Chapter Text
MORGAN
Morgan is used to everything about their particular situation. Morgan goes to Mickey’s flat, they fuck each other’s brains out, she goes boneless for a moment and then leaves with an almost-bruising kiss that he soothes with his tongue.
Today, though, Morgan senses something different on the air, a chemical scent that catches in her nostrils and stings a little, catching on each pore. Feels her hackles rise at the thought that something might have—
Yet when he opens the door with his usual lop-sided, rakish grin, everything seems perfectly normal. Except, of course, the fact that his beard is completely missing, and she’s not sure how she feels about it.
Mickey doesn’t seem sure either, rubbing at his chin self-consciously the longer her silence drags out, sapphire eyes willing her to say something.
Morgan kisses him instead, feels his lips part under hers like a flower blooming and drinks in the nectar of his moan. Tentatively brings her hand to touch his cheek and finds it to be mind-stutteringly smooth, to the point where she breaks the kiss to press her lips to first one cheek, then the other, all while he preens under her attention, a soft smile curving equally soft lips that she leans in to capture again.
When Mickey needs to breathe (he never tells her, never breaks away from her willingly – she has to listen to his breathing, track the motion of his rib cage under her hands, actions that come easier to her than her own breathing ever did), she sucks a mark into one of the sparrows adorning his neck that makes him jerk against her and moan in her arms.
Breaking away from his neck is harder for Morgan than it has ever been, the hickey blooming warm with life against her tongue even as she licks slowly at it and feels him sigh softly (he’s so fucking soft, she can’t get enough of feeling his skin against hers and by the way he whines when she pulls away, he can’t either).
When Morgan rests her forehead against his, Mickey’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, and she lets smoke-grey eyes drift over handsome features, weathered by all kinds of storms. Kisses him again, feels his moan rumble through her rib cage as they back into his flat, bumping against the kitchen counter as they stagger blindly to the bedroom. Mickey huffs a breath when his back lands on the bed, laughs breathlessly when Morgan’s fingers are already working his tracksuit bottoms down his hips.
“Eager?” Mickey’s eyebrow is raised, questioning – and Morgan isn’t really sure what answer she can give, other than another kiss that robs the air from his lungs and leaves him panting.
“Fuck, ok.” He sounds as urgent as she feels, strong fingers skating down her sides to hook into the loops of her jeans.
They help each other out of their trousers, gasping expletives into each other’s mouths, and by the time he is out of his briefs he is almost fully hard, the first bead of pre-cum leaking onto his belly. She leans down to taste it, feels it burst salty on her tongue as his moan strangles in his throat before blurring into a hazy sigh.
“Morg—” Mickey’s low groan harshens and sharpens on a cry as Morgan takes him in, swirls her tongue around the head and lingers on the slit. She looks up to see the sapphire in his eyes swallowed by onyx, lips parted on a breath, and she cannot resist leaning up again to kiss him, running her fingers along his jawline as she lets him taste himself on her lips.
Mickey’s fingers are insistent in their pressure, but he seems more interested in pushing up her shirt to reveal her abdomen, lean and firm under his touch. He revels in her shiver as he runs the pads of his thumbs over her nipples, bare underneath the Henley, and she arches into his touch, before he reaches down to grip at her thighs.
“Up.” Morgan really shivers then as Mickey’s voice scrapes across her senses, deep and gravelly with want, and she begins to straddle his abdomen, allows herself to feel his muscles quake beneath her before he steels himself and drags her up to his mouth.
Oh.
“So that’s why you—” Any quip of Morgan’s is cut off, lost in the static of the flat of his tongue running along her slit, ripping a loud cry from her even as she tries to press him in deeper, chasing the high of that first contact as his low moans ripple through her and leave her lips in her own voice (but they are still very much his, somehow, in a way that tastes strange on her tongue).
Mickey told her once, half-addled with lust and the slightest hint of whiskey, that he could spend forever between her thighs. Morgan had scoffed at that, lifted off of him to rummage around for her clothes, but something about it had made her unsteady, made her wobble slightly as she stood to pull on her jeans, the denim snarling against her skin in protest and washing away the feel of him on her. You’d have to breathe sometime, she’d told him, before leaving with barely a backward glance.
Mickey seems to have simply resolved not to need to breathe, and even when Morgan looks down to check on him he is steadfast, licking and touching and sucking in rhythms and combinations that unlock something deep inside her, something which makes her grip at his hair to hold him in place. She screams when he chuckles at her attention, then again when he growls and redoubles his efforts, building her up, higher and higher, so she can almost touch—
Something. She’ll never know what because he’s stopped, looking far too smug as he presses languorous kisses to the slick skin of her inner thighs. She tries to reprimand him, force out a choked breath and wrangle it into something approaching speech, but the word is sticky and viscous in her throat still, even as he brushes his lips against her clit for a moment.
“You good?” His voice is still gravelly, but his eyes are watchful, and she could burn to ashes under the force of what she finds there, even if it is a language that she does not speak (that neither of them speak, in truth, but one in which he is fluent even if he thinks he has forgotten the cadences).
Nods wordlessly. Wonders if she will ever offer the words to answer the shimmering of something in her stomach when he looks at her, then looks at her cunt and smiles like the cat that got the cream.
Not a helpful metaphor.
Even then he savours her, every lick as if he thinks it might be his last, even as she feels her control slipping, fraying around the edges as she unravels above him. And even with that, his rhythm never falters, not until he seems to sense her reaching the edge and pulls her back. She’s too exhausted to try and protest, instead slumping like a puppet with cut strings above him, all of her attention focused on the sensation of his lips on her clit, the soft skin of his cheeks against her thighs.
Mickey starts to move again (if she could think, she might think his patience is wearing just as thin as hers) and Morgan feels her eyes roll back as she chokes out the word he wants to hear. “Mickey—Mickey, please.”
Isn’t sure whose moan is louder then as he moves back to her centre, brings one of his hands around from her backside to circle her clit as his tongue works her harder, deeper, winding her tighter and tighter until she snaps with a shriek, clenches her thighs around his ears and shakes above him.
Throughout it all he holds her still, rubs soothing circles into her hips as she shivers back down from her high, floats back down to earth with a sigh. Sea-blue eyes study her, satisfied and far too fucking smug for this stage in proceedings, and even as she shudders when his lips leave her with a slick pop, she smirks down at him.
“Good?” Mickey’s not stupid, he knows it was good, can see it in the way she still cannot quite convince her spine to straighten – he does that, asks one thing and means another, layers on layers of meaning which she cannot always unpick.
Kisses him again instead of answering (isn’t sure what answer she possibly could give, even if her throat would untangle itself), moans at the taste of her on him, at the feel of her slick against his smooth cheeks. Feels his hum rattle through her teeth and into her skull – lets it ricochet there a moment before she breaks away, lets her tongue caress one of the swallows at his neck.
The muscles in his neck tense slightly at the gentle touch, before muscled arms come around to encircle her, hold her to him. And with that, Morgan can feel how hard he is, hard enough to probably be painful and thinks—
Thinks that maybe he deserves a taste of his own medicine.
Runs her fingertips feather-light over Mickey’s rib cage, feels him jerk and twitch beneath her to the point where he almost writhes by the time she reaches his hip bone.
“Morgan—”
Morgan silences him with a kiss that is fierce, teeth and tongues, and when she can bear to tear her lips away from his, she feels his shiver ripple through her as she presses her lips to the shell of his ear.
“You can dish it out but you can’t take it.” Feels him whimper then, fingers gripping her hips hard enough to bruise (she almost wishes they would, that they could gift each other mementos – she would very much like to be reminded of this in her next bullshit meeting with Ava).
Her pilgrimage down his body is achingly slow, far slower than normal (and she likes to take her time with him now – gone are the days when they would fuck hard and fast and once, now she wants to make him moan and sigh and beg). Feels him almost vibrate with tension underneath her tongue, hands fisting in the sheets when she noses at the thatch of hair above his cock.
“Morgan—” Morgan looks up at the sound of her name on his tongue, lets a small huff of air escape at the sight there, skin flushed and lips swollen and eyes dark with lust and something else. Considers teasing him more, returning to his mouth and beginning her pilgrimage all over again – but the look in his eye is desperate, almost panicked (he can always read her better than she can read him, he can probably see her thoughts as she is mulling them over)—
And it isn’t as if she doesn’t want it too.
Licks one long stripe up his cock and he leaps off the bed, hips trying to follow her tongue as she pulls away to rummage in the bedside drawer for a condom.
“Morgan, no—” He barely seems to know what he’s saying, eyes wild, but she stops anyway, strokes his cheek with the back of one finger until he looks at her.
“Do you want me to stop?” Furrows a dark brow at that, studies every pore of him as he tries to catch his breath, grabs her hand and laces his fingers through hers.
“No, fuck, no, I—” A darker flush blooms on Mickey’s cheeks then, and Morgan kisses it, fancies that she can taste the warmth flaring there.
“I’m not going anywhere, handsome.” A quiet promise, murmured into the soft skin behind his ear as she hovers over him, trying to carefully open the foil packet.
“Good.” Mickey’s voice is husky from more than lust, and when his palms skim her skin she shivers and drops the condom onto his face. A bark of laughter leaves him at that, though she mourns the loss of his hands as he reaches up to unwrap the condom fully.
Hands it to her with an obnoxious flourish. “Milady.”
“Get fucked.” Morgan scowls, but something has changed between them and now her scowls no longer work on him. Instead they only make his grin wider, eyes sparkling with mirth.
“I was hoping you’d do it for me.”
Morgan lets her lips curve into a smirk as she runs her fingertip down the line in his bicep. “Maybe I’ll make you work for it.”
Mickey’s face shifts into his signature oh, shit expression when he thinks that she’ll tease him again, soft lips parting to beg—
But she has already flipped their positions, pulling his body down to press against hers until she is sinking into the mattress and into bliss.
Mickey’s moan is like a serenade, even as he rocks his hips against her experimentally, groans at the feeling of her slick against him. When he manages to speak, it sounds almost hazy, even though his grin is assured as ever. “So important to love your work.”
When the words leave him, he seems to freeze, making Morgan drag his lips to hers and then, abruptly, his hesitation is gone, calloused fingertips rubbing at her slit in practised motions to work her up until she bucks against him, long fingers shaking as she tries to wrap him.
When she finally manages to roll it up his length, he shudders and buries his head in her shoulder, murmuring something she has to strain to hear.
“You want this?”
His question seems loaded somehow, a sudden weight on his tongue and one that matches pressing on her chest.
“Yeah.” The only word she can give him, and the only one he needs as he enters her in one smooth movement and fuck, he is hard as steel, pressing differently against her and hitting new bundles of nerves.
Morgan feels her limbs almost sluggishly try to wrap around Mickey, what feels like hours of building pressure settling heavy in her limbs. Normally, she rides him hard and fast, the way they both like – but sometimes she lets him lead in their little dance, lets him arch into her and press a little closer each time, as if trying to become one person. Honestly, there are times when that doesn’t seem half bad.
There is something uncomplicated about this, this giving and receiving of pleasure which coils tight in her belly and flows from her fingers.
(He says he likes it when she scratches him – the pain grounds him, the marks make him feel everything more intensely, even days after.)
The pace is punishingly fast, enough that gripping onto him becomes less about pleasure and more just about hanging on and feeling his muscles shift under her fingers with each miniscule movement.
The things he mutters into the skin at her neck are unintelligible, garbled by lust and his accent and the speed at which he is fucking her, the soft skin of his cheek brushing against her neck a gentle balm for each powerful thrust. All she can mutter is his name, laced with pleasure, but it seems to be enough to make him speed up to try and make her say it louder, to make her—
“Come for me.” His command is low, as on-edge as she feels, but the control that she normally has is slipping through her fingers like water, so she grits her teeth and digs her nails in deep enough to make him growl.
“You first.” Her command is no less breathy than his, but he is normally so eager to please her that he follows any order she gives him.
Apparently not this time. “Not without you.”
Morgan has to bite back a barb at that.
(If she thinks for a moment – though thinking is difficult when she is coming apart at the seams – she might realise she has never felt the need to dull the sharp edge of her tongue before.)
Instead, she rolls her eyes and leans in until they are sharing panted breaths.
“Harder.”
At that, he gives her a rakish grin which blurs into a grunt as his hips snap forward, and Morgan can’t see anything for a moment, her vision bursting white and eyes rolling back in her skull.
The next thing Morgan’s senses pick up on is Mickey’s voice next to her ear, insistent enough to make her focus snap to him.
“Look at me. Want to see—” Mickey breaks off when she looks at him – whatever he sees in her eyes makes his breath stutter and blue eyes screw shut as he pants desperately, puffs of air hitting her skin. Morgan moves one of her hands to grip at his chin, forcing him to raise his head.
“You look at me.” At that, she brings her own hand down to rub at her clit, makes him moan and bite at her neck.
(The bite feels like it is less to cause pleasure-pain and more to hold on, to leave a part of himself with her in amongst their bliss.)
Shatters around him and the briefest second of her clenching around him is enough to make him boil over with a loud groan, hips still pumping in and out as if he does not want it to be over (she can sympathise, wants to ride these waves as long as she can).
Mickey struggles to keep himself aloft, muscular arm shaking slightly under his weight as he tries to hold himself above her, hips still moving automatically, unthinkingly. It takes all of Morgan’s strength to flip them with some difficulty. Then, her strength is spent, draped across Mickey’s chest as he holds her loosely to him.
She mourns the loss of him filling her, stretching her out, even as she frees him from the condom and tosses it haphazardly in the direction of the bin.
Morgan isn’t sure how long they lie there, hearts still racing as long fingers idly trace shapes into the dark, wiry hair that still dusts Mickey’s torso.
Eventually, Mickey’s heartrate starts to slow enough that he seems to drift closer to sleep.
“I should go.” Morgan hovers somewhere above herself, seems to be able to see her lips move and say the words she thinks she should.
“You could stay.” It’s not the first time he’s hinted at her staying, but it is the first time where she thinks she might—
No. Nothing complicated, they’d agreed (he’d insisted on that), and staying—
Would be complicated. Fucking complicated. Bad enough to try and disentangle their limbs after fucking, let alone anything—
“Not tonight.” Why the fuck did she say that? Hope simultaneously dies and is reborn in sea-blue eyes deep enough to drown in.
“Not tonight.” He gives her a small smile as he says her own words back to her in something like a promise, pinches her chin to draw her lips to his. This is simple, the sensations and the feel of him against her, and she feels him twitch again against her belly and laughs softly, feels him grin against her lips.
“You need to sleep.” Her admonition is light, his smile having softened the harsh edges of her tone even as he continues to kiss along her jaw.
“I’d sleep better with you here.”
Morgan smirks, reaches down to wrap her hand around his length and pump her fist a few times, enough that he starts to give her moans that she swallows in another kiss that she has to work hard to keep chaste.
“You wouldn’t sleep at all.”
“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.” His fingers come to graze her collarbone, trace her sternum and settle between her breasts, over her heart. She has to shake her head to dispel his distraction (he is now frustratingly good at distracting her, where previously it had been her privilege to distract him).
“We have patrol tomorrow night. I’m not going to drag you around.” Exhausted humans are boring, and Morgan doesn’t want to think of Mickey like that, like other humans that are just dead weights.
“I’m looking forward to seeing where you drag me.”
(Last patrol, something had taken over her and she needed to feel him on her skin, needed his scent to wash everything else away, and they had fucked in the nearest alley she could find, hushed and panting, biting down on each other’s palms to keep quiet.)
Instead, she lifts herself up and staggers to her feet, stretching out her back (to his rapt attention). Lets her voice soften even as she shakes her head slightly, murmuring a gentler order. “Sleep.”
“A kiss goodnight?” His breathing is starting to even out even against his will, and he tries to lean up to catch her lips – but there’s no need, she had already bent at the request of a kiss before her brain caught up to her body.
The kiss itself is long and slow, sweet on her tongue with an intimate gentleness. (Not unlike the kiss she is still lying about. She hasn’t forgotten – doubts she ever could.)
“Stay.” He doesn’t seem to be able to help himself, the word hazy on his lips as if it is his dying wish. Even he cannot help the way he drifts to sleep – he is only human.
And maybe it is that niggling thought that makes her stay – not in bed with him, but nestled in the armchair in his living room, listening to the rise and fall of his chest in the next room.
MICKEY
Mickey knows he’s getting older when he starts needing to take a leak in the middle of the night. Walks through the living room in a daze, relieves himself in much the same way as normal, then freezes when he returns to the living room at the sight of an unfamiliar shadow in his chair.
Softened by moonlight and sleep, she looks almost unreal. Maybe she is.
(His life has never felt more real, though. A peculiar kind of purpose drives him, an anxiety taking hold when he hasn’t seen her for a while. Were he younger, he might have called it addictive, but he has known addiction and this tastes different at the back of his throat – real, not artificial, soothing rather than burning or winding him up into a frenzy.)
Certainly her senses are as unreal as ever, and she jerks awake when she feels his heartbeat in the air.
“You’re awake.” Her observation is a little blurred, her voice rough with sleep even as she straightens in the seat, casts her eyes over him as if to check for any injury.
“You’re here.” His only response is that his brain is bluescreening, only able to blurt out the most basic fact.
And that seems to be a mistake, a long pause stretching out between them, where she doesn’t immediately meet his eye. Then she does meet his eye and he almost wishes she wouldn’t, because now he is burning under the heat of something in her gaze that neither of them have the language for. The pause burns any inhibitions of his to ashes (she won’t say yes, he knows that, and yet—) until he hears himself whisper, “Come to bed.”
And at that, she nods.
MORGAN
When Morgan wakes, she panics for a moment, not recognising the sounds outside or the angle of the rosy dawn light hitting the dust motes or—
Breathes a little deeper and sighs. No, she very definitely does recognise these scents. Salt and the sea and something else she can’t quite touch. Recognises his weight on the mattress next to her, even before she turns to face him.
Finds him already watching her, bathed in soft sunlight, and there is something almost unbearably soft in his eyes as he studies her, tries to commit her features to memory.
And for the first time, Morgan does not want to leap out of bed, cannot remember the last time she woke up so well-rested, her senses soothed, at least for now, by the scent of him in her nostrils blocking everything else out.
Wordlessly he kisses her – and yes, he still has morning breath. No, she’s not sure if she minds or not. She’s not sure about a great many things.