Chapter Text
Dearest Rose,
Congratulations on your successful matrimony. I do require a meeting with the man who is now your husband in order to have comprehensive approval. I assume he has earnt the approval of both mother and Esther. He has yet to earn mine. Perhaps next winter if the time is right. I sincerely hope you and Esther see to mother well. I am thankful for every update you send me in regards to her health. The next payment should be coming through on the 7th of next month. If you require more, do not be afraid to ask.
In regards to your concerns, I am doing fine as well. I do have one development I can grace you with.
I have met someone. On technicalities, I had met him some time ago.
Before you undoubtedly send a letter full of questions, I will answer them for you in advance.
His name is Roark Rickaby. He is twenty-four as of yesterday as I write this. We have... somewhat of an extensive and difficult history. Though we have not become properly acquainted with one another until some few months ago. Unfortunately, some events out of our control had kept us from becoming closer in any sense. He is rather odd, yet charming in his own ways. He has captured my attention completely to my utter surprise. He is what I would describe as a raconteur, he often emits out unusual yet entertaining bafflegab. He is a thorough infuriation, simply for how completely he has me in his grasp. You would take quite a liking to him I believe; you have particular similarities. He is an ebullient man, quite the opposite of me I am afraid, he is far too pleasant to be associated with company like mine.
He has become a rather pleasant surprise in my life.
That is all I will grace you with. However, I do plan on writing back again soon, perhaps then I will grant you more details of him. For now, I’d like to keep him to myself.
You will meet Roark someday. If he can resist the urge to go off chasing the illogical...
The music softly echoes off the gritty walls of the caverns, the clicking of footsteps accompany the jazzy-swing of the muted melodies. Twin sets of shoes set against the cold stone. The symphony of silence is comfortable between the two men, a soft blanket atmosphere warming the two souls. Mordecai pointedly ignores the questioning stare from Horatio as they pass.
Roark springs the doorman with a trademark grin, an attempt at a hasty greeting before he’s whisked away by the tuxedo on a mission. Behind the speakeasy’s entry way doors, a drunken Collins Wadsworth is left wandering through the dance floor, in search of Heller’s poet. Undoubtedly fuming at the loss of his distraction for the evening.
However, unaware of the fact that he will never have the chance to dance with the illusive violinist.
Not when Roark’s hand sits neatly intertwined within Mordecai’s, fingers interlocked... where it belongs.
Mordecai leads the young poet towards the inconspicuous café above. Up to the safe haven that is the privacy of his office. Where his gift for the grey tabby awaits. Patient and yearning. Craving and hungry. His long-awaited confession wrapped lovingly in soft blue wrapping paper. Pages upon pages of poetry wait unwearyingly for Heller’s beloved poet to recite. Mordecai can only hope that Roark would be willing to recite them all to him, just so that he may bask in the dulcet tones of Mr Rickaby’s voice.
The poet’s hand is irresistibly soft within his, holding back just as tightly. Their grip is firm, as if something is to tear them apart. As if Mordecai would let that happen. Heller subtly looks back over his shoulder to the violinist just behind him. Azure eyes already stare up into his imploringly, his newly acquainted ivory bowtie does an excellent job in framing the poet’s shirt collar. He looks... perfect. Mordecai’s heart throbs in his chest. Roark’s eyes are full of something... a silent question.
Where are you taking me?
Mordecai gently caresses his thumb over the violinist’s knuckles, providing silent reassurance and unexpected comfort. Roark squeezes his hand back in response, unleashing a surge of incessant butterflies throughout the hatchet man’s core. The vexatious feeling seems to never leave him be. If anything, the frequency seems to... maddeningly increase within Roark’s presence and merely decrease when not. Never fully dissipating. Instead, the sensation of butterflies becomes swiftly replaced with insatiable yearning. Which Mordecai is wholly unsure if that feeling is worse in comparison. Both render him vexingly yet pleasantly distracted.
Mordecai deducts that it must simply be a buzzing force of... something. Or perhaps damned upon him by the symbol carved into his chest, sitting just beneath his left collar bone. A curse.
Nevertheless, his curse gifts him Roark Rickaby in the flesh.
All to terrorise Mordecai with pretty smiles and charming lexicon. Sharp teeth and delightful laughs. Azure eyes and symmetrical stripes. It seems the Savoy siblings miraculously did right in endowing the tuxedo cat with scars beyond his understanding... and beliefs. Mordecai feels that it may be a stretch to connect Roark to the scars on his chest, as if Roark was unassumingly born to delightfully ruin his life. A prophetic omen sent in the form of some sharp-witted, firecracker of a young man. While unexpected, this omen is one that Heller has so willingly accepted without so much as a fight.
Utterly ludicrous.
Mordecai would wholeheartedly let Roark to ruin his life... in any and every lifetime.
Without question.
“You worried I’m going to high tail it out of here Serious?” Roark cheekily comments, referring to the grip Mordecai still has his hand in. There’s a grin in his voice, evidently and equally amused as he is flustered. Mordecai wants to comment on the obvious hypocrisy in Roark’s statement but keeps his mouth shut, suddenly worried that his words will unexpectedly fail him.
Roark makes an excellent point; Mordecai is now suddenly hyper-aware of how desperate his grip on the poet is. As if he can’t afford to lose him. Roark’s question however, does not warrant for the gunman’s grip to loosen even a fraction.
“Someone has to keep you in line Rickaby” Mordecai impishly replies back, full of affection. Though he is not fully accustomed to the teasing between them, he playfully swipes at Roark with his tail. Mordecai resists the urge to smirk at the flustered noise that squeaks out of Roark’s throat as he bats at Heller’s tail.
The café is eerily dark at this hour, gifting an inconspicuous illusion to the outside world. Humbly conveying the modest illusion of there being not a hair out of place here officer! The street lights cast glorious warm light into the cold interior of the café. Quiet and unassuming, it sits guarding it’s well-hidden yet boisterous alter-ego. Well-kept and now prospering once more. Slowly reviving like a ghostly phoenix from the ashes, returning to claim its throne upon its glory days once more. Mordecai blends easily into the murky shadows of the café, whilst Roark stands out like a daisy in a needle stack.
“Just upstairs” Mordecai softly whispers to the man behind him, making the mistake of looking back at the tabby again just to lose all the breath in his lungs once more. The damned bowtie sits so charmingly at the tabby’s shirt collar, reminiscent of a gift waiting to be unwrapped. A few precious tufts of soft fur peek out above the ivory bow, taunting Mordecai. His mouth runs dry.
“Yessir” the younger man endearingly whispers back, no doubt delivering a flirtatious wink going by his mischievous tone. The tease sends Mordecai’s mind reeling further.
Get yourself together Heller.
Leading Roark upstairs, Mordecai leisurely and shakily retrieves the key to his office out of his coat pocket. His nerves lit aflame by the notion of having Rickaby alone in his office once more. A situation Mordecai will not take for granted this time around. The noir man is certain the two of them slipped away unnoticed, he believes so at least. The odds for interruption to occur at this hour are incredibly slim. Afterall, the party downstairs has only truly started a mere hour and a half ago.
Placing the key within the lock, his ears flick at the telltale clicks of the gears releasing. Pushing the door open, Mordecai holds the door wide with his free hand for the younger man to step forward and into the privacy of the office. Roark slowly releases Mordecai’s hand to do so. Disappointment hits Mordecai like a cold slap to his face, mentally chastising himself for instantaneously missing the feeling. Mordecai is not clingy. When did he become so... insistent on touch? He cannot stand it.
The urge is new, and horrifically unbearable.
He has always had an aversion to physical contact ever since he was a child. His sisters and mother being the rare exception to make any casual contact with Mordecai, the few special cases. All simply for the fact they were cut from the same cloth. The cloth of blood relation. That contact has not been made again for many years.
But since then?
Touch has been anything but welcomed.
Then Roark Rickaby suddenly arrives, all bliss and mirth. And oh, so casually touching Mordecai as he pleases and Heller can’t help but crave it. Becoming a fiend for the musician’s fleeting caresses. Like Roark was born with the right to do so, just as he was born to receive. The tuxedo has let all the sly touches slide, unable to fight them when the rush of emotions swarm throughout his nervous system. A singular lingering caress always sends Mordecai’s mind reeling for days, unable to wrench the accursed touch from his mind. A hauntingly tender memory.
And now? Mordecai’s defences have plummeted down, allowing himself to touch the violinist back. A deliberate reciprocation. Testing the waters ever so slowly, so scarcely. Afraid he would spook the tabby away for merely speaking to him. But Roark is not afraid of him. Not anymore.
Roark has let Mordecai willingly lead him away from the dancefloor, the tabby’s hand encased protectively in his own white paw. He allows Heller to lead him away without so much as a peep, without question. A fearless boy he is. Allowing the hatchet man to whisk him away from the cavern of sin, leaving behind questioning stares as they make their leave.
Mordecai fixes Roark with what he hopes is a deadpan look, though is knowingly aware he is incapable of hiding the affection from his glare. Holding the office door open for the tabby, Roark gifts a smile to the tuxedo as he steps close.
“Thank you, sir” Rickaby croons, a soft purr to his tone. His soft, bushy tail brushes along Mordecai’s chest, travelling down his arm and paw, dusting the doorknob. A violent shiver runs down the older man’s spine. His patience being held together by a mere thread.
Rocky leisurely steps into the cozy space, taking in all the details in as if he has never had the chance to do so. Which in actuality, is mostly true. The last occurrence that had trapped Rickaby within his office had struck them both in a state of shock. Too uncomfortable and unquestionably awkward for Rocky to have taken the opportunity to take in the finer details of Mordecai’s designated space. There sits a large ornate bookshelf beside the tightly locked window, containing a multitude of Heller’s favoured works. Hardcover books stand straight and spotless, not a speck of dust in sight. All orderly and symmetrical, as if organised by a machine. Once Heller’s long anticipated guest is fully situated within his office, Mordecai swiftly shuts and locks the door firmly behind himself. The click of the lock’s gears trigger Roark’s ears to flick in recognition, though the poet remains facing towards the desk.
“See now... I’m really starting to suspect that you think I’m going to run off” Roark amusedly laughs, though there is no hint of fear in his voice. Mordecai notes that the violinist’s body language is... comfortable. Mentally comparing the tabby’s posture from moments that he has observed previously, Roark’s lean frame is lacking the usual tautness and tensity it habitually contains. Relaxed in his posture, fluffy tail swishing in interest. Intrigued.
“This isn’t to keep you in Roark... it is merely to keep others out” Mordecai quietly replies, unable to keep the softness for the musician out of his tone. He steps forward, walking around his desk opposite of Roark. Their shoulders close to brushing as he passes by.
“Worried that Zib’s going to change his mind and drag me down to play my strings?” Rocky smiles a gentle grin, watching Mordecai with innate attentiveness. Pupils blown wide. The idea of Zibowski interrupting them once more triggers Mordecai’s tail to flick in open nervousness.
“Zibowski? Incredibly unlikely...” Heller quietly muses, eyes scanning down to his desk drawer before pulling it slowly open with a shaky hand. The gift awaits exactly how he had left it.
“...As if I would allow him” Mordecai finishes under his breath, retrieving the neatly wrapped present from its confines.
Mordecai stands silently as he holds the gift in view for the tabby, unsure on how to approach the situation. Roark’s face transitions through a multitude of expressions. Contorting from confusion, to surprise then to utter flusterment. His striped fluffy tail puffing up, nervous and charming.
“Mordecai?” the poet questions, confusion and bafflement unmistakeable in his tone.
“I took it upon myself to...” Mordecai’s green eyes peer down at the present in his hands awkwardly, “...formulate a gift for you.”
A beat of silence thrums between them. The older man awkwardly stares up to the tabby in embarrassment. Self-conscious and flustered by his own actions, a small grimace forms on Heller’s face. However, the expression on Roark’s face fills Mordecai’s chest with a tsunami of butterflies. The poet is fighting the urge to smile by biting at his bottom lip... and doing a horrendous attempt at doing so. Roark looks utterly endearing.
“You got me a gift?” Roark questions with a whisper, as if he cannot believe the notion. His paws coming up to grip at his own waist coat timidly, fiddling with the buttons. His lucky tie very noticeably missing, Mordecai’s heart twangs with guilt.
“I- well... yes” the older man fumbles, nervous.
Mordecai’s feet finally kick into gear and allow him to traverse back around his desk, towards the ruffled poet. Standing mere inches in front of the younger man, the concept of personal space seemingly has left Heller’s mind. Though Roark doesn’t seem to mind. The tuxedo wordlessly presents the gift to the violinist, tenderly holding it towards him.
Rocky’s hands tremble slightly as he reaches out to accept the gift, gingerly letting their paws touch as they exchange, the contact lingering. Mordecai holds his breath, the tension threatening to swallow him up whole.
What if it doesn’t like it?
What if he already has one?
And what if-
Roark takes a moment to assess the pleasing blue wrapping paper, his expression soft. A sweet smile graces his face as he looks back up at the noir man inches from him. The look Roark gifts him does wonders at rendering Mordecai so completely and utterly weak, how far he has fallen. All for the chance to be graced with that damned smile.
“You really didn’t need to get me anything” he whispers, his eyes brimming full with of affection.
“I know I didn’t need to...” Mordecai gently replies, matching the quiet tone Roark has set, “...I wanted to.” Bright green eyes stare intensely at the tabby in front of him, unaware of his slow blinking and subtle purr emanating from his chest. A gentle white noise.
“Can I?” Roark breathlessly questions, referring down the gift in his paws.
“Please” Mordecai hastily replies, the suspense breaking him further.
Roark drags his claw along the side of the ribbon, hesitantly unbinding the ivory fabric from around the parcel. With the ribbon removed, the tabby carefully slices through the wrapping paper with the same claw, carefully handling the gift as if it contains his most precious belonging.
The wrapping peels away to reveal the ornate, hardcover comprise of Shakespeare’s most renowned works. Small vines of gold leaf trace of the corners of the cover, the pages protected by a hand pressed brown leather cover. It was admittedly... costly compared to the other options the book store had available. However, Mordecai believed the quality was worthy of Roark’s disposition. The rest simply could not compare.
“You-” the poet squeaks out, speechless by the opulent book in his paws. His mouth opening to speak although no words scramble out. Instead, a tiny sound of astonishment peeps out of the tabby’s throat.
“Do you like it?” Mordecai whispers imploringly, desperate to know for certain; is Roark is pleased by the older man’s choice? Mordecai resists the urge to claw and scratch his own fur out in suspense, rather he stares intensely down at the musician standing before him.
A heavy silence sits anxiously between the two men as Roark suddenly snaps up to look at Mordecai as if he had grown another head.
“To like it would be an awfully farfetched understatement Serious” Roark gallantly defends, offended at the notion that the gift was something he merely liked. Clutching the novel to his chest, the poet bites at his bottom lip as he stars earnestly back at the noir cat.
“So... you find the gift pleasing?” Mordecai enquires once more, requiring explicit confirmation for his own slipping sanity. His hands stay stock still at his sides, gripping desperately at nothing. Aching to grasp the younger man in front of him and yank him into the safety of Heller’s arms.
“Mordecai, I love it” Rocky finally whispers out, embarrassed and oh so fluffy. His cheeks puffed up as if a gale had swept through and ruffled each individual hair into an utter darling mess. Mordecai’s paws itch to reach up and grab Rickaby’s face. To hold and adore.
Roark loves it.
The confirmation of this undeniable fact sends a crashing wave of relief through Heller, completely and utterly satisfied that Roark loves the gift he has presented. Mordecai has chosen carefully and successfully. He has always been resourceful and observant, surely his gift is undeniable proof of his compatibly for the violinist. He is intelligent and intuitive; he pays close attention to Roark’s interests. He wants to know.
“I have also purchased a copy for myself” Mordecai nervously reveals. Implying his attentiveness.
Roark ears perk up in interest. Blue eyes wide with endearment and astonishment, fluffy tail swaying with curiosity. Charming.
“Oh? Taken a sudden interest in poetry, have we?” the tabby implores teasingly, suggesting Mordecai to continue. Eyes twinkling in barely contained endearment.
“Well- I... I’d simply like to be able to keep up with you so to speak, I’d like to be able to translate your nonsense when you spout it at me” Heller defends, embarrassed by how horrendously weak he is to the poet’s charming eyes.
The dismissive response does little to ease Roark’s smile, rather, it grows wider. Sharp teeth on display as the tabby grins up at the older man, endlessly endeared. Amative and hopelessly swooning over the tuxedo, Roark inches closer.
“I haven’t answered your question, have I?” the poet enquires, his smile as sweet as decadent honey.
“Question?” Mordecai issues, perplexed by the inquiry. White, imposing eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
“... I’m sure you can recall me saying that terrified isn’t the right word for it” the tabby’s points his chin low, staring up at the other man through the loose strands of hair straying from his fringe.
“Yes” Mordecai breathlessly whispers.
The question. From that unexpected night, in this office. Roark had asked him if he was lonely.
He is.
The question had thrown Mordecai for a loop, is he lonely? Of course he is. He exterminates people for a living. It is what he had been trained to do. He needed... needs to stay alive. His family resides in New York. Approximately nine-hundred and seventy-nine miles away. Regardless of what he does to earn his finances, he will always provide for his family. Although, he isn’t even sure of what their voices sound like anymore.
Mordecai doesn’t form attachments. At least that is what he had told himself since Atlas had died.
How horrifically wrong he is.
He has fallen in love. The most detested attachment of all. A weakness so great it consumes his very being, every damn inch, every nook and cranny of his rigid heart. How hopeless he is, hanging on Roark’s every word. The question. Does he scare Roark away the way he does with everyone else?
It has protected him for so long. Intimidating, terrifying most away. There was only a matter of time before someone were to find the fracture in the wall. The flaw in his design. The weak spot.
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Terrified?”
Mordecai holds his breath, the tension building up inexplicably within his chest. The pressure is unbearable. A boiling kettle under the heat of pressure, Heller feels that he will explode if he does not receive an answer. Roark, the darling he is, unintentionally yet sweetly torturing the tuxedo.
“I believe... that redamancy may be a better suiting word, after all...” the tabby tenderly muses.
Roark smiles with such softness that Mordecai swears he feels his knees buckle beneath him, yet he stands stock still. Immovable. Heller continues to desperately holds his breath, as if the notion of letting it free would certainly stir him from whatever dream he is in.
“You are where I go when my mind wanders” Roark’s eyes twinkle with such unfiltered affection that Mordecai feels unexpectedly parched. He finds himself glancing down to the violinist’s lips.
“...and it seems once I found you, I never left. Nor do I want to.”
Mordecai’s heartbeat thunders within his own alert ears, disbelieving of what he is finally hearing. The answer to his long-awaited question. The end to his madness. Or perhaps the beginning.
Redamancy.
In simpler terms, to return one’s notions of love and affection.
“I have been hopelessly lost for the longest time Mordecai” the poet whispers, lovingly clutching the novel close to his chest. His smile is driving Heller mad. The look that Roark is gifting him is so tremendously saccharine and by God is Mordecai addicted and so utterly and hopelessly in love.
Roark reciprocates.
Mordecai suddenly feels a switch. A trigger going off inside him and all of a sudden, he is lurching forward, his hands coming to grip desperately at the younger man’s lean biceps. Shooting off like a pistol, his claws dig possessively into the fabric of Roark’s dress shirt with unfiltered hunger. Pupil’s blown wide with adoration; Mordecai is completely unsure of what his body is doing. Merely needing to act. Moving on pure instinct, Heller determinedly presses his lips harshly against Roark’s own. Heller reflexively closes his eyes as fireworks crackle and explode just behind his eyelids. He can feel himself shaking from unfiltered vigour alone.
The poet’s lips are heavenly.
Roark graciously gifts Mordecai a small endearing sound mixed between a squeak and a gasp, muffled by their union. The younger man’s lips are unmoving, caught still with surprise and inexperience. An inexperience Mordecai can relate wholly to, a mirror of his own understanding. Or lack thereof.
A sudden and piercing cold feeling stabs through him. Roark isn’t moving.
Wrenching himself back, yet still keeping his grip firm and desperate on the poet. Mordecai is sent reeling.
“Roark- I... scheiße- Roark, I apologise-” Mordecai panics, pupils narrowed into slits.
Roark’s cheeks are delightfully fluffed up, flustered and soft. His eyes blown wide and pupils practically filling the azure with a deep pool of black. Mordecai continues to ramble and fumble his apologies as the tabby processes.
“...I did not intend to osculate you like that- and certainly not without permission! I am sorrHRMMPHF-” Mordecai’s incessant apologies are swiftly interrupted by a hand covering his mouth shut.
“Mordecai... stop, you don’t have to apologise!” Roark breathlessly whispers before slowly releasing the older man’s face. Rocky’s eyelids lower as he stares at Heller’s mouth. Mordecai can still feel the phantom sensation of the poet’s lips as a tingling rush sends shivers down his spine.
“You are always so serious” the tabby laughs soundlessly, still breathless from surprise. There is a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
“But I shouldn’t have-” the tuxedo starts again but is interrupted once more. His voice breaks slightly, his anxiety creeping its way towards his throat. Roark huffs a breathless but endeared laugh.
“...all you should have done- was let me put the book down first before osculating me” Rocky grins, sharp teeth bared with unbridled excitement. He leans slowly around Heller to place the book down gently onto the desk. Mordecai observes his every move with the consideration of a starving vulture.
With the book now safely placed on the desk, Roark leans back into his original and rightful position.
The younger man’s hands come to gently snake around Mordecai’s neck, loose enough for Mordecai to push away if he so pleased. He would never.
“...why don’t we... try this again?” Roark whispers sweetly, his muzzle pressing softly onto Mordecai’s. He can feel the poet shake in his arms. He is just as nervous as I am.
Taking his time, Mordecai inches forward at a snail’s pace and gingerly presses his lips onto Roark’s once more. Mordecai moves carefully and deliberately, as if Roark is to skitter off like a prey mammal at the first sight of danger. Heller keeps his hands hovering just above Rocky’s upper back.
As their lips connect once more, the two men let out sighs full of relief and delight. This time, the violinist presses his soft lips back onto Mordecai’s, reciprocating the kiss. The younger man pushes himself impossibly closer onto the noir cat. Chest to chest. Heart to heart. Mordecai swears that there is no conceivable way that Roark can’t not feel his heartbeat thunder through and beat into the poet’s ribcage.
Their lips move together with such tenderness that has both men’s hearts threatening to merge together, forcing their way to become one soul. Mordecai knows he is purring. However, he is not alone, he can hear Roark’s delightful purrs harmonise with his own and it is bliss.
Their kisses grow hungrier as they as they suck in needy breaths in between, not wanting to waste a single second apart. They dive further in each and every time, each kiss becoming more desperate than the last. Roark’s skilled hands are caressing his neck, shoulders and upper back. Gripping in a frenzy at whatever he can reach and squeeze at on the older man. Growing bold and evidently more handsy, the poet’s hands trail slightly under the collar of Mordecai’s dress shirt, caressing at the usually hidden fur on the back of his neck. Tingles tremble down Heller’s spine at the sensation.
Wanting to reciprocate Roark’s bold moves, Mordecai takes a firm hold of the poet’s slender waist. The movement causes Roark to gasp into the kiss, his own hold on the other man tightening. Small sounds croon from Rocky’s throat, completely giving away just how exhilarated he is feeling. The two men’s tails curl protectively around each other, their bodies moving on needy instinct.
Mordecai’s control slips further into his madness, after waiting... for what felt like an eternity, Mordecai has Roark in his arms. Right where he has always meant to be. Mordecai pulls the younger man around, guiding him against the desk beside the now forgotten hardcover book and discarded wrapping paper. Pressed between the frame of Mordecai’s desk and... well, Mordecai.
Roark is in bliss.
“...Mordecai-” Roark huffs out the noir man’s name with a sigh, yearning and shaking from jittery nerves. Mordecai hastily recaptures the younger man’s lips with vigour, gently nibbling at Roark’s dark bottom lip to satiate his overwhelming urge to bite.
The poet squeaks out a noise mixed between a gasp and soft moan, his mouth opening just wide enough for the tuxedo to hesitantly tease his tongue into the other’s mouth. Curious, Mordecai pushes further. Roark’s tongue presses gently against Mordecai’s own, meeting closely in the middle with equal curiosity.
The sensation is... unexpectedly pleasant.
Roark’s hands shake as they thread through Mordecai’s fur, massaging at the older man’s neck and sending pleasurable tingles down his spine. Heller can feel the poet purr excitedly in his desperate hold, creating a satisfying duet with his own enthusiastic vibrations. Roark’s claws delicately weave and caress through noir hairs, lovingly grazing at the sensitive skin hiding beneath.
Lapping at each other’s tongues, diving further with each tender kiss. The two men spiral further into a madness of their creation. Cherishing and oh so adoring. Mordecai swears there simply is no better feeling than being here, within the arms of this darling man that captures his attention and soul so completely. His darling rose in a field of daisies, his sweet poet. Perfect and everything he has ever wanted. All he will ever need. He is here, with him. Safe. Content. Purring so wonderfully against his chest, slowly undoing the ivory bowtie sitting at Roark’s throat from the friction between them.
Does he deserve Roark?
After all I have done, how could I ever?
A bitter chill runs down the noir man’s spine. He does not deserve Roark. For everything he has done, all the blood he has spilt. It truly is a wonder how Mordecai’s hands are not permanently stained in crimson. Instead, his paws grip ravenously at the younger man’s hips and slender waist. A privilege he will never deserve. A sinful temptation, pushing Mordecai beyond the edge of insanity.
What am I doing?
Pulling himself away from the poet’s divine mouth is unbearably more painful than Mordecai would ever believe it would be. The tabby attempts to follow the tuxedo with a small croon chirping from his throat, attempting to tantalize the older man to dive back in. Both men breathe heavily as they stare at each other, Roark’s eyes full of confusion at the sudden halt of their ardent union.
“I do not deserve you... I do not deserve this” Mordecai breathily whispers, riddled with guilt. The tuxedo wills himself to release the younger man’s hips, his claws catching on the fabric of the cerulean tabby’s dress pants.
Roark’s expressive brows furrow in displeasure, a small pout forms on his face. His paws leisurely travel from Heller’s upper back to his hold his face, cradling the hatchet man’s cheeks. The tabby’s tail curls affectionately around Mordecai’s own.
“Deserving is irrelevant Mordecai; do you want me?” Rocky whispers against Mordecai’s muzzle, soft breath tickling noir and ivory hair.
“Yes” he softly replies, his hands shaking. Pupils blown wide, slivers of green meadows gently framing the noir abyss of his adoring stare.
More than anything.
“Then have me” the younger man fondly smiles, gripping desperately at the back of Mordecai’s neck once more. Claws finding their place through his dark fur, caressing skin and sending Heller into a spiral.
Roark pulls Mordecai close, his lips finding their rightful place amongst the tuxedo’s own. The noise that slips from Mordecai’s throat is admittedly; incredibly embarrassing if one were to ever ask him about it later. However, right now? Mordecai seemingly is unwilling to contain his desperation anymore.
Mordecai is fully aware of his own inexperience, as well as Roark’s own. Regardless, the way the two connect shoots a flurry of electrifying energy and decadent delight down both men’s spines and it is perfect. Mordecai truly believes that it really wouldn’t matter what Roark could ever do, flaws and all; he is perfect. He is to Mordecai. No one could pry that belief away from his protective claws.
The grey tabby heatedly gasps into the kiss as Heller prods his tongue gently back into his mouth, desperate to feel the poet’s tongue against his own once more. Eager to consume every breath his poet heaves.
Roark has always had a sweet tooth. Ever since he was a small kitten, the syrupy sugared delights always tickled his senses in a way that no other flavour has. How wrong he was with that. Mordecai tastes like that black tea he always drinks, with the subtle hint of sweet Tennessee honey. A lovely and oh so welcoming combination.
And now, Roark’s favourite, gentle sweetness.
Mordecai tastes hopelessly addicting. Roark surmises that unfortunately, pancakes have become a footnote in terms of favourability. A close second place.
Mordecai laps softly yet hungrily against Roark’s tongue, eager and ardent to taste and feel as much as he possibly can in turn. His paws ravenously gripping at the tabby’s hips and waist, pressing and guiding him further against the desk. Roark follows the older man’s guidance, perching himself upon the wooden table top. Sat charmingly beside his birthday present. Deciding to go a step further, the younger man hooks his legs around Mordecai’s waist. Keeping him locked tight in his loving embrace.
Mordecai’s brain turns into a sizzle of numbing static.
Suddenly rendered incapable of coherent thought, relying on the mindless drive of instinct to continue kissing the poet on his lap utterly silly. Heller silently thanks himself for locking the door in advance before he decided to fervently osculate Roark Rickaby on his desk. One would need to hire a fleet of men to pull the tuxedo off and away from the charming boy in his arms. The tabby squirms, full of energy and nerves, pulling the tuxedo in as close as physically possible. Unable to accustom himself to the exhilarating feeling of being in the hitman’s arms. This man holds the power and skill to kill him within seconds, yet here Mordecai is; purring and practically melting on top of him. The sweetness of it all has Roark swooning in Heller’s devoted hold.
Love of two is one.
The two men huff and slip ardent noises into each other’s open maws, sharing gentle praise in the form of harmonious purring and breathless gasps. Caressing and cradling each other with the tenderness of two star-crossed lovers, dragged through hell and back, despairing yet destined to cross paths once more. To never leave one’s side again.
Roark’s voice whispers in his mind.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Mordecai supposes there is meaning to this addictive madness. The poet’s words illude to much deeper meanings, as is their purpose. Mordecai had been deaf to the meaning when Roark had versed sweet literature in his office that night. Roark had essentially... confessed his feelings in such a concealed way that it had flown with the grace and silence of an owl right over Mordecai’s head and straight out the window. Undetected and ignored.
Mordecai recalls reading the rest of the sonnet. Sonnet eighteen. The gentle words the musician recited to him. It’s a love poem.
Oh, my dearest one. I apologise for not realising sooner.
Mordecai pulls away by less than an inch to whisper ardently into the poet’s mouth.
“When I saw you...” he softly kisses towards the younger man’s jaw, “...I fell in love.”
Roark croons fervently as he tips his head back, gifting Mordecai more access to the soft hidden fur of his jaw and neck. Teeth graze his throat, triggering the violinist’s purring to increase tenfold.
“And you smiled” Mordecai huffs into the crook of the younger man’s neck. His breath tickling the sensitive skin concealed beneath indulgent fur.
“Because you knew” the two men in unison, surprising the tuxedo out of his messy kisses onto the poet’s throat. Roark chuckles endearingly, paws gripping at the older man’s back. Squeezing at Mordecai’s hips with his thighs.
“You learned some Shakespeare?” the tabby teases, an ecstatic grin in his tone.
“For you? I’m learning them all” Mordecai whispers back, flustered. Appreciative of his hiding place in the younger man’s neck. “I did purchase a copy of my own for a reason, all to keep up with you dear” Heller cheekily recites.
Dear.
Roark’s heart thunders in his chest. He swears he’s on the verge of a heart attack. The older man’s voice is so soft and tender, the way his voice forms the word dear has Roark threatening to collapse, though he is held firmly in place by noir arms and the desk beneath him. Mordecai’s hips dig forward into his and Roark firmly believes he must be melting into syrup within the tuxedo’s arms, reduced to jelly. Completely new and inexperienced to all the new feelings surging through him, Roark stays pliant in Mordecai’s hold. Allowing the tuxedo to continue with his ardent exploring. An eager frenzy.
As divine as Mordecai’s mouth and teeth feel at his neck, Roark horrifically misses the attention where he truly needs it.
“Good lord Serious... if you don’t come back up here-” Roark starts and is swiftly interrupted as Mordecai wordlessly recaptures the tabby’s lips, doing so without question.
The poet graciously gifts Mordecai a noise mixed between a sigh of relief and needy moan. Roark feels as though he is going to combust. Crackle and detonate in Mordecai’s hold like a lit stick of dynamite. Heller’s paws hungrily grasp and massage at Roark’s hips and thighs, satisfying the overwhelming urge within his paws to just- grab. Mordecai looms protectively over his poet, who is delightfully dishevelled beneath him. Sprawled perfectly against his desk, bowtie incredibly close to slipping away from the tabby’s shirt collar. The collar sits charmingly splayed open, revealing alluring chest fur to peek out teasingly. Practically begging for the noir man’s attention. Courteously and fittingly, the bowtie may almost be mistaken for a gift bow. Tempting Heller to unwrap the present in his arms.
Mordecai obediently answers its silent call, wrenching one hand away from his poet’s hip to splay against Roark’s inviting chest. Skilled fingers weave through heavenly fur, all soft and pliant beneath the pads of his paw. Claws gently dig into the plush of the tabby’s chest, starvingly squeezing at as much as he can fit in his hand.
The violinist moans a flustered noise into Mordecai’s mouth, muffled by the tuxedo’s curious tongue attempting to make its way down his throat. Doing its best to make itself at home, leaving no corner or crevice unknown. Familiarising himself. The hand gripping at his chest has Rocky thighs squeezing tighter around the older man’s hips. Heller groans into Roark’s mouth at the pressure and friction of their pressed hips. Mordecai’s claws weave through tufts of soft fur, caressing the hidden skin beneath.
If one were to tell Mordecai roughly six months ago about what is currently transpiring, he most expectedly would shoot them where they stand.
Utter asinine.
The impossible and unconceivable indication of Roark Rickaby ever replicating Mordecai’s feelings alone seemed quite unfathomable. Mordecai had hardly understood his own feelings at first. The conclusion to the altercation at Sable’s quarry had left Heller feeling... unequivocally disordered. Any thoughts of the violin wielding tabby had gone from practically non-existent to ever-present from that night forth. The maddening rambles of poetry upon his mechanical stead had infiltrated his very core. Hauntingly striking azure eyes have never left his mind, flashes and rumbles of dynamite that threatened to shake his footing. However, it was not the explosions that rendered his knees weak that night.
And now, here he is, pressing the younger man against his desk and osculating him. His poet sits oh so prettily against the surface of the ornate wooden desk top. Mordecai holds him desperately close, as if Roark were to disappear if he loosened his grip by even a fraction.
Roark purrs are a gentle rumble against his chest, a soothing yet exhilarating sensation. An evident audible notion of Roark enjoying this... passionate entanglement just as much as Mordecai does. Heller continues to fuss and muse with the fluff of Roark’s chest, dedicated to the act as if it will be final and only chance, the only opportunity he will have to do so.
Surely this... entanglement means something? They have both admitted their interest-
Mordecai pulls away suddenly, wrenching his tongue out of the tabby’s mouth, creating a mess of spit. Roark’s eyes open in surprise, pupils blown wide and adoring. His expression confused.
“I have something to ask-” Mordecai starts, bringing his paw off the poet’s chest to wipe the saliva off his own maw. Rocky laughs at the chaos of the situation, taking the opportunity to wipe away the mess on his own mouth.
“Why are you laughing- I just... ugh” Mordecai fusses, frustrated and embarrassed at the saliva now on his jacket sleeve.
“You’re just... unexpectedly cute for a man with such a serious reputation” Roark laughs as he reveals, Mordecai opens his mouth to protest but shuts it as he is rendered silent by the charming smile the tabby is giving him. Soft and oh so adoring.
Mordecai’s noir fur fluffs up marginally in embarrassment, flustered at being appointed the term cute. There are a multitude of words he has been assigned through his lifetime, cute is not on that list. Mordecai supposes that if he were to ever let the term slide, it would only be from the darling man in his arms. Grimacing to hide his endearment for the tabby, he clears his throat.
“I would like clarification...” Mordecai quietly declares, his hands back to gripping eagerly at his poet’s hips.
“Clarification?” Roark implores, his paws caressing the older man’s shoulders and chest. Mordecai clears his throat with a flustered cough, the sensations sending shivers down his spine, shooting lightning through his frame.
“Yes. Clarification... well, I just- I’d like to confirm our... status?” Mordecai vaguely enquires, his paws subconsciously massaging at the younger man’s waist and hips.
Roark hums in reply, nuzzling close. Pushing his cheek against Mordecai’s own, pressing himself as close as he can. The tabby purrs softly, allowing Mordecai time to explain.
“Our status- as in, together... are we... are we together?”
“I’ll be yours if you’ll have me Serious” Roark replies, soft yet anxious. As if Mordecai will say no.
“Mine just as I am yours then dear” Mordecai smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to the younger man’s forehead. A soft caress to the scar that sits so neatly on the centre of his forehead. Kissing away the haunting memory. Heller’s heartbeat thrums with excitement, drumming incessantly within his chest.
“Seems you’ve been promoted from my dear swain to my beau-” Roark giggles excitedly, Mordecai huffs a small laugh, continuing his kisses.
The older man’s purrs rumble softly as he peppers small adoring kisses over the younger man’s face, inciting more delightful snickers from the tabby. Trailing from the poet’s forehead, down to his nose and cheeks. Making a point on gifting a kiss to each darling eyebrow. Set on wordlessly showing to his poet just how endeared he is, just how much he adores the man in his arms. Roark wiggles incessantly against him yet is mindful of the graze on Mordecai’s shoulder, his paws patting in protest against the tuxedo’s chest.
“Mordecai! That tickles-” Roark laughs, attempting to flee the doting attack. Leaning his face away just as Mordecai reaches up to cup his cheeks with both hands, holding the younger man firmly in place. Roark laughs harder as the older man merely increases his loving assault from his lips.
The tuxedo presses kiss after kiss on his darling's face, embracing the poet close to his frame and allowing himself to indulge in his sudden playful mood. Roark laughs in Mordecai’s hold, beaming under his dearest's mischievous affection. Heller quietly chuckles and croons at the charming snorts of laughter that spout from his poet, appreciating Roark’s soft cheeks in his hands.
Mordecai’s heart swells in his chest, affection blooming like a relentless weed. Capturing his heart in its unbreakable vines of tenderness. Melting the man’s cold heart.
Unable able to resist the urge any longer, he presses a long and tender kiss to the tabby’s lips. Powerless to contain his own chuckles at the situation, the two men smile elatedly into the kiss. Roark’s giddiness is clearly infectious. Mordecai pulls away with a playful croon.
“I adore you my dear” he whispers breathlessly into the poet’s muzzle, pressing his forehead against Roark’s. Eyes full of affection.
“Surely I am dreaming-” Roark grins, nuzzling his own forehead against his love’s. The gunman snorts, his thumbs caressing the poet’s cheeks.
An apprehensive knock at the office door puts Mordecai’s affectionate onslaught to a sudden halt, anger boiling in his gut with the quick ignition of a bullet. Heller growls at the interruption, ready to maim as Roark scrambles, hurrying to fix up his shirt collar and bowtie. Roark releases his leg lock on the older man’s hips as he panics.
“One moment!” Mordecai barks out, his irritation evident. Mordecai gifts the poet a soft look as he aids in making him look presentable once more. The state he’s rendered the violinist to heats his face, flustered by just how carried away he had been. He had practically ravished the younger man. Once situating the bowtie neatly at Roark’s shirt collar, Mordecai gives him one more scan over his frame.
He looks... presentable and quite charming. No doubt shaky and flustered. His fringe is jostled but doesn’t look too out of the ordinary. The fur on his neck is slightly tussled and his lips are bitten and flushed. One would need to observe closely to truly tell what had occurred just moments before. However, Mordecai sure that with the combined wit of himself and Roark, they can weasel out a worthy excuse.
Pleased with Roark’s state, Mordecai turns himself to answer the door. He gives one last look over his shoulder at his poet, who now stands politely in front of the desk, truly encapsulating the part he plays so well. Inconspicuous and modest, as if he were not being osculated by Heller just moments before. Turning the door knob, Mordecai pulls the door open to reveal a grinning Ivy Pepper and a rather terrified looking Calvin McMurray.
“Do you two miscreants have nothing better to do-” Heller starts to complain as Ivy shoves her way into the office, elbowing Mordecai on her way in. The harsh shove into his gut incites an offended snarl from the tuxedo, pupils thinning into slits as he growls lowly at the intruders.
Freckle darts himself in quickly to avoid the older man’s wrath, slipping himself close to Ivy, who in turn steps closely into Roark’s space. The grey tabby leans awkwardly back towards the desk and Ivy leans close, studying the violinist’s face closely with squinted eyes.
“Hello miss Pepper” Rocky smiles nervously, unsure how to react. His paws coming together to anxiously fiddle at his waist coat.
“Don’t give me that Rocky... I know what you were doing in here” Ivy leers with an all-knowing grin, bringing a finger up to point accusingly at his chin.
“Not sure what you could possibly be referring to-” Roark tensely laughs, eyeing the accusing finger being pointed at him with alarm.
“You-” Ivy jabs her finger onto the poet’s nose, who yelps in surprise, “...can’t hide anything from me Rocky! Not when you both reek of each other” the flapper accuses perceptively, her tone mocking.
Mordecai stomps his way over and grips a strong hold on the girl’s offending wrist, wrenching her away from the violinist with a small tug.
“Do refrain from doing that again” the gunman grits out between clenched teeth, baring his fangs furiously. Freckle cowers further behind the young Pepper girl, reminding Roark of a snail waiting to hide within the depths of his shell.
“I’m just poking fun Mordecai- no need to get your tail in a twist” Ivy huffs, not at all threated by Mordecai’s intense glaring. His noir tail flicking in unfiltered agitation. Ivy wiggles her arm out of the gunman’s grip, opting to cross her arms over her chest amusedly.
“We do not reek! Mordecai smells superb- thank you very much!” Roark defends proudly, his hair fluffed up and ruffled as Heller snaps his head towards him with a mortified yet flustered expression.
“Roark” Mordecai gently reprimands, His voice a harsh whisper. Mordecai’s expression is unmistakeably embarrassed but his glare softens as he stares at his poet.
“But you do-” Roark whispers back in defence, pouting slightly at the older man. Mordecai’s strength wavers, his glare softening completely. Unable to fight as he glances down to the younger man’s lips, the urge to kiss him hits like a freight train.
“Anyways! You two lovebirds don’t need to hide it anymore...” Ivy coos with deceptive sweetness, “...if anything you two should thank me!”
Mordecai’s ears flatter to the back of his head at the ridiculous notion as Rocky makes a noise of disbelief, reminiscent of deflated balloon. Snorting out a dramatic laugh, the violinist wipes an imaginary tear away from his eye. The tuxedo observing from the corner of his eyes, his stare imposing yet endeared.
“Tooting your own horn Miss Pepper! Truly the mastermind behind it all” Roark quips, giving the girl a flick to the forehead.
“You look a mess Rocky-” Ivy retorts as she bats the tabby’s hand away.
Roark dramatically gasps as he splays his swatted hand to his chest. Mordecai glares at the girl, as if offended on the violinist’s behalf, he did clean him up after all. An insult against his own work. The rest of the conversation is a haze, filtering into Mordecai’s ears through what feels like layers upon layers of soot. No sift to clear what he doesn’t have the energy to listen to. He observes the tabby, the way he speaks, as each word is formed so eloquently between such sharp teeth. How expressive the younger man’s face morphs, constantly a whirlwind of emotion and unpredictability. How was Mordecai ever to resist the charm that is Roark Rickaby?
He truly wouldn’t want him any other way.