Chapter Text
"You haven't sent me on a honey trap mission in a while."
"I thought you hated those..."
"I'm simply stating an observation," Twilight said evenly. "And for the record, I don't."
Sylvia leaned back in her chair and regarded her subordinate with her head cocked to the side. "How's practice going? I haven't seen any reports for a while."
"No longer necessary," he said simply. "Yor Forger is able to kiss her husband at the bus stop every day, in view of the public, and we were able to play a convincing couple at a work outing."
"Ah." said Handler. "So no more concussions?"
"Not from Mrs. Forger, anyway."
She studied him briefly. He was a hard read today, which could mean he was hiding something. But his acting skills were no match for her ability to read between the lines. Meaning could be gleaned from the things he didn't say, as well as the careful way he worded the things he did.
"You know, if your needs aren't being met at home..."
She watched her agent stiffen and smirked.
"...the world's oldest profession is still alive and well here in Berlint."
"I'm not—"
"And, let's see..." Handler flipped through the pages in the mission file folder, "...ah, yes, here it is: you still have working hands, Agent Twilight."
"I was merely asking because if you have any doubts about my abilities, I can assure you..."
"Who said I have doubts about you?" Sylvia sat back in her chair and shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe I’ve removed honeytraps from my roster of tools... maybe I've decided I don't like to push negative stereotypes of women as needy and gullible by exploiting their sexuality for morsels of information."
"We both know that isn't true," he leveled with her.
He was right. The one luxury her job afforded her was a very straightforward ethical code: anything goes, as long as it’s in service of the greater mission for peace.
"Fine. I don't want to get into your head too much, but you've been... off."
She watched him visibly stiffen. He knew she was right.
"I've noticed as well. I'm... working on it."
"I hope so."
Handler was right. He was off. Ever since that night out with Yor's coworkers, he had been... off. But to blame it purely on sexual frustration was reductive and insulting, even for her.
At least she doesn’t think I’m… compromised… The word was so loaded. It implied a problem that went deeper than sexual compatibility.
Would a compromised spy request a honeytrap mission? No. Exactly. Not at all compromised. These things just happen when in close quarters with someone like Yor.
Jaw set, he stood by the elevator, awaiting its painfully slow arrival.
Clumsy performance on recent missions aside, things weren’t all bad. Strix was going well. The night out with Yor's coworkers had gone objectively well. They did indeed play a convincing role that night. The problem came later when they got home. Yor had asked him to kiss her like husbands kiss wives when no one else was looking. He had intended to do the bare minimum while still fitting the qualifications: a demonstration, nothing more. Instead, he had kissed her again and again, as if his life depended on it.
Weak, Twilight.
She'd then asked if it "counted as one" and was thus within the boundaries of their "once a day" rule. Stupidly, he said yes. A little lie to save face—to prove to her, and maybe to himself, that he hadn't lost control. It had instead set a dangerous precedent that, as long as their lips didn't part for more than a moment, it was perfectly permissible within the bounds of their arrangement. Even then, they were bending the rules: finding loopholes within loopholes to drag their daily "kiss" out for even a second longer.
They were getting... very good at that.
In his mind flashed a snapshot of a recent night. He'd had her body pressed against a door jamb, desperately wishing it was his mattress...
What's taking the elevator so long?
"You gotta push the button, Twi Guy."
An older member of WISE grinned cheekily at Twilight and pressed the elevator button for him.
"Right... thank you."
Weak and stupid, he thought.
He entered the elevator, a facsimile of a photo booth, and took the quaking journey to the surface.
Every once in a while, he would find himself on the elevator of the Park Avenue Apartment building alone with Yor. A fantasy he'd had since long ago—before he lost control, even—flashed before his mind's eye. It involved pressing the emergency stop button and taking her against the wall...
Weak and stupid and beyond inappropriate, Twilight. He pinched the bridge of his nose. This ends today.
He spent the train ride home strengthening his resolve. Yor deserved so much better than to be a temporary plaything to an enemy spy. She deserved a real Loid Forger. Someone who would give her a real proposal; someone who could promise her forever—who didn't have a pre-scripted death waiting for the moment she stopped being useful to him. The closer he let Yor get, the worse that death would be for her: another great tragedy in an already tragic life.
Today, Twilight swore, his moral and rational mind would prevail. He was feeling confident for the first time in weeks when he walked through the door.
"I'm home!" he declared.
He was ready to talk to her. He was going to tell her that they needed to stop—or, at the very least, slow down. He had a mental list of talking points—okay, lies—designed to turn her down nicely while preserving the more beneficial aspects of her partnership. He would make it clear that it was through no fault or failing of her own. Then, they would return to their former status quo of polite detachment, and this unfortunate little blip in his spy career would end.
But she was wearing that red sweater dress today...
So, as often happened when the stars aligned and their chaotic schedules synchronized, they ended up together on the couch under some clumsy pretense: nightly mugs of tea untouched, mouths otherwise occupied, and hands wandering unchecked.
He clung desperately to her with an arm wrapped tightly around her waist. Her chest pressed against his with a pleasant give. Drawing each other closer and closer, they wound themselves into a frenzied knot while trying not to tumble over that forbidden line. Heads and limbs bent awkwardly. Torsos were twisted to their limits.
Lips raw, they released each other for a moment of reprieve. He slid his hand down her thigh. His fingers curled around to the tender flesh on the back side of her knee, then he lifted her legs and draped them over his lap.
She squirmed, not entirely uncomfortably. He became acutely aware of her heat pressed against the side of his thigh. He tapped into his spy training and steadied his breathing. Yor held herself up with her fingers linked loosely behind his neck, and her legs were folded neatly against his chest. It reminded him of the time he carried her onto the cruise ship. He wrapped an arm around her back for support, freeing her hands again. While she adjusted to their new closeness, he planted a row of kisses along her bare shoulder and murmured into her neck, "Better?"
"Yeah... is it okay for you?" She shifted her legs as if to try to lessen the weight on his lap; as if it was a burden rather than a gift he was unworthy of.
"I like your legs," he stated simply. Her skirt fought an ongoing battle against gravity, but held the line for now. He ran his fingers up her leg and past her stocking, stopping just short of the hem of her dress. Her muscles flexed beneath his palm. He grinned into her shoulder and placed his open mouth against her neck. He sucked gently—not enough to bruise, but enough to draw out a faint whimper. Her fingers snaked their way into his hair. Yor's grip on him was strong and sure. She held him in place: a silent plea that he answered by nipping at her collarbone and continuing the onslaught on her neck and chest. A stifled moan vibrated in her throat, and he filed the information in his head under "things Yor likes".
Not that he would need it. Because this would be the last time.
She gripped his hair in her fists and pulled him back up to her. He groaned and plunged his tongue into her eager mouth. He snaked his hand up her back, ran a knuckle under the hem of her neckline, over the shallow hills and valleys of her shoulder blades and spine, past the tempting mechanism holding the whole confounding piece together. It would be so easy to undo. (Theoretically, of course.) He reveled in the increasingly familiar feel of her skin on his knuckles. He loved this dress. He always had. It was the beginning of the end for him: the subject of many a fantasy that drove his mind mad and his body into a frenzy on sleepless nights. All that stood between him and more of her delectable flesh was that single clasp at the base of her neck...
...but that was a line his better judgement had drawn in the sand. So he settled instead for running his palm along her spine, down to where her muscled back gave way to the soft flesh below. He let his mind try to fill in the blanks; to imagine what it would feel like for no fabric to come between them.
His hips rolled unconsciously toward her. Yor gasped at the unexpected friction. Her fingers dug into his shoulder with breathtaking strength. It was time.
"We should stop," he said gruffly.
It always ended like this—they would chase each other to some forbidden edge, and when it became too much, one of them would bring it to an unceremonious end.
Her hands crept through his hair and came to hold either side of his face. Her lips met his again, soft and wanting. "Okay," she murmured. This was also typical of them—a few more seconds of teasing kisses and touches, daring the other to pull them over the edge and into the unknown.
He chased after her lips and took them again—once, twice, three times for good measure—and finally released them with aching slowness.
One, he counted.
His cock twitched in his pants. Good timing. He discreetly adjusted himself while she withdrew her legs and straightened herself up.
This was the worst part: the loaded silence; the mutual embarrassment; the temptation to break their fragile rules... to count to two. The part where they angled their bodies away from each other and their brains did the complicated work of rationalizing what just happened as "practice" for the sake of their cover. That it all amounted to just one kiss. Their subconsciouses had somehow come together in a conspiracy against their rational minds and seemed hell bent on changing the very definition of the word.
"It's late," he said, standing up.
"Right..." She tucked her hair behind her ear.
Loid Forger's gentlemanly instincts dictated he help his wife up. Her chest brushed against his upon standing, and they both took a hurried step back. Their hands were still linked in between them.
"I should go to bed..." She sounded like she was in a trance.
"Right..." he said, finally releasing her hand.
They stared at each other for a second, then retreated to their respective rooms in awkward silence.
When he came back out with a fresh change of clothes balled in his fist, he was intercepted by Yor at the bathroom door.
"Oh..." She blushed. "Sorry, you can go—"
"No, please," he said, gesturing for her to take it.
She murmured a thanks, avoiding his eyes, and shut the door rather loudly. "Sorry!" She squeaked through the closed door.
He wouldn't wait for the shower. Couldn't. His body screamed at him for release, and as Handler said, he was in possession of sufficiently functioning hands. Tonight, he would not have the luxury of hot water and a drain to wash away his contrition. He would instead wake up tomorrow, hot and sticky with the evidence of his licentiousness, and powerless to the fantasies that flooded his mind for the rest of the day—until the next time.
Except there won't be a next time...
He heard the shower turn on. His cock twitched angrily again. He retired to his room, alone, where shame and fitful sleep awaited.
Yor was grateful for the disorganized chaos of their mornings lately. It spared no moments for morning-after awkwardness. She and Loid stumbled out of their rooms a few minutes behind schedule and into their roles: her making coffee, him cooking breakfast, and both of them taking turns dashing from the kitchen to ensure Anya was upright and moving. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened last night.
She supposed it wasn't out of the ordinary anymore. It was happening with frightening regularity...
Their whole plan had been turned upside-down. It had worked so well at first: when they did their morning kiss at the bus stop, it meant that she felt free the rest of the day, rather than spending the day in anxious anticipation. For the briefest moment in time, she lived her life in relative comfort. Now, her days were filled with anticipation of another kind...
I should have never asked him to kiss me, she thought wearily.
The Forgers arrived at the bus stop with a few minutes to spare. Anya was off in her own little world, hopping between slabs of concrete, sure not to step on any cracks. Yor and Loid had the same stilted conversation they now had most mornings.
"Will you be home for dinner tonight?" Loid asked.
"I'll be a little late... the girls and I have a deadline to meet, which may mean overtime."
"Ah. What time do you think you'll be home, then?"
"Oh, not too late..." she hummed, "we don’t often stay later than 7:30."
He smiled and nodded.
"What about you? Do you have anywhere to be tonight?"
"Thankfully, no." He smiled.
"Oh. Good." She smiled back.
"I'll have dinner ready around 7:30, then."
"Perfect."
They stood next to each other, hands clasped in front of them like two cordial strangers. Anya ran over, announcing the arrival of the bus.
”The S.S. Starlight is ready to bark!”
”It’s embark, Anya.”
Yor crouched to give her a hug. "Have a nice day, Miss Anya!"
"Be good." Loid patted her on the head and turned to leave but was stopped short.
"Aren't Mama and Papa gonna kiss?"
Loid and Yor glanced at each other for the most infinitesimal fraction of a second and looked away, blushing.
"Uh..." Loid choked.
"Oh! Um..." Later, yes... not that I can explain that to Anya... She couldn't explain it to anyone, really, because to put it into words would expose the whole ridiculous charade for what it was, and Yor wasn't ready to face that yet. There was a reason she and Loid didn't do much talking these days...
Well, a couple of reasons...
A memory flashed in her head of a night she'd rushed home much later than planned... of her back pressed into a hard wood doorframe; Loid's hands gripping her waist like a lifeline; her fingers raking over his torso, feeling every muscle and bone through a thin t-shirt—pain behind her, pleasure to her front. They didn't even make it to the couch that night—he’d basically pounced on her as soon as she walked through the door.
She shook herself and smiled at Anya again. The little girl looked like she’d seen a ghost.
Oh no... she must think we're fighting!
Loid was quick on his feet, as always. "Papa has a cold this morning, Anya. It's important to not spread germs."
Stone faced, Anya turned and boarded the bus with none of her usual enthusiasm or theatrics.
"I wonder what's wrong with her..." asked Yor.
"I never know," Loid said. "I'll uh... see you tonight?"
"Right..." the grip on her handbag tightened. "See you tonight."
The electric charge of possibility crackled between them. After a too-long pause, they nodded jerkily and parted ways without a word, looking nothing like the husband and wife they were supposed to be.
She and Loid would be able to spend time together tonight. As she carried herself to work on shaky legs, Yor's head swam with thoughts of the near future. Caught in the swirling current of flashbacks, fantasy, and possibility, she scrambled for purchase and drowned.
"Yor."
"Huh?!" She hadn't noticed the hot coffee overflowing from her mug and onto her hand. "Oh!!"
She scrambled to mop up the mess with flimsy paper napkins. Sharon helped her. "What's with you today? You're even more spacey than usual."
"N-nothing! I... was just thinking about the reports that are due tomorrow!"
"You mean the ones you've been typing out at like four words per minute?" Camilla poured her own coffee. "Maybe you should be thinking about it at your desk—this is a group effort, you know."
"Oh, give her a break, Camilla!" Millie graciously came to Yor's defense. "We all have our off days..."
"You would know, Millie. Are you two sharing the same brain cell today, or what?"
Camilla and Millie bickered, leaving Yor and Sharon alone in the race against time to dispose of the cheap paper napkins before they disintegrated into a coffee-scented sludge.
"You don't have to make stuff up, you know." Sharon said, voice low.
"What do you—"
"Come on..." she said incredulously. "What's really going on with you?" Sharon's voice showed genuine concern. "Something with Yuri? Something at home...?"
To the last line, Yor tensed. Their cover was at risk. Words raced in her head but stopped short of her lips in a long string of stutters, until she managed, "Things—things are going great at home!” She offered a tight smile in response to Sharon’s raised eyebrow.
Yor put the sopping napkins into her mug and stood up to discard them. Camilla and Millie continued their own conversation in the peripheral.
"What you need is to get it over with and take him to bed with you," she heard Camilla say.
Yor's coffee mug shattered in her hand.
"Yor!! What's with you?? I was talking to Millie!"
"I'm fine!! Just an involuntary muscle spasm... i-it's a side effect from a new medication!" She waved her hands in front of her. Flecks of red flew off of them.
"Yor, you're bleeding!!" While Sharon urged Yor to the sink to clean the fresh cuts on her hand, Millie and Sharon continued their conversation, as if Yor breaking things and injuring herself was normal for them. (It was.)
"So how about it, Millie?" Camilla continued.
"No..." Millie said. "I don't think there's any love there yet…"
"You don't need love, Millie... you just need... you know..." She paused while the section chief walked in and out of earshot. "...a little death."
"Camilla!" squealed Millie.
Even with her back turned, she could tell from the tone of Camilla's voice that her eyebrows were arched in some implication that went way over her head. But her ears perked up at the word “death”.
"So modern, Camilla... " Sharon said in mock offense as she poured Yor a fresh mug, "She's not even married."
Yor turned away from the sink to face the other two girls. "What did you mean by that, Camilla?"
"I mean that if Millie was being satisfied at home, she might be able to get her head on straight and be of some use around here…"
Millie scoffed.
"No, what do you mean by... little death?"
Camilla and Millie snorted back laughter. Yor looked helplessly between them.
"You know…" said Camilla, “La petite mort…”
If that was meant as a clarification, it wasn’t a very good one, as Yor did not speak French.
"Orgasm, Yor," said Sharon flatly.
Yor clamped her lips shut and clenched her fists. A fresh trickle of blood ran down her hand.
"Careful! Geez..." Sharon scolded. She grabbed Yor’s hand and pressed a clean napkin into her cut.
"Maybe you should get on that too, Yor," Camilla said with a ferocious grin. Yor swore she saw fangs.
"I think you mean… get on that husband of hers..." Millie said the second part in a thrilled half-whisper, like a child uttering a curse word.
"Millie!" Sharon and Camilla exclaimed, clearly impressed.
The break room rang with the echoes of laughter. The section chief poked his head in.
"How long does it take you girls to make a pot of coffee?? You've been yapping in here for 15 minutes!"
"Mrs. Forger cut her hand again," Camilla said in a voice tinted intentionally with girlish concern.
"Again??" he said, eyeing Yor, "Well, get her cleaned up and get back to work!"
Camilla stood on a chair, retrieving a first aid kit from a high shelf with practiced grace.
As she trudged through the reports, Yor thought of deaths both little and big.
Death was nothing new to her. What was happening between her and Loid was. It was terrifying—doubly so because she didn’t think she could stop their speedy plummet to whatever rushed up at them from below. But to compare it to death made it less intimidating, somehow... she’d dealt out more deaths than she could count, and evaded it in equal measure. She was quite good at it. Sometimes, it felt like divine providence—as if she was molded by some god or goddess for the express purpose of delivering swift and final justice to evil mortals. She had confidence in this like she had in no other area of her life.
So then what made a little death so scary?
She had never delivered a death of this particular nature before… she’d taken her own life on occasion, alone in her bed and rather unspectacularly, when the thought of Loid only one room away became too much to bear. Her hands had been insufficient weapons in this: her fingers were dull blades that drew her death out in a painful and frustrating way; but they got the job done. However, she’d never gotten close enough to anyone for… that. She’d never trusted anyone enough. But for some reason, she trusted this stranger she shared a home with. All that being said, she didn’t know if she’d be any good at it—if she would embarrass herself… and that was scarier than death.
Since all of this started, he’d whispered all the right things to her in between kisses. So beautiful, Yor… So sexy… You’re all I could think about today… but she’d caught her husband in lies before: little white lies meant to make her feel better, or to evade followup questions. But on the occasions his mouth wandered away from hers, she would steal glances at his lap and see those same sentiments straining against his clothing. That beautiful mouth of his was skilled at crafting irrefutable falsehoods, but his body couldn’t lie.
Still when it came time… would she be able to satisfy Loid?
She shook her head. No! Because it can’t happen! She was riddled with guilt on the best of days for haunting the home of the Forgers; for touching them with her bloodstained hands. A list of her sins was racking up, filling out the details to the vivid nightmare she hoped would never come true: Loid finding out about Thorn Princess. In her nightmarish vision of the future, he confronted her angrily, disgusted and horrified; recited a growing list of accusations: “You made me share my house with a killer… I let you put my daughter to bed… you asked me to kiss you…” To ask this of him—to do this to him—seemed a step too far.
Then again, Sharon and Camilla made it sound like it no big deal… maybe that’s why it was called a little death. Little. Insignificant. A blip. The world would have her believe it was some forbidden act deserving only of those with a soul mate; that her body was some precious thing to be kept under lock and key. But it was perfectly natural—as natural as death—and if it helped her “get her head on straight”, as Camilla said, then maybe it needed to be done.
And to be fair, they were married…
"Pick up the pace, Yor!”
“I’m sorry!!”
She arrived home much later than promised to a cold plate of dinner waiting for her on the table, and her fake husband awaiting her on the couch. He wore plain, gray sweatpants and a casual blue sweater that brought attention to his eyes. His hair was more mussed than usual, as if he'd been running his fingers through it all evening.
She skipped dinner, which isn't to say she wasn't hungry.
"We need to stop," Loid said into her mouth.
"Then stop..." Yor teased. He kissed her again. His hand slid down past the collar of her work shirt, past her shoulder. The heel of his hand stopped just shy of her nipple. She inhaled sharply.
Thorn Princess crept curiously out of the shadows.
"I'll need you to stop first," he grunted.
Yor arched her back, filling his palm with her breast. Loid moaned like a dying man. Her body lit up with possibility. She fisted his hair and drew him into her shoulder, then breathed into his ear...
"But what if I don't?"
It all happened so fast. A strong arm wrapped around her waist. Gravity shifted beneath her, the cushions of the couch came up to meet her back, and through opening eyes she saw the ceiling come into view. It was like getting caught off guard in a fight: a feeling that she knew could end in death, one way or the other.
Thorn Princess snapped into action.
Her arm was a pale blur between their faces. By some miracle he reacted, but only partially spared himself from Thorn Princess's powerful uppercut.
"Fuck!" he yelled as she grazed his nose.
"Loid!!"
He held his nose, but his concern seemed to lie elsewhere. "Yor! I'm so sorry I—"
"No, Loid! You didn't—I actually wanted—I don’t know what got into me, I..." A whimper escaped her, embarrassingly distraught.
"No, Yor. It’s on me. I shouldn't have done that…"
She scrambled to remove his hand from his face to survey the damage she did. No blood, at least. She sighed in relief, then at exasperation at herself.
"I'm... I'm sorry, Loid..." The seconds were slipping through their fingers. They were on the brink of something new and exciting, and she ruined it. Of course she did.
"It's okay, Yor." He stroked her hair and face, as if she’d been the one to get injured.
The clock ticked from across the room.
Tick…Tick…Tick…
One, she counted ruefully.
She finally met his eyes again. They were no longer filled with that animal fury that had excited her so, but they were locked onto hers with aching tenderness. Gently, he took her by the hand. He tugged her toward him, and she followed without a second thought. He gingerly guided one knee over his lap and settled her into a straddle. Their eyes were locked onto each other the whole way in a silent negotiation. We’ll let this one go, they seemed to say. His eyes flicked downwards. He tugged her work skirt down in an attempt to preserve some of her modesty. His hands came to a tenuous rest on her hips.
"Better?"
It was. Thorn Princess was used to having the upper hand and the change of position seemed to subdue her. She nodded silently, her lips brushing against his with each pass. He disarmed her with a tender kiss. She sighed into it.
...One... she counted again.
Her fingers trickled down his chest. She grabbed the hem of his sweater and peeled it off over his head. The sweater hadn’t even been pulled past his eyes when he desperately found her mouth again. They were on the clock, after all. She smiled against his lips and lightly raked her nails over the thin fabric of his undershirt. They briefly caught onto his nipples, and he opened his mouth in a gasp. Her fingers came into contact with skin where the bottom of his shirt had ridden up above his navel: a happy accident. She’d never felt him underneath his clothes before, and the rigidity of the muscles there surprised her. He returned his hand to her breast, running his thumb over the sensitive center. Even through her bra, and through the starched fabric of her work shirt, the sensation nearly undid her.
She rolled her hips in an instinctive response and her tongue plunged hungrily into his mouth. Loid’s hand dug into her thigh, perhaps in a bid for self control, but then his fingers inched helplessly towards the hem of her skirt. Somehow, they’d already caught up to where they were before and showed no signs of stopping.
His mouth left a wet trail down her throat, and he deftly unbuttoned one button to clear the path ahead. Then another...
Her mind went blank. Her eyes got lost in the wallpaper pattern in front of her while the rest of her got lost in his touch; in the torturously slow trail of kisses he was placing down her sternum. Something wet ran down her chest, between the valley of her breasts. She knew the viscosity, the heat of it well.
"Loid, you're bleeding..."
She tipped his head up to survey the damage, but he captured her lips again, shutting her up
"Don’ worry ‘bout it," he mumbled.
Her straight-laced husband was full of surprises tonight. She felt his blood smear on her face. She didn’t care. Her hips unconsciously rolled again, in time with his own rising helplessly upward. Her soft core came into contact with something solid.
A jolt of electricity opened their eyes wide and they gasped each other's oxygen. Loid gripped a fistful of her hair. His eyes were wild again, like they belonged to a different person.
BANG!!
Thorn Princess leapt to her feet, battle ready. Loid sprung into action beside her, grabbing a heavy brass bookend from the side table and brandishing it like a weapon. For a second, they were like equal partners on a battlefield.
"Hellooo, sister! I'm—"
Yor recognized, with horror, her baby brother in the doorway looking stunned. The hunk of metal fell from Loid's hand with a loud thunk.
"Yuri??"