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47 in Miami is a strange thing to see.
It shouldn't be: she's seen him all over the world. She's seen him in the snow, in gleaming cities, in dusty markets where he's the only man without a beard, in villages owned by drug cartels that worship shamans who look to her like clowns. She's seen him in the calm, picturesque suburbia, and if any place on Earth should be wrong for him it's that.
But even Whittleton Creek is a den of secrets and violence - or else why would he be there? The whole world is dangerous, and so the whole world belongs to him, the most dangerous creature of them all.
The thing that makes Miami different is hard to put its finger on at first. It's the sight of him jogging along the street one morning, shirtless and gleaming with sweat. His scars are visible for anyone to see. To the untrained eye they could simply be from an accident: a BMX accident, a car crash, even a bad night on the town. That's what makes it click for her.
In Miami, the danger of it all is treated like a joke. The drugs and guns and sex and tourism and the lazy heat roll together into one, and no one cares about any of it. There was a shooting this morning - but how's the surf? This a world that doesn't care about him, this world where a clean killing with a pair of headphones wouldn't even ruin the party.
Diana watches through camera after camera as the sweat slides down between his shoulder blades, and scoffs at the idea. Lets it pass. Maybe the only weird thing about this is seeing him shirtless in public. Normally she only sees his skin when he's stripping out of his clothes to put on someone else's.
They have sex on occasion. With each other. Sex with others is - well, it's always been left on the table, but neither of them have yet reached for it. There's no point. She'd have to go to a bar, flirt, take someone back to her hotel room and only then find out if they were any good. For a while she simply hired professionals when she felt the desire, had found it satisfying and convenient, but this is far better.
47 didn't explain himself, but she had never seen him make any attempt to that end. No women, no men, no anyone else. His file said he either had no interest in sex or had repressed it more thoroughly than could be detected. On missions the subject of other's sex left him indifferent, and the idea of sex involving him (it came up often; how could it not?) was always met with consummate politeness. Not even disgust, which would at least imply some underlying feeling.
It was more like he didn't understand it, but thought he did. He dismissed sex the way he would dismiss alcohol: something for other people that interfered with his work.
Maybe he had some experiences of it in the void that was his past. For all she could account for, she was his first and last.
The first time he had laid his mouth on her exactly where she told him to, and picked up the skills as quickly as he picked up anything. In the end he hadn't so much as unbuttoned his fly, and she had been too exhausted and satisfied to find out if he sought release somewhere else.
On their next encounter, she took him inside her twice. He had put on the condom like someone who knew it was meant to happen, and fucked her with a single unchanging rhythm. What it lacked in originality it had made up for in thoroughness, not even faltering as she clawed at his shoulders and came around him, not faltering as he bent his head and came in silence. After a bottle of water each and what she secretly hoped was 47's first blow job, she had pushed him down on the bed and ridden him. Tried out different rhythms, showed him how to touch her, shown him how she touched herself, and been deeply flattered when his grip tore through the sheet as he came.
Since then they'd been trying out new things, one by one. Diana leads him through it each time like a mission, and he is gratifyingly obedient. He follows her instruction eagerly. Maybe one day she will want him to take the initiative, to bend her over the nearest level surface and fuck her brains out, but for now they're both perfectly happy with what they have.
The sun is setting as 47 reaches the end of his run, and he circles the block to turn back, leaving Diana half an hour. She checks the knots fixing the rope to the headboard, works out the exact right place and settles on the bed with a vibrator. Her mind is a quick stream of images: of his wetsuit, of him tensing all over as she sucks him off, of other people and other times, of things she doesn't want but likes the thought of. She comes thinking about the night to come, leaving a wet patch on the top sheet and a streak of sweat beneath her breast.
With the edge taken off for now, she pulls her skirt back down to her thighs and steps into clean underwear, fixes her hair in the reflection of the window. Waits patiently, seeing him enter the building with a glance up in the direction of their room.
The distant ding of the elevator, the click of his key in the lock and the clack of him locking it behind him. His nearly silent footsteps on the carpet, and then he appears in the reflection behind her.
No question that he's seen the rope.
Diana meets his eye in the reflection and offers him a small smile. "Well?" she asks.
"Should I shower?" he asks, and she does genuinely think about it, but already the drums are beating a rhythm in her skull: I want him, I want him, I want him. Now, now, now.
"No."
Just like that he pushes off his gym shorts and kneels on the bed, reaching out to place his hands on the headboard near the rope.
It's a good thing she got herself off already, because she wants him desperately. Maybe she could just make him eat her out first, but it's not what she really wants and she knows how to pursue a goal, to follow through to the end.
The first press of her lips to his shoulder tastes like salt. His breath hitches just a little, but in his terms it's an ocean of meaning. Then she lays her hand possessively over him and pushes his head down to the sheets where she'd spilled her wet juices so recently.
All muscle and violence and strength and will, and he goes easily down where she leads him. His chest shudders with an uneven breath - hopefully full of her smell. The jungle drums again: now, now, now. She runs her hand up his arm to one wrist and ties it in place. Of course 47 could get out of it - but that's not the point right now. The point is that he won't.
His other hand, and now he is just strung out just like she wants him. Bowing forward on the bed, with his face hovering an inch above the wet spot on the sheet, his arse in the air, his cock hard and touching nothing.
Diana's hand runs slowly down his back to stop at the tip of his tailbone, trails her finger down slow as a glacier between the hard muscle of his glutes. There's another involuntary quiver of tension in his muscles when she brushes - light as a breath - over his opening, and then withdraws.
"Have you done this before?" she asks, circling the bed like a vulture. The sight of 47 kneeling before her, of all that power contained (pretending to be contained) is gut-wrenchingly arousing.
47 is silent for a moment before answering, "You know that I have had sex before now."
The perfect answer from him, and she smiles. And then she scratches her nails over the curve of his arse and watches the red lines raise up. "I'm going to put my fingers inside of you. Maybe one day, not today, I'll use a strap-on and fuck you. Would I be the first?"
"Yes," he says, voice calmer than she'd credit. And then, because he's him, "People use rope in sexual activities to simulate a lack of consent. Is that what you want?"
"No." Has to steel herself another second, because it makes an unexpected anger rise up in her. Not the cold steady anger she is so used to, but a bright flash in the pan. He has been put through hell more times than even she knows, and she won't add rape to it even in mockery. (For all she knows it wouldn't be his first such experience. People have hurt him in every way they could.) "I just want you to stay like this. If you don't like it, you only have to say so."
He's silent, so she continues. Lubricant from the bedside table, and a glove for her right hand. She ought to have put down a towel if she wanted to be really clean, but it would have spoiled the vision of him. "It will feel strange at first. Give it time." He gives the smallest incline of his head, so she proceeds.
She applies the lubricant to one fingertip first and presses it gently against him, feels the quiver of sensitive muscle. Then she presses inside him. Muscles tighten around her, but 47 says nothing, so she thrusts one finger gently until he relaxes.
"And a second finger," she says, letting him know. More lubricant, not too cold, liberally applied to her fingers. When she presses two inside of him a loud breath leaves him. In fractions of inches she presses inside of him, and then pulls smoothly back out and presses back in. This time when she gives a deeper thrust his body jerks, bound hands yanking the rope. He is so strong the headboard groans in complaint against his first reflex.
"It feels... good," he says, voice tight around the edges. He takes a controlled breath and she knows without viewing any equipment that his heart rate is stabilizing. His recovery heart rate is 68 in the first minute, so there isn't much she could do to strain his body, but emotions are funny things. Intangible feelings can have widely felt effects on reality, as their work makes clear.
She wants to see him sweating, not from a run but from everything she's doing to him. She wants him to scream - or not to scream, but to groan her name without control, to be gasping for air, to be shaking around her. She wants to see him collapse when she's done with him, so worn out and so overwhelmed by feeling that he can't even offer to eat her out. Wants to break him so that his body doesn't obey him any more, even when he badly wants to obey her. And he does want to obey her, today and every day. They trust each other in countless tiny ways that add up to a bond she wouldn't want to explain. Every day he trusts her to say where to go, how to act, what name to give, to have laid a path for him to the heart of the beast, and she steps back and trusts him to do his perfect work.
(His perfect work is not always perfect. Diana chooses to say nothing when he's hiding in a cupboard with a naked, unconscious body, or throwing himself off a balcony. While his killing is a thing of beauty, the rest always goes awry in unforeseen ways.)
47 thrusts back on her fingers just a little, experimenting, and then thrusts back with more feeling. "It feels more pleasurable than I expected," he says steadily. Diana smiles at him where he can't see it. If she reads him right - and after all this time how could she fail - he's working his way towards begging. She purposefully continues to do it not quite right, good but not perfect, with long strokes of her fingers that stretch him but don't quite hit the spot. When he's worked up enough that his hips are gently thrusting, she pulls her fingers out completely.
The groan he makes is so fucking gratifying, so fucking sexy, she really wishes she had brought a strap on with her. She wants him on his knees sucking her cock and groaning around it, staring up at her with those blue, blue eyes. Surely he has control over his gag reflex. Though - why would it be trained out of it? Even the most thorough of trainers didn't expect him to be sucking people off on the regular, did they? He's probably never had his mouth around a cock, never gagged on it as he tried to swallow.
That final thought is too much to ignore. She stands where he can see her in his peripheral vision, unzips her skirt at the back, and pushes her hand down the front. He leans back, straightening most of the way up despite the way his arms stretch half-out of his shoulders, the unnatural curve of his spine. It must be uncomfortable but 47 looks at her with the total fixation of a wild animal. That desperation. He can't see what she's doing, not in detail, and he looks like it'll kill him.
"I'm thinking about you," she says, just breaking the silence. Her fingers are slick and wet against her cunt, rubbing her clit through the hood, pushing against her hand with her hips. His eager mouth would be better, but not yet. So she continues to rub herself off as her knees weaken, her ankles threaten to buckle out of her pumps. "I thought about getting a strap on and fucking your throat." Without a noise he pulls harder on the rope, so hard now that the headboard is straining and the rope is biting red friction burns into his pale skin.
Diana slides her fingers further down, just stroking between her lips for the brief thrill of sensation, and then returning to rubbing her clit harder. It's so much better to come with something inside of her, ideally his prick, but in a way it's better to be unsatisfied for now. So she rests one hand on his shoulder for a little extra balance and grinds against the other as she comes with a single, quiet gasp. In the wake of it she's almost sleepy, half-satisfied, and 47 is looking more and more like he's losing his mind.
Still silent, though, and that just won't do.
Diana turns and walks towards the kitchenette - just for a glass of water, she imagines saying, if she cared to explain things to him - and he makes this noise. A single syllable of pain.
She looks casually over her shoulder, and he's watching her, leaning towards her despite the rope. "Yes?" she asks.
A loud breath out, and silently in, before, "Diana-"
"Yes?" Turns around but doesn't come any closer. "What do you want?"
The struggle of verbalising it is clear on his face. Not likely shame, but unfamiliarity. Doing something he's not good at is rare for him, but he's no coward. He'll give anything a try if it meets his goals. "I want you to put your fingers inside me."
She smiles and takes one lazy step. "Like I did before?"
"No. I want-" and here his pause is perhaps more uncertainty about what he actually wants, about what more is in this scenario. "I want you to fuck me like you talked about doing."
It's not suave or clever or coy or anything that dirty talk should be. It's the sexiest thing Diana has ever heard. But it's not quite begging.
Coyness aside, she strides towards him and puts her hand - the hand that's still wet from her cunt - on his jaw, turns his head further towards her in a way that must be painful. 47 meets her eyes unflinching. "I want you to beg," she says honestly. "Beg me for it."
"Please," he says. She can feel his muscles moving beneath her fingers, and he must be nearly able to taste her. "Please, Diana," with all sincerity, "fuck me like you talked about." Perhaps he reads her breathless silence as disagreement, because he leans in a little closer. "I'll do anything."
That reads just like a movie script, which is probably where he got it, and it's tempting to respond in kind: Anything? she'd ask, and then make some obscene request. But there's nothing she wants that he wouldn't happily give her. So instead of answering she pushes his head back down to the sheets - down into the smell of her - and sits on the edge of the bed.
His entrance is still slick with lube, the same pale pink as his lips, and when she pushes three fingers inside of him he groans. No sense asking if it's pleasure or pain, because he wants this too much to worry about that. The first thrust of her fingers against his prostate wrings another noise out of him, and from then on his silence is utterly broken. It's only small soft noises, gasping and tiny moans, each one of them tearing into her steely self control. He's tight and hot around her fingers, the glide of her thrusts slicked with lube, his hips rocking back against her hand. Below that, his cock is hard and heavy, dripping a single line of precome down onto the sheet.
"Diana," he says. Pleads, really. She can hear him struggling to work out the words for what he wants, even though she knows what he wants better than he does. "Please, may I come?" It doesn't have the raw emotion of a man begging for his life, but it's real. It's 47 really begging her to come.
Diana pushes her skirt off, leaves it in a puddle on the floor and kneels on the bed, positioning herself between his spread knees. From this angle there's a lot to admire, particularly the way his hands clench around the taut rope and how that stretches out the muscles of his back for her to admire each and every one. He's surprisingly silent when she withdraws her hand: he trusts her to know what to do.
It hadn't been on her agenda tonight, but 47 has been so very good for her. So she holds his cheeks just slightly apart and licks a wet line over his entrance. Whatever technical knowledge he has of sex, 47 wasn't expecting her to do that, or for it to feel so good. He makes a wounded sound, and then again when she presses the tip of her tongue inside him. A few short minutes sucking and licking around his rim and he is breathlessly silent, his body making his need known on its own.
Finally she wraps one careful hand around his prick, strokes him gently, and he comes with a cut-off gasp. His hole clenches around her tongue and she continues until he is finally still, hanging limp from the rope.
When Diana unties him, 47 automatically rights himself. With what must be immense effort he rolls over to lie on his back on the dry side of the bed. And as satisfying as it was to make him come like that, Diana wishes she could just straddle him now and fuck herself on his cock until she came again.
Bleary blue eyes look over at her and he almost smiles. "You're welcome to join me," he says - maybe even jokes.
Walking around the bed to climb up and straddle his face is clearly the right move. She settles down on his mouth and he is perfect for her, as always. In the end she finds herself braced on the bed, with two fingers inside her and his lips wrapped around her clit like she could fuck his throat with it. Her thighs shake when she comes for the third time, leaving his face streaked with his wetness.
Finally she can collapse beside him, lying against his side to avoid the wet patches. He'll probably end up sleeping in the mess but for now they can curl up together where it's clean.