me." He drops the ice cube back into her glass and steals her drink for good measure, swallowing the rest of it down before he half-tosses the empty glass back onto the table. "But if you really want to love me..." He raises his eyebrow at her suggestively, "you might have to do all the work, Whistler."
She snorts. "Don't I always?"
"Ooh, harsh." The tone is jokey, but the look in his eyes isn't. "Is that a yes? Because if it is, you might want to close the door. Don't want Caulder to get more of an eyeful than he already has tonight."
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not."
She shakes her head at him, but levers herself off him anyway and moves to push the door at least partway closed, leaving enough of a gap so they can still hear Zoë, just in case.
When she turned back towards him, King is watching her, hands slack in his lap. He looks exhausted and her brows furrow in concern. "Are you sure you're up for this?"
"Am I conscious?"
"Yes."
"Well then..." The look he gives her says everything he doesn't need to and she rolls her eyes.
"And if you weren't conscious?"
"Wake me up, of course."
She shakes her head at him again, not bothering to hide her amusement at his antics as she stalks back to the bed. "So predictable," she says as she settles herself back down in his lap.
"Yeah, you love me," he says as his hands find their place on her ass again. She wriggles a little, just because she can, and his breath catches in his throat. "You wanted to know if I was up for this..." He pulls her a little closer until she's settled over his dick and gives her a smile that's downright dirty. "What do you think?"
She rocks her hips, testing, and his breath hitches again. He's starting to harden underneath her and his fingers flex convulsively against her ass when she does it again.
"I take it you still expect me to do all the work?"
His smirk is the only answer she needs and she rolls her eyes at him again as he moves his hands upwards, letting his thumbs stroke lightly over the skin at her waist. He moves his hands higher, skirting underneath the fabric of her top and pushing it upwards. She rolls her eyes at him again and reaches down to pull it off over her head. He doesn't waste any time once it's gone; her top has barely hit the floor before his fingers are easing their way underneath her sports bra, stroking lightly over the areas she knows from experience will be creased and red where the fabric has pressed in. Areas he knows from experience will be like that, too.
She pulls her bra off over her head as well, leaning in to kiss him again as his hands settle on her bare breasts. He thumbs at her nipples as his tongue slides into her mouth, tracing along the line of her teeth before it meets hers. She leans into his touch, pressing her hands over the top of his to push herself more deeply into his palms, needing that pressure, that surety of his grip. He makes a sound halfway between a growl and a groan, and his fingers flex again, his fingertips digging into the fleshy sides of her breasts, stopping just short of causing her pain.
His mouth breaks away from hers, his lips tracing a path down over her chin to her neck where he nips and laves at her throat. His beard scratches against her skin and she shivers, lost in the sensation of his touch. He's so damned good at this, driving her crazy both in the bedroom and out of it. His fingers are still playing with her breasts, but less roughly now, teasing her as he circles her nipples with his fingertips. Every now and then he lets his thumb stroke over one tight peak, and she lets out a gasp, shivering again as his mouth moves lower. He slides his hands up her back, holding her shoulders and supporting her as his mouth finally captures one of her nipples, sucking on it hard enough to have her letting out a curse of her own, one that she repeats in her head as he pulls away.
"Abigail Whistler!" He peers up at her, eyes still dancing and a grin spreading across his face. "My, the mouth on you..."
Damn him. She sinks her fingers back into his hair, tugging his face up towards her as she leans in until their lips are only inches apart and ignoring the gasp of pain he lets out. "If you want to see what my mouth can really do..." she growls, hot and low, and his pupils dilate, wide and black in his brown eyes.
She thought that would silence him, and it manages to do so for long enough for her to slide her fingers down over his chest and grab hold of the edge of his vest, tugging it upwards. He raises his arms and lets her pull it off over his head, giving her a cocky, self-satisfied grin.
Now that she can see him properly in the harsh fluorescent light, there are red marks scattered along his ribs, some of them already starting to purple. The sight of them makes the reason for his exhaustion - and his need for a drink - much clearer, but she doesn't say anything about it. He won't accept her sympathy when she offers it, just like she can't and won't accept his. She doesn't wish for anything different than what they've already got, but she keeps her touch gentle as she traces the line of his ribs, the dips and swells of his abdominal muscles. Her hand slides lower, tracing the outline of the ridiculous belt buckle he's wearing, one of far too many ridiculous belt buckles he owns. When he doesn't say or do anything to dissuade her, she moves her hand lower still, pressing her palm lightly against the swell in his pants while he watches her silently.
Not that Hannibal is ever silent for long. He's already opening his mouth, one smart quip or another at the ready, when she leans in again and says simply, "Shut up, King," kissing him for good measure to seal the deal.
He gives her a searching look when she pulls back, but he keeps his yap shut, at least for now, saying nothing as she rises to her feet, her hands moving briskly to the fastenings of her pants. Instead he settles down, watching her and being really obvious about it. The half-hearted glare she aims in his direction earns her nothing more than another flash of that grin of his, the look in his eyes completely unrepentant, and she shakes her head, pulling both pants and panties off at once and kicking them away.
There's a little disappointment warring with a healthy amount of appreciation on his face when she glances back over at him, and yes, normally she'd make a little bit more of a show than that for him. She's not a natural exhibitionist, by any stretch of the imagination - in fact she thinks it's a little stupid - but she's willing to indulge him every now and then. But not tonight. Tonight she just wants him in her, needs him maybe. Needs that connection and the knowledge that he's alive pressed as deeply into her skin as she can get it.
She packed their bags - hers and his and Zoë's - before she and Blade left the Honeycomb Hideout with Caulder, unwilling to admit that she might not get the pair of them back. Caulder has dumped all three bags in this room; she heads for King's and the wash bag she knows she placed neatly at the top. It's hard to think of it now, how she felt methodically packing away the things he'd need if he was still alive: razor, toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant. Condoms. That had been the hardest one and her fingers had shaken as she tucked the small packet away.
She pulls a single foil wrapper out of the packet now, and palms it, ready. When she straightens up and turns around, King is blatantly staring at her bare ass. "Enjoying the view?" she asks tartly, and he grins, the laughter lines around his mouth written wide and clear on his face.
"It's a hell of a view, sweetheart."
She shouldn't smile - it only encourages him - but she has a hard time keeping it off her face. Not that it matters, not when she stalks back towards the bed, completely naked, and watches the smile fade slowly away, replaced by hunger.
She kneels down on the bed and then crawls over to him, on her hands and knees. He watches her come, his breathing shallowing out; he's too easy to tease sometimes, but she wouldn't have it any other way. She's reaching for his belt buckle when he catches hold of her face with both hands, his eyes meeting and holding hers seriously for a moment before he leans in to kiss her. It's slow and sweet, and it catches her off balance; he manages to surprise her every single day.
She won't let him ruin the moment with a smartass remark; when he finally pulls back, his fingers lingering on her skin for a moment, she takes a deep breath and then is all business, unfastening his pants with nimble fingers. As distraction techniques go, it works; he lifts his hips off the bed to help her pull his pants down, and she takes his shorts with them, easing the fabric up to slide it over his erection.
He's only half-hard; by now he'd normally be standing fully at attention, a Pavlovian response to seeing her naked. That, more than anything, tells her how much he hurts, physically hurts. But he lets out a soft sigh when she wraps her fingers around his length, and bites at his lip and closes his eyes when she tightens her grip. She slides his length through her fist, stroking her thumb over the end. "I thought you were going to show me what your mouth could do," he says, opening his eyes. The look in them is challenging and she grins in response.
She's not one to back down from a challenge from King, no matter how stupid it seems at the time, and this one is far from being anywhere near the stupidest suggestion he's ever had. She leans in closer, opening her mouth and taking in the tip of his dick, swirling her tongue around the end of it.
He bucks up into her, his hand settling in her hair, but he doesn't pull it or push her head down, not after the first time he tried that. She has teeth and he knows it. Even so, she takes pity on him, sucking him in as deeply into her mouth as she can take and still use her tongue.
"Jesus, fuck!" His fingers tighten in her hair, just enough to send a thrum of heat through her. He still doesn't push it, and she rewards him by sliding his dick slowly out of her mouth and then swallowing him down, just to feel the way he jerks at the sensation. "You've got a dirty, dirty mouth, Whistler. God, I love it."
Now that's her King, babbling inanely as she drives him out of his mind, and she wraps her fingers around the base of his cock, slowly jerking him off as she slides him in and out of her mouth. He's growing hard now, really hard, and she sucks at him as she slowly pulls him out of her mouth, creating a mini-vacuum that she knows from experience hits all of his hot spots.
His reaction doesn't disappoint her as he lets go of her hair to grab at the headboard behind him. "Oh, fuck me."
She lets him slide out of her mouth completely. "I plan to," she says, and he lets out the ragged little laugh that never fails to go straight through her, leaving her wet and wanting. She straightens up and settles over him on her knees again; when she kisses him this time, it's not soft and gentle but hard and wet. His hands roam over her body, his fingers sliding between her legs to stroke gently over her clit and then further back, testing how wet and ready she is for him.
She's ready. She reaches for the condom packet, King's hands still exploring the contours of her body, and tears it open with her teeth. He doesn't interfere as she rolls it down over his length; she knows how much he loves it when she does that, getting off both from watching her fingers as they move slowly down his dick and from focusing on how her touch feels, and she indulges him, enjoying the expressions that are flitting across his open face. When she has him fully sheathed in the condom, she pushes herself up, steadying herself with one hand on his good shoulder as she lowers herself back down again, guiding him into her with her other hand.
She's planning on hard and fast, the way they usually are when the post-adrenaline restlessness kicks in and they work it off in the best way she knows how, but he has other ideas, grabbing hold of her hips and slowing her pace. She ends up rocking rather than slamming down, a slow glide back and forth that somehow still ends up with him in her as deeply as she can get him. His lips find her throat, brushing gently over her skin, and his hands slide slowly along her waist, up her back, leaving her shivering and aching for something she doesn't want to put into words. Not out loud.
She closes her eyes and goes with it, loving the feel of him in her, listening to the words that he breathes against her skin, words that are - in spite of the gentleness of his touch - still distinctly Hannibal King. The fuck, yeah and a softly breathed Jesus; his you're so fucking hot, Abby and God, I love the way you feel around my dick. She listens to the words he says and the words he doesn't, the ones that are hidden away inside I love this and I love that and Jesus, what you do to me. She hears him, that's what matters.
She comes before he does; it creeps up on her slowly, like the tide maybe, slow rolling pleasure that sweeps her away before she's even aware it's coming. He holds her through it, pressing kisses along her sweaty hairline while she clings to him, panting and shivering as the aftershocks rumble through her with each move of his hips.
"You want my mouth?" she asks when she's able, pushing herself upright to look him in the eye. He hums slightly in thought, and she feels the vibrations of it where they're still pressed together.
"You okay like this?" His eyes are serious, though, and she slides her fingers back up into his hair.
"Give me a minute?"
"Sure." A beat, then, "So... should I time you?"
She laughs - she can't help it, not when he's giving her that smile, the one that says he's not so much delighted in himself as in her reaction. And himself, of course. Absolutely fucking shameless.
She leans backwards, bracing herself by wrapping her hands tightly around his biceps. This new angle takes the pressure off her clit where she's still a little sensitive; he catches hold of her elbows, and that gives her the leverage she needs to move up and down again, loving the way that the muscles of his upper arms flex and stretch under her fingers. He's a beautiful, beautiful man, but she'll never tell him that. His ego is ridiculous enough as it is sometimes.
King closes his eyes, letting his head drop back against the headboard with a soft thump; it would worry her if she didn't know how thick his skull was. His lips are parted, breath panting out of him, and she squeezes her inner muscles around him, all of that goddamned Pilates Sommerfield made her do (it will keep you flexible, Abby, and Sommerfield had waggled her eyebrows suggestively) finally paying off when he growls, soft and low, under his breath. His eyes stay shut, a little crease between his brows that has nothing to do with pain, and she smiles even though he can't see it.
"That okay?" she asks.
"That's fucking fantastic. God. Have I mentioned you're hot?"
"Once or twice."
"Fucking smokin', sweetheart. Do that thing again."
She tightens her muscles again, and he mutters a ragged, little, "Fuck." He lets go of her elbows and his fingers tighten on her hips instead. "You gonna come again?"
"No."
"Okay if I do? I'll beg if I have to. I'm pretty good at begging; Danica trained me well."
She laughs against his mouth, because sometimes that's all they can do. They're survivors, both of them, and they wouldn't be them without a little gallows humour. "Sure. Need me to do anything?"
"Be you," he says and opens his eyes to look at her. "Just be you, babe." That much she can do, keeping her eyes locked on his as she continues to move on him, taking him the rest of the way.
He shudders and clutches at her when he comes, letting his head drop down onto her shoulder as he surges up into her. She holds him close, her hand sweeping a path up the nape of his neck and into his hair as his breath huffs out, warm and moist, against her skin. She doesn't move away until his grip on her loosens and he pushes at her hips; then she simply rises up until he slips free and settles down onto the bed next to him.
She leaves him to deal with the condom. No reason why she really should have to do all of the work.
He stretches out next to her when he's finished, settling on his least wounded side so he can face her.
"Hey."
"Hey, yourself," she says, and if she weren't still so pleasantly buzzed from the bourbon and from coming, she'd wince about how unsmooth she sounded. Not that King is exactly the connoisseur of smooth, no matter what he thinks. "You okay?"
"Well, let me see." He furrows his brow in mock thought. "I just had this amazingly hot woman ride me like a pony... I think that qualifies as 'okay'."
She grins and shoves lightly at him, ignoring his too melodramatic oomph when her hand lands on his chest. He looks a little better, a little less worn around the edges, and if he can crack jokes about Danica Talos - in the middle of sex with her - then he's on the way back from whatever dark place he'd been headed. She still reaches out, though, and strokes her fingers lightly over the curve of his cheek, avoiding the cuts and the worst of the bruises. She can blame that on post-coital cuddliness if she needs to, although King has no cause to mock her for that when she's woken up more than once afterwards to find that he's draped an arm over her in his sleep and is pressed tightly against her. "You're going to have a lovely black eye," she says.
"Don't worry. I'll make sure everyone knows it was my ex-girlfriend who beat me up, not the current one." Asshole. She pokes him in the shoulder - the injured one - although she's careful not to do it hard enough or close enough to the entry wound to make him bleed again or to cause him too much pain. Caulder would kill her for the former, and she's not Danica Talos. She's not interested in the latter.
"Ow, fuck, Whistler." He scowls at her, but there's no real heat - or hurt - in it. "Okay, if that's the way you want to play it, I won't mention the 'ex' part."
"Not much luck with women, huh?" she asks sympathetically, "Maybe you shouldn't mention the ex when you're in bed with the current. Just a thought."
He gives her a look, one that tells her she's being a smartass. She should hope so. She learnt from the best, after all, and it's not like she misses the smug edges to his expression when she doesn't call him on the 'current' comment. They're almost domestic sometimes, she and King, and wouldn't Dex have a field day with it?
The thought of Dex hurts a little, but speaking of domestic...
"I gotta go check on Zoë." She pushes herself away from King - not missing the way his fingers linger as they slide away over her skin - and gets to her feet, all business now. It's easier to keep things that way sometimes, to make sure that those things they don't talk about stay neatly trapped under the surface instead of bubbling up. "Make sure she's okay."
"You coming back?"
She could - should - get her own room sorted out, but...
They stay under the surface. It doesn't mean they aren't there.
"Sure," she says, meeting his gaze and holding it for a moment that's just long enough. "I'm coming back."
After all, he came back to her.
The End