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PERCEPTION: It's hot. Uncomfortably so.
SHIVERS: Summer has hit, finally, slick and hard. Damp muggy air fills the dense brick apartment blocks. Every breath clouds the air. Heat, sharp and prickling like a knife, fills your lungs whenever you breathe.
INLAND EMPIRE: Revacholian houses are not built to withstand this weather, these two sweaty sticky weeks before it’s all back to business as usual. Before the sun disappears again behind those whirling orange clouds again and the world mends itself, when the heat waves rise from the tarmac and make everyone’s vision swim. Revacholian tenement blocks are built stocky and thick-walled, meant to hold heat in, not keep it out. They do not have air conditioning, of course, except on the other side of the river in Revachol East. People sleep in their kitchens, in their bathrooms, on the cool tiled floors. Anything to get a little bit cooler. The water level of the Esperance recedes slowly day by day. Kids pick over muddied finds on the freshly exposed riverbanks; tare, mostly, but also some lost trinkets from river travellers in days gone by. Rings. Plastic toys. Big car batteries that can be stripped for parts and sold on.
PERCEPTION: The sun beats down on your shoulders through the thin damp stuff of your shirt- short sleeved today in a pitiful effort to combat the heat. It is pale green with little mother-of-pearl buttons and big unappealing sweat stains underneath the arms and chest. There is little shade here in the open plains of the Revachol Botanical Gardens; a few scattered trees, a few flower beds and bushes. The sun hits the back of your neck, burning-hot. It feels like half of Revachol have congregated here today, soaking up the sun on the grass or paddling in the unfinished boating lake.
KIM KITSURAGI: Beside you, Kim is all business as usual, wrapped up still in his nylon aerostatic jacket, still wearing his boots.
EMPATHY: He's trying to pretend that he's not affected by the heat, but you can see the flush at the back of his neck- the little bead of sweat that rolls down his forehead onto his sharp cheekbone, drips off the soft edge of his chin.
AUTHORITY: Nobody commits crime in this weather.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: It’s too hot to move an eyebrow, even. Face damp. Sticky.
PERCEPTION: Kim is fidgeting.
LOGIC: How does he even have the energy to move in this heat?
KIM KITSURAGI: He's taken his gloves off, his one concession to the weather, and his bare fingers are wrapping around the hilt of a very small, very blunt, folding knife. A short-bladed thing, shiny and silver, with a wooden handle. Handmade, probably; the blade and the handle don’t look like they were originally meant to go together, slightly mismatched. A poor fix-it job, perhaps. You'd confiscated it earlier from a kid who should never have gotten his hands on it in the first place, some wannabe skull with lank blonde hair and a gap between his front teeth. His jacket had been painted, in thin white acrylic, with the phrase “Dolorian Pussy Magnet”. It had reeked of sweat.
COMPOSURE: You’d been unable to stop yourself from laughing at it. Kim, too, had found it impossible to repress a smirk. The biggest crack in his professional composure you’d seen in a while.
INLAND EMPIRE: What does it *mean*? Is he a committed Dolorian who is also a pussy magnet? Is he a magnet for Dolorian pussy? What is Dolorian pussy?
COMPOSURE: Kim had dug an elbow into your ribs to stop your endless spew of questions, especially in front of the kid, and you could tell that he was trying to stop himself from laughing outright. The wannabe skull was slowly sinking into his collar, face beetroot red and uncomfortable.
KIM KITSURAGI: Beside you, in the here and now, Kim checks his watch and casts his watchful eye over the park. Up on the hill near the bandstand, you both have a good view of anything dodgy going down. You’re on patrol- this is your fourth total circuit of the park. He’s clearly too hot, uncomfortable. There are beads of sweat in his little moustache.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You’d hoped that the heat would be an excuse for Kim to shuck off a few layers. At least the jacket. Summer is that time of year, after all isn’t it? The time for slutty little shorts and mesh shirts and hot suncream-scented beach sex.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: But the only thing he’s lost is the gloves. Still professional, still in his own self-enforced uniform.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He’s an unbearable tease. You want to press the flat of your tongue to the buzzed-short hair at the back of his neck and taste the salt on his skin.
PERCEPTION: When he raises his arms, you can see the way that his white undershirt clings beneath the orange jacket. It’s nearly transparent with sweat. You can see the bumps of his spine through it.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Why don’t you get him even sweatier?
PERCEPTION: Mostly people are heading home now, clearing up the picnic blankets and rounding up their kids, streaming out through the gates and back into real life.
INLAND EMPIRE: A couple wander home slowly, sweaty palms still clasped together, dizzy with heat and bubbly wine. Their steps snake across the sidewalk. A father and a kid cycle home from the pond where the kid had been paddling, duckweed and mud beneath his feet, stopping off at the laundrette to hide the evidence of muddy socks and trousers.
RHETORIC: It’s a holiday atmosphere in the air today, a city-wide day off. One of those few and far-between communist victories that remain from the days of the revolution. Everyone gets four mandated days off a year, one in summer, one in spring, one in autumn, one in winter.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Everyone except the RCM, of course. You’ve been on patrol all day, making sure that the ‘holiday atmosphere’ doesn’t turn nasty.
KIM KITSURAGI: Beside you, he withdraws a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at the beading sweat along his hairline. The heat’s getting to him, just like it’s getting to everyone else.
EMPATHY: Nobody is doing anything. Half the population of Revachol has made their way to the Botanical Gardens, to the goose-shit-filled lake and the once-tended pathways, in search of cooler air.
SHIVERS: The city is dead today. Even La Revacholier is silent. People lie, silent and still, on the grass and do not have the energy to wave away the little whining flies.
KIM KITSURAGI: He’s distracted. He’s not replying, hasn’t really been paying attention to anything you’ve said since you’d taken the knife off the kid. He’s looking at you, at the dimple on your chin, but he’s not actually listening. He’s just playing with the blade. Twirling it between his fingers. Cool tricks. Balancing it between his thumb and forefinger so that his skin dents beneath the rounded tip.
You: What’s he thinking about?
EMPATHY: It’s hard to be sure. His brows are drawn together slightly. He’s chewing on the inside of his lip. But he’s unreadable.
SUGGESTION: Prod.
LOGIC: Don’t. You know he doesn’t like it.
EMPATHY: Oh, but sometimes… Sometimes it’s so much easier to just be told what you’re thinking so that you don’t have to say it out loud.
You: “Kim,” you say. “What’s on your mind?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. What?” He blinks a few times, but he does not stop smoothing his fingers down the flat of the blade. “My apologies, I was on another planet for a moment there.”
PERCEPTION: His eyes dip down to your lips, just for a split second.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh. Oh. He’s thinking about your extracurricular activities.
LOGIC: But… why? This isn’t like him, to get lost in thought when you’re meant to be working.
PERCEPTION: You look around. You’ve been walking along one of the main paths in public view, providing a police presence to remind people not to let the heat go to their heads, and now you’ve come to a crossing place. There is a handful of trees, a couple of tall bushes. A little cinderblock hut where the park garden volunteers keep their tools.
You: “I said, what’s on your mind?”
KIM KITSURAGI: He clears his throat again. “Just thinking that we’re done with our shift now.” He looks down at the watch again. “Three minutes ago, actually. We should head back to the precinct, get our things.”
You: “Yes,” you say. “I suppose.”
EMPATHY: There’s something else, though. Something he’s not saying.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: What’s with the fidgeting? Like a nervous schoolgirl.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: At this point you are extremely aware that Kim is not a nervous school girl. In any way, shape or form.
SUGGESTION: Don’t go back yet. Enjoy the cool afternoon-evening air.
You: “Or we could sit for a bit, in the shade.” You shrug. “Have a rest.” It takes a moment of digging around in your pocket but you fish out your insulated bottle and hold it out to him. It rattles, the soft clink of ice cubes rattling around inside. “It’s strawberry soda,” you say. “Not booze or anything.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Unfortunately.
You: “But it’s still cold. It would be nice.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Hm.” He tilts his head, weighing something up in his mind, and then nods slowly. “Alright. I suppose it is a holiday.” And you haven't spent time together for so long. Not properly. It's been case after case recently. It isn't just the weather that's hotting up.
RHETORIC: That's why you're shocked it's been so calm today.
INTERFACING: Your fingers close around his wrist. It’s too hot for physical contact, really, but he runs colder than you do and you love creating little points of connection with him. Your thumb lies over the blue-purple vein that runs down the centre, just under the hem of his jacket sleeve.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Between the straight flat lines of his ulna and radius bones.
KIM KITSURAGI: He huffs a sound of complaint at that, glancing over his shoulder as if he’ll suddenly see Pryce materialising there waiting to scold him for fraternizing in uniform, but there is nothing. Only a few little sparrows flitting across the plain blue sheet of sky. He looks down at your hand curled round his wrist. Your rough fingers pressed against the softest part of his skin. He lets you gently pull him into the little pocket of shade, beneath the cover of the few wide-spread trees.
PERCEPTION: It’s cooler here. More tolerable. The trees and bushes shield you from view from the path, and Kim lets out a little sigh of relief and peels off the jacket at last. It sticks to his skin. Underneath, the undershirt that he’s wearing is sleeveless. When he lifts his arms above his head to stretch, you can see the dark scattering of hair under his arms, the deep circles of sweat.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s weird. You’ve fucked, what, three? Four times, now? You’ve told him you love him after the second time.
VOLITION: I did try to stop you. But, you know, you know best.
EMPATHY: It worked out well, after all.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: But you’ve never seen his arms fully bare. They are surprisingly well muscled, much thinner than yours. They would look incredible wrapped around your chest as he pressed up against you from behind, his chin digging into the soft meat of your shoulder, his-
KIM KITSURAGI: “Are you just going to stand there?” He’s folded his jacket and laid it down on the dusty earth to sit on, to protect his trousers from the dirt, and he’s looking up at you. He’s set the knife down at his side, but he’s still playing with it. Swivelling it around, left, right. The tip points towards you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Kiss him. Kiss him. Do it.
You: You bring yourself down to his level, kneeling, and kiss him. Your big hand comes up to his jaw, your thumb stroking over the jagged edge of his cheekbone, and he lets you. Indulges you, just for a moment. Your noses bump together. You can feel him smiling beneath your mouth, widening as your hand tugs at the edge of his tank top, trying to get your hands on more skin.
KIM KITSURAGI: “What’s brought this on, Lieutenant?” He pulls away, and he doesn’t hide his smile for once. Just blinks away the hazy glow in his eyes.
You: “I don’t know. You just look so good.” You look like you need it.
KIM KITSURAGI: He snorts. “I look like a sweaty mess,” he says.
CONCEPTUALISATION: He looks like a piece of art. Some revolutionary propaganda poster of a strong, stoic aerostatic mechanic, especially in that tank top.
PERCEPTION: There’s a tiny spot of motor oil on the hem. Clearly he hasn’t noticed, or it would be bothering him. He was working on the Kineema in the motor pool earlier, fiddling around with that incomprehensible engine.
You: You press your face into the scooped neckline, his collarbone and the hairless dip of his chest. “You look edible,” you say, and punctuate your comment with a gentle bite.
KIM KITSURAGI: He swats at your shoulder with his spare hand. “Get off, you animal,” he says, laughing as you drool over him. “What is wrong with you?”
VOLITION: So many things.
ENCYCLOPEDIA: I could provide you with a list if you want.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You keep your damn mouth shut. I’m working my magic here.
You: “I can’t help it,” you say, making party-eyes at him. “I’m in love.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He chuckles and his eyes go soft. “Okay,” he says quietly. Me too, he thinks, but the words stick in his throat and he awkwardly swallows. He curls his hand into the damp front of your shirt. “Hey. I was promised a drink.”
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: You wrestle the lid off of your metal bottle.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: A battle for the ages. Man versus metal. A show of pure strength.
EMPATHY: Kim does not look impressed. He’s laughing silently at you as he takes the bottle and drinks deeply. A little red thread of soda escapes from the corner of his mouth, down his neck, and you chase it with your tongue. Kisses, kisses, kisses, in a strawberry-flavoured line down his neck.
CONCEPTUALISATION: An orderly line of soldiers.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim fishes an ice cube out of his mouth and presses it to the back of your neck.
REACTION SPEED: You can’t help but let out an undignified yelp.
PERCEPTION: It’s fucking freezing.
KIM KITSURAGI: He chuckles and pushes you back a little so that he can look at you properly, narrowing his eyes.
EMPATHY: He wants to watch your face. Wants to watch your expressions as he-
REACTION SPEED: Fuck, that’s cold. The ice bites into your neck as he swipes it in one long line, from the aching corner of your jaw down to the sweat-damp collar of your shirt.
COMPOSURE: You squeal. The cold, the pure relief from the unbearable heat. The suddenness that drives you to distraction. Your eyes open wide, shocked, and a little whine escapes your gaping mouth.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh? You don’t like it?” He straightens his glasses primly, one hand still pinning the ice to your skin. It burns.
EMPATHY: This is the same kind of sexy meanness that you love.
You: “No, no, I do-”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Hmm. Good boy.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He doesn’t pull the ice cube away, just circles it around on one spot on your neck until it’s nearly unbearable. Until it melts away to nothing but the cool pads of his fingers. Melted water pools in the dip of your collarbone.
KIM KITSURAGI: His eyes flash. Hot and wanting. He licks the strawberry soda from his lips, sets the flask down on the flat earth at his side next to the folding knife, and leans forward. For a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t leave you enough time to be disappointed, either. Instead he bends his mouth to your neck, down to the little pool of water, and laps it up. His tongue is fiercely hot against the ice-chilled skin. It makes you shiver, makes goose bumps break out across your skin. He brushes the sensitive skin of his lips over them. “Cold?”
You: “Very.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Here,” he pulls back and hands you your flask. “Drink. You’ve been sweating all day. You need to rehydrate.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: The strawberry soda is sweet on your tongue. The bubbles fizz, sliding down your throat. Pure sweet endorphins right there. Sugar and carbonation. What could be better?
KIM KITSURAGI: He leans forward and kisses you, licking deep into your mouth, tasting the strawberry.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh. That. That’s definitely better.
You: “God, Kim,” you say against the onslaught. “What’s got into you?”
EMPATHY: He pulls back a little, blinks. Like he’s coming back to himself after a brief moment of extraplanar possession.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. I’m not-”
EMPATHY: What’s got him going? It’s normally you throwing yourself at him, all desperate and pathetic. There’s something here. Something has set him off.
You: You put a hand on his jaw, forefinger stroking the rounded curve. “What do you want? You’re so good to me, I want to do what you want.”
PERCEPTION: Above you, the sunlight glows green through the leaves. There is a hazy golden dusting of pollen in the air. It’s beautiful, and it’s electric.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t-” His eyes are wide, concerned, like he’s having an argument inside his head. You have the image, suddenly, of a young Dolorian boy standing in front of a stained-glass window and not knowing how to articulate the sense of sheer terror that he feels when he looks into the blue glass eyes. He leans into your hand. The calloused broad palm. It covers his entire cheek, warm and all-consuming. The corner of his mouth brushes your palm as he turns his face slightly, a closed-mouthed kiss.
EMPATHY: He doesn’t want to tell you. He doesn’t want to scare you off.
You: “Whatever it is, I’m down. I trust you.”
PERCEPTION: His flick, imperceptibly, down to the knife.
HALF-LIGHT: You are doused immediately by a flush of fear. White-hot and streaming, down the back of your brain stem.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It is overtaken by the instant rush of blood to your cock.
CONCEPTUALISATION: Kim with a knife. What a concept.
INLAND EMPIRE: Flicking a folding knife, so casually, sharp and dangerous. Holding it against someone’s throat, an implicit threat. The trust, the submission, to allow something like that. It all goes to his head, a heady cocktail of authority.
EMPATHY: But why didn't he say?
LOGIC: Kind of hard to tell your partner- is that what you are now?- that you want them on the pointy end of a knife without sounding like a sequence killer.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It doesn't matter, anyway. You're certain, beyond a doubt, that you'd enjoy anything he did to you.
You: “Please,” you say.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Your voice cracks. Pathetic.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Tell me to stop,” he says, and it’s not just an off-hand comment but almost a plea.
You: “I will. If I need to, I will.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “God.” He closes his eyes for a moment.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Why am I like this, he thinks. Then he picks up the knife. He’d folded the blade away, before, and he unfolds it now. Carefully. His clever fingers move over the blade, and his eyes flick up to yours.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: The look in his eyes is fucking dizzying. Hungry, predatory. This is the real deal, funky-baby. He’s going to eat your heart and you’re going to like it.
KIM KITSURAGI: He lays a hand on your chest, fingers splayed. “Make yourself comfortable,” he says and pushes you down until you’re lying flat on your back on the hard dirt ground.
PERCEPTION: Little stones and twigs dig into your back. Stabbing. You shift your hips, try to-
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Unimportant! Focus on the angel of sex and death bearing down on you!
KIM KITSURAGI: He kneels up, picking up his jacket-cushion, and tucks it under your head.
PAIN THRESHOLD: Protecting you from a horrible neck ache tomorrow. Isn’t he wonderful?
KIM KITSURAGI: Then he slings his leg over your waist, straddling you, his legs spread wide. His thigh brushes against your cock, smushed uncomfortably inside the tight fabric of your disco pants, and you can tell when he feels it because he flashes his sharp little teeth at you. Regaining his composure, his persona. “How attached are you to this shirt?”
You: “Not particularly, but-”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Great.” His voice is flat, but his lips curl. His eyes are naked with affection. He levels the knife flat against your chest. It catches the sunlight. Dazzling.
PERCEPTION: The blade cuts through the taut little cotton threads with a soft snkkk sound and the button pings off, dropping to the floor and bouncing away beneath some leafy shrub nearby.
LOGIC: A second mother-of-pearl button joins it. Then a third.
SAVOIR FAIRE: No! Your beautiful disco shirt!
AUTHORITY: Are you just going to stand there and let him ruin your beautiful disco shirt? Where's your spine, Officer? Flex your power!
LOGIC: Kim can sew, he'll fix it later for you. He's a conscientious partner.
INLAND EMPIRE: Before, when you sucked him off in that Jamrock alleyway, the knees of your uniform trousers had been utterly ruined. Soaked with rainwater and mud and assorted mysterious fluids from the litter-ridden floor, and scuffed from the gravel. Kim took them out of your laundry basket when he stopped by your apartment to drop off notes and returned them to you the next day, dry cleaned and smelling of orange blossom. He’d even sewn on a new button, and fixed the tear in the pocket. God, thank you, you’d said. You didn’t have to do that. He’d just given you a little smile, one of those secretive private smiles, and the tips of his ears had flushed a violent pink.
KIM KITSURAGI: He’s not blushing at all right now. He’s got that look of intense focus on his face, eyes magnified by his glasses. They’re huge. The thin wire rims encroaching on his cheeks, the pads digging in slightly at the sides of his nose. His eyes are on the front of your shirt, the way it falls open for him, puts you all on display. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You want to kiss him so badly that you think you might die.
VOLITION: Instead, you lie back on your elbows like a good boy and wait for him.
EMPATHY: He’s thinking. Contemplating the thin silver blade in his hand.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It is not sharp, but it is more fun for you to pretend that it is.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Alright?”
You: “Yes. Please.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He slices off another button and pushes his free hand inside your shirt. His hand cards through the dark curls of your body hair, the fine network of scars all across your skin, over your stomach and up to your chest. It settles on your left pectoral, pinches gently and then harder, gropes and kneads at the sensitive skin.
COMPOSURE: You can’t help it. A little sigh escapes your mouth.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim smirks.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh, evil, evil man.
KIM KITSURAGI: He raises his eyes to yours- crinkled little lines around them that betray just how much he’s enjoying this, even though he’s got his face smoothed into that cool, cool look of utter detachment- and pinches hard.
You: You whine. “Kim.”
KIM KITSURAGI: His grip, if anything, tightens. You shut your eyes against the force of his gaze.
INLAND EMPIRE: You are falling. Your brain is sliding out of the back of your skull, plummeting through the layers of soil; surface soil then subsoil, then the substratum, then splashing through the ground water and landing hard on the bedrock. Out through the other side of the freckled face of Elysium.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim’s voice brings you back. “Look at me, Harrier.”
CONCEPTUALISATION: You crack open one eye, and then another. He’s the sun. He glows. Behind his head the leaves fan out, a halo of green leaves and dark branches and slivers of blue sky. His fingers rake, slowly and deliberately, over the softest parts of your chest. They leave trails of brilliant red, of burning-hot pain on your skin.
ENDURANCE: Status update; you’re shaking, coach. Hands, knees. If you tried to stand right now, it would be like a baby deer trying to walk for the first time. There’s no bloodflow going to your head. It’s all travelling southwards. You’re so hard you want to die.
You: “Kim,” you say again, pleading.
KIM KITSURAGI: He blinks at you, hand stroking soothingly over the pain he just wrought. “Did I say you could talk?”
You: Uh. “No.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Then be quiet.” He drops a kiss to your clavicle, an open mouthed kiss, and swipes his tongue over the dark curls of hair there. Big magnified eyes look up at yours. “Alright?”
EMPATHY: He’s checking in. Making sure you’re still good to go.
You: You nod, too enthusiastically. “God, yes- Kim-”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Do you know what quiet means? Are you familiar with the concept? I know you did know. Maybe you’ve forgotten again.”
ENCYCLOPEDIA: Quiet is an adjective, referring either to the conditions of silence or to an action carried out discreetly, secretively or with moderation. Synonyms include-
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Sure, sure. Yeah. Pay attention.
PAIN THRESHOLD: You shut your mouth with a snap, miming locking your lips shut and throwing away the key. The muscle in your jaw twinges in protest.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim, impressively, does not laugh at you. “Harry,” he says, like a teacher scolding a naughty student.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh yeah. And you’ve been really really naughty, haven’t you? Maybe you should ask him to punish you, funky-baby.
EMPATHY: You love his voice when he gets patronising. When he acts all indulgent of your stupidity. Your eyes are glazed over, big dumb cow eyes gazing up at him.
KIM KITSURAGI: He shifts his weight and suddenly his knee presses roughly into the space between your legs, knocking your thighs apart. “Or maybe,” he says, and his thigh is pressed hard against your cock. Too hard. Painful. Delicious. Your brain whites out for a second but his voice keeps going. A slow and steady onslaught. “You’re just thinking with this and not with your empty little head. Hmm?”
COMPOSURE: You have to physically restrain yourself from moaning. It takes all your concentration.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: God, you look ridiculous. Sweaty and red and straining. You’re going to give yourself a stroke. You can feel your pulse fluttering against his leg. Intimate.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim huffs a laugh, removing the pressure. You mourn its loss intimately, hips jerking up at nothingness. You very deliberately do not make a noise.
EMPATHY: You like this game. Staying quiet. It has clear parameters, and you can easily tell if you’re doing well or not.
KIM KITSURAGI: He sees the way you’re aching for his praise. “Good,” he says. “You’re learning.” He finds your eagerness endearing, luckily, although a little embarrassing. Amusing, to him, how desperate you are to debase yourself.
AUTHORITY: He’s laughing at you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: And it’s wonderful.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Shush.” Kim rewards you with a bite to the collarbone, sharp canines dimpling your flesh, He lathes his tongue over the bite mark, and then sucks down hard. You feel the pressure popping all the tiny little blood vessels and your head falls back, allowing him more access. His breath is hot against your skin. He’s not looking at your face now, not pulling away. He’s entirely focused on this one little patch of skin. He swipes his tongue over it again, over the petechiae. Your skin is damp with sweat and saliva. It will bruise beautifully come tomorrow. You hiss at the scrape of his teeth. “You’re so eager, aren’t you? Always wanting more, more, more.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yes. Yes, yes, yeah, yep. Just please keep on biting.
KIM KITSURAGI: “You like this? When I hurt you?”
HALF-LIGHT: His voice has taken on that dangerous edge that sets your hackles raising.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh yes. More. Need more. You nod. You don’t trust yourself not to make a sound so you keep your mouth tightly clamped shut, but you nod vigorously.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yeah,” he says softly. Just words, no meaning. His knee comes up again to your crotch, delicious friction and then suddenly too much, too hard, and it’s fucking wonderful.
PERCEPTION: And his gaze goes to the knife in his right hand again, braced at your side.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: A full body shiver hits you. Your hips jerk up against him without your permission, a moment of friction before he sits up and holds himself just out of your reach. One hand splayed on your chest, pushing down on you, and the other still playing with the thin silver knife.
HALF-LIGHT: Is he going to use it on you? Like actually use it?
KIM KITSURAGI: “Ah, ah. No. Stay still.”
HALF-LIGHT: Oh god. He is. He’s going to take that knife and drive it into your heart. Some kinky sacrifice to the god of coolness. He’s going to slit your throat.
LOGIC:… Why is that working for you?
EMPATHY: It’s because you know you’re safe. He’ll never hurt you really, not badly, at least. Not if you don’t ask him to.
KIM KITSURAGI: His eyes are so dark with want. He’s got that feral look to him, the sharp glint in his eye that makes you so hungry for something you can’t put a name to.
AUTHORITY: Weak. You let yourself be pushed back even further onto the dirt. His hand on your chest barely has to tense and you’re already obeying, soft and pliable.
EMPATHY: It makes him break his composure, his carefully put-on irritation, and he smiles and bites another kiss into your jaw. He untucks your shirt from your pants, hooks the knife around the last few buttons and sends them scattering onto the ground. Then he pauses. A shadow across his face.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Is this too far? Too far, even for you to agree with? You, who has been so pliable, so willing. He doesn’t want to scare you.
PERCEPTION: He’s fidgeting again. Rolling the knife between his fingers idly, spinning it like he knows exactly what to do with it.
INLAND EMPIRE: An image in your mind. The blunted tip of a knife pressed into flesh, dragging slowly, deliberately, careful not to tear the fragile tissue of the skin but hard enough that a whitened line dents. When the knife draws away and the blood slowly returns, the line flushes red. It’s a threat, an implicit warning. Pain and pleasure, the dull rich coil of anticipation in your belly.
EMPATHY: That’s what’s been playing on Kim’s mind since he held the knife in his hand.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh. God. You want it more than you want air.
EMPATHY: You reach for his hand, tentative because you know this is dangerous territory, because you know that you haven’t been given permission.
HALF-LIGHT: But dangerous territory is your favourite, after all. Despite my warnings.
PERCEPTION: This hand is the one that holds the knife. Your thick fingers circle easily around his bird-boned wrist, gently tugging.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: A reminder of your strength.
LOGIC: He can’t do anything to you that you don’t allow. You could easily switch positions, hold him down.
EMPATHY: That’s why he likes you. Because he knows you never would.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He raises an eyebrow at you, but he lets you bring his hand, the knife, to your throat. You wrap your fingers around his, around the hilt of the knife, and press down at the softest part. Above your trachea. Soft at first. A single line of cool metal across your burning hot skin. There is no hair here; your skin is exposed entirely and his eyes touch it softly with their gaze like he’s looking at a miracle.
KIM KITSURAGI: “You’re sure?” He asks. He runs a finger along the blunt edge of the knife, as if checking that it won’t truly damage you, and leans over you so that you’re face to face, his hand holding the knife steady and taut at your throat. He kisses between your brows. “Answer me.”
You: “Yes,” you say, shaky.
HALF-LIGHT: He holds your life in his hands, even if only metaphorically.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: So he presses down. The blunt edge bites at your skin, makes you tense up and then makes you relax so intensely that you feel like you’re floating up and away. All that’s keeping you tethered to this isola is Kim’s hand splayed, open and heavy, on your chest. He’s straddling your left leg, his knee inches away from your crotch. If you move just right-
PERCEPTION: The knife drags, slowly, down your front. A straight line between your pecs, like he’s back in the morgue conducting an internal examination.
HALF-LIGHT: He’ll slice through skin first, of course, and then the thick white layer of fat. Then muscle, red and sinewy, juicy, and then the bones of your ribcage. Slide those soft elegant hands inside you, rearrange everything to where he wants it all to be.
CONCEPTUALISATION: Tidy you up, make you perfect for him.
VOLITION: God. What is wrong with you, Harry?
LOGIC: It’s diagnosable. I’m sure. Maybe they can fix it.
KIM KITSURAGI: Kim traces over the rapidly reddening line that he’s made in your skin with a bare finger. “Beautiful,” he says very quietly, to himself more than to you.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah. Okay. You don’t want to fix it.
EMPATHY: Whatever it is that’s wrong with you, he’s got it too. He’s coming down with you.
You: You make a pleading sound, make your eyes big and round, and he laughs at you and draws a circle around your nipple with the rounded tip of the knife. It fucking hurts, even though he doesn’t break the skin. Especially there where you’re most sensitive, and he doesn’t stop for long enough to let you ride it out, keeping you overstimulated and overwhelmed. Then he brings his mouth down over it, flutters his tongue across the abused skin, licks and suckles until you’re whimpering, until you have to bite down hard on your tongue to stop yourself from shouting. You don’t realise you’re crying until Kim raises his head and-
KIM KITSURAGI: “Oh,” he says softly-
PERCEPTION: -swipes his tongue over your cheek.
CONCEPTUALISATION: Licking the tears away.
KIM KITSURAGI: There is a crawling flush on the back of his neck, a loose curl of dark hair hanging down in front of his face. You lift your head as much as you can manage and press your lips against his mouth desperately. First the corner, chaste and close-mouthed, then he lifts a hand to cup your cheek and devours you.
HALF-LIGHT: Your anxiety spikes; dizzy, heady, wonderful fear chemicals rattling around your empty skull.
EMPATHY: He’s hunting you for sport. A cat playing with a mouse. Digging the claws in, then letting it go just enough for it to feel the relief of escape before pouncing again.
ENDURANCE: You’ve not even laid a finger on yourself and you’re feeling close.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: You’re so fucking weird, coach.
KIM KITSURAGI: His hands are getting busy; the left hand is threading through the soft hair of your mutton-chops, grip tight enough to guide your movements, and the knife-wielding hand is clutching at your bicep, the handle jabbing into your silk-shirt-clad skin. He’s angled the point of the blade away from your body, always slightly conscious of safety despite his intense focus on you.
PERCEPTION: You can hear the world around you suddenly, wooshing into focus. Somewhere in the distance, a man’s voice laughing. A woman, talking. An MC engine. A shout and a response. Footsteps passing by. Slow and languid, lazy from the heat.
LOGIC: They can’t see you. You’re entirely hidden by the dehydrated greenery.
KIM KITSURAGI: He doesn’t even hear. He bites your lower lip. Catches the pink bit of skin between his sharp teeth and bites down hard enough to draw blood. His tongue finds the broken skin, laps the pain away. He’s going to consume you whole.
PERCEPTION: He’s sweating. You can see it when he pulls away to look at you, to admire the mess that he’s made of you, beading on his forehead. He’s breathing slow, controlled, and the muscles in his neck are standing out and you can feel the weight of his cock pressing hard and heavy against your thigh.
EMPATHY: He wants, just as much as you do.
You: “Fuck me,” you say. “Please. I need-”
KIM KITSURAGI: He bites his lip. “No.”
You: “Lieutenant,” you say, because you know that he likes it. “Please.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “On the ground, in the park? Where anyone could walk by?” He walks the knife lightly down your chest again, not hard enough to mark.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: You want it to mark, though. You want him to leave his signature all over your body. Make sure that every time you look at yourself in the mirror you remember who you belong to.
LOGIC: He’s not going to fuck you. This is all impromptu. He has no lube or equivalent, no condom, no preparation. He’ll indulge you in the fantasy, though.
KIM KITSURAGI: He leans back, his shifting weight providing a fleeting burst of stimulation that makes you yelp, and grabs the flask in his spare hand. Takes a long drink.
PERCEPTION: Your scalp prickles with sweat. Jealousy.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Thirsty?” He asks, like he’s read your mind. You nod, and he smiles. “Open.” He takes another swig of soda, sets the bottle aside. Then he leans forward, lines up his lips with yours, and spits the strawberry soda into your open mouth.
CONCEPTUALISATION: It tastes of summer fruit, of mint, of Kim and his wonderful lips. It is slightly warmed from the heat of his mouth.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Your cheeks burn with humiliation.
You: You swallow. “I love you,” you say, like a stupid empty prayer. You’ve forgotten to be quiet now, but he doesn’t mind.
PERCEPTION: His eyes flutter shut, the hand holding the knife moving back to your chest so it can run freely over your warm skin. Hard enough to bite, never enough to tear. It’s tantalising.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Fuck.” The word falls out without his permission, almost a groan. “Are you-”
You: “I’m close.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I haven’t even touched you.” Soft. Mocking. His hand settles on your fly, fingertips teasing along your length.
CONCEPTUALISATION: Butterfly-light. Barely touching.
You: “Please.” You try desperately to move your hips right, to get friction against his hand, but all you find is the ghost of his touch. “I need you to touch me. I’m gonna die.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He doesn’t, though, not right away. He sits back on his haunches, settling his weight carefully away from your injured thigh, and admires his handiwork.
EMPATHY: He sees a piece of art. Something beautiful. The lines on your chest are quickly flushing red, slightly raised, and your face is pink and sweaty. He leans forward and presses his face against your chest hair, the surprisingly soft curls of hair and the firm muscle below the pad of fat. Breathes in the smell of soap and sweat and strawberry. He loves this, you realise. Every bit of your body that you fight against. He swirls his tongue in the dark line of hair that curves below your left pec, kisses at the sensitive skin, and then trails his lips downwards.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He frees you from your disco pants, licks a long loose stripe along your length from base to head, then blows over the dampness so that you shiver with the sudden cool. One hand curls around you loosely, begins to lazily stroke you off. It’s not enough, too slow, but it’s too much as well. It makes your brain fizz like strawberry soda.
KIM KITSURAGI: He laps again at the head of your cock, swiping away the bead of precum threatening to dribble down the side, and lays his cheek against the crease between your belly and your thigh. The hair is softest there. He bites you, gently, but the soft scrape of teeth is enough to send your brain scrambling again. His hand speeds up, tightens.
ENDURANCE: This won’t last. It can’t.
You: “Kim,” you say, warning. “Kim!” He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t slow. He keeps moving his hand, mouth working at the soft flesh of your thigh, and when he pulls with his teeth and bites down hard enough to bruise, you cum in a thick white stripe across his hand, his ear, the side of his glasses, the ruined fabric of your shirt where it hangs off your sides.
KIM KITSURAGI: He doesn’t stop right away, keeps moving his hand over you until you’re squirming from overstimulation. Then he lets you go and runs a finger over one of the long red scratches he’s left along the length of your body. “Does it hurt?”
You: You hiss slightly. “Ow.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “I’ll take that as a yes.”
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: In the best possible way. You’ll be dining off this memory for years to come.
LOGIC: Your brain is not in a place to be making rational and coherent statements, but you try anyway.
You: “Kim. That was so… good. Really really good.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He clears his throat. He’s a little embarrassed, suddenly, reaching down to readjust himself in his aerostatic pants. He slides off the glasses, wipes them off on the front of your shirt.
SAVOIR FAIRE: It’s ruined anyway, I suppose.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Khm. I’m glad,” he says.
You: “Can I-”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Let’s go home,” he says slowly. “You can finish the job then.”
You: “But-”
EMPATHY: Let it go.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’ll let you go to his apartment tonight, a boundary that you’ve rarely crossed in the past. He’ll even let you into his bedroom, where you’ve definitely never been. Tie you to the bedframe, or the radiator. Use you until he's all wrung out, run his fingers over every single mark he’s made on your body. Maybe he’ll even talk to you, tell him a secret.
EMPATHY: So be good. Wait.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Your mouth is watering already.
EMPATHY: You’re lucky you found him. So fucking lucky.
INLAND EMPIRE: Look after him. You won’t find another like him.
You: “Alright.” You sit up, knocking him back a little, and cup both of your hands around his skull. “You’re so fucking perfect,” you say, unblinking.
KIM KITSURAGI: “You’re very dramatic,” he says fondly, but he kisses the tip of your nose, and the side of your throat, and the bite mark on your neck. “That was very stupid of me. I’ve ruined your shirt completely.”
You: “I suppose everyone in the park will just have to tolerate the sight of me, tits out.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He snorts. “Luckily for you, I expect most people have headed out now. And it’s not far to the Kineema.” He moves to stand, but you catch his wrist again and keep him there with you, foreheads pressed together. “Harry,” he says, frustrated, but his lips are curled at the corners. “Let go.”
You: “You’re not allowed to turn this in as evidence,” you say to him, flicking the knife with your free hand. “This is ours now. We’re keeping it.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Something inside him relaxes, just a little. He was still concerned, somewhere inside, that you were just humouring him.
KIM KITSURAGI: “I will, uh, make a note of it.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS: And he will. He will note it down in the back pages of his notebook, carefully documented in a code only he knows, just as he documents every long trip with the Kineema, just as he documents his cases. His beloved things, cared for and well serviced.
KIM KITSURAGI: He helps you up, struggling a little with your bulk, and tucks you back into your trousers again. “Look at you,” he says, voice dripping with approval.
PERCEPTION: There are leaves in your hair. Sticks too. You are sweating like a pig, face red and exhausted. Your eyes are still a little dizzy, the back of your shirt covered in dust and the front covered in cum and open down the centre. You are covered in a wonderful mix of bite marks and scratches, maps of red and purple that stain your hairy chest.
HAND/EYE COORDINATION: Your fly is only done up because he did it for you; you definitely do not possess the fine motor control for it right now.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: He’s fucking ruined you.
KIM KITSURAGI: Somehow, he’s cleaned himself up remarkably. He looks relatively unruffled, jacket back on. He’s produced a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe off his face.
SAVOIR FAIRE: So he didn’t even need to use your shirt.
EMPATHY: He wanted to prove something to you. To himself.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Proof that you’ll let him do anything he wants, baby boy. No fucking limits.
VOLITION: Some fucking limits. Please.
EMPATHY: He would never do anything bad to you. Look at him. He’s perfect.
VOLITION: And you’re compromised.
EMPATHY: So’s he.
You: You lean over and kiss him again, a proper sloppy kiss. Making the most of it. Once you’ve left the shelter of the trees, he’ll put up that shield of distance again until you’re safely in his flat. Your hand presses into the small of his back, bends him against you so that he moulds to your shape. He’s still hard, but unhurried about it. “Promise me you won’t file it as evidence,” you say.
KIM KITSURAGI: He sighs, long-suffering, and tilts his head so that your kisses land on his cheek instead of his mouth. He smells of pine, of chestnut smoke and cum. Impossibly human. It’s gorgeous. “I promise,” he says with a tiny smile.
SHIVERS: Two officers of the RCM walk through the Revachol Botanical Gardens. It is late, although it is still daylight, and there is no one much about. This is fortunate, because the taller of the two carries his balled up shirt in his hands. His chest is marked with strange lines. The shorter officer tilts his head to listen to something, and laughs. His hand goes to his back pocket, tracing the outline of something beneath the fabric. A foldable pocket knife, blunted, silver. He will carry it with him forever now.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Just in case.