44 OT4 NSFW?
44. I’m a noir detective and you’re the hot mysterious person who just slunk into my office the week before Christmas.
(This takes place slightly more than a week before christmas)
The radiator rattles like a dying man. Joseph ignores it; they’ve only got the cash to repair one thing this winter and the upstairs radiator is a week out from full shut-down. And he doubts Duck wants to act as his makeshift blanket when it does.
He looks out the window, the lights of a dozen apartment windows and storefronts staring back at him, all decked out in their Christmas best. It’d look better with snow, but the City of Angels insists on being a temperate paradise.
Right as he’s about to sit down and continue his bookkeeping, there are two, sharp, raps on the door. He calls for them to come, running a hand over his hair as he settles into his worn office chair.
A tall, slender man with white-blonde hair steps over the threshold. The only hint of color in his wardrobe is the pair of red-tinted glasses perched on his nose, one that’s as angular and striking as the rest of his face.
Indrid Cold.
Joseph would have been less shocked if the president had walked into his office.
Indrid Cold, whose father owned half the city and the people in it. Indrid Cold, one half of a twin pair of sons never seen outside of their father’s shadow. Indrid Cold, who until yesterday was a suspect in his father’s murder.
“Going by your expression, I suspect I do not need to introduce myself.” The voice from those thin lips is lilting, nothing like the icicle sharp tone Joseph heard the one time he encountered his father and brother.
“That’s right.”
“And am I speaking to Mr. Newton or Mr. Stern?” He cocks his head.
Joseph extends a hand, “Joseph Stern.”
Indrid shakes it with chilly fingers, “In that case, Mr. Stern, I require you and your partner’s help. Not in solving my father’s murder, as you are about to assume. The police are swarming about that business like so many ants.”
“And you trust them to solve it?”
“To be frank, my interest in the culprit extends only to whether they are someone who would like me dead as well. Which is where you come in. You and Mr.Newton will serve a dual function; you will join me at my home in the mountains to provide a degree of security. And you will work out who tried to shoot me two days ago.”
Joseph raises an eyebrow, “You seem very confident we’ll take the case. Even though it carries a non-zero chance of being shot and attaching ourselves to potentially one of the biggest scandals of the decade.”
“It will be worth your while. I can pay a hundred dollars a day to each of you, and cover any expenses. Then there’s the fact you’ll have room and board during your stay, and the twenty thousand I’ll pay if you find out who attempted to cut my life short.”
He keeps his face flat and says nothing; it’s a tempting offer, more money in one job than they make in a year. But there’s a gnawing in his stomach, one he’s learned the hard way to not ignore.
Indrid removes his glasses, cleaning them on his sleeve, “You are also likely to take it because of your, shall we say, disreputable pasts. The ones that mean even with all your skills and successes, Mr. Newton has to work evenings as bouncer at some unsavory establishments and you yourself must take the occasional job that’s no more than being a glorified peeping tom. The pasts that are the reason I am bringing this job to you” amber eyes meet his own and Joseph sees his calm for what it truly is; a rabbit holding stone-still under the gaze of a hawk, certain it’s about to be eaten.
“Your father paid off or pissed off all the cops and respectable detectives?”
“Precisely.” The glasses slot back into place, “I need help. You can provide it, or you can go back to taking pictures through windows. What shall it be?”
—---------------------------------------------------------------------
“You sure we ain’t passed it?” Duck cranes his neck as Joe steers them around yet another hairpin turn in the San Gabriel’s.
“Positive. He said the gate is ‘impossible to miss.’”
“Someone must be really pissed if they hauled ass all the way out here to try and off him.”
“Apparently it happened in the city; he was on his way back from the police station. The friend who was with him, Mr. Cobb, saw the gun in the reflection of a store window and dragged him down behind a car.”
“We gonna get the chance to confirm that with the guy?”
“We should. He lives with Mr. Cold full time as a cook. Aha, finally.” The car slows in front of a twelve foot tall iron gate with flames twisted into the metalwork. Joe hits the intercom and after a moment the shining mouth of the estate opens. The house itself isn’t quite a mansion, but it sure as hell isn't a cozy cottage for two.
As they wait in it’s shadow for someone to open the front door, a gust of wind makes them both shudder.
“Damn, forget how cold it gets up here. Who knows, slick, maybe you’ll finally get some snow.”
“Maybe.” Joe’s hands are in his pockets and he knows without looking that he’s worrying his palms with his nails. Duck doesn’t blame him for being nervous; stepping into the Cold’s orbit is like shoving your hand into a rattlesnake burrow and hoping nothing bites
The door opens on a man who towers over the six foot tall Joe. His short beard and shaggy hair are both auburn, his clothes are sensible outdoor wear, and there’s dirt under his nails.
Duck likes him instantly.
“Come on in, Indrid’s expecting you. I, uh, I’m Barclay” he holds out a large hand for each of them to shake in turn. Joe’s cheeks are pinker than they were a moment ago and Duck fights back a laugh; Joseph Stern may swear he’s straight, but put him near a big man with a soft voice and a sweet smile and he goes rose-colored.
“Ah, I am glad you found the house. It’s so far into the hills that even I sometimes fear I’ve somehow gone past it.”
See, this is why Duck didn’t snicker at Joe’s little blush. Because now he’s staring up a staircase at Indrid Cold and his heart is bouncing like a dog at a stick. The newspaper photos don’t do him justice, don’t convey how his strange features meld together into something Duck never wants to look away from.
Indrid shakes their hands and shows them to their room, Barclay helping them with their luggage as clouds darken the windows. Their room is bigger than the apartment above their office, with two, huge beds instead one murphy bed and one couch that they alternate sleeping on.
“The house is yours to wander as you need, and you’re welcome to ask Barclay or myself for assistance should you need it. As I told Mr. Stern, it’s just Barclay and myself here.” He taps his fingers together, “will you be needing anything from us this afternoon?”
“You mind giving us a little tour so we can get a lay of the land?” Duck tosses his hat on the bed as Joseph carefully hangs his on a hook.
“Oh! Of course, a very good idea. Right this way.”
As Indrid leads them through the cavernous house, Duck is struck by how different it is from its sleek, dull exterior. The rooms are painted bright colors, there’s stunning art on every wall, and even the Christmas tree is decked in pink and gold. The garden is a bit overrun, but there’s a swimming pool and a row of climbing vines positioned near the house. When Duck comments on them being a good choice for the climate, Indrid smiles.
“Thank you. I’m afraid I rather pestered the gentleman at the garden store working out which things could actually thrive here.” He looks out over the covered rose bushes, “this has been ‘my’ house ever since I turned eighteen. Apollo laid claim to the house on the beach, and my father always preferred his penthouse in the city. I find the woods inspire me, don’t you.”
Duck smiles wistfully, “Yeah, I really do.”
When the tour ends, Indrid excuses himself to work on his art until dinner. Duck and Joe use that same span of time to unpack. His partner is quiet, which means he’s thinking, and Duck lets him.
Dinner is a simple pot roast that he crams into his face faster than is polite. Which is better than Joe does; he full on moans when he takes a bite, causing Barclay’s eyes to widen comically before he collects himself.
By the time they say goodnight, Indrid has been at his side most of the evening, asking him questions and seeming fascinated by his knowledge of plants, which may be the most good it’s done him in years.
“Try not to get too friendly.” Joe says as he removes his tie.
Duck locks the bedroom door, “I’m just bein’ polite. We’re their guests. Besides, thought you said Indrid had been officially cleared as a suspect by the cops.”
“He has, but we both know that means very little.” His partner sighs, “we should stay close to them when possible, both to fulfill the bodyguard end of the agreement and see if we can learn what’s going on here. Just…just be careful, okay? Alistair Cold didn’t get where he was without manipulation, and I’d bet he passed those skills to his sons. Which means the line between ‘useful close’ and ‘dangerous close’ with Indrid Cold is thin.”
Joe has a point, but he’s using that voice that makes Duck feel like his partner thinks he’s nothing more than a clueless hick. Which is why all he says is, “Don’t worry slick, I won’t let anyone know you’re jealous that someone else is gettin’ my attention.”
The other detective fixes him with a stern stare, “Go to hell.”
“Gonna go do some rounds instead. Make sure the place is secure.” He tips a hat that isn’t there and steps into the hall.
As he double checks doors and windows (including testing that his key matches all the locks; Indrid swore only himself, Barclay, and the two detectives had keys to his new locks, but Duck wants to be sure), his thoughts keep wandering back upstairs to Joe. They’ve been partners for two years, and he’s damn grateful that he got paired with a guy whose brain puts Einstein to shame and a face that’d make Cary Grant jealous. He just wishes Joe weren’t wound so tight he can hear his bones cracking.
And at least three times a week, he wishes he could slap him. Not because he’s mad at him or wants him to suffer. Because he bets those blue eyes would look even better all teary and that Joe would cry out and moan so sweetly when he did it. And then he’d let Duck do more, give him the green light to do every vicious, indulgent thing he’s been too scared to ask for until the other man is a bruised, bitten, fucked-out mess.
He pads into the living room, stops when he sees two figures asleep on the couch. Indrid stirs, letting out a sleep mumble, before turning to bury his face in Barclays chest. Duck creeps backward to let the lovers be. He’s glad they have each other.
Because in his fantasies, when the debauchery is done, all he wants is to pull Joe into that too-tiny bed of theirs and hold him until dawn.
—--------------------------------------------------------
Christmas carols drift from the record player downstairs as Indrid sits in bed, sketching the images of a dream before they fly away. This will be the first Christmas he can remember without endless holiday parties and people sending him lavish gifts that always came with favors to fulfill, without his father hissing for him to act normal and Apollo mocking him every chance he gets.
It’s the best Christmas ever, even accounting for the probability of being shot.
Then again, that probability has led to two more charming, handsome men under his roof, which softens the sting. Joseph, gorgeous as he is, still seems wary– of him, and of everything–Indrid understands the sentiment and so tries not to begrudge him his caution. He also walked into the kitchen last morning to find the detective and Barclay having an animated discussion about movies, so maybe one day he’ll see them as friends and not suspects.
Then there’s Duck, sturdy and understated in his many charms. Indrid would do a great many things for a peek at what’s beneath his slacks and would murder someone for one kiss of that crooked smile.
A knock on the door and a drawl asking if he’s up.
“One moment.” He stands and, curious as to what will happen, reaches for a thin, short, silk robe instead of the heavy one he wears most days, “alright, you can come in.”
Duck opens the door, “Mornin’, I was wondering if…if uh, if we could, uh.” His eyes are fixed on Indrid’s legs. He can feel them staying there as he wanders to his dresser in search of a water glass.
“Is there something you wanted to discuss?” Indrid tries not to smile as Duck’s reflection actually shakes itself back into focusing.
“Yeah, uh, I wanted to go back over the orders you made for the locks. From what you’ve told me about your brother, I think we oughta check to see if there was any way another key was made or if someone sent him the lock diagrams so he could have one made on his own.
It’s a good idea, but Indrid is more relieved by the fact Duck takes his suspicion of Apollo seriously. His twin was the golden child, respectable and capable of convincing a man in the desert to buy sand, while Indrid was a scraggy black sheep following behind him.
He turns, takes his time coming toe to toe with Duck, “An excellent idea. I see why the clients of yours I spoke to recommend you so highly.”
Duck blushes, “Heh, Joe’s really the brains. I’m just the muscle.”
“I’m afraid I must disagree. Even if the muscle in question is spectacular.” He reaches out, running a finger up Duck’s chest.
Warm hands catch his wrist and palm, “Sorry, sugar, no can do.”
“Ah.” He steps back, drawing the robe around him, “that’s alright. I do not blame you for not being interested.”
Strangely, Duck steps forward instead of back, “It ain’t that. I got a rule: I don’t sleep with clients. No matter how cute they are. Helps keep things from getting messy.”
“Sensible.”
Duck smiles gently, “Besides, wouldn’t Barclay be mad I was makin’ time with his fella?”
Indrid shakes his head, “We have an…understanding. Barclay has been in my life since we were children, and been my lover for over ten years. He knows that even if my heart and eyes find others, that will not change that I’m his.”
Duck steps closer, guiding Indrid’s robe back up his shoulder, “He’s a lucky fella.”
He’s about to say they both are when there’s a tremendous crash from downstairs. They take one look at each other and then run for the door.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------
He shouldn’t have let his guard down.
Barclay knows why Indrid brought the detectives into the house, and he’s willing to put up with a lot to never have to hear a gunshot that close ever again. But something about Stern in particular made him anxious, like he was a hunter and Barclay was a beast lumbering in the woods. Even his polite demeanor,handsome face, and earnest praise of Barclay’s cooking couldn’t cover for that.
Then, a few nights ago, he’d been unable to sleep and came down to find Stern in the living room in the same predicament. In the light of one, shaded lamp, the detective seemed to fade away, leaving a tired, charming man in his place. They played chess until Barclay nearly fell asleep in his chair. After that, Joseph sought him out more often and Barclay let himself be found.
They were chatting about movies as he worked on the bread for dinner when he’d asked if Joseph had seen The Fugitive with Henry Fonda.
“No, westerns aren’t quite my thing.” Joseph pauses mid-sip, “that’s the one you two saw the night Alistair Cold was killed.”
“Yep. Hell of a thing to come home from the movies to find the cops at your door.”
“I’d imagine.” The cup thunks onto the table, “You know, when I spoke with the ticket girl at the theater, she said she remembered you buying tickets alone.”
Fuck. Did Joseph bring up movies just to maneuver him into this conversation?
Barclay turns from the dough and crosses his arms, “I know what you’re getting at. And yeah, I know you and every private eye from here to San Francisco could point out that it’s really fucking convenient Indrid and I are each other’s alibis. But all that happened is that Indrid was running late, so I bought two and waited in the lobby for him.”
Joseph stands, ostensibly to refill his cup, but all it does is bring him closer to Barclay, “Which means that the witness statements saying they saw you and Indrid leaving the theater when the movie was over don’t mean as much. You could have waited for Indrid in that lobby for quite awhile.
“I could have, but I didn’t. Look, Joseph, I know better than anyone else that Indrid had all the reason in the world to bump off his dad, and that’s before we get to how much he and Apollo are gonna inherit. I also know that there’s one Cold twin capable of killing someone and it isn’t Indrid.”
The detective meets his eyes, “I’d say you’re not the most impartial party when it comes to the Cold brothers. Especially since Apollo doesn’t strike me as the kind to fuck the help.”
A thousand memories flare up in him and he snarls, grabbing Joseph’s shirt and spinning them so the detective is slammed against the counter. Flour dusts the air and the coffee cup shatters on the floor as he brings them nose to nose.
“If you think for a goddam second that Apollo is harmless and Indrid is a threat, your skull is so thick I could smash it onto the counter and you’d be fine.”
Joseph just looks at him, and for all the blush in his cheeks he looks utterly unafraid. Barclay realizes he didn’t mean a single word of his comment about the help; he was doing it to see how Barclay reacted. To see if his feelings for Indrid could make him into a mad dog.
Two sets of footsteps skid into the kitchen, but he’s not ready to let go.
“Barclay, what on earth?”
“Blue eyes here is really fucking sure you’re the bloodthirsty one and not Apollo.”
Duck’s eyes flick between Barclay and his partner, “You’d better let go of him or he’s gonna start thinking you did it.”
Barclay releases his grip and steps back. Joseph brushes the flour from his shirt, perfectly unruffled.
“Joseph, I have been over the events of that evening with you three separate times. And that’s not to mention that the police have confirmed my story.”
“Police can be bribed.” Stern straightens his cuffs.
“Oh for–is that what this is about?” Duck rubs his forehead, “yeah, Joe, they lie all the time. But you and I both know that there’s no way Indrid or Barclay coulda been anywhere near the murder.”
“But-”
Duck shakes his head, “Nope, I no for a damn fact you ain’t slept well the last two nights, and it’s startin to show. Go to bed.”
“No.” Joseph tries to pass Duck, only for Duck to grab his arm.
“Barclay, gimme a hand.”
“Excuse me?” Joseph tries to pull away but Duck doesn’t let go.
“You won’t be good and go on your own, we’ll take you.” He tips his head and Barclay gets the hint, grabbing Joseph’s other arm and starting to pull. He’s not big on manhandling people, but it’s satisfying to half-drag the pissed-off detective back up the stairs.
He and Duck let go once they’re in the bedroom, though Duck continues blocking the doorway as he says, “Get some sleep. And if you can’t fuckin stay put, I’ll cuff you to the bed.”
Joseph’s cheeks go redder even as his expression stays flat, “That seems like overkill.”
“Then don’t make me do it.”
Joseph takes a deep breath, “I’m not trying to insult either of you when I say this but: have you considered that being attracted to Indrid is clouding your judgment?”
“Nope. Why, is it cloudin’ yours?” Duck leans against the doorframe.
“Fuck, Joseph, why are you so convinced it’s Indrid? You’re so desperate to pin it on him it’s like you murdered the guy.”
Joseph’s gaze darkens as it whips onto him.
“Get. out.”
“Okay, okay, we’re going.” Barclay throws up his hands and leaves, Duck shutting the door behind them, “what the fuck, did he actually kill someone?”
“No. But everyone thinks he did. See, Joe was on the force, was on his way to making detective there, there were even whispers that he’d be D.A eventually.” Duck’s steps slow, “you remember the Millicent Green murder case?”
“Kinda, yeah.”
“Joe was in charge of the investigation. Turns out it was her boyfriend. Not all that shocking, but he was was the police chief. Joe refused to back down, wouldn’t be paid to look the other way. So they hit him with accessory to murder on a smaller case and kicked him off the force. Only reason he didn’t land in jail is that the judge was on the level and threw out the case.”
“That was, in no small part, why I hired him.” Indrid meets them at the bottom of the stairs, “Joseph Stern could not be bought or beaten into going against his moral conscience. And I trusted he would choose a partner of a similar nature.” He glances at Duck.
“Oh fuck, did the same thing happen to you?”
“Nah. Long story short, the state park I was workin’ at got shut down and turned into an orange grove. I needed cash and had to take some shitty jobs as hired muscle to get it. I actually met Joe throwin’ him out of The Black Swan. He has a way of makin’ people listen to him and the next thing I knew I was helpin’ him solve that case. When it was over he asked me to be his partner.”
Barclay looks back up at the second floor, “It just felt like I was talking to a different guy this morning. More…ruthless.”
“A trait which may come in handy if anyone does come after us.” Indrid muses.
“He can be that way sometimes. But he’s really a good guy. Great, if you can get the stick outta his ass.”
“Or put one there.” Barclay adds.
Duck snickers, “Never managed it, but not for lack of tryin’.”
They settle into their usual routine, Duck hanging around to sweep the kitchen and, Barclay realizes, make sure Barclay is really okay after his fight with Joseph.
Barclay doesn’t see the taller detective again until well after dinner. Duck is doing a round of the house and Indrid is painting in his studio, so Barclay wanders into the kitchen to start on the dishes. What he finds is Joseph, sleeves rolled up and scrubbing away.
“I’m so sorry about earlier.” Joseph must know it’s him by his footsteps, “I…I was trying to prove something to myself and forgot who was on the other side of the thing.”
“Thanks.” Barclay joins him at the sink, “please don’t do that again. Act like you think there’s something wrong with Indrid for loving me, I mean.”
“I won’t.”
Barclay squeezes his shoulder, feels him relax for a half second before the usual tension returns to the muscle. He grabs a towel from the cupboard.
“Here, I’ll dry.”
—---------------------------------------------
This might be the glitziest Christmas morning Duck’s ever been part of. Barclay did some last minute decorating, so the whole living room is shiny with tinsel, the tree glowing like a heart in the corner. There’s a surprising number of presents beneath it, and when Duck sneaks a peek he finds that while most are addressed to Barclay, two are for him and two are for Joe.
Barclay is stretched out on the couch, reading, and Indrid moves through the room with a mug of eggnog in hand. He changes out the record, humming as a slow song crackles into the air.
He reminds Duck of a moth, fluttering about the house at night, ethereal bearing barely concealing something fragile. Something that’s been flapping its wings against a storm for too long.
Duck stands and offers his hand, “How about a dance, sugar?”
Indrid cocks his head, grinning, “And what about your rules?”
“Ain’t no harm in a dance.”
Indrid takes his hands and, rather than keep a usual dancer's distance, presses against him.
“You sure you wanna get that close? I got two left feet.”
“Can’t be any worse than me.” Barclay turns a page.
“Dearest, you are forgetting the time I once took out two waiters at a club with my movements.”
The cook chuckles, sets his book on the end table, “I’m gonna go check on Joseph. Kind of worried that he’s not down yet.”
“Let me” Duck spins Indrid off into Barclay’s arms, “he can get kinda morose on Christmas.”
When he gets to their room, Joe is fully dressed save for his shoes, laying on the bed with a book over his face.
“You got somewhere to be slick?”
“I’m trying to maintain professionalism.”
“You can let it slide for one day. C’mon, it’s real nice downstairs.”
“I’m sure it is, but you should get used to those scenes without me.”
“What?” Duck closes the door.
“Isn’t it obvious? Indrid and Barclay both like you. Once we’re done with this job, assuming we’re both still alive, they’ll probably keep you on as a bodyguard and send me home.” His voice is far away, like he’s still half in the book.
“You’re not gettin rid of us that easily.” Duck teases as he nears the bed.
“I don’t want to! But none of you will ever want me, not like I-” Joe slams the book across his mouth.
“You better finish that sentence, slick.” Duck sets his hands on his hips but keeps his voice soft.
Joe covers his face, “I want all three of you so badly. I, I think I might even be in love with you, Duck.”
He settles on the bed, “How long has this been goin’ on?”
“Six months, maybe more” Joe turns away from him, “I’m so sorry.”
Duck gently pets black hair, “You shoulda said somethin’ sooner. I mean, hell, we coulda been sharin’ a bed and freed up some space.”
A weak laugh, “would have been warmer too.”
It’s like coaxing a scared kitten from under the bed, getting Joe to look at him. His hands have to caress his jaw and trace circles on his cheek before he’ll turn to face him.
“For a private eye, you can be real fuckin’ blind.” He leans in and kisses Joe as sweetly as he dares, catching a surprised gasp between his teeth. The hope is for Joe to climb into his lap, or pull him down to the mattress, but instead the other man collapses against him even as pleads to continue the kiss.
“Easy slick, don’t want you droppin’ like a sack of laundry.”
“Easy? Nothing about this is easy, not when I’ve thought about crawling under your desk and blowing you every time I get a look at your thighs, not when wanting you, wanting the others, makes me feel like I’ll float away like a forgotten balloon. Please” he rests his head on Duck’s shoulder, “please, I want it to be easy, but I don’t know how.”
Duck gets the best idea of his life and then kisses Joe’s forehead, “I do. Do you trust me?”
Blue eyes gleam in the dark, “with my life.”
“Then you’re gonna do what I, and what the other two, say. Yeah?”
“Yes” Joe drags him into another kiss, moaning when Duck bites his lip.
“On your feet slick.” He sneaks his cuffs into his back pocket as Joe obeys. When they reach the door, his partner hesitates.
“Are you sure they want me involved?”
“Positive. But also” he grabs the end of a blue tie and yanks, “you ain’t got a choice.”
Joe moans, footsteps unsteady as Duck leads across the landing and down the stairs. Barclay sees them first, eyes wide as dinner plates as he sways Indrid in his arms. Indrid turns next, breaking into a wicked grin as he takes in the duo descending the stairs.
“Brought you two a little present.” Duck lets go of the tie and Joe stills, looking at the other two for some kind of sign.
“Lucky us.” Barclay rumbles, stepping forward and tipping Joe’s chin up to kiss him.
Duck takes the moment where Joe is too surprised to hold onto the cook to grab his wrists and cuff them behind his back.
“The hell?” Joe tries to look behind him only for Barclay to drag him into another kiss and not release him until he’s giggling.
“I know you, slick. You’ll try to take control of the whole scene if we don’t stop you. As this is as much about makin’ you relax as it is findin’ out what’s under those slacks.
“Duck, you’ve seen me in my underwear.”
“Yeah, but I never saw what was under ‘em, no matter how many times I wanted to yank ‘em down.” He guides Joe over to the couch, where he sits without needing to be told.
“What, exactly, is the plan?” Indrid hangs back by the fireplace, metallic threads in his robe making him look like an emperor.
“To show this handsome fella just how bad we want him so that the idea will actually sink into that big brain of his.”
“I see.” Indrid saunters forward, hands behind his back, considering Joe with an unreadable expression. The detective looks up at him hopefully as he approaches the couch, some silent conversation passing between them as Indrid looms over him.
Then an ink-stained hand catches Joe across the face, loud enough that Duck and Barclay both jump. Joe doesn’t take nearly so long to recover, licking his lips and smiling up at Indrid while Duck is still trying to parse what happened.
“That’s about as hard as I expected a spoiled heir to hit.”
Another slap, Joe yelping as it hits. Duck takes a half step forward when the sound turns to a moan and Indrid lets out a sharp, menacing laugh.
“Oh you like that, don’t you pet? All that sophistication and cleverness to hide the fact you’re nothing more than a mutt who needs to be put in his place.”
“Better than being a brat who thinks he’s better than everyone else.”
Indrid crouches so they’re eye to eye, tracing a heart on Joe’s cheek with his finger, “Oh no pet, I don’t think I am better than everyone else.”
Slap
“I know I am.”
“Holy fuck.” Barclay grips the edge of the couch where he’s been standing, tent noticeable in his pajamas.
Indrid smiles at him, “Surprised, dearest? Yes, I suppose you would be. You, my sweet, perfect, beloved beast, never need such a firm hand. You’ve never been anything but good.”
Duck shifts from foot to foot. His cock is twitching at Indrid addressing the others in that way, even though if the pale-haired man tried it on him, Duck would pin him to the floor and ride him until he cried.
“Joseph? Is this really okay?” Barclay’s voice is going husky.
Joe nods once, then adds, “It’d be better if your boyfriend didn’t hit like a baby.”
Indrid snarls, but instead of slapping him again he fists his hand into his hair and yanks Joe's head back. His partner cries out as Indrid sinks his teeth into the skin of his neck, not relenting until the moan turns broken and panting.
“Dearest, please fetch the supplies. Duck, help me make him less decent.” Indrid begins unbuttoning Joe’s shirt.
“Thought you’d never ask.” As Duck joins them, Joe kicks out a leg, lightly catching Indrid on the shins.
“Now that ain’t very nice, darlin.” Duck pulls off Joe's tie and binds it around his ankles.
Indrid turns, kissing his cheek before pecking Joe on the lips, “Goodness, I had no idea you two would be this much fun. Are you alright, pet?”
“I feel like I’m flying.”
“If it turns to a fall, tell us.” Indrid cups his face to offer a tender kiss, “none of us want you hurt.”
“Thank you.” Joe sighs, tipping his face into Duck’s hand when he offers it. They stay like that until Barclay returns, at which point Indrid rises and points imperiously at Duck.
“Take off your pants. Barclay, sit there and put Joseph over your lap so you can, ah, open him up for me.”
“Ohfuck.” Joe actually whines as Barclay obeys and throws him over his lap.
Duck is enjoying the sight of carefully pressed slacks being bunched around Joe knees that it takes reality a moment to join him in the room. Joe knows the truth, and he’s fairly certain Barclay figured it out when he poked his head into the room to ask a question right after Duck was in the shower and saw the scars on his chest.
Did Barclay tell Indrid? If he didn’t, how the fuck should Duck go about this?
Indrid’s fingers wrap around Duck’s pants and shove them, and his underwear, to the floor. In retrospect, this is what he gets for stopping to think near a man who looks horny enough to fuck an entire barroom.
“Mmmm, it seems Barclay was correct.” Eager fingers tease the folds beneath his dick, “are inside visitors permitted?”
Duck snickers at the phrasing, “Sometimes. Depends on how I’m feelin’.”
“Understood.” Indrid brushes their noses together, “go lay down on the couch. Joseph has a mouth that was made to suck cock and I have waited too long to see him do so.”
He positions himself so he’s laying on the couch. Getting where Indrid wants him, especially with the sight of Joe facedown and ass up, moaning into the cushions as Barclay fucks his ass with two fingers.
The cook pauses from where he’s groping and kissing Joe’s ass, “Put your feet wherever you need to, man.”
That lets him get close enough that he can reach down and drag Joe’s face between his legs.
“MOH, oohhhhhhhhhhh” Joe isn’t doing much besides moaning but that alone is pretty gratifying.
Indrid tugs Joe’s hair, “Get to it pet.”
“What–ohfuck–what about you?” Duck turns his head as Indrid kneels by the couch.
In reply, Indrid kisses him, really kisses him, for the first time. It’s like Duck has been holding his breath, diving deeper and deeper in search of something, only to find the treasure glittering at him up at the surface. He sighs into the kiss and Indrid lets out a pleased chirp.
“It’s like you were meant to kiss me.” Indrid murmurs before bringing their lips together a second time.
Duck has to agree, lets himself melt into the feeling of Indrid’s mouth on his and the toe-curling steadiness of Joe sucking him off. His climax builds slowly, like a wave far out from shore, and by the time it crashes into him he’s blissfully sprawled on the couch with Indrid nibbling his neck and Joe kissing his thighs.
“Think he’s ready, baby.” Barclay is practically drooling as Indrid helps Duck sit up and turns his attention onto Joe, undoing the tie on his ankles. Barclay is also ready, his cock fully hard as he kicks off his pants. The cook coaxes Joe to straddle his lap, thighs shaking as he pushed and pulled into position. His hands are still trapped behind him, and Duck watches them flex as Barclay shoves him down onto his cock.
“SHIT! Ohmygod” Joe slouches forward, “god, Barclay, yes, god you’re amazing.”
“Thanks baby.” Strong arms circle Joe’s waist as Barclay kisses his neck.
A constant stream of short, helpless, ecstatic moans leave his partner, and Duck swears he’s never sounded more beautiful.
“As lovely as you sound, pet, I have another use for your mouth.” Indrid undoes his robe, cock shorter than Barclay’s but already burning it’s image in Duck’s mind.
The loss of Joe’s moans is made up for by Indrid purring , “Good boy” as Joe takes the head of his cock into his mouth. Had Duck not just cum, he’d be jerking off frantically to Joe being used so thoroughly and expertly.
After a moment, Joe chokes out something he can’t quite make out.
“So soon? My, you really were meant to be nothing but a rich man’s toy, weren’t you?”
Joe cums with a muffled shout, but the other two offer no relief, and so he writhes in Barclay’s lap, softening cock bouncing helplessly between his legs as tears spill down his cheeks.
Barclay rams into him hard enough that his partner actually squeaks, and an instant later Indrid pulls away, cum painting Joe’s flushed face and chest.
In the chorus of panting that follows, Barclay manages, “Keys?”
Duck quickly undoes the cuffs, catching Joe as he collapses into his arms. He’s never looked this relaxed, this vulnerable.
This happy.
“You with me, Joe?”
A slow, satisfied nod, “I’m here. You’re a genius.”
“See, he agrees with me.” Indrid flops into Barclay’s lap, peppering his face with kisses and cooing things meant for only the cooks ears.
Gradually, the four of them rearrange into more comfortable positions on the couch, Barclay wobbling off and returning with coffee for each of them. As Joe cuddles between Barclay and Duck, Duck puts his lips to his ear.
“Merry Christmas, darlin.”
Joe kisses him, soft as mountain snow, “Merry Christmas.”
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unsolved (iii)
Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)
Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky at his little shit supreme, obnoxious reader, cryptids, graveyards
A/N: good evening. i am fighting demons (tummy ache). comments and feedback are always appreciated thank u for the love on the series so far i adore u guys sm <;33
Previous part || Series masterlist
A few days after the first video goes up, Bucky returns from his run to a SHIELD file taped to his door.
He opens to a black and white photo of him from back in the day, and a page full of his details. Full name, blood group, previous addresses, aliases, best colours to match his undertone, favourite Gilmore Girl boyfriend.
He flips the page to the section on his known connections, only for a sheet of paper to fall out. Sharpie sprawled haphazardly across it, in big red letters.
NO AUNT.
BITCH.
He bites back a grin.
The video does reasonably well. Not record breaking numbers or anything, but for once there aren’t TikToks of people counting how many times he blinks to make sure he’s an actual human.
Always a man of his word, though he has regretted it every single time, he agrees to a second video. It follows after a disgraceful bout of bitching and even pleading, but a few hours later, he resigns himself to his fate silently.
That is until the schedule for the next video shoot is posted to the server, and he sees it’s at night.
The night he uses to sleep. The night.
Before he can even type out his rejection, his door receives four sharp knocks. He doesn’t even need to open it to know who it was.
It’s like you could read his thoughts. Probably could. He doesn’t know the extent of your telekinesis.
In your hands is a large cardboard box and on your face is a stupidly big grin.
“Good evening,” you greet.
“Tell me the show’s getting cancelled,” he says.
“Nope. We–” you announce, reaching into the box and shoving something onto his chest, “--are going on a trip. Demon hunting.”
“Demon hunting?”
“To Westley Cemetery,” you add, letting the box tumble onto the floor as you grip its contents. “To catch the Westley Cemetery Cryptid.”
“What the hell is the Westley Cemetery Cryptid?” Bucky demands.
“Creature that lives in the cemetery, watches people from the trees and runs after you if you’re there too long. No known kills, but a couple of scratches and spooks,” you list off.
His face twists. “That’s not a real thing.”
“Uh, yes it is.” You rest a hand on your hip. “My sources told me so.”
“Who are your sources?”
“Twitter.”
Bucky stares at you without a word.
“It’s totally real. It’s got a Wikia page and everything,” you argue against his complete silence. “I believe in it.”
“That means nothing.”
“Rude.” You glare pointedly. “Anyway, point is, we’re going out tonight to the cemetery and we’re gonna catch this thing on tape.”
Bucky tracks your gaze to finally look down at what you’ve shoved into his hands. It’s a headband, with two cameras attached to it, one facing your face and the other outward. Night vision, he guesses.
He sighs. “How long? An hour?”
“Was Hamlet written in an hour? Was Sharknado filmed in an hour?” you exclaim. “Great art takes time. We’re staying out there as long as we need to. So help me, we will emerge victorious.”
Bucky stares at you. “Two hours.”
“Seven.”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Your will is weak and your spirit is cowardly.” You return his fixed look with equal intensity, if not more, which he didn't think was possible. “Three hours.”
“Deal.”
“Great.” You stick your hand out, and he grabs on firmly. “See you at 1am.”
“1am?!”
It is 1am, it is cold and Bucky is miserable.
But he’s there. In the cemetery. With the stupid camera rig on his head.
You offer him whiskey to warm him up, and he agrees.
You then tell him you don’t actually have any because you didn’t think he’d accept.
He hates it here.
The wind whistles around the both of you. The eerie silence is only compounded by the fact that he can’t see anything beyond a certain point. The night is especially dark and there is no moonlight.
He trudges through the patchy grass, dry leaves crunching under his boots.
The camera being so close to his face along with the fact that you wouldn’t stop singing the same three fucking lines of the song over and over again, makes him want to tear his hair out.
“That thing’s not gonna get near us if you don’t shut up,” he grumbles.
“Nonsense,” you hum. “I’m a goddamn delight. He’s gonna be trippin’ over himself to get to me.”
“He doesn’t exist.”
“He definitely does, and you know what? I bet your shit vibes are gonna attract him. Moth to flame and all that. Karmic justice.”
Bucky stares straight ahead, swerving to avoid running into cracked tombstones.
You go back to singing, but worse this time.
“What if we don’t get anything?” he interrupts, to protect his sanity. “No one wants to watch a bunch of people just walk around the dark for 20 minutes.”
There’s no response.
It takes a second for Bucky to realise the singing’s stopped too.
He stops in his tracks, head swivelling to look for you.
“The fuck…” he mutters.
In the cemetery, he is truly alone for a moment. Silent, other than wrought iron gates creaking in the far distance.
The leaves of the tree above him rustle.
Bucky looks up, squinting against the darkness.
Against the stillness of the night, he sees it. A figure stands tall on the branches of the tree, silhouette obscured by the leaves.
It leers down at him, unmoving.
Bucky doesn’t even flinch.
“Very funny,” he says. “Hilarious.”
“We’ll fake it,” the figure calls from above. “If we don’t get any footage, I’ll just get on up there and fuck around and you record.”
“Get down,” he demands. “We’re not faking footage.”
If this show had to die this way, so be it.
“Bore,” you boo, lowering yourself to the ground with ease. “If I didn't know any better, I’d say you don’t want to be a part of this series.”
“I don’t.”
“Anyway,” you say obnoxiously, “we won’t have to. There is definitely a cryptid here. I can feel it in my bones.”
“We’re halfway through the graveyard and there’s nothing here,” he shoots back. “We should call it quits.”
“You’re right,” you say, to his surprise. “We need to cover more ground. Let’s split up.”
That is most definitely not what he was saying.
But you start singing again and so Bucky agrees faster than you finish the same stupid third line for the hundredth time that hour.
Bucky is a man of dignity.
Less than five minutes later, he gives up.
He takes a seat against the trunk of a tall tree, in a relatively open clearing.
He figures if he just takes a nap then the two hours would pass by quicker.
Bucky has no idea where you’ve gone. The lack of light doesn’t help, even with his advanced vision.
He crosses his arms behind his head and settles back, eyes closing.
Not even a second later, he wants to rip his hair out when the stupid song you were singing reintroduces itself in his head.
“For fuck’s sake,” he groans.
The tree he’s leaning against shifts ever so slightly.
His eyes fly open, but he doesn’t move an inch.
Instinctually, his breathing slows and his ears tune in to pick up even the faintest sounds.
The draft whispers, and he knows for a fact that something is above him.
A branch cracks.
“Go away,” Bucky says loudly.
A second passes.
And then another.
“You’re supposed to be looking for the thing,” you shout.
“It’ll find me if it wants to.” He shifts to make himself more comfortable. “I’m givin’ him a real shot here.”
“You didn’t even look up.”
“Didn’t have to.”
“He could have been above you.”
“But he wasn’t.” Bucky’s eyes close again.
“You’re terrible.” It comes back muffled, and branches shift. “I’m headin’ that way. One of us has to put some effort into this.”
“Joy. Knock yourself out.”
The trunk moves under his muscles again and Bucky lets out a small exhale, settling back into the position he was in.
Until he hears you singing in the distance. Same three lines, same off-key tune.
Bucky drags his palm across his face.
An hour passes.
Unlike his original plan, he does not sleep.
He instead recounts every element he remembers from the periodic table.
Replays every Dodgers game from his childhood, and then gets mad at their shift.
Then he tries to recollect every fact he knows about you so far. Mutant, captured and experimented on, broke free several years before him. Met Nat along the way and befriended her. Telekinesis, slowed aging. Escape artist. Wedding videographer. Allegedly.
He just doesn’t get how you’re so goddamn chirpy all the time, given that he’d been through something similar and come out the way he had.
It had taken him a month to say anything to anyone other than Steve. You went out for brunch with Sam the same weekend you showed up at the compound.
He doesn’t get you.
Speaking of which, he hasn’t actually seen you in a while.
He checks the time on his watch. Nearly 3am.
He had a fucking workout in the morning and no lizard-man was going to be the cause for Steve outrunning him.
He pushes himself off the ground with a groan, and stretches out his sore limbs. Definitely too old for lying around a cemetery beyond midnight.
He calls out your name loudly, and then again, before waiting.
He hears bells ringing in the distance.
Bucky looks up.
In the shadows of the trees, he comes face to face with the same sight as before. A figure, standing on the branches.
“There’s nothing here,” he calls out, sighing. “Can we just leave?”
The twigs creek, and for a second he thinks you’re going to fall.
“Already told you I’m not faking footage, get down from there,” he repeats. “I’m leaving. I’ll see you at the gate.”
The leaves shuffle around before he hears branches break.
Something you say gets obscured by your movement, but you disappear again. He thinks that maybe you were cursing him out, and deservedly so. He just couldn’t find it in himself to care.
He rolls his eyes, but starts making his way to the entrance of the graveyard.
The walk back is faster, and he holds back a yawn as the gates start creeping up on the horizon.
There’s no sign of you. He half thinks you ditched him here and went back to the compound. Or fell off the tree and were just laying there.
But he decides to wait, leaning against the exposed concrete wall.
Eyes closed, he rubs his temples and decides that if you’re not here in the next thirty seconds, he’ll just–
“Hey,” you greeet from right in front of him.
“Where the hell did you go?” he demands.
You blink at him, before holding up a wrapper.
“Got a sandwich. I was hungry. The diner was real nice too, I spent like half an hour talkin’ to the owner.”
He stares at you. “You just left to get a sandwich?”
“Yeah, and I got you one, too,” you reply, tossing him a paper bag. “You’re welcome. God bless that man, but those things aren’t cheap.”
“You’ve not been here for the last half hour?”
“I mean, I spent like ten minutes looking.” You shrug, taking another bite. “All I got was a bunch of grass.”
Ten minutes. Bucky had sat under the stupid tree for an hour.
“So you just left,” he says dryly.
“Yes,” you reply like it’s not even worth debating. “Besides, if anyone could find a cryptid it’d be you. A fellow cryptid.”
Bucky spins on his heel to leave.
“You’re welcome for dinner,” you call out, and he can hear you laugh.
He flips you the finger, and regrets it a second later when your singing resumes.
The sandwich is good. He appreciates it.
He even manages to keep pace with Steve the next morning.
What he doesn’t appreciate is coming back to fifteen missed calls and four video calls from you.
From: co-host (TGS)
can you pick up
From: co-host (TGS)
i know you have nothing going on in your life you are bitchless
Bucky switches off his phone for the next three hours.
Finally, it’s a threat that you will show up at his door again and Bucky finally video calls you back that evening.
“What,” he states.
“Took you long enough,” you huff, sitting up to adjust the camera. In the middle of the ordeal, Bucky sees your laptop open.
“What do you want?” he repeats.
“The team sent over the videos from last night,” you tell him. “At some point in the video you said ‘we’re not faking footage, get down from there.”
“Yeah.”
He hears you play the footage faintly in the background, almost to substantiate your point. He cringes at the sound of his own voice.
“Who were you talking to?”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Heard you in the trees. Figured you climbed up there again.”
“Ah.” You click your tongue. “Interesting.”
“What.”
You hum. “See, that wasn’t me.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Yes, it was.”
“No, it wasn’t,” you say calmly. “I’d left to get dinner way before all that.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious. Got the timestamp on my video to prove it.” You look up at him through the camera finally. “So who were you actually talking to, Barnes?”
Bucky’s nose twitches.
“Bye,” he says shortly.
“Dude,” he hears you laugh loudly through the phone. “I fuckin’ told you you’d attract these things, you–”
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