Chapter Text
Mole’s staring at his hand for too long.
He didn’t do anything wrong, did he? Balsa was a close friend, like True Proof, but just a lot more handsy than what he’d hoped for. Out of the kindness of his heart, he decided to just follow along since Mole trusted him.
Or – well at least, that’s what Hound thought, but he’s looking at his hand right now like Hound’s wronged him in some way. He’s staring at it long and hard like his hand told the man that his tastes in fashion were absolute dogshit. He’s staring like the back of his palm was the man he’d shot so long ago.
“Sir?” he asks, tries, and Mole’s still not looking up at him.
There’s a slight sting to how he drags his claws over the healed scar, tip of the metal tracing over the long bump. His claws press a little harder than usual while the man’s lost in thought.
Did he do something wrong?
“Sir,” he tries again, this time with a tug of his hand in hopes to catch his boss’ attention. It’s obviously not gonna work, really, because Mole’s eyes are locked in and even with the shake he does right after, he can’t get this man to snap out of whatever thing he’s in. Politely.
He can always aim for the shin, or just yank his hand out. He’s perfectly capable, but instead he just keeps calling out till, well he gives up.
But it must be going in one ear and out the other, even as he raises his voice above his usual tone of “Sir,” Mole doesn’t respond. What the fuck is he supposed to do here? Actually aim for his shin? Go for his arm? Stomp on his foot like the first time they met?
As a last ditch effort, because really if this doesn’t work then he’ll start snapping his fingers in hopes it wakes up his boss, he says “Mole.”
It’s immediate, how those pitch black eyes immediately snap from his hand to his face. Fast, quick, the eyes of a man who drains competitors dry and fill their bodies with lead right after. It’s the gaze of the greedy son of a bitch he’s seen in meetings, a stubborn bastard who’ll press a gun to your head for the thrill of it. It’s the cocky asshole who thrives on watching his victims sign a paper that’ll damn them to more than just bankruptcy.
Greedy.
But then it softens a second later, noticeably. It’s a miracle how many bluffs he’s managed to get away with because no one looks at him eye to eye. Everyone doesn’t really look at Mole’s face, because it’s all just burn scars and grinning. If it’s not that, it's his big hat and tiny shades that’s always part of his usual get up blocking the view that makes it hard to tell.
Even his coworkers never really saw Mole’s eyes because – well why would you look at Mole in the eyes? There’s really no reason.
Except Hound, because Hound always looks at him in the eyes because that’s their thing. Mole looks like he wants it to be their thing.
“Hound,” His boss calls, after a moment, and then there’s a tug on his hand. It’s soft, but insistent, like how an owner would to their dog. His claws are pressed on that spot of raised, healed over skin, rubbing the metal over and over, and over and over. It’s like he’s trying to scrub it off.
“C’mere.”
“Sir?”
And Mole’s pulling him again, more determined. He’s practically dragging him at this point, till he ends up with his back to the really fucking expensive dining table. There’s the awkward press of the metals on the small of his back, and then there’s Mole towering over him by the front. Nice, cool, okay.
“Sir – ?”
“D’ya like him?” Mole looms over him, his hand still in the man’s golden claws. “D’ya like Mister Balsa?” He asks again, without letting him answer the first one. Clearly their meeting’s done something to set Mole off like this.
He doesn’t move from where he is, staring up at his boss in confusion. “No,” he says, and whatever tension that was building up in Mole’s shoulders loosen a bit. “I don’t like any of them, sir.” He adds, just in case. Hound doesn’t really answer more than what’s required, but Mole looks like he’s looking for something that he refuses to say.
His eyes are looking everywhere – Hound feels it on his hand still in Mole’s claws, his tie, his polo, his face – Mole stares long at his face with an expression he hasn’t found a name for yet.
“What about Phyllis?”
“No, sir.”
“Not even Miss Proof?”
He almost rolls his eyes, but for the sake of keeping Mole from flipping his shit, Hound settles with shaking his head. He’s acknowledged them, and like every other client, he tolerates them. Mole’s friends are fine at best, but really when it’s not Mole talking about how he’s been evading taxes for a decade now, Hound doesn’t really give a shit.
At worst, he doesn’t like hearing about their schemes at all. Mole’s particularly descriptive in his plans and when he talks about how he popped a full room of people last night in an alley again, but it’s Mole. Someone else describing the same thing would just completely bore him.
It’s not Mole, and the lilt in his voice that raises a pitch when he’s particularly cocky. It’s not Mole whispering in his ear. It’s not Mole and his fucking ugly ass cackle when he wins against Hound in a game of cards, even though it’s fucking rigged, because Mole always wins.
It’s not Mole, so really he doesn’t pay attention to his buddies at all.
But that doesn’t convince him, because Hound doesn’t say that. He chooses to keep his mouth shut while the man’s rubbing the back of his palm again, over the stitched up scar. It’s the same pattern as earlier, left and right, quick motions like he’s trying to erase something.
“Then, ya coworkers?”
This time, Hound actually does roll his eyes. “Sir,” he sighs, even while still pressed between a slightly uncomfortable edge of a table and the furnace that is Mole. “I only tolerate them, all of them.”
“Then how ‘bout me?”
–
Hound stills.
And he holds onto the hand tighter. In fear of – something, rejection maybe, but that’s not likely. Hound’s risked too many things for it to be anything but what he thinks it is. He’s too pretty, too loyal, too protective – Hound’s too much of everything that makes that ugly little thing in Mole crave.
It simmers, itches, and it makes him let go of the hand he’s been holding, and instead reach for Hound’s face when he doesn’t answer. He needs something , and he’s tracing the scar under the bodyguard’s eye again. He’ll cling onto this as much as he can, as much as possible.
Hound will end up liking him eventually.
“Mole,” Hound starts, and already that makes him warm, pressing closer as he lets one of his hands rest on the man’s hips. “You already know the answer to that.”
Then they both pause.
Mole takes those words and flips them over, and flips them over again in case he misheard. He turns it this way and that, and it’s still the same no matter what angle he looks at it.
He flips it one more time just to make sure.
Oh .
Then he’s leaning into Hound’s space, like he always has. Hand holding onto the bodyguard’s chin as he stares. “I do?” he whispers, softly, giddy. Staring right into the bodyguard’s eyes. Hound has such nice eyes, really. If he was a weaker man, he’d send someone to hunt him down instead of looking for him personally.
He’d have Hound’s eyes in a nice little container, wrapped in the finest silk and displayed in his office – but he doesn’t need that. He has the real thing here in his hands.
“You do.” Hound whispers, reverently.
He drags the claw up, from the man’s chin to his mouth, pulling at the bottom lip. Eyeing at how the flesh reddens when he presses down with the tip of his claw, harder than necessary, hard enough to hurt.
Hound is a pretty man. Hound is a very pretty man. The furrow in his brows and the little wince he makes is nothing but lovely. Even the way he bleeds is pretty, with how red blooms under the gold of his claw, tracing all the little carvings of the metal before trailing down into the palm of his hand.
Hound doesn’t move.
It makes him a little dizzy. The scent of rust overloads his senses, especially this close. It makes his mouth water, and Mole purrs when he digs the claw a little deeper and Hound makes a sound in the back of his throat; short, weak and low – exactly like the cry of a little puppy.
Then he pulls his claws back, leaving an open wound. It’ll close up in a few minutes, heal in a few days. He’ll think about giving his puppy a piercing or two, after giving him a leash, definitely.
Hound’s breathing is quick, controlled, eyes locked on the bloody claw that Mole makes a show of bringing to his own mouth. It’s metallic like any other blood in any other body. But it’s Hound’s.
It’s Hound’s , and his bodyguard just allowed him. Hound would go so far as to let Mole hurt him. The blood tastes sweet in the back of his throat.
The tang of it still lingers on his tongue, and he leans back in. Mole leans in until they’re practically sharing the same air. He leans in until he could count the lashes on Hound’s eyes. He leans in until he could hear the slight tremble in his puppy’s breathing. Until the space between their lips is so small that it may as well be a kiss.
But it isn’t. Mole hums at the whine he hears.
“Really?” He whispers, spare hand rubbing circles on Hound’s hip. He can practically taste the leftover blood on Hound’s mouth, but he doesn’t push it. He doesn’t move any closer.
Hound closes the gap.
Unlike his hands, Hound’s lips are soft. They’re warm, sweet, tacky with the drying blood. It’s tender – it makes Mole’s teeth itch with the urge to bite. Sink into the soft flesh and eat him whole.
He’s so cute. Immediately both Mole’s hands fall to the bodyguard’s hips, gripping tight, pushing in more, harder, till there’s not a single bit of space between them. He wants as much contact – as much as everything as he can get.
“Puppy,” he gasps out when they separate to breathe, but then Hound’s pulling him in again before he could get another word. “Puppy,” he tries again, and this time he does actually bite. Teeth catching onto the newly closed wound, and it bleeds fresh red that Mole doesn’t hesitate to catch with his tongue.
It’s enough to make Hound stop for a moment. “Puppy, ya still haven’t answered my question yet.”
Hound rolls his eyes, probably for the millionth time today. His own tongue sticks out to catch whatever blood Mole didn’t, a short hum before he glares at him. “You literally sucked my blood then my face,” he grumbles, slapping Mole’s hand when it goes to squeeze the juncture between the bodyguard’s hip and his thigh. “Don’t you think you answered your own question?”
“Mmh,” he answers smartly, taking the time to drag his hands over the plush of Hound’s thighs. He is grateful to whatever higher being is up there that convinced the bodyguard to only ever wear skinny jeans, despite how it should be so fucking hard to move in them. “I value the opinions of my employees.”
At this point, Hound must be so tired from rolling his eyes that he instead clicks his tongue. His hands move, instead of gripping on the table, they go for Mole’s shoulders. “You’re so fucking stupid.”
“Ya don’t mean that, puppy.”
“I do.” He grumbles, while Mole’s tracing his jaw with his own mouth this time, humming along dumbly. “And when we’re done here I’m going to punch you.” He says, but then he grabs the back of Mole’s head and pulls him in again.
Greedy.
To everyone else, Hound is an untouchable force. A shadow constantly trailing behind him. A ruthless ghost who kills at a mere mention of a name. Hound is a cruel phantom whose only skill is to spill blood.
They’re only half right – barely right. The fact that no one else but his circle knows of Hound’s face is enough to make him want, so very deeply. The faceless mercenary feared by big names like him for so long, now in his arms gasping for air because of him. Only him.
Only Mole.
He drags his claws back down to the back of Hound’s thighs, lifting the bodyguard and putting him on the table with ease because – well Hound is fucking tiny . Not that he’s light however. His bodyguard is tiny, but he’s built with muscle – bastard could quite literally beat men twice as big as him – and Mole makes it his absolute mission to have his much deserved feel of everything.
Mole grabs them, the meatiest part of Hound’s thighs, and squeezes. He rakes the tips of his claws over the material till the bodyguard’s too busy gasping to actually return his kisses. When Hound gives him that opening, he dives into the bodyguard’s neck like a man starved.
Hound’s skin tastes of salt – and blood when Mole digs his teeth in. It’s all the taste of soap, of tang and salt. He kisses the wound in apology, but then goes for another bite that bleeds right next to it.
His bodyguard whines, low and throaty, shaking. Really he’s not supposed to bite that hard, but the way Hound responds is too tempting. He’s gasping, loud and breathy as he tries to rack his nails down the back of Mole’s coat. It doesn’t work at all, absolutely futile, so he settles for reaching up to combing his hands through Mole’s hair, knocking off the top hat in the process.
“Fucking christ, ” his bodyguard hisses, grip tight on his hair and – well that urges him on to keep biting, moving to the other side to mark up his neck more even as Hound starts to speak. “You’re not going to fire me, are you?”
For a moment, Mole pauses his ministrations, thinks, then decides that instead of answering that stupid question – he goes back to the first bloody hickey with a nibble. It’s a warning.
He almost hears the eyeroll. “I’m just checking, because usually when bosses want to bone their guards, it doesn’t end well.” Hound says it like he’s coming from experience, and Mole digs his teeth a little deeper because of it.
Hound jumps – full body, and his legs spasm as he hisses out a curse. “Jesus – Mole, I can’t hold a conversation with myself. I fucking suck at this.” And he’s no longer pulling at Mole’s hair, this time tapping his shoulder with a whine. “Get up here and talk to me.”
Now, see, he’s perfectly content staking his claim on Hound’s neck for the next couple of hours or so, but he’s nice. “I dunno,” he drawls, moving to rise up back to Hound’s eye level. “Ya seem like yer doin’ perfectly well, puppy.”
Hound’s a lovely sight to see. He always is, but it’s a treat to see him with a pretty blush to his usual stoic face. “I mean, unless – ” Then Mole moves his hold from his bodyguard’s thighs to his hips again. “Unless ya don’ wanna work for me anymore?”
He says it as a joke, because he’s never going to let this man leave him, ever, but then Hound grabs him by the face. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.” His answer is instantaneous, rising up to full posture. “Hound, puppy , if ya leave me I’m going to make it very very, very hard for ya.” Starting by changing all the locks in the building, then finding a room that locks from the outside.
But Hound rolls his eyes for the millionth time like it’s some bad joke, dragging a thumb through Mole’s bottom lip, trying to rub what he assumes is whatever dried blood he can see. “Good,” he says, almost smug. “I’d kill you if you wanted me to.”
His eyes practically light up when Hound says that, grin almost reaching from ear to ear as he pulls the bodyguard close. “Really? Ya can’t take that back now. Yer never leavin’ my side.” He says, it’s almost breathless – giddy as he pulls Hound in for another kiss.
And another,
Then another,
Greedy. He’s so fucking greedy. Mole kisses him till Hound’s breathless, and goes in for more. Till he gets sick of it, till his lips bruise, till Mole’s name is the only thing he can say. He keeps going till they’re both gasping.
He goes for one more.
—
“You’re in an awfully good mood!” Proof chirps, which is code for ‘whose body am I supposed to expect in the dumpster this week?’ but Mole’s head is up somewhere so high that not even Mister Swift’s juggling can reach.
They’ve all gathered – not exactly around the long dining table, because that’s physically impossible, but they are gathered, yes. Plans strewn around with so many sticky notes stacked on top of one another. There’s a coffee spill somewhere on one of the smaller ones – a blueprint of that brand new warehouse that just popped out of nowhere next to Swift’s territory, and crumbs from the pastries Proof asked for an hour ago.
It’s messy, but not to the point it bothers Mole. Honestly, not a lot of things can bother him nowadays. There’s been a rapid drop in Dead Mole Lackeys since the past two months or so, and a rise in Dead Competitors Trying to Fuck with Mole since the past three. He’s quite proud of his development, honestly.
But people hate improvement, because Mister Swifts takes one good look at his joyous mood and immediately scrunches up his nose, like it’s the most disgusting thing he’s ever seen. That’s already an insult considering that blonde bastard deals with all kinds of animals.
“You’re happy,” is what he starts with, very intelligently. Mole nods along and whistles at True Proof to check the route he’s drawn out to the back of the warehouse. “Yes I am. Ya got a problem with it?”
“When you’re this happy,” Swift tries again, brows furrowed as he rolls a ball under his hand. “Someone’s usually dead.”
“Or you scammed another poor soul!” Proof adds on, and draws a big fat cross on one of the roads the route passes. “Can’t go here. Phyllis hasn’t confirmed it yet.” she says, seriously, before switching back to “Or y’know, killed another guy.”
“That’s what I said!”
“Hush, you!”
Mole rolls his eyes, and starts looking over the maps for another route. “Well since yer all so kind to ask.” The two pause their incoming bicker to glance at the sole man actually formulating a plan. “I think I’ve jus’ been a nice, good soul, and that whatever’s up there is blessin’ me.”
There’s a long, pregnant pause that follows.
“I’m not possessed.” Mole adds, with a sigh.
The two blondes sigh out in relief, at the same time, almost practised. Seriously, he fucking hates these two sometimes.
“We thought someone stole your identity,” Swifts says, horrified. He even puts his hand on his chest and gasps like a maiden wronged – which awfully feels like deja vu. “Someone managed to finally beat the great Mister Mole!”
Proof, from the corner of his eye, then ties her hair up into a quick bun, grabbing a pencil from some place on the table and grabs another note. “But you still know how to fuck up cooking an egg, so we always knew it was still you sweetie, don’t worry.”
Against his better judgement, he spits a “Fuck you.” It’s specifically directed to the blonde bastard with the dumb monocle.
“Anyway,” She says, before Swifts spit something back and they try to lunge at each other over the table like last time. “So what’s the good news?”
There’s a lot of good news, like Luca’s nearly done with that cane design they’ve argued over, or that his lackeys are finally growing a brain, or that he can finally confirm that a Hunter doesn't want his head after laying low for what felt like years. Which is fucking finally . He knew that little bastard rotting in hell was stupid for thinking he was some hot shit.
Instead, a hand slowly creeps into view, resting on the dining table.
It takes a second for the two blondes to notice, heads quickly snapping to the presence that just made itself known next to his chair. Mole already kept an eye out the moment the faint smell of rust and tang showed up.
“Sir,” Hound speaks, from Mole’s left. His hood is flipped up high, stopping anyone from seeing anything more than just his mouth and scar, and there’s enough red on his uniform polo that Mole kind of second guesses for a moment if it was ever white.
His bodyguard opens his mouth to continue – but then seems to glance at the two other people in the room, offering them both a nod of his head. “Afternoon,” he says to both of them, then turns back to Mole. “They’re by the West, Sir.”
“Done?”
“Done.” Hound echoes, nodding. Cute.
Mole grabs the pencil from earlier, and redraws the first route he’s planned, slapping it on top of what Proof drew over earlier. “Tell Phyllis this street’s safe then, just send some cleaners.” He doesn’t say any more than that, and turns back to Hound.
It’s almost tender, how he puts his hand on top of the bodyguard’s. “I’ll see ya later then.” He says, tracing the knuckles for a moment, and Hound nods again, a little lower this time, like a mock bow, before he turns to leave.
The scent of metallic tang disappears too, not long after.
.
Swifts is first to break the silence.
“I’m surprised that I’m not surprised,” he exhales, disappointed as he chucks a ball at Mole’s direction. “But I really shouldn’t be, I could see your heart eyes from a mile away.” And he rises from his chair to peek at the entire route Mole’s drawn out.
Proof takes a different approach and grins at him, leaning over the table. “Last time I checked, Hound didn’t have a lip piercing, did he?”
“I think it fits him nicely,” Along with the leash, definitely, but neither of the other mafioso’s commented on it. Probably because they don’t want to ask about it. “I think a whole lot of other things fit him nicely too.”
“Like?”
“I’ve been trying to get him to try on those – ”
“And that’s my cue,” Swifts almost yells, horrified, hands slamming down on the table so hard that all the supplies jump at least two centimetres off the table. “Meeting over!”
“But – ”
“Meeting over!”