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Soft-lit stripes painted his face as the wooden blinds rolled open. The city flickered and twinkled, the man-made night sky peppering the ground many stories below. The sunset had been captured by the dark hours ago. A few piercing honks and a distant echo of sirens drifted through the air.
Sharp brows furrowed together, a mess of wrinkles forming in between. Honey-colored eyes narrowed, as the night life simply became white noise. The office chair creaked in protest as he leaned back in pensive concentration.
His pinstriped jacket had been casually tossed on the coat rack by the door, while his tie became undone and his starchy sleeves rolled up to the middle of his forearms. His pocket watch mechanically ticked atop an abstract quilt of scattered papers. The green hooded lamp hummed softly, its light gazing directly at his work. A hot mug of tea steamed on the corner.
His mind was still going one hundred miles an hour, thoughts and theories buzzing around in his skull like a swarm of angry bees. Like hell he would put his mind at ease, like hell he'd take a mental break. Even after the day's extraordinary accomplishment, he couldn't help but wonder...
Perhaps...or maybe...but at that time...no...yes...but the alibi said--!
A soft clicking and the squeaking of the rusty hinges snapped him out of his thoughts. He lazily swerved around to face the door across the way.
"You're up late, Mr. Kirschtein," the familiar voice cooed gently.
The freckled man's fedora and jacket accompanied the pinstripe jacket on the coat rack. A camera was hauled over his head to be strung on the wall. Striding over to the desk, he allowed his notebook and pencil to flop carelessly on the phone table.
"It seems my mind won't turn off, Mr. Bodt, while my thoughts continue to brood," was the exasperated reply, "and still no satisfactory conclusion..."
The slightly taller of the two slapped a thick newspaper onto the quilt of papers, a few of those loose leaf papers fluttering off the desk. Jean straightened up slightly to peer at the headline.
Bold block letters stretched across the front read: "DETECTIVE KIRSCHTEIN GRABS THE SLIT-THROAT SLAUGHTERER!"
"Is this not satisfactory?" Mr. Bodt questions, a small smile stretching his lips. His freckles stretched on his cheeks.
A photo of said detective observing the arrest of a stoic-looking woman confined in handcuffs was blown up underneath the bold text. She was lead by two police officers, her bouncy, bobbed blonde hair hiding half of her face. She wasn't frowning, sobbing, nor smiling. Other figures were blurred in the background, and in the corner you could see another man scribbling down on a notepad.
"The glass is half full," the detective muses, barely glancing at the newspaper.
"Oh?" the reporter hums, casually wandering around the desk to stand in front of the other, "And why is that?"
Jean looked up, folding his hands in his lap. He took a moment before replying.
"Thomas Wagner, killed October 6th, 1947. Petra Ral, killed November 6th, 1947. Gunther Schultz, killed December 6th, 1947. Mina Carolina, killed January 6th, 1948. The monthly pattern continues for three years. Month to month. Day to day. It takes me three years to figure out who has been going around the city, slitting innocent people's throats," he stops, briefly remembering the tedious, fruitless investigations of those three years, "And now that I've finally found our killer, the innocent-looking secretary of Fubar's Law Firm, Annie Leonhardt, there's only one dire question left to be answered. Why? She has no motive!
Her background check is as clean as the Chrysler Building, she has good income, and her co-worker's didn't have anything bad to say about her except she would occasionally give some chap the stink-eye! So what in God's name motivated her to fucking slit the throats of 30 different people! What on earth could be so damn important or so fucking rewarding to her to just slaughter them!"
Jean was practically screaming by now, gripping the armrests of his chair, his knuckles becoming white. Anger flashed in his eyes, his jaw locked and his breathing became ragged.
Marco gazed at him for a moment, giving him time to calm down. His warm brown eyes briefed to the newspaper before they returned their attention to the man sitting down. He could only sigh before leaning his hip against the side of the solid oak desk.
"Darling...we may never know why she stole thirty innocent lives...we aren't God. We can't always know," the reporter reasoned slowly, "But the fact is...you caught her. She's off the streets. She's going behind bars, or, if the jury decides, death row. All because you were the detective to put the pieces together. You should be so proud of that, Jean. Think of all the closure these thirty families could receive. The justice that's been served. All because of you."
He bent down to cup Jean's face in his hands, caressing the soft cheeks with his thumbs. He allowed their gaze to lock together before resting his forehead against the other's.
Breathe...just breathe...that's all that needs to be done now...
Pressing their mouths together, Jean found himself coiling his arms around the other man's waist.
Marco's kisses were always like a comforting warm blanket that wrapped around you tighter and tighter. They were so safe and sound that Jean felt like a child being reassured that the world was a wonderful and happy place when his fears and doubts overwhelmed his mind.
Their tongues poked out of their lips only to explore the familiar mouth that was not their own. The pink muscles flicked and dragged across different surfaces while teeth nibbled and nipped. Jean exerted a low murmur before they pulled away.
Marco's hands were still holding his face.
"You did so good, Jean...I'm so proud of you...so, so proud."
"Is that what the articles are going to say?"
"I don't know, yet. I've only written the first one."
Jean's eyes rolled sarcastically before he slid his hands down this gorgeously handsome man's firm front. His gaze wandered upwards and his expression softened.
"Be a dear and hand me a smoke," he requested.
Marco chuckled and fumbled through the desk drawer searching for the rectangular tin. Upon finding it, he flicked open the lid and handed his detective a stick.
"Mm...thanks."
The cigarette was cradled delicately between two thin lips and a near by match was struck against the strip before being shoved into the ash tray.
Taking a nice long puff, inhaling quite deeply, Jean removed the stick, the blue-tinted smoke curling up lazily from Jean's mouth and nose. Marco thought the smoke smelled sweet.
A moment passed, Jean smoking his cigarette and Marco standing to watch. It was a comfortable silence. A solid silence. An understandable silence.
Perfect.
"You know...I think we should celebrate," the reporter inquired, "it's not every day you bust New York's most wanted serial killer."
Intrigued, that sharp eyebrow was pulled up high once again. The cigarette was replaced in his mouth.
"Oh? And how would we go about that? Grab the bubbly? Get the beer?"
Marco bit his bottom lip, his top teeth dragging across it as he pulled his lip back out. His eyes became clouded a bit before he squatted down. His hands rested on both of Jean's thighs, pushing his legs slightly apart. Palms pressed firmly as they slid up higher towards Jean's crotch.
"I was thinking something a bit more...intimate...than a drink, mm?"
The brunette's head rested on his left thigh, large brown eyes gazing upwards, expectant, knowing, eager.
"Something we should both be able to remember in the morning," a sly grin stretching the side of his mouth.
His hand ran lovingly up and down Jean's inner thigh, squeezing slightly.
"Then by all means, Mr. Bodt, please let us celebrate," Jean replied instantly, his own characteristic smirk wedging its way into his expression.
Without another word, the freckled reporter massaged his thighs a bit, inching his hands closer and closer to Jean's groin. Fingers danced their way up to his fly, before ever so tenderly unfastening the button. Taking his sweet time, Marco then lazily dragged the zipper down with a barely audible ziiipp...
Marco's gaze didn't wander from his target, never really glancing up at the man who he was pampering. He palmed the bulge behind the white fabric, humming softly to himself as he did so. Experimentally, his palm dragged from right below the navel, all the way down the curvature of the girth. His fingers would wrap partially around Jean, still only stroking him firmly.
Jean nibbled his lip a bit, hating it when Marco took it slow. He shifted slightly, taking another deep inhale of smoke from his cigarette.
Marco leaned his face in, pressing kisses to the girth, mouth opening a bit wider and tongue pressing flat against the fabric. Little puffs of breath escaped his mouth as he continued. He internally smirked when he felt Jean's legs spread just a tad bit wider, and his cock begin to twitch slowly to life.
"Shit, Marco...at least pull my briefs down..." Jean muttered impatiently.
To the detective's slight surprise, Marco did as he was told. Long fingers curled around the elastic band of Jean's underwear before working it around his manhood and tugging it lower past his waist. Jean lifted himself just enough so they wouldn't be stuck underneath his ass.
Jean murmured as Marco's hand slid around him, periodically tightening and loosening the firmness of his grip as he began to pump him. The freckled reporter felt the skin slide up and down around the thick muscle, still a bit soft. He could feel the veins as his wrist twisted, allowing his hand to feel all aorund around his lover. After a moment or so, his pace quickened, his hand keeping a firm hold on him as he ran his thumb over the rosy tip, smearing some of the precum around the head.
Jean groaned slightly, eyes trained intently on the man between his legs. Marco's hand was so damn warm and so fucking soft. Who knew a man's hand could be so soft? Every time Marco's perfect hands gave him a nice tug, a wave of pleasure surged through his body. A wonderful wave of warmth and utter arousal pooled inside him, yet Jean just knew it wasn't even close to what Marco could do to him.
Much sooner that Jean liked to admit, Marco's large hands that so wonderfully squeezed and pulled him just right, he became an impatient mess of flustered, yearning lust.
The proud detective was erect, hot and hard within minutes due to that damn reporter's incredible hands and nimble fingers. He was swollen and twitching, begging for just a bit more than what he was receiving. Though what he was receiving was fantastic, Jean knew Marco planned on doing more.
His sensitive skin was stretched again and again in the same pace as the older man's hand.
Fuck Marco and his patience.
Fuck Marco and his teasing.
Fuck Marco.
"Please...I know you're going to...so just...hnn..." Jean grumbled, the cigarette bobbing in his lips.
Wide brown eyes glanced up. They were glassed over.
"I don't know what you want if you don't tell me, baby," was the sweet reply.
The distance between Jean's aching arousal and Marco's pink lips grew shorter, warm breath brushing against his bare skin.
The detective's eyes narrowed in disbelief. His sharp cheeks were powdered a dark luster of pink, his lips clamping the gradually burning cigarette.
With Mr. Bodt's hand still feeling him up and down, stroking and massaging, Jean was barely able to manage, "Y-You know exactly...what I me-mean..."
"I'm really afraid I don't, Jean."
His lips were dangerously close to Jean's tip, tongue daring to poke out to slide across the smooth bud. Instead those lips barely swept against the bud, sliding down slightly as his nose dragged down behind them.
"Oh for God's sake, Marco! Y-Your mouth! Just--do something with your mouth, please!" Jean exclaimed frantically.
That was all the persuasion the reporter needed. His own tongue darted out to lick his lips, coating them in a glossy layer of spit, before his mouth opened slightly. He dipped his head slowly onto Jean erection, lips parting and mouth stretching the further he went down, the length stuffing Marco's cheeks.
A loud moan rumbled deep inside Jean's throat as a scolding wet hotness pressed against him, swirled around him, completely engulfed him.
Immediately Marco's tongue slithered around his length as much as it could, tracing veins and rolling around the tip, lapping up any precum that may be pearling out of the head. A head of black hair sank even deeper onto his cock, a single hand holding the base as a substitute for what Marco's mouth couldn't take in. Teeth barely grazed the skin, causing electrifying jolts of pleasure to shoot up Jean's spine.
A loud cry burst through the small apartment.
Mr. Kirschtein's head rolled back, top teeth sinking into the flesh of his bottom lip, his hands automatically raking through a thick mess of black hair. Fingers curled, knotting in with the soft strands, keeping Marco's head firmly in place.
"Oh shit...just like that..." Jean encouraged, biting back a moan.
His cigarette bounced as he spoke. Blue smoke swirled around his head, filling his nostrils with its intoxicating scent.
A vibration shot up through Jean's body as Marco's muffled groaned surrounded him. The freckled man's eyes fluttered shut as he slowly began to bob his head. The tip of Jean's length hit the back roof of his mouth with each dip of the motion, sometimes slightly triggering the older man's gag reflex if it hit too far back. Marco grunted on him, sucking him harder and harder. His cheeks latched onto the sides of Jean's cock as he sucked, his speed increasing.
The younger of the two gripped tighter to Marco's hair, panting raggedly as the man between his legs enthusiastically sucked him off. The stimulation of Marco's hand twisting his base, the delectable sucking motion that pulled at him roughly and the sweet but sinful tongue that snaked around him so wholly was almost too fucking much. His balls constricted every now and then depending on how hard Marco sucked or if Marco's tongue slid across that favorite place right underneath the lip of his head.
He couldn't buck his hips because Marco's other hand was holding him down securely. He couldn't shift his position because this damn office chair wasn't that big. He was at the complete mercy of his freckled lover.
The man was nothing but a shameless, whining puddle of submission. Marco's named dribbled wantonly down Jean's chin, past the cigarette that was almost burnt up. He managed to rock his hips slightly, pushing himself just all that much further into Marco's searing hot mouth.
His jaw dropped ajar as Mr. Bodt took him in almost all the way, the cigarette falling onto the wooden floor. Jean let out another sultry cry, something that sounded close to Marco's name jumbled in there somewhere.
"Oh! Y-Yes! God like that! Just like that, Marco! Pleasedon'tstop! Don'tstop! Just don't stop!"
Marco's pace quickened ever so slightly and his eyes shot upwards. His gaze was steady but fogged with desire.
Jean was peering down at him, brows furrowed in messy confusion. Their heated, lust induced gaze locked.
Marco refused to break the eye contact as his mouth sinfully worked Jean's arousal.
That was it.
An intense orgasm burst through Jean's body, his sense dunked in white heat. Marco's name was screamed before Jean's ears began to ring. His essence shot into Marco's mouth without warning, the latter flinching at the sudden burst. Jean's knuckles turned white as he rode out his orgasm, fingers cramping as he clutched Marco's hair.
Colored speckles flashed across Jean's vision as he swallowed, throat suddenly parched.
His vice grip on his lover's hair relaxed within seconds, Marco pulling off of Jean's now softened member.
A bit of his seed smeared down Marco's lip.
Wiping his mouth, Marco stood up, chuckling slightly. He took a swig of the now lukewarm tea.His own arousal completely ignored, he decided to simply crawl into Jean's lap, sliding his legs underneath the armrests so he could fit comfortably.
Jean's breathing eventually evening out, he quickly tumbled back down from cloud nine.
Humming, Marco slung his arms around Jean's shoulders.
"Glad we could celebrate?"
"Sonofa..." the detective began slowly, his voice a bit raspy, "yeah...that...that was a pretty decent celebration. I think...I think it did the job."
Satisfied with himself, Marco beamed and reached over for the tin of cigarettes. He popped one into his mouth and struck the match, taking the flame to his roll.
Another curl of smoke coiled sleepily into the air.