Fic: All He Cares About
Title: All He Cares About
Fandom: Grimm
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Nick/Monroe
Summary: Fill for this prompt. Set right after "Of Mouse and Man". Nick comforts Monroe after the attack.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Monroe recognized Nick by his scent before he opened the door, else he wouldn’t have gone near it, his instincts too shook up, comfort zone rattled. They had lured him outside his territory to attack him, yet one couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t throw care to the wind. The only thing defending his turf was him, after all, and they made their low regard of him pretty clear when they beat him until he felt like a chewed out football.
The coldness of the beer he shared with Nick alleviated the ache in his mouth, even as pressing the neck of the bottle to his lips stung his cut skin, but it was Nick’s presence that proved most soothing. They sat on the couch, like so many times before, all the visits the reapers had counted out with kicks on his flesh that he hadn’t felt then, but, Christ, they were screaming now. Nick held the ice bag to Monroe’s head as he inspected his face, careful to brush his fingers over his skin with only the lightest of touches, jerking back every time Monroe hissed, so Monroe clamped down on his reflexes, for he did not want those hands to move away, not for a second. Nick regarded him with such apology, taking the blame onto himself like the decent guy he was.
“It’s not your fault,” Monroe said. “I invited you into my house. It’s on me.”
Nick shook his head, a sad smile on his face.
“You wouldn’t have if I hadn’t accused you of kidnapping.”
“An apparent misstep, I’ll grant you. But I don’t regret it.”
Nick’s smile widened then, and he kissed Monroe, the gentlest caress.
“You want soup?” he asked. “I can make you some.”
“You know how to cook?”
“I can make food. You don’t have a monopoly on cooking skills here.”
Monroe didn’t, as it turned out. The aroma of bean stew greeted his nose as he relaxed on a chair right outside the kitchen, watching Nick stir the pot. He had offered to help, but Nick wouldn’t hear of it.
“This is your care package. All you have to do is sit and enjoy it.”
Which Monroe did. Immensely. The soup was perfectly spiced, the smoothness of the beans delighting his taste buds, not so soft that he couldn’t enjoy pressing them slowly with his teeth until the tender flesh erupted out of its skin for him to scoop up with his tongue. Nick ate with him, their first meal together made by his hands. Under the table, Monroe nudged his shin with his foot, sliding his toes down his leg before settling his foot beside Nick’s, a silent thank you. Nick smiled at the contact, reaching under the table to touch Monroe’s knee, squeezing a “you’re welcome”. Monroe ate slowly, his injured jaw not making chewing a pleasant prospect, so Nick finished way before him, but he stayed at the table with him, talking about random things. The latest films they’d watched. The new puppy down the street that liked Monroe instead of being intimidated by him. Why young people’s music nowadays was so bad. Anything except the attack. They could plan defensive strategies later. Now… Now he’d rather not talk about it.
It was bad enough that he kept stiffening every time he heard a sound he didn’t recognize. Any creak or car rumble had him straightening up and listening hard for a reaper or something else to come crashing through his door. Even the house settling had him on edge, his heart dancing a rumba in his chest before Nick laid a hand on his arm, and Monroe shook his head, cursing his shivering, and let Nick rub the worry away, latching onto his smile, that beautiful smile that somehow made everything all better just because it was Nick and Nick was lovely and loving and here and no amount of pain would make him relinquish this trust. Not ever.
Their meal finished, Nick took him upstairs to look over the rest of his wounds. He helped him remove his shirt, then frowned at the bruises covering Monroe’s torso. The damn bastards had left him bluer than a summer sky. His skin was a mosaic of purple and red welts, his ribs felt done in, and he couldn’t straighten out his back without straining his stomach muscles. Nick glared at the wounds, fury building in his eyes, and he bit out words of retribution Monroe had never thought he’d hear from such a kind hearted man, Grimm or not, but he did not mind them one bit. Those reapers would have hell to pay if they dared come near him again.
Nick pushed him down on the bed, making him sit while he applied salve to the bruises. Monroe had already done that, but another dose wouldn’t hurt. Nick’s fingers, cooled by the ointment, rubbed all over his chest, starting with his stomach and working his way up, then continued on Monroe’s face, giving special attention to the swollen bump on his forehead. Monroe observed his look of concentration as he fulfilled his task, yearning for a different kind of comfort with every stroke of Nick’s hand, the salve warming up quickly under his touch.
The last dollop applied, Nick closed the jar and set it on the bedside table. They watched each other for a moment, Nick’s expression warmer than his own heart. Then he started taking off his clothes. Shirt, undershirt, jeans, and boxers all wound up on Monroe’s floor until Nick’s body was fully exposed to the yellowish hue of the lamp, his body a gorgeous cadence of muscle and the promise of comfort. Pushing himself upright, Monroe took advantage of his stooped posture to kiss him while Nick unzipped Monroe’s jeans, pushing them down along with his underwear so Monroe could step out of them. There wasn’t much Monroe could do since his body was so stiff, so he gladly allowed himself to be prodded onto his back on the bed while Nick straddled him, careful to keep his legs open enough not to jar Monroe’s bruises. Using an entirely different kind of ointment, he reached behind himself and pressed his fingers into himself, gasping as he did so, his face smoothing out in the most exquisite way imaginable. Monroe grasped his hips, fingers tightening when Nick slicked his erection, his own breath growing heavy, eyes trying to slide shut, but he didn’t want to look away from Nick, not for a second, especially as he… Oh God, that was pure glory. Nick sank down on him, slowly, so very slowly, adjusting to Monroe’s size, settling down against Monroe’s hips with a moan born deep within his throat, and he clutched the sheet with both hands. Monroe rubbed Nick’s lower back, gentle, fingertips curving inwards as Nick began to move, his pace unhurried, almost too much so, but Monroe didn’t wish to rush, either, not when Nick was with him, not when Nick’s head fell forward with pleasure, his hair obscuring his forehead, yet not enough to keep Monroe from looking into his eyes, Nick’s gaze hotter than the soup at full boil. His hands slid up Nick’s hips, caressing his chest, feeling the press of his breath filling his lungs, the rapid beating of his heart as he moved over Monroe, his pace quickening at the last, but not too much, the slow savoring of a vintage wine, yet so much sweeter.
He didn’t want to come so fast (though it likely hadn’t been fast at all), but he felt that tell tale tightening in his groin and soon he was clasping Nick’s hips and groaning Nick’s name as his eyes finally squeezed shut. His head collapsed against the pillow, the surge of endorphins sweeping all his pain away.
Nick fell beside him, facing him. Monroe reached for his member, stroking him to completion as Nick moaned, his open mouth wet against Monroe’s neck. Monroe mourned his inability to lie on his side, but Nick made it better by tossing his left leg over Monroe’s, his chest and folded arms pressed to his side. But he could turn his head to the side and kiss Nick, never mind if his lips hurt. Never mind the bruises or the scythe painted on his car. Never mind the disdain of those who hated having the status quo upended. So Nick was a Grimm. So what? He was Monroe’s Grimm. That’s all he cared about.
Fandom: Grimm
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Nick/Monroe
Summary: Fill for this prompt. Set right after "Of Mouse and Man". Nick comforts Monroe after the attack.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Monroe recognized Nick by his scent before he opened the door, else he wouldn’t have gone near it, his instincts too shook up, comfort zone rattled. They had lured him outside his territory to attack him, yet one couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t throw care to the wind. The only thing defending his turf was him, after all, and they made their low regard of him pretty clear when they beat him until he felt like a chewed out football.
The coldness of the beer he shared with Nick alleviated the ache in his mouth, even as pressing the neck of the bottle to his lips stung his cut skin, but it was Nick’s presence that proved most soothing. They sat on the couch, like so many times before, all the visits the reapers had counted out with kicks on his flesh that he hadn’t felt then, but, Christ, they were screaming now. Nick held the ice bag to Monroe’s head as he inspected his face, careful to brush his fingers over his skin with only the lightest of touches, jerking back every time Monroe hissed, so Monroe clamped down on his reflexes, for he did not want those hands to move away, not for a second. Nick regarded him with such apology, taking the blame onto himself like the decent guy he was.
“It’s not your fault,” Monroe said. “I invited you into my house. It’s on me.”
Nick shook his head, a sad smile on his face.
“You wouldn’t have if I hadn’t accused you of kidnapping.”
“An apparent misstep, I’ll grant you. But I don’t regret it.”
Nick’s smile widened then, and he kissed Monroe, the gentlest caress.
“You want soup?” he asked. “I can make you some.”
“You know how to cook?”
“I can make food. You don’t have a monopoly on cooking skills here.”
Monroe didn’t, as it turned out. The aroma of bean stew greeted his nose as he relaxed on a chair right outside the kitchen, watching Nick stir the pot. He had offered to help, but Nick wouldn’t hear of it.
“This is your care package. All you have to do is sit and enjoy it.”
Which Monroe did. Immensely. The soup was perfectly spiced, the smoothness of the beans delighting his taste buds, not so soft that he couldn’t enjoy pressing them slowly with his teeth until the tender flesh erupted out of its skin for him to scoop up with his tongue. Nick ate with him, their first meal together made by his hands. Under the table, Monroe nudged his shin with his foot, sliding his toes down his leg before settling his foot beside Nick’s, a silent thank you. Nick smiled at the contact, reaching under the table to touch Monroe’s knee, squeezing a “you’re welcome”. Monroe ate slowly, his injured jaw not making chewing a pleasant prospect, so Nick finished way before him, but he stayed at the table with him, talking about random things. The latest films they’d watched. The new puppy down the street that liked Monroe instead of being intimidated by him. Why young people’s music nowadays was so bad. Anything except the attack. They could plan defensive strategies later. Now… Now he’d rather not talk about it.
It was bad enough that he kept stiffening every time he heard a sound he didn’t recognize. Any creak or car rumble had him straightening up and listening hard for a reaper or something else to come crashing through his door. Even the house settling had him on edge, his heart dancing a rumba in his chest before Nick laid a hand on his arm, and Monroe shook his head, cursing his shivering, and let Nick rub the worry away, latching onto his smile, that beautiful smile that somehow made everything all better just because it was Nick and Nick was lovely and loving and here and no amount of pain would make him relinquish this trust. Not ever.
Their meal finished, Nick took him upstairs to look over the rest of his wounds. He helped him remove his shirt, then frowned at the bruises covering Monroe’s torso. The damn bastards had left him bluer than a summer sky. His skin was a mosaic of purple and red welts, his ribs felt done in, and he couldn’t straighten out his back without straining his stomach muscles. Nick glared at the wounds, fury building in his eyes, and he bit out words of retribution Monroe had never thought he’d hear from such a kind hearted man, Grimm or not, but he did not mind them one bit. Those reapers would have hell to pay if they dared come near him again.
Nick pushed him down on the bed, making him sit while he applied salve to the bruises. Monroe had already done that, but another dose wouldn’t hurt. Nick’s fingers, cooled by the ointment, rubbed all over his chest, starting with his stomach and working his way up, then continued on Monroe’s face, giving special attention to the swollen bump on his forehead. Monroe observed his look of concentration as he fulfilled his task, yearning for a different kind of comfort with every stroke of Nick’s hand, the salve warming up quickly under his touch.
The last dollop applied, Nick closed the jar and set it on the bedside table. They watched each other for a moment, Nick’s expression warmer than his own heart. Then he started taking off his clothes. Shirt, undershirt, jeans, and boxers all wound up on Monroe’s floor until Nick’s body was fully exposed to the yellowish hue of the lamp, his body a gorgeous cadence of muscle and the promise of comfort. Pushing himself upright, Monroe took advantage of his stooped posture to kiss him while Nick unzipped Monroe’s jeans, pushing them down along with his underwear so Monroe could step out of them. There wasn’t much Monroe could do since his body was so stiff, so he gladly allowed himself to be prodded onto his back on the bed while Nick straddled him, careful to keep his legs open enough not to jar Monroe’s bruises. Using an entirely different kind of ointment, he reached behind himself and pressed his fingers into himself, gasping as he did so, his face smoothing out in the most exquisite way imaginable. Monroe grasped his hips, fingers tightening when Nick slicked his erection, his own breath growing heavy, eyes trying to slide shut, but he didn’t want to look away from Nick, not for a second, especially as he… Oh God, that was pure glory. Nick sank down on him, slowly, so very slowly, adjusting to Monroe’s size, settling down against Monroe’s hips with a moan born deep within his throat, and he clutched the sheet with both hands. Monroe rubbed Nick’s lower back, gentle, fingertips curving inwards as Nick began to move, his pace unhurried, almost too much so, but Monroe didn’t wish to rush, either, not when Nick was with him, not when Nick’s head fell forward with pleasure, his hair obscuring his forehead, yet not enough to keep Monroe from looking into his eyes, Nick’s gaze hotter than the soup at full boil. His hands slid up Nick’s hips, caressing his chest, feeling the press of his breath filling his lungs, the rapid beating of his heart as he moved over Monroe, his pace quickening at the last, but not too much, the slow savoring of a vintage wine, yet so much sweeter.
He didn’t want to come so fast (though it likely hadn’t been fast at all), but he felt that tell tale tightening in his groin and soon he was clasping Nick’s hips and groaning Nick’s name as his eyes finally squeezed shut. His head collapsed against the pillow, the surge of endorphins sweeping all his pain away.
Nick fell beside him, facing him. Monroe reached for his member, stroking him to completion as Nick moaned, his open mouth wet against Monroe’s neck. Monroe mourned his inability to lie on his side, but Nick made it better by tossing his left leg over Monroe’s, his chest and folded arms pressed to his side. But he could turn his head to the side and kiss Nick, never mind if his lips hurt. Never mind the bruises or the scythe painted on his car. Never mind the disdain of those who hated having the status quo upended. So Nick was a Grimm. So what? He was Monroe’s Grimm. That’s all he cared about.