#(anyway ��whinge” is a good word I should use it more)

[cultivating-wildflowers]

🌩

[thebibutterflyao3]

Day Twelve - Prompt: Iced @rosekiller-microfic

March Daily Series - 674 words

<<<Previous Part OR Start Here

When he stepped out of the shower, Barty was relieved to smell ramen. He’d fully expected Frank to opt for something absurdly spicy that he’d regret eating later. There was no point in pretending that he would have eaten it anyway. Barty couldn’t be bothered to cook.

“Crouch, are you decent?” Frank called.

“Morally? No. Physically? Also, no.”

Frank’s chuckle echoed down the hall. “Well, put your pants on and join me in the garden.”

By the time he reached the back door, Frank had a substantial meal spread out on the metal table set up on the patio facing their small, private garden. The small patch of fenced in grass was a little depressing in the winter, but it was better than nothing.

“Picked up an iced drink for you too,” Frank said, pushing the cup toward him. “Bit late for coffee, but you look like you could use it.”

Barty dropped into a chair and reached for the bright pink drink gratefully. “Thanks. I don’t remember the last time I ate a fruit, to be honest.”

“That tracks.”

Halfway through the meal, Barty realised that Frank was watching him eat. He ignored it. Frank didn’t understand him, not really. He knew Barty, but he couldn’t begin to fathom why he did the things he did. Not like Evan did.

Fuck, I miss him.

“Alright, mate?”

Barty shrugged as he scooped another bite of ramen into his mouth. The longer he could put off this conversation, the better. He knew that Frank would give him a world of shite about the ulcer. Living with a “health conscious” bloke was a nightmare sometimes.

Frank cocked his head to the side and studied him as he bit into a sushi roll. Of the dozen or so rolls that he’d bought, Barty managed to keep down three. This was probably the healthiest meal that he’d eaten since he left the flat a week ago.

“Why are you wincing?”

Barty glanced up at him. “Wincing?”

“Every few bites, you’re wincing like it hurts. Bad tooth?” Frank guessed.

“No. Ulcer, I think.”

“Ulcer? Did you see a doctor?”

Barty levelled an unimpressed look at his flatmate, then shovelled more rice into his mouth. The rice was filling and his stomach seemed to tolerate it a bit better than anything else. He’d avoided the eggs altogether though. That felt like tempting fate.

“Of course not,” Frank said, shaking his head. “Did the drive help at all?”

“What do you think?”

Frank considered him for a beat, then sighed. “You made it worse, didn’t you?”

“Of course I fucking did.”

He should know better by now. I am a class A fuck-up. There is no “helping” myself anymore, just trying to mitigate the damage.

“Barty, when are you going to admit that you need therapy?”

“That’s rather obvious, I’d think,” Barty snarked, taking a long sip of his drink. It was very good and soothed his belly nicely. “There’s no point whinging over it to some overpaid twat. It won’t change anything.”

“It could change things.”

Barty waved his chopsticks dismissively. He didn’t need therapy, he needed Evan.

“Mate, you can’t just ignore your trauma.”

“Sure I can. How do you think I’ve made it this far?”

Frank frowned, his forehead creased with deep furrows. “What does that mean? You’ve survived? That’s the bare fucking minimum.”

Barty shrugged it off and focused on his ramen. Considering how close he’d come to throwing himself into the Bristol Channel earlier today, surviving was good enough. Some days it was an actual accomplishment to continue existing in this hellscape that he called a life.

Evan made this shite life worth it.

The thought landed like a punch to the gut and Barty had to steady himself to stay upright. He set the chopsticks down and folded his arms on the table as his mind whirled. Without Evan, he had nothing to look forward to for the foreseeable future.

I need to fix this. How the actual fuck am I going to fix this?

Next Part>>>

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 5: Possessiveness

Draco had a lot of toxic traits, or so he'd been told. He'd dated enough men in the past five years to know that not much of his personality was what people were looking for in an ideal partner.

Two months ago, he had started dating Harry Potter. Yes. The Harry Potter. And he was quite determined to put all of the information about the unappealing parts of himself that he'd garnered from previous partners to good use. Harry was the best thing that had ever happened to him and he wasn't going to mess it up, thank you very much.

This was how he found himself, on his twenty-fourth birthday, telling his boyfriend that it was fine for him to miss his dinner party.

"Babe, I'm really sorry," Harry murmured, running his hand through his hair. "I know tonight is important-"

"Stop," Draco said, turning from the mirror he was using to watch himself finish his skin care routine, and leaning in to press a kiss to Harry's nose. "I can only be so gracious about it," he added.

Harry huffed a laugh.

"Just go," Draco said. "I know it's important."

"I could quit," Harry offered for the third time and something about that thought made the corner of Draco's lips turn up. "Sometimes I think this whole working for the Ministry thing isn't working out anyway."

"Go," Draco said, swatting him lightly with his towel. "It's okay."

"It's not," Harry replied.

It wasn't. His boyfriend missing his birthday dinner really sucked and Draco honestly felt quite bitter about it but Harry would never need to know that. "Go," he said again. "Then you can come back."

He felt quite proud that at this moment, he was keeping several of his toxic traits to himself. He'd kept the neediness at bay, kept the whinging at bay, kept the bitchiness at bay, and kept the possessiveness at bay.

Harry leaned in and gave him a kiss, wrapping his arms around Draco's waist, "What have I possibly done to deserve you?" he asked, and he said it so sincerely that Draco couldn't help but believe that he meant it even though there was no logical reason for him to. "I'll try to get back soon."

"What more could I ask for?" Draco asked, even as every part of him want to demand, and argue, and beg that Harry stay with him.

(More below the cut)

"A good deal, I'd imagine," Harry said wryly. "I know my work is a lot-"

"Yes," Draco agreed, "But you were very upfront about it when we started dating. It's not as though I didn't know something like this could happen."

Harry pressed a kiss to his forehead, "You're an angel. I will see you as soon as I possibly can slip away from this stupid function."

He gave him a little smile, "Best be on your way savior," he murmured.

With one last kiss Harry stepped into the fireplace and flooed to the ministry.

Draco counted to five before he let the displeasure he was feeling show on his face. He slumped back over to the mirror to look at himself. He was only able to wallow in self pity for a few minutes before there was a knock at the door.

He smoothed his features, you never could be sure who would come knocking at Harry's bedroom door in grimmauld place, it seemed like there was no end to the number of friends who simply made themselves at home here. "Come in," he called, keeping his voice chipper.

"Everyone decent?" Pansy said as she opened the door, carrying two flutes of champagne with her.

"It's just me," Draco replied, trying not to sound forlorn.

"Oh good," Pansy replied, nudging the door closed behind her and plopping down on the sofa. "And here I thought I was going to have to fight Potter to give me a few minutes alone with you. Where is he? Fetching you some cake?"

"Hardly."

"New shoes?"

He sighed, "He had to go to work."

"What?" she all but shrieked. "You tell me where he is right now and I will go and tell him-"

"I told him to go," he interrupted.

"But-"

"No," he said with a shake of the head. "No buts, Pans. I really like him and I'm not going to mess it up. Just," he sighed, "leave it, alright?"

Pansy gave him a pitying look, but thankfully let it drop.

---------

It was nearly midnight by the time the floo flared and Harry stepped back through. Part of Draco had wished that he'd just gone to bed before the other man got home so he didn't have to pretend that everything was fine.

"Hey," Harry said, making his way over to where Draco was on the couch. He sounded exhausted.

"Hi," Draco replied.

Harry leaned down and pressed a kiss to Draco's temple before sitting down next to him, "How was the party?"

"Fine," Draco replied. "Good."

Frowning, Harry groaned. "You're upset," he said. "I knew it. I'm so sorry, Draco-"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's fine. It's really-"

"It's not." Harry turned so he was facing Draco but Draco couldn't bring himself to look back. "I'm sorry, babe. This is all my fault, I should have told them no about that bloody fundraiser."

"Yes," Draco said sarcastically. "That would have gone over well, 'Sorry, I can't come to do a fundraiser for children orphaned during the war. It's my death eater boyfriend's birthday and he's a whiny, possessive bitch."

"I would never say that about you. I would never even think that about you!" Harry protested.

"I'm just saying, Harry, that you are their savior. And I am just your boyfriend."

He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging on the ends, "I don't want to be," he finally burst.

Draco paused, unsure what to say to that. Eventually, he settled on a careful, "Sorry?" Hoping against all odds that Harry wasn't about to break up with him.

"I don't want to be anybody's savior," Harry whispered. "I don't want to be the bloke who saved the world. I don't want to be a war hero. Most of the time I think I don't even want to be an auror; it's just what was expected."

"What do you want to be?" he asked carefully.

"Your's," Harry said, shrugging helplessly.

And the little monster that lived inside of Draco that told him to take, and claim, and hold, and all but smother his partners, raised its ugly little head.

"Sorry," Harry apologized, rubbing his hands over his face and not looking at Draco. "I know it's only been two months and it's a ridiculous thing to say but the only time I feel like me is when I'm with you."

Draco just stared at him, unable to speak, hardly able to even process what he was saying.

"I feel like I'm just Harry when I'm with you and I wish that instead of people thinking 'oh, that's Harry Potter, savior of the world,' that they'd think, 'oh, that's Harry Potter, he was clever enough to trick Draco Malfoy into wanting to be with him.'"

"What?" he whispered.

"Sorry," Harry apologized again, trying to backpedal. "I know, I'm making a mess of everything like always. I've jumped in too fast, and I'm too emotional, and I'm not what anyone thinks I should-"

"Harry," Draco said, finally looking at him, really looking at him. He looked as shattered as Draco felt. "Harry," he whispered again. "You are perfect."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Harry said, "I'm not-"

"I hear you," Draco said, hoping that he could convey his meaning and sincerity. "I mean that you are perfect, in all of your faults and flaws. In your sarcasm and the petty things you say about your coworkers, in your ranting and raving about our justice system, in the moments that you choose something you deem selfish like sleeping for an extra hour when you think you should be out doing more, in jumping in too fast and being too emotional, in all that you are, you are perfect."

"Draco," Harry breathed as though he couldn't believe what Draco was saying to him.

"You're not the one tricking me, Harry," he whispered, the confession making his heart ache. "I'm the one tricking you. I'm selfish and whiny. I'm petty and vindictive, and I want you all to myself all of the time. I-"

"Draco, I like those things about you," Harry said. "That little pout you get when I'm about to leave, the way you hold me just a little bit tighter when I tell you that I'm going to have to go soon. The petty little plans you have to inconvenience people at my job when they've annoyed me. And the way you're always putting your arm around me or holding my hand when we're in public, like you're so proud to be with me, like you're ready to fight off a slew of attackers at any moment."

"Admirers, more likely," Draco grumbled.

"I like that," Harry said. "I like your possessiveness."

"Really?"

He nodded and reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind Draco's ear. "Draco, can I be honest?" he asked.

"Always."

"I think I'm in love with you," he said. "And I know it's fast; you don't have to say it back or anything. I know that I-"

"I love you, too." Draco replied before another word could spill from the other man's mouth. "I love you, Harry."

Harry blinked at him, "Really?" he whispered.

Draco nodded and leaned in to give him a soft, short kiss. When he pulled back Harry stared at him with something akin to wonder on his face.

"Please never miss one of my birthdays again," Draco murmured.

Harry pulled him over until Draco was cradled in his arms, "Never," he promised. "Please stop hiding yourself from me," he asked in return.

"Same goes for you."

"Okay," Harry breathed.

And Draco thought this was the first step for both of them in becoming who they were meant to be.

Day 4: Jealousy | Day 6: Proposal

[liptonsbabe]

Chains of a family [B.W]

Bill Weasley x Grant! reader

Chapter 1,

Chapter 2,

Chapter 3,

Chapter 4,

Chapter 5, 

Chapter 6

Summary: The Weasley family have traditions about marriage and Bill has to respect them if he truly wants the reader become his wife. In the attempt to respect his family wishes the weasleys have to visit reader’s grandparent Tim Grant who has a lot of things to say

Word count: 5K TOO LONG I’M SO SORRY

Warnings: none(?

A/N: Hey! part 6 of this thing. I’m so sorry to update this late but it was a complicated chapter and the longest so far. I’ll try to make small chapters from now on and the wedding is aproching, you guys!! i’m sooo excited to publish that part but we have to wait a little more for that.

So, as i’ve said in the last chapter, i changed some things from de canon like Bill being attacked by Grayback and such. it’s just for the plot of this series ok? hope you don’t mind guys.

Anyways, like always, english not my mother language so pls let me know if somethings wrong. Enjoy!

Chapter 6: Your life is not enough

You needed a couple of weeks to fully recover, even if it meant having Bill on your back every hour and taking you away from your duties with the Order. The mission that Remus Lupin gave you had to wait until further notice, all for William's excessive concern about your wounds

The task of keeping you away was complicated, more so when the Death Eater attacks had gained strength that no one expected. The members of the order spent twenty-four hours a day on watch with no time for breaks, even Bill went three days without sleep until you, still recovering , left the room and dragged him back with you regardless of his constant complaining. Molly supported you in the decision - thank god - telling her son not to worry that the rest of the Order would keep their eyes fully opened and he could rest comfortably next to you

The drastic change in Mrs. Weasley's behavior confused you because there was no reason for it, but the relief helped make your recovery quicker and less painful. The healer who  you the morning after the accident with the Death Eaters took too long to close the wound as it was a curse wound and it needed a counter spell to heal properly, but not having one, he used other tactics and Dittany to help it heal. However, the help had come too late, and the scar was a throbbing fact that stung terribly when you made the slightest move. The healer said the burning and discomfort would go away with time, but the redness would stay forever. You thought that would be the last of your problems until you got your first glimpse of the result of the attack.

It was a disastrous thing, but it could have been much worse. You sighed as you looked at your disheveled image in the bathroom mirror. You had just taken a shower and Bill was still dressing in the bedroom. You took off the robe Ginny had given you a night before, watching the scar glisten across the valley of your breasts ending above your ribs. You sighed again, if you didn't consider yourself pretty before, at that moment you felt awful.

A new figure appeared in the reflection accompanied by a bright smile. William wore his white shirt tucked into his pants, his bow tie dangling from his collar and his suspenders placed perfectly flush against his shoulders. You smiled, looking at him through the mirror.

“Getting used to your dazzling new short hair?” You asked as you noticed Bill's nervous hand run over his head for the fifth time after the shower. Bill groaned, burying his face in your neck.

“I hate this style”

“And why did you cut it off, then?”

“Mom made me," he stated, tightening his hands around your waist, "She wants me to make a good impression, and for once I wanted to please her in something”

“Wow, your mom wanting to impress my family? That's new”

“Well, not every day you get to visit Lord Voldemort's brother," you gave him a bad look, smacking his hand, "Too soon for a joke, sorry”

You shook your head, escaping from Bill's embrace putting perfume behind your ear, on your wrists and neck. You gasped when a small drop of perfume touched your wound, reddening it. Your eyes lost in the scar again, knowing that even if your dress managed to cover most of it, the initial edges would be exposed like the body of a worm crawling through your clothes. Bill discovered your discontent. He hugged you again, running his fingertips over your sore skin as he kissed your bare shoulder. Maybe you couldn't see it, but for Bill you were perfect. Not just for the way you looked, but  the beautiful heart that, even if he didn't deserve it, you had given him without any qualms. You deserved to be appreciated by the rest of the world, not just by him.

“I love you. You know that, don't you?”

“Even with the scar?”

“With the scar even more. It shows how brave you are and you should be proud of it. You saved Mad-Eye”

“The others will see it”

“It's their problem, not yours. You're still the most beautiful woman in this world.

You smiled, stroking the short hair of the man behind you.

“Not as much as that”

“You're right. I stand corrected. You are the most beautiful woman in both worlds”

“William...”

“I'll help you get dressed," he said, noticing that you were blushing up to your ears. William smiled without understanding why a sweet comment could make you blush, but not the fact that he was looking at you naked from the waist up. He picked up the dress hanging on the dresser reaching over to help it over your head pulling it down gently so as not to hurt you. Then, he zipped up your back leaving a wet kiss on your neck.

Bill's false calm didn't go unnoticed by you. As you smoothed the folds of your dress you noticed the trembling in his hands and the way his feet drummed on the floor. He was playing with the zipper of your dress pulling it up and down, trying to calm his nerves

“Bill, it's not necessary to do this”

“It is!” He replied looking up. You turned to him, crossing your arms around his neck, "I want to respect the traditions, to do things right. I want to show everyone that we mean business. It's just that...”

“My grandfather scares you?”

“What? No” You raised an eyebrow “Okay, maybe a little”

“You don't need to talk to him. He'll understand”

“I want to”

You gave in to Bill's pout. A few days ago, just after he asked you to marry him, Arthur Weasley spoke to his son asking him how he would go about keeping the traditions of the family. Bill didn't seem to understand what he was referring to when his father explained that the Weasleys used to always, always, visit the bride's parents' home right after the engagement to ask for their approval. Offerings were usually brought in a show of respect and the parents in question would respond by offering dinner for the guests. Bill's eyes widened, was that a real tradition?, he didn't know, “why didn't you ever tell me about it!” he questioned his father in a shout. Arthur knew about his son's untimely ignorance, returning the accusation, “Would that have made any difference on your desire to have her as your wife?” Bill didn't have to think too hard. “Of course not!” he shouted and his father laughed, patting him on the shoulder. His son was brave and would have asked for his bride's hand even from Voldemort himself. Bill was lucky tho cause he only had to talk to the old alchemist Tim Grant.

Your grandfather was the only one in the family who seemed to be neutral in the war caused by his brother, but above all he was the person who loved you most as you had both been banished from the Grants for standing up for your own convictions. Maybe Tim wasn’t an active member of either side, however, the blood connection with his brother Tom Riddle sent shivers down the spines of those around him. The man isolated himself in the Galapagos islands dangerously close to a volcano, where he was sure his brother wouldn’t dare to look for him. The Weasleys, hearing the story from your lips didn’t understand why.

You used a portkey to get to your grandfather's house. Arthur had communicated with Tim hours earlier and the two of them managed to establish a connection undetected for the ministry thanks to  the old Grant's powerful magic and his skills as an alchemist.  You couldn't hide your excitement at seeing your grandfather again, which encouraged Bill's eagerness to formally introduce himself to his next.... grandfather-in-law?

“Well then, but you don't have to worry. Grandpa is a very understanding man”

“Yeah, I'm sure he is”

“Bill Weasley, who knew talking to an old man would make you so nervous?”

“Very funny” he rolled his eyes, gluing his forehead to yours “I just want him to like me, (Y/N)”

“He likes everyone”

“That doesn't make me feel any better.”

“It will when you talk to him and see there's nothing to be afraid of” You stood on your tiptoes cause even with your high heels you couldn't reach his height. You kissed his cheek, snatching a warm smile from him “He's not like the rest of my family”

“I didn't mean to imply that, I'm sorry”

“It's all right, I know you didn't mean it. Now let's go downstairs, your mother must be going crazy”

“As if she wasn't already”

You slapped his arm as you descended the stairs. You didn't want Molly to hear them and relive her recently dissipated discontent with you

The rest of the family were already near the portkey with their arms full of baskets with offerings for your grandpa and the twins carrying some strange ornaments. Bill's sister Ginny greeted you with a smile, handing one of the baskets to her older brother. Molly and Arthur approached their children, both hanging on the opposite arm dressed in their best sunday clothes to make a good impression. You smiled without waiting for Bill's mother to smile back.

After the accident at Little Whinging Molly's rudeness disappeared. Not that she accepted you with open arms, but she stopped making bad comments and avoided looking at you in a bad way. Bill didn't know what Mad-Eye said to his mother that night when he told everyone how you had saved him knowing how much he owed you, but Bill didn't understand the size of the changing till he saw his mother offer you a piece of litchi pie the night after the attack when you were recovering from the wound. It was not that big of a deal really, but it had left you with a permanent smile on your face.

It was Molly herself who had taken the initiative to encourage Bill to fulfill the family tradition. If a Grant was going to come into their home as their son's wife then she should do it the way they knew. Her first piece of advice to her son was cutting his hair to a normal length. Bill was horrified by his mother's words cause he knew she was taking advantage of the moment to make him suffer with his precious mane. He did it anyway, because there wasn't anything in the world he wouldn't do for you

It was a drastic change, but it was worth it. Molly saw your eyes sparkle at the sight of her son so changed, with his hair cut short and his beard shaved. Your fingers danced over his face appreciating the effort Molly, not yet convinced of your influence at home, had made for you. Molly stifled a smile, unaware even to herself, that you were slowly beginning to win her heart.

You touched the shuttle at the same time falling precipitously in the sand and Harry helped you up  with a smile. Then you walked straight appearing in front of a huge house that was sheltered by the foothills of the bubbling volcano on the other side of the island. The twins, like the rest of the family, let out an exclamation of astonishment as Ron, harried by the huge spiders hovering in the sand, ran for the door.

The smell of freshly cooked food escaped through the cracks in the door before it was opened. The twins' eyes widened as they recognized the delicious smell of cooked prawns and coconut sauce wafting over their heads. You knocked on the door three times, then stopped and resumed the knocking four more times. The Weasleys watched you, did you have a special code to communicate with each other?

"Come in" You gave way to them closing the door behind you and sealing it with an unknown spell. Bill waited for you at the threshold as his family was already making their way to the table where a very well dressed Tim Grant was waiting for them sitting in the main chair. Bill looked at him from his position, shaking “We still have time to run away” you joked “If you're not ready...”

“I am," he said confidently.

“Okay”

You both walked toward the dining room. Tim was greeting the rest of the family enthusiastically. Bill sighed. At least Tim seemed to get along with his parents, so that was good. They all filled a seat, with Tim occupying the head and Arthur the opposite end; Molly sat on Tim's right side and you sat on Mr. Weasley's right side. The twins, Ron, Harry and Ginny took the middle seats leaving Bill the only vacant spot on Tim's left side. Bill took a breath before taking the seat and receiving a curious look from the man.

“Ah, how wonderful is to have more people to fill the empty spaces! A table this big doesn't serve any purpose unless it's fully occupied, does it? That's what I always say!”

“Don't you usually get many visitors?” asked Molly, breaking the ice. Bill felt sweat trickle down his back. Tim guffawed, patting the back of Molly's hand on the table.

“I’m afraid so. I think that is cause I'm the only one crazy enough to live near an active volcano and my family's fame doesn't help me much either, I'm generally a lonely man. Most of the time it's frustrating, but I can deal with it. You are a big family from i can see, are they all yours, Arthur?”

“Only the redheads," he replied. You recognized in his tone of voice a slight pride “The other one is...”

“Harry Potter” Tim Grant's eyes sparkled with recognition. He looked at Harry with a smile, bowing his head to him in respect. Harry did the same “I know him. He's the guy who's been giving my brother headaches”

Tim's laughter echoed through the house being followed by the twins and you cleared your throat to get his attention. Tim spotted you from across the table waving his hand dismissively.

“Grandpa, please”

“A little joke to lighten the mood, my dear, oh, are these for me?” he questioned, bringing closer the baskets offered by the Weasleys resting on the table. Bill's basket was in front of him waiting to be properly delivered, so he stood up and did as he should. Tim Grant gladly received it, complimenting the selection they had made “What a cute boy, did you see him, dear,? he's gone red!”

You let out a chuckle, nodding at your grandfather's words. Bill's face was flushed as he returned to his spot and looked down at his hands. Tim guffawed again and banged the table.

“I appreciate the gifts, Arthur, I've never been part of a tradition like this before”

“It was important for my son and the rest of us to do it, to introduce ourselves properly”

“Sure! It's what a family with honor does. I'm not surprised. No, not at all. The Weasleys were in the book of the sacred twenty-eight for a long time until they were struck off the list. Tell me, that was quite a blow, wasn't it?”

“Not so much, my family has never cared about that sort of thing”

“Of course! It never did, I could see it up close. Did you know I was friends with your grandmother, Lysandra Yaxley?”

Arthur's eyes widened.

“Really?”

“Really. My family also once belonged to the most important pureblood families until I was born, of course. Lysandra and I became friends because her family also got kicked off the list when Cedrella, your mother, married your father Septimus Weasley. Even your grandfather Arcturus was removed from the Black family tree which was an embarrassment for him being that the ancestral Black family is too proud and such. Anyway, that's part of life, right? Creating new families, bringing people together...”

“Was your family always purebloods?” Fred asked. Tim shook his head

“It was. As I mentioned, before I made my appearance in this world”

“Why?”

Tim was suddenly silent. You scanned your grandfather's face waiting for an answer. Dinner plates flew in from the kitchen and positioned themselves at each guest's place setting while a huge chocolate fountain was set up in the center accompanied by a plate overflowing with assorted fruit. The baskets took a turn and took a place on your grandpa's shelves. Tim sighed, looking at the Weasleys asking to begin dinner.

“I’m the son of a witch, but not of a pure blood wizard”

“Don't you and Lord Voldemort share the same father?”

“Harry...”

”It's all right, Molly, I can answer that” Tim rubbed his chin, thinking “I understand your concern boy, being hide here doesn't make me ignorant to what's going on out there and I know better than anyone what you're going through. You need weapons against my brother and you do well. Tom is a big threat, a very big threat indeed. You're right, Tom and I don't share a father, but that doesn't make him any less my brother.

“I think we're straying from the subject that brought us here” mentioned Arthur feeling a sudden warmth. You supported him, but Tim continued to speak

“I was the son of Merope Gaunt and Aleister Grant. My father was a famous son, grandson and great-grandson of brilliant alchemists, and unsurprisingly he was one himself. Merope Gaunt was...  a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin and a Parselmouth. She had a brother named Morfin and my grandfather was Sorvolo Gaunt. My parents met when the Gaunts had just moved to Little Hangleton after their exile and needed a place to stay. They became the owners of a squalor ridden shack on the edge of town and well, my father was a young alchemist who lived near the Gaunt abode”

You sipped from your wine glass as you listened to your grandfather speak. Never, even with the rest of the family, had he ever struck such a chord as he was doing with the Weasleys. The truth was that you didn't understand why he was telling them all that, however, you weren’t interested in interrupting the story as you knew your grandfather had a purpose with him.

“Those of us who are dedicated to alchemy have never enjoyed an enviable reputation because our transmutation abilities are mostly underestimated by the things that magic in general can produce and it makes a science like alchemy reserved for muggles in their attempt to approach the power that the wizards possess. Personally I think there is something right about that, precisely cause the transmutation in the Muggle world is divided into subjects they taught in schools like chemistry or physics, but alchemy goes beyond that, it’s a connection between the wizard and the spirituality that each one possesses...” the man's gaze was lost in a place at the table, pausing the story. Harry settled back on the seat waiting for him to continue “But it's very difficult to erase the deep-rooted ideas about it, so the best is ignore that and continue doing what we believe is right. Anyway, ah! I got off topic, didn't I? Okay, okay, well my parents ended up meeting and my father fell in love with my mother as fast as my socks get cold at night, but that infatuation wasn’t well regarded by my uncle and even less by my grandfather, of course, for the fame of the alchemists at the time”

“So what happened?” you asked. Tim smiled at you, taking a bite of the rye bread on his plate.

“My mother was treated worse than a house- elf by her father and Morfin, so she decided to run away with my father to France where he had several alchemist friends who could protect them. The Gaunts might have been exiled, but they were still dangerous and to be honest I think my father was terribly afraid of uncle Morfin. They eventually made it to France, but they encountered an infamous muggle who tried to hurt my mother”

Everyone stopped eating to pay attention to Tim as he drank his third glass of wine. You thought that your grandfather wouldn't even be able to stand up by the end of the night.

“He was known as Gilles De Rais. He was a sadistic muggle who tried to become a wizard even though he wasn't born a wizard and used my father to tell him secrets of alchemy. One night they were having a conversation when my father revealed him that there were certain amounts of gold in people's bodies. Gold is a very valuable component, as you already know, so the man's greed didn’t take long to show itself and he questioned my dad how it could be obtained. My father told him that the only way to obtain the gold was by draining the blood and dividing it with a very complicated procedure, however, the gold of an ordinary adult was quite scarce. The real wealth was in the blood of children of no more than ten years old because they possessed a great amount of gold and other components that could be transmuted into riches. The muggle did so, and when he learned that my mother was a real witch, he wanted to know if golden blood ran through her veins, which would make him richer than he already was. My father refused, and decided to leave the place before he hurt us, because they knew she was already pregnant. The muggle went mad and unleashed in him a fury that spread throughout France”

The Weasley twins chorused an astonished murmur as the others moved up to the table so as not to miss a word of the story. You sent a glance at Bill as he hadn't stopped sweating and going over his words all evening.

"They wanted to go back to Little Hangleton but my uncle and grandfather were still in a rage waiting to see them arrive, so my father sent my mother alone while he found another place to stay as he could not expose her to the cold streets of France while on standby, so they had no choice but to leave her with her family avoiding revealing my existence to them. Uncle Morfin didn’t want my mother back, but my grandfather convinced him because they needed someone to take care of the house and their needs. Time passed, my father didn’t come back and I was born in the garden of the house while my mother watered the plants”

“My birth was a surprise to everyone because my mother knew how to hide me well until my father's arrival but, as that didn't happen, I couldn't stand it any longer and made my triumphant appearance on my grandfather's favorite bushes. Uncle Morfin was furious and even tried to get rid of me immediately, but my mother clung to me like a lioness.

“Really?”

“Really," he replied with a broad smile, "I think a part of her was still holding on to my father showing up at some point and getting us out of there, but again that didn't happen. Mom had to endure her brother and father's abuse for me and that's a debt I can never repay”

The whole table fell silent, thinking. Dinner continued as a heavy thunderstorm rumbled overhead, accompanying old Tim Grant's story as if it were yesterday. The man paused to eat and the others did the same with no desire to miss a word. Harry's eyes sparkled in wonder and Mr. Weasley's strong hand on yours helped to soothe your fervent anguish.

“I guess that's what mothers do, isn't it? Anyway, the years passed and I had to live under uncle Morfin's shadow and at the mercy of his growing wrath. When I turned five I started helping the market men with their chores in exchange for a couple of pounds which we had to exchange later for galleons and sickles to survive for two weeks. Mom helped bring money into the house, but it wasn't enough. Then, at seven, the Dream Messengers showed up one night telling me I was required to study at the Uagadou magical college in Africa so I couldn't refuse”

“Wait, Uagadou takes students from the age of seven?”

“Oh I see," the man settled back in his chair, wiping the corners of his lips with a napkin as he stared at Ron, "I forgot that the rest of the magical schools aren't very well known around here, are they? Well, yes, some schools take in very young students as is the case with Uagadou or the Japanese school. It depends a lot on the traditions in each region i guess, because in the African school they select only descendants of alchemists or who have had at least someone  in their bloodline whose spirituality helped them to become one. It wasn't all as easy as that, of course, because each student had to pass a test before having a permanent stay, but....

“What kind of test?” Harry questioned when dinner was over and they start dessert. The twins were the first to help themselves a piece of fruit, playing with the chocolate fountain in the center of the table.

“One that only wizards with alchemist ancestry could pass, Mr. Potter. I passed the test so I had no choice but to move to the castle immediately. I didn't want to leave my mother alone, but she convinced me to do it. Going to Uagadou was a great opportunity for me and for her cause it meant I could follow in my father's footsteps” Tim's face suddenly darkened as he pushed away the overflowing plate of fruit Molly offered him. He folded his hands on the table and thought for a long moment. The twins continued to play with the chocolate fountain but a fierce look from their mother made them stop. Then Tim Grant sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow with the handkerchief on his coat “I regret that decision to this day. I could have gone to Hogwarts like any other wizard, but I suppose my ambition got the better of me. Maybe... if I hadn't left Little Hangleton she never would have met Tom Riddle”

You tensed as you felt the pressure of Mr. Weasley's hand on yours a little too tightly. One glance at the others was enough to understand the dread the name struck their nerves. You even caught a glimpse of the hiss on Molly's lips and saw the sting in Harry's scar. Tim let out a chuckle, taking another drink from his wine glass.

“My brother’s father. I didn't hear from him until a couple of years later, when my mother wrote to me saying that uncle Morfin was in Azkaban and that my grandfather had died. She didn't give me many details, however, she did very vaguely mention the presence of a muggle who was quite striking to her. For better or worse, my mother was already forgetting my father, believing that he had abandoned her or, at worst, that he had dropped dead somewhere in France. I didn't believe the same, but it was logical that she got tired of waiting. I would never have grown tired, at least not having loved the way they did”

Your gaze rolled to meet Bill's eyes as he looked back at you. He smiled at you, causing you to blush. Then you both looked back at your grandpa who was sipping a new glass of wine.

“It was a couple more years before I stopped hearing from my family. Mom never wrote again and with uncle Morfin in Azkaban there was nothing that could be done. When I was eleven i returned to Little Hangleton only to find that my mother had married Tom Riddle, got pregnant and he had thrown her out on the street like a dog. She was left with nothing, unable to return to her father’s old house, and was forced to wander in the streets for months, until one rainy december night she went into labor in the middle of an alley. I helped her as much as I could, dragged her to the door of an orphanage where my mother no longer even had the strength to save the three of us. She had her wand in her hand, but she never used it. She gave up in front of me, the baby was born and asked me to name him after his father. She put him in my arms, the door of the orphanage opened, but mother had already died”

“Grandpa-”

“As you can understand, it's kind of hard for me to remember all that," Tim Grant's reddened eyes closed, choking back tears, "I was just a little kid taking care of a baby and I didn't do my best job of raising him. I was upset with my mother for a long time after she died, but I don't judge her now. After living an almost totally miserable life, my mother had no hope and not enough courage to make her want to keep trying, even for the sake of her newborn son. That decision had a considerably negative impact on Tom's psyche as he was growing up I suppose cause I had to go back to school and I couldn't take him with me, I would have! Of course I would have. I tried, but Tom wasn’t descended from any alchemist and there was nothing I could do about that. I tried, Merlin knows I did. I felt the need to leave him in that orphanage. I visited him whenever I could. For a year I went back and forth from continent to continent to see him, but that wasn't enough for Tom to grow up feeling loved. Orphanage life is hard, dear friends, we shouldn’t judge others too harshly, much less a lonely mother” Tim Grant's irritated eyes were fixed on Harry, reflecting deep pain “She was weakened by her long suffering and she never had Lily Evans’ courage. Everyone sacrifices for those they love in different ways, and my mother did it in her own way”

“Why didn't you ever talk about this?” you asked from across the table. Everyone looked at you “when dad asked you so-”

“Your father didn't need any more reasons to support Tom's follies” Tim shook his head “My brother is a very convincing person not only with his family members but with anyone who gets in the way of his plans. He has a very affiliated serpentine tongue, he inherited the gift of gab from our ancestors and your father grew up under his influence”

“We're very sorry for what you had to go through, Tim, but there's nothing that can be done about you-know-who and all that's left for us to do is to fight him”

“I understand, Arthur, but that doesn't stop me from blame myself. I did what I could, but an eleven-year-old can't take the place of his parents. When I graduated from school and wanted to take care of him Tom was already at Hogwarts and completely disappeared from everyone's eye," he lamented, scrunching his eyelids together, "That was the last time I saw him as the real Tom and not the ghastly grayish mass he is now”

The twins and Ron laughed at the comment and were immediately silenced by their father. Tim scrunched up his eyes, took a breath and let out a laugh looking around the room.

“Well, enough whining, that's not what you guys are here for, is it?” Bill, that had kept silent, denied when the man turned to see him, "What's done is done, and lamenting won't do any good, but I hope that what I've just told you will help you to see Tom's human side if he still has it, which I doubt it very much”

“Thank you, sir”

“You're welcome, Harry, dear, well? What was you wanted to tell me, my boy?”

Tim Grant turned his full body towards Bill, almost climbing up on the table fixing his huge opaque eyes on Bill's. Bill held his gaze noticing that the man was drunk since the beginning of the evening. He looked to you for help, but you were too busy watching Mrs. Weasley's reaction to hearing the reason for your visit.

“Come on, boy, don't be shy”

“I... well, I wanted to-”

“Oh, Arthur, your son is so cute!” he shouted as he squeezed Bill's cheeks. His brothers and Harry laughed and even Molly hid a mischievous smile by putting a piece of apricot in her mouth “Poor frightened boy. But, come on! I'm not going to make it harder for you, I know you're here to ask for my granddaughter's hand in marriage, aren't you?”

“Yes, that's right, sir”

“Well, that's a great gesture of you, but this is a job for (Y/N)’s parents”

“It is, but you understand that under such circumstances we couldn't pay a courtesy visit to the Death Eaters," Arthur interjected with an amused smile.

“Indeed”

“So...”.

“So..." repeated Tim. You sighed, "You love my granddaughter?

“Yes, sir”

“How much?”

“A lot”

“Are you going to protect her, take care of her, and love her?”

“With my life, sir”

“Your life is not enough for me, William” Tim smiled at him, tapping Bill's chin with one of his fingers “My granddaughter is still a Grant, descended from very powerful wizards. My hand will not tremble to revenge the suffering you put her through, am i being clear?”

“Y-yes, sir. Crystal clear”

“Good boy," he replied, patting his cheek. Then he turned to Molly, took her hand and kissed the back of it, giving her a beautiful smile. The woman blushed, but it didn't last long because the man turned to her husband and bowed his head in respect. Arthur pressed your hand on the table and also kissed the back of your hand, making a promise “Well, then. Arthur, your son has my blessing to marry my granddaughter”

Mr. Weasley raised his glass, offering it to Tim.

“Thank you, Tim. We promise to take care for (Y/N) as a member of our family”

“I hope so." The man rested his chin on his hands, watching the huge smile form on your lips and kissing Arthur's cheek. He turned to Molly lightly patting her shoulder offering her a sweet roll which she accepted with a giggle “It's nice to see you accepting my (Y/N) so well” Molly wrinkled her nose “Since who she is and coming from a family as complicated as ours...it was hard for me to believe that someone from the outside could fall in love with her someday. I always knew my little girl was different from everyone” Tim's brown irises clouded over. Molly fell silent “You could put her in a basket of rotten apples and she'd make them blossom, so I'm glad to hear you've taken her in as one of yours. Being a Grant is a very complicated task, i never had a problem with people speaking shit about me, i was never ashamed to be recognized as Lord Voldemort's brother, but my yoke should not fall on my granddaughter” Molly Weasley listened carefully “I have always been a faithful supporter of being judged individually and not by the others actions, that would be like punishing children for their parents mistakes, wouldn't it? That wouldn't be fair and it wouldn't make us any less guilty than my brother, isn't that what he’s doing? Punishing Muggle-born wizards just because they weren't born under Merlin's blessing? I like you, Molly, I know you understand.

A pain in her chest made her look down, embarrassed. But then Tim lifted her chin at just the right moment for her to catch the moment her son rose from his place to walk over to you and lock you in a breath-stealing hug. Arthur was at your side watching you and then his attention focused on his wife giving her a beaming smile, the kind she hadn't seen in a long time. Even the rest of their children had joined in the celebration and Harry rose to congratulate you while you and Bill happily sealed your engagement with a kiss. Tim moved Molly's chin towards him, their gazes colliding.

“Yes," Molly whispered, "I understand.

“Good” Tim let out a laugh, pulling away from Molly to toast. The woman watched you as she smiled thinly ”Then my story was useful somehow”

Tag list:

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@vampirestrawberries​

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@pennyllanne

[tigerdrop]

so. this is my attempt at posting a 20k-word-long g/t frenrey RP that kogo and i were doing at the start of this year. its not finished and im not sure when were gonna pick it back up, since we are currently working on co-op game theory instead of a filthy RP that takes place like 100k words down the line of co-op game theory. but ive been sitting on it long enough so here u go

i never really planned on posting this anywhere so its really self-indulgent and not as polished as our usual stuff but look. this is a ludicrous amount of erotica im dropping here. cut me a lil slack

anyway, here it is: Gordon Gets A Xen Bath

Gordon tries to keep moving, but eventually his pace slows to a stop, his legs growing heavier and heavier until he can't bring himself to lift them.

"Okay. Okay," he pants, bending over and bracing his hands on his knees. "I can't fucking do this anymore, man! I'm tapped out! We've been walking all day - or, well, I have, I don't know about you. We can't... can't all be alien god fuckers, floating around or whatever." He pauses to catch his breath. Every muscle in his body aches from the strain of hopping around Xen in the HEV suit. Sure, gravity doesn't have quite as strong a hold here as it did back on Earth, and that makes all that metal easier to lug around, but it seems like time doesn't work the same way, either. Gordon can't tell how long it's been. Feels like days.

Smells like it, too, now that he's got a moment to breathe. He's covered in dirt and slime and congealed alien blood and God know what else.  In short, he needs a fucking break. And Gordon aggressively takes one right then and there, dropping to his feet. What's the rush, anyway? "Like we're ever gonna find out way out of this fucking place," he mutters.

> Benrey watches as Gordon collapses, a pile of metal and smells. Odors. Sweat and dirt and tangled hair. His head tilts to the side but his expression remains flat as he lifts his head and gazes out into the vastness of Xen, before turning back to Gordon and furrowing his brow. They hadn't even gotten far, not really, so it doesn't really make sense that he'd just crumple like this.

> He sniffs, shuffling in a circle on his feet as Gordon bitches behind him--something about never escaping Xen, as if Benrey hadn't traveled from one end to the other to find him in the first place--and chews his lip in deep concentration, trying to think of literally anything that would maybe make the guy stop. Stop with the, uh, whining and whinging and "blah blah, we're not all alien god fuckers" or whatever.

> (Though, well, technically, Gordon was an alien god fucker anymore. Their time back with the space maggots and the gun bugs and that skinny doppelganger had seen them in a couple of situations where Gordon happily fucked an "alien god.")

> But. Wait. No. Mind wandering. Wandering to fun places, places more fun than being lost in Xen (though he's not lost; they'll find their way out eventually), but not anywhere useful. And, for once, he has to think along those boring terms. Being, you know, reliable or whatever.

> What matters is making Gordon go. The hamster wheel in his head turns and turns until the rodent is slung clear off and, with a slow blink, Benrey accepts defeat. Ideas are not his forte when he's actually trying to be helpful. He turns to his human, he tilts his head in the other direction, and he waits for his human to look up at him. Then, he speaks without even waiting for eye contact.

> "So, uh... what can best friend Benrey do to... make you. I dunno. Less dumb?"

> Nailed it. Benrey is getting good at this "empathy" thing.

Gordon drags his gaze up from the ground to Benrey, and immediately scrunches his eyebrows up. "Wow, that was almost nice of you," he says, a touch of genuine surprise in his voice. It doesn't outweigh the disdain, though. "You know what? Just don't do anything. The best thing you can do right now is to stand right there and do absolutely nothing... and let me just... catch my breath."

He hopes against hope that, for once, Benrey will do what he says. Despite all the evidence that suggests otherwise. His internal monologue turns a bit haggard. Well, it's not like there's anything he could do about it, anyway. Even if he was fit as a fiddle, if Benrey wanted to fuck off and get lost, there was no stopping him.

He can't hold Benrey's stare for long, though. It's-- it's always harder to look him right in the eye like this. Something about the size of him makes it uncomfortable, like he's staring right through Gordon. So he darts his eyes away, scanning his surroundings. The perils of an alien landscape: all the little islands and chunks of earth start to look the same after awhile. Rocks and strange, angry plants and pools of mysterious fluids. He's seen it all. There's a number of all these things and more around him, but the one thing he finds himself wishing for is something to eat. You can't trust anything out here.

"I just want a burger, man," Gordon groans. "Sick of jumping around like I'm playing some kind of platformer. You know, they never tell you how exhausting this shit is! My heart's-- my heart's racing-- like, adrenaline? Hate fucking jumping over these big-ass pits, I'm tellin' you."

Or, failing that, like, a nap. Or a bath. He vocalizes both of these things before burying his head in his hands. Maybe he could get one of those microsleeps going. If he can just calm the fuck down, anyway.

> Food? Nap? Bath?

> Benrey's mouth curls into a jagged smile. Of course Gordon would just need some of that weird, seemingly pointless human stuff. You would think after two grand adventures of dragging this sad sack around and listening to him complain every two meters, he'd have picked up on the human necessities. Things like 'burger" and "bed time" and "smelling like preferred smells, and not the natural smells that are apparently 'bad.'"

> A huge sigh heaves out of Benrey and he watches in amusement as it makes Gordon's hair puff out of his face. Small little tiny man, curled up on a chunk of rock, not able to embiggen and make things easier. It's sad and pathetic, almost as sad and pathetic as Gordon looks, but Benrey knows he's capable of being a good enough guy for the both of them. A real bro. A best friend.

> Because he knows Xen inside and out for some reason. And he's observant. He's seen things and can do the mental math necessary to figure out how to problem solve, sort of. He's spent enough time floating around Xen to figure out what those sparkly puddles do, and he's seen enough of those people back in the Wrong World eat the not-Lamarrs (or, at least the Vorti-bros did, which were close enough).

> And, well, Gordon could literally sleep anywhere. There was dirt for days, lots of rocks to align the spine. Fun nap places. Good for Gordon.

> With a burst of pride and dagger-toothed grin, Benrey propped his elbow on the island where Gordon was whining and held out his hand, palm up and flat, extended as an open invitation.

> "Oh. Uh. That it? That's, uh... that's a cool I can do. Big cool for you."

He stares, eyes narrowed in confusion. "What? What do you mean, that's a-- What are you doing?"

> "I'm doing a cool," Benrey responds. Though his voice is still fairly flat, there is a bite to it, hidden almost completely under his monotone. As if to emphasize the point, he lifts his hand and slaps it back down into the earth once more in a way he thought was light. Judging from the way the ground shook and the island rocked, perhaps not as light as he'd imagined.

> "Gonna, uh... help. Or somethin'. You gettin' on or you gonna be a babyman about it?"

Gordon yelps as the ground shakes around him, even though he's (relatively) safe on the ground. "Jesus, Benrey! Watch it!"

What the hell is he doing? His eyes dart between Benrey's hand and face as the gears struggle to turn. It's been a long fucking day, all right, and Benrey's... Benrey-isms are hard enough to understand at the best of times. This is supposed to help, somehow. So, scratch the burger. And the nap, too, probably. So, does that mean he wants to--

No. That's stupid. He's stupid for thinking it. Gordon steadfastly ignores the way his ears prickle and shakes his head, like a dog ridding itself of water.

"Please tell me you're gonna just carry me the rest of the way," Gordon sighs. It's a visible effort for him to get back to his feet. "Hey, actually, why didn't you just do that from the get-go? You're not even breaking a sweat!"

He complains, sure, but it doesn't stop him from dizzily shuffling forward and stepping on. Better late than never. He'll have plenty of time to chew Benrey out for this once he's out of this alien hellscape and back in his own goddamn bed.

> Benrey blinks.

> Oh. Yeah. He probably could have carried Gordon, huh? The thought never really occurred to him at first because, well, why would it? Was he a bad guy--a bad friend--for believing that his bestest buddy was a capable man? Color him insensitive for actually expecting things of Gordon, but he'd just watched the guy win Space Invaders in real life.

> After that, traipsing through Xen should have been a walk in the park.

> Best not to point that out, though. Gordon may take offense and, for once in his life, he isn't out to make him mad. He's trying to be good, trying to carry that camaraderie they built from Shit World Without Sony Products back to Good World With Heavenly Sword. Highlighting Gordon's stupid human failings would only work to reset the karma he'd worked so hard to build up in their social link. Or, you know, however humans fucking worked.

> Instead, he lets Gordon crawl onto his hand and then turns away, wracking his mind for the last place he saw a good puddle. After all, it made sense to start with a bath, right? Eating while gross would make Gordon complain, and sleeping while gross wouldn't be much better. Drifting past island after island, his head swivels to see if maybe there are some good candidates going forward.

> And there's... really not. Testicle stalks. Pointy rocks. Less pointy rocks. Tit-on-stilts that is aggressively spitting little Lamarrs over the edge of a rock chunk that looks like Swiss cheese. Benrey isn't sure what it's hoping to accomplish, but it's sure as fuck not accomplishing it.

> Then, he sees it, in the distance: A glittering pool of blue that sparks like electricity and glitters like cheap body mist. A strange smell, not unlike Sweet Voice, wafts from its direction. It's certainly one of the Good Smells Humans Like. Gordon will love it.

> Wordlessly, he glides toward it. Gordon's smart. He'll know what he's getting at.

Benrey's not saying anything, which is mildly concerning, but he is looking around like he knows what he's looking for. And when Benrey fucks off, Gordon in tow - held in a grip that's a little looser than he likes - Gordon lets his brain wind down for the first time in... a long while. Flying around Xen like this is nervewracking, yeah, but in a way he's more equipped to handle. Benrey's chest at his back helps. It's solid as a wall and deceptively warm, and if he keeps himself pressed flat against it, he can almost forget about these bottomless pits they're flying over.

He lets Benrey go like that for an indeterminable amount of time. (He may have dozed off a little.) But Gordon comes back to himself once Benrey's velocity changes. Gets a bit more pointed. Eventually, Gordon puzzles out that he's heading for one island in particular, one with a shimmering pool on its surface. Not exactly what the endgame was.

Wait. Gordon's brain chugs. He was looking for... some kind of water? Oh, Christ.

"Wait, were you being serious about the bath thing?" he asks as they approach. "I-- I wasn't being that serious about it! Getting out of here kind of seems like the more important thing!"

> "Huh?"

> The word falls off of Benrey's lips despite the fact he actually heard everything Gordon said. He heard him and even registered him, but he just didn't get him. After all, he's fairly certain that Gordon wants a bath considering it was one of the big things that spewed out of his mouth when he was being all needlessly fussy before, so why isn't he just saying it? Owning up to it?

> Was it because it was a detour? Slowing them down? Or was it just Gordon being whatever-the-hell-Gordon-was?

> Yeah, that had to be it. Gordon just doesn't want to get side-tracked. That's fair, he supposes. Or, at the very least, he assumes that's what a human would consider fair, considering how obsessed with "time" and "schedules" and "fast" they all were.

> "Real quick dip," Benrey promises, hoping to put Gordon's mind at ease; it was a far cry from what he typically did, so he could only hope it landed properly, that he was saying the right things and had the right inflections. "Real fast. Get'cha all nice. Wet. Uh. Soaps and hygiene. You know."

"Oh my God, man, it's gonna be a whole fuckin' production!" Gordon agonizes as Benrey brings them to that strange, glittering watering hole. "Saving the world's kinda time-sensitive, you know? And it's always such a hassle getting in and out of this thing! And-- Okay, hold on, you actually want to-- Okay. Fine. Look, I'm just saying, this is weird even for you, Benrey!"

Soaps. Hygiene. You know. Letting his best frenemy peel him out of his suit so he can scrub him clean, like normal people do. A shiver runs down the back of Gordon's neck. There's gotta be some kind of catch, but honestly, he's having a hard enough time keeping up with events as they're written. If there's some kind of malicious subtext to this whole thing, well, that's not his problem. He's got more important things to worry about, like convincing Benrey that it would be a little more prudent to just keep forging on rather than waste valuable time on a bath.

...Unfortunately, he's close enough to smell whatever it is that wafts off the surface in waves, and it makes Gordon's resolve waver. It's a clean smell, warm and vaguely fruity, with an undercurrent of salinity. Like a shower that's just been used, almost. God, he'd really like that, wouldn't he.

> The words don't really have weight to them anymore. If Benrey had a nickel for every time Gordon called him "weird" or told him he was endangering the world by taking detours, he'd have enough nickels to melt them down and make a big-ass nickel. And, judging from the way even Gordon's mouth wasn't running anymore, it didn't seem like Gordon had put any weight into his own words, either.

> Which was good. Real good. It meant Benrey was doing a nice job of not pressing every one of Gordon's buttons like a kid in an elevator, and being a proper friend. Best friend. More than friend? God, he fucking wished.

> And he'd shut up right in the nick of time, too, because the urge to tease is building up inside of Benrey like pressure in a flaming aerosol can. It's hard not to want to pick at him when Gordon is griping like this, just goading him on with his (strangely cute) bullshit. Benrey mentally pats himself on the back for a job well done as he glides to the edge of the island and leans carefully over the tiny expanse of mottled dirt and glittering water.

> "S'fine. You're fine. S'gonna be fine. Just cleanin' you up, makin' you pretty. Like a good friend. Best friend."

> The water bubbles against the back of his hand as he extends it, dangling Gordon over the surface so he can get a good look at it himself. Maybe, with the proper viewing, he'll realize that this will be a pleasant time all around. Good for him. Fun for Benrey. Bonding experience.

> "Gonna make you, uh, real shiny. Polished.  A, ah, regular... Casa... Casa del Nova."

> With that, he hooks a nail under one of the thigh pieces of the HEV suit and waits, eyes resting on Gordon's face in search of approval. Approval he selfishly hopes comes quick, before reflex takes over and he pops it off regardless.

Gordon peers over the edge of Benrey's hand to look down at the water, where it lies placid and clear and a vivid blue-green. Mysterious bubbles aside. It's... it's like one of those pools at Yellowstone, he thinks dizzily. They look so warm and inviting and then you step in and suddenly your flesh is deciding to melt right off of you. Gordon's stomach swoops unpleasantly.

Then Benrey offhandedly mentions making him pretty, as if he were just trying to sell Gordon on a new restaurant, and it swoops for an entirely different reason. An irritating reason.

"Don't just fucking say things like that," he says hotly, his voice pitching up and cracking from nerves.

But it becomes an afterthought in short order when Gordon feels Benrey's nail tugging at his HEV suit, and he realizes that Benrey's very, very serious about this. Especially when he fixes Gordon with that intent stare. Like he's waiting for something. Permission? It must be, since he's not making any moves to pop off the armor on his thigh. Gordon looks down at Benrey's finger, chipped black paint peeking out from the corners, then back up at Benrey.

Oh, fuck this. He hates when Benrey does this. It's one of those mind games, or something. Make Gordon be the one to make the call, like it's a game of chicken and Benrey's trying to get him to lose. Instead of, you know, not derailing his entire fucking journey in the first place with the suggestion of a bath. One where, well, it does smell really nice. And he can feel the ambient heat from the water from his perch on Benrey's palm. And Benrey's offering to pry him out of his suit and, presumably, do the washing for him. So Gordon doesn't have to move a muscle. Or even think about it.

His face twists and turns its way through a melange of emotions before he decides, fuck it. Even if this is weird, and Benrey's probably playing some kind of 4-dimensional chess, his mind's already sold itself on the idea. So Gordon's tongue darts out to wet his lips, mouth unexpectedly dry.

"I-- Okay-- You know what, fine. We're already here. Just... no, fucking, tricks or jokes or whatever, man. If you leave me on some fucking rock with my dick out, I'm going to kill you," Gordon tells Benrey.

> What Benrey wants to say is that Gordon is being a baby. A bitch, even. There's no reason for him to get all flustered and pissy when they've already done so many things together. Things that only the closest of bros do, like take down a hostile invading force and push their dicks together and make out. But instead, Benrey takes a deep and steady breath as he works his nails deeper under the chassis of the HEV suit and tugs up with a satisfying click as the latches come undone and the thigh piece flops uselessly off of Gordon.

> "Cool."

> He moves onto the next section, eyes narrowing and eyebrows knitting above his nose as he looks down at Gordon and tries to focus. Head empty, aside from trying to figure out how in the hell he's actually supposed to undo all the delicate bits with fingers as big as his human. It was easier when he was small, and he supposes he could be small again, but that would be no fun. Perhaps he could just rip it off of Gordon with his teeth like the top of a sardine can, but it would be even less fun to deal with the little guy yelling at him for hours.

> Getting Gordon's goat was fun and all, but god, did the guy know how to harp on a subject like no other person he'd ever met.

> Instead, Benrey's tongue pokes out between his fangs as he presses the tip of his finger against the inside of Gordon's other thigh and lets his fingernail search for the seam, the latch. He cocks his head like an owl and leans down close enough that Gordon could touch his face, heaving out a huge and uncharacteristically irritated breath. From here, he can smell the musky odor of sweat and dirt and grime and alien goo, and it's strangely nice. Earthy. Very Gordon.

> He'd smelled it before, when he wasn't quite this big, when Gordon was unzipping his suit and climbing into his lap and drool pools at the corner of Benrey's mouth, equal parts saliva and lusty Sweet Voice and--

> Click.

> The other piece of thigh armor falls away. The noise shakes Benrey to his senses.

> "Turn please," he orders mindlessly. His voice is a bit more husky and demanding than it had been a moment before.

Gordon watches as Benrey pops off his armor like it's nothing, like Gordon hasn't spent hours fruitlessly trying to do the same himself. It would have saved him the constant indignity of relying on Benrey to get him in and out of the fucking thing. He tries really hard not to think about the indignity of this, too - Benrey's face so close to his, a hot, irritable breath fanning over him, and fingers at his--

Oh. Gordon jumps a little at the insistent press of a fingertip against his inner thigh, and heat rushes to his face. This part's mildly embarrassing at the best of times, when Benrey's smaller and more human-sized, but now? With fingers much too big for the job? Spreading his legs apart where he sits, rubbing insistently against his inner thigh... He can't help the shaky breath that forces its way out of him.

Jesus Christ, his hands are big, Gordon thinks, mind racing. Sure, yes, he's had this thought before, when Benrey was using them to slap gunships out of the air, but it's a little more pointed when they're prodding him like this. He tenses. Not entertaining these thoughts today, thank you. The whole point of this, presumably, was for a normal, ordinary bath. In a pool of mysterious alien water. With his rival stripping him down and scrubbing him. While he's so big that he could squish Gordon like a bug, if he wanted... or pick Gordon up and maneuver him around, broad fingers all over him, sizing him up. If he wanted.

He comes back to himself when he hears a command. Turn please. Quick and insistent. Gordon's eyes jerk away from where they'd been staring at Benrey's finger.

"Turn? Like, fucking-- God, ow--" Gordon hisses through his teeth as the motion twists one of his aching muscles the wrong way. "I don't even know why I'm doing this. It's not like this was stopping you... You know, I'm starting to think you just like bossing people around for no fucking reason." Despite his bitching, he does as he's told.

> Maybe he does like it. The bossing, that is. Benrey isn't sure. It's one of the few human things he knows--his job back at Black Mesa--and it's one of those things he's good at. Usually. At least now he feels good at it, with Gordon actually listening to him.

> He watches as Gordon turns, head shifting to tilt in the other direction, watching as his human trustingly turns his back to him and displays himself in a way that makes more Sweet Voice seep from between his teeth. He sniffs, he uses the back of his free hand to wipe away a trickle of fluorescent fluid trailing from his lips, and quickly wipes his hands off on his pants. His eyes never leaves Gordon's back.

> Lower back.

> His ass.

> Benrey had told him before that it was a nice one, and it was still true... uh, even if he can't really see it with Gordon sitting and all. He can imagine it in its entirety, though, nice and small, even as he fumbles with the latches on the back of the chest piece. He hardly notices as he clicks it open and the front hits the pad of his palm with an audible slap of metal against skin. He reaches around to pluck it away, the side of his hand brushing against Gordon's front.

> Gordon's heaving chest. His soft midsection. His...

> Benrey shakes his head as if snapping himself out of a trance. An involuntary laugh snorts out of his nose as he leans down, peeking over Gordon's shoulder like a creeping dragon, breath hot against the back of Gordon's neck.

> "Cute."

> And with that, he grabs the next part of Gordon: his arm, raising it up effortlessly like a doll's and carefully searching for the next latch.

Maybe facing away from Benrey wasn't the smartest idea, in retrospect. It feels like he's closer, somehow, his breath coming hotter and faster against Gordon's back. Benrey breathing down his neck should be, like, gross. Creepy. Gordon knows by now that Benrey likes to make a big deal about keeping them clean, but it's not like he knows when Benrey brushed last. It shouldn't smell... like that. Sweet. A distinct chemical note on the underside. Like ketones on his breath, but nothing that Gordon can place for certain.

Sweet Voice, probably. It's muted and subtle. He's not belting it out like he usually does, so Gordon can only guess what Benrey's feeling. Unfortunately, he's all too aware of what he's feeling: goosebumps, pebbling his skin from the neck down. A little frisson. They crawl all the way down his arms and make him shiver.  He can practically feel Benrey's eyes on him, too, all up close and personal. Don't break a sweat, he wills himself, because he knows Benrey's watching him like a hawk.

It doesn't stop a bead from pooling at the back of his hairline, then losing the fight against gravity and slowly trickling down his neck.

Benrey snorts, and Gordon flinches, cursing under his breath. He couldn't even have that, huh. Then Benrey has the audacity to call him cute. And that makes his blood pulse, briefly flashing his skin with heat, before receding just as quickly and leaving a chill in its wake.

"Wh-- Whoa, okay," Gordon starts. His indignant response is temporarily cut off by Benrey lifting his arm between a thumb and forefinger. He offers about as much resistance as a fucking action figure, even creaking a little for good measure, and it's distracting, okay?

After a few moments, though, he regains his bearings. "Shut up, man," he says, flustered. "I'm not even-- Just-- Quit being weird, okay?" Because, frankly, this is weird. He's not used to Benrey being so... accommodating. Helpful. Nice. And he doesn't know what Benrey's endgame is, here. So it just leaves Gordon feeling off-kilter. Uncertain. A little hot in the face.

> Benrey's eyes flick up like a lizard that's spotted its next meal when he hears Gordon's words, conveniently at the same time as he finds the latch with his nail. The armor on his upper arm falls away with a clonk and his fingers move down to the much-easier-to-remove gloves and wrist pieces, which come undone with a light twist and an even lighter yank. But his gaze isn't even looking at what he's doing, instead resting on the back of Gordon's hair, now wet with sweat and the dampness of his own breath.

> His skin is raised up in little bumps, and so are his hackles. Something bright and violet and base, fluorescent, builds at the back of Benrey's tongue, and he swallows it down. He has to focus, keep his composure. Get the other arm with a few quick clicks, fingers now more adventurous than they were before. The pads trail across Gordon's back, the undersuit bunching with his touch, pressing into his side for no reason other than the urge to feel. Then, when the second arm is freed, he remembers he forgot the boots.

> "Not being weird," Benrey protests as he wrangles Gordon in his grip, sighing heavily as he pinches him lightly in his grasp and rolls him in his hand like some kind of trinket. Until they're face to face once again and Gordon is flat on his back in his palm. He takes a moment to idly scratch his chin before reaching for the metal encasing his lower legs and feet.

> "Not weird to, uh, help a bro out. Be a friend. Friends call friends cute. All the time. Every day. S'pre... pre-requi... prere..." He pauses and stills and, then, with unwarranted confidence, forces the word out and continues fiddling. "It's pre-registered to, uh, do that. Yeah."

Blunt fingers at his arm, his back, his sides, prodding and rolling him around - each investigatory touch makes Gordon cognizant of just how much he's holding his breath. Until Benrey manhandles him into laying flat on his back, that is. A startled noise bursts out of him, and then Gordon's looking straight up at Benrey, with nowhere to go to escape him. Even without a hand pinning him down, he can't help but feel like he's stuck in place, anyway.

At least Gordon can sit up on his elbows a little. Less like he's some kind of specimen that way. And he lets Benrey fiddle with the boots, the strange feeling that curls in his stomach easing up on him the longer Benrey messes with something other than his soft, fleshy, vulnerable bits. He lets out a shaky breath of... relief. Let's go with that.

"IIII don't know about that," he says. "I'll be real with you, I'm not the kind of guy who does that... Uh. Well. Except there was that one time in high school? But it kind of weirded her out and she stopped talking to me."

Gordon pauses for a moment, brows wrinkling in thought. Then he shakes himself. "Anyway, that's not even the point. The point is," Gordon emphasizes, feeling like he's trying to present a convincing legal argument to a judge with all the size and breadth of (and possibly, the powers of) some ancient Greek god, "I think you have a, uh, tenuous grasp of what friendship entails, buddy. My friends don't call me cute."

As an afterthought, under his breath, he adds, "Nobody calls me cute." It comes out more bitter than he expects.

> The boots come off, one after another. The shin guards, too. Politely, Benrey scoops up all the miscellaneous pieces piled in his palm between his free fingers and puts them to rest next to the pool of... well, "water." Liquid. Something, though he's hard pressed to tell you exactly what it is. "The Bath."

> He listens as he does so, to Gordon squawking and muttering and saying, well, things. Things that he's not really listening to as he brings his hands back up to Gordon and tries to figure out where the zipper to the bodysuit is. Technically, he knows where it is, but his fingers are huge and the zippy-uppy part is so small, and he's prodding and poking with gentle strokes along Gordon's chest and belly where he saw the seam once-upon-a-time. He feels his nail click against the metal and it's... uh, well, it's aggravating.

> And Benrey isn't used to this kind of aggravation. Fuck's sake, he just wants to see some dic... ah. He just wants to help his best friend get a nice bath and feel better. Because he is a good guy who does good things like kill gun bugs for tiny dudes who can't shoot straight and not drive off with vehicles when Gordon leaves him alone. He's a good guy who doesn't want to be bad and--

> "Uh," he drawls, his mouth moving before he can really catch himself, "fuckin'... maybe people would call you cute if you, uh, weren't such a, uh, mean. So mean about it. Mean to me, just trying to say nices. To my best friend. Being such a good and a cool."

> His voice dies as he misses the zipper again. Fuck. When he speaks again, it darkens.

> "Please unzip suit? Please? Thank-you."

Soon enough Benrey's got him down to that reinforced bodysuit, the last piece of armor sliding off his hand with little resistance. Usually, this is where this process stops: Benrey gets him out of the armor, and Gordon fucks off and does whatever it is he needs to do. Change. Wash up. Sleep. The part where Benrey starts tugging at the fabric in search of the zipper? That's new. And it catches Gordon so unawares that he can't even speak.

That fingertip strokes him, almost, warm even through the black fabric, and a harsh breath whistles through Gordon's nose. It feels him up from his chest to his belly, a warm and insistent pressure. All the words in Gordon's brain get trapped in a mental sieve. In their place is a single, repeating thought:

Oh, God.

Benrey keeps trying, again and again, fingernails scraping uselessly against Gordon's belly. And his eyebrows furrow harder with the effort, frustration evident in his frown. And his fingers. Their grasping grows rough and imprecise and Gordon's trying so hard to bite his lip because there's an ugly noise threatening to punch his way out of him and Benrey's saying something to him that he can barely focus on and then finally, finally, he's giving up and pulling away. Christ.

It takes a moment for his mental fog to clear and for Benrey's words to sink in. Unzip? Himself? Oh, no. Somehow that's worse.

"Can you, like... give me some privacy, maybe?" Gordon complains.

He immediately feels stupid afterward. It trickles down from his scalp like something cold and slimy. So he clears his throat, and admits, begrudging, "I, uh... I'm not trying to be mean. It's been a long fucking day, okay? You're... uh... Well. Thanks. I guess. For trying to be nice."

There's a beat before the silence gets to be too uncomfortable, and Gordon hurriedly follows it up by saying, "Don't take this the wrong way. I think you could still use a few pointers on being 'nice' to 'humans', you know."

> "Wha?"

> In a second, the irritation is gone. Benrey's expression turns flat. He leans in close to Gordon and inhales deeply (yup, still smells like Gordon) and exhales just as hard.

> "I'm nice," he defends, eyes flicking down the pile of HEV parts on the island. "Fuckin', ah, Mother Tuh-ree-sah. You're the one who is bein'--"

> A pause. Nice. He was being nice, and he wasn't going to pick at Gordon. He wasn't going to point out that he was the one being snippy, while he was out here undressing him, and carrying him around, and getting ready to give him a bath, and maybe touch his--

> Wait.

> "Privacy?"

> The word tastes bad, real bad. The kind of bad that makes Benrey want to scrape his tongue off on his teeth. That isn't how they'd played these games before. Is this even still a game, though? Did "nice" contradict "games" too much? He isn't sure and he doesn't even give himself a chance to think about it as he nudges Gordon encouragingly with a finger and the words just start rolling out of his mouth.

> "No? No place to private at, bro. Maybe gonna have to just, ah, suck it up, friend. Besides--"

> Benrey leans forward on the island on his elbow, chin resting in his hand. As his body tilts, Gordon raises higher up due to his shifting of positions.

> "Can't, ah, can't not look. Dinosaurs and, uh, zombies out here. Ghosts. Gotta keep my eye on you. Safe-tee."

Safety. Right. As much as Gordon doesn't want to admit it, Benrey has a point. He's... vulnerable like this. And it would be just his luck that he gets beset by a peeper puppy with his dick hanging out. More to the point, he knows that it's stupid to develop a sense of modesty all of a sudden when Benrey's seen his dick before. It's just, you know, the size. The scrutiny.

Heat lodges itself in Gordon's face and makes a home there as Benrey brings him all the closer. As if to see him better. "Dinosaurs and zombies," he snorts. He can't believe that's the justification Benrey's giving him. And he can't believe he's buying it.

"Just... fucking, okay. Don't stare, at least," Gordon tells him, as if it will help.

The zipper's nestled in the seam at his neck, right in the center. Gordon fishes it out with shaky fingers. And then, slowly, he drags it down his front.

As he does, his flesh starts to spill from the suit in a creamy sliver. He's paler underneath, skin shielded from the sun for so long that his characteristic tan has all but faded. Consequences of running around in a HEV suit in the middle of Bulgaria. The rattle of the zipper rings in Gordon's ears, louder than life. First his chest, then his stomach, prickling with goosebumps in turn as they're revealed.

Finally, he pulls it down to its endpoint, just under his navel. Gordon's face burns with embarrassment.

> That... was easier than Benrey anticipated. Usually there's more resistance or, you know, playing involved whenever he asked Gordon to do something like that. Usually he had something a little more snide to say. Something in the air has changed, though, and he dimly wonders if maybe all of that advice he'd taken from the Resistors (Resistance? Transistors? Alyx, basically) has actually paid off.

> Learning how to human does, in fact, make interacting with Gordon easier.

> His pupils widen as he stares, mouth slightly agape, as more and more of Gordon's skin is revealed to him, a pretty porcelain color that looks incredibly soft and as delicate as a china doll. Usually he's darker, tanner; Benrey didn't know humans could change colors like that, but it's an interesting development and one that requires further investigation.

> So he leans closer, head tilted, watching the zipper come undone. Curiosity grips him as he gingerly reaches up and hooks his nails into the open edges of the suit and tugs, enough to jostle Gordon and peel away the wrapper but not enough to actually knock Gordon off his feet. As he does so, he ignores the sounds of protests, mouth opening wider and lifting in a sharkish grin.

> He's so pale now, but he's just as soft as Benrey remembers. Just as warm. Hair's still in all the right places, muscles in his arms growing visible as Benrey tugs the sleeves down, then the rest, leaving the top half of the bodysuit dangling from around his still-covered waist.

> He waits a moment, drinking in the sight. He could almost see his--

> No. No. No dick thinking, not now. No. He wasn't going to say anything because he was seriously just trying to be nice. And make Gordon shut up. And...

> And...

> "Cute."

> The word comes out while his brain is still arguing with himself. For a moment, he considers apologizing, or trying to pretend he never said it, but ultimately decides to stand by what he said.

> His eyes lift to rest on Gordon's face as he silently doubles down, waiting for a reply.

"Hey, careful," Gordon yelps, caught off-guard by fingers at the edges of his open suit. "You don't have to fucking-- Benrey, I can do this myself!" But there's no fighting him off before Benrey's tugging it down his shoulders, baring him from the waist up.

Impatient. That's the word that comes to mind. Benrey's itching to get him out of this thing, Gordon realizes. If it wasn't already obvious by that insistent scrape of nails against his jumpsuit, or the way Benrey's looking at him now, eyes wide and mouth parted. That heat in Gordon's cheeks crawls down to his chest. He's staring at Gordon like he's hungry, and all the pasty skin being revealed to him may as well be a juicy T-bone steak. Being half-naked ought to be making him pretty chilly in a place like this, but for some reason, it feels way too fucking hot right now.

Thankfully, Benrey stops there, which gives him a moment to get his bearings. On the other hand, Benrey's calling him fucking cute again, and Gordon was having a bad enough time handling that earlier. Now? Jesus, the guy's barely paying attention to him. Mumbling it like it's an afterthought. He doesn't know what it means.

"I-- I'm not fucking cute, dude, we already established this," he insists, doing his level best not to meet Benrey's stare. Gordon folds his arms, irritable and flushed a bright red. "I'm too mean or whatever. I got the picture. You don't have to keep fucking with me."

> Oh, he's changing colors again. Red now, from the tips of his ears down to his chest, and Benrey snorts a laugh. Of course humans can change colors. He'd seen him do this before. A few times actually.

> But he's just turning red, and being snippy, and he's not making a move to take off the rest of the suit. Benrey's eyes flick from Gordon to the water and, with a low chuckle, he decides to take the cue. Which... was a cue, right? He's pretty sure it's a cue, but humans were weird to begin with and Gordon was odder than most.

> Has to be a cue, he decides after a moment of silence wherein Gordon doesn't budge. He grabs the draping top of the suit and gently peels it downwards towards Gordon's feet, watching it pull away from sweaty, dirty skin. Watching it expose dark curls of hair just below his stomach, and watching Gordon's dick spill out into the open air. Benrey's teeth dig into his lips as he watches, even as his hands move clumsily to strip the rest of the rubbery material off of his legs.

> He's touched that before. Wants to touch it again, wants to say something about it. But he can't because apparently it was bad form to say shit about your best bro's average-but-good meat when he wasn't specifically asking, or at least that's what his stupid, skinny doppelganger had said and--

> God. Wait. No. He shakes his head. Best to focus on anything else.

> What else had the Resist-y Squad said? To listen? Humans liked listening? Even when they were being bitchy little drama-snots?

> Then he should... listen, right? But... what had Gordon said? He wasn't actually paying attention. He furrows his brow and his stare intensifies as he tries to piece together enough of the words he did hear to paint a picture. It takes a moment, but soon, it clicks.

> Oh. Yeah. Not cute. Blah, blah. Something, something "mean."

> Benrey's mouth snaps shut as he struggles to tear his eyes away from Gordon's cock, instead keeping a trained eye on his face. His mind is a machine running on fumes with rattling parts, but he struggles through the distraction. He's going to be reassuring. He's a good friend.

> "Uh... yeah? Mean? Cute? You can be both. Bratty little, ah, Gordon Meanman with his nice... cute. Cute little hog."

> The words come out before he can stop them.

> Goddammit.

Oh, God, okay, so none of what he said got through, clearly. He squawks out as much. Gordon's mind spins into overdrive as Benrey manifestly does not let him take care of it himself, instead peeling the jumpsuit clean off his hips and legs and exposing him from top to bottom. His heart thunders in his chest, and he presses his legs tightly together in a futile attempt at modesty.

"My-- my cute little-- Jesus Christ, Benrey, you can not say shit like like that!" Gordon snaps. He jams his hands between his legs to cover himself, humiliation boiling over.

Fucking Benrey. Always saying the worst possible shit, the most embarrassing shit. Gordon thinks this as furiously as he can, because if he acknowledges that there's anything other than purestrain embarrassment and indignation at play, he's gonna snap like a twig. That's all it is. He's a normal guy, and normal guys don't feel their dicks twitch when their best friend calls their dick cute. And... little. That's worse. Much worse.

The thing that Gordon's still failing to understand is why Benrey's still calling him cute. Yeah, it gets his goat, but it's not like Benrey was in the habit of pulling this shit before. And... And Gordon doesn't know why it's getting to him so much, either.

The first time seemed like a prank. A bad joke. The second time, an accident. And the third - fourth - fifth? The times after that, he's not sure anymore. But each time it gets his skin burning hotter and his heart skipping a beat and Gordon's still pissed off but he's not sure exactly why. (Well, in the general sense. This time, it's because Benrey's straight up insulting his dick, thank you.)

"Why did I even agree to this," he moans, head hanging between his shoulders. "Everything's always gotta be a big fucking ordeal for Gordon. You know what, just put me down if you're gonna-- gonna make fun of my meat or whatever! I'll get myself a bath and then we can go and forget this ever happened."

> There is something about the way Gordon fusses at him that makes Benrey's heart skip a beat, though it also awakens something in the back of his mind that he's been consciously trying to tamp down. The urge to pick at him grows as large as his smile as he hooks two fingers under Gordon's arms and lifts him up and out of his palm like a claw in a skill crane. Words dance on the tip of his tongue, ones better fit for a schoolyard bully, and he rumbles a dark laugh as he contemplates what to say.

> It seems the crack about his hog got him all worked up in a delicious sort of way, judging from the way he's still bright crimson and his dick seems appreciative of Benrey's attention. He could double down on that. Then again, he was supposed to be nice in this situation, wasn't he? He'd been doing so good up until this point, and he could imagine the Resist-y People would be proud if they could see him now.

> But the reaction. It's... it's good. Seeing Gordon's dick twitch, seeing him bright as a tomato, seeing him sweating and nervously dodging his gaze. All were signs that he was interested, that he may just be thinking the same things Benrey has been trying not to think and... fuck, them's good thoughts. Great thoughts.

> Maybe there's a line to walk between. Play the game and still be "nice." Benrey wets his lips and huffs a sweet-scented laugh into Gordon's face, before gently lowering him into the water. The surface of the pool practically sparks as Gordon's bare feet make contact, and a shimmering azure mist billows into the air.

> "Nuh-uh. Nope," Benrey replies with a pop of the p. "You're, uh, tired. Gonna, y'know, get you sparkly. Clean. Squeaky. Pretty. Make you feel so good you'll, uh, wanna buy BFF necklaces after."

> Once Gordon is nestled in the pool, he leans down close and presses down on his shoulders to urge him into a seated position.

> "'Sides, ah. Not making fun. S'nice. Cute. Fun size."

> Emphasis on "fun," Benrey thinks, and his smile widens.

A tingle effervesces across Gordon's skin as Benrey slowly lowers him into the water, something like carbonation but not quite. For one, bubbles aren't nucleating on him so much as drifting toward the surface, sluggish and small. But the effect is as curiously refreshing as a cold glass of Pepsi.

In contrast, the water itself is warm and clear, and the humidity fogs up his glasses in short order. Makes it hard to see Benrey before he's firmly suggesting that Gordon sit down. With his hand. He's not expecting it, and he sinks to his knees with a splash and a quiet "whoa, shit".

Gordon rights himself, sitting back against the edge of the pool. And he opens his mouth to say-- well, something, you know, there was a lot to unpack in whatever the fuck Benrey just said to him, but he barely gets it out before Benrey's talking over him.

Cute. Fun size.

"Stop, okay, just stop talking about my meat! Can we please move on? Any other topic?" He crosses his arms in front of his face.

This is, it's too fucking much, okay, there's-- it's just-- the word was already starting to crawl under his skin, and he's just an average American male! You're not supposed to say this shit to another dude! And you're not supposed to, fucking, swallow and shudder when you hear that shit, either. Not supposed to like being talked down to like that. By... by such a big guy. Who probably does think he's a fun size right now. Probably wants to...

Gordon splashes his face with water. Then he takes off his glasses after the fact, feeling like an idiot. See, this is why he's got to get Benrey to knock it off. Too much. Gets him lost in his own head. Gets his blood pumping. And the last thing he wants is to embarrass himself by looking a gift horse in the mouth, getting a boner when Benrey's just trying to do him a solid.

Well. At least that's what he's saying he's doing. The jury's still out on that one. But either way, the most likely outcome is that Benrey never lets him live it down, and Gordon doesn't know if he can handle the psychological devastation right now. So.

"Here, look, I'll even... okay, so, what is this stuff, anyway? It feels like I'm taking a bath in a... a hot energy drink. But like, in a good way?" He cups some in his hand and lets it spill through his fingers. "Last time I jumped in this stuff, I think it fixed a bone. Is that normal? Weirdest fucking thing I ever felt, man."

> "I 'unno," Benrey answers honestly. Because, well, he doesn't know what this stuff is. Even if he knows a lot about Xen (and would be hard-pressed to tell you exactly how he knows these things), it's not like he knew much more than "this thing will eat you" and "this thing won't." All he knows is that these pools feel good and smell good and do things that are good, and could more than likely get Gordon clean. Make him have a more agreeable scent than the already agreeable people-odor he's already wearing.

> The Gordon smell. It's... a nice smell.

> "It's water. Uh. Bubbles." Benrey dips his fingertips in the pool to wet them and feels the curious, sparkling sensation around his skin; it's warm and cold and fizzy and, honestly? Yeah, kind of refreshing. Like caffeinated Pop Rocks or something. He dimly wonders what it tastes like, but ultimately decides not to drink the bath water.

> "Doesn't matter. You're thinking a lot. About wrong things. Need to focus on, uh, getting you ready. For the ball. Gordo-rella." He pauses, scowling. That was bad even for him. Quickly, he recovers, as if it never happened. "So, quiet? Please? Relax?"

> With that, Benrey extends one wet finger and presses against Gordon's chest, as carefully as he can, working in the glittering water and scrubbing gingerly at his chest hair. He works his muscles with a care he didn't know he possessed, and then maneuvers to his shoulders. He feels Gordon's muscles loosening underneath his touch and it makes him feel... accomplished.

> But his eyes keep straying down, down into the water where Gordon's dick should be, obscured by bubbles and blue. And he exhales, fighting the urge to press a button, to raise him up and see if it's still twitching in anticipation, wondering if he'll see it break the surface and greet him.

> Benrey's eyes screw shut and his fingers still as he takes a moment to force himself to be, as Gordon would say, "normal." It is a foreign feeling.

> He is not a fan.

"G-Gordo-rella?" Gordon bursts out laughing despite himself. "That's so bad, I know you can do better than that!" And the funny thing is, he does know. Benrey's got jokes. He's... good at making Gordon laugh. Even when he's clearly phoning it in.

The laughter sets him at ease for the first time since they'd set out the day before. And when Benrey reaches out to start scrubbing, Gordon flinches, but does as Benrey suggests and eventually relaxes into it.

Benrey's strangely quiet as he does it. Doesn't make any dumb quips. Doesn't start talking about video games or whatever. So Gordon doesn't feel inclined to break the silence, either. The meaner part of him insists that it's just because he doesn't want to set Benrey off on some dipshit tangent, but the truth is, it's kind of nice. The quiet. Even if it's bordering on surreal. All he can hear is the quiet sound of Benrey washing his skin, dipping his fingers into the water. His breathing, measured but heavy. And the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his chest.

The bath itself isn't half-bad, either. He didn't expect Benrey to be this... careful. Not a word Gordon really associates with the guy. But Benrey's fingers work his muscles in tight circles, slow and firm, washing off however many days of sweat and dirt and blood, and Gordon's finds himself melting a little. Letting his eyes drift shut.

He groans when Benrey works his thumb into his back just right, dislodging a knot in the muscle he wasn't even aware of until it was gone. "Oh my God, how did you do that," Gordon breathes.

> Oh. Oh.

> That noise was a... nice one. A pleasant one. One that makes Benrey hesitate for a second and lose his smile before quickly regaining it and pretending he'd never misplaced it in the first place. And he figures Gordon likely didn't notice--his human can't see without the glasses--so he says nothing as he dips his fingers yet again and massages into Gordon's shoulders, exploring every inch and feeling how bizarre every groove and curve is underneath the pad of his finger.

> It's odd, but not a bad odd. The kind of odd that requires further investigation because, while he's had his hands on Gordon before, this feels different. Better, even, in some ways. Motivated by equal parts curiosity and mounting desire, he continues to glide across Gordon's skin and work his muscles and feel them loosen and pause to take in the rapid thudding of Gordon's tiny, tiny pulse against his skin.

> Benrey swallows the Sweet Voice pooling in the back of his mouth. He gags. He coughs into his shoulder. His voice breaks a bit as his normally flat demeanor begins to falter amid a mob of intrusive thoughts that march right into his brain like little soldiers.

> "Can do it 'cause 'm not human. Got magic fingers. Call now. For $19.99, we'll throw in a second one free," Benrey recites, but his eyes are still looking for a hint of cock. But not just that--

> "Limited time offer. Supplies going fast. Better, uh, pick up that phone."

> -- his chest, bits of leg sticking out of the water, that pretty neck, that long hair--

> "Call in, uh, next fifteen minutes and I'll... uh..."

> --that stomach, slightly soft around the middle, and arms that were too strong for somebody of his persuasion--

> "Uh."

> -- every inch that HEV suit wouldn't let him see. Gordon would look so much better in something more... breezy. Clingy. Revealing.

> "Fuck," he says breathily. Something roils inside him, and a lot of it is unfortunately roiling below the belt. So much for subtlety. So much for "nice."

Benrey keeps scrubbing, keeps rubbing his sore muscles between thumbs and index fingers, and it takes a conscious effort for Gordon not to doze off. Even the prickling of fizzy bubbles against his skin fights an upward battle to keep him awake. It's just, he's been on the go for way too long, now, and days of tension are leaching out of him, and Benrey's, like, weirdly good at this. For once, Gordon doesn't have to be thinking about parallel universes and the end of the fucking world or whatever. Somebody else can do the thinking for him.

And then he starts rambling about magic fingers like he's hosting some kind of infomercial and Gordon's laugh comes easier and harder than it has any right to. But Benrey's trailing off now, distracted. Swearing under his breath. Gordon blinks open his eyes and glances up at him.

Despite his lack of glasses, Benrey's big enough (and close enough) that Gordon can make out most of his expression, even if it's fuzzy and indistinct. His mouth hangs open a little, and his brows are knotted up under the cast shadow of his helmet. Like he's thinking about something.

"Free shipping?" Gordon finishes his joke for him. Benrey must have lost his train of thought again. Gordon's mostly used to it... mostly.

He shrugs and rolls his shoulders from side to side, grunting and making small, quiet noises as he stretches. Man, that feels good. There must be something in the water, even if Benrey was, as usual, unhelpful as to what.

Finally, Gordon decides to tug out the band from his hair, spilling it loose over his shoulders. He snaps it around his wrist for safekeeping, then runs his hands through his hair to shake it out.

"Uh. While we're at it. Think you could get my hair later? Like, I don't know where you got the soap from, but I'm assuming you can just, like, magic up some conditioner or something, too."

> Benrey doesn't know how to tell Gordon he didn't actually have soaps. He said so, but he... he didn't. If not for Gordon pointing out that he could "magic" some up, he might have been really stuck, but with a quick shake of his head to bring himself back to his senses, his face lights up once more with a teasing smile and his tone eases back into his typical taunting monotone.

> "Uh. Yeahs. Soaps and, uh, condo-stuff. Got'cha."

> There is a flash of green as he lifts his hand above him (in a dramatic way that he hopes is as cool and impressive as it looks in his head), and feels something slimy manifest in his hands. Slimy and, well, scented like a Glade plug-in. Like flowers and "summer breezes" and things that are a lot more Earth-y than the Sweet Voice. It's a nice color, too, but one that doesn't match how he feels it should look, because it smells more like blue than it does white and...

> ... You know what? It doesn't matter.

> Benrey dips a fingertip in the soap like a child about to paint and, tongue poking out between his teeth once more, sets to work giving Gordon a once-over yet again. He hopes that maybe Gordon won't notice or point out the fact he hadn't even used soap in the first place, as distracted as he was, and just accept the fact that Benrey is once more rubbing his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his legs. Lifting up limbs and maneuvering them to get into hard-to-reach places. Pushing a little firmer than before to feel for that fluttering pulse.

> God, his own heart is beginning to match it beat for beat.

> "Yeah," Benrey mutters at long last as his tongue darts back into his mouth, "I can. Do that. Get your hair."

> His hair. His hair is so pretty when it's down, already having grown out after he cut it in the Bad Ending World. Silky and nice with bits of gray that make him look like he's as smart as he thinks he is--

> No, no. Nice. Nice. He is grappling with the idea of being nice!

> "Get your hair with, uh, real shit. Good shampoo. Actual soaps and stuff that ain't, uh, the stuff. Your stuff. Head and Shoulders. Make you look real good, real nice. Nice for m--uh."

> He pauses. He snaps his mouth shut. He pauses over Gordon's body and thinks for a moment. He wants to say it, he wants to tease and pick and make Gordon flush bright red and play their stupid goddamn game, but now isn't the time. He doesn't think so, at least? Maybe it is?

> Does Gordon think it is? He hopes so, but he doesn't know how to tell. And, apparently, humans didn't like it when their alien best friends played games they didn't want to play.

> "... Mandatory hair inspection," he recovers. "Black Mesa, uh, protocol. Already fucked up the passport. Don't... don't fuck up hair day."

Blood doesn't so much rush to Gordon's face as it crawls, moving as sluggishly as his mind does, processing this. He knows what Benrey was gonna say before he snapped his mouth shut like a mousetrap. Gordon swore he could even hear the teeth click.

Maybe he didn't actually say it, but Gordon's entire system reacts as though he has, because, fucking, he did! For all intents and purposes! A bright, prickling heat surges down his spine that has nothing to do with the water. Why does he talk like that?! Fucking cooing at him, like Benrey's taking some kind of sick pleasure in teasing him in the most embarrassing way possible... but that's about what Gordon expects at this point.

So why did he stop himself?

When Benrey marshals his voice into something more flat and toneless, Gordon frowns. He's... he's really trying, isn't he. Trying to do something decent without turning it into one of their fucked up little games. Some of the mental furniture rearranges itself in Gordon's head, pictures straightened and doorways unjammed.

Unfortunately, all the dusting and clearing in the world can't change the fact that the foundation in his head is wired to make him a paranoid little fucker. And Benrey's always playing some kind of 4th-dimensional chess with him, anyway, right? He's just being rational. Wary.

That said... he's already here. He might as well relax and deal with the consequences later. Especially when... oh.

Benrey's washing him in earnest, fingers pressing into him and manipulating him. They're all over him, probing him without direction, and now Gordon's not sure if "relaxed" is the best descriptor for himself. There's just, there's a lot of touching happening, and Benrey's hands are so, so big, and Gordon can just make out the tip of Benrey's tongue poking through his teeth and something about that intense focus - on him - makes Gordon's breathing go shallow.

Christ. He can't-- He shouldn't think about this. This is the kind of sick shit that only happens in his head, not in real life. Gordon's just a normal guy with something very wrong with him, and that "something" makes him more prone than most to awful little fantasies, intrusive thoughts.

That's all this is. There's gotta be something wrong with him to want somebody ten times his size to touch him like this, but in, like, a horny way. Like some kind of freakjob doing gross shit with an action figure. Maybe it doesn't make him a bad person. So long as he keeps it to himself. He'll keep all his weird little fantasies right next to his heart, and then he'll die. That's that.

It's almost over, Gordon tells himself furiously, willing his blood to stop rushing to his dick and his stomach to stop coiling with heat. If he can just focus, he can will his boner down before he has to get out of the pool and then Benrey will be none the wiser.

"Okay, first of all, I didn't fuck up the passport," Gordon blusters, in an attempt to power through it. "I never needed one before! If anything, I think you fucked up, man. Never told me about Black Mesa Picture Day or whatever."

> Benrey's fingers do not pause as Gordon fusses at him, but his eyes can't stay focused on his own work. He's too busy watching Gordon's throat bob as he swallows around a lump, or how his blush is darkening and spreading. He's gauging the look in his eyes, looking for any indication that he can go ahead and make it weird, but--even though he's sweating and nervous and fidgety and acting just like he does when they're playing--Benrey is too nervous to make a move.

> And "nervous" wasn't a part of his vocabulary until that Alyx lady and Gordon's own downhill slide made it obvious that he actually had to think human to interact with humans. His human specifically.

> So, even though he sees the signs, he decides to bite his tongue. It is foreign, it is uncomfortable, and it's almost painful to choke down. To redirect his alien brain into more terrestrial channels. To try to figure out what a human person would do in his situation and, barring that, just continuing to do what he was supposed to be doing in the first place.

> Bathing Gordon.

> "Shouldn't have to tell you. S'in the, ah, employee handbook. Welcome packet. Folder. Right next to Warhammer 401k and, uh, ensure-ants."

> He cups a small amount of water in his palm and trickles it over Gordon's body, watching it drain down his form in sparkling rivulets. They trace his contours, weaving into every nook and cranny and crease that Benrey couldn't reach, and he watches them with an intensity that even he can feel. A warmth in his gut, a twitch of his dick. His tongue laps at his lips like a hungry animal; he wants to lick every droplet off of Gordon and explore ever inch of him as thoroughly as the bathwater.

> But... no. No, no. He's normal. He's normal and human and he's being nice, and Gordon hasn't said anything so he's going to close his eyes, huff angrily, and then continue on his merry way.

> "Everyone knows about, uh, Hair Inspection Day. And Passport Inspection. You, ah, you're just... uh."

> Benrey breathes heavily out of his nose as his eyes lock on Gordon yet again. Staring up at him, red-faced. Hair now adhered to his skin from the water. Chest heaving. He reaches out in spite of himself and presses a fingertip to Gordon's torso once more, feeling that rapid pulse and feeling it rise and fall with each breath. Knowing he could make Gordon's heart race faster and really put his lungs to work.

> He wants to feel him pant, wants to hear each heavy breath accompanied with his name and...

> No. God, it's getting so fucking hard to resist the game, but Benrey is good! Good for his best friend! He's learned and he's going to stay good. He's just being nice. He can be nice without being--

> "Missed a spot," Benrey lies as he pulls his finger away. He pretends to rinse Gordon off once more and sputters a cough. "Now, let's get those, ah, locks. Clean and brushed. Shiny. Barbie Girl, Barbie World, am I right?"

Gordon ducks his head instinctively as Benrey douses him with water, shielding his face. There's a huff from above him, and then another, breath hot and heavy on Gordon's neck. The closest comparable experience is... it's like being trapped under some kind of big fucking animal. A bear, maybe, snorting at the nape of his neck before it decides to eat him. Violently.

Cool. He loves thoughts like that. A pleasant reminder that they don't exactly carry fucking risperidone in the aftermath of a fascist takeover.

He shakes his head again to rid himself of it, then looks at Benrey in surprise when he presses a fingertip to his chest. It just rests there, warm and steady. Not pulling or pinching or shoving or any of the things Gordon expects. Gears whir to life in his head. Benrey's being-- he's being kind of fucking weird, but not in the ways Gordon's grown accustomed to, and when he's spent the entirety of their working relationship trying to get his sea legs, it throws him off just as badly when the boat stops rocking.

"I don't know how to tell you this, but it's not just Barbies who have to wash their hair," Gordon snorts at him. "You got me all worried now, man, I don't even know if you know the basics. It's shampoo, then conditioner, okay?"

After a moment, he slicks his hair back out of his face, too. For good measure. "And try not to get it in my eyes, either... Actually, uh, I'm kind of having second thoughts about this. Maybe you should just let me handle it. No offense."

> "Know what I'm doin'. I got hair. Nice hair. Better than... uh, Mr. 2-in-1," Benrey protests, masking the sudden wave of panic that just roiled up inside of him. Just the idea of not touching Gordon is too much, and he inwardly crinkles at the thought of missing his chance to feel his human again. And again. And again. Petting and scrubbing and massaging and imagining what it would be like to get Gordon close enough to his face that he could taste him.

> But... he can't do that. He's not allowed. This isn't The Game. This is A Nice Favor for His Person and, well, he's got to be normal. And chill. And calm. And this is all really too fucking hard.

> However, as long as he plays by the rules, he still gets a chance to touch Gordon, and he supposes that is a small victory. It's what spurs him on to press his thighs together and shift his weight to hide his burgeoning boner behind the Xenian island so that Gordon can't be alarmed or scandalized or angry or accusatory. It's what prompts him to summon from the ether, yet again, a new supply of nice-smelling soaps and an equally pleasant conditioner that still don't match the color his brain tells him they should be.

> And, with fangs pressed into his bottom lip, he dips his finger into the shampoo freshly spawned in his palm and swirls it gently, watching as Gordon regards him with a mixture of curiosity and what he hopes isn't disdain. He's been working so hard to try to not make the guy angry, and he's struggling not to slip.

> Slowly, he drips a dollop of soap onto Gordon's head--towards the back, since he is honestly trying to obey the request not to blind him--followed by a few drops of glittering, warm water. He monitors the way Gordon's expression changes as he presses against his head as gently as he can and begins to work it into a lather.

> It's... nice. It's not the usual rough stuff and bullying he's used to, but there is something undeniably pleasant about watching Gordon melt into his touch as he works, careful and light, his body rocking with the movements in a way that makes Benrey feel both strangely aroused and, well... warm. As warm as the pool of water, all on the inside like a badly heated burrito. It's new, and uncomfortable, but not unwelcome, and he savors it by trying to make the moment stretch.

> From the scalp and downwards, until his finger is stroking the side of Gordon's cheek and reaching under his chin as if trying to tilt his head up for a kiss he was way too big to give. Like a true romantic that he knew, in his gut, he wasn't actually anywhere close to being. But it felt right, and the dazed and pleasant look in Gordon's eyes shatter the alien armor around his heart in one powerful blow.

> Benrey swallows hard and says nothing. He just scrubs and stares. And scrubs. And stares.

> Slow, precise, delicate circles. Enjoying the moment, and buying time as he tries to untangle this utterly alien knot of feelings that is twisting around in his gut. Feelings he isn't sure he understands or particularly wants, but addictive all the same.

"Oh, that's kinda nice, actually," Gordon mumbles distantly, as Benrey starts to lather up his hair.

It's impressive, honestly, just how delicate Benrey's capable of being when he puts his mind to it. The pressure's firm enough that it feels good against his scalp, but he's not being knocked around or given a headache or anything. It's... pleasant. His eyes drift shut again, now that he's pretty sure Benrey's got the hang of it.

That finger slips lower, lower, stroking the side of Gordon's jaw, and Gordon leans into it. Lets him work soap into the underside of his facial hair. (And that's nice, too. It's the kind of thing he figured Benrey would miss.) And if Benrey rubs a bit slower, tilts his head up just a little so that Gordon has to peer up at him through slowly-blinking eyes, well, he's not going to complain.

Benrey's eyes are so big, so close to his and so intently focused that-- that he's sweating a little, just visible at the edge of Gordon's vision. Gordon's heart beats faster, and a strange tension begins to wind itself tight in him. It's like Benrey's trying to scan him. All that attention focused directly on him gins up butterflies in his stomach.

Gordon's suddenly hit by the awareness that nobody's done anything like this for him in a long, long time. Maybe ever. And here he is, letting his frenemy (best frenemy, whispers an annoying little voice that sounds suspiciously like Benrey) scrub him clean. Take care of him. How in the fuck did he end up here? And, more importantly, why is he so comfortable with this? This is the guy who got his arm cut off, not, fucking, not his live-in girlfriend. That broke up with him a couple years ago, citing the fact that he was "a puffed-up MIT asshole". Whatever. Details.

After a long stretch of silence, Gordon breaks it by saying, "I, uh, I think that's good. Yeah. Lemme just..."

And he pushes Benrey's finger away before ducking his head under the water, hoping Benrey doesn't notice the way his voice cracks.

> It... almost feels like he's being spurned when his finger is pushed away. There's a quaver in Gordon's voice and he isn't sure if it's nerves or rejection. In an instant, a long-dormant part of Benrey's brain flares to life, leaving him mentally bouncing theories as to why his person had sounded so off. It could have been that he was having the same sorts of thoughts Benrey had been having the whole time, or it could have been that he had done something wrong. Getting advice on how to handle Gordon came with the unpredictable side effect of giving him a lot to worry about in terms of "boundaries" and "behaving," which he honestly wasn't comfortable or keen on dealing with.

> These insecurities melt away as he watches Gordon duck under the water, however. It creates a hiccup in the system, a blue screen that necessitates a reboot. There's something distracting about the way his back arches forward, muscles moving, head dipping beneath the surface. On his knees, ass lifting up slightly so he has a touch more leverage. Hair floating to the top, and then clinging tightly to his skin as he emerges with a gasp and throws his head back and slicks it out of his face and...

> ... His face is dripping. Sopping. Water trailing from his mouth and down his beard. Running down his temples, his cheeks. Like sweat. Like... something else.

> "Holy shit," Benrey mutters with the barest hint of voice. He pauses, he tries to think of something to say that would mask the fact he's not being "normal," and he's been playing The Game the whole time, regardless of what he's been telling himself. The hamster is running, the gears are whirring, but Windows is still updating and he's at a loss for anything better to say.

> So he doubles down. His voice grows louder.

> "Holy shit."

Gordon winches his eyes shut as he wipes water from them, slinging his hair back out of his face for good measure. God, he can feel how much less greasy it is now, and it's like taking off an itchy sweater for the first time. Makes him breathe a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, man, that's honestly really... uh..."

He slows to a stop, thrown off by Benrey muttering something. Almost inaudible. It gets him to crane his neck to look up at Benrey properly, about to ask, before Benrey says it again. Louder. Okay, yeah, he did catch that right the first time, huh.

Even though he's out of focus, Gordon can still see how wide his eyes are. How slack his face is. He doesn't need the finer details to notice Benrey's hand hovering in midair, like he's been interrupted in the middle of a thought. Staring at him like... like...

Heat crashes over Gordon in a violent wave, from the crown of his head to the pit of his belly. He's not even-- he's not even doing anything. He's sopping wet, and he can't fucking stand the way his hair looks when it's laying flat and slick against his head like this, and he can't exactly hide all the unseemly scars and and stretch marks and soft spots and all the other issues he's poked at in the mirror time and time again. (He had a growth spurt as a teenager, okay, and stretching him out an extra foot and a half so quickly didn't give his skin a lot of time to adapt.)

In short, he feels more naked and exposed now, half-covered by the foamy surface of this shallow pool, than he did when Benrey had him in his palm with his entire dick out. And it makes Gordon fucking throb under the surface of the water.

He's gotta be making fun of me, Gordon desperately tells himself. Defense mechanism. It's not working as well as it usually does, and he subconsciously presses his thighs tighter together.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, suddenly dry despite the water carding down his face.

"What," starts Gordon. But he doesn't know where to take that question, and it dies as quick as it came.

> Game over. It's done. Benrey's used his final life and lost it in a valiant attempt to beat the final boss, but now he's gawking down at Gordon who is gawking right back up at him with a tell-tale look on his face that makes Benrey almost positive that he's playing just as hard. His own breath quickens as once complicated thoughts congeal into something more comfortable, something more streamlined, something more natural.

> Something that Alyx would have been disappointed to hear, especially after how good he had been doing.

> He inhales sharply through his nose and leans in close, the air coming back out at a low laugh as his mouth twists into a hungry grin. A finger extends and he presses it against the side of Gordon's face, an almost loving stroke. He can feel a burst of heat in his cheeks and he knows, glasses or not, that Gordon can probably see how red he's getting. He shifts his legs as he floats beside the island, trying to accommodate a cock that is now frighteningly hard and twitching against his stomach.

> "What 'what?'" Benrey asks, his voice monotonous but still somehow teasing. "Can't a bro, uh, admire his bro? Have a look-see? Look nice. Pretty."

> His finger drops to the water and stirs it a bit, creating a roil of bubbles that send a pleasant, tingling sensation up his hand, his arm. It seems to travel straight to his heart, which is pounding furiously in his chest.

> "You, uh... you good? Need anymore help? Getting clean? Hard to reach places?"

> A pause. He feels his stomach twist into knots. This has never really happened before while playing this game, but it's powerful. Makes him feel desperate. Needy. Makes him feel guilty and he hates it because he never feels guilty.

> As quickly as the mask breaks, he picks up the pieces and puts them back together. He slides it back on. He takes a deep breath, fumbling with his words.

> "Want to, uh... pla... pretty? Want to pretty? Want best friend Benrey to make you, uh, cleaner? Prettier? Help you? Please? Thank-you."

Two paths emerge before Gordon. On the one, well-worn and well-lit, he would tell Benrey, "No thanks, I'm good," and he would tell Benrey to turn around so he can dry off and crawl back into the jumpsuit. And then he would let Benrey fit him in the armor again, trying his best to ignore those fingers on his skin, and later he would duck away and jerk himself raw thinking about it. Swearing at himself. Wishing he could be normal for once in his fucking life and not develop questionable new fantasies about the one guy who's as out of place in this world as he is.

On the other, bracketed by brambles and dark, uncharted woods, Gordon would... He would...

He'd get it through his head that he's not the only little fucking weirdo in this relationship. That Benrey keeps staring at him like that for a reason.

And that Benrey's trying so fucking hard to play nice because... well... Gordon hasn't wrapped his head around that one yet, but he has his suspicions. Some of them more worrying than others. But the point is, Benrey's not taking the bait. He's got Gordon in a highly vulnerable position, and he could be pushing Gordon around if he wanted, playing their little game and driving him up the wall.

But he isn't. He keeps choking it back. It's unsettling. Gordon doesn't know how to handle it. He kind of wishes, in the back of his mind, that Benrey would tack on his 'schoolyard bully' demeanor again. At least that Gordon understands on some level. Push, pull, tussle.

And most unsettling of all is that downright tender way that Benrey drags a finger along his cheek. Anxiety thrums to life in Gordon's blood. No, no, that's not-- This is weird. This is so weird. There's something roiling and ugly churning in his stomach, and he doesn't like it one bit. He's not coping with it, he needs to-- to wrangle this situation, get some control over it, steer it back to familiar territory.

And in doing so, Gordon floors it directly into the woods.

He looks back at Benrey, taking in the hot flush crawling up his skin. The awkward shifting. I'm not the only freak here, Gordon reminds himself, blood pounding in his ears.

So he shifts himself. Sits back, draws his legs up so that his knees peek out of the water. Lets them fall to the sides, just a little. And he says, tucking a strand of wet hair behind his ear,

"What, and you're not even gonna-- That's some low-hanging fruit you're leaving on the vine. Startin' to get worried about you, man. You haven't gone this long without making fun of me in... uh, ever."

> Wait. Was that...?

> Was that admission?

> Benrey's pupils grow wide at the words, and his smile threatens to falter as he feels the cogs creaking inside of his head. Connecting the dots with all the newfound information he has on human people is like doing the advanced science stuff Gordon seemed to believe he was so special for knowing. There's emotional equations, rechecking the data, counter-arguments for every theory he comes up with, but in the end a little lightbulb flickers to life. The lights are on, somebody is home, and by god does that somebody want to play ball already.

> Benrey's finger stills on Gordon's cheek and he feels an uncharacteristic lump grow in his throat as his face grows redder and sweat beads at his brow. That weird emotion that once wrapped itself around its siblings, Worry and Guilt, finally cut itself loose and tangles itself in his stomach. He doesn't like it--it's too warm, and it's not the horny kind of heat that he's used to--but he allows it to stay. It feels like it may turn into something good if he just lets it incubate.

> "Uh, what? Not gonna... huh?"

> Benrey's voice cracks just like Gordon's had a moment before. He pretends it never happened and seamlessly continues.

> "Not gonna, ah, make fun of you. Gonna... gonna pick that fruit, though."

> His finger trails down Gordon's chin, down his neck, across his shoulders, down his chest. It rests dangerously low on his belly, threatening to dip lower. He grins at Gordon, leans in close, and huffs a laugh that's less malicious than it is honestly amused with its own cleverness.

> "Uh, get it? Fruit? Picked? You're, ah, you're the fruit, bro."

> A pause.

> "Laugh, please."

Gordon swallows, hard. The implications hit him like a bowling ball. That somebody's dropping on him. Maybe from an overpass or something. He's spinning out a little, alright, and losing his grip on the metaphor.

Benrey's fingertip leaves goosebumps in its wake, and his breathing goes shallow as the nail lightly catches on the crook of his neck. Lower, lower, slipping just below the surface of the water to rest on his belly, and Gordon thanks every deity he can imagine (and some he can't) that the bubbles hide... well. This, feeling it throb where it lies heavy against his hip.

Despite himself, he does actually laugh when Benrey prompts it. It comes out high and way louder than he intended, but still. Now that's a metaphor he's got a good grasp on, he thinks wildly. Oh, Christ.

"That's-- that's not really what I meant," Gordon tries to argue, but not with very much conviction. "But, uh, ha ha! Great joke! Fucking love jokes, man!"

> Benrey doesn't really hear what Gordon is saying. He does know that tone, though, from times they've played The Game before. It's a tone that speaks of permission, a sort of polite denial without the force. The kind of arguing that Benrey knows he can get away with ignoring because it's not sincere. Game talk. A challenge.

> Their own secret language of want.

> "Thank-you," Benrey purrs when Gordon forces a laugh, and his finger rubs a slow, slow circle into Gordon's stomach. He's sure Gordon notices when it bumps a bit too low, because he can feel something tell-tale just beneath the surface of the water. His grin grows at the realization that he was on the right track, tongue slipping out from between his teeth and running along his lips. A show, given to Gordon.

> A show he desperately wants Gordon to notice is meant for him. A tech demo. A promise.

> "But, uh... if that ain't what you meant. What did you mean? 'Cause you seem to be enjoyin' this, best friend."

A noise threatens to burst from Gordon's chest when Benrey starts to rub, slow and insistent, and grazes against-- Oh, God. But he clamps his lips tight, and all that escapes him is a harsh puff of air through his nose. He knows now, he knows, and it's written all over his face, a raised eyebrow and a smug smile and the slow, deliberate movement of his tongue over his lower lip.

It's fucking cartoonish, is what it is. Gordon should laugh. Gordon does laugh, again, another nervous little titter that doesn't communicate "amusement" so much as "flustered hysteria".

"I don't know," he blurts out, and it's the most honest thing he's said all day. "Fucking, God, I'm not-- This isn't what it looks like, okay, you just-- you keep looking at me like that, and I don't know what your fucking game is, man!"

He can't look at Benrey, not right now, not when he knows Benrey's looking at him like that, and so he looks down and oh, no, that's a bad idea. Because Benrey's still drawing tight little circles into his skin, unnervingly gentle. And so Gordon's eyes keep darting around, finding nowhere suitable to land.

At least Benrey's taking the bait. He's not doing that weird sappy shit anymore, and Gordon's in more familiar territory: the push and pull. The teasing. So he pulls harder, in hopes that Benrey will knock it off for good.

"If anybody's 'enjoying this', it's you, buddy! I'm just a, uh, innocent bystander, you know?"

> He doesn't sound convincing. There's fractures in his voice, and his words are stumbling like they fell down the stairs. He's looking everywhere but at Benrey, his face red and his eyes nervously darting from thing to thing to thing. But, in the end, they always come back to him, in one way or another.

> It's tells like this that let Benrey know that he's playing. The Game is afoot, he's been given the go-ahead. It's time to take the ball and run.

> "Uh-huh. Sure. Innocent. Lessee what you're hidin', bro."

> And with that, Benrey removes his finger from Gordon's stomach, instead parting his fingers into a V-shape and hooking Gordon underneath his arms. It's like a claw in a skill crane and, with a snort, he lifts Gordon out of the water. Naked, wet, and standing at attention from the looks of it; his human apparently had been playing along a lot longer than Benrey knew. He watches Gordon dangling a few feet from the pool at the end of his hand and smirks.

> But there's something different now, isn't there? Something Benrey sees in his human that makes that weird feeling he's been fighting twirl and twist. He's barely even noticing Gordon's boner more than he's looking at the way his hair is clinging to his face, and the way his eyes are flicking up at him expectantly, and how warm and small and cute he looks. He looks delicate and handsome and he wants to touch him, but he wants to touch all of him, and his heart is thumping so hard he starts to worry because... fuck. Is he dying? Is Gordon killing him just by being cute?

> Benrey swallows hard. He hopes his expression didn't falter. He broadens his grin in case it did, until the muscles in his cheeks honestly hurt. And he inhales deeply and forces a mocking laugh and squeezes his fingers around Gordon gently in an attempt to further mock him.

> "I 'unno, bro. Looks like you're, uh... you're carrying without a permit. That's... uh, an infract... fracta... infection. You're a bad boy, aren't'cha?"

Gordon yelps as those fingers hook under his arms and drag him out of the water. Oh, God, his legs are kicking out from underneath him, and his hands scrabble at Benrey's, and Benrey's just smirking at him all up close and personal and he's fucked, he's really, really fucked. His fucking dick bobs in the air like-- like-- he doesn't know, he doesn't have a simile for this! Gordon's never been in this situation before! But bob it does, until he comes to a stop right in front of Benrey's face.

"It's infraction, dude!" Gordon snaps, his mind jumping to the least important thing Benrey said. "Fucking 'infraction'! And I don't-- I don't know what you expect when you're all, fucking--"

He's cut off by a gasp when Benrey squeezes him, just a little. Makes Gordon keenly aware of those big fingers. He can just... he can do whatever he fucking wants, huh? Pick Gordon up like it's nothing? Wrap those fingers around him, so big and hot and rough against his skin, and move all his limbs around just like he was doing earlier and--

And--

Gordon blinks, coming back to himself. Face hot. Mouth dry. And Benrey's grin looks impossibly wider.

"You know," he finishes weakly.

> "Maybe I do," Benrey responds, jostling Gordon lightly. "Maybe I don't. Maybe you should tell me, bro. When I'm all fuckin' what?"

> He lifts Gordon higher, and closer. Really gets a good look at him, leaning in and running his tongue along his jagged teeth. Like a predator, like something that wants to swallow Gordon whole, though that's the last thing on his mind. He wants to taste Gordon, that's for sure, but there's... there's more to it.

> He wants to reel him in. Follow this weird feeling. Press his lips against Gordon and--

> Benrey inhales sharply through his nose. Gordon smells positively delicious. Like something fruity and sweet and earthly. And he looks delicious, too, all soft and supple and soaked to the bone, smooth skin glistening in the alien lights.

> His dick twitches, straining against his pants. He's so hard it hurts. He wonders if Gordon can see, but can't imagine he can miss it.

> "C'mon," he teases, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Tell me what I am, bro. Tell best friend Benrey what's on your mind. Bonding experience. Bros being bros."

He wrenches his eyes shut, breath coming harder and faster despite his efforts to control it. When Benrey fucking talks like that, he can't help it, okay? All-- all smug and condescending and all the shit that should get under his skin-- and does, yeah, it drives him up the wall, but. But. There must be something wrong with him, Gordon thinks desperately. Something warped in the fabric of his mind that makes a shiver race down his spine.

Then he feels warm breath puffing against his face, and he opens his eyes again. Just in time to see a broad tongue run across sharp, sharp teeth. A naked suggestion. Gordon's mouth falls open a little and hangs there, stunned speechless.

Until Benrey mutters, c'mooon, voice low and heated in a way that goes straight to Gordon's belly. And his dick twitches in the open air, fully visible this time. Fuck.

"You're," he starts, staring at his own fingertips, where they're digging into Benrey's hand.

God, this is humiliating! And he should, he should tell Benrey to fuck off and put him down, but he doesn't. That same warp in his fabric goes all the way down to his autonomic nervous system. Heart racing, blood pumping, pupils dilating and sweat beading and every other unconscious reaction he can't wrangle into submission.

Because he wants to be wrangled into submission.

Okay, Christ! He gets it! He doesn't need the color commentary from his own fucking brain!

Gordon takes a deep breath to steel himself, and then he starts again, choked and hesitant, "When you're... God, fucking, touching me and breathing on me and shit, man! Like you'd be doing any better if you had somebody's big fucking hands all over you! Okay?"

As soon as the words leave him, a fresh wave of embarrassment crests and crashes over him. Stupid, stupid, he shouldn't have said it.

> Oh. Well. That was new. Usually, there's a bit more arguing, a bit more resistance, a bit more of Benrey getting called things like "weirdo" and "freak" before they have a good "haha" about it and touch dicks. But Gordon is being so earnest and honest and talking about how he's touching him, about big hands, about doing this same thing to Benrey (sort of talking about it, anyway), and...

> ... And Benrey feels... wanted? Was that the word? Wanted?

> Yeah. He feels wanted.

> And that foreign, alien, hot-cold emotion twisting inside of him balloons and explodes, and there is a sudden, pulse-pounding sensation of want and warmth that courses through his body like a poison. He can feel drool pooling under his tongue and he swallows hard, his smile fading into something more earnest as he tries to maintain a mocking, bullying stare. Tries to keep his head in the game.

> Their game.

> "Oh. You, uh. You like it when I breathe on you? Fuckin'... secret alien power. Uh, blow dryer." He pauses and chuckles. "Heh. Blow."

> He inches Gordon closer to his face, and the closer he brings him, the more he can feel the little bit of warmth radiating off of him. Welcoming him. Blazing hot, like he is on the inside, and flushed so red he looked burned. And that warm, weird, unwelcome emotion surges again as he lets out a sigh and sits Gordon in his palm, plopping him down unceremoniously like a captured bug.

> Only he's not watching him with a childlike curiosity. He's really examining him, trying to wiggle the wrench out of the gears in his brain. With some effort, he pops it loose, and the words pour out of his mouth without any restraint.

> "Bet'cha you'd like it if I, uh... dried you off. Gentle breeze. Pick a scent. Have eight exciting flavors. Blue. Watermelon. Other blue. Tropical, uh, kiss."

> Even he isn't sure why he stressed that last word. The weird emotion spoke for him.

> His mouth snaps shut.

> Awkward.

Whatever Gordon was expecting, it wasn't "being dropped buck-naked onto Benrey's palm". His legs splay out in front of him, and he instinctively tries to draw his knees up. Doesn't change the fact that he's got his boner out in front of God and everybody.

"Was that supposed to be a joke?" Despite himself, he bursts out laughing. He does his best to choke it back down. "You really, uh, gotta work on your dirty talk, man."

Gordon doesn't manage to catch himself before he all but admits that, yeah, that was dirty talk. This is a situation where Benrey should be trying to talk dirty to him. It's breaking the rules a little. Breaking kayfabe. But it's hard to resist bringing it up when Benrey's trying to get him hot by talking about blowing on him like a spoonful of soup.

Then he actually thinks about what Benrey said. Tropical kiss. That's not-- that's not anything. That's not real. Benrey's just talking about kissing him, in whatever weird fucking roundabout way he usually does. A small part of him softens. It's... almost cute. If he were inclined to ever describe Benrey that way. Which he isn't.

But Gordon plays along anyway. "What are you talking about? Scents? Dude, I smelled your breath earlier, and lemme tell you, it wasn't any kind of fucking tropical kiss."

> "Uh, no. S'one of the other flavors," Benrey responds indignantly, façade breaking for a moment. "That flavor was, uh... Glade Plug-in."

> As he speaks, he reels Gordon in closer, sitting in his palm and still sopping wet. He looks so small, so delicate, so... cute, and the thought makes his heart flutter again. It grabs his tongue and twists it into an awkward knot that takes a moment to untie. He works fast, hoping to save face. Get back in the game.

> But it's hard. Harder than before, and as Gordon stares at him expectantly, he's suddenly floundering. While he is externally stiff, flat, and monotonous, on the inside he is scrambling to pick up his scattered index cards during a speech. He wants to play, but he wants to taste. He wants to stroke Gordon's head as much as his dick and he doesn't know why. He wants to say something naughty and nice all at the same time and...

> "Lemme, uh. Demo. Demon-stray-shun," Benrey says, interrupting his own thoughts. "Tropical kiss. Free sample. Here we go."

> And with that, he brings Gordon to his mouth. He presses the smaller man into his lips, a small and chaste kiss being planted in the first place he can reach: Gordon's throat. Only it's... not just his throat. It's basically his whole shoulder, and throat, and beneath his jaw. He practically envelops him, could literally swallow him if he wanted to, but pulls away and snorts a laugh as though this spontaneous act was premeditated as a joke.

> He sounds unconvincing.

> Even more so when he chuckles, "See? Coconut. Sea breeze. Lime. Seagulls. All the classic smells."

Lips press against Gordon's skin before he's fully prepared for it, and he lets out a surprised little sound. Jaw and throat alike find themselves enveloped, a heat and softness and moisture the likes of which he's never felt quite like this. And then it's over. Gordon's still left dizzily processing this as Benrey draws back.

"Did you just kiss me?" Gordon asks, stupidly. He touches a hand to his jaw, where there's a hint of moisture lingering.

The longer Gordon thinks about it, the more disoriented he becomes. Benrey's never kissed him like that before. All, fucking, sweet and tender. Those aren't words in his vocab. Like, yeah, sure, they've kissed before, but only in frantic, snarling bursts. This is strange and new.

But... at the same time... that's not all it is, is it. At this scale, chasteness is impossible. Gordon's so small in his hand, wet and splayed like some kind of foal, and those hands could wrap around every inch of him at once just to touch him. Lips, kissing wide swathes of skin. Hot breaths of air forced through Benrey's nose and spurring the hairs on the back of Gordon's neck to stand up. The unpleasant realization that Benrey is very, very big, and could probably just swallow Gordon whole if he so chose. You know. Normal things to worry about.

But he doesn't. He just lets Gordon go with a kiss. And Gordon flushes up to his ears, still a little dumbstruck.

> That was... new. That wasn't like the lust-fueled, rushed kisses he'd given Gordon while trying to get fingers around his cock, but it wasn't bad. It was something that scratched an itch he didn't know he had, something that made his lips tingle, something that milked an incredibly good feeling out of that foreign emotion swirling inside of him. It's intoxicating in a way human substances never could quite pull off, and Benrey feels an addiction already forming.

> It takes him a moment to realize that Gordon has spoken. It's just a tiny sound to his colossal ears, one he nearly misses from the full-body throb of lust and affection. It's not just his dick anymore. His heart is thundering against every bone, every inch of skin, and he feels almost overwhelmed. Again, like he's dying. This is new, it's intense.

> He wets his lips and furrows his brow, and with a surprising amount of clarity, rattles, "Yeah... uh. I guess I did, huh?"

> His tongue continues to run over his lips. His teeth. His eyes dart to Gordon. He's struggling to play the game properly, but there's a sudden bout of nerves involved. He can't help but wonder if this is how Gordon feels all the time, and the realization clonks him like a clawhammer.

> If this is how Gordon feels all the time, then no wonder he's always such a mess. It's latching onto his jaw and holding it shut like an invisible muzzle, it's pumping him full of drugs that don't exist, it's making him feel small despite being absolutely batshit levels of huge. And, it feels like he's learning... god, what had Alyx called it? Empathy? He's not sure how much he likes it, but it mingles well with the now-welcome warmth following the kiss in a way that feels positively, cathartically self-destructive.

> Benrey coughs. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't tease. He looks to Gordon with an intensity even he's surprised he can pull off.

> "You, uh. Like it? Wan' another one? I got, uh, plenty. Warehouses full. Best Friend Special. BOGO."

Gordon watches Benrey's tongue slide over his teeth like it's in slow motion, a reminder of what lies just underneath the surface. And he freezes under the intensity of Benrey's stare, anticipatory sweat beading on his forehead.

"What, you mean you want to..." He trails off with a nervous laugh. "C'mon, man, put me down! I know you get a kick out of, fucking, making fun of me or whatever, but I don't know what you're getting out of this!"

> Unfortunately, Benrey knows exactly what he was getting out of this. A feeling, strong and tingly that's now full of a primal need that he understands quite a bit better. And, beyond that, he was getting permission. Full permission in every movement Gordon made, every lilt of his voice, every glance up at him that was filled with a hunger that his human never got quite got the hang of voicing. It's a look that Benrey knows good and well, though, from the other time they've played their little games.

> He says nothing. He just smiles, moves Gordon to his mouth again, and pushes his lips gently against his collar bone, though it stretches down to his chest. He can feel Gordon's nipple brush against the corner of his lip, hair brushing against his mouth, the taste of the strange, glittering water and skin as he parts his lips and rumbles a laugh into Gordon.

> He pulls away. He maneuvers his human. He presses his mouth against him again, brushing his stomach with a feather-light kiss that nearly encompasses his dick. He can feel it pressing against him, feel it twitch as he pokes a tongue out between his teeth and presses the very tip into his soft flesh.

> His eyes angle up to Gordon's in a silent bid for a sign. The lick intensifies, nimbly avoiding the cock poking at the very corner of his mouth.

> He continues to say nothing. He has a feeling he doesn't have to. Gordon isn't the only one who can get away with communicating silent intent in their back-and-forth.

Of course Benrey's not gonna answer him. Of course Benrey's just gonna grin at him - like an asshole - and kiss him again, lips soft against his chest. Right over his heart. It's cartoonish, is what it is. And, unfortunately, it's also more ticklish than Gordon expects, and he snorts aloud.

"What are you doing? You're being weird, dude."

When Benrey laughs back at him, his huffed breath ruffles Gordon's body hair, and it just makes that whole "sensitivity" problem worse. Gordon tries to choke down a giggle and fails. Despite himself, it's... it's nice. He almost feels light-headed.

And then Benrey's doing it again, a soft kiss against his middle, shifting him bodily into position, and Gordon laughs again, shoving at his face. Playful. Roughhousing. Their usual.

And again. "That-- That tickles, man, c'mon!"

And again, hot against his belly. Mouth parted. Benrey's chin grazes his dick, which he'd all but forgotten about in his reflexive urge to kick Benrey away. A peal of laughter bleeds into a gasp. All the worse when Gordon feels the wet-hot tip of a tongue push into his skin.

Oh God. It feels just like he thought it would. In that dream, that fucking dream, the one he can't get out of his mind. The one that's made Gordon look twice every time Benrey grins at him, teeth sharp and glossy. He freezes, afraid even to breathe too heavily and press himself all the more against Benrey's tongue.

"What are you doing," he asks again, this time less of a playful rebuff and more of a high squeak. Then it's hotter, wetter, more of the broad side of Benrey's tongue flattening against him, and his dick twitches, hard.

Fuck.

> Alyx would be disappointed, Benrey thinks. He was doing so good and playing so nice, and now he's licking a hot, wet stripe across Gordon's belly, feeling the hairs and skin against his tongue, teeth barely grazing against sensitive flesh. But, he knows things she doesn't and will never know, about the game and the language that he and Gordon have built. He squeaks in defiance, but with a tone that shows only polite refusal: Oh, I couldn't possibly, but if you insist.

> Gordon isn't pressing against his face. He isn't pushing him away. He isn't snarling and cursing, and he hasn't made any move to extricate himself. He's parting his legs invitingly, his voice is getting higher in want and anticipation, and his dick is so hard. As hard as Benrey's, to be honest, and twitching almost as if its beckoning.

> "What'm I doing?" Benrey purrs, and he can see Gordon's body tremble at the way it rumbles through him. "M'helpin'. S'what best friends do."

> With that, his jaw opens wide, his tongue slithering out and the tip dipping lower. Low enough to catch his cock, his legs, the entire bottom of his stomach. It presses hard against Gordon and then creeps upward before coiling up politely behind Benrey's jagged smile. Drool pools at the corner of his lips and he swipes it away with his spare hand.

> He opens his mouth and dives back in again, the faintest hint of flesh and salt and soap and glittering, sweet Xen water dancing across his tongue. It fills him with another burst of primal want, though it's watching the flush on Gordon grow deeper that satiates that other, newer beast nesting inside of him.

Hot, wet, sinuous, pressing against his belly like a snake, making him gasp and jerk instinctively - Gordon's head spins on contact. And Benrey's eyes keep flicking up to meet his, like he's gauging Gordon's reaction. Looking for the go-ahead. Like-- Like they haven't been playing this fucking game for hours, glorified foreplay, you know, like he hadn't let Benrey practically feel him up behind the bleachers while he was (is) stripped down to nothing.

When Gordon's legs jerk open, though, he doesn't snap them closed again. He lets them fall open, leaving room for Benrey's face. If he wanted. To put his face anywhere around there. It's embarrassing as soon as the thought hits his conscious mind, and Gordon burns a bright red down to his shoulders.

"I-I don't know if this is what every 'best friend' is supposed to d-- oh-- oh God, Benrey--"

His voice pitches up, raw and hoarse, as Benrey's tongue flattens itself against his thighs and dick. No more games. Just what this was always building up to, this whole time, if Gordon had just paid a little more attention, pushed his glasses back up on his nose and seen the hunger in Benrey's eyes. And the full knowledge of it cracks over his skull like an egg.

His chest heaves desperately to catch his breath, but it's so much, he can't--

He can't--

Benrey's going back for more, licking him in slow, deliberate strokes and chuffing like a big cat against him, and Gordon can't fucking think. His hands clench at Benrey's, then, finding that inadequate, at his own face. His hair.

"Benrey," he chokes out again. "You're gonna-- oh-- you just gave me a bath and you're gonna get me all fuckin' nasty again, man!"

It comes out as a whine that belies just how fucking stupid he sounds.

> "I'll, uh, just bathe you again. No biggie."

> Benrey's voice is low, dismissive. There is a dark and teasing chuckle hidden just under the surface, as much of a predator as the rest of him. Waiting for a moment to strike, to snag his prey and drag it beneath the surface. But not now, not now.

> Benrey likes to play with his food.

> His alien tongue is strangely dexterous, encircling Gordon's thighs and tracing wet lines into the crease where they met his body. Faint trails of Sweet Voice-tainted saliva leave visible marks of where he's been, allowing Gordon to ogle at exactly when Benrey is doing to him even after he's moved on. Even after he's moved from one leg to the other, to his belly, to his cock.

> His own aches as he flattens his tongue against his dick and licks upwards, like an animal lapping water. His tongue curls delicately and folds back into his mouth, scraping against pointed teeth before emerging again. Hungry, tasting, teasing and growing faster, more deliberate. The taste of Gordon swirl in his mouth and he feels a heat building in his belly so hot and dangerous that it almost makes him feel ill.

> And it intensifies with every squeak Gordon makes, every pant that falls out of his mouth. It drives him onward, a leopard on the prowl, gradually cornering its next meal. His own breath is becoming ragged, his mind a messy whorl of emotions and thoughts that make time seem as though it hardly matters. He's long forgotten how long he's been teasing, eyes nearly crossed to focus on Gordon. Benrey has long been lost in the sounds he makes, the way he writhes.

> It's almost like divine inspiration when it strikes him that he should maybe push him a bit harder.

> Delicately, and uncharacteristically slow, he rolls his tongue back into his mouth. He parts his lips and fits them around Gordon's length. He can't suck, not at this size, but he hums in satisfaction, the vibrations pulsing straight from him and into his human.

> If he wasn't so afraid of doing damage, he'd have smiled.

"We don't have time to--" Gordon breaks off in a moan, that compulsive need to worry stopped in its tracks by Benrey's tongue.

He shivers from his neck down to his toes when it worms around his thighs, digging into those sensitive creases in his skin. Something like a laugh bubbles out of him, but it's also something like a whimper, with a hint of a plea.

"You can't," he gasps, fighting for breath, "you can't do this to me, man, you don't even-- ah! Fuck! Don't even know!"

Gordon turns his face to the side and buries a noise into Benrey's hand. Makes it easier to cope when Benrey licks up to his chest and swirls his tongue, his own breath loud and hot around it. Tasting everywhere he can get to.  Benrey just keeps going, salivating and groaning for the sheer thrill of it, and it makes heat pulse off Gordon's skin in waves.

Faster, harder, enveloping him in ways he had only dreamed possible, something only he can do - Benrey - just for him, he doesn't do this shit with anyone else, how could he. Gordon squirms and gasps in his grip, legs straining to arch into that wet heat.

Agony creeps into his voice, low and haggard. "Benrey," he whines, "how are you so fucking... good at this, why are you even--"

He doesn't get to finish that thought before Benrey's lips wrap around him, and he hums, smug as a cat that's gotten the cream, and Gordon cries out so hard that some winged thing bursts out from a nearby outcropping. How is-- Why is he-- what does he even get out of this, he thinks wildly, brain desperately clinging to neuroticism even in the face of sexual obliteration.

> Every time Gordon shifts his weight, whines, looks away, says a word, Benrey feels that warm, weird emotion surge through him in a way that defies explanation. A feeling he thinks he can now identify, but is hesitant to verbalize, lest he somehow break the rules. But, it's so much stronger than before, especially after everything they'd been through, especially with the way Gordon is finally saying what he really means. Instead of snapping that he's being weird, he's whimpering praise and the words hang crookedly in his head like paintings in a forgotten room.

> "Benrey, how are you so fucking... good at this?"

> The boner he'd been ignoring for what seemed like millennia is now aching, and he pushes his hips against the side of the island and grinds upwards in hopes of finding something resembling relief. Unsurprisingly, what he finds is a crotch full of rocks, and he winces even as he continues to lavish Gordon with attention, breath hot out of his nose as he continues to hum and mouth at his dick. As he unfurls his tongue once more and presses it against his entire body and pushes Gordon against the palm of his hand, something akin to a wet hug. As the tip once again finds Gordon's cock and greedily laps at it, mesmerized by how prominent it is compared to the rest of his soft body.

> There is no give. Just hardness, sinking into the sensitive muscle.

> As he continues on--gently sucking on entire hands, tracing circles into the wet skin of his stomach, tasting the inside of his thighs while grazing his junk with the side of his tongue--he grunts. He feels his hips rocking just out of Gordon's sight. He clenches his free hand when its not in use pulling Gordon's legs apart for easier access or fiddling with his arm to get access to his fingers.

> It's instinctual, and impossible to ignore. He aches, and he knows Gordon can see he's losing himself to this as much as his prey.

> He waits to see if Gordon will have anything to say about it.

Gordon grabs desperately at Benrey's face, a nasal noise forced out of him on every exhale. It's more than a blowjob, it's, it's Benrey humming through his entire fucking body, okay? He can feel it down to his bones, and the inside of Benrey's mouth is achingly warm and so, so wet, and Benrey just keeps mouthing at him, tongue unfurling behind his teeth to lap up Gordon's length in a hot stripe.

It's... it's good. It's so good. Gordon closes his eyes tight and moans aloud.

Benrey moans, too, as his lips part from Gordon's dick to envelop his fingers instead. He pants through his nose and shuffles awkwardly, and the uncomfortable motion gets Gordon to open his eyes again. And he really looks, this time.

Oh.

He's hard.

Benrey's hard, and he's rocking his hips forward into the barren earth. And he's got his hands on Gordon instead of himself. Thumbing his chest and spreading him open. The burden of that knowledge makes Gordon pant like a dog.

"Oh my God," he warbles, voice cracking as Benrey draws patterns into his stomach with his tongue, "are you-- are you not gonna--"

Gordon slaps his hands over his mouth, suddenly regretting his words. No, he's not going to ask if Benrey's gonna touch his own dick, Jesus Christ. That's none of his business. What does he even care, anyway. It's not like he wants to see it. Not like he's curious about how big it would look once Benrey whipped it out. Gordon's aware of the general, you know, size and girth, proportionally, but it looks so much bigger down there, even in the confines of his work pants. It's not really fair.

And then Benrey grunts against him and flicks the tip of his tongue against his dick even faster, and Gordon can't stop the agonized whine that forces its way out of him.

> Benrey's tongue rolls up Gordon's body yet again, and again, and again. It envelops his dick, his thighs, his stomach, and everything in between. He watches, he waits, and eventually he hears Gordon's voice small and broken from his palm. It is enough to make him recoil, to open the floodgates in his mind. That warm feeling floods the inside of his skull and drowns out every thought out but lust, who is gasping for air defiantly.

> "Huh?"

> Benrey pauses, looking down at Gordon--soaked and slimy and oh-so-small--laying with his legs parted, his face flushed, his eyes locked on the very prominent erection straining against his pants. His own trail down to it and he smirks as the weight of Gordon's almost-question hits him.

> "Oh... huh? Wha? Touch myself? Is, uh, is that what you were gonna say?"

> He leans down over Gordon, tongue sticking out between sharp teeth but frustratingly distant from his body. The hand he'd once used to manhandle his human pulled away, fingers slipping into his waistband behind his belt. He sneers, but there is no actual malice behind it. Feigned mockery, just to make Gordon grow brighter. Redder.

> "You... seem to like the idea. You, uh. You... you wanna see? That what you want? Wanna see best friend Benrey's massive hog? Wanna... wanna touch it?"

> A pause, a laugh.

> "Want me to touch it? Seems you like the idea. I can do it. Just, uh, gotta say so."

Gordon mumbles a quiet plea into his hands, begging for some higher power to-- to do something. He doesn't know what. All he knows is that Benrey's sticking his tongue between his teeth, now, looking at him as if he's some problem to be solved or some piece of furniture to wrangle into place. Instead of keeping that tongue right where he had it. Gordon squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath through his nose. He's not disappointed, actually. That would involve caring about what Benrey was doing at all. Which he doesn't.

"You can... you can do whatever you want, man. It's your life," he says, not meeting Benrey's eyes.

Not like he wants to... oh, God. That's Benrey's hand in his pants, isn't it? Slipping under the waistband before Gordon��s even finished his sentence. A sound escapes him that he really wishes wouldn't. He’s really into this, huh, Gordon thinks distantly, just as surprised by the realization as he has been all the previous times he’s figured out that, yes, Benrey actually is pretty hot for him. Like he’s still waiting for the Band-Aid to be ripped off, even now. Even after Benrey’s sucked his dick in a fucking dumpster. (You take what you can get.)

And-- And there it is, huh. Larger than life. Gordon swallows, a little intimidated. Then he wants to curse himself out for feeling intimidated by Benrey’s dick. Freud would have a field day with him.

[imaginejamesandsirius]

hello! can you write prongsfoot one where James is injured. Maybe after one of Snape's special hexes. Or maybe a potion which has bad influence on James and it takes a while to recognize it. He frays out day by day (hope i used the right word lol) and finally Sirius is the one who recognizes it more than anyone. so thanks in advance

If you don't that's cool too. and i hope you have a good day

"Are you okay?" Sirius asked, looking concerned. He didn't do that very often. He worried about James pretty damn often-- James knew that for a fact-- but he usually didn't show it. He nudged and teased, and he stared quite a bit, but that could be because they were dating, and not because he was worried. It was pretty even odds, he thought. Right now, Sirius looked out and out concerned for him, and that wasn't normal. It wasn't how they operated.

Even though James felt fine, Sirius looking at him like that made him feel as if there was something wrong with him. "I'm fine," he said, because he was.

"Are you sure?"

"Do I have a reason not to be?"

"You've seemed really tired, lately."

"Everyone's tired; it's last minute studying for NEWT's."

Sirius hesitated. Another uncharacteristic thing.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm worried about you," he said. Just like that, he said it. He didn't hide it behind false confidence or pretend that he was thinking about something else. "You've been off lately, and it's like you don't even know that something's going on with you."

"If you already think that something's wrong with me, then why'd you bother asking?"

"I was hoping you'd talk to me, but now I'm not convinced you noticed. I mean, really, studying? We're barely studying, and you're more exhausted than Moony the day after a full moon."

"That's not true," he replied, frowning. "We spend all our time outside of class getting ready."

"No, we spend all of our time thinking that we should be studying, but we end up fooling around and only working for like an hour."

James's frown deepened. What Sirius said was true, so why was he so tired? He knew that everyone was worried about exams, so he'd assumed that that's why he felt this way. But Sirius was right, and they weren't spending near as much time on that as everyone else was. "I dunno. Maybe I'm feeling stressed about it anyways. You know, Wormtail was talking about people can be effected by stress without realising it? That's gotta be what this is."

"Since when do you feel stressed?"

"It happens," James said defensively.

"When?"

"Sixth year comes to mind, a month before winter hols."

Sirius didn't flinch because he didn't do obvious tells like that, but he withdrew.

James chewed on the inside of his cheek, feeling guilty. It was a low blow to bring that up, and he knew it. Unfortunately, it was the only example he could think of for a time when he was stressed, because Sirius was right: he didn't get stressed. That time had been unique, a single spike in an otherwise straight line.

"Nothing like that has happened recently. But fine, you want to wear yourself out because you don't trust me, then that's your business," he said, turning his attention back to his textbook.

"Sirius," James said, pleading.

Sirius didn't so much as twitch an eyelid. He was a lot better at this ignoring thing than James had ever been.

"You know I trust you, but I don't think there's anything wrong. There's nothing for me to be stressing over, so maybe I'm just tired. Nothing else going on."

"People don't get tired for no reason," Sirius said in his usual bored tone. His usual for other people, not James.

But James deserved it, so he wasn't going to get mad about it. Also because it took a hell of a lot to get him mad at Sirius. This didn't even come close to doing it, a fact Sirius was well aware of. "You got tired last year."

"Yeah, and that wasn't for no reason."

"You told me it was for no reason."

"I did not."

"Yes, you did. I'd remember if you told me that something was wrong."

"It was implied."

"You can't imply things to me. We've been over this. You have to say it flat out to my face, in as many words, or I'm not going to get it."

"At the time, I didn't want you to get it. Don't worry, I moved past it by the time we started snogging."

"Dating," James corrected.

"Whatever," he said flippantly, but it was the sort of flippant he usually was, so James figured that they were fine.

*

He'd thought that would be the end of it. After all, Sirius hadn't said anything more about it that day. Evidently, Sirius was biding his time, because two days later, he brought it up again.

"Are you sure you're okay? You look a bit peaky."

"Wow thanks," James said flatly, but the truth was that he wasn't feeling great. Until Sirius had mentioned it initially, he hadn't noticed that anything was wrong. He'd felt tired, yes, but he hadn't noticed that it was every single day until it was brought to his attention. Once that happened though, he felt like he was getting worse. At first, he'd thought it was just a cold, but a cold had never hit him this hard.

Not to mention the nightmares. He hadn't connected them to his exhaustion before. It might seem obvious, but he didn't wake up in the middle of the night from them. Besides, they were less nightmares and more... odd dreams. They weren't frightening. They left him feeling uncomfortable, not necessarily scared. He didn't even remember them when he woke up. Honestly, if Sirius hadn't said that he noticed something was wrong, James wasn't sure he ever would have been aware of them. All the same, he didn't think they were related.

"I dunno. I think it's getting worse."

"What's getting worse?"

"Whatever's making me this tired. I barely got out of bed this morning."

"I noticed." Sirius looked at him, worry clear on his face. Evidently, he thought that if James was admitting something was wrong, it was horrible. Which was a little unfair, in his opinion. "I'll walk you to the Hospital Wing."

"I'm capable of walking there by myself."

"Please?" Sirius said, blinking over at him innocently.

He played so sodding dirty. He knew that James couldn't resist it when he did that.

"Fine, but you don't get to whinge if Madame Pomfrey tells you to leave without me."

"Request denied," he said, grabbing James's hand as they started to walk down the corridor. "I will most certainly whinge about it, and there's nothing you can do to stop me. Besides, maybe she'll just give you a Pepper-Up and then we can be on our way. Go for a quick fly about the pitch before we go to the library, yeah?"

"You're encouraging us going to the library?"

"Maybe I want to snog you in a dark corner," Sirius admitted with a grin.

"We could just snog in our room."

Sirius waved him off. "We always do that. We're graduating soon. Do you really want to look back on this time and realise that we didn't fool around in every possible place in this castle?"

"I don't think it would bother me as much as it bothers you," James teased.

Things continued in that vein as they walked. Teasing and shoving, then talking about what they'd do when they graduated. Most of the walk was spent arguing over what kind of couch they wanted in their flat. Sirius said they should have a yellow couch, James thought it should be red. They hadn't come to an agreement by the time they reached the Hospital Wing.

James explained his persistent exhaustion, and Madame Pomfrey said that it was probably nothing to worry about and blamed the same thing that he had: exams. All the same, she cast a diagnostic spell, "Just to be sure, dear."

Then she frowned.

And that was when James got worried. "What?"

"What is it? What's wrong?" Sirius asked. Since Madame Pomfrey thought it hadn't been anything, she'd let Sirius stay.

"It appears to be a curse, but it's not one that I've ever seen."

James's first thought was to blame Snape. Then he thought that might be unfair. After all, the two of them hadn't crossed wands in over a month; they both had better things to do with their time. Then he remembered that this had been going on for a while, long enough that Snape very well might be the cause.

"How long has this been effecting you?"

"I dunno," James said.

"Six weeks," Sirius answered.

James looked over at him, but he was still looking at Madame Pomfrey.

"You really should've come to me sooner," she said, bustling away to her potions cabinet.

"I was just a bit tired; I didn't think it meant anything," James protested. It's not like he was hopeless. He was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. If this had been a bigger problem, he would've noticed. It's not like he was bleeding from his eyes or summat; it was just a little sleep.

"Much longer of this, and you would've never woken up!"

He blinked at her, hand clenching around Sirius's reflexively.

"My word, you students throwing curses at each other without caring about the consequences! I swear," she said.

James thought it was probably for the best that he not correct her and say that they were thinking about the consequences, but they wouldn't be consequences she approved of them wanting. He kept it to himself, but he knew that Sirius was thinking along the same lines.

"Fortunately," Madame Pomfrey continued, "it seems fixable. Drink this." She pressed a white bottle into his hands. He'd never seen a potion in a white bottle, and he was suspicious to say the least. "Drink," she insisted.

James shot Sirius a look. "If this kills me, say something pleasant at my funeral, yeah?"

"Don't be so bloody dramatic," he said, which was rich, coming from him. "You'll be fine."

"Easy to say when you're not the one drinking a potion of questionable origin." Then, because he didn't want for Madame Pomfrey to glare at him or send Sirius out of the room, he drank it. It tasted like goat's milk. He hated it. "Am I fixed?" he asked her.

"I wouldn't count on it," she said. "That was to prevent it from getting worse. Come back and see me tomorrow after breakfast but before classes start. Curses aren't broken so easily by potions, a fact you should both be well aware of."

They were, but he'd been hopeful. Merlin, it's like she wanted to berate him for getting himself cursed. And, he wanted to add, this time hadn't even been his fault. He'd (mostly) behaved himself all this term, doing nothing to deserve this. Arguably, he deserved it as some sort of back payment for what he'd done over the years, but he'd rather thought that Snape was as tired of it as he was.

James promised to be back in the morning, and they left.

"I can't believe that tosser cursed you. Just wait until I get my hands on him. I'll-"

"You'll do absolutely nothing," James interrupted. "We're only in classes for two more weeks."

"It could've killed you!"

"Didn't, and then we'll never have to see him again. It's a pretty big country."

"Big country, small Wizarding World," Sirius argued. He was getting more upset the more time past, so James did what he usually did when he didn't know how to make him feel better: kissed him.

"I don't want revenge. Let's keep working on our final prank, our NEWT's, and enjoying the rest of our time at Hogwarts. That's all I want." He kissed him again for good measure.

"And getting into my pants doesn't factor into this at all?" Sirius asked, his mood already turning from bad to good.

"Hm? Me?" James said, feigning innocence. "I would never."

"Liar."

"Just be glad that I'm getting back to normal," James said with a grin. Already, he wasn't feeling as tired. He hadn't realised how much it was draining him until it started to alleviate.

"Yeah, you were so hard to deal with. Always lying around, not doing anything exccept looking at me adoringly. However did I survive?"

"It's a miracle, Padfoot, it really is."

[skrltwtch]

Silverware

Prompt: on a first date and A is a werewolf and doesn’t know the cutlery is silver (Source in master list)

Word count: 4,897 words

Genre: Fluff, romance, supernatural

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

I buried my nose in the bouquet of lilies and roses Jake had bought for me. It was the perfect emblem of summer with its warm, sunny hues and fresh, tangy scent — and the perfect segue to the next part of our date. The first part was a visit to the local farmers market, out of which we were now walking. Coming here had been his suggestion. It was something different from the usual first date stuff like coffee or a movie, and I liked it a lot, notwithstanding my initial reservations. I liked him a lot after what I’d seen of him at the market. I felt like the place helped bring out a certain spark between us. For one, there was constant talk about planning for date number two using what we’d seen and bought. If that wasn’t promising, I didn’t know what was!

‘Thank you, Jake. I love it,’ I said about the bouquet.

‘You’re most welcome,’ he said, a broad grin brightening up his face. ‘And thank you for the flavoured olive oil. Makes me kind of wish we didn’t have this dinner reservation …’ His grin turned sheepish in nature. ‘But that’s what’s making me look forward to our next date.’

See?

‘Do you want to call for a taxi or walk?’ he said.

‘What time’s our reservation?’

‘6:00 p.m. on the dot.’

My watch came alive with a flick of my wrist. ‘Let’s walk, then. I want to walk off all the cheese I sampled.’ I’d sampled a lot. In my defence, it was almost that time of the month — and that other time of the month. ‘Do you know the way?’

‘Google Maps can teach me.’

The route Google Maps recommended was scenic. London Bridge looked lovely at this time of day. Its appeal was heightened tenfold with Jake by my side. Could you believe we met on Tinder? It still felt unreal to me. Getting this match used up all my good luck for the year, and we were only at the halfway point. Well, if it meant burning the roof of my mouth most of the time I ate to be able to quit the dating scene for a reasonable amount of time (“once and for all” seemed a little ambitious, though that would be nice), who was I to whinge about the hand fate had dealt me?

The restaurant was located within the Four Seasons. We had been overdressed for the market. Now we were … dressed. I was flattered as fuck that he picked such a lavish place for dinner for a first date. I hadn’t the faintest clue what it was about my profile and our conversations that made him think of a high-end French restaurant helmed by a Michelin-starred chef in a five-star hotel. I did try to talk him out of it (gently). It wasn’t about the cost. Food was one of the things I was more than happy to splurge on. It was just … I never had anyone think this highly of me before, and I wondered if that’d change if … and when … he knew the truth about me.

The host led us into the main dining room and to our table. An amuse-bouche and warm bread came together with the menus. The prices were as expected of the type of establishment this was. Everything sounded good, though this was my first time coming across some of these words. Looking up what each one meant would add to the time something would take to reach our table, and my stomach would sooner eat itself out of desperation.

‘Please don’t hold back,’ said Jake, sensing my indecision. ‘The price is not an issue.’

I did have to hold back. The coincidental timing of this month’s full moon and crimson tide amplified every-fucking-thing I could possibly feel to a divinely hellish degree in the days leading up to them. As it was, I could easily polish off a five-course meal by myself. If Jake wanted this date to go in a less chaste direction after dinner, hell would freeze over before I’d even dream of talking him out of it, first date etiquette be damned. Was the fact that he was such a goddamn catch helping anything? Absolutely fucking not.

‘No, it’s not that. I can’t — I can’t decide what I want,’ I said. It was technically true. I was torn between the beef (never mind that it was £98) and veal … and both of them at once. ‘What are you having? Maybe I can get some inspiration from you.’

‘I was thinking the turbot … or the pigeon. Yeah, I can’t make up my mind either. I’m leaning toward the pigeon …? No, the turbot. Or the scallops …? Fuck. I need an adult.’

‘Let’s choose for each other.’

‘Promise not to hate each other’s choices — or each other?’

‘Pinky promise.’

We locked our pinkies together. I hoped touching him would never grow old.

Once our promise had been sanctified and we separated from each other, Jake signalled for the nearest available waitstaff. One came over almost instantly. The restaurant was bustling with activity, a far cry from however long it had been since we arrived. She took our order in a cordial fashion, not making a bigger deal of how we were ordering for each other than it should be. I chose the scallops for him; he chose the veal for me. I convinced him to start our evening with the langoustine; he sweet-talked me into ending it with the rhubarb. The waitstaff validated all our choices with a knowing smile.

‘I’ve been meaning to ask — and I hope I’m not stepping on your toes here,’ Jake started when our table was just the two of us again. ‘How did you get that scar on your arm?’

It was a matter of time. And bless him. I would never be offended by being asked about the memento of what’d changed my life forever. I would be offended by an adverse reaction to how exactly my life had been changed forever. I raised my arm, giving the scar in question its time in the limelight: brownish-pink, leathery circles arranged in the shape of a crescent, the ones at both ends abnormally large and ragged-looking.

‘My ex-boyfriend’s dog bit me,’ I said. More like my ex-boyfriend was the offending canine. ‘That’s not why he’s an ex, in case you were wondering.’ I’d wanted to be turned. He’d been more than happy to lend a helping set of fangs. Sadly, the idea of us being cute werewolves together was yet another one of those things that simply sounded nicer on paper. It wasn’t all sour between us. We’d sometimes meet for romps. It got lonely sometimes, and it wasn’t like there was an online forum for werewolves to socialise or whatever. I doubted he’d have known of one anyway: he was literally an American werewolf in London.

‘Did it hurt? It’s such a huge scar. Did anything happen to the dog afterward?’ He held up his hands. ‘Am I being nosy? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’

I smiled in the hope that it’d soothe his worries. ‘You’re not being nosy. It was … okay for what it was.’ Euphoric. ‘The dog’s fine. It wouldn’t be fair to punish it for an instinct thing.’ Yup.

‘That’s good to hear. I think it’s a bad-ass scar. And I didn’t think it’s why he’s an ex.’

‘Thank you. Most people did. Yeesh. Give me some credit.’

‘I’m not most people … I hope.’ He smirked. The apples of his cheeks turned pink.

He really wasn’t. And I wanted so badly to tell him the truth there and then to see if that’d still hold true in the face of a bombshell like that. I had yet to tell anyone about my lycanthropy: if movies, television shows, books, etc., were anything to go by, I’d assume most people would react with fear or disgust, or both. Chris had been thoroughly flabbergasted when I reacted the way I did to learning why he always turned down my suggestions to go stargazing on nights with full moons. I got what I wanted … eventually.

Maybe I should tell Jake sooner than later. Separate the wheat from the chaff. Then I wouldn’t have wasted my time having pined for someone who thought I was some kind of freak of nature.

That conversation — or rather, thinking about that conversation would have to wait, as our starter, bearing a strong resemblance to a flower arrangement with colours befitting the season, had arrived. Food was always the perfect diversion. So would the inevitable back-and-forth about who could have the third and last langoustine. Splitting it was not an option, for one piece was as big as my thumb. I loved the portion sizes of frou-frou fancy food. So much bang for one’s buck.

‘Bon appétit,’ said Jake. ‘That’s one of … four French phrases I know. The other three are “bonjour”, “omelette du fromage”, and — I can’t say the last one in a public place.’

‘Is it by any chance … “voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir”?’ I made no effort whatsoever to lower my volume — or maintain a straight face. Brazenness blazed through my cheeks.

He put a hand on his chest, feigning surprise. ‘Well!’ He tittered. ‘Since you asked ever so nicely, and in French … This is why your choices tonight have been shellfish, isn’t it?’

‘You got me.’

‘Looking at their portion sizes, I don’t think your plan’s going to work very well. Not that I’d need the help of — shut up, Jake.’

‘Keep going, Jake’ was what I’d have said and wanted if my stomach hadn’t started getting on my case for letting good food get cold. (‘Rubbery lobster? Gross!’) There was something hot about someone like Jake — a posh, proper Englishman, the polar opposite of Chris … okay, no, stop bringing him up, stop thinking about him, goddammit — talking openly, confidently, about his prowess. Such words … coming out of his mouth … in that accent … I quickly pressed my legs together to quell any desires. Which hunger of mine was responsible for this?

Wanting to satiate the one appetite I could at this very moment without earning myself prison time for my troubles, I said, ‘Bon appétit, Jake’, and picked up my fork … which promptly fell onto my plate with the fucking loudest clang. The smell of burning flesh tickled my nostrils — my burning flesh. My fingers were sizzling where the fork touched them. Sizzling! I prayed it was only my nose that could pick up this delectable aroma.

I stared at the cutlery. Trust a high-end French restaurant helmed by a Michelin-starred chef in a five-star hotel to use real silverware, not that cheap silver-plated shit. I prodded the fork handle — and withdrew my finger immediately. Not one of my finer moments. Please don’t tell me Jake saw it.

‘Is everything okay?’ said Jake.

Ah, fuck.

‘Yeah,’ I said, examining my palm. Good news: the burn hadn’t healed and wasn’t healing as quickly as my wounds and injuries (not that I had many of them) did after I was turned, so that was one less question to dodge. I didn’t want to keep lying to Jake. I didn’t like that I had been. How would I explain the absence of a second-degree burn that existed mere seconds ago anyway? Bad news: was this never going to heal because of what caused it? I had been so careful with silver since I was turned. How would I explain a perpetual second-degree burn? Would it out me as a werewolf to people who knew what to look for? Was now really the time for Twenty Questions?

Noticing Jake had been waiting on me to provide some kind of elucidation on my well-being, I said, ‘I guess I have a silver allergy. Can you believe it? Who’s allergic to silver?’

He didn’t need to say, ‘What kind of allergy burns someone?’ for me to hear it in my head.

‘Can you eat, then?’ he said.

I shook my head. As far as I was concerned, silver was lethal. No ifs, no buts, no maybes. If a perpetual second-degree burn was the worst thing to come out of fleeting contact with the metal, so be it. I’d consider myself a lucky lycan indeed.

‘Pardon me,’ Jake said to the waitstaff who’d come with our entrées, ‘would you have any disposable cutlery perhaps? My lady’ — he did not — ‘is allergic to the silverware.’

The waitstaff did an excellent job of not acting like this very dashing gentleman had just dropped the barmiest string of words on her during her entire employment in this line of work. Even I didn’t quite believe it myself. ‘I’ll see what we have, sir, ma’am,’ she said, cool as a cucumber. After she finished setting down our food, she collected all the silverware on my side of the table and left.

‘I don’t think whatever she comes back with would help with your veal. I could cut it up for you?’ said Jake.

Oh, my God. Getting burnt by silver must be the universe’s way of course-correcting the unusual jackpot I’d hit with him. Good Tinder matches were a myth!

‘No, it’s fine. Thank you. I’ll manage … somehow,’ I said. The wooden cutlery the waitstaff had returned with didn’t inspire confidence in me to not fling a piece of meat or a utensil at someone while cutting into my food.

‘We could swap dishes. I’d be fine with the veal. It was in my top five earlier.’

I suffocated a sigh. His scallops looked more like an appetiser than a main. But what choice did I have? I could either eat the veal like the animal that put me in this position or go through the restaurant’s entire supply of wooden cutlery with nothing to show for the effort in my belly and possibly injure someone in the process. Neither option would do any favours for my image in the eyes of the guy I liked and whose bones I’d like to jump at some point, enhanced animal lust or not.

So, I agreed. I tried to draw out the meal for as long as I could. Between the teeny serving and the unwieldiness of the wooden cutlery, I was having a miserable time. Dinner had become a silent affair, a far cry from everything prior to this point. Contrary to the vibe I was putting out, the food had nothing to do with my dour mood. For the first time since I was turned, I wasn’t happy about what I was. Could I never truly lead a normal life? Did I have to lie to every potential suitor and fret about whether they’d accept that other side of me on top of all the intricacies of dating?

There ought to be a dating app for verified supernatural creatures.

‘How’s the veal?’ I said. I had to speak up: I wasn’t being fair to Jake by acting like a sullen teenager over something he had zero control over, and the silence was deafening.

‘It’s — I might’ve done you a favour. How about my — your scallops?’

‘As good as three bites can get. I can’t tell if it tastes funny because of the wooden fork.’

‘This has been a disaster, hasn’t it?’ He flashed a wry smile. ‘Can I be honest? I have no idea what possessed me to pick a place like this for a first date.’

‘It’s a nice place. And it hasn’t been a disaster.’ If anything, I was the disaster. As always.

‘How was the market?’

‘The market was great. I had an amazing time.’

‘Thank God. I’ll take one out of two.’

I reached across the table and placed my hand on top of his. He made things extra saucy by interlocking his fingers with mine. ‘Jake, it’s fine. Today has been wonderful. I should be sorry for making things awkward with my … allergy.’ Nope, that still sounded silly.

‘What? No, don’t be. It’s not your fault.’

It … kind of was.

‘How about ice cream after this? My treat. I’m certain the rhubarb will be so very pretty and so very … nothing.’

He hit the nail on the head. The food we had would do wonders for my Instagram feed while having done nothing for my diet. I appreciated his offer, though I was afraid it would take more than ice cream to fill me up properly … Then again, that was a problem that rested solely in my dominion, not his, and it was one I intended to solve by trawling the likes of Deliveroo and Uber Eats in the comfort of my underthings at home — the one true way to enjoy food.

I asked for the bill the second dessert arrived. I wanted to leave here as soon as possible. I had quite enough of the wooden cutlery. I felt like a child using them. And like I told Jake earlier, I was on the fence about whether to attribute the food’s slightly off taste to them or my unrefined taste buds. Even the rhubarb wasn’t spared. Dessert was supposed to be my safe space, dammit!

I footed the bill in its entirety despite his objections. It helped that the waitstaff presented it to me because I’d been the one who asked, and that I was quick with my card. Sisters watching out for each other, everyone. The plan was then to go about the rest of the evening as if it had slipped my mind to ask him for his half or even bring it up in the first place. It was the least I could do for putting a wee damper on dinner with my … me-ness. He was going to treat me to ice cream anyway. There. We were even now.

The best-laid plans of mice and men often went awry: Jake snatched the bill folder and, taking out his phone, said, ‘Do you have Paym, Pingit, or PayPal? Why am I only noticing now that they all start with P?’

I admitted defeat: ‘Paym.’ It might be harder for him — or anyone — to believe I had none of those apps than that I was a werewolf. Did I want to put that to the test? No.

My phone buzzed with the confirmation that my plan had been a dud. ‘Thank you. Now let’s blow this popsicle stand and head to a real one.’

We left and worked on our next destination outside the restaurant. The staff had to want us out of there as much as we wanted ourselves out of there. The time of day meant we had limited options: ice cream parlours in London seemed to think people would lose the mood for sweet treats the moment the sky turned dark and the air cooled. Inanity. We had to return to where our date started for the one place that was open at this hour. It was just as well: I needed the walk this time to clear my head after what happened at dinner. It hadn’t seemed to dull the shine of his opinion of me, at least. He was as chipper as ever. Unless he was a good actor and paid up as soon as he did so he could ghost me after this and find himself a date that didn’t have some bogus allergy to silver …

Me? Over-thinking things? Never.

‘Do you want to do takeout or eat in?’ I said when we found ourselves less than fifty metres away from the parlour tasked with plying us with ice cream for tonight without a say in the matter.

‘Let’s do takeout and walk back to Borough Station. Full circle.’

The place was crowded: the most logical outcome for the only ice cream parlour open at this time near a tourist hotspot in the middle of summer. Customer turnover was quick, however, and we left with our orders within fifteen minutes. As tempting as their sundaes and waffles — towering, decadent creations of sugary indulgence — looked, we went back to the basics after our overly sophisticated dinner. Unlike before, what we wanted came to us in a snap: for myself, a speculoos gelato; for Jake, a gelato, too, but make it salted caramel.

And this time, we could help ourselves to each other’s food. With permission, of course.

‘A fraction of the price, but infinitely better,’ I said.

‘I hope the same can be said of our second date.’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Dinner at Chez Walker. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’

‘I do think so.’

‘It would have to be the weekend after next, though.’

‘Why? Got another date next Saturday?’ I had a firm enough grip on reality to recognise and accept that a guy like him had to be neck deep in matches.

‘No … next weekend’s the full moon. I thought you’d know.’

I stopped dead in my tracks. ‘Why would I?’ I buried my stammer under a bemused scoff. Like, why would anyone — any not-werewolf, which, as far as Jake was concerned, was what I was — care to know when the full moon was?

He, too, stopped walking and looked me dead in the eye. ‘Imogen, I know what you are.’

I wiped my palms on the front of my dress. They were suddenly so sweaty. So sweaty. Why were they so sweaty? Could he see that they were so sweaty? I tried to defuse the situation the best — and maybe only — way I knew how: ‘Are we quoting Twilight? I’ll have you know that I liked the book when I first read it in 2007. And I thought the movie wasn’t too bad either.’ This was true, and I wasn’t ashamed of it. Any female millennial who said they had felt nothing for Edward Cullen was a filthy liar.

‘I’m not ashamed either to say I read the book and watched the movie. But I’m serious.’

‘Okay … say it, then. Go on.’ Was that how the line went? I wasn’t going to look it up now. On a list of things that mattered in this moment, accurate movie quotes was nowhere near the top twenty.

‘You’re a werewolf. And I know how this sounds, so don’t humour me or —’ His tone had taken on a jittery lilt, uncharacteristic of someone who ought to be humoured, ridiculed (what his next word had to be), or — my worst-case scenario — feared.

‘How did you know?’

His mien changed in a manner that suggested that wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. Fuck it. Chris had trusted me enough to tell me the truth after a handful of dates, and he did it because he liked me a lot and he wanted to get it out of the way as soon as possible so that we could move on in some way. (Me asking him to turn me was the real curveball of that conversation.) The least I could do, really, was to extend that same courtesy to Jake. I liked him. I liked him a lot. If he had a problem with what I was, it was better that I found out now that he did than many months down the road. There was no element of compromise to my … condition.

‘You mean I’m —?’

‘Right? Not crazy?’ I showed him my palm. The burn had taken about an hour to reach the healing stage normal people would reach in a week or so. ‘Yeah.’

‘Damn …’ He cleared his throat. ‘How did I know? I was brought up on a steady diet of horror movies and read way too many young adult supernatural books in the day, more than I’d care to admit. That, and my ex-girlfriend’s second uncle was killed by a werewolf.’

‘Shit.’

‘I’m kidding — about the last part. The first two are true. My ex-girlfriend was a vampire, and one of her uncles — I can’t remember which one; it could’ve really been her second — was with a werewolf when we were together. Vampires and werewolves get along quite well, actually.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

‘How the tables have turned … I’m not.’ He went through his phone with his free hand and, upon finding what he’d been looking for, passed it to me. ‘Look.’

On the screen was a photo of him with his arm around a hazy figure in clothes that were otherwise in focus.

‘Drove me quite mad at first, thinking something was wrong with my phone. Then she went a little … overboard once, and the rest was history. She shared everything about her world — your world — with me. And I’m also in several online paranormal communities, so there’s that. It’s not all as hush-hush as one might think. It just takes an open mind.’

I returned his phone to him. ‘How did you figure me out?’

‘Your “allergy”. I had my suspicions about your scar. Your reaction to the silverware confirmed them. Allergies … don’t do this.’ He took my hand and stroked my palm. The sensation of his fingers on the raw skin was … electric. ‘I’m sorry I put you in an awkward position and you weren’t ready to tell me. What I said … just slipped out. I understand. It has to be fucking terrifying. It’s okay if you don’t want to see me again after this. But I want you to know that what you are doesn’t change a thing about how I feel about you. How you were turned is none of my business. The whole thing is, really. I did an arse thing. I’m an arse. First with the goddamn restaurant, now this. Way to fucking go, Walker,’ he said to himself quietly.

I flung my empty gelato container into the nearest bin, and then my arms around him. I helped throw away his for him, too. ‘You’re not an arse, Jake. This doesn’t change anything about how I feel about you, too. I like you a lot.’ His cheeks flushed deeply under the moonlight. ‘I was freaking out about this whole thing during dinner because I like you a lot. I am so relieved that we’ve gotten to lay our cards on the table.’ I fanned myself with my hand. Don’t cry, Imogen! ‘And because I don’t want there to be any more lies between us, it was my ex-boyfriend who turned me, and he did it because I wanted it.’

‘Oh. Yeah, it still doesn’t change a thing.’ His lips landed on my forehead in a peck. ‘Okay, I never imagined the topic of our exes would come up so often during our first date. Oh, well. Guess they had more of an impact on us than we’d like to think.’

‘Yeah’ — I chuckled, ‘let’s keep walking.’

I peeled myself off him. Our hands remained intertwined. Like dinner, the remaining walk — as short as it was — to the station was a quiet one. Unlike dinner, it was more so that we were simply basking, revelling, in the afterglow of our attraction to each other and each other’s presence. The world felt right again, just as it did at the farmers market.

The next time we spoke was on the train platform. ‘Thank you for the lovely time,’ I said, ‘and for being such a sweetheart.’ I waved my bouquet at him. It still looked pristine despite all the walking we did. ‘For everything.’

‘Thank you, too. I had an amazing time with you today. I can assure you that Chez Walker will serve larger portions than what we had earlier.’

‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘The weekend after next, then?’

‘Yes,’ I said, grinning. ‘I’d be down for any time before the weekend, too, if Chez Walker is open then.’

‘I’ll speak with the chef.’

He moved in for a goodbye kiss, which I seized wholeheartedly. His smell and the sound of his heartbeat flooded my senses. I could feel his heart beating against his chest under my touch, thumping, thumping away for every second our lips lingered on each other’s. I had to contain myself and keep things G-rated and light, as such kisses were wont to be, though my instincts were screaming, baying, at me to get to satisfying at least one craving tonight. I was the one to break off the kiss for fear of going too far.

‘Just in time,’ said Jake, his eyes doing that thing they did whenever he smiled. ‘My train’s here. I’ll see you next week?’

‘I thought you said you’ll speak with the chef about next week.’

‘I realised I don’t care what the chef thinks. He’ll be fine with it anyhow: he doesn’t have to bust out the good silverware.’

‘Goodbye, Jake.’

‘See you, Imogen. Message me when you get home?’

‘I will.’

We waved at each other, right before the train doors swallowed him up. My train came soon after, too. I spent the entire ride home wondering not what to fill the void that was my stomach with, but what fresh hell the universe had in store for me in return for scoring me a guy like Jake.

[chaoticowlpost]

yall, when I tell you that the forces of nature did not want me to post this, fr. First, it gets deleted when my laptop randomly restarted, and then I accidentally press “answer privately” when it wasn’t finished BHDJFS 

In light of those events, I sincerely apologize to @swagfictonreadingnerd not only losing your ask, but flooding your messages in panic jhbfsjbfjjsd it’s quite embarrassing, especially when I realized that there was a (not as updated) copy saved on wordcounter.net, but I hope you like it <3

--------------------------------------------------

“Stay with me?”

Draco only came up to the Gryffindor tower because he had lent Harry his notes, and the only reason he agreed to enter this time was because he said he’d probably have to wait a while, alone outside, since they were probably buried under piles of stuff in his dorm.

However, as Harry was handing him the notes when he reached the bottom of the staircase in the Gryffindor common room, he took hold of Draco’s hand, brushing his thumb over the webbed skin connecting his thumb and forefinger.

“In here?” Draco clarified, eyes scanning the room. Various students from different years were still milling about the common room despite the fact that lunch had just ended and it was a weekend.

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed with a small nod. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, tugging Draco closer to him before wrapping an arm around his waist. “It beats studying in those uncomfortably library chairs.”

He had a point, Draco conceded.

“Why can’t we do it in your room?” Draco asked, keenly aware of the attention they were drawing. It was no secret that they were together, but it seems that the novelty has yet to ware off on many of the students.

“Do you really want to hear Dean and Seamus going at it?” Harry asked with a small smirk, which only widened when Draco visibly shuddered.

“Is that why you didn’t take as long as I was expecting?” he asked, feeling both amused and disturbed.

“They forgot their silencing charm,” Harry shrugged, nodding.

“We could always go down to Slytherin,” Draco offered, somewhat hopefully. “It’s most likely empty in my room.”

Despite the fact that they were whispering, their words still felt loud to Draco, even though he couldn’t properly make out what they were saying. He was just able to catch their names every now and then.

“But we’re already here,” Harry practically whinged, his thumb brushing softly over Draco’s hip. “It won’t be so bad, I promise.”

Without waiting to hear his response, he began leading them towards one of the empty sofas that were surrounding the hearth, weaving through the wide-eyed students that were still staring at the pair.

Unceremoniously, he flopped down on the sofa, spreading himself into a more comfortable position. Harry looked at him expectantly, watching as Draco fiddled with the corner of his parchments awkwardly.

He gave him an amused smile before reaching out to grab him by the wrist before pulling him towards the sofa, making him stumble and trip, landing embarrassingly on top of him with a soft grunt.

“I hate you,” Draco grumbled, trying to move so that he wouldn’t be sprawled on top of his boyfriend.

“Just give me a second,” Harry laughed, his chest rumbling from beneath him. He began shifting around, guiding Draco and himself into a more comfortable position where he was on his side, against the backrest, while holding Draco in front of him.

Draco reached down for his abandoned bag and fished for one of the books he brought with him from their quick stop to the library. He used it to try and hide his face from those who were, undoubtedly, staring at them.

“I still say we should have gone to my room,” Draco said softly, eyes set on the text, but not quite processing what it says.

“Relax,” Harry whispered, slithering an arm around his waist and pulling him closer to his chest. “I’ll let you study in peace, if it helps.”

“It most certainly does not,” Draco responded haughtily, earning himself a laugh from Harry. It didn’t, because suddenly Harry’s fingers were playing with his hair, and that was all he could focus on after that.

He didn’t respond after that, except for a small hmph, and tried to force himself to digest the contents of his book. He wasn’t about to let his grades drop because Harry wanted to cuddle. In public, no less.

Except, maybe he’d consider, because Harry was peppering soft kisses behind his ear, slowly moving up towards the top of his head while his fingers continued twirling a lock of hair between them.

“Stop that,” Draco protested halfheartedly. It felt quite nice, actually, despite the heating of his face.

“Why?” Harry murmured into the base of his neck. Draco felt him grin against his sin before propping himself on his elbow to lean over and place a kiss on Draco’s cheek.

“You’re making people stare,” Draco hisses, not wanting to be heard. He was pretty sure he heard some 4th Years giggle, though.

“Then stop paying attention to them,” Harry hummed. “Let them stare. You’re my boyfriend, so they ought to get used to it.”

Boyfriend.

The fluttering of his heart whenever Harry called him that would likely never cease, and Harry knew that. Draco was pretty sure he took advantage of that fact as often as he could, because that’s the only possible explanation for why he was still sitting there on that sofa while people stared.

“It’s not proper, Potter,” he hissed, not wanting to be heard by the other occupants in the room. He was pretty sure he heard Harry snort softly.

“Fine, then,” Harry said. Draco felt his body shift from behind him, and he half-expected Harry to just get up so that they could more to a more private location.

He was about to apologize and just give in before he was manhandled, the arm around his waist tightening as he was hauled up until he was fully rested on Harry’s chest, their noses brushing against one another’s.

“This is not better,” he glared, feeling his face heat up once again. He felt quite bad for those people that decided to enter their common room at that moment, only to be greeted with the sight of the two of them.

“Give me a second,” Harry snorted before wriggling a bit to the side, rolling over and dropping Draco in the newly formed space between him and the backrest of the sofa. 

“I don’t see how this is better,” Draco huffed, still clutching his book. Harry rolled onto his side before returning his arm to its previous position, holding him close.

In this position, Draco was mostly hidden by the backrest of the sofa, and anything else left exposed was mostly covered by Harry, who had taken it upon himself to practically drape his body over Draco’s.

“This is.... adequate,” Draco huffed, finding himself slowly smiling at the situation. 

“Good,” Harry beamed, placing a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. “So, can you focus on your studying, now?”

Draco thought it was quite silly of him to think that he would return to studying. He was warm, comfortable, and in the arms of his boyfriend.

He was going to nap.

“Sure,” he said anyway, not making any move to re-open his book, Instead, he snuggled deeper into Harry’s chest, burying his face in the crook of his neck. 

Again, another laugh from Harry. The hand returned to his head, playing with his hair once more while Harry whispered sweet words into his ear.

And somehow, the feeling of everyone’s eyes on them, and the soft murmurs probably preparing the latest gossip, faded into nothing as he allowed himself to be engulfed by the comfort of just being with Harry.

-————————————————-

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[spencers-renaissance]

Pull Me Out of the Glowing Stream

Summary: Spencer develops bacterial meningitis and Hotch sort of forgets how to breathe

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Protective Hotch, Spencer Reid Whump, Major Illness, Angst, Fluff, Medical Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending

Pairing: Gen, Paternal Hotch

Word Count: 3.8k

Read on AO3

A grotty police department in rural Illinois was really not the time and place for Spencer’s body to decide to have a minor breakdown, but really, what was he expecting at this point? For things to go right for once? 

It’s the kind of headache not even two paracetamol and a cup of coffee can shift and he sort of feels like his head might split in two. Not ideal when he had a complicated geographical profile to work up to help the team locate an enraged killer who was flitting between various small towns in the northwest corner of the state. 

“Spencer?”

He’s shaken out of his depressing thoughts by Derek’s slightly concerned voice, causing him to pull his hands away from his head and force himself from squinting against the light. He’d felt fine this morning and he can’t really put his finger on what exactly is wrong besides the headache he just feels… off.

If he can help it though, Derek will most definitely not find out. His coworkers don’t need to think he’s anymore weak than they already do. 

“Sorry,” Spencer says, feigning a weak smile. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.” 

Derek doesn’t look completely convinced, but he nods anyway. “JJ and I are headed to interview the most recent victim’s family but Rossi and Blake will be back from the ME’s office shortly. Hotch is just in the break room talking to some LEOs, alright?” he says, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of one of the chairs. “See you in a bit, Spencer.”

Spencer has to stop himself from physically falling on the floor and rolling into a protective ball as soon as Derek leaves the room. He’s so exhausted and in so much pain, the last thing he wants to do is gather around the table and have to propose valuable theories about the case to build the profile. He just feels like such an outsider sometimes, and it’s been even worse recently. He’s felt himself withdraw from the group, sheltering himself from the prying glances and teasing comments, but he just can’t help it; he doesn’t even know why, really. 

Honestly, he’s desperate to crawl back to the hotel room and bury himself under the covers and never resurface again, but he can’t. The only time he really feels valuable is when he’s working, when he’s tangibly contributing to solving the case, and he can’t sacrifice that for a little head cold or whatever’s going on. Besides, nobody needs to hear him whinge about his stupid problems. Everyone has enough to deal with without him as an added burden.

Hotch is shooting him concerned looks and it’s only making him feel worse. He really doesn’t need to be berating himself for making his team members worry on top of already feeling at death’s door. The real problem, however, is that it’s only getting worse. He’s struggling to concentrate and feels hot under the collar, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the swirling nausea in his tummy. But his health cannot be the priority right now and surely Hotch must realise that: there’s a killer on the loose and he knows that he can be an immensely useful resource, headache be damned. 

Focus. He tries to look back towards the board -- he knows there’s something in one of the pictures that’s not quite right, not that he can remember which one or what it was -- but his neck protests as he tries to move it, stiffening up in response to the pain. Keeping his head down instead, staring at the case file he has open on the desk in front of him, he notices his pen quivering a little in his hand as it shakes. His glance upwards to check if anyone saw is immediately met by Hotch, whose muted concern has clearly morphed into full-blown distress, and he quickly looks away. 

“Spencer?” Hotch says gently, trying not to attract the attention of the other team members who are quietly discussing the case at the other end of the table. 

It’s the jerk of his head to look back up at him that does it. He feels his head loll and his stomach drop out from under him, nausea pouring into his insides as his eyes lose their focus. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, though it comes out far too slurred to be intelligible, and everything fades to black. 

★

Hotch is pretty sure his heart stops beating for a moment as he watches Spencer slump forward in his chair, falling to the side a little as his muscles give in to what’s clearly been plaguing him all day. The others snap out of their conversation fast, Alex rushing to his side. “Spencer?” she asks, voice insistent and full of anxiety. “Spencer, wake up, come on.” She pauses to press two fingers to his pulse point as her other hand feels his forehead before looking Hotch in the eyes, urgency filling her voice. “His pulse is weak and he has a serious fever.”

“Call an ambulance and explain what’s going on,” Hotch says, feeling the colour leave his face as he takes in the situation. “Dave, I need you, Derek and JJ to carry on working the case, Blake and I will go to the hospital with Spencer.”

The paramedics arrive quickly, by which time everyone in the PD is nosily peering through the windows, eager to watch the macabre theatrics of a medical emergency. Hotch backs away from where he’d crouched to hold Spencer’s hand, as does Blake and Spencer is quickly hooked up to the portable monitor. Hotch didn’t miss the grave glance that was shared between the two of them; he’d given and received enough of them in the course of his career to know they meant not good.

“Blake, you drive behind,” he murmurs softly as he watches an oxygen mask be placed over Spencer’s nose and mouth. “I’m riding with.” 

He hasn’t felt so sick to his stomach since he was driving to his own house to meet his wife’s dead body, and God, did he absolutely not miss the feeling. Spencer’s hand is freezing cold, and he’s still shaking slightly through the deep slumber that has overtaken his body, though luckily he’s stable enough that the paramedics don’t seem to be able to do a lot more for him until he is admitted to the ER. 

Seeing Spencer lie so small and frail under all the wires as he’s jolted about slightly by the ambulance’s fast pace cuts deep into an area of his heart he usually keeps so closely guarded, reserved for moments with his son and the grief that lingers cold and heavy from Haley’s death. Spencer is family: he’s watching the man he considers a son teeter far too close to the edge of death, and all he can do is remind himself how to breathe. 

“Hang in there, Spencer,” he whispers, gently pulling the cold hand he’s holding to his face and holding it there a moment. “You’re going to be okay.” He has to be.

The nearest hospital is thankfully close, and Hotch sends up a prayer of thanks that they were sent to a city and not on a rural, buttfuck nowhere case. The paramedics waste no time wheeling Spencer’s gurney into the ER, reeling off his stats in code Hotch couldn’t hope to understand to the awaiting doctors, admitted immediately for further tests to establish treatment while he’s steered by a patient nurse to a quiet waiting area. 

Alex rushes in less than five minutes later, filling with relief when she clocked Hotch sitting in the corner. “Any news?” she asks, cautiously optimistic. 

Hotch grimaces in response. “No, he was only just admitted,” he sighs, emotion creeping into his face in a way he usually staves off at work. A hurt Spencer Reid warrants that much, at least. “He was stable in the ambulance, though. They’re running tests now for a diagnosis.” He looks down at his clasped hands. “I should have noticed it sooner.”

Alex sits down next to him slowly and sighs. “There’s no use in blaming yourself,” she says gently. “Spencer wouldn’t want that. We all could’ve picked up on the signs sooner or been more persistent in asking what was wrong, you’re not in the wrong here. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.”

“I know,” Hotch says eventually. “I just feel so responsible for him. He’s still so young and has so much in front of him, if-- if something happened to him, I’d never forgive myself.” 

“Yeah,” Alex whispers, pressing her lips together. “None of us would.”

“I just couldn’t live in a world where Spencer doesn’t exist.” His voice chokes off as the dam breaks and he cries quietly into his hands, pain blossoming in his chest as the thought of Spencer dying and the crushing agony of muffled sobs collide. 

“Oh, Hotch,” Alex murmurs sympathetically as she watches her boss crumble in front of her. “No-one’s told us to prepare for Spencer dying, okay? You said yourself that he was stable in the ambulance and aside from a thready pulse and a fever we don’t know anything else about his physical state. Don’t torture yourself with a future that frankly looks unlikely as of now, it’s not worth it.” 

Hotch nods, taking a deep if shaky breath in and wiping his eyes one last time, looking back at Alex. “I’m sorry for panicking.”

“Don’t apologise,” she dismisses him gently. “It’s a scary situation, and Spencer is like a son to you.”

“This must be even harder for you,” he says, looking up and meeting her eyes. “I should have stayed stronger for you as well as Spencer.”

“Please,” Alex scoffs. “We all have our ways of coping. Ethan died a long time ago and although the grief I feel for him is like glitter I can’t brush away, I’ve learned how to move forward with my life, carrying that gorgeous shimmer with me.”

They share a small smile over that, and Hotch pats her upper arm with his hand softly before patting his knees and standing up. “I’m going to step outside to call Dave,” he says, a new resolve and determination finding its way into his voice. “I expect that it might be a while, but find me immediately if anything happens, I’ll be just outside the entrance.”

“Aaron?” Dave asks, voice a little tinny and muffled down the phone, swept away slightly by the midwest wind. “How’s Spencer?”

“Not sure yet,” he replies, voice grim. “He was admitted immediately for tests but he was relatively okay the last time I saw him, I think. Alex is here now, and we’ll keep looking over the files while we wait, seeing if we can build on the profile. Ring me with any developments, alright?” 

“Yeah, no problem,” Dave says. “Morgan and I have come to follow a lead we got on a possible associate, and I’ll give you a ring when we leave. Sit tight and give my love to the kid when you see him, Aaron.”

They don’t have to sit in vigil for long before a middle-aged doctor calls Spencer’s name in the waiting room. “Unfortunately, Spencer has bacterial meningitis,” she explains gently as soon as they approach her. “It’s been caught relatively early so his chances are good, but this is a serious disease that needs to be monitored closely so he’s been moved to the ICU. He had a seizure shortly after the lumbar puncture we performed which is a sign of an escalation, but we’ve adjusted his meds accordingly and I can assure you he’s getting the best treatment possible. The ICU is limited to one visitor at a time, but you can see him now; he’s awake though a little drowsy.”

Alex smiles at him and ushers him forward while she goes to sit back down without a word, leaving Hotch to follow the doctor. He wishes desperately to have Spencer walking next to him, rapidly reeling off statistics and fast facts about the disease, because he feels a little in the dark, here. All he remembers is that bacterial is the most serious manifestation of meningitis and it has a high fatality rate. The same heavy sickness from the ambulance sinks deeper into his stomach, weighing him down. Spencer could die. 

He looks small on the hospital bed. It’s such a cliche but it’s true, his already small frame and the spacious bed combined with his pale face and outfit of wires make him look so tiny and all Hotch wants to do is climb into bed with him and wrap him in a protective hug and never let him go. 

“Hotch?” Spencer murmurs as he approaches the bed, smiling gratefully at the doctor before she leaves them to it. 

“Yeah, Spencer, it’s me,” he says gently, sitting down in the chair next to the bed and scooching it as close as possible. “How are you holding up?”

“Hurts,” he says, voice weak. “A lot. Bacteria sucks.”

“It does,” Hotch chuckles. “It definitely sucks. Big time. I’m sorry this is happening, Spencer. And I’m sorry we didn’t catch on to you sooner and get you here faster.”

“Please,” he laughs, wincing a bit as the movement settles an ache deeper into his muscles. “I wouldn’t have let you. I can be a little stubborn.” 

Spencer’s voice is slurred slightly but the relief settling into Hotch’s bones at how lucid he is feels almost euphoric. “You’re definitely stubborn,” he says fondly, caressing Spencer’s hand with his thumb. “Our stubborn little mule.” 

“Not little,” he pouts in response, eyes drooping slowly closed.

“No,” he reassures him. “You’re not little. You’re strong, and you’re going to fight this, Spencer.”

“Yeah,” Spencer mumbles. “Fight it. Hotch… stay with me?”

“I’ll stay as long as they’ll let me stay, Angel.”

“Angel,” Spencer whispers, a happy smile playing on his lips as he finally gives in to the sleep tugging at his body. 

★

It takes Spencer another three and a half days before he’s awake for more than a few minutes at a time and satisfactorily lucid. Thankfully, the anticonvulsants had staved off another seizure and his temperature was slowly but surely dropping as his body fought off the infection, aided by the intravenous antibiotics being steadily dripped into his bloodstream. His oxygen mask had been swapped for a nasal cannula and he was no longer trembling. 

Hotch spends the majority of visiting hours sitting beside his bed, texting or phoning the team while working as many angles as he could with only a laptop and the case files Alex is bringing him, but it seems so trivial everytime he looks up and Spencer is lying there looking small and peaceful as he sleeps, meningitis ravishing his body. He’d been worried for the first day at how much Spencer was sleeping, but a kind nurse explained that it was normal; his body was just fighting off a brutal infection and could do that best when he was asleep. Now it just makes him happy to see him dreaming away, knowing that his body is doing the best to help him get better.

He’d tried to avoid googling ‘bacterial meningitis’, but he gave up on the second day and scrolled through endless sites, torturing himself with statistics and facts and prognoses. It gave him a newfound respect and empathy for Spencer: he knows these about pretty much everything and has to live with them all the time. He knows his own survival chances very well, can probably recite specific cases and studies and has no escape at all. 

Spencer manages to sit up on the third day and Hotch pulls out a portable chess board that Dave had gone out and bought specifically for this moment. 

“You play?” Spencer asks sceptically, raising his eyebrows.

“I’ve dabbled,” Hotch replies lightly, a smile playing over his lips as he takes in Spencer’s doubtful but eager expression.

“I’ll probably win in under twenty moves,” Spencer challenges, matching Hotch’s smile. 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Hotch chuckles. “But I’ll put myself through it anyway.” 

Spencer stays true to his word and wins in 17 moves, making Hotch throw his hands up and lean back in his chair, smiling at the other man before packing the board back away. Spencer looks miles healthier, the antibiotics clearly starting to do the trick, but he’s still seriously fatigued and shuffles down the bed to lean his head back and relax a bit more, sitting up for a few minutes tiring him out. 

Hotch pauses for a moment before deciding to broach the subject. “Spencer,” he starts softly, meeting the man’s hazy gaze, “why didn’t you say anything to us sooner? You clearly had a crashing headache, muscle pain, nausea. You said you felt the fever come on. You could have said something sooner and I would have helped you. Your health should come before a case.”

Spencer closes his eyes in shame for a moment, a blush blooming over his cheeks as he looks back to Hotch. “I’m sorry, I just-- It was a grisly case and I thought that was the most important thing, I guess. I’m no use stuck in a sick bed. I just felt bad making everything about me when in the grand scheme of things, a headache is pretty menial. Felt… isolated, maybe.”

“Oh, Spence,” Hotch says sympathetically, reaching back over to grip Spencer’s hand in both of his. “This is really serious, okay? If we’d left it much later or you hadn’t passed out but continued to suffer in silence, you could have died.” He has to pause for a moment as he chokes on the word. “Missing one case and being better for hundreds more is better than working yourself to the bone on this one and then not being around for anymore, isn’t it? You are so valuable, Spencer. Not just your eidetic memory or IQ, you. Spencer Reid is special and loved and important, and I don’t want you to ever think that a case is more important than you, or that we’ll be annoyed by anything that you need to talk to us about. If you ever feel alone, you come and find me and I’ll do my best to banish that feeling, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer murmurs again. “I guess I just find it hard to believe that people care about me for more than what I can offer them. I never had anyone value me the way you do, and I still struggle to wrap my head around it. I’m sorry for scaring you, but I promise I already feel better. I’m not going anywhere, I promise, Hotch.”

“You’d better not,” he replies, letting himself smile a bit. “I know it’s hard for you to trust us, Spencer, but we’re your family, okay? Any of us would drop anything for you, stubborn little mule.”

Spencer doesn’t correct him this time, opting instead for a wide smile. “Thank you, Aaron,” he whispers intimately. “For being here, I mean. It’s scary on my own and having you next to me makes me feel safe.”

“Good,” Hotch says, smiling at Spencer’s use of his first name. “You’re always safe with me. You should rest now, you’re tired. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

★

Once Spencer’s moved out of the ICU on day five, the team are finally allowed to come and visit him, bringing Penelope, presents and smiles and noise. And reprimands. Many reprimands. 

“If you ever put a case above your own damn health again, it won’t be meningitis you have to worry about but Penelope’s wrath, alright Spence?” JJ scolds as she gives him a gentle hug, though her smile betrays her. Penelope is stood at the foot of his bed trying her best to look scary, but like JJ her eyes are far too soft and relief colours her body language. Plus it’s hard to look domineering in a bright orange floral dress and flowers in your hair. 

“Sorry, Pen, JJ,” he says sheepishly, looking at each of them apologetically. “Bacterial meningitis will definitely teach you to listen to your body.” 

“Well if that’s the only good thing that’s come out of this then so be it,” Penelope says with finality, before she melts away her faux stern look and smiles at him. “Now, we bring you gifts and cookies.” 

He opens each of the presents with the wide, open smile he doesn’t let cross his face very often, feeling deeply loved and cherished by his found family. His hospital room is covered in flowers and chocolates and academic books as well as endless gift bags and wrapping paper by the time he’s finished, and although he’s still in a lot of pain and knows he might never fully recover, in this moment he’s the happiest he’s been in a long time. 

The doctor tells Spencer and Hotch a week and a day after his admittance that he’s been lucky enough to escape relatively unscathed. “You need to look out for any of the long term effects of bacterial meningitis such as concentration issues, hearing loss, visual disturbances, chronic pain etcetera but our tests seem to suggest you’re in the lucky c50% of survivors who escape without a permanent disability and we’d most likely have caught it by now. You need to take it easy for two weeks, make sure you’re resting and drinking plenty of fluids, and if you feel any symptoms coming back or becoming more severe you need to get to a hospital as soon as possible,” she says, handing him the discharge paperwork. 

“Spencer, I think you should come and stay with me for those two weeks, okay? I’ll be there to take care of you and keep you company while you finish recovering. How does that sound?” he asks as Spencer signs the sheet of paper and hands it back to the doctor who smiles at them before turning to leave.

“Are you sure you’re okay with that?” he asks. “I don’t want to impose on you and Jack.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m offering. Besides, Jack will love having his own personal encyclopedia in the house. He loves you.”

Spencer grins widely at that. “Then that sounds like a plan.”

He sleeps for the majority of the two hour flight home, leaning against Hotch’s shoulder buried under the blanket JJ always carries with her in case anyone gets cold while the older man fills in some paperwork for the case they’d wrapped up a few days prior. The gentle noise of his family chatting around the plane and the comforting smell and feel of his protector surrounding him lull him into a sense of safety and reassurance, resting in the knowledge that his family loves him unconditionally. No matter what happens next, even if a long term condition was going to hit him like a ton of bricks, they weren’t going to leave him, and he was valued. Not for his brain, but because he was Spencer Reid, loved and cherished member of the BAU. 

[amandaoftherosemire]

Another Update!!

Hello friends!! So. Here's what's up with me.

Those of you who've been with me for a while know that I used to be a lot more active around here. I responded to every comment; I answered every ask in a timely manner. I read other writers’ fanfic and reacted dramatically and enthusiastically. I used to be fun, is my point. Then, tragedy struck. Two years ago, I injured my right shoulder pirouetting in midair to avoid stomping on my sweet little chihuahua Spike, who was underfoot because he just loves food and I had some in my hand. That led to a two-year period in which everything I do takes two to three times longer thanks to having to rest my arm to avoid hurting it more than I already did. I don’t get as much done as I used to.

Evidently, I am capable of tearing my rotator cuff and my labrum without falling or running into something. I can do it simply with the force of my own will when sufficiently motivated. But if my choices are hurting my shoulder or killing my dog, I'm gonna take the shoulder thing. Even though I have not gotten a good night's sleep in two years thanks to not being able to sleep on my right side, as is my habit and preference. I'm also right-handed so I've had to rely more on my non-dominant hand, and it is frustrating as hell. Ambidextrous I am not.

Enough whinging! Anyway, finally, thank the heavens and the earth, next Thursday I am going in for surgery to put everything back the way it should be, but it turns out this is going to be a pain in the ass recovery. I will have little to no use of my right arm for a month and then it's a lot of physical therapy. My surgeon said that he hopes to have me back to normal by Christmas. I am tired just thinking about it.

What this means is that I'll be on a half hiatus for the next five weeks at the least. I will probably not answer any comments or reblogs, not that I'm any good at taking the time to do that now. But I also may not be able to answer asks or direct messages. I will try, but I really don't know how bad the next few weeks are going to be for me and I don't like to make promises I can't keep.

The half part of half hiatus is because I have been working on a Loki fic for the last few weeks. The first five parts are done, and I will be setting them to post every two weeks before I go in for surgery. I'm hopeful that by the time the first five have posted, I'll be writing again and can jump right back in without making y'all wait too long between parts.

I am also hopeful that when my recovery is complete, I can come back and be a more active member of this community. I love the Marvel fandom, and I miss the friends I've made here. I would like to make friends with my newer followers, too! For everyone who has left a comment or reblog, I saw it, and I promise you, I made a high-pitched happy sound just knowing someone read my writing and liked it. I write because I am merely a conduit for the words; I cannot stop the flow, but I enjoy it because wonderful people like you guys are out there in the world putting a little positivity into it. Thank you.

See y'all on the flipside. 😉😁💖

 P.S.

Happy Pride! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈 Trans Rights Now 💖💖💖

[scriveyner]

kinktober (2020): #13

Prompt #13: Fingerfucking

Explicit, SSKK/AkuAtsu, ~2300 words

Akutagawa put his elbow on the table top and his chin in his hand as he watched Atsushi type something into his phone. "I do not see how an ADA detective would know what is on a Port Mafia executive's private Instagram account."

"Chuuya added me forever ago," Atsushi said.

"I wasn't referring to you."

"Oh." Atsushi stopped typing for a moment. "Good point. I'll screen cap it instead."

Read on AO3 or

The kotatsu had sprung up overnight, like some wild mushroom variant in the middle of the living room, the furniture rearranged to accommodate its sudden presence. Atsushi had been in the office all day, and when he came around the corner to see Akutagawa in a housecoat, sitting at the kotatsu and reading, a cup of tea at his elbow and book propped up by Rashomon, he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Welcome home, weretiger," Akutagawa said without lifting his eyes from the book, though he deigned to turn the page himself. "Another exciting day of tracking down the swindlers of the elderly and rescuing kittens from trees?"

"We do more than that," Atsushi said, annoyed. He sat himself opposite Akutagawa, slithering partly under the heavy duvet and practically melting, chin to the polished wooden table top. "Warm," he said, content.

"Simple pleasures for simple minds," Akutagawa murmured, though he was watching Atsushi over the top of his novel. Atsushi's eyes were already closed, but he stuck his tongue out at Akutagawa. He didn't move again for a while, so Akutagawa returned to reading, until Atsushi shifted around and burrowed headfirst under the heated table.

Akutagawa looked down as Atsushi's head popped out from underneath the duvet next to him, and he reluctantly shuffled to the side to give Atsushi more room to wiggle out, shoulders and arms emerging, but that was where he stopped, pillowing his head on his arms and coming dangerously close to purring.

"Perfect end to the day," he said happily, exhaling; and Akutagawa lifted the duvet for a moment, to ensure that Atsushi wasn't thrashing an easily-singed tail too close to the heater. Atsushi knew exactly what he was doing, and rolled his eyes dramatically. "I'm not an idiot," he huffed, as Akutagawa let the heavy cover drape back over them both.

Akutagawa gave him a Look. "Yes, you are."

"Asshole," Atsushi muttered, but propped his chin on his hand, looking at Akutagawa askance. "I thought you were supposed to be prepping to leave on some mysterious Port Mafia business that I'm not supposed to know about, I figured you'd be gone before I got home."

That was apparently the wrong thing to bring up, because Atsushi could feel the hostility roll of Akutagawa as if it were a physical thing. "Port Mafia business is none of your concern, weretiger."

"Maybe not, but it's nice to know your schedule." Atsushi yawned and scratched his chin. "Higuchi got you pulled, didn't she? I should send her flowers, I didn't want you going overseas now with everything going on, anyway."

Akutagawa said, "how did you know I was meant to go overseas?"

Atsushi stopped scratching, and hesitated. "You… talk in your sleep?" Rashomon shot out instantly, encircling Atsushi's neck and pinning his head to the floor. Atsushi yelped, grabbed Rashomon with two enormous, suddenly-furry paws. "Dazai told me," he snarled, and the tiger claws ripped through Rashomon, shredding Akutagawa's ability with a lot less effort than Akutagawa wanted to acknowledge. "Now stop it!"

Rashomon retreated into Akutagawa's housecoat, and Atsushi rubbed the back of his neck with the great tiger paw, before his hand emerged from the ability.

"Do not send my subordinates flowers," Akutagawa said icily. "It would deliver the wrong message."

"I was being sarcastic," Atsushi said.

"Regardless. Do not."

Atsushi sighed and propped himself up on his elbows. "You know, I also didn't want you to go because I'd miss you, right? Not just because I'd be worried about you." Akutagawa glared at him, and Atsushi met that glare and returned it. "I'm not insinuating you can't handle it, don't give me that look. We both know you get sick easily because you've got weak lungs, don't pretend that this is something else."

Akutagawa angrily took a swallow of his tea. He was silent for a long, long moment, savoring it. "I am unused to anyone bothering to care about my well-being," he said finally, looking straight ahead and refusing to meet Atsushi's eye.

"No shit," Atsushi said. "Get fucking used to it. And don't," he gestured broadly, "fucking Rashomon me whenever you get pissed. That's rude."

"I did not stab you this time."

"Yeah, thanks. I really do enjoy my blood inside my body instead of all over the floor." Atsushi stretched his arms all the way out in front of him, Akutagawa noting his resemblance to a large house-cat, as he got settled again under the kotatsu, the threat of potential physical conflict receded. "If I had known you were gonna throw a temper tantrum I would have stayed on my own side of the kotatsu."

Akutagawa hesitated—uncertain if it was too soon, after such conflict—but then gently settled his hand on Atsushi's head. Atsushi startled in surprise—and then acknowledged the gesture, pushing the crown of his head against Akutagawa's palm. "I'm not a house-cat," he reminded Akutagawa, whose thoughts had definitely been trending in that direction again. Atsushi didn't move his head away, though—at least, not until they both heard his phone ding, and Atsushi shifted his weight so that he could pull his phone out of his trousers. Akutagawa pulled his hand back as he shuffled around, and Atsushi settled down again, propped up on his elbows as he looked at his phone screen.

"Are you for real," Atsushi said, and held up his phone so that Akutagawa could see the screen. There was a selfie of Dazai, seated in what was clearly one of Port Mafia's private jets, Chuuya's shoulder and hair only partially in frame. "Kunikida-san is going to lose his shit when he find out that he couldn't get ahold of Dazai all day because he's fucked off to parts unknown with one of Port Mafia's top executives again."

Akutagawa put his elbow on the table top and his chin in his hand as he watched Atsushi type something into his phone. "I do not see how an ADA detective would know what is on a Port Mafia executive's private Instagram account."

"Chuuya added me forever ago," Atsushi said.

"I wasn't referring to you."

"Oh." Atsushi stopped typing for a moment. "Good point. I'll screen cap it instead."

Akutagawa idly trailed his fingers down Atsushi's back, as he was distracted with his phone and shit-stirring now. "I do think that Dazai is a terrible influence on you," he said, listening to the tactile click of the keyboard on the touchscreen.

"That's Dazai's fault then," Atsushi said. "He shouldn't be fucking off from work and posting proof where he can be ratted out." There was a moment of silence, and then Atsushi's phone started dinging rapidly. "Ah, that woke up the group chat." He lifted his head, realized that Akutagawa's hand was now resting on the small of his back. "What are you doing?"

"Well," Akutagawa said. "If Dazai and Chuuya are both on an airplane, we won't be interrupted anytime soon." He slid his hand down so that his fingers fit under the waistband of Atsushi's pants, and he pulled the tucked-in collared shirt free.

"Chuuya will kill us if we have sex under the kotatsu," Atsushi said, but didn't stop him. "Plus, who's gonna explain the burns when one of us hits the heater?"

"Who said anything about sex?" Akutagawa said.

Atsushi eyed him. "Why are you undressing me if we aren't going to have sex?"

"Don't worry about it."

Atsushi pushed himself up on his elbows again, but Rashomon slipped under him, wrapped around his biceps and pulled him forward so that he fell back onto his chest. Atsushi let out an annoyed huff, arms splayed forward. "You are not allowed to say 'don't worry about it'," he said, but didn't try to get his arms under him again. "It's terrifying when you say it."

Akutagawa used Rashomon to help Atsushi out of his pants, operating blindly and yet with a surgeon's precision, under the table. Atsushi shivered when Akutagawa put his hand on the bared skin at the small of his back, pushed his shirt up and just rested his palm there, connecting the two of them. "Your skin is so warm," Akutagawa said softly, and slid his hand down, over the rise of Atsushi's now-bared ass. "So warm."

Atsushi exhaled, the shiver more pronounced now, but not from the cold. He spread his legs slightly, dropping his hips and forcing Akutagawa to lean forward as he ran his fingers down toward his goal. He closed his eyes and tilted his head forward as Akutagawa rubbed his fingers there, dry, just feeling him out. "Gonna need lube for that," Atsushi croaked, wet his lips with his tongue.

Rashomon drifted past Atsushi's line of sight, a familiar tube in its jaws. Atsushi exhaled a laugh as lube-slick fingers replaced dry ones, and that laugh slid into something more content as Akutagawa pushed one finger inside him. "It's amazing," Akutagawa said, rubbing his finger just inside the entrance, "how this sort of thing just shuts you up."

"Mm," Atsushi swallowed, shifted, rocked on his belly a little. "Fuck you."

"Not today." Akutagawa didn't press any deeper, just shallowly thrusting the pad of his finger. He nudged with a second finger and with a little encouragement Atsushi gave to allow the additional intrusion.

Atsushi laid his head on his arms. He wasn't panting yet, but there was a small whine on the edge of his breath because the stimulation was something; but nowhere near enough to be satisfactory. "Deeper," he said finally, whinging loud now, Akutagawa's fingers just barely inside. "C'mon, you're being mean."

Akutagawa considered this, and then introduced a third finger. Atsushi gasped a moment, swallowed, and clenched on the three fingers inside of him experimentally. They still weren't particularly deep, barely past the first knuckle on his fingers, but it was marginally deeper than before. He shivered and pushed back against Akutagawa's hand again, trying to force his fingers in deeper since Akutagawa seemed more interested in teasing rather than fucking.

It was… fun, to watch Atsushi writhe, half under the kotatsu, doing indecent things to him by touch alone. Akutagawa wanted to drag it out, to make him beg for it more; but Atsushi grabbed his housecoat in one hand, yanking at it—and Akutagawa pushed his fingers in deeper in response, generating a small keening noise from Atsushi.

"Don't come," Akutagawa said, sharply, and Atsushi choked on air, started panting as Akutagawa pressed his fingers in deep again, spreading them as much as he could manage, looking for the right place to to add pressure to really make Atsushi wail. "You're not allowed to come while under the kotatsu."

Atsushi's shoulders locked, and he hung his head, one hand still tight in Akutagawa's housecoat. He had shifted all his focus to clenching now, to holding himself off—and Akutagawa smirked sharply, located his prostate finally, and pressed all three fingers against it, rubbing.

The noise Atsushi generated was inhuman, shoulders shaking but—despite clenching on his fingers again and again he didn't appear to actually climax. It was somewhat impressive a display, and wouldn't do at all. "Did you come?"

"N-no." It took Atsushi a moment to choke the word out, entire body thrumming like guitar wire with too much tension, on the verge of snapping entirely. "N-no, fuck…"

Akutagawa nodded his head with mock sympathy, rocked himself a little closer, and worked his little finger inside as well. Atsushi' mouth fell open, he tilted his head back as far as he could, but he held still.

He was extraordinarily tight. Akutagawa thrust all four fingers for a little bit, rubbing Atsushi's prostate again for good measure, before finally removing them all, enjoying the resistance Atsushi's body gave before all his fingers popped free.

Akutagawa could imagine Atsushi's hole right now, stretched and shiny with lube, and his loins ached. Atsushi put his face in his arms, panting loudly, and Akutagawa wiped his lube-slick fingers on the back of Atsushi's rucked-up shirt.

"That was fun," Akutagawa said, and picked up his tea again, taking a slow sip and somewhat disappointed that it was nearly cold now.

"Fun!?" Atsushi's voice was strangled, coming from between his arms. "God I'm so fucking hard…"

"Hmm, how does Chuuya phrase it? That sounds like a you problem." Akutagawa took another sip of his tea. He set it down just in time, as Atsushi surged upright, out from under the duvet in one smooth motion, knocking him flat on the floor, eyes ablaze. Akutagawa coughed as Atsushi straddled his chest, and laid the bright red head of his cock against Akutagawa's lips. It was shiny, slick with fluid and smelled so intensely of Atsushi's scent that he licked it without prompting and, after a moment of shuffling around to get the best angle, opened his mouth and let Atsushi push his cock inside.

It didn't take very long for Atsushi to reach climax, especially with Akutagawa sucking him; and he did manage to pull out before he came down Akutagawa's throat. He still managed to come all over Akutagawa's face and hair, however, and Akutagawa coughed, one eye closed, and used Rashomon to knock Atsushi off him entirely. When he sat up he continued to cough for a solid minute, clearing his throat, and he wiped his hand over his face, smearing Atsushi's seed into his skin.

Atsushi lay on his back where Rashomon had toppled him, arms spread and chest heaving; his cock lay against his thigh, still half-hard and glistening in the overhead light. "God damn," he said wonderingly, and they looked at each other for a moment, still breathing hard.

He rolled over and showed Akutagawa his messy hole. "If you're still hard," he said, panting, and dropped to his elbows, presenting like a dog.

Akutagawa swallowed, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, and unfastened his trousers.

[jengajives]

Lord of the rings is... kinda gay

Beregond sat with his eyes closed and his hand resting atop Faramir’s.

He felt naked without the black and silver tunic, and weighed down by the sword he wore on his belt. Never before had he been utterly defenseless with that weapon still buckled to his hip.

Ever since King Elessar had come the night before, Faramir had looked peaceful in his sleep. It seemed the torment and fever had left him, and he laid like one simply resting after a long day, rather than a man dying from a grievous hurt.

He wasn’t dying. He was going to be fine. Beregond would not lose him.

It was a blessing he had paid for dearly.

He tried to think of sunlight on the wall and the gleam of the distant sea, but all that would come to mind was darkness, stone, and blood. Blood on the flagstones and spilled across the steps of the House of Stewards, splattered over his uniform and his blade.

“Beregond.”

He jumped when he heard the voice, familiar though it was. He couldn’t help but tighten his grip on Faramir’s hand.

“My lord!”

He looked in alarm at the cool grey eyes studying him, and slowly his hand relaxed. Faramir gave the ghost of a smile, though it faded quickly to concern, then to panic.

“Where’s your uniform? Has the city fallen? I must-“

He tried to throw back the covers and sit up, but when Beregond caught his shoulders and eased him back, he went, though warily, his eyes roaming the room for any sign that his nightmares had come true.

“The city is safe, lord,” Beregond said gently. “And you mustn’t get up. King Elessar has instructed you aren’t to leave this bed.”

Now the fair silver eyes glittered with wonder. Faramir’s warm fingers clasped his hand.

“King?” he repeated. “So it was not only a dream?”

“No, lord. He’s not in the city now- didn’t want to stir up trouble in the midst of all the grieving and uncertainty- but he’s returned. Just like the stories he is: tall and noble, with elf-craft in healing, terrible in battle. He fixed you right up last night, lord. Called you back from the shadow, he did. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Faramir sat back silent for a while and mused on this news. What he spoke again, it was abrupt and with a hint of mirth.

“Why do you still call me that?”

“Call you what, lord?”

“That. Lord. There’s no reason for it.”

“Well, you’re my captain, aren’t you?”

Faramir laughed, a sound like a bubbling brook in spring. Cold and yet joyous. “Beregond, I’m your lover. You of all people may call me by my proper name.” He propped himself up on the pillow and looked around the room, as if surprised to find it so void of company. “Where is my father?”

A hot rage throbbed in the depths of Beregond’s chest, followed by the icy wash of guilt. He fought not to sound strangled when at last he spoke.

“I don’t want to-“

“Never mind.” Faramir shook his head and laid back on the pile of pillows. “I don’t suppose I’d like to have him here whinging over the ‘common, poorly bred citadel guard’ they’ve appointed to watch me.”

Beregond exhaled as evenly as he could, and busied himself drawing the curtains so the pained expression on his face wouldn’t be noticed. Mithrandir had bade him not to give any account of Denethor’s demise to the new Steward, and it wasn’t as if he wanted to stir up those painful, fresh wounds anyway. Avoiding the subject would be a blissful relief for once.

Because his back was turned, it took him too long to notice Faramir was troubled, so he didn’t have a chance to de-escalate before he got another uncomfortable comment.

“Beregond, you really should be at the citadel. You know I told you we can’t let this get in the way of duty, and I know how much your post means to you. The last thing I want is for you to lose it because of me.”

A deep sinking settled in the depth of Beregond’s stomach.

He saw the darkness where there should have been day, heard his ragged breath as he flew down the way to the vaults. The door warden leaning against the gate, and his dismissive reply when Beregond begged his leave to enter.

“None may pass save the Steward and his folk. Now you return to your post, before my good humor runs out and I report you for desertion.”

He heard his own voice from another’s mouth; the tone was too desperate to properly be his.

“Captain Faramir is in danger, please, you must let me through-“

The gleam of firelight on metal as the warden casually reached for his blade.

A shower of golden sparks when the two swords met.

The horrible gurgle when Beregond passed his sword through his throat.

Traitor. Murderer. He had killed his own willingly, he had taken lives in the very city he was sworn to protect...

“My place is here,” he said, without really hearing the words. “My place is with you.”

He could feel Faramir‘s frown across the room. “Beregond...”

The door opened abruptly, and a small shape dressed in dull red came charging through. Immediately, Beregond recognized the head in need of a haircut as his son’s, and some of the tension faded from his shoulders.

Bergil’s eyes lit up when he saw his patient awake, and he came bounding over like a rabbit.

“Captain Faramir!”

The boy threw his arms around Faramir, a little too roughly for Beregond’s liking. Faramir eased his urge to snap at the boy.

“Master Bergil!” he laughed, returning the embrace with one arm. “Shouldn’t you be out protecting the city?”

Bergil ignored that question with giddy eagerness. “None of the other kids believed that I got to talk to the king last night! They called me a liar, but I said, ‘No, he used elvish magic to fix up Captain Faramir and make him all well again, and I brought the special herb for him to use! Do you remember that? Remember how I talked to him?”

“I’m afraid not,” Faramir said with genuine regret. “All of last night feels like a dream. Perhaps you could tell me the story again, so I can remember it properly this time.”

It seemed this was exactly what Bergil had wanted, because he launched into a long and rather confusing account of everything he’d done during the battle the day previous, eventually coming to a head when he fetched athelas for King Elessar. Faramir listened attentively to every word. Every once in a while he’d ask a clarifying question or comment about how brave Bergil had been, which made the boy puff his chest out with pride, and Beregond couldn’t help but smile watching the two of them interact.

When they’d lost Bergil’s mother, he had feared he’d never see his son out of his shell like this again. But Faramir put the lad quite at ease. The two of them had formed a friendship that amazed Beregond sometimes when he looked at it too closely. Here was the Steward of Gondor, a wise and thoughtful soldier, a general and a leader of men, talking to a headstrong ten-year-old boy as if the two of them were exact equals.

He couldn’t ask for better. Really, he couldn’t.

“Son,” Beregond said after the stories had dragged on a bit too long, and he could see the weariness in Faramir’s eyes, “Captain Faramir is still recovering. He needs to rest and get his strength back up.”

“Oh!” Bergil hopped back and give a crisp military salute. “I understand! I’ll leave you be, Captain Faramir, sir. And you make sure you drink lots of water and sleep as much as you can! That’s what my father says when I’m sick. If he’s taking care of you, you’ll be better in no time!” He bounded to the door, then paused and looked back. “Can I come and see you tomorrow, sir?”

“I would love nothing more,” said Faramir warmly.

Both of them lingered, watching the empty doorway a few beats after Bergil grinned and disappeared back into the House of Healing. It was Faramir who spoke first.

“You have an extraordinary son, Beregond.”

Proudness swelled in his chest. “He is. Thank you.”

When he felt a touch on his hand it surprised him, until he looked down into the calm depths of Faramir’s eyes. He received a warm smile; the hand squeezed his lightly.

“You still have not told me what’s wrong,” Faramir said softly, and were it not for Mithrandir’s express orders, he would have broken down right then and there.

Instead he smiled and placed a kiss on Faramir‘s forehead.

“The city is safe. My son is safe. You’re safe. What could possibly be wrong?”

The vision of blood did not pass.

[sushiandstarlight]

“Cocoa/Cider”: NaNoWrimo 30 Days of Prompts

Today’s Prompt

Read this story on AO3

Rated G/PG

Summary:  Aziraphale knew what Crowley smelled like, too, thank-you-very-much. And, it wasn't burnt chocolate.

The smell of something burnt was his first tip that things were a bit amiss in their home. See, Crowley himself smelled faintly of brimstone, a slightly sour smoky scent. He tended to wear sweeter things over it like sandalwood and vanilla. Honestly, Aziraphale liked his base smell. It was warm and familiar. Not that the additions were bad. Not at all.

But a thick, dark, charred smell greeted him when he opened the door to the cottage. 

There was no smoke and no sight or crackle of fire, so Aziraphale wasn't as alarmed as he could have been. He carried the shopping into the kitchen with a little extra speed, though.

Pots. Their pots were everywhere. All over the counters and the breakfast nook. Some of them were even on the floor. Strewn between them were cartons of milk in various degrees of fullness and half hewn blocks of different chocolates: milk and dark and even white. Their sugar canister sat, empty, beside the stove.

In the midst of all of this stood a very startled demon who's face was slowly morphing from guilt to mortification. He was wearing Aziraphale's tartan apron and holding a half melted ladle. Aziraphale could identify the smell now, perhaps one of the saddest smells of all: burnt chocolate.

“I was... gone for an hour and a half?” The words fell out of his mouth in shock more than anything.

Crowley glanced around the destruction that was their kitchen and then back at him, eyes wide. He swallowed and lowered the ladle, looking sad.

Aziraphale pushed some of the pots to the side of their dining table so he could put the grocery bags down. Crowley was eyeing him with some amount of trepidation, he could track it out the corner of his eye.

“Have a chocolate syrup craving?” he turned to the demon, hands on his hips, face still neutral. Who knew leaving a demon alone in a kitchen for 90 minutes was akin to leaving a toddler in the same position.

“I wanted to surprise you when you got home,” Crowley tugged at his ear with his non ladle holding hand.

“You've accomplished that, darling.” He watched Crowley relax a little at the endearment.

“I'll clean it up.”

“I can help.”

“No, it was supposed to be a happy surprise. I... I got a bit carried away when it wasn't working,” Crowley turned to the sink, dropping the ladel in the warm, soapy water and then reaching for the current pot on the stove. As he moved it to the sink, too, the smell of burnt chocolate intensified, “you go read or something, relax. I'll take care of it.” His words had grown more and more mumbly as he spoke, shoulders hunching inward.

He walked over and put his arms around Crowley's middle, resting his chin on his shoulder, “what if I want to help? What if that would be relaxing for me.”

“It wouldn't.”

“You don't know. Maybe I have the sudden and undeniable urge to wash dishes.”

“You hate washing dishes,” Crowley was still pouting, but he could hear a smile tugging at his tone.

“You're right, of course,” he snatched the towel draped over Crowley's shoulder, “you can wash, I'll dry.”

“Yeah, alright, fine.” And so they worked together, starting at one end of the kitchen and working to the other end, Aziraphale occasionally taking breaks to put away the new groceries. Lucky he grabbed another sack of sugar while he was out. He upended it into the proper canister and slid it into it's place on the clean counter just as Crowley set the last clean dish in the drainer.

“I think you owe me for my hard labor,” Aziraphale had wrapped himself around Crowley again, hugging his back to his front and nuzzling his jaw. He knew he could get to the bottom of this. He tried not to take terrible advantage of it, these days, since he knew where it came from: but he was well aware that there was little, if anything, that the demon could deny him if he truly asked for it. Or hinted. Or thought about it hard enough.

“Told you that you didn't have to help...” Crowley leaned back into him anyway and Aziraphale squeezed him.

“I won't ask for much, promise,” his neck nuzzles were becoming neck kisses and he could feel Crowley's resolve crumbling in his arms, “just one little thing.”

“Okay, fine,” Crowley tilted his head away, clearly waiting for more kisses.

“How did the kitchen become the death of so much chocolate?” He wasn't letting up, though, nosing up behind the demon's ear and nipping the skin there.

“s'not fair!” Crowley whinged even though he was leaning into him harder than before, “You're using your wiles on me.”

“I learned from the best, my dear,” Aziraphale smirked as he trailed his nose along the shell of his ear, “I could give you one more thing in trade.”

Crowley just whimpered in response.

“I can tell you how much I really, really love seeing you in my apron,” He watched Crowley swallow hard and sway a bit, holding him tightly, “So now you'll be a dear and tell me what you were up to?”

“You said,” and Crowley sounded well and truly wrecked now, “you said the other day that you wanted some cocoa. Er, like the kind we had that one time. With the humans. I can't concentrate when you do that!”

He let the earlobe slide back from between his teeth and smirked, “you were saying?”

“We were in the living room the other day and you were on about this cocoa. How rich it was. How creamy. How it was made from 'real chocolate' and not the fake stuff. And milk or cream instead of water. I... I wanted to have something, at least a little, like that for you when you got home. S'all.”

“So all of this was for me?” He saw Crowley cut his eyes at him and watched a blush creep up his neck, momentarily distracted, “Well, that was sweet of you.”

“Not sweet,” he replied automatically but with no real heat, “and that was a terrible pun.”

“If you had asked me, I could have saved you some trouble. I have a lovely cocoa recipe in my recipe box,” Aziraphale pointed to the little wooden box next to the sink, “we could have made it together. I could have taught you.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise!” The indignance in his voice bespoke of a foot being stamped in frustration even if he kept both feet on the floor.

“Hmm,” he nuzzled the demon's cheek, “it makes me happy that you tried. I would still like to have another go of it, together next time. I like doing things with you, Crowley.”

Crowley turned his head and placed a kiss on his temple, “Sure, Angel, whatever you want.”

“Splendid.”

“But maybe not tonight. If I have to scrub another pot tonight I'll scream.”

“We can't have that.”

“Neh.”

“It just so happens that I got us a little something while I was out. Something a little different to try.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” Aziraphale let him go and watched him sway a little in his absence before walking to the refrigerator and pulling out a jug of fresh apple cider. He picked up the remaining pot from the drainer- “this one's on me!”- and poured some in, putting it on the stove to heat up. Crowley tidied up a bit more as Aziraphale watched the pot, taking off the apron and hanging it on it's hook by the refrigerator.

“Could you fetch that bag for me, dear,” Aziraphale pointed to the paper bag sitting on the table. Crowley picked it up, slightly surprised at the weight and handed it to him. Aziraphale doled out two mugs of the apple cider and then revealed that inside the bag was some dark, spiced rum.

“Oh, Angel, you do know the way to my heart,” Crowley smirked at him, leaning a hip against the counter.

“I should hope so, by now,” Aziraphale wiggled happily, handing him a mug.

“Let's take this show,” Crowley ushered Aziraphale away from the stove and grabbed the bottle of rum, “into the living room.” He put the bottle on the coffee table and sprawled, careful of his hot beverage, on the sofa. Aziraphale curled up next to him, leaning against his side, hands wrapped around the warm mug. He watched as Crowley took a sip.

“Good?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Better than cocoa, I take it.”

“Aziraphale, watching you enjoy a mug of cocoa would have made my night.”

Aziraphale took a sip, enjoying the feeling of the warmth from the cider and the alcohol, how it burn a little as he swallowed. He hummed happily.

“Okay, I'll add spiked apple cider to the list.”

“List?”

“Of things I like watching you enjoy.”

“Long list, then?” Aziraphale tried his best to feign disinterest, but he knew he was failing so he took another deep sip.

“Been keeping it for a millennia.” Crowley's hand had crept over and was curled around his knee, “yeah it's a bit long.”

“You're on it, right?”

Crowley choked on his next sip.

“Oh, bother. I meant that you're something I enjoy. I didn't- ah, well, I mean...” Aziraphale took a breathe, eyes going a bit distant, “Well, that wouldn't be a bad way to end the evening, either. Talk about happy surprises.” He smirked into his mug and watched Crowley sputter.

Previous Prompt Ficlets:

Feather Duster / Scarf / Family / Hearth / Frosty / Ribbons / Wrapping / Cardinal / Coal / Unwrap / Blustery

[therealeagal]

JoaPhoJo Part 2

JoaPhoJo. Joaquin Phoenix’s Joker.

Picture of a man: White. Heterosexual. Middle-aged. Probably votes Republican.

Eternally oppressed by a society full of yuppie douchebags and ignored by stupid females who can’t recognize that he’s an alpha male in a world of beta cucks.

The film chronicles his downward slide into insanity as only Hollywood can: By portraying him as a tragic hero who’s fully justified in all his actions.

I finally sold out and rented Joker starring Joaquin Phoenix and I can say without fear of contradiction from anyone whose opinion isn’t wrong that Jared Leto was a better Joker.

And cue the angry flood of comments denouncing me as the worst person who has ever lived. Not just for suggestion that Joaquin Phoenix isn’t the literal definition of sex, but also for suggesting that Jared Leto isn’t the worst thing that has ever existed because literally the Nazis were better than Leto.

I’m not here to say that Jared Leto has the last word on Joker of all the character’s actors in times past, present and future. I liked him, but was he the best? Not even a little. Gun to my head I’d pick...whatshisface. The guy from Under The Red Hood. I had his name just a second ago...was it John DiMaggio? Anyway, he’s my favorite Joker at this present moment in time. Either him or whoever did Joker in Arkham Origins. It varies.

Being 100% honest, I like Phoenix’s costume better than Leto’s. But a character’s...well, character will always trump a character’s costume, however faithful it may - or may not in the case of Leto - be to the source material.

But I will say that at least Jared Leto understood something about Joker that Joaquin Phoenix clearly doesn’t:

The Joker is a bad person, and neither Suicide Squad nor Zack Snyder ever makes any attempt to portray him as anything other than a monster (notwithstanding Harley’s rose-tinted fascination with him, which regardless ended in Birds of Prey).

Well, ok, I’m just guessing for the Snyder cut, since I haven’t watched it. If someone can confirm that Snyderker...Snoker? Snyder’s Joker has become a paragon of society that donates his time to combination orphanage/puppy stores in the Justice League Snyder cut feel free to correct me.

Point is, the Joker is not a victim lashing out in righteous vengeance against his bullies. He does not live in a society.

And don’t @ me with The Killing Joke because the difference between TKJ and JoaPhoJo is that The Killing Joke didn’t portray Joker as correct in his arguments.

I’ve heard it before and it wasn’t funny the first time.

Alan Moore is a douchebag of titanic proportions, and DC Comics really needs to stop fellating him, but the man’s got more talent in his pinky finger than everyone who made JoaPhoJo put together, and he knows the difference between a villain and a roguish anti-hero, and he knows which one the Joker is. And spoiler alert, it ain’t the second one.

Contrast JoaPhoJo, which is a story about how disaffected white men are perpetual victims constantly bullied and downtrodden by “society” and how we should feel sorry for them because they’re the true victims and why can’t you Liberal shills recognize that they are the pinnacle of humanity?

There aren’t enough eyes to roll in the universe.

I simply cannot conceive of how this movie ever won any award not given out by the Klan. Screen it at a Trump convention if you want to win points with those it was meant to lionize.

In closing, if you don’t agree - if you, in fact, consider JoaPhoJo to be the greatest movie ever made and you fall asleep masturbating to it every night - you are of course entitled to your opinion, but I don’t want to hear it, so find someone else to whinge at and also find a bridge to jump off of. Preferably a low bridge, so you don’t get seriously injured when you reach the bottom.

Please and thank you.

P.S. I was almost unable to use that masturbation joke. I know it’s a repeat, but I thought it merited seconds. I just couldn’t find a good place to put it but I was able to find a good spot in the end (that’s what she said! Hey-o!)

Only the most logical and mature of discourse here on The Real Eagal’s blog. At least I’m polite. You’re welcome.

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Sirius on anaesthesia from a muggle surgery (needed for something his parents did or his incessant smoking) with lots of care fluff 🥰

((A/N: Mentions of child abuse, serious injuries, and recovery, and mild homophobia))

It was hard to find Sirius appropriately cute being all doped up because of the circumstances. James would like to make one thing quite clear: Sirius was adorable. At all times and in all ways. 

But the situation was... well, utter shite. It proved how much it was utter shite that when James accidentally used that exact phrasing in front of his parents, they agreed instead of telling him to watch his language. Sirius hadn't said (yet) what set it off, but his parents had gone completely mad. Beat him so bad he ended up in hospital, and the Potter parents had been granted temporary custody. Sirius was old enough that he'd probably become an adult before they finalized his custody with anyone. 

The cute part of this-- if there was one-- was how Sirius acted when he was all loopy from pain medication. James tried to enjoy the way Sirius would go full puppy eyes, and then he'd see the stitches on his head and have a hard time feeling good about anything. 

"Jaaaames," Sirius whinged, pawing half-heartedly at James's arm. His depth perception was buggered up with one eye covered, so he ended up a few centimetres short. And slightly to the left, but it was hard to say if that was an injury thing or a meds thing. 

"Yeah, Si?" 

"'m bored."

No screens, no moving... yeah he was real sodding bored and James couldn't blame him for it. The music Sirius normally listened to was punk, which Mum and Dad had declared too grating for his current state. That Sirius didn't fight them on it was proof enough that they were right about it. Sirius could sort of play games right now, but sometimes sitting up for too long was taxing, and again, depth perception was an issue. They'd tried to play Monopoly the other day, but he hadn't been able to put the money in the bank without fucking up and he got upset. All of this was to say that Sirius was bored, and while James was sympathetic, he didn't really know what he could do about it. "Alright. What- er, what do you want to do?" 

"What I really want to do is go got a malt from Fortescue's. Or have a smoke. But I'm guessing you're not going to let me do that." 

"Fuck no. I didn't like you smoking before, I'm sure as hell not going to help you do it now." 

Sirius gave a forlorn sigh. "Yeah, I thought not. What've you been doing?" He was pretty coherent right now, which was rare. His words were still a little slurred, but the doctors had said that would last for a while with everything going on. (They hadn't phrased it quite like that, but it's what James had taken from it.) 

"Staying with you? Your memory might be shite right now, but what did you really think I'd be doing?" 

"Hm. You're getting boring in your old age, Prongs." 

"I've gotten halfway through that series Remus was going on about," he offered. 

"That makes me more old, not less." 

James blinked at him. "Alright. Whatever." 

Sirius waved his arm at him, managing to hit his leg. "'m bored." 

"I can read to you?" James offered with a slight grimace. It's not like Sirius hated books or summat, but it was the only thing available to them right now and he'd always been more on the active side. 

"Can I pick the book?" 

"Sure." 

"Do we have any Seuss books here?" 

"Y'know, when you said you wanted to pick the book, I thought you were going to force me to read the history of punk or summat." 

"I want to hear you bugger up your words as much as I've been doing. Get one of those tongue-twister ones." 

"You haven't been that bad," James protested. 

Sirius tilted his head just to look him in the eye and give him a flat look. "Memory's shit, but I can hear what I sound like." 

"Your sentences are perfectly coherent." 

"Yeah, now. Didn't used to be." 

James didn't really know what to say to that, so he went off to find some Seuss books-- he knew that Dad had some around here somewhere-- with a careful pat on Sirius's shoulder as he left. 

*

"What'd your parents get in such a snit about anyways?" Peter asked. 

Sirius was healed enough that Mum and Dad had let Peter and Remus come over. "Told them I was queer," he said casually. "Well, technically I told them I was dating James, but like, same outcome for grandchildren. I guess they found it horribly offensive." 

James tried to remember how to breathe. He'd known that the Black parents were bigoted pieces of rubbish, but he hadn't realised just how bad they were. That they'd do this to Sirius at all was bad enough, but over something so trivial as who he liked to sleep with? 

"You're dating?" Remus asked. If he hadn't known about them, he was the only one. 

"Yeah mate," Peter said, doing everyone a favour by answering. "For like three years, where've you been?" 

"I-" Remus blinked. "Well I dunno. I knew they fancied each other, but I didn't know they'd actually done something about it." 

"How are you the dumbest bloke I've ever met," Peter asked flatly. 

"Practice?" 

James snorted, rubbing at his face. "Yeah, well maybe stop practicing. I think you've perfected it by now, Moony." 

"I second that," Sirius added. "Time to call it quits and make fun of us for being all sappy." 

"You're not the sappy sort," Remus said dismissively. 

Sirius and James shared a look. They kept things mildly toned down around their friends, but they were definitely the sappy sort. And even then, James was pretty sure they were more sappy in front of Remus and Peter than either of them really cared to see. "We'll see what you say at Hogwarts in a couple weeks when we're all stuck in the dormitory together again," Sirius said. 

"You gonna be better by then?" Peter asked, surprised. 

Sirius opened his mouth to give a customary answer that of course he'd be fine, nothing could keep him down, but then he stopped. He wasn't going to be going back to school with the rest of them. He was doing the work at home for the first month, and then they were letting him go back to Hogwarts if nothing else went wrong. The cut on his leg from surgery had started to get infected, and it had set back his recovery time. Originally though, he should've been able to go back for their final year of Hogwarts. "I meant you two having to watch James stare at his phone all moody and pining for me," he said with half a smile that none of them believed was real for a second. 

*

"I hate that you're leaving," Sirius muttered. 

"I hate it too," James said glumly, squeezing him carefully. He wanted to be comforting, but he also refused to hurt him just because he wasn't paying enough attention. He'd already asked his parents if he could stay here and join the term late like Sirius was doing, and the answer had been a firm no. 

"Don't get your phone taken away." 

"Wouldn't be the first time it's happened." 

"Yeah, but then I wouldn't have anyway of talking to you. Or showing you my progress with liquid eyeliner." 

"Is that really what you're going to be doing while I'm gone?" 

"Gotta do something with my time. Homework doesn't take but, what, two hours?" 

James hummed in agreement. He knew it wasn't like that for everyone, but school was boring as all hell. And he wouldn't even have Sirius to help distract him this time-- not for a while, at least. "So what am I supposed to do while you're busy doing your makeup?" 

"Hone your doodling skills?" 

"There's only so many times I can draw Slughorn running a furniture store before I get bored." 

"Then draw a comic, you lazy bastard." 

"What if Grubbyplank takes it away?" 

"Ask for it back. After class, of course." 

"Of course," James repeated, rolling his eyes. 

"That sass is not going to help you." 

"Aw c'mon. By this point, all the teachers know what to expect from me. Whether or not you're there," he added, because it seemed like the kind of loophole Sirius would try to use. "But fine. Comics about us and our epic love." 

"We're already living that. You should make one where I'm a dog." 

"Are we still in love when you're a dog? Or are you my pet? Or am I a dog too?" 

"How should I bloody know? I just think being a dog would be pretty relaxing." 

"Unless you're one of those dogs that has to pull a sled." 

"Then make me a house dog that lays around in the sun and goes for walks twice a day. That sounds nice." 

"Going for walks?" James asked. 

"Laying in the sun." 

"You realise you can do that now, right?" 

"Every time I lay on the floor, you think I'm hurt and freak out." 

"You did fall once," James pointed out, because it was important that Sirius remember there was a reason to him panicking. 

"I tripped. I didn't fall." 

"Does it matter?" 

"Meh. Not really." Sirius sighed, grabbing James's arm and repositioning it so he could hug it. "I just hate that I'm not gonna see you for so long." 

"Maybe you can visit on a weekend." 

"Yeah," he said neutrally. "Not sure Mum will let me. She's more paranoid than you are." 

"I'm not paranoid." 

Sirius scoffed. 

"I just want you to be healthy, is that so wrong?" 

"Saying yes would make me sound suicidal, so no, I guess it's not so bad." 

"Just- I dunno. Send me lots of snaps." 

"Course. Can't keep this beautiful face all to myself. Hell, by the time I'm back at school, it'll probably be safe for you to kiss me again." 

"Here's hoping," James said, pressing his lips lightly to the top of Sirius's head. 

[crowbarstodd]

Course Of Nature (4)

Chapter Summary: *banging pots together* DAMINETTE! DAMINETTE! Word Count: 3,272 Rating: G Paring: DAMINETTE!

Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five |

Rena Rogue gagged as soon as she opened an aging door, hands covering her nose and mouth as she took a large step back. “This place stinks!”

Marinette felt inclined to agree with Rena Rogue, nose wrinkling as a foul stench invaded her nostrils, so strong her eyes stung from unshed tears. “You’ll have to get used to it,” Marinette said regretfully, “we’ll be spending some time here.”

Rena moaned, edging inside carefully, nose still pinched between two fingers.

The little off-white townhouse they’d been sent to investigate in Paris’ nineteenth arrondissement was almost charming at first sight. It sat trapped between a high fence marking the end of the street, and a baby-pink, connecting unit with a strip of green at the front only just large enough to fit a few common elder hedges.

The place itself was only slightly overrun by weeds, not enough to appear unseemly, which was probably why it was left alone by most of the unsuspecting neighbours. Marinette herself would have overlooked it completely had it not been for the large mold stain on the bottom right side of the door, and the putrid stench that coated the home. Oh, and the mission sent by Batman and Master Fu.

The inside was drowned in dust and rust, and none of the lights would turn on, so she and Rena resigned themselves to exploring the place with the limited light their torches provided.

“This is literally the worst villain hideout. Unhygienic and unaesthetic is what this place is,” Rena griped, searching through shelves for anything that looked mildly useful.

“There’s no proof this was a hideout. Just that Queen Bee sent a package here about two months ago.”

Rena stopped in her tracks. “Queen Bee? Like, Chloe?”

“No, like the politician.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

Marinette sighed, tilting her head to the sky, eyes shut. “I thought Chat gave you a debrief?”

“Sure, but he didn’t use any names. Just said that another villain sent a package probably for Hawkmoth.”

Wily cat, making her do all the annoying jobs. She’d get him neutered the next time she saw him. “Queen Bee is a corrupt Bialyan leader, part of the light.”

“So not Chloe?”

“Not Chloe,” Marinette confirmed.

“What do we call Chloe then?”

Tired of the conversation, and without any real answers to give, Marinette returned to searching the room for clues. “Call her whatever you want, Rena.”

“Bitch it is!”

“No.”

She zoned out Rena’s following playful whinges, focused on the wooden desk that sat alone in the otherwise empty room connected to the living room that Rena was investigating.

With careful hands she pulled the drawer of the desk open, worrying her lip as her heart pumped with excitement. Where else would one keep a package but their desk?

It was empty.

Disappointed, she shut it closed, only to hear Rena’s resounding shriek.

The living room was a mess of white.

An upturned milk bottle appeared to have fallen from atop the cupboard above the stove. It must have been balancing precariously already, relying on the shut door for stability, and tipping over when Rena pulled the cupboard open.

She stood in the center of the kitchen, an orange lighthouse in a sea of white, utterly drenched, and completely miserable.

In her hands, Marinette spotted something promising.

“Is that a USB?”

“Are you okay Rena? That sucks for you Rena, but don’t worry too much about it,” Rena muttered, peeved.

Marinette scratched the back of her head and let out an awkward laugh. “Sorry. You alright, Rena?”

“I’m drenched in milk, LB. But I found a USB and I managed to keep it dry.”

Marinette cheered under her breath, getting closer to inspect the gadget. It was a simple single-toned grey stick, made by LexCorp. “Only four gigabytes?” She mused aloud, expecting something more monumental.

Rena paid her no mind, wringing her hair over the sink, and yelping when the water that poured out of it was brown in colour. “Ugh, I should have just let Chat take this mission,” Rena grumbled. “Might have even enjoyed the milk.”

Marinette shrugged, a lazy smile painting her face. “I don’t think anyone’d enjoy an unexpected milk-bath, Rena, even silly kitty’s like him.”

Rena shook her leg clean, watching with wry eyes as droplets splashed onto the floor. “You always call him Kitty or Chaton,” Rena commented. “It’s kind of cute.”

If it was Carapace saying it, Marinette wouldn’t have batted an eye, but Rena was sort of pushy, and undeniably not-so-secretly interested in Ladybug’s (love) life. Marinate could see the teasing glint in Rena’s eyes and hear the mischief in her voice, enough to get what she was suggesting.

“Yes I do,” Marinette agreed. “Because we’re partners.”

“You don’t have nicknames for me!”

Marinette raised a brow. “You’re not my partner,” she sung.

Rena pouted, jutting her bottom lip out dramatically enough that for a second, Marinette saw her mask disappear and make way for her best friend who she knew was behind it. She’d never say it aloud, lest it encourage her friend’s more dangerous habits (running headfirst into attacks without a mask or protection) but Alya’s determination and vivacity had always been qualities that Marinette admired. That, and how lush her thick locks always seemed to be.

“What about your new partner then? Lark?”

Marinette snorted. Guess Alya held some second-hand anger on her boyfriend’s behalf after all. “You mean Robin?”

Rena rolled her eyes, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “Yeah sure, Robin.”

“What about him?”

“Well if not Chat, then?” Rena trailed off, but Marinette was sharp enough to know what she’d been suggesting.

Involuntarily, her cheeks burst bright red. Memories of last night that she’d tried so hard to forget — moonlight, a surprising confession, and lips —nope! She shook the thoughts out of her head, bringing her hands to her cheeks in an attempt to cool them down.

“Oh my god! Girl!”

“N-no!” Marinette stuttered out, adamant to explain things before Rena got the complete wrong idea. “It’s not like that! I don’t like Robin! Not even in a friend way!”

“Clearly not in the friend way! Girl, does he know?”

Stupid Robin. Stupid dumb Robin and his stupid dumb lips and their stupid dumb conversation and the terrible, awful, cringe-inducing, stupid-dumb ending to last night! “No! Alya!”

“What happened to no secret identities on the field? I don’t even know yours so you’ve got an advantage there.”

“I don’t think that’s the point, Rena.”

“You’re right,” she agreed. “The point is are you gonna tell him?”

“No, there’s nothing romantic happening at all!”

Knowing better than to push when Marinette was sure she looked ready to explode, Rena simply wiggled her brows cheekily and returned to searching for hints. “Okay LB,” she said as she passed, patting Marinette on the shoulders almost patronisingly.

Marinette had to bite her lip to prevent a scream.

Perusing the little unit was much less eventful than either of the two girls expected, and in the end, they found nothing of use apart from the single USB stick that Rena had risked milk-dousing for.

“Literally the worst hour of my life,” Rena commented, inhaling deeply when they finally locked the rotting door behind them. “Never again.”

“You okay to get the USB to Master Fu by yourself?”

“Sure thing Ladybug. You go ahead and get your Z’s, you’ve got patrol tomorrow night as well.”

Marinette moaned at the reminder. Damn, and she was getting excited to make a new dress-shirt too.

—————————————

School the next day was interesting, to say the least. The class was abuzz, all gravitating around Chloe’s desk where she was sat bragging (no surprise there) about some celebrities her dad’s hotel was hosting.

“The Waynes are ridiculously famous and important,” the blonde said, leaning back against her chair as if she didn’t care at all. (She cared very much, and wasn’t as good an actress as she thought she was, Marinette noted.) “Bruce Wayne is like, the most eligible bachelor, and he brought three of his sons with him!”

“Three?” Marinette mumbled under her breath, taking her seat beside Alya. “Why does she say it like he has more?”

“He has five,” Alya supplied helpfully, flashing her a smile in greeting.

Soon enough Alya’s head was down, and her chemistry notes were out, but it was obvious that she was paying more attention to what Chloe was saying than what was on her page, but a tad too prideful to admit to herself that Chloe had anything of particular worth to say.

Chloe’s voice was loud enough that Marinette could join her friend in pretending to overhear, rather than listen to the blonde. “They’re going to be staying at my daddy’s hotel for two weeks,” she boasted.

“Wow Chloe, that’s so cool!” Rose awed. Even from the other side of the room, Marinette could stars forming in her eyes. It was like Prince Ali all over again. “I’d love to meet them! I heard the Wayne foundation helps hundreds of people every year, and that Dick Grayson is nice to everyone!”

She nudged Alya lightly with her elbow. “Dick Grayson?”

“Eldest son, I think.” Was Alya’s simple reply.

Chloe sneered, “someone like him would want nothing to do with you.”

“Well, I’m going to say hi anyway!” Rose replied hotly, learning from last time. Her chest puffed out in pride, leaving her to look like a bright pink penguin, but Marinette was happy for her. It looked like she wasn’t going to let Chloe talk her down anymore.

Chloe opened her mouth, probably to dish out an insult, but straightened as if remembering something important. “Fine,” she said instead. “Do what you want.”

Alya raised a brow and made a face that looked to a cross between impressed and disbelieving.

In a weird way, Marinette felt almost proud. Sure, each awful word out of Chloe’s mouth gave her some sort of vindication (who doesn’t love being right?) that always lead to her feeling guilty, but every time Chloe acted politely, against Marinette’s expectations, she was being influenced by Ladybug. There was something humbling about seeing her impact on the small scale, however minute it was.

“Will you all come with me?” Rose asked, wide eyes directed at the girls of the class.

Don’t look, Marinette urged herself. The moment she looked into Rose’s big Bambi eyes she’d be gone, and however much she loved Rose she needed to go to bed before patrol that night.

“Please?”

“Sure thing, Rose!” Alya agreed. “Marinette and I’d be happy to come.”

Raising her head to refute Alya, Marinette found herself staring right into Rose’s baby blues. Crap. “Yeah Rose, I’d love to come!”

Marinette’s mouth moved faster than her mind, and by the time she’d realised what she had done it was far too late. Rose had already turned to ask Alix.

God, if only Rose was a tablespoon less cute.

(“You’re going to see Dick Grayson? Can I come? I love Dick Grayson!

“Sure, Kim!”)

—————————————

Dick Grayson really was nice to everyone he met, and it didn’t take long for Marinette to understand why all of Paris seemed to swoon over him.

He was charming, had eyes bluer than blue, and a smile that looked so familiar, Marinette could have sworn she’d seen it directed at her before. Really truly, he was great. But all she could focus on was the screaming that was happening somewhere further down the hotel that nobody else seemed to care about.

Marinette inched backwards until she was out of sight, bolting down the nearest corridor, following the sound the best she could.

Tikki peeked out from inside her bag, gazing at her with questioning eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to transform, Marinette? It doesn’t sound very good.”

“I just wanna check first, Tikki. It might not be an attack.”

It wasn’t one. What she’d mistaken for innocent lives threatened by some Akumatised being was, in fact, two boys screaming at each other in the hotel hallway. Or rather, one boy screaming as the other responded, just as heated, but not as loud.

“You will regret this, Drake!” The shorter boy seethed at the other, who stood across from him, clearly unimpressed, back slouched and left hand in his corduroy pants.

The taller one, Drake, raised his hands in apparent frustration. “It’s a room. You’ll just have to settle with sharing with Jason.”

“I had the room with Grayson first. Return it immediately!”

“You sound like a brat.”

The shorter boy huffed, launching a well-aimed kick at the taller boy’s head, which he somehow managed to block, hand still in his pocket. “Your attack will be returned tenfold,” the shorter one announced, leaving ‘Drake’ alone at last. Marinette squeaked as he walked in her direction, slipping around the corner as his eyes narrowed.

He didn’t seem to care though, walking out of the hotel without another look back.

Concerned about a potential Akuma victim, she trailed after him.

She felt childish to have been lulled in such an obviously false sense of comfort, but she was genuinely surprised when he disappeared from her sight after exiting the hotel, only to reappear behind her. He had one hand around both her wrists, keeping her from fighting back with her arms.

“What business do you have following me?”

Marinette spluttered, struggling not to let her eyes dart to her bag in concern as she felt Tikki’s concerned shudder. “I was just making sure you were okay!” Marinette insisted. “I just didn’t want you to get akumatised!”

He let go of her wrists, but his eyes were still in slits, and his knees were bent as if ready to bolt at any given chance. “Explain yourself,” he demanded.

He was pretty snooty if Marinette was being honest, but she supposed she’d be paranoid too if someone was following her. “If you get too upset, Hawkmoth will be able to use you to destroy the city,” Marinette explained, omitting some important parts about certain Miraculous’. It was weird he didn’t know any of this yet. “Are you new here or something?”

The boy sniffed in disdain. “My family landed here this morning.”

This morning…

Marinette gave his outfit a quick once-over.

Black skinny jeans; Givenchy, black shoes; Armani, Burberry jacket, and Wayne-Tech watch. Wayne tech phone peeking out from his pocket too… Rose was going to be so jealous.

(His target-brand Nightwing t-shirt confused her, though.)

“You must be a Wayne!” Marinate exclaimed, extending her hand to greet him. “I’m Marinette.”

He looked at her hand with a raised brow.

He didn’t move until her face shifted into a glare. “Damian.”

He was a little rough around the edges, but he was also mad, and she wouldn’t be Ladybug if she left some innocent person alone to be akumatised. “Nice to meet you, Damian. Do you like ice-cream?”

“I’m not fond of sweets.”

“I’ll find something for you.”

She grabbed his wrist, ready to tug him along, when he snatched his hand right out of her grip. “Unhand me!” He bellowed, looking angry again. Marinate wanted to slap a hand on her forehead, feeling idiotic for upsetting him even further.

“I’m not going to do anything weird, I promise. I just want to take you to my family’s bakery, get you some tea or something to calm you down.”

He looked on the verge of protest, but she must have said something right because he deflated soon after. “Some tea would be acceptable.”

They sat across from each other on the table nearest to the front window, seats comfortably cushioned with little round pillows that were decorated with flowers; one of Marinette’s own creations.

The bakery was one of her favourite places in the world. Little personal splashes made the place warm, from the cushions she’d made, the three small tables on the right side of the bakery for inside dining that she’d suggested herself, and the small red stain on the underside of the front counter that she’d created by spilling dye while making red-velvet cupcakes. She and her mom had spent almost an hour trying to remove any traces of it, but that little mark, shaped like a coma, was far more stubborn than either of them.  

He liked rice tea, she learned. Rice tea and plum dacqouise.

Well, he never said he liked plum dacquoise, but he clearly didn't dislike plum dacquoise. Her dad had asked if he’d like anything else with his tea, and when he looked to her for suggestions, there was one thing she couldn���t not recommend.

“I’d like the Marinette,” he’d said, voice frank. Her heart had pounded at how the sentence sounded, but she didn’t correct him or mention it in case it’d embarrass him. He wasn’t a native speaker after all, so it was impressive enough he could maintain a conversation and order all on his own.

“It’s my favourite cake,” she informed him after his first bite. He replied with a ‘hn.’

Easy silence befell them as Damian sipped his tea, looking out the window with slight interest. She was eating his cake, well her cake that he bought, content to sit in silence, appreciating how he simply nodded her way when he caught her, not too miffed at her eating his food. “Did you come here for a holiday?” She asked, striking up a conversation.

He tilted his head to the side, thinking. The bright lights seemed to highlight his jawline perfectly, because Marinette couldn’t stop her eyes from trailing downward. “For business mostly, but I suppose Gra— my brother might consider this a holiday.”

“Must be nice to have so many siblings.”

Damian huffed, folding his arms the way Alya’s younger sisters did when they heard something they didn’t like. “They’re not my siblings.”

“You just said you had a brother though?”

Damian spluttered, mouth moving as he protested mutely, unable to come up with a convincing response. “It’s not fun,” he said instead, replying to her initial comment.

Marinette smiled behind her hands at his petulant behaviour, not yet brave enough, or close enough to him to laugh at him to his face. “I wouldn’t know,” she shrugged. “I’m an only child.”

“I was too, once.” Damian’s eyes had a misty quality to them that Marinette wasn’t sure she wanted to touch on. Instead, she latched on to what felt like the only tangible part of what he said.

“Are you adopted?”

Damian all but hissed, leaning over the table to exclaim his response. “I’m the blood heir! The rest of them were adopted!”

She leaned back into her seat, surprised by his outburst.

Prepared to spend the rest of the hour suffering in heavy silence, Marinette was almost grateful to see a large, thorn breaking through the bakery window, engraving itself deep into the floor.

It shook the building down to its foundations, leaving the counter and the cakes it displayed utterly obliterated. Marinette coughed, inhaling a lungful of dust and debris caused by the projectile, wheezing out a breath. Her heart thrummed as she readied herself for a battle.

“I have to go!” She and Damian said in sync. She let him leave, expecting his worry for his family, and preoccupied with planning how to get to the Akuma.

Marinette let out a quiet “sorry,” as she trapped her parents in the back room, locking the door on them so they would be safe without noticing her absence.

“Tikki, spots on!”

End Notes: hhhhhhhhh so this is actually only half of my original plan for chapter 4 so I guess you can expect chapter five soon. I was so excited for the fight but chapter 4 got so long and I felt that the fight deserved it’s own chapter and I didn’t want too many events in one chapter because it’d feel too cluttered oh man.

But also! Daminette!!!!! 

Classic Bruce gets there secret identities to arrive later than their hero ones to avoid suspicion. We got our first peek at Tim, and a mention of Jason. If anyone’s wondering why Chloe only mentioned three sons,,, Jason’s legally dead so ye theres that. 

Daminette!!! They met!!!!!!!!! For those curious, his acceptance of tea was thanks to his appreciation of Alfred. Daminette!!! 

Things to look forward to next chapter: Akuma fight!!! Addressing the ‘Queen Bee’ situation completely, kind of addressing what happened the night damian stormed of jealous and MORE maridami goodness. (Is it obvious how much I love chapter 5 and how much I wanna get it DONE?

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