#And even those will likely invite their own whinging

[caughtthedarkness93]

Why can't we just have nice things?

[court-jobi]

How'd You Know (I Needed This)

((banner by me! I don't own Horikoshi's (sleepy) characters/work))

Pairing: Aizawa x reader (American!Pro Hero fem!reader, set before the events of Season 1)

Words: 4.9K

Rating: T+

Warnings: Aizawa has feelings and doesn't know what to do with them, alcohol mentions, slow burn, he fell first she fell harder, the feeling is mutual TM

Summary:

Shouta Aizawa surrenders his capture weapon for the night in favor of humoring Hizashi, and is rewarded for his follow-through at his show. He wants to know you, more than he has from teaching the brats alongside you for the last few months. Wants to know the smile that reaches your eyes more intimately.

He’s happy he gets this balcony happy hour with you -out from all their eyes inside- to be able to water this sweet, small thing he feels towards you to fullness.

A/N: I've been WAITING for this one, turn it up!!! Aizawa my beloved, I've wanted to write you for so, so long and can only hope I can do you justice. The man just has such a gentle side and I just wanted to give him something nice and self-indulgent~

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on Ao3

Damn it, why was he thinking like this? He’s in public for goodness’ sakes, with only two sips of drink under his belt. Not two drinks- two sips of a drink.  So if that’s the case of his sobriety, why was he off in his own little headspace as if he were drunk?  

‘Put Your Hands Up Radio’ found its home recording studio attached to this lounge: a place Shouta Aizawa never frequented unless expressly invited- or when Eraserhead was needed to scout out trouble. Far too noisy, too chatty, and filled with too many grown adults losing their sensibilities for his liking. 

Through one round of begging or another, he’d been roped into joining some of the staff of UA to an evening out, in support of Present Mic. Naturally, Aizawa would go- as his presence would all but guarantee everyone else’s. Despite begrudging the plans that pushed himself out of his preferred rest mode, he kept true to his word for Hizashi’s sake.

Promise kept, and therefore, appears to have been rewarded. 

Once the show wrapped for the night, his best friend was over the moon at how things were turning into a party that Friday night. After a day of shrill, whinging teenagers he’d wrangled all week, this level of volume was honestly the last thing he needed. Yamada’s voice doubled the decibel of the entire room- and that’s without his quirk activated. He always managed to annoy Aizawa when he started fangirling about one duet matchup or another.

But truthfully? Every sound this tired hero registered around him fell to white noise while he looked at you…

Sweet Little Miss, you are; gracing the lounge with your presence. You’re a vision tonight. Insist with your lilting dip to your words they all call you by your first name, outside of school grounds and against what’s considered custom. No hero titles either, unless an emergency called for formalities- then you’d cave.

These Americans are too casual. Even down to these outfits. What’s this–  black turtleneck, necklace she won’t leave alone- moving it around her thumb like that, short skirt.. and those damn thigh highs and tights. How is it she’s driving that moped of hers, wearing something like this…

Everything on your person, down to the way you held yourself in perfect confidence and ease adorned you like a perfectly-styled pro hero. It couldn't be a more stark contrast to his tried and true wardrobe. Even this after-hours look sat perfectly around each bend and curve of you, as you listened to the group. 

You’re smiling, too. It’s subtle, but it reaches your eyes, which makes it all the more authentic.

A smile he shouldn’t want to keep all to himself. Curves he really should have no business noticing. Features that he’s actually surprised he’s labeling as ‘attractive’ in his mind because the last time he ever felt an ounce of attraction to anyone in that way, he’d barely been able to grow facial hair. 

Desire for a safe place to land his dizzying mind is driving his tired sights to look to you for relief again and again in the conversation– without you even saying a single word. 

The barely-touched drink in his hand is only a prop; something to make him blend into the scene and not something he’s actually tasting for pleasure… meaning, these are his thoughts. Nearly completely sober. Should be illegal. Just illegal-

"Yo Sho, you still with us, sleepyhead?" 

Yamada pulled him out of his thoughts. Disguising any flare of being put on the spot, Aizawa  flitted his absent gaze back to his blond friend–

"Be nice. He’s had a rough day and is a good enough sport by being here,” you chirped up catching Yamada’s pull for Aizawa to part from the fringes of your little gathering.

Now toward you? He’ll soften his edge. After all, with you sticking up for him with blind loyalty, he nearly felt guilty for spacing out and causing you to speak up in the first place.

“- yknow, I'm inclined to take a nap myself," you leaned forward to grab a few more calamari bites to tend to your seemingly insatiable appetite. Aizawa felt warm at the sweetness and straightened up at Yamada’s prodding.

From then on, he made sure to look in your direction more often when you spoke to help him pay attention. He still didn't say much, never did. But he liked the company well enough.

These nights were truly few and far between. Life as an in-demand hero left him jumping from role to role, daytime and midnight obligations. The routine split his waking hours and stretched them paper thin.  Now more than ever,  he typically shirked as much off time as he was offered. And yet, he had to remember to prioritize levity and breaks– and in this case, indulge his treasured friend’s interests and ‘take one for the team’. Good for morale, he reasoned, just this once. 

The occasion was also a way for you to integrate with the group in an informal setting– great for the transplant from the States. You’ve taken amicably to the group of alumni-turned-faculty at UA, though much still remained a mystery about you, presently being peeled back bit by bit through stories and slips of the tongue. There was only so much a dossier could truly reveal about a person- even one curated by S.W.O.R.D. to volunteer aid their Japanese counterparts in their hero work.

It couldn’t tell what kind of teacher you’d turned out to be. Even with no experience working with students, you tread the line between instilling team-centered outlooks and pushing their quirk’s limitations to their max benefit. A crafty, inventive counterpart to complement his blunt teaching style: better together, and even the principal agreed.

It couldn’t point out where your true ambitions lie or where your drive came from. There remained much to be explained as far as your hero status here in Japan– a red-tape nightmare Aizawa was still intrigued to learn about. So far, you’d shared some limitations about “immigration statuses are being vetted with a fine toothed comb, so they’re still trekking through the paperwork”, so your wings are essentially clipped down to a student’s provisional license. This doesn’t please you too much, but you’re driven as much as his finest students with the aire of a professional he’d love to see in full action.

It couldn’t explain the stillness you could dip into, that he only caught once or twice when you believe yourself alone. There’s a past was weighing your shoulders level and compliant in the eyes of the law… but an urge to push back and ‘play this out’  brought hypotheticals to your lips whenever you chatted about what hero life is like for him, and added a sparkle to the eye that he had yet to fully source.

It couldn’t give away the gentleness you hold behind a carefully guarded smile– even in this harsh hero world. Maybe it was that indomitable spirit that those foolhardy patriots overseas carried… or rather, maybe it was the way you fought against such a loud persona. So far, Aizawa has taken only a few notes, but each little mental post-it was cluttering up his headspace. You held a quiet love of tea, a comical passion for the oxford comma, and a mind to care for the little things in life– like the lizards you rescue in an inverted cup to take outside where they belong . 

Surely life must have treated you hard to elicit such softness. Something tenderized you to achieve the peace you carry around or else you’re wearing a damn good mask. No, he determines you had to have made a choice to continue on the path that’s brought you to the present– even to this table where you’re taking your fill of maki rolls while casting little caring glances his way. 

All smiles and calm surety, as he mills through his thoughts that are damn near obsessed with you.

An employee file could never record ‘heart’, anymore than it could expose anything you didn’t want to reveal.

The night progresses while Aizawa stews on these thoughts, and plenty of others… for the ones that drift to his co-teacher offer him more mental stimulation than that he finds in the club’s lights and music.

Yamada’s night of filling his social battery was made nearly perfect by the karaoke that just started. Several of the other teachers got preoccupied in round after round of song, so it left Aizawa with a moment's peace. 

Well, peace he was going to enjoy by laying back on the couch for a little shuteye–  when his gut jumped at the feeling of a hand trailing up his forearm to the elbow with a polite, companionable touch. 

Facing its owner, Aizawa caught your little smirk and nod towards the balcony. You didn't pull hard, yet he followed like a magnet out to the patio. 

From there, rather than stay by the door to listen in on their friends ‘releasing their inhibitions and feeling the rain on their skin’,  you took him to the right, where a matching lounge set positioned itself in a blind spot between the rooftop bar and the fire escape. 

"Thought you looked like you could benefit from some soundproofing~" you brushed your hair back over one shoulder to follow the breeze’s direction, and left an open spot next to you by the railing. 

Nightlife and neon didn’t hold magic for Eraserhead given as many nights as he’s spent perched on precarious heights, but through a newcomer’s eyes, he could see the appeal. This part of the city glowed at night from dusk to dawn, and you clearly loved looking out over it; Aizawa certainly didn't mind this view either. 

Your perception skills are spot on, and incredibly thoughtful as you’ve suggested some fresh air- for his sake. If he wasn’t drawn to you any of the other times he’s paid attention to the spastic moths a more romantic person might call ‘butterflies’ before…  this cements each and every one as valid. 

He likes you. He really likes you. 

Time passed with appreciative quiet until you spoke again, 

"The only thing is, you can't really see stars in the city... there’s too much light."

"The beaches have a nice view," Aizawa replied after some thought.

"Oh yeah?"

"Enough to stargaze properly,” he offered without much sentimentality. Right by the pier was the best spot he and his former classmates would go on the weekends, before their hero work took off.

"I'll have to remember to take a drive there. Y'know, sometime when I'm not in two-and-a-half-inch heels." you chuckled as you shuffled back to the rattan settee, sitting for a bit to stretch out your legs. "I don't know how Nemuri does it."

"Feet hurt already?" Aizawa snuck his hands from his pockets and came to the seat across from yours. “Night’s young.”

"Getting there,"  your laugh greeted him over, "But you know what they say, dress to impress and all that. Yamada really pitched some hype for this afterparty, so~"

Fashion was hardly something that ever swayed Aizawa’s decision-making. Utilitarian was the way to go for his wardrobe- then, as now. 

"If aesthetics are all that determine these pros’ attention, that’s horribly vain." 

You bristled in good humor, 

"He didn't mean it like that– I just meant, he said to look nice for fun instead of for work. Call it ‘girl code’ if you want. We know that means to– just– /doll up a bit/!"

Aizawa held back a snicker at how you still ran into difficulties finding the most apt Japanese equivalents in your (pretty decently executed) second language. English slang you reverted to in moments like these fell from your mouth with an odd drawl. Still couldn’t place the regional accent you carried, but it charmed Aizawa all the same. 

“//Doll up//?” he mimicked. 

"//I like dolling up//!"

Aizawa reached and pulled his glass to his lips, meant to look aloof but not hiding his interest altogether well. 

"You don’t need to put on airs to get people to notice you…" 

"Right, because the accent gives me away."

"No, it’s your-”

Finally, a coward’s streak flared deep in his belly to shut him up. A rare hesitation. Damn this. What the hell’s happening to me–

 “–nevermind."

"My what?" you’re fully  interested, knowing a secret when it's presented.

"Nothing important."

Thankfully you not-so-subtlety dropped it with a hummed ‘ok’, but kept a watchful eye for him in your peripherals. 

The pro hero mused. Better for him to be honest, right? 

Just choose your words carefully. You’ll have to look her in the eye after this, you know. 

Aizawa widened his seated stance so his knee barely breached your space. 

Your sights lifted to him while he put his best poker face on. It’s not really any different than what he’d give to a perfect stranger– the only difference here is he has to force it.

Shit shit shit you're in deep, Shouta.

"You're plenty noticeable as you are. Anyone who meets you can see that," Aizawa shared in his usual soft-spoken tone. "Give ‘em ten minutes, and you've got them wrapped around your finger. It’s a whole impression, not just the outer package. Doesn't matter if you're in a dress that costs a month’s paycheck or a black button down. You're welcoming, sincere..." 

He’s realizing he might be trailing off, but finding you listening with full attention led him on; no liquid courage required. 

"You're stunning from the inside out. Enough to get others to notice."

Aizawa heard your appreciation before he saw it, a hum preceding the a genteel smile. With the win of his walls coming down, he had to give an honest smirk back. It was only fair; you’d earned it just by being you. By your flattered look, you were touched– but your brain was still working beneath the surface, and soon showed by a fleeting expression that spit from him.

Then, you caught your bottom lip for a second, before daring to look in Aizawa’s eyes again. It’s a sneaky look– like he’d snuck a peek at a card he’d meant to hide.

"...You remember what I wore on my first day at UA."

It was half question, half amusement. So dear, but oh-so pointed.

Aizawa froze.

"Black button down. You noticed me, then?" you countered more, "And here I thought you didn't care about appearances~" 

"In professional circles, no. Personal… that's a different thing, entirely." 

He kept your  sights locked onto his, not unlike how he used his quirk in a challenge– only far softer and he could risk the occasional blink.

Even when you took his glass from his hand and placed it away on the table alongside yours, he still looked fondly after you, in fact tilting his head to the other side, studying the way one piece of your hair was caught by your neck. What he’d give to be familiar with you enough to ever-so-carefully brush it back, letting his touch send a wave of shivers across your skin and maybe even make you hum at the gesture. But he couldn’t trust himself to do it now, settling on stretching his arm around the back of the couch. Just an open move, letting you join him on the couch as close as you’d like.

Was he really doing this? He never has before, but this felt so natural. 

You smiled still– and as you sit, you’re leaning into it.  Well then. 

“What was I wearing, Aizawa?”

With free fingers, he risked some little brushes on your near shoulder, bringing a happy little eyebrow lift from you. He just took in your features in close quarters, settled in it, as he remembered that day:

Black button down, grey skirt. Biker boots -practical choice- and these damn tights.

Aizawa’s dazed in the head, but he knows he's listed it off aloud based on how your sights widen, impressed. 

"Hmmm, tights do it for ya?” you smiled, “I'm surprised you haven't jumped the darling Ms. Nemuri then."

"I know way too much about Kayama to ever consider her that way,”  Aizawa’s tempered hand twirled a finger along a blown-away section of hair, just absently enough. “You however, tease just enough." 

"Do I tease you?” you offer with a little depth, “I don't mean to."

It’s here he’s worry he’s stepping over a line- if it weren’t for the downright delicious look in your eye. You say it like you’re sorry for acting unprofessionally– but you’re urging him on, hardly apologetic for your sweet posturing.

"You may not mean it, but it's not unnoticed," 

He took second to swallow, and steps fully over it. 

"or unwelcome."

You’re pleased with this, but deflect with your trademarked humor- 

"Well now that’s saying something. You've seen me in my pjs, too- far from glamorous.  That didn't break the allure for you?"

Aizawa had to huff though his nose at that memory.

"I caught you at arguably your most real self, that first night you patched me up," His outstretched arm rubbed full circles onto your shoulder now, with the lightest touch. 

“Still have no clue why you chose me over Recovery Girl. For the harshest grader in school, that was a pretty dumb move.”

“You were closer than going to campus. It was the practical choice.”

“You didn't even know if I knew first aid.” 

“You do,” Aizawa smirked. “You're too nurturing to not have a knack for it.”

Your legs crossed over, deflecting both your words and refreshing your body movement. In doing so, you slid even closer- a move not lost on Aizawa. 

“Well, I'm still not happy about it. You needed more attending than I was able to pull off. Whatever you get into those nights,” you flitted a look to the underside of his arm that lays outstretched –where you know he sports a scar now- “It… looked like it hurt, ‘Zawa.”

Warm. Warm and cared form. Felt it then, feel it now. That's the life in his chest he gets when he’s around you. 

"Can't change the past, and I certainly wouldn't have changed that. Wouldn’t pass up seeing that sight of you for the world."

This connection, this dance, it all feels that it must be older than what it is, more rooted in a shared history than a short few months. 

Aizawa wants to ‘get’ you. Know the thoughts behind your eyes. Get you talking, even if it means he needs to give up his silent nights and muted text alerts so he can learn you.  He’s happy he gets this balcony happy hour with you, out from other’s eyes, to be able to water this sweet, small thing he feels towards you to fullness.

His eyes narrowed playfully, "Are you embarrassed right now?"

Out of this entire teasing exchange, that note seemed to surprise you and turned you shy.  Short of clapping a hand onto your cheek, you just darted your gaze away- can you be cuter if you tried?

“h-Yeah, a little!" –though you tried to snark your way out of it, "you were hurt before, and blubbery- but now that we’re y'know– awake, and talking... Pretty faces make me nervous."

Nervous? Pretty? Aizawa doesn’t like the sound of either of those.

Aizawa raised a brow and gave a look, a touch more serious.

"Hey," He tapped your chin still with his free hand, "if you want me to lay off, you say the word."

Blindly, you hold his hand from retreating away– "No. You're good, I promise."

He’s drowning in you leaning into the cool touch offered to you–

“ Heh, I–uh… I’m pretty sure ‘friends’ don’t talk about each other like this, though.”

He couldn't be a coward now– not with you melting on the spot and giving him an insane amount of hope.

“Maybe not,” Aizawa reasoned gently, “-not if they’re content to stay that way.” 

–then all of a sudden his heart soared at her next words:

"Well… I like this."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I like you, like this.” With your insistence for touch, you cupped his wrist in your own chill-tipped hand.

Hell yeah. 

Aizawa huffs another win in his foolish heart, but then watches as you keep talking–  you don’t break from your softness, but look reflective off to an absent point on his chest.

“It’s funny, y'know? Most jobs, you’d be lucky to find someone you would actually wanna talk to outside of board meetings and quarterly reports… but here in our line of work, you count on each other to save your lives.”

“That’s right.” Aizawa breathes.

“I uh.. never thought I’d be workin’ with kids- trying to keep them alive too. Teach them how to do the same. But I wouldn’t feel nearly as confident to do it, rise to the challenge, if it weren’t for you, ‘Zawa. You’re just as special. Inside and out.”

And when you look to his eyes again, fully awake and still sober, he swears he’ll say yes to any night Hizashi invites him to if it means he can have you this close. Things with you just feel lived-in. Companionable. He’s drawn to you in a way unlike others before you, because he didn’t believe he’s had the right, desire, or time to even entertain it. 

But everything’s different now. It just works, in his mind. He wants to spend his respites, his missions, everything- with you at his side, having his back. For however long you’d let him.

Touching your cheek, cursing the helmet you’d have to wear on the way home that would hide this angelic face from him once again– Aizawa curls towards you, barely tipping his head which screams ‘kiss her you ass’. You notice, and follow his lead almost halfway. 

“Yeah, I like you like this…” you sighed lightly, “--and I’d like us like this, too.” 

"Hm. Good."

...the door to the patio swinging open from around the corner startles you both. Present Mic doesn’t know his strength as he projects for the block to hear, swaggering about in his search.

You looked flustered sitting back up, but Aizawa was characteristically unphased at the sight of Hizashi finally rounding with a singsong cry of his name. 

Dammit.

"Hey kids, been looking for YOU, Miss America! There's some stateside artists on the karaoke lineup with your name on iiiiit- c’mon! I hyped you already to Nemuri– she didn't believe me that you sang with me for my English midterms!!"

"What?!” you blanched, “ Who said I was doing that?"

"I did!!” Yamada thumbed at his own brilliance, “ C’mon I'll do the first one with you!"

"First one– Dude, I don't need to be touting my Southern-ass self to a bunch of pros before I even make a name for myself here."

"This is HOW you'll do it! Come n’ wow them, break the ice- you’ll do amazing!" Yamada came to your side of the settee, tugging you up to your feet with little fight. "Tch, Sho, you're rubbing off on her, aren't you? Turning our sweet teach into a wallflower as we speak, huh?"

"She was doing me a favor- has an eye out for me when I needed an escape, unlike you." Aizawa droned, to your amusement.

"Yeah yeah fair enough. Now pleeeeeease, would you come inside?  It would be so much fun!"

From the way you’re freshening your jacket collar, you’re warmed from the neck up, caught between what just almost happened and the current situation Yamada is putting you in.

You look to Aizawa just like you did inside– a  glance, but it lingers longer than before. Like you are waiting to see what he thinks. If he’ll stay or go, should you leave. 

But Aizawa isn’t so selfish like before. He doesn’t feel it necessary to keep you to himself, because he sees your affection so clearly in your eyes now. He hosts butterflies in his stomach, yes, but they aren’t frantic and flitting about wondering what you may or may not think of him- chronically tired and a contrast to the breath of fresh air you are. You see him as a companion, too. Someone he might just get the chance to study, and learn, and adore in return.

No, he knows you like him as he is. Knows you’ll choose to meet him where he stands. He can share you, and will simply watch on as you stun him even more...

The Pro-Hero is desperate for some eyedrops in all this wind outside, but he would grin and bear it if you choose to deny Yamada’s pull on you. So instead, he merely leans forward to perch on his knees, with a hand on the lip of both your drinks. What Aizawa says in his non-answer left it open to what you wanted to do.  Stay or go, he’d follow suit.

Returning to the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fellow teacher, you breathily gave in with your ‘ok’. 

"YEAAAAAUHHHH!"

"Damn peer pressure."

"You said yes," Aizawa smirked.

"Oh if she’s going, you're coming in too!" Hizashi was already whisking you away, and Aizawa rose on his own, following your knowing smile over your shoulder and matching it. 

With many forced karaoke and radio show nights, it’s Aizawa who braves the crowd and comes up behind you at one of Present Mic’s shows,  stepping in from the balcony where you wait by its door. He’s fresh off of work, sporting a new scar across his cheek courtesy of his day job, this time.. but you greet him with that familiar scrunch of the nose that he still finds adorable.

It’s rare he leaves campus nowadays, because he feels the stakes are higher than ever for him to remain vigilant. His students are his life, and as proud of them as he is, they are a constant effort of his mind and strength. Rest doesn’t come easy, and his rewards for a job (passably) done aren’t found in many places. 

One constant he has found helps, has been you. 

You, still alluring as ever, but who makes sure he doesn’t fixate on giving and giving of himself until he breaks– but to take his rests, reset, and even take a little jaunt over to these radio shows when he has staff coverage back at the dorms. Gives you two some time to get nostalgic, sentimental– or as close as he can get to those mushy spots in his heart about the club where he wrestled out his feelings for you for the first time.

He smooths a hand across your lower back now, when he joins you. He’s held onto your hands when they're cold, giving you whatever warmth he has. He knows each and every gap on your resume, partnered with you out on the streets, tag-teams in his classroom with this plucky 1-A Class he now leads, and is content to let you fill his thoughts when he wants to rest his eyes.

He doesn’t fight his affections now. Still would rather not simper in public too much because he’s quite averse to being the center of tabloids’ attentions, but stands by you all the same. 

"I'm surprised to not see you up there,” Aizawa greets, cool as ever. 

You lean on a hip, closer to him. 

"He's got his sets lined up today, didn't ask me-” You speak a little louder over the crowd, “I swear, your cockatoo still acts like I'm some gift from the heavens, just ‘cuz I can sing!"

"It's earned. You deserve every bit of it, and not just from Hizashi."

You turned over to him shyly, drawing his attention further– your tendencies to melt under his words encourages Aizawa to compliment you directly. Often. Whatever it is about his voice that you say you’re obsessed with, he still doesn’t understand– but he uses it to full advantage as he robs your drink from your hand,

"I happen to think you have a gorgeous voice," Aizawa speaks low to your ear. “You should sing at home more often.”

“Please. As if the kids would ever let me live it down.”

You refer -of course- to the twenty shared students between you, taking them all in stride since you’ve sufficiently bonded through fire alongside them. 

“That’s teaching for ya. Gotta push yourself beyond, plus ultra and all that.”

You chortle back in your throat, risking a kiss on his etched cheek to counter his snide remark, 

“You’re off the clock, ‘Zawa. No more hero talk, huh?” 

Aizawa cocks a brow, stealing a sip, “Sorry we can’t all turn it off like you, dear.”

The comment has you biting the inside of your mouth at the tease, and allows him a quick moment to press the glass’ condensation against his eye. 

“Want some air, hon?” you try again, softer than this atmosphere should allow.

Looking back at you -your hold on his elbow ready to guide him outside just like the first night- and Aizawa doesn’t need any more sips of the whiskey he holds.  

The retreat to ‘your couch’ is one he looks forward to any chance he gets. Bass boosted from the speakers inside becomes background noise that dulls his senses, doubled by the way you cozy up under his arm watching the skyline shift in light and color in comfortable silence. You trade roles with him: taking watch while he shuts his eyes for some restorative hydration. 

But before he gets too terribly relaxed by your weight settling his aching muscles to stillness, he registers a warm press to his mouth that he’s quick to chase after. That’s a satisfying thought, too: he doesn't have to imagine what it'd be like to kiss you anymore. 

[saintsenara]

How do you think Sirius felt about Lupin not reaching out to Harry before POA? Would he be angry or would he understand that Lupin’s condition (plus extreme poverty) would have made that difficult (along with his guilt and self loathing ofc)?

controversially... i don't think he gave a shit.

before i have the timeline up in arms, let me say that i'm an enormous fan of harry and sirius' canon relationship. the muddy paw-print good luck card - and the fact that sirius is the only person harry ever seems even vaguely child-like with, and the fact that harry knows that sirius is dead because he'd never disappear from his sight otherwise - lives rent-free in my head, and i understand completely why so many fans hate seeing the depth of their relationship devalued in service of a characterisation of sirius which is stupid, prissy, flaky, and fickle. because i'm one of them.

however... i must also be frank that there are some things which have emerged in reaction to this fanon devaluation of sirius' commitment to harry which i think are a little overblown. [and which have moved beyond "good godfather sirius black" to "flawless godfather sirius black".]

the reaction sirius is often written as having - within the canon timeline [alternate universes are alternate universes] - to harry's pre-hogwarts experience is one of them.

sirius is often taken as someone who's ready to murder the dursleys and whisk harry away from them at the slightest provocation. within such a characterisation, lupin's failure to check in on harry during his childhood - and, therefore, his failure to do anything about the neglect and abuse harry was experiencing - could be presumed to have sirius ready to tear his old friend limb-from-limb.

in prisoner of azkaban, sirius invites harry to live with him - not because he wants to rescue him, but because he's harry's legal guardian according to james and lily's wishes, and he wants to fulfil those wishes - but by order of the phoenix he takes the same view of harry living with the dursleys as everyone else does: that it isn't nice by any means, but that it is necessary.

that is, once sirius knows about the blood protection - which we can presume happens fairly shortly after prisoner of azkaban, since we know he and dumbledore write to each other - he's completely on board with harry staying where he is.

and this connects to something else i think the fandom has a tendency to overstate: the extent to which sirius intervenes in harry's favour against the rest of the order.

because - yes - sirius is absolutely right to say - on harry's first night in grimmauld place - that he should be updated on what the order have been doing while he's been in little whinging.

this is correct from an operational standpoint - and the primary flaw in molly weasley's argument is, as lupin points out, that excluding the children in the house only stops them learning accurate information about the order's mission, rather than information full stop.

and it also shows sirius' understanding of and respect for who harry is as a person. he's the only adult character in the book who explicitly recognises that harry objects to being infantilised, is frustrated with the information blackout to which he's subjected, and feels that his own contribution and usefulness to the anti-voldemort cause is being overlooked for no good reason.

but... even as we acknowledge this, we also have to acknowledge that - while he recognises that harry's feelings are valid - sirius never suggests that the order's treatment of harry is inappropriate, unnecessary, or unreasonable.

throughout order of the phoenix sirius takes exactly the same view as everyone else:

that harry should be subjected to an information blackout that he should remain in little whinging until told otherwise that he shouldn't be told he's being surveilled that he shouldn't be told about the prophecy and its contents that he shouldn't be made privy to the detail of the order's plans that he shouldn't be informed that he might be possessed and - above all - that dumbledore's decisions when it comes to harry are the right ones and dumbledore's interpretation of events which involve harry is correct

clearly, there's some tension in sirius and dumbledore's relationship in order of the phoenix. but this relates to sirius' view of his own experience - in particular, his struggles with seeing any non-active contribution to the order as valuable. when it comes to harry, he defers - like all the other adults in the order - to dumbledore.

and this is obviously going to affect how sirius understands harry's experience while he was in azkaban.

dumbledore explains to harry - at the end of order of the phoenix - that he was placed with the dursleys for his own protection. not only does the blood protection keep him safe from voldemort - indeed, it is the only thing [as both dumbledore and voldemort acknowledge] that does - but his separation from the wizarding world keeps him safe from voldemort's supporters. and while - yes - dumbledore is withholding certain, horcrux-related bits of the truth from harry here, the broader truth remains... harry is placed with the dursleys because it's the only way to keep him alive, and - regardless of whether the reader thinks this justifies what happens to him - canon is clear that sirius, whose only motivation is to keep harry safe, would.

which means that lupin wouldn't need to offer any explanation for not attempting to seek harry out beyond "dumbledore said not to".

i also think, as a post-script, that the fact that harry doesn't seem to be particularly bothered by his distant relationship with lupin - while sirius is alive, that is - is another reason why sirius wouldn't care about it.

sirius' priority - which i say not as a wolfstar-versus-prongsfoot thing but as a "these are the group dynamics in the canon text" thing - is james. lupin and pettigrew are both clearly his secondary friends while james is alive.

and so, while i reject the idea that he sees harry as indistinguishable from james - this is nonsense the films invented - sirius does nonetheless see harry as someone who takes the same role in society as james did [notice, for example, that he always imagines harry as a leader and the other child characters as followers]. this is the thing he perceives as the same across his relationship with harry and his relationship with james: that he is the only person seen as a peer or co-leader, rather than a follower. he can't envision harry feeling let down by lupin, because in this context lupin would have to have had power over harry to let him down.

if harry was angry at lupin himself - especially if harry framed this as being betrayed or shown insufficient loyalty - i think there's grounds to claim that sirius would share this anger. but i don't think he'd ever be inclined to manufacture it for himself.

[my-favourite-zhent]

New Tricks - Chapter 2

Status: Work In Progress

Version: 2.01

Pairing: Rugan x AFAB!OC

Rating: NC-17 (This chapter PG-13)

Genre: Adventure/Romance Excerpt:

“Isn't this sort of thing beneath a man of your skills?” Eyes wide and innocent as she peered into his own, lower lip in a coy pout. “Would you like to be?” He wrapped his own hand around the wrist that held his jerkin. “Hmmm?” That honey sweet voice again, warm and inviting. “Beneath a man of my skills?”

Table of Contents

Read Here on AO3 or below the cut~

New Tricks - Chapter Two

The mood lightened considerably when the caravan finally made the city. Enough of the goods remained that they'd been paid a tidy some.

Jubilant shouts and cheers echoed across the warehouse as the loading got finished. The Gate crew was getting an early start on the usual payday celebrations, bottles of brandy being passed around freely.

The Waterdeep crews didn't share much in the mirth. They weren't unfriendly per se, but they kept to themselves.

“Locals are a bit moody ain’t they?” Bellar took a healthy swig of his bottle before passing it to Rugan.

“Zarys says they’ve been having trouble with the local thieves guild. We’re to be on our best behaviour so’s not to further upset the city guards.” Rugan took his own sip before passing to Olly in turn.

“Trouble? Zhents should be their top customers. Who else is gonna shift their shite?”

“Well not everyone can be as congenial as we Baldurians.”

Olly, who had had a bit too much to drink at this point, uncharacteristically piped up. “Zarys says you're a bit too congenial with Keene’s crew, Rugan.”

Rugan's voice raised in mock offence. “First of all lad, I wouldn't be taking lessons in congeniality from Zarys of all people. If you ever see that black-hearted vixen smile, run the other way. Me on the other hand; why, I simply help along negotiations. If anyone's too friendly, I heard it's Vol who's shagging their accountant.”

“The one in the mask?” Olly gaped.

“The very same!”

“No, you're making that up!” Bellar couldn't help laughing even as he said it.

“Why do you think he wears that mask? Her doggies got him!”

The three burst out in a fit of drunken laughter. Only broken up when Vol herself yelled down from the catwalk.

“Oi! If you lot don't shut it down there it's you I'll sick my dogs on!”

Rugan held a finger to his lips to indicate silence but this just brought on a fresh wave of, albeit quieter, laughter from the trio.

Vol stomped off muttering something about mouthy old bastards but left it at that.

When the laughter finally died down, Bellar wiped a tear from his eye before turning to Rugan, sotto voce. “Have that conversation with Brem yet?”

“Aye, why do you think he's been dodging me? Idiot feels proper embarrassed now and rightly so.”

“Ain't the first Zhent to get led astray by 'is little knife.””

“Right enough for Olly’s age. Brem’s seasoned enough to know better.”

“I wouldn’t pull something like that.” Olly interjected indignantly.

“Well obviously not you Olly, but the rest of us were a lot less… mature at your age.”

“We’re a lot less mature now.” Bellar snorted.

“Are you three still able to stand, or are you proper smashedcompletely wankered?” The trio hadn’t noticed Zarys’ approach and all stiffened at her question.

“We can stand.” Olly quickly replied.

“Good, come with us. We’re off to the office then.” Her smile reminded Rugan of a hyena’s bared fangs. He wondered idly if she had overheard him earlier.

Zarys led them to the lone stairwell to the office, glancing back over her shoulder. “Oh, and don’t think you can scarper off Rugan.”

Oh good, she had heard him.

Bellar gave Rugan’s shoulder a squeeze while suppressing a laugh.

Zarys took a seat at the solitary desk and gestured for Olly to shut the door.

“We've got another job comin’ up, lads.”

“We just done a job, Zarys.” Whined Bellar.

“Quit your whinging, it's just for one night. A duke's fancy bash needs some extra security, easy work.”

“Hardly any fights at those. Sounds like a job for the locals, yeah?”

“Locals might be known as Zhents.”

“We’re not going as Zhents then?”  Rugan blinked in surprise. Unusual, a job well done could bolster their reputation among the nobility.

“No, because that ain’t the real job.”

“Go on then, what’s the real job?” Rugan suspected he wasn't going to like it.

“You three are going to nick something from the duke’s estate.”

“Oi Zarys, we’re head crackers not sneak thieves.”

“Bellar’s right, this isn't exactly our area of expertise .”

“Then it's a good thing we’ll be the security team as well, isn’t it?” Zarys smirked. Rugan had to concede it was a smart plan.

“And what we takin, then?” Bellar's eyes narrowed with suspicion. 

“Nothing magical I hope,” added Rugan.

“Netherese tablets for a wizard back in Baldur's Gate.”

“Aah, I've gone and jinxed it,” Rugan lamented.

“They're not magic.” Zarys corrected him. “Just dead old. Some sort of relic. Small enough to easily smuggle out, I've been assured.”

Rugan sighed, Zarys had also been assured there wouldn’t be much trouble on the road.

He and Bellar shared a look, both doubting it would be as easy as she said.

“Not a word of this to the others though, special assignment. And cheer up, you lot, we're going to a party.” Zarys’ smiled viciously before waving them off. “You’re free to go now.”

The trio turned to leave.

“Oh, and leave the bottle. I reckon Rugan’s had quite enough. We don't need him to do any more mouthing off.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Rugan agreed in a tone that was all resignation.

��++++

The ‘party’, if it could rightly be called one, was about as fun as a wet mop. 

‘ No, worse than that, ’ thought Rugan. ‘ At least you can beat someone with the handle end of a mop. ’

Not a single fight had broken out, there were no card games to be had, and all discussions revolved around trade or some bit of gossip about who had planted the wrong sort of hedges this year. To top it off, the entirety of the damn wait staff had been ordered to not serve any wine to the ‘security’ team.

“You'll want to have your wits about you gentlemen.” Duke Errol had condescended.

“Would really rather be crackin’ heads right about now.” Sighed Bellar, stealing a swig from a flask he surreptitiously retrieved from his vest.

“Oi, gimme that.” Rugan chided with his hand outstretched, as if chastising a willful child. “Black Hand knows what Zarys will do if she catches you with that.”

Begrudgingly Bellar handed over the canteen only for Rugan to bring it to his own lips.

“Hey!”

“There,” Rugan gulped as he finished the last of the wine. “Now you don't have to worry about being caught.”

“You're a prick Rugan.”

“Serves you right for not sharing.” He intoned as he handed back the empty vessel. “Why don't you go see what the lad’s gotten up to. Keep yourself busy.”

Bellar grumbled but went on his way. With any luck he'd be able to pilfer some more wine when backs were turned.

Rugan inhaled deeply, the night was cool but not uncomfortably so. The chill and fresh air were a pleasant contrast to the heat of the drink warming his face.

Spiralling stone steps wound up the hill from the base of the tower where he now stood. As he glanced up towards the night sky he saw a figure descending those stairs towards him.

‘“Nother rich tosser.’ He thought with a twinge of annoyance. Not that there would be guests of any other sort.

He could just make out the person now, a short lissome woman in a green dress. The light cotton was draped across itself forming a v-shaped neckline and was cinched at the waist with a leather braid. From there flowed two long strips of fabric that came to her calves but left the sides of her legs on full display. Nowhere to hide a weapon really, or anything else for that matter. The woman drew closer and he lifted his gaze to take in her face. She was a pretty thing with delicate features, gently framed in a mass of wavy black hair. 

Unlike the other guests who had come down this way she was staring intently at the tower, her lips twitching ever so slightly. He followed her gaze, ‘ She’s counting the windows .’ The realisation came with a touch of trepidation. Maybe this party did actually need security after all. Rugan straightened and held his hand up as she approached.

“This area is off limits, miss.” His voice was authoritative but not overly harsh.

The woman in green’s eyes widened and she smiled at him, noticing him for the first time.

“Security I take it?” She looked at him appraisingly, in much the same way he had just done her. Her voice was light and sweet, and he found her face all the more enjoyable up close.

“Aye, and I'll have to ask you to give the tower a wide berth.”

“You're not one of the duke's usual guards.” The woman was eyeing him more closely now. She took a step towards him, such that they were mere inches apart.

“Outside contractor.” He felt some of the usual charm slipping into his voice and a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. It couldn't be helped when a pretty lady was concerned.

“Hmmm.” She reached forward and pulled back the collar of his leather armour, revealing the winged snake pendant he had been wearing underneath. 

“Unusual work for a Zhent.” Her voice was low and conspiratorial, though there was no one else around to overhear them.

“And what would you know of the black network, lass?” His tone teasing, albeit with an edge of warning.

“Isn't this sort of thing beneath a man of your skills?”

“Would you like to be?” He wrapped his own hand around the wrist that held his jerkin. “Hmmm?” That honey sweet voice again, warm and inviting.

“Beneath a man of my skills?” 

The words had tumbled out of him before he could stop himself. Not the sort of thing you should say to a noble guest of your employer, especially if you didn't want Zarys to cut off your balls for botching a job. Yet it couldn't be helped, he had always been a flirt at heart and unaccustomed to holding his tongue for civilians.

Perhaps not entirely to his surprise, the woman laughed softly before leaning forward. Her lips brushed gently against his own, feather light. Rugan thought to pull her close to get a better taste when a shout from above jolted them apart.

“Erica! Are you down there dear?” 

“Hells,” she breathed. “My date.”

“Your date?” His eyebrows raised in amusement. He quite enjoyed the idea of cuckolding some preening noble.

She hastily stumbled back to make some space between the two of them. Erica gestured to her lips and Rugan realised some of her rouge must have smudged on him. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand just as her date came into view.

“Ah, there you are dear. You've just missed me imparting some wisdom to poor young lord Adarbrent regarding the errors he’s been making with his shipping routes.” The man was puffing slightly from the descent. He was dressed ostentatiously in red and white finery. It was clearly of expensive make and yet it's cut and pattern did not flatter the gaunt man in the least.

“I'm sure he greatly appreciated your acumen, Lord Cragsmere.” Her voice was still sweet, but Rugan thought he heard the slightest hint of sarcasm therein. Whatever the case Lord Cragsmere did not notice.

“Please dear, as I've said before, call me Glaerus.”

“It would be unbefitting for a lady of my station, saer.” Rugan noticed she seemed to be standing more stiffly than before, a certain tightness in her shoulders. 

He wondered to himself if she were a hired companion. Though not an experienced one, certainly, she had not fully mastered hiding her distaste for her date. Close, but not quite.

“Do come now my dear, no need for formalities. Now if you would accompany me.” Glaerus tried to direct her back up the stairs.

“Oh but I was just asking this gentleman where the garderobe might be.”

Glaerus turned, as if suddenly noticing Rugan’s presence. Rugan smiled politely, but the look Glaerus returned was full of disdain. The noble turned back to Erica. “Nevermind dear, I’ll show you the way. Come along.” He grasped her wrist tightly and made to drag her away at a brisk pace.

The woman followed along dutifully, but turned to give Rugan a coy smile before shaking her head.

“Well that’s a damned shame,” muttered Rugan ruefully when the pair were out of earshot.

He turned to see Bellar jogging towards him. “What’s the hurry, lad?”

“Guess what the little bugger pulled off.” Bellar grinned and held out a ring of keys, giving them a jingle for good measure. Rugan noticed Olly had come along as well, just a few paces behind.

“How’d you manage that lad?” A wry grin spread across Rugan’s features, he was impressed.

“Oh um, a nice bloke in the kitchen gave them to me.” Replied Olly, reaching back to fix his hair. Rugan noted a touch of red on the boy’s cheeks.

“I’d put coin on it, he did!” Crowed Bellar, giving Olly a hearty slap on the back.

“Well then lads,” Rugan chuckled, catching the keys deftly as Bellar tossed them. “It's time to get to work.”

[meanderingfamilytree]

Contains: GN!Reader, M!Bailey, noncon, omegaverse, blackmail (kind of???), threats of mentioned sharing, an obscene amount of Bailey’s bastardery

Written as part of The Omega Hunt collab

Around 2k words

The leaves of the forest bristle against the wind. The scent of lust permeates the air, dripping like honey against the tongue. Though some remain oblivious to it, like Bailey himself, even betas wear a primal hunger like a second skin. Bailey’s eyebrows twitch at the sight of the town’s most prominent alphas all worked up. The omega scents must practically call for them—oh, take me, fuck me, alpha—and in turn, the alpha scents must render those poor little omegas helpless to their touch. 

In a way, it is a disappointment. But Bailey is used to disappointments. It was inevitable from the moment Quinn delighted over their genius idea of spraying all the omegas with an aphrodisiac to trigger their heat. Have them squirming and easier to subdue, pliant and mewling—eager, even. He understands the appeal. It is less work, isn’t it? And this crowd may prefer that.

Bailey prefers the brutal; bruises and finger marks, violence in the form of skin against skin. Is it really fucking without it? He would rather take you in a single, fierce thrust whilst your hole is still dry, shoving his cock inside you. Render you gradually helpless as you accept that this has indeed happened—this is your only reality. Fuck you until you reek sharply of nothing but semen and blood. 

Unfortunately, things do not always work out in Bailey’s favour. Instead, he would have you served in a goddamn silver platter, all turned on and squirming. Pleasant, in its own way, he tells himself. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

Bailey could not possibly turn down the invitation for the hunt. In fact, shouldn’t he be given credit for this entire event? Dear Mayor Quinn struts around proudly, but this hunt would not have happened at all without Bailey. He had been the one to tug and hassle with all those omega brats as they whinged and whined to maturity. He served as a firm fist to hold them on a tight leash until this day, keeping their sorry little ass safe from trouble. Acknowledgement doesn’t matter too much, however. As long as Quinn’s money sufficiently lines his pockets, it is enough. And he gets to have you. His rightful reward. 

You are the reddest apple of the bunch—and doesn’t Bailey deserve to sink his teeth into the best? Lap up the sweet, tangy nectar as it runs down his wrist?

Bailey looks around, and all he can see are animals gathered in anticipation of the upcoming hunt. Each and every one of them is a reflection of himself, no matter how much they usually pretend otherwise.

What is there to account here but for hunger? Greed, lust, desire, impulse, fate, love, call it what you want. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. At its root, Bailey considers it pure, unadulterated hunger and nothing more. 

The willingness to devour; swallow you whole. That crumbling feeling in the pit of his stomach when he looks at you must be hunger. He will lick every inch of your body clean. Suck on your lips, pull at it, and nibble on the base of your throat. Take you, because that is all Bailey knows how to do—he is a greedy man, fingers clawed and grasping at all the world offers.

He had watched you for a while now. Examined the flexing of your fingers and the lines of your waist from a distance as you made a life in the orphanage. Nothing broke you yet, did it? Life was likely difficult for an orphan and an omega at that. But somehow, you are still moving, living. With eyes that breathe with hidden light, unlike Bailey’s. 

Bailey wonders if you really smell as intoxicating as those alphas enthuse about. Though he has always considered his beta status a convenience in his profession, detached from a primal, blind lust, it is a pity for once. In the quiet corner of his mind, he laments being unable to take you fully. 

No matter.

He’ll still be able to look into your eyes when he fucks you. See his own reflection within your pupils. Watch as the light flicker and die.

It makes Bailey’s stomach clench.

And you are oblivious to all of Bailey’s thoughts. Sure, you know that a fucking bunch of perverts are chasing after you. You know that your fate will likely be dim if you are caught, so you run. Bare-footed, tripping and tumbling to the ground, but running. It is a frantic flee from the looming shadow.

But it’s so difficult. A tantalising hunger at your core is tearing you apart from the inside out. You nearly want to turn around and throw yourself at the nearest alpha. A persistent throb between your legs doesn’t subside no matter how far you run; instead, it only intensifies. 

In the lawless haze of pleasure haunting your own mind, you do not realise you are running in circles. After all, with an aphrodisiac sprayed all over your body and in the tangled wildness of forest trees, one gets easily lost. 

You are too tired soon enough. The trees around you seem relatively quiet, and the wind doesn’t betray the scent of any nearby alpha. The temptation of a brief rest is too strong. Just to catch your breath, and no, your hands are definitely not tentatively touching between your legs, searching desperately for any sort of reprieve. 

It isn’t hard for Bailey to find you. 

Bailey watches you pant, gulping in shallow breaths like a fish drowning in water. Your eyes dart this way and that, momentarily relieved of your perceived solitude. Perhaps it would be amusing to stay hidden a little longer. Indulge you. He does not approach you but only leisurely traces the lines of your body, each curve and bend. The sheen of sweat against your skin looks like fucking silk—or is it velveteen? It is almost ridiculous. 

Fuck it.

He walks out from his hiding place; you scream. 

Like a frightened deer, you try to run—only to be caught by unhesitant fingers pulling at your hair. In a swift, detached movement, Bailey pushes you down on the ground and mounts you easily. 

You struggle. But Bailey only tightens his hold of you as he shoves his left knee between your leg.

“I would shut up, if I were you,” he snaps, “Keep screaming and others might decide to happily join us. Would you prefer that?” 

Bailey is rather glad that he is not you, actually. He would’ve even pitied you if he was not who he made himself to be. But that is beside the point. The point is that he would like to fuck you right now. Hunger always triumphs. 

He rubs his knee against your groin with the slightest pressure, and you fall apart. It’s only natural, considering the state you are in, but all the more fun to mock.

“Turned on already, are you?” Bailey asks. His hands grip and fondle your skin—starting from your nape, your hard nipples, down to your waist, and to the insides of your thighs. 

I will claim you here, he thinks. As mine. Not much of your life will change. You will stay in the orphanage for another year, just while regularly bouncing on my cock. Panting, tongue hanging out, until you truly become a bitch in heat. Until you drool with hunger as fierce as my own, until the light in your eyes finally goes out, until I break you. But I’ll bring you back here next year; you will join the hunt again. And I’ll hunt you, claim you, fuck you with a vicious hunger again, and again, and again—year after another, and another, and another. Until I get bored of you. After that, I might even sell you off to the highest bidder; I can’t monopolise you forever, can I? But until then, you belong to me. And even then, you would always be my property.

Bailey does not hesitate. 

“I could call for the others, you know,” he threatens, as he lines his cock against your lips, “Show them what a pretty sight you make.” Slowly, he rubs the shaft on your face, disregarding how you wince and cringe. “I know all the worst bastards in town. Perhaps I could have them claim you instead?” 

These are all empty threats, not that you know that it is. You know with a devastating certainty who Bailey is and how far he is willing to go. So when he finally thrusts his cock into your mouth, you ensure that your teeth don’t scrape against the shaft. 

It’s too deep. Gasping for air, you feel your face redden. His cockhead touches the back of your throat. All you taste and smell is him and nothing more. Bailey’s fingers dig into your hair, grasping onto it as if it’s a convenient handle. Your eyes water, but Bailey slaps your face warningly if you try to close it, even for a split second. 

Why me? You wonder. Why me, and not the omega who used the room across the hallway? Perhaps you should be relieved that at least you know the true nature of the man who is brutalising you. There is no naive hope here. No glimpse of false light in the darkness of the tunnel, no hoping that maybe, maybe this alpha or beta wouldn’t be too much of an asshole.

Even as you despised Bailey the entire time under his care, you did not expect… this. Somehow, you thought that he was incapable of feeling anything, really, but anger and annoyance. Not even desire. Not even hunger. This makes him feel too human. As you taste Bailey’s cock, he becomes no different from all the rest of the nameless, faceless townspeople, lusting after pleasure.

What makes the whole ordeal worse is how much your entire body increasingly pulses with desire. In a lightheaded, giddy, trance-like state, you undeniably, inexplicably want his cock. Not just in your mouth but inside your hole. Fucking you whole. 

After what feels like a lifetime, Bailey takes out his fully hardened cock from your mouth. When he places each of your ankles on his shoulders, your legs are spread wide open, revealing your twitching, eager little hole. 

He shoves his cock inside you in a single motion, and it plunges in deep with surprising ease. It is as if your body has been longing for it all this time—the ultimate betrayal. 

Even so, you choke from the momentary pain. Then comes the blinding pleasure. You can feel every inch of his cock—thick, firm, and warm inside your body. Bailey rubs the end of his nose against your neck, and for a moment, he deceives himself that he can really smell you; perhaps he can finally know the intoxicating, torturing scent of omegas. But the moment passes. What he really smells is a mixture of sweat and fear and the sweet soap that you wash your body every day with.  

Moaning involuntarily, you try to clasp your palm against your lips to silence it; Bailey does not allow it. He holds your wrist above your head as his thrusts set into a methodical yet unpredictable rhythm. You cry out loud. 

Yet this hunger is relentless. Even while Bailey fucks you hard and rough, the knot in his stomach only seems to wind up tighter and tighter. Perhaps it is not so much a hunger but a thirst.

Your hunger is relentless too. Whilst the sensation of a cock spreading you wide open takes the edge off momentarily, it does not satisfy you. After all, Bailey is a beta and nothing more. Your omega nature squirms desperately for an alpha to claim you, rut against you. 

But there is no one else here. 

No one but Bailey. 

Bailey, who you hated with an undying passion since the very beginning and evermore. Bailey, who would never be enough for you. Would never be your alpha. In turn, you will never be his. At least, that is what you tell yourself. 

He kisses your lips with all teeth—a clash rather than the gentle embrace of the lips. Things seem marginally better. Choking back a sound of pleasure, he shuts his eyes. 

He does not see his own image reflected in your eyes—perhaps it is better that way, at least for his sanity, not that there is much left anyway.  

Bailey spends inside your hole with a sharp grunt as your body limply shudders at the sensation. It is almost gentle, the way that he picks away the damp hair clinging onto your forehead after that. His fingers travel across your cheek and onto your neck. 

He could easily choke you like that; his fingers grasp your neck. But he does not apply any pressure. 

Bailey kisses you again; this time with tenderness.

You close your eyes. 

[siren-ocean]

Shades of insanity

Greta learns the truth about her parents' deaths on her eleventh birthday. The darkest, most feared wizard killed her mother and father on the Halloween—as one might expect of a sorcerer. Aunt Petunia sneered back then, saying that murderers respect neither tradition nor sentiment. But Greta soon forgets the news, lost in the realization that magic is real. All her strange, unexplainable incidents turn out to be completely ordinary for a typical wizard. No more beating herself up for being different or trying to squeeze into the norms of Little Whinging. Diagon Alley, a bank run by terrifying goblins, a mountain of her own gold, wands sparking like fireworks, real owls, and flying cauldrons—everything blurs together into a whirlwind of joy, full of memories a lonely, beaten-down orphan like her has always needed.

"Slytherin!" the Sorting Hat shouts, ignoring the desperate pleas of a young girl, even if she's the heroine of the wizarding world. With trembling hands, Greta carefully places the battered artifact back on the stool and clenches her fists. She has no desire to be a Slytherin; she certainly doesn't feel like a dark wizard, but she moves under the green banners and takes a seat next to the ever-annoying Malfoy.

A bell chimes softly in the air.

It's cold, damp, and stifling in the dungeons. Pansy, far too arrogant for her age (though, according to Ron Weasley, it's quite fitting for a pure-blood witch), is shaping up to be Greta's worst nightmare for the years to come. Malfoy, always lounging around the common room with his goons, doesn't improve matters. The disdainful word "half-blood" follows her everywhere she goes.

In rare moments alone, away from her classmates, Greta always finds Snape nearby. She's convinced magic is involved, so she starts diligently studying tracking spells. Her stern Potions professor and head of her house seem to consider it his daily duty to humiliate her at least once. Potter doesn't get it, and finds herself confused, flustered, and frustrated.

The answer comes, quite unintentionally, from Hagrid. During one of their evening talks, he tells her about her father, his Marauder friends, and their endless pranks at the expense of the then-young and ambitious Severus Snape.

By the end of her first year, Greta loathes Snape just as much as he loathes her. She only wishes she could pull her father's memories of the professor's humiliations—she'd love to watch them unfold.

The faint ringing of a bell echoes again in the dungeons.

Potter doesn't have much interest in breaking school rules for midnight strolls or duels in secret corridors. She prefers the library (first in the main section, then, by third year, she earns access to the Restricted Section thanks to the eccentric Trelawney). Greta throws herself into her studies, practicing spells in abandoned classrooms.

Watching her from afar, Dumbledore can't resist inviting her to his office. He greets her warmly, offers tea with lemon slices, and praises her academic success, often pointing out how much her thirst for knowledge reminds him of her mother. Then, almost as an afterthought, he notes that it seems she's inherited nothing from her father.

Greta is silent, sipping her herbal tea. She has no urge to change her hair color on a whim or play Quidditch; her hair blazes bright red, her eyes a clear, striking green. Only a silly fondness for George Weasley is buried deep inside. It seems her love for redheads is her only inheritance from the Potters.

The bell rings again.

As Greta grows older, meets her godfather, and begins to piece together the whole picture of the magical world, she feels like laughing madly. Wizards don't seem very interested in magic itself—they're far more consumed by power struggles. Those who consider themselves above Muggles fall victim to herd instincts just as easily. Some are drawn to Dumbledore's abstract phrases, while others gravitate toward Voldemort's flattery and threats.

Dumbledore makes her nauseous, and Voldemort's slave-like brand isn't much better (a snake with a skull doesn't exactly make for great tattoo art, in her opinion). Both of the magical world's leaders seem to want too much from her. But she has no intention of becoming anyone's symbol of hope, nor of fighting the man who killed her parents and his Death Eaters. If anything, she'd gather them all in one place and blow them—with a Muggle bomb.

Nearby, the bell keeps ringing.

The constant speeches and guidance Potter endures finally push her over the edge in the summer after her fourth year. She packs her things and runs away from the Dursleys. After all, she's a teenager— she feels the need to laugh and cry at the same time. She has every right to act a little recklessly.

In the nearest café, it's crowded and noisy. Greta slips into a corner booth, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible—not that it's easy with her striking appearance. Small and thin, with sharp collarbones that look ready to snap, a mane of dark ruby-red hair like frozen blood, and eyes that gleam like a cat's. A modern-day Alice for a mad hatter.

The latter happens to be sitting nearby, scrutinizing her alabaster skin. His brown eyes take in her bold, unconventional look, one you'd never expect to see in a small English town. He licks his lips, intrigued. An unclassifiable little girl. The man is sure she must have a streak of madness in those emerald eyes.

"Hello."

The stranger, unwilling to let such an intriguing specimen slip away, approaches her. Greta feels a sense of déjà vu, like with the Sorting Hat—she knows this isn't the right path, she shouldn't, but she gives in to fate, nods politely, and tells him her name.

The chime of bells grows louder.

After Hogwarts (thanks to Umbridge hinting that education isn't mandatory after fifth year), Greta is certain she's nothing like a Potter, except for her hatred of Snape and her fondness for a Weasley. She hides the latter deep in her heart, trying to kill it. If Jim ever found out, the headlines would explode with reports of mass murder and terrorist acts by morning.

Five years later, Greta is convinced the Sorting Hat was right—Slytherin is her house. Principles and kindness dissolved over years of studying alongside spoiled aristocrats, leaving only survival instincts, a predatory nature, and dark humor.

Aunt Petunia, had she been alive, would be pleased that Greta now despises the magical world. Unfortunately, as a fifteenth-birthday gift, Jim left her with the hearts of all the Dursleys, not forgetting delightful Marge.

As a child, hiding from Dudley and his friends in the local library, Greta loved reading fairy tales. She imagined herself as a princess, drawing tall towers and dreaming of a prince (and she did eventually meet a dragon). But it turned out that being the villain was far more thrilling and fun.

Stepping off the Hogwarts Express, Greta heads toward the Muggle side of the station without a word to anyone. There, waiting for her, is a luxury car with a driver, is Jim Moriarty, eagerly awaiting his witch.

Greta, no longer Potter, never thought she'd enjoy unleashing her inner madness, defying everyone's expectations. Jim Moriarty laughed at Sherlock's attachment to his pet and never expected he'd become dependent on some girl (though, considering Greta's a witch, she's far from "boring").

Alice has finally come home, back to the land of the mad, breaking the silence that drove the Hatter insane and making the hare, to the sound of bells, pour fresh black tea into her cup.

[notgoingwell]

Definitive turn-offs in fanfiction, barring standard issues like wrongly listed warnings, misleading tags and ships, turning a reader into an OC, crossposting, etc.:

-Immaturity (both in the rise of conflicts, as well as, simple dialogue) there's nothing more off-putting than two adult characters behaving like overemotional teenagers that put feelings above reason, entirely neglecting responsibilities and duties. There's always a time and place to address such things, but making hurt feelings the front and centre of a story, where the concerned person repeatedly whinges, is an absolute obnoxious vexation

-Twisted morality eg. villainising a reasonable person due to deviating beliefs one fails to comprehend, or normalising inappropriate, harmful behaviour 

-Insert modern sensibilities into fantasy or science fiction (issues, speech, behaviour, belief systems, etc.) This one especially turns into a jarring experience in a case like, eg. modern girl falls into XYZ trope -> Bear in mind that, depending on the time, and the world, they're in, they'll have to adjust. You won't be able to interact with anyone, less so, them apprehending anything in your colloquial language. (slang, idioms, abbreviations, and jokes) Not acknowledging those significant factors will influence the verisimilitude of your story, disregarding all believability and possible interesting bits you could've written about. Adjustments invite faux pas, trial and error, having severe consequences due to carelessness. One action causes a reaction.

-Out of Character I'm aware some characters are more easily to grasp and get the hang out of when writing them, but it irks me to no end when they all of a sudden talk as the next person on the street would, when they, before, had a unique way with words. (Adding, and this point, might as well, more likely be seen as "to each their own", turning them into something they weren't before because the author felt the need to project their own stuff onto said character)

-Main Character Syndrome (applies to both: Reader-inserts and OCs) Not every character has to be the chosen one, the one who's more powerful, knows all the answers, or is somehow the most special creature to ever have lived. It's okay to be normal and simply exist within this/other universe(s), without ever contributing anything groundbreaking. A small arc of changing one's mind, attitude or belief is as compelling as a larger-than-life adventure, if done right. And if a character happens to possess any special abilities, it'd be fascinating to see them working on their shortcomings and follow them throughout their training to master said skills (which one should not master without ever having trained) Additionally, and I sadly have witnessed this one quite often, to add to a new inserted character's uniqueness and giving them sth. to do, some authors will transfer lines or actions to their new addition from other people in-universe, failing to notice, that they've stolen these people's character-defining moments. There's a way to implement your character in the story without diminishing the roles of everyone around, no matter how minuscule. (don't even get me started on Reader/OC being the sole reason the protagonist/love interest chooses a path, takes action, etc. as shown in the media they're taken out of)

-Lack of creativity this one's tricky to define, especially with the example I'm about to give, 'cause it isn't inherently a bad thing, might as well be down to preference. More often than not, writers tend to insert characters by connecting them to the protagonists in some way, be it through familial bonds, established friendships or replacing the role of a side character. (throwing some shade at Star wars here, since they believe said bond is enough to make a character worth following/investing in)

Yet, it always seems so lacklustre and uncreative to just turn your Reader/OC into a sister, daughter, neighbour, or longtime friend, in order to have an easier way in. Even more so when that status quo replaces the relationship-developing phase of a story. I've always found it more intriguing to have strangers clash and find their way into working as a unit. And if one character simply replaces another, why insert it in the first place? 

Feel free to add.

[openingpandorasbox1]

DELETING PPL OF FACEBOOK (Part 3)

I don’t have problems with people who rang, have a bit of a whinge or bitch about something. I prefer people to keep it real than people who pretend their life is good when it’s not. I’m not into people who pretend their life is perfect. I’m not into people who are ashamed of things that go wrong in their life and feel the need that they must hide it. I also don’t like people who make comments such as, ‘I don’t want to see your dirty laundry’ I don’t like someone’s problems or feelings being called ‘dirty laundry’. They have feelings and they are going through a difficult time, obviously, have some respect.

                I’m not into people who make ‘rules’ for others to follow. You’re not the boss of me or anyone else, don’t dictate rules we have to follow. The only rules we must follow online is the rules dictated by Facebook and Mark Zuckerberg. But there’s people sitting on their asses on their lounges thinking they control other people and dictate and say what other people should post and shouldn’t post. People can vote for whatever they want. If someone has a different point of view, deal with it. I’m not going to delete someone for having a different point of view. People can post and write whatever they like. Who made other people god, to judge? Stop being an internet tyrant. It’s usually the boring types that complain about what others are doing online. The cranky nit-picking boring people, who are just bitter, uptight and want something to whinge about. Some people just want something to complain about.

                My mum told me that she has a friend who unfriends people who posts on their feed. I don’t understand the logic behind that. She must go on Facebook and see nothing. Why she on Facebook at all?

                Sharon this girl I went to school with calls me her friend and even best friend, but I rarely hear from her. She never goes out of her way like normal friends do. She just doesn’t want to contact me. Sharon and other people in my life, I’ve gone out of my way to contact them and invite them out and if it wasn’t for me doing this I wouldn’t see or hear from them at all. Sharon usually only contacts me on her birthday or New Year’s Eve when she wants someone to be around on those occasions. Some friends act more like acquaintances. I don’t expect her to contact me all the time, I’m an introvert and I like my own time and my own space. However, I feel friends should reach out at least a few times a year, right? Most of the time she treats me like a stranger. Katie has Facebook but she never uses it and has no interest in it. Sharon does spend time on the net, I know her kids told me she’s on the internet all the time. She says she’s busy, but she just spends time chatting to random people online who she doesn’t know. She likes to talk to people who she says is famous who aren’t famous, like someone who had sex with Charlie Sheen once. So, she has time for those people. I feel like Sharon’s case its because she’s lazy, she’s lazy in every aspect of her life, so this would be no different. Keith wouldn’t stop Sharon from contacting me, in fact he contacts me more than Sharon does.

Sharon and I had a private group on Facebook that sometimes we would swap notes, a bit like a text message but cheaper. I don’t like Facebook chat, and she’s never said she was interested in using it. We would rarely use it, when I stopped associating with her boyfriend Keith who was toxic towards me, I stopped seeing and hearing from her. I knew that would happen, because Sharon gets her self-worth from her boyfriend.

[kingofsummer93]

Ex Luna Scientia

Summary:

Lucien Vanserra, seventh son of the Minister for Magic, is as loved by his peers as he is hated by his family. But behind the charm and irreverence hides a secret, as dark and menacing as the scar on his face.

Elain Archeron, middle sister in a trio of muggle-born witches, has only one wish: for someone to truly see her. Because when she sleeps at night, she can see it all.

Or- an Elucien at Hogwarts AU.

Chapter 2: The Invitation

Ao3 Masterlist

The sky had turned a gloomy shade of grey, as dismal and bleak as Elain’s mood. She dug her hands into the earth, aggressively ripping out the roots and brambles that threatened to smother her rose bushes.

Graysen’s voice echoed through her mind, cold and distant and slightly mocking.

You’re going back to school soon anyway….

It was never going to work…

At different places in our lives…

Never mind that he had spent the entire summer promising that he would write to her everyday. Never mind that he had begged her to do the same.

Even if you have nothing to say, just write to me about the weather. I won’t be able to make it one day without hearing from you.

Elain had fallen for it. She had believed him so thoroughly that the knowledge that he had played her hurt even more than his rejection.

At different places in our lives…

Elain might not be the most experienced with these things but she was not stupid. She knew what that meant. 

Just put it in your mouth, he had urged. It won’t take long.

Elain had refused, and Graysen had grown more and more insistent. In the end he had settled for rubbing himself against her hip, so aggressively that she now had a bruise to show for it. After he had groaned and slumped against her, Elain had expected him to at least offer to return the favour, but of course he had not.

The phone call had come the very next day. The prick hadn’t even bothered to break her heart face to face. The shame and embarrassment were still fresh, but she refused to let the tears fall. Not here, not now, on her hands and knees in the communal garden, in front of her elderly neighbour.

Mrs Figg winced next to her, clicking her tongue in concern. “Careful, dear, you’ll rip those lovely gloves!”

Elain suppressed a smile. Mrs Figg didn’t know that the gloves were charmed. Nothing could pierce them, not these brambles and not the nastiest of thorns. They had been delivered by owl post last Christmas with a note explaining what they were, but there had been no signature on the card. Elain had no idea who they were from, but they were one of her most prized possessions. Without them she wouldn’t have stood a chance against the tide of brambles invading her section of the gardens.

“I daresay it’s looking like rain,” the old lady continued, wiping a muddy glove across her brow and looking up at the sky in concern.

Elain sighed. She normally didn’t mind Mrs Figg’s chatter but what she wanted at this moment was to brood in silence. Digging through the dirt in a rainstorm sounded ideal, actually. She had a sudden pang of longing for their home in the suburbs. She didn’t usually let herself dwell on that, but sometimes the memories came, vivid and lovely and gone forever. 

If they were still living in Little Whinging she could have stayed in the gardens as long as she liked, with nobody bothering her. There would be no Mrs Figg blabbering in the background, no leering men grinning at her from the sidewalk. And there would be her own room waiting for her, the second from the left, with a window seat that looked out onto the gardens.

Instead what she had was a tiny section of an unkept communal garden, on the side of a busy city street in a neighbourhood that her mother had once referred to as being a cesspool of crime and desperation. She didn’t have her own room in their fourth-floor walk-up, and the room she shared with her sisters had a view of a brick wall.

Their family’s fall into misfortune had happened slowly, and then all at once. First had come her mother’s illness, a rare and aggressive disorder that had paralyzed the entire family. Then came the experimental treatments at the private foreign clinics, the cost of each one more astronomical than the last. Then her mother’s death, after which her father had fallen into such a pit of depression that he had lost his job. The nail in the proverbial coffin had been the gambling. Elain had been too young to fully understand the implications at the time, not to mention that she had been away at school for most of the year.

She and her sisters had gotten off the Hogwarts Express three years ago to find their father waiting for them next to a beat-up Ford Anglia that none of them had seen before. When they had arrived at their house Elain had been appalled at the state of disrepair of their once pristine home. Their father couldn’t afford to pay the gardeners anymore, or the maid, and it showed. Elain’s beloved flower beds were overrun with weeds, the once immaculate lawn now resembling an abandoned field. The state of the house itself had not been much better.

Then had come the man with the baseball bat, and after that they had been forced to sell the house and move to the dingy flat in London.

Elain didn’t have the heart to blame her father. She felt nothing but pity for him, and for the misfortune that had befallen them. Her sisters were not so diplomatic regarding the situation, which only made Elain more protective of their father. It wasn’t that he didn’t love them; on the contrary, Elain knew he loved them all fiercely. He just didn’t know how to care for himself, much less others.

The rain started to fall then, first a drizzle and then a downpour. Mrs Figg waved her goodbye and hustled out of the garden as quickly as her stooped frame would allow. Elain sat in the dampening dirt for several moments, letting the rain soak her to the bone. It felt good- it felt real, it felt more legitimate than her silly teenage woes or her worries about her father that were beyond her years. 

“Get in, miss, you’ll catch yer death out here!” 

Elain smiled vaguely at her kindly neighbour, packed up her gardening tools, and reluctantly made her way down the street and up the stairs to her family’s flat. She stood in the hall for a moment, letting the rain drip off her clothes onto the linoleum floor. The fluorescent lighting in the hall was even more depressing than the storm clouds outside. Her reflection in the hall mirror was almost terrifying- her usually bouncy curls lank and dull, her eyes shining with misery behind the wide frames of her glasses. 

The sound of raised voices from inside the flat shook her out of her trance, and Elain sighed in defeat. There would be no way to escape whatever fight was happening if she went inside, but short of walking around in the rain it was the only option she had. With another all-suffering sigh she unlocked the door and stepped inside. 

What greeted her was the sight of Feyre laying on her back on the couch, throwing popcorn at Nesta who was curled in an armchair, her face hidden behind The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 7 . Their father was sitting at the kitchen table, a stack of bills in front of him, rubbing his temples.

“…such a Ravenclaw,” Feyre was saying. “Why are you already studying? You’re supposed to be on vacation !”

Nesta huffed haughtily and rolled her eyes. “I’m going into seventh year, Feyre. I have to take N.E.W.T.S. this year! My whole future depends on how well I do in those exams…”

“Snore!” Feyre interrupted with an eye-roll of her own. “Elain, tell Nesta she’s being a bore.”

Nesta simply huffed again and lifted her book higher, as if Feyre would disappear if she couldn’t see her.

“Cup of tea, dad?” Elain asked gently, moving into the tiny kitchen. She was still soaked and was desperate for a hot bath, but the sight of her father like this always tore at her heartstrings.

She was putting the kettle on when there came a rush of wings from the living room, followed by the sound of her father gasping in fright and toppling his chair backwards. A regal-looking snowy owl had flown in through their chimney and perched itself on one of their kitchen chairs, holding out a leg with a haughty expression that put Nesta’s to shame. 

Elain recognized the owl at the same time Feyre did. Snowy owls were rare and expensive, and this particular one, with its slightly differently colored eyes, was immediately recognizable. And even if he hadn’t been, the crest pressed into the ruby-red wax sealing the letter would have given him away. An oak tree, surrounded by a halo of flames.

“Andras!” Feyre exclaimed in delight. The owl hooted in a dignified sort of way, ruffling his wings slightly. 

Feyre jumped off the couch and hurried to the owl, letting the bird nip at her fingers as she untied the letter tied to its leg.

“Isn’t that Lucien’s?” Nesta asked suspiciously from her armchair. “Why’s he writing to you? ”

Feyre scoffed with affront. “We’re friends ! And teammates. Maybe he already has a training schedule ready…”

Nesta’s face disappeared behind her book once more. Nothing could bore her sister faster than Feyre talking endlessly about Quidditch. 

The bird had turned his attention towards Elain, peering at her curiously with his head tilted to the side, those slightly mismatched eyes so laser-focused they looked almost human. Elain had to look away. It reminded her too strongly of another pair of mismatched eyes, ones that did belong to a human. An infuriating, shamelessly cocky, frustratingly handsome bastard of a human who happened to be the bane of Elain’s existence.

“Love, your water’s boiling,” her father warned, picking himself up off the floor and eyeing the bird warily.

Elain flushed, busying herself with the tea to hide her fluster. She brought a cup to her father, and Andras immediately dipped his beak into the mug and drank deeply.

“Curious pets, aren’t they?” her father said, chuckling. “Too bad we had to sell yours, Elain, I did like that animal…”

A pang of sadness fell to the bottom of Elain’s stomach like a stone. Her owl had been just one more of the many things they’d had to sell in the last few years in order to pay more important bills.

Feyre gasped then, practically dancing on the spot. Her words were barely coherent through her excitement. “He’s having a party…the whole team…his parents’ townhouse…I’m invited!” 

Nesta’s face reappeared from behind her book. Elain made eye contact with her sister and both of them winced in unison. Feyre had made a crucial mistake. There was no word in the English language more likely to rile up their father than party. 

Indeed, a light had come on in his brown eyes, his earlier bout of despair suddenly gone. “What’s that?” he asked sharply. “Did you say party?”

“Yes!” Feyre said excitedly. Andras the owl hooted in apparent annoyance at her giddiness. “On saturday, at his parents’ house.” Her eyes suddenly went wide with alarm. “I have nothing to wear! I have to go shopping, dad, can I have some money?”

“Hold on, hold on! Who is this…this Andras , you said?”

“Dad!” Feyre rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Andras is the owl. Lucien is having the party.”

“And who is this Lucien?” Her father’s eyes were narrowed with suspicion.

Feyre huffed in frustration. “Dad! I’ve told you about him a million times. He’s the captain of the Quidditch team. His father is the Minister for Magic?”

Elain caught Nesta’ gaze again. Her sister was smirking at her, a knowing gleam in her eyes. Elain flushed and hid her face in her mug of tea.

“Ahh! The Minister’s son, yes, of course.” Their father seemed reassured for a moment, and then his voice turned suspicious again. “But isn’t he in Elain’s year?”

“Yeah, so?” 

“So what’s he doing inviting you to a party?” Nesta taunted, stoking the flames.

“Because we’re friends!” Feyre repeated defensively. “The whole team is going…”

“And will this party be supervised ?” her father asked, cutting in before Nesta could launch another barb.

Feyre’s split second of hesitation was answer enough. “I mean…he says his brother Eris will be there…”

Nesta let out a quick bark of laughter at that. Even Elain snickered into her tea. Eris had graduated from Hogwarts more than a decade earlier but he was notorious for smuggling in contraband to his brother, and had even been spotted attending parties inside the castle. 

In other words, he was not the sort of chaperone her father was hoping for.

“And how old is this brother?” he asked now.

Feyre shrugged in annoyance. “I don’t know, old? Around thirty, I guess, he’s the oldest. What does it matter?”

Elain winced again. Feyre was not playing this properly, but it was hardly her fault, considering this was the first non-Hogwarts party she had been invited to. “ A gathering of friends to discuss the upcoming school year” would have worked. “A mandatory team event ” would have been even better, considering their father’s love for sports. A party held by a boy two grades above Feyre, supervised by his thirty-year old brother with dubious morals was absolutely not the picture she should have painted.

“It matters,” her father said now, a frown on his face, “because you are fourteen and you are absolutely not going to an unsupervised party with older boys! I was a teenager once, you know! I know how these things go. Drinking, experimenting, peer pressure…”

Elain almost choked on her tea as a wave of giggles threatened to escape her. Nesta was cackling, her book forgotten in her lap. Elain stared into her tea, knowing if she made eye contact with her sister she wouldn’t be able to hold in her laughter.

Feyre had flushed an impressive shade of red. “God, dad! We’re just going to hang out and talk about Quidditch, I don’t know what it is you think we’re going to do…”

“Yeah dad,” Nesta butt in, an evil grin on her face. “Lucien’s not hosting an orgy!”

“Nesta!” Elain squeaked. A blush spread on her own face as an image slipped into her mind, unwelcomed but persistent. That long red hair, that maddening smirk…

"Although,” Nesta continued, still grinning. “Haven’t Jurian and Vassa been shagging since, like, their third year?”

“That’s it! You’re not going.” Her father slashed the air with his hands for emphasis.

“WHAT?! DAD!” Feyre’s outrage was absolute. “The WHOLE TEAM is going! I can’t be the only loser not to go!”

“You are fourteen…”

“Fifteen in December!”

“Will Tamlin be there?” Nesta asked coyly.

“Who is Tamlin??”

Feyre was flustered now, but trying not to act like it. “Yes, Tamlin will be there, I just said the whole team is going!”

Andras hooted loudly then, ruffling his wings in annoyance. One of his legs was held stiffly in front of him, like he was waiting for a response.

“If mom was here she’d let me go,” Feyre said then, her arms crossed, refusing to look her father in the eyes.

Elain and Nesta both inhaled sharply. Neither of them ever dared to use this particular bargaining chip. Only Feyre ever did, and it usually ended with either her or their father dissolving into tears.

Silence fell. Even Andras had stopped his impatient fidgeting, as if he, too, was shocked by Feyre’s words.

Elain held her breath in anticipation. There were only two possible outcomes at this point. Either their father would relent and let Feyre go, or her sister would be grounded for the rest of the summer.

Her father seemed to sag then, an all-suffering sigh escaping him as he gazed at his wife’s picture on the mantelpiece. “Fine,” he said in defeat. “Fine, you can go.” Feyre brightened, inhaling sharply in excitement. “But only if one of your sisters goes with you.”

His words took a moment to sink in. “What?” Elain asked in incomprehension. Nesta was chuckling again.

“You can go to the party if one of your sisters goes with you,” he repeated. 

Feyre’s eyes suddenly filled with what could only be described as undiluted horror. “But…but…they’re not invited! It’s a Gryffindor party!”

“That’s my final decision.” Indeed, Elain recognized her father’s tone. There would be no changing his mind now.

“I can’t go to the party with a chaperone! That’s so embarrassing!”

But their father had made up his mind. He crossed his arms and faced Feyre, his mouth pressed in a thin line.

Elain could see the dilemma raging inside her sister’s mind. What was the greater embarrassment- going to the party with one of her older sisters, or not going at all?

Feyre whirled towards Nesta.

“Don’t look at me!” Nesta said before Feyre could say anything. “No way am I going to a party at Vanserra’s house. Are you aware of his father’s stance on muggle-borns?”

Feyre rolled her eyes, stomping her foot in frustration. “Lucien’s not like that and you know it. No one hates his father more than he does. Vassa is one of his best friends and she’s a muggle-born too.”

“Besides,” Elain added with a grin, “won’t Cassian be there?”

Nesta threw her a look of pure steel. “Yeah, so?” she asked petulantly.

“Nes, pleeeease? You can bring Gwyn, she lives in London, right? I’m sure Lucien wouldn’t mind if she came too…”

“No way,” Nesta said, shaking her head. “Take Elain, Lucien would much prefer that.” She threw a little smirk at Elain for emphasis.

Elain could have throttled her. 

“What does that mean? Are you friends with him, too?” her father asked curiously.

“No!” Elain said quickly, before Nesta could say anything. “He’s in my year, that’s all. We’re both prefects, so I see him around…” she trailed off vaguely, avoiding her sister’s cat-like grin.

“So Elain will go, then,” her father said, as if that decided it.

Feyre scoffed before Elain had a chance to protest. “Elain’s not going to a party.”

“What does that mean?” Elain asked, her eyes narrowing. In truth going to a party at Lucien’s house was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, but she was suddenly irritated at the implication. 

Feyre shuffled on her feet. “Well, you know. Parties aren’t really your scene…”

“Because I’m boring, you mean?” Elain shot back. 

Nesta had grabbed Feyre’s abandoned popcorn and was popping it into her mouth as she watched the scene unfold. 

“No! Just, you know…you’re a Hufflepuff. You like to garden, and your friends are really nice but they’re quiet…”

“Feyre, don’t be a bitch,” Nesta said.

“Nesta! Language.” Her father frowned, though Elain noticed that he didn’t try to contradict Feyre.

Elain was suddenly enraged. “Fine!” She threw her hands up so suddenly that even Andras flinched in surprise. “Fine. I’ll go to the bloody party.”

There was a beat of silence as her family digested her words. Nesta was grinning like the cat who got the cream, while Feyre looked supremely uncomfortable. Andras simply hooted and held out his leg once more. 

“Are you sure?” Feyre asked uncertainly. “I know you’re not really friends with Lucien…” she cut a quick glance towards their father at that.

“Do you want to go to the blasted party or not?” Elain demanded as another blush rose up her cheeks. She would regret this decision later, she knew, but it was too late now. 

Feyre seemed to hesitate for another moment, and then shrugged. “Ok, if you’re sure. Thanks, Elain, I owe you one.” With that her sister grabbed a spare piece of parchment to scribble a reply, and her father’s face disappeared behind his pile of bills once more.

“You can borrow my red sweater, if you’d like!” Nesta said sweetly, her evil grin still firmly in place. “You know the one…”

Elain diligently avoided her sister’s gaze as she walked into their shared bedroom and slammed the door behind her. 

----

By Saturday evening Elain deeply regretted her decision, and it was only Feyre’s excitement that prevented her from backing out. She had borrowed Nesta’s red sweater in the end, but only because most of her own clothes were in the wash. It wasn’t because it was flattering on her, and certainly not because it made her small breasts look slightly bigger than they actually were.

She was bursting with nerves, and the suggestive looks Nesta kept giving her only made things worse. Her nails were bitten to stumps, and she had to sit on her hands to keep from fidgeting.

One party. It was just one silly party, she would survive. She knew everyone there, she even liked some of them. Vassa was her friend and fellow prefect, even if her boyfriend was almost as insufferable as Lucien. 

Besides, it wasn’t him that was making her nervous. It was simply the idea of going to a party where she knew there would be drinking and who knew what other illicit activities. 

“He’s picking you up how?” her father asked for the tenth time. He was alternating between pretending to read a newspaper and nervously pacing the length of their tiny flat. “Does he have a car?”

Feyre shrugged with the indifference that only teenagers possess. She was stationed at the living room window, scanning the street below. “Donno. He has a bike but I don’t think he can fit both of us on it…” she shot Elain a disdainful glance at that.

“You think he’s picking you up on a bicycle?” her father asked suspiciously. 

Elain held in her snort, though Nesta did not. Nobody bothered to correct him. Lucien’s flying motorcycle was a thing of legend around Hogwarts. It had apparently been a sixteenth birthday present from Eris and was a thing of great envy. 

By the time eight o'clock rolled around Elain was sweating. Just a party, she reminded herself. It’s not like she had never been to one, or didn’t know how to have fun. She would hang out with Vassa, have a couple butterbeers, and then they would come home, and that would be that. It wouldn’t be any harder to ignore him than it usually was at Hogwarts. 

Feyre squealed loudly and Elain jumped in surprise. Nesta’s smirk widened. “Jumpy, are we?” she teased. Elain squared her shoulders and ignored her.

“He’s here!” 

Her father and Nesta immediately rushed to the window next to Feyre, peering down into the darkening street below. 

“That fellow there with the long hair?” her father asked. “I thought you said he was a prefect? He looks like he’s going to a rock and roll concert!” 

Feyre scoffed. “God, dad, you sound ancient.”

“You said he was sixteen!” her father continued, his tone accusatory. “He looks like a grown man! And a delinquent, at that…”

Elain’s curiosity got the better of her, and she joined the others at the window, jostling with Nesta so she could see. Lucien was walking up the drive towards their building, no bike (flying or otherwise) in sight. He was dressed like a muggle, in trendy jeans, a white t-shirt, and a beat-up looking leather jacket. Half his vibrantly red hair was held up in a bun by his wand, and even from this distance Elain could see the setting sun glinting off his magical golden eye. He seemed to have grown even taller and broader over the summer, and indeed looked more like a grown man than the other boys in her grade. 

“Well…” Feyre bit her lip. “He’s actually seventeen. He started Hogwarts a year late...” Her father did not seem pleased with this fact, but Feyre soldiered on. “He was in an accident when he was eleven, that’s how he lost his eye. Don’t ask him about it, he doesn’t like talking about it…”

“How terrible,” her father tutted, Lucien’s delinquent appearance suddenly forgotten.

Lucien looked up then, a wide grin splitting his face as he spotted them all at the window. All four Archerons gasped in unison and ducked out of sight. 

“Do you think he saw us?” her father asked with a wince. He was clutching Lanthys to his chest, as if for moral support. 

The buzzer sounded then, and all four of them jumped. Elain surreptitiously glanced at her reflection in the window as Feyre bolted to the door, their father on her heels.

“You know,” Nesta said coyly, “If you’re looking to forget about Gregory I’m sure Lucien would be happy to help…”

“Nes!” Elain hissed, glancing around to make sure their father hadn’t heard.

“What? I’m just saying…”

Elain huffed, now thoroughly irritated. As if she had any interest in becoming one more of many notches on Lucien Vanserra’s bedpost. As if she had any interest in him whatsoever. 

A deep voice from the hall caught her attention. Blimey, had his voice gotten deeper over the summer? 

And then Feyre was leading him into the flat, and suddenly Elain couldn't breathe. He seemed even taller and broader standing in the middle of their tiny kitchen. There was a scruff of auburn stubble covering his cheeks and chin, making him look about twenty-five. Elain saw that in addition to the little diamonds piercing the top of his left ear, he now had what looked like a fang dangling from his earlobe. 

“Nesta,” he was saying, inclining his head towards Nesta in a mock bow. 

“Vanserra,” Nesta replied, utterly bored.

And then that mismatched gaze landed on Elain. One eye of russet, forever twinkling with mischief, and one of solid gold that gently clicked and whirred. His full lips spread into a wide grin, showing off his too-white teeth. The scar that ran from his brow to his chin was less menacing when he smiled. He was more handsome than he had any right to be, really. 

Don’t say it, she thought. Don’t say it, don’t say it…

“Archie,” he said, still grinning at her.

Elain huffed and rolled her eyes, ignoring the way her stomach fluttered at the nickname. He’d given it to her on their third day at Hogwarts and hadn’t dropped it since. To her horror she felt herself blush under his gaze. But it was only because she wasn’t blind, and could admit he was beautiful in a striking, cruel sort of way. It wasn’t for any other reason.

“Lucien,” she replied. Her voice came out more breathless than she would have liked, and Nesta smirked.

Her father was trying and failing to not stare at Lucien’s eye, his hands swinging at his sides as he tried to act casual. 

“Car accident, was it?” he asked then. 

Feyre’s eyes went wide. Nesta’s smirk slid off her face.

Lucien blinked, his metal eye clicking gently as the panes slid over themselves to focus on her father. “Pardon?” 

Her father looked suddenly uncomfortable, as if he instantly regretted ever speaking. “Your…” he pointed to his own left eye. “Feyre said you were in an accident?”

Feyre was staring at her father with a look that would have melted the polar ice caps. Nesta was cringing visibly. Elain blushed even hotter, rooted to the spot. 

To his credit Lucien merely blinked again and cleared his throat. “No, sir. Not a car accident. Bit of magic gone wrong, you could say.” He smiled, though it looked slightly forced.

“Right! Shall we go?” Feyre blurted desperately.

Lucien was peering around their flat curiously, and Elain was suddenly ashamed. She knew it was wrong, but having their poverty on display in front of someone like Lucien was humiliating. 

Lucien caught her looking at him and grinned again. There was something wolffish in that grin, a hunger that sent a little shiver down her spine. 

“Yes,” he agreed. “Thank you for letting Feyre come, Mr Archeron. I promise nothing untoward is planned. Just a lot of boring Quidditch talk and some wizard chess.” He shot a grin at her father, the one he used on teachers to get out of trouble. It almost always worked, and it worked now, like a charm. 

Her father was swinging his hands again, nodding his head fervently. Lucien’s appearance and manners seemed to have taken him by surprise.

“Yes, of course, I was a little nervous at first, you can imagine, Feyre is only fourteen, after all, I hope it’s not a bother than Elain is going as well…”

“Dad, god!” Feyre looked mortified.

“Absolutely no bother at all, sir,” Lucien replied politely, sending another grin in her direction. “Nesta, you’re sure you don’t want to come as well? Cassian will be there, you know…”

Nesta only crossed her arms in response. 

“How are we getting there?” Feyre asked quickly.

“I had your fireplace connected to the Floo Network, just for tonight,” Lucien said. “Eris knows someone at the Department of Magical Transportation. I thought that would be the best way.”

“Quite right, quite right,” Her father was nodding wisely, though Elain knew for a fact that he hadn’t understood a single word that Lucien had said.

“Cool! We’ve never travelled by the Floo Network before!” Feyre exclaimed excitedly. 

Lucien grinned and pulled his wand out of his bun, making his ruby hair tumble around his shoulders like liquid fire. He pointed at the fireplace, muttered Incendio! and flames erupted in the empty grate. He reached into his pocket then, pulled out a small velvet bag, and threw a pinch of powder into the flames. At once the flames turned a bright emerald green. 

Elain heard a sharp inhale of breath behind her and turned to find her father staring into the flames with wide eyes. 

“The Floo Network connects magical residences,” she explained. “Like the tube, but with…fireplaces.”

“Quite right, quite right,” he repeated, laughing nervously as Lucien and Feyre stepped into the flames.

Elain waved at her dad and followed them into the emerald fire. Lucien’s scent filled her nostrils, something spicy and smoky mixed with a purely male muskiness. 

“Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!” he said.

And then the living room was dissolving around her as they spun through the flames. 

[mcrco]

Princess Leia

Eddie Munson x Nameless Fem!Char. 1035 words. Short and smutty.

He sits on her bed, drumming his knees with his hands with impatience. She had invited him over without much context other than telling him she had a surprise. As soon as he had arrived, she had vanished into her bathroom, leaving him alone in her room to wait.

He’d been in her room plenty of times before - he could list all of the pieces of furniture in it that he had fucked her against and the thought made him grin to himself.

The bathroom door opens an inch. “Close your eyes!” She instructs and like the giddy young man he was, he covered his eyes with his ring-clad fingers.

He listened to the sound of the bathroom door opening the rest of the way and then her footsteps approaching until she stood directly in front of him.

“Open your eyes,” she instructs and watches as he drops his hands to his lap.

“Holy bantha shit!”

The Leia slave costume fit her perfectly and barely covered much of her body at the same time. He reached out and ran his hand up her exposed thigh, pushing the skirt to the side just enough to see her pretty pussy. She hadn’t even put on underwear beneath the already revealing skirt.

“Shit,” he sighs, already feeling himself begin to grow hard at just the sight of her. She was every nerd’s dream right now. “What did I ever do to deserve my own Princess Leia?”

She raises her leg and puts her foot down on the bed next to him, pushing the skirt to reveal her shaved cunt. “Thank me like a good boy,” she tells him. “Let me see just how grateful you are that I made your wet dreams come true.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. One hand rests on her hip as he immediately buries his face into her cunt. With his free hand, he uses his fingers to part her lips so his mouth can press a kiss to her clit.

She lets out a soft sigh and steadies herself with a hand to his shoulder just as he points his tongue and circles it over her clit. Using the tip of his tongue, he traces the letters of his name over her sensitive nub, earning soft moans and whimpers from her in response.

Eddie pulls away just long enough to hook her leg over his shoulder and he feels her fingers knot in his long hair before he buries his face back against her.

In this new position, it’s easier for him to lap at her - tongue pressed over her slit before he sucks her clit into his mouth. She gasps and it quickly turns into a shout of his name when he slips a finger into her moist cunt, pumping the digit in and out slowly. Between his mouth and his fingers, he works her into an orgasm.

With the addition of a second finger into her cunt, she feels the beginnings of warmth in her lower belly that tighten like coils. Eddie grazes his teeth against her clit and suddenly those coils snap and she’s screaming his name. Her walls pulse and flutter around his fingers until she slumps against him, legs too weak to hold her up.

It doesn’t take him much effort to toss her down on the bed, a wild look in his eyes. Her chest is heaving with stolen breath but she still looks up at him in excitement. Eddie sheds his clothing - shirt, jeans, and underwear - letting them fall to the floor before he climbs onto the bed and crawls over her.

He holds himself, propped up on his elbows as he hovers over her. “Kiss me, Princess,” he says and she leans up to capture his lips obediently.

The kiss is all tongue and teeth and he bites her bottom lip until it bleeds. The metallic taste of blood is shared as his tongue flicks into her mouth and she feels him nudging her legs apart beneath him.

When they break for air, he lines himself up, thrusting deep into her core in one go. The action draws a low moan from his lips as he feels her tight walls around him and she gasps out loud in response.

He fucks her slow at first, pulling out until just the tip of his cock is in her and then thrusting back in. Her legs wrap around him in an attempt to pull him deeper and he almost chuckles at the little whinging noises she makes.

“Please, Eddie,” she says, voice soft as he stills within her. “Please.” She pleads for more, begging for a second orgasm in such a short time frame.

“Please what, Princess? Use your words.” He knows what she wants but he wants to hear her say it. Needs to hear the way she begs just for him.

“Harder,” she whines. “Faster!” She demands. “Please, Eddie. Please.”

And he obliges his princess. He pulls out and then thrusts back into her as hard as he can, the bed shaking underneath them with his force. She mewls and he does it again and again until she’s becoming a babbling mess beneath him.

Sharp, hot pain slides down his back as her nails break his skin and he moans out her name in reply. The bed creaks beneath them and sweat drips down his nose as he fucks her into the mattress like the Princess she is.

Her second climax washes over her with a scream so loud he’s sure her neighbors will complain but the pulse of her walls around his cock feels so good that he barely has time to pull out before he’s painting her stomach and the bra of her costume white with his seed.

“Fuck,” he says softly, voice hoarse as he lays down beside her to catch his breath. He watches her chest rise and fall as she comes down from the high of climax.

“I guess you liked the surprise?” she says, laughing after a few minutes have gone by and she’s finally caught her breath.

He can’t help the way he grins. “We’re going for round two, Princess. Hope you can take it.”

[sooibian]

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Pairing: Kyungsoo x fem!Reader ft. big brother Junmyeon, arch enemy Sehun

Genre/Themes: Established Relationship AU, Fluff, Crack, Loosely inspired by the anime Horimiya

Warnings: Sexual themes, themes of sadism and masochism (nothing explicit), slight swearing.

Description: It’s Sehun’s wedding party. Kyungsoo knew these couple of hours with you were going to be anything but pleasant, however, he didn’t expect things to spiral so quickly. 

A/N: Thank you @his-mochi-cheeks​ for encouraging me to upload this. Shy tagging my closeted dandanies @vampwrrr​ and @changshapatrol​​ since this one sparked joy.

Word count: 2.7k

*****************************************

To Kyungsoo, the best thing about weddings was the feast but since you sat sulkily sipping on green juice - whatever the fuck that monstrosity was made of - he couldn't muster the courage to gorge on bulgogi and galbi in front of you. Especially not since it was a "your side of the family" wedding and your big brother Junmyeon wouldn't quit looking at him as if he were a ticking time bomb.

He’d gone out with you for five years before finally asking you to marry him four years ago. As much as he tried, Kyungsoo failed to make peace with the fact that Junmyeon still hadn't warmed up to him. Kyungsoo firmly believed in cause and effect and he just couldn’t tell when and how he’d faltered to warrant such iciness from Junmyeon. Events like these made his thoughts tread deeper into the “where did I go wrong?” labyrinth with no escape in sight.

Kyungsoo’s stomach growled, the proximity to the buffet area wasn’t helping. He stupidly slapped a hand on it as if to stop the sound from reaching you but despite the loud music and raucous conversations, you noticed. So you offered him a sip of the disgusting green gloop which he politely declined.

Shrugging, you sing-songed mindlessly, "Oof the barbecue stall sure looks inviting."

He suspiciously studied the ever so slight movements in your features, every microexpression and chose the safest response of taking your hand in his, lacing your fingers together, and planting a soft kiss between your knuckles - conscious of the fact that he’d have to tolerate the hunger pangs for just a bit longer. He was dead sure you’d ask him to stop at a McDonald's on your two hour drive back home. None of these green gloop diets have lasted over twelve hours.

Resting his chin in his hand, Kyungsoo peered over his glasses and looked around the luxuriously and aesthetically decorated lawn. In front of the gazebo Oh Sehun and his bride slow-danced to a song he couldn’t recognise. Sehun's hand mischievously slipped down his bride's waist and she teasingly punched his chest in response. She giggled and swayed in his arms as Sehun looked into her eyes with all the love glimmering in his own. Thinking back to his own wedding day, Kyungsoo smiled to himself and planted yet another kiss on your hand. Features contorted by the nasty taste of the juice, to him you still looked just as radiant as you did on your wedding day. In the moment he wanted nothing more than to join the couples on the dance floor, wrap his arms around your waist, and sway to the rhythm of the romantic, soft beats.

So he turned to you and asked enthusiastically, “Lets dance?”

“Kyungsoo - ,” pinching the bridge of your nose, you only reacted with a scowl.

Your damp response instantly soured his expression. “Come on! Don’t be such a sourpuss!” He exclaimed, tugging at your arm.

Kyungsoo observed keenly as your gaze reluctantly turned to a euphoric Sehun. Through gritted teeth, you justified, “It’s my arch-nemesis’ wedding. What do you expect?”

Junmyeon was the Academic Director of Museum Studies at Seoul National University and Sehun was his favourite student, almost like a younger brother to him and as his biological sister, you somehow felt threatened by their relationship. Over the years, your insecurity had manifested in the way of an inexplicable resentment towards Sehun.

“Why did we even come, then?” Kyungsoo reasoned.

“To avoid having to listen to Junmyeon whinging and whining for an eternity,” you dead-panned.

“You mean the way I’ve been tolerating your whining ever since we received the wedding invite?” Kyungsoo grumbled.

Wagging your finger at him, you said, “That’s a low blow, Kyungsoo.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Kyungsoo pursed his lips and continued arguing with you, “Who even brings their own meal to a goddamn wedding?”

You rolled your eyes before listlessly scrolling through your phone. Kyungsoo understood exactly what you were upto. While you didn’t want anybody to fault you for skipping the wedding, you needed to make it known to everyone present that you were here merely out of courtesy.

On the other hand, Kyungsoo was quite fond of Sehun. The guy was fun and even-tempered and Kyungsoo truly admired people who were uncomplicated, people with whom he could freely speak his mind. It’s why he fell in love with you in the first place and stayed in love...despite all of your pettiness and quirks. Quirks that made Kyungsoo shake in his boots. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, pushed those thoughts out of his head and heaved a sigh of relief upon realizing that your eccentricity wouldn’t rear its ugly head at a family celebration.

He was jolted out of his reverie by Junmyeon who slammed a plate of dakgalbi in front of him. Kyungsoo immediately shoved his phone into an inside pocket of his blazer, inwardly reprimanding himself for behaving all the more suspiciously in front of your elder brother.

Squinting sceptically, Junmyeon remarked, “I didn’t see you at the buffet -”

“Ah - we’ve been meaning to -” Kyungsoo tried explaining the situation without having to put you in a spot. He thought, after an uncomfortably long pause, Junmyeon would drop the conversation, but he didn't. Kyungsoo gingerly ran his fingers over his brows to check if Junmyeon's intense glare had burned holes into his head. You on the other hand had your gaze fixed on your phone and didn’t break character even for a second - not even to help your husband out of an awkward conversation. So Kyungsoo picked up a pair of chopsticks to help himself to a piece of dakgalbi but Junmyeon slapped his hand away and snarled, “Ladies first.”

"O-of course," Kyungsoo stuttered, pushing the plate towards you.

"I don't wanna eat," you answered the two men, eyes now on a blank screen. Left with no choice, Kyungsoo slowly and sadly put his chopsticks down, his stomach making its annoyance known, while Junmyeon started to nag you for acting 'uppity as usual'.

Your show of indifference when Junmyeon animatedly whisper-scolded you, had started to make Kyungsoo anxious. The moment he tried to excuse himself to the bathroom, he felt your bare foot on his shoe and he froze into a still frame.

Kyungsoo shook his head at you and mouthed, 'Not now!' but you merely shot him a sweet smile in response.

"Are you even listening to me?" Junmyeon lambasted you.

"No and I haven't been listening for quite sometime now." Your reply sent a chill down Kyungsoo's spine. He was feeling a lot of things...all at once and with your toes boldly riding up his shin, he thought he'd burst at the seams. He made a mental note to have certain ground rules in place for situations like these - you weren’t much of a listener but this time he was sure to make himself heard.

"You won't be eating either?" Junmyeon asked Kyungsoo, shooting him yet another indignant glare. Kyungsoo smoothly moved his chair out of your reach but just as he extended his hand towards the plate, Junmyeon huffed angrily and walked away with it and Kyungsoo felt his heart sink to his stomach.

Tormenting Kyungsoo with a game of footsie for a while, you excused yourself to the ladies room. Ten minutes later, his phone chimed with a text from you.

'Can you come and get me? I think I'm lost.'

'No.' He replied. He was determined to not walk into your trap.

Kyungsoo clearly remembers the first time he was introduced to that side of your personality. Freshman year - it had been a few months since he'd asked you out. One evening, when things had gotten hot and heavy between the two of you, he had heard you say, 'Slap me, Soo.'

At first he thought he'd heard wrong so he ignored you but you said it again causing him to immediately pull away. Aghast, he asked, 'What did you say?'

'Slap me,' you blinked at him.

He intently studied your face - the most beautiful and the least punchable face he'd ever laid his eyes on. He wanted to do many things to you and all of them essentially involved making you feel loved and cherished and what you were asking of him was the exact opposite of how he felt about you. 

Eyes wide and lips pursed, you stood for a reaction but he would give you none. 

'Don't you love me?' You asked softly, batting your eyelashes at him. Little did you know, in that moment, he was too numb and too naked to make sense of the situation. 

At first he faulted his own personality. Kyungsoo was known to have picked a few fights here and there, had multiple piercings, and visible tattoos. Over the years, he got rid of it all and started dressing preppy but nothing changed. You still continued to ask of him something he was unwilling to give. So after a few ups and downs in your relationship, Kyungsoo finally reconciled with the fact that you were something of a sadist masochist only when it came to him.

His phone buzzed with your reply: 'The gardens at this hotel are ginormous. There's no staff here, I don't know how to find stupid lanky boy's stupid wedding party. I'm waiting by the restroom area please come and get me? ❤️'

Kyungsoo knew that you were directionally challenged. He'd test you at random and you could never tell left from right. Also, the lawn did sprawl over a considerable area but something just didn't feel right. Chewing on a hangnail, Kyungsoo sat thinking of a fitting reply only to receive another text from you.

A tempting one.

'If you come and get me now, we'll get out of here directly. No need to go back to the party.'

'What about your brother?' Asked Kyungsoo.

His phone blinked with a 'Pfft 🤪'

Patiently, he reiterated, 'I asked, what about your brother?'

'I promise I'll deal…'

'....?'

'Nicely 😘'

'Ok ❤️'

.

.

.

Kyungsoo gaped at you while you twirled his tie between your fingers and pleaded with him in a sultry voice, "Just once? Please?"

He was well aware that you knew for a fact he couldn't refuse you. Nevertheless, this time he firmly held his ground, "Are you crazy? Your entire family, your brother is just a couple metre's distance from here!"

"Kyungsoo please?" You caged him between a grainy concrete wall and your torso. The only respite to Kyungsoo in that situation was the fact that the area was poorly lit and there was not a soul in sight.

He cupped your face in his hands, planted a chaste kiss on your forehead and crouched down to whisper against your lips, "I'm not - I'm not sla- I'm not doing any of that here. Let's go home." After a lot of struggle, he finally managed to free himself from your Senior Superintendent General of Police grasp with a smirk on his face that said all your police training got nothing on him.

"Let's go," he held your hand and took a long stride towards the exit but you stayed firmly rooted to your place.

"Drag me out of here, then," you commanded.

You didn't budge and Kyungsoo wouldn't have caved under any other circumstance but…. he was hungry. Really hungry - making his stiff spine melt like candle wax. So he steeled himself, looked into your eyes, dropped his tone to a gruff, husky tenor, grabbed your wrist a little too tightly and threatened you, "Move your ass, __. Don't make me tell you again."

Exasperated, he rolled his eyes at the way yours twinkled at his crass behaviour.

"Gimme more," you said breathily.

The only way to get out of here was to stay in character so Kyungsoo did exactly that. He roughly pushed you against a wall (as gently as he could if it makes sense) and growled, "What makes you think you can act all buddy buddy with me, you ditz!" but before he could go any further he heard a man's voice yell, "How dare you!?"

Startled like a deer caught in headlights - in this case the flashlight of Junmyeon's latest iPhone - Kyungsoo turned around to find the brawny man leaping at him in attack mode at full throttle. Kyungsoo ducked, anticipating a heavy physical impact but it didn't come. He opened his eyes to you tackling Junmyeon to the ground and scolding him, "How dare you encroach upon our privacy and attack my husband!" while twisting his arm at every emphasis.

Very rarely was Kyungsoo grateful about the fact that you were a cop and this was one such occasion. He quickly moved to get you off of Junmyeon's back while the man cried out in pain, defending himself, "Pri-privacy? This is a bloody public place!"

Panting, you eventually let go of Junmyeon, fixed your hair and earrings and straightened your satin silk very pale pink dress (one that was almost white under the wrong lighting but despite Kyungsoo's repeated requests, you ended up in white at a wedding). But as soon as Junmyeon regained composure, he lunged to attack Kyungsoo again, screaming, "I always knew that there was something off about you!"

"Yah yah yahhhh!" You held Junmyeon back like you would do a violent criminal as Kyungsoo ducked again out of fear.

"Enough!" You shrieked at Junmyeon.

Kyungsoo's big brown eyes were fixed on your brother's terrifying demeanour as he barked, "I can't believe you're scolding me after what I just witnessed! That man, that man was hurting you!"

"That man? Better watch your tone Oppa, he's my husband!"

"You can't be that blinded by love or...whatever this is! Does he have something on you? You can tell me! You know I know all the right people to get you out of this mess -"

"Hyungnim -" Kyungsoo attempted to defuse the extremely tense situation but stopped short as you held your hand up at him.

"For heaven's sake, I'm happy, healthy, and safe in my marriage. That's all you need to know. Now go back to your baby brother's celebration and leave us alone!" Hand on your hip, you squeezed your eyes shut and pinched the bridge of your nose.

"I'm not going anywhere until you explain what just happened," Junmyeon glowered at Kyungsoo.

The younger man didn't know how to clarify this without embarrassing you and in a state of blind panic all he could think of admitting to some sort of a dissociative identity disorder. But before he could lose any more brownie points with your brother, you came to his rescue albeit not doing much to help his already strained relationship with Junmyeon.

"Kyungsoo, you don't have to tell him anything. You, Sir, talk to me. No need to drag my husband into this mess!"

Junmyeon scoffed before breaking into a hysterical laughter, "You're unbelievable, little sister. Unbelievable!"

Kyungsoo closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and started, "Hyungnim, I- "

"You have the unmitigated gall to still be standing here!" Junmyeon snapped at Kyungsoo, causing the younger man to bury his face in his hands. When the brother sister duo fell silent, Kyungsoo looked up again to find Jumyeon taking furiously long strides towards the wedding party.

"I told you this was a bad idea," Kyungsoo said quietly, rubbing the corner of his eye, as you wrapped your arms around him and buried your face in his chest.

"I'll fix it, I promise. I'll speak to him when he's calmed down a little," you replied, softly patting your husband's back, "Do you want to stop at a McDonald's on our way back?

Kyungsoo chuckled, squeezing you in a tight hug and kissing the top of your head, "I hate you."

"I love you, too!" You chirped, and his features lit up with his beautiful heart-shaped smile.

"So? McDonald's?" You asked coyly.

He cradled your face in his hands and pressed his lips to yours. When you drew a staggered breath in response, he felt a wave of heat flushing through him. You giggled against his lips causing Kyungsoo to firmly pull your body to his. He scooped you up in his arms, kissing you with an increased fervour and rendering you breathless.

Gently pulling away, he answered in a husky, gruff voice, "Sure, dumb bitch. Took you long enough."

[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.

[plant-flwrs]

sun // ginny weasley

masterlist!

a/n: is this a reenactment of a happier ending than the reality i endured with my first experience falling in love with a girl? maybe. was this incredibly painful to write? yes. am i now suffering way too much? most definitely. umm. let me know what yall think! <33

summary: Six years of being in love with Ginny Weasley. Watching her date boys and capture the attention of Harry Potter. Eventually, confessions are the only things left. 

(3.5k)

-------

The white sheets curled around her were shaded a heavenly yellow under the sunlight invading the room. Actually, it didn’t feel like an invasion, it felt like the sun followed Ginny, like it followed her on her command with the sort of loyalty Hedwig had to Harry. So, Ginny, unconscious, was somehow inviting the sun into the room, turning her white sheets a soft yellow. She lay on her back, perched on some pillows, and twisted slightly diagonally on her bed. She made her bed seem so huge, like it was begging you to crawl into it with her, like the bed was a devil on your shoulder. Her arms folded over her stomach, an abandoned Quidditch magazine sprawled across her chest. Her head had lulled back against the pillows, orange hair falling and spilling and cascading and somehow just sitting atop her head like a crown. 

You felt completely out of place in what you could only describe as heaven. You, standing in your Hogwarts robes, with your harsh face and your cold gaze, felt completely separated from the heavenly plane Ginny Weasley managed to curate in this dorm.

It had been like this since the third year when, somehow, Ginny Weasley returned to school cool. She became her own person-- Quidditch legend, funny, friends with everyone-- and you simply trailed along beside her. It didn’t help your cause, either, when boys began to notice the same things you were noticing about Ginny.

Ruben Hash had come first. He’d never made a move on Ginny, but you noticed him. Sometimes, it felt like you were a hawk over Ginny’s shoulder, one she tossed her scraps of food to and patted on the head. So of course, you noticed Ruben. 

And then, you noticed Neville. You couldn’t even be mad about Neville. He was sweet, and he’d even been good-humored about you cutting in to dance with Ginny for one of the few and far between slow-dances at the Yule Ball. You held Ginny, and Ginny held onto you, and you wondered if she saw it behind your eyes.

Then came Michael Corner. Michael was a sting. Michael was a kick to the stomach, a punch to the face, and a knife to the thigh. Ginny watched him beat you, step on you, until you were filled with harsh bile and spiteful words for him. Of course, Michael was nice to you. He didn’t understand your cold glances and your distaste for him, simply chalking it off to him being Ginny’s boyfriend and you not thinking he was good enough for her. 

That summer was weird. You tried to remain a semblance of normalcy, tried to write lighthearted letters back to Ginny, tried to accept her invitation to the Burrow before school started again. Any other summer you practically lived at Ginny’s house, but now it hurt. Everything hurt, all the time, because Ginny wasn’t like you. Ginny didn’t like you, and what hurt even worse was that she liked other people. She liked so many other people, her most favorite to talk about being the Harry fucking Potter (I mean seriously, how did she expect you to have any sort of self-worth when you were pining for her while she was whinging about The Boy Who Lived?).

So, that was the summer you didn’t go to the Burrow. 

Michael stuck around for a long time. However, fourth-year was different.

Fourth-year was a time you liked to think about often, at least until your sixth-year, because once you were in your sixth-year, there truly was nothing better. 

Fourth-year. Ginny seemed to be distancing herself from Michael. You stopped asking about him and she stopped talking about him. She asked you to sit in the stands of her Quidditch practices, and when you got there for the first time, you noticed Michael wasn’t there. It was like she had given you a rose and not Michael. Small things like this really made fourth-year worth fifth-year. You tried not to think about fifth-year.

Fourth-year. Ginny walked with you, all sweaty, back to the castle. Ginny sat with her thigh pressed against yours as you ate dinner and lunch and breakfast. Ginny woke you up in the mornings and told you goodnight every night-- every single night. While you walked to class, Ginny lopped her fingers with yours and said it was because she couldn’t believe how soft your hands were. You scoffed, and fueled the fire by insisting you didn’t even use lotion on them. Ginny indulged, or maybe she truly was baffled by it, and ran her thumb over any space of your hand she could as you walked. Fourth-year, there was a week where the elves were occupied with something Dumbledore had requested them for. There was a week where laundry wasn’t being done, and utter chaos was amongst the castle. You had been one of the lucky ones, finding a pile of clean clothes and sheets on your bed just before the elves’ vacation. Ginny insisted her sheets smelled too horribly from her post-Quidditch practice naps, that she couldn’t sleep on her own bed. Ginny slept in your bed, for an entire week. Ginny was a cuddler. Ginny had her hands wrapped around your middle with her head tucked into your shoulder every night for an entire week. You thought about revoking your membership in S.P.E.W. if it meant Dumbledore could whisk off the house-elves more often. 

Fifth-year, there was no hand-holding or thighs brushing beneath tables or goodnights or good mornings or cuddling. Fifth-year was the year of Dean Thomas. 

Dean Thomas had successfully managed to whisk Ginny off her feet. You hadn’t even realized that at some point during your heavenly fourth-year, Ginny had broken it off with Michael. You were afforded about two weeks of a nice fifth-year before Dean.

As with Neville, you couldn’t even be mad at Dean. Well, you were mad at Dean, all the time, for no reason recognized by him. You were cold, and harsh, and selfish. You put up a wall between you and Ginny, leaving her no place to go but Dean’s arms. And to Dean’s arms she went. She spent nights in his dorm. She ate with him at meals. She asked him to her Quidditch practices.

You are completely and utterly alone.

As her roommate, she believed she was still your friend. She assumed you had your own issues to work out-- and right she was-- and incidentally, she spent more time with Dean. She didn’t put together the two things.  

By the end of fifth-year, Dean Thomas was over. 

By the summer going into sixth-year, you were invited to the Burrow. You accepted it with grace.

Things fell back into place with Ginny in a way that made you want to cry. It was like she had either not noticed you were gone, or she found things so easy with you that it didn’t matter how much time had passed. In the warm comforts of her small bed, she insisted you not sleep on the floor. She invited you into her bed, and you nearly launched yourself on top of her with the anticipation of how you knew it felt to be held by her. Even if it wasn’t like that to her, you still knew. You knew she felt some sort of love for you, and you felt that was enough for now. You made it enough. 

Ginny slept with her window open and her curtains swept to the sides. At the Burrow, as you lay on your back with Ginny curled into your side, her nose brushing into your hair, you looked right out of the window. The stars were so much brighter out here than they were at home, almost as bright as they were at Hogwarts. Maybe it was Ginny that made the stars so bright. 

That summer made things alright again. Ginny seemed to be sitting atop a fence, looking down at you and Harry Potter on opposite sides, deciding on who she was going to let catch her. You stood with outstretched arms for an entire year.

Sixth-year. Ginny, laying in her bed basking in the sunlight that worshipped her, all you could do was stare. You stared until your other dormmates pushed past you into the room, talking loudly and taking no care to not wake Ginny. 

You watched her stir as she rolled onto her stomach, falling deeper into the bed. She saw you and her mouth perked up into a sort of lazy smile, raising her eyebrows. You flushed, feeling warm and tight and strained when she looked at you like that. It was on her face, come here, and so you went, crawling into her bed and curling next to her. It didn’t feel weird; the girls now rummaging through their wardrobe didn’t find it odd, and so you closed your eyes, feeling Ginny’s sun now coating you in the heavenly light. 

Waking up next to Ginny was always a struggle. You were warm and uncomfortable and often sweating, but nothing made you want to move. Ginny, with her body pressed against yours in these rare moments of intimacy, was something you didn’t want to disturb. In the first weeks of fifth-year, before Ginny went to Dean, you would pretend to be annoyed with Ginny’s touches. You would throw her an annoyed glance or a sarcastic comment with a little too much seriousness in it when she rested her head on your shoulder during lunch. You’d stiffen when she tried to reach for your hand in the hall, pretending you had not noticed and reach for something in your bag instead. You hated to think of those moments; moments wasted. 

When you woke, it was Saturday. Saturdays were days where Ginny had afternoons full of Quidditch practice and you sat in the stands doing your homework for the upcoming week. 

This Saturday was no different.

Sparing a glance at her, you regarded her pink nose brushing against her red and gold scarf pulled over her lips. Her long, red eyelashes ghosting over her tanned and freckled cheeks. The crinkle of her eyes, and oh, you just realized she was laughing at one of your jokes. This in itself made your heart twist inside itself. 

The wind worked in spite of you both, pushing against you as you walked to the pitch. Ginny was dressed in her uniform, and you had gone for your heavily padded and warm winter coat. Ginny huddled close to you as you walked, stuffing her hands in your pockets. Her fingers splayed over your hands, pressing into you like they were seeking your warmth. 

In the stands, you did your homework. When you finished your homework, you watched Ginny. You preferred to watch Ginny. She glided through the air with an ease that came with her personality. No part of her was practiced or rehearsed, but she was also so careful and cool at the same time. She was the best parts of all her brothers. She was Ron’s sense of humor, Charlie’s bravery, Bill’s coolness, Percy’s sensibility, and Fred and George’s wicked gift for mischief. This all made Ginny herself. Ginny was no one but Ginny. In a sense, she made it seem like her brothers learned all those qualities from her, just because she did them so well. You were in love with Ginny Weasley.

Back in the castle, hours after practice, you and Ginny sat side by side against the headboard of her bed. You had the blankets pulled to your chins, and laughter filled the air in front of you. Ginny had told the sun to go away, so it did, and instead, a muggy and cold day replaced it. Clouds stormed outside, and you knew you would be lulled to sleep by the sound of rain later. 

“Think the rain will last until tomorrow?” Ginny asked, leaning over you to look out the window.

“Maybe. Why?”

“Ron said he and Harry were going to Hogsmeade, wanted me to come with.”

Something clicked away inside of you, like one last light that had been tortured to stay on for years and years.

“Oh.”

Ginny was quiet, not realizing the separate storm raging inside of you. You could not believe you expected anything else from Ginny. Anything else but her tireless and never-ending efforts to get every boy at Hogwarts to notice her. Ginny and her perfect eyes and hair and skin and body and personality and laugh. 

“I don’t want you to go tomorrow,” you hadn’t realized you said it, the words twisting on your tongue like they knew you were trying out this honesty thing for the first time. 

“What?”

“Don’t go.”

Ginny laughed. You felt every bone in your face sharpen and freeze. It was like the tears you knew would well up in your eyes were first coursing through your face like a complicated sewer system.

“Ginny,” you managed to breathe it out, turning to her with glassy eyes and tight lips.

She stopped laughing, turning her entire body to you and pushing off the blankets.

“Oh my god, what’s wrong? Y/n?” her voice was full of breathless worry and concern at your rare showing of vulnerability. It made you want to cringe away and fall into her.

Her face was so close to yours, it was like a dream. It was like you were back under the stars at the Burrow, under Ginny’s stars and in her bed. You lifted your eyes to hers, hoping she saw the same look behind them from the Yule Ball. Her face softened and for a second you swore you saw it in her eyes too. You realized she was getting closer, her look of concern morphing into a look of unknown. 

Her lips were so close to yours, you wanted to reach out; you kept your hands tucked beneath the blanket and stopped her lips from meeting yours as you rested your forehead against hers.

“I-” you started, finding the rush of the plumbing beneath your face all clog at once, like the blood had stopped flowing through your veins. You were so close to her.

“Please,” her words fell onto your lips like they were physical things in the air, and all of a sudden your hands plunged from under the blanket and your face was on hers and your lips were touching hers. 

You held her hair in your hands and she ran her hands down your back. Her lips were so soft, and you were self-conscious because you wondered if all the lip biting and worrying you had done on your lips would make yours rough and harsh. You wondered if Ginny loved your hands like you loved her lips. 

You wondered about a lot of things, after that. You wondered about the looks Harry seemed to give Ginny. About the looks Ginny refused to give back to him. You wondered if she would mind how scared you were all the time. You wondered if she noticed how much you didn’t want to be scared. You wondered if she was ever scared. 

You slept in Ginny’s bed every night.

“Does Harry love you?” 

The question had felt almost as scary as when you’d asked her not to go to Hogsmeade. Her reaction to the first scary question, however, made you believe it was going to be okay. It would always be okay with Ginny.

“I think he might,” she said.

Your head was pressed into her neck, her long hair getting caught in your nose every time you breathed. It was hot and a little uncomfortable, but it was Ginny, and you just wanted to feel her. Her arms were wrapped around you, her head inclined slightly so her mouth was by your ear. Your legs were tangled and her feet were warm against your cold ones. Ginny had told the sun to go away a long time ago.

“Do you love him?” 

Waiting for Ginny to answer was like waiting for her to tell you whether or not she had lost her virginity to Dean Thomas. She had said she had, and you felt like your world was going to end.

“Not anymore,” she whispered, even though you had already cast a silencing charm around her bed.

You breathed a breath you hadn’t realized was reserved for this moment.

You turned to face her, your mouths inches apart. You couldn’t help but stare at hers, feeling now blissful and for the first time without any worry or insecurity. Then her face inched away and her brows knitted together. You brought a warm hand to them, running the pad of your thumb across them until they smoothed out. 

“I’m sorry.” Ginny was whispering it over and over again, like a prayer, and you felt panic surged inside of you. 

You pushed yourself off of her, thinking she was lying about Harry and apologizing for that. 

As soon as you were off of her, she was wrapping her arms around you again, pulling her back into her. She was cradling you, rocking you back and forth as she kept chanting it. You felt pathetic, like this was a goodbye she had been wanting to say since the day she met you. Like she was apologizing to some god for the things you had done together. Like she was apologizing to Harry for the lie she told you. 

You pulled away far enough to look at her face, seeing shiny streaks creating a river down each side of her face. She was crying. Your hands on her face again, pushing the tears away as they endlessly leaked from her eyes. 

“What?” you whispered, almost cooed, curling into her lap and holding her face in your hands.

“I didn’t see you sooner,” she whispered, choking out strangled sobs as she threw her face into your chest. 

“Yes you did,” you whispered back, finding the volume too loud for the weight of the conversation. You felt like saying anything aloud would be inappropriate. You wanted to write it all out and exchange it all in wax-sealed letters.

“You were always there, and I was never there, and I made you sit and watch,” Ginny was almost screaming, guilt throwing itself from her throat. “I was so selfish!”

You didn’t dignify this with a response, instead, waiting for her to calm down again. Her shaking ceased and her breathing settled into hiccups.

“I’d do it all over again. I’d sit through each boyfriend. I would go to every Quidditch practice and watch you at every breakfast and I would walk to every class with you. I would wait forever. I don’t want to, though, so stop feeling so awful about it. We are now,” you felt your own tears sliding down your face, a voice coming out that cracked and shivered unlike your own.

Your words racked a new wave of sobs through her, and you could practically feel the relief and the guilt washing off her in waves. You were no stranger to guilt.

You had felt guilt every time you looked at Ginny that way when she was with her boyfriends. You had felt guilt every time you wanted to brag to Michael when she didn’t invite him to her practices. You wanted to throw every piece of intimacy you and Ginny shared in Harry Potter’s face, just so he would stop thinking he had a chance. 

You also knew that relief. You knew that relief when Ginny didn’t stutter with her hands. When she breathed against your skin and smiled when you pulled apart. When it wasn’t anything different between you; when you could just as easily sit next to each other at the Great Hall. 

Ginny’s eyes were tired and puffy when they finally turned to you. She wiped your cheeks with the backs of her hands, because you had told her how gripping the broom made her fingertips rough. You kissed her hand, capturing her skinny wrist in your grasp and flipping it over to press your lips against her palm. She breathed, for what felt like the first time, in even and contained patterns. 

She had both hands on your shoulders, pushing you further into the mattress, until she climbed on top of you. Her strong legs were on either side of you, sitting just above your hip bones. She didn’t bend to kiss you, just sitting straight as she looked down at you: laid down at her mercy.

Her hands started at yours, interlocking them and then leaving them to trail up your arms. She ignored the shivers following her touch, continuing her warpath until she started again at your hips. Her hands slid up your sides, featherlight touches that made your back arch off the bed. She sighed with a smile, cocking her head in a disbelieving way.

“You’re all mine?” she whispered, voice hoarse and weak with melancholy and shock spilling into her words.

You couldn’t find the words to tell her just how much you were entirely hers, so you nodded helplessly. 

She began to giggle, finally bending down to bring her lips to you. They traced up and down your neck, like she was finding the right place to pot a plant, and then finally planted one searing kiss just below your jaw. 

“I’m yours,” you moaned, begging for her to do anything.

“Yours,” she answered, doing anything. 

[nothisis-ridiculous]

Take Me Home Now: Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten: Another Mother's Breakin'

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3.

FemShepxKaidan

"Jane."

The recruit let the knocking go on for a third round, slowly shaking herself from the rickety cot. While these digs were nothing as fancy as the bunk back at the mall, the privacy was a paradise. Blank, dull, metal-lined walls were a price she was willing to pay over the colorful and plant-lined walls of the barracks. The humming noise of life rebuilding, no she belonged in the silence.

"Jane." This time her name was a statement, backed by a hint of threat.

"Just a moment," she groaned, rubbing the crust from the inner corners of her eyes, pushing sore muscles upright and forcing a shirt over her head but allowing it to fall at its own pace. Her pupils narrowed at the sudden influx of light filling her half of the crate, "morning?"

Helen looked her up and down, that damned frown a returning friend, "you should put a comb through that hair."

"For fuck's sa-"

The woman made a sudden jerk, but it stopped with a simple raising of her arm, brushing aside a fallen lash, "language, dear."

"Sorry," Jane's eyebrows narrowed, had she forgotten she was not a child, "why are you here?"

"Because we are going out."

"Don't I have three more days?" Jane returned.

The older woman in a rare admittance of defeat sighed, offering back a raised eyebrow, "you're well aware that was a ruse."

"I knew it!" she didn't.

"Yes, let's be proud that you are stubborn as they warned," Helen retorted with a hint of a smirk, "but you should be ready. I'm not going to let you slide and get breakfast, either!"

Yes, this encampment was a military installment, but it gave no reason to ready herself with the rest of the soldiers. Since Rahna had given up on her she did little to get out of her bunk. So far, her secret remained, but pushing it by becoming a regular around camp seemed too big of a risk. Evelyn gave her some reason to get out, but the kid quickly found friends. Within days she was no longer needed, though the shit still visited at least once a day that prodded her into some form of semblance. The lack of duties cemented her decision to remain secluded, bidding her time with the running videos in her head.

"So why me?" Jane pressed once they cleared the base by a few thousand meters, pulling the ration bar from her mouth.

The woman's dark eyes turned cross, "and don't you waste those rations."

"You'll never want them again after fresh produce," Jane murmured, swallowing down the bland brick of nutrition in three bites.

"The second reason for coming out here," Helen handed over a pistol, "fresh meat and pest removal."

"You know, someplace on Illium would sell Varren skewers as a delicacy," Jane overlooked the pistol with a grin, "man, could that krogan grill up a mean varren skewer."

"The pistol is back up; you should use biotics. No stunts," she warned without heed of her companion's previous comment.

"I'm a paragon of caution," Jane mumbled in response, deciding then it was best to follow after the woman in silence. Pausing only as her leader stopped.

"No stunts," a finger waggled at her, "that kid and her grandfather want you back, and I intend to see that through, despite your best attempts."

Jane giggled, "the LT would love that one."

"Dismiss it all you like, whinge that someone cares about your sorry hide," the woman spat, "you're being selfish. Everyone is hurting if you haven't noticed."

Jane's face drew blank, "while it's true, doesn't it feel better to be pissed off? To be angry that everything is changed? Fuck everyone else. I'm hurting." She looked over the horizon, directly into the blue beam that connected to the Citadel. It seemed so tiny from here, so insignificant.

Helen's gaze followed Jane's gaze, "trying to remember how much worse it could be rarely helps."

"I like to make myself feel better by telling myself that I'm angering out of grief; it's one of the stages, right? But what is there after it? I don't want to let it go and accept my world is gone," Jane's voice mellowed to a whisper, "acceptance is terrifying. It means you have to move forward."

They shared a silent moment together, connecting with a brief touch—neither alone as they thought.

"Who did you lose?"

"My heart."

"Who did you lose?"

"...my heart."

Horizon- Horizon was an awkward fumbling in the dark. An overhanded display The Illusive Man decided to lord over her. He knew her strings and just how to pluck them to make her dance to his tune. Pulling Kaidan into the entire mess with the Collectors was a threat. But as messy and powerless as the knowledge of what the Illusive Man would take from her was the undercurrent of hope. It was foolish to be caught up in the giddy excitement of returned love, But Kaidan loved her. The first confession and bitter tug on her heart. She should have told him then.

Mars- Mars was just as awkward. Running, sliding, and dodging bullets after months of being cooped up in a small apartment awaiting trial. Sideways glances, and a Major who wouldn't stop dogging her every step. He questioned, prodded, and accused her of terrible things. Granted, she well deserved it. He was so close, so in sync as if the years were mere minutes... yet the distance between them was a canyon wide. But the Major loved her, even if it was once upon a time. A lighthearted exchange broke some of the tension, but she still should have told him then.

The Citadel- "What's up" had to be the lamest greeting after an armed standoff. Not a clasping hug, not a gentle smile, instead she vocalized her worry that he was angry. She hadn't taken the shot at Udina, and she had made Kaidan make that impossible decision. To trust her word, to trust an ex-terrorist. It was too much to ask of anyone- but now she was someone he was in love with. Not a past tense, a was, but a current thing. Still, she fumbled, asking him to let her have it and killing any hope of a romantic reunion. Her stolen glances at his backside caught in the act gave him a sheepish glance away and not the confession he was owed.

The Citadel Pt. II- After a shamelessly little amount of convincing, she had found herself in a dress. It was supposed to be simple- a snack on the Citadel. But she had hoped for more, the flirting, the longing stares, compliments, and a little bit of girlish enthusiasm from Kaidan she dared to think they had a chance. It was the first 'I love you' the extra 'I always have' sending her heart fluttering into erratics that she fought to control, lest she make a scene. The graze of his tender lips against her palm relinquished any grasp she had left on that errant heart, the thundering of the heartbeat clouding her brain. The jealousy the rest of her skin felt for her palm stealing another confession.

2181 Despoina- Kaidan would always rue his attraction to adventurous women. Not the woman, but the spark that drove him there. She was always at risk; her daily amount of adventure qualified as a heroic event for most other citizens of the galaxy. For her, it was a normal Tuesday night. But still, he worried, and still, he continued to love her for the constant stress she brought him. Loved her recklessness because it was as much part of her as her freckles. In the wordless hours of the night, his grip always tighter after a harrowing encounter, she was silent.

The Normandy- Neither of them wanted a quick drink. It was a little silly, after all these years, after all his confessions, to still feel insecure about inviting Kaidan up to her cabin. Instead of being direct, he invented the excuse of a short drink to see her. To comfort each other- when they both knew they needed it. Everything felt so final, the end a ticking bomb, an end to the short time they had together. She found strength in him, a safety in knowing she had someone that would catch her. He loved her openly and proudly. He loved her without needing the words returned.

London- It was unreal, after three years finally approaching the finish line. Loss and love in equal measure. Now, it was time for her to go it alone. It was unnatural, and she fought against the notion. She didn't want to be alone- not at the end. Not after this blissful glimpse into the way love had brightened every facet of her being. Kaidan would gladly face a bitter end with her, going arm in arm to meet Garrus at the bar. But it was a fucked kind of love that pushed her to make him leave. The same love that screamed at him to get the hell off the Normandy, the love that now albeit gently pleaded with him to live. It wasn't a roar or a cry of victory but a rumble- a tender declaration. Kaidan knew, even if it took him repeating his love a thousand times over. Six was a good number, short. The heart knew it was needed.

"So refresh my memory," Jane questioned in a whisper, trying not to draw the entire den of Varren upon them at once, "just how many we are planning on bringing back?"

"Are you that keen on vaporizing them all?"

"I certainly can."

"Wouldn't that defeat one of our goals?"

"Well, I don't think you accounted for the transportation of a Varren," Jane noted, looking behind them at the lack of vessel to transport said game.

Jane was ignored with a huff, the woman peering around a blockade, "I want that one."

Jane took a look, the brown striped specimen had to top the list of heaviest varren she had seen, "seriously?"

"Yes. Jane."

"Aye, Aye, Ma'am."

There wasn't time for a seething look or the smarmy reply that would have followed. The creature floated, air-bound as if the weight of the animal defied gravity. It kicked at the air, unable to stop itself from moving toward the barrier that blocked the scent of view of its hunters. Jane yanked her hand forward, dragging against the invisible weight. It felt good, if not for the shred of panic that she might lose time again. The tell-tale sign of blood was not forthcoming.

The blast of sound ricocheting through the plaza quickly overcame any remaining fear.

"Whatever you do, do not approach these things," the recruit barked, yanking the older woman into the corner spot, "they will overwhelm you if they get close."

"Aye, Aye, Ma'am."

The pack burst from all corners, running full boar in the direction of their fallen packmate. Several running members fell in the chaos, while a line of biotic energy sent the group careening into nearby walls and structures. For what inexperience was worth, Helen held up well, keeping up trained focus on the beasts. The old lady had precision aim, wasting hardly a clip during the charge. Jane didn't have to pick up much slack. Now, if there were a third member, everything would be peachy.

The square was silent for a count of three before a single varren cried out loudly.

The alpha was on scene.

While she had not promised to keep from committing to a hair-brained stunt, biotic shockwaves and lifts were boring. A teenage biotic could perform these moves without a sweat, a N7 needed a challenge. She needed the thrill. Blue waves coalesced and pulsed around her form, the familiar vibration against her skin pleasurable. A fluid vault over the barrier propelling her charge into the lone Varren, sending it toppling from the blow. Jane dove for it, pummeling it with blasts of biotic energy until her knuckles bled.

This was no longer a stunt but a method of release.

"Seems those biotics are back online," Helen murmured, wiping something from her eyes.

Jane cocked her head, "where'd you learn to shoot?"

"That? Oh. I thought they'd go out like a coyote."

The blonde smirked, dismounting the alpha's corpse, wiping her fists against a clean portion of the animal's hide. Nothing from Tuchanka went down quietly.

Helen stood over her prize, after a long minute she looked at Jane expectantly, "aren't you going to grab that?"

"Your trophy, your struggle," Jane folded her arms in return, a sly grin crossing her face, "besides, by the way we snuck out of that base, I don't need any more blame for this... what would you call this, stunt?"

"We did not sneak-" but the woman's face betrayed her guilt.

"Yeah, it's normal procedure to hop a barricade at the precise moment the guard changed," Jane knew a thing or two about sneaking out. She'd even stolen a ship twice.

Helen didn't have to struggle with the corpse long before Jane took pity on the woman; she had an unfair advantage anyway. Genetic enhancements, bone grafting, and a little biotic lifting. Unfortunately, she would still be sore when they got back to base.

"Why the need to sneak out anyway? I'm sure you could have roped anyone into helping you," Jane was under no illusion that the woman had any particular like for her, if anything, the woman looked at her with increasing scrutiny.

"None of them would dare."

"Oh?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Jane understood the sentiment completely.

[wings-of-a-storm]

Mini (Venji) Detail Appreciation: Episode 5 -- The framing of Benji’s simultaneous disconnection and gravitation

There are so many moments at Victor’s birthday party that provide A+ content, but this particular small moment has got to be one of my favourites: when Benji watches Victor with the softest smile as Victor blows out his cake, surrounded by people who love him.

First we need to talk about the framing of this moment because it really gets to me. 

The framing acts so well as a visual metaphor for Benji’s disconnect with Derek and gravitation towards Victor’s presence. You look at this image and it really looks like the process of a moth being drawn towards the light; of Benji being drawn to Victor. It’s a process because Benji is still on the periphery -- he doesn’t feel part of the inner-circle yet, like Mia and Victor’s school friends, but he wants to get as close as he can anyway. He wants to be part of Victor’s life in some way; to be able to be around him and feel that magic of Victor’s positivity and sweet nature. Things are still holding him back though, like the opposing force of his boyfriend, ever lingering in the background, who he has to balance priorities with.

Then when you look at the expression on Benji’s face as he watches Victor, that gravitation is even more apparent than his physical positioning. Like, his focus is entirely on Victor. And it really feels like, for that one moment, no one else exists for him but Victor. And the feeling is mutual as evidenced by the initial blurring of Mia and Derek from Victor’s point of view. That’s quite a moment they found themselves in…

The placement and physical spacing is everything as well: Benji had his back to Derek, temporarily shutting him out. It’s like Victor is a happy space for Benji, where there is light and positivity and sweet words making him feel good about himself. But Derek’s presence is different -- he has a more complicated and stressful association a lot of the time. So in moments like this, when Benji is so immersed in that happy space, he doesn’t want Derek’s heavier presence intruding. And Benji standing with his back to Derek, effectively blocking him out, is a subconscious manifestation of that desire. (It’s like an earlier version of the cancelled phone call during Victor’s and Benji’s road trip, when he was mad at Derek and didn’t want him intruding in his happy space with Victor…)

As for the physical distance between Derek and Benji during this scene, it is another manifestation of their disconnection. They’re at odds with their values, their desires, even their party etiquette. They’re out of sync. Off kilter. They’re not in a harmonised partnership, especially in that moment, and their body language shows it.

And really, you can get a good sense of all those underlying issues between Derek and Benji (and Benji’s subsequent gravitation towards Victor), just from the placement in this one little scene. It’s such genius positioning and framing!

***

Okay, that’s the technical side done, but can we also please talk about the emotional impact of this scene? Why Benji stood his ground to stay for longer; why he just couldn’t bring himself to leave; why he was watching Victor with that smile? (This scene makes me feel so many things, guys!)

So to set the scene of my feels: just before this moment, Benji had just been doing something routine -- he had come to say his goodbyes to Victor because Derek had been hounding him in the background to leave early. That was all Benji had been expecting to happen -- a routine goodbye. But instead, Victor completely surprised him with a super sweet compliment: that he thinks Benji is great just the way he is. You see the surprise on Benji’s face as well as the warmth that seeps through his bones after hearing it.

How the hell can Benji possibly leave after hearing something like that? After feeling so good about himself? After feeling so connected to someone he feels the same way about? How could he tear himself away from such a happy, healthy space and cut it all short for a whinging partner who can’t even support him enough to stay for the climax of the party? (Unpleasant atmosphere at times or not, Benji did want to stay and Derek should have supported him until Benji himself was ready to leave… Especially when they made it as far as the cake!)

So I love that Benji doesn’t leave in that tiny window when everyone is gathering for the birthday cake rituals (Derek be damned). And I love that he wants to stay to watch Victor being happy and showered with love and appreciation from his loved ones. It clearly makes Benji happy being able to see Victor so happy -- probably because Benji is so appreciative of what Victor said to him and wants Victor to be as happy as he makes him feel. (Sorry for the overuse of ‘happy’ but needs must!)

And aside from just watching a happy Victor, he clearly wanted to be part of the birthday cake ritual for the whole point of the ritual: to celebrate Victor and all he is. Of course Benji wants to celebrate Victor with everyone else -- he thinks Victor is wonderful the way he is too. Yes, Victor makes hurtful mistakes like inviting Benji and Derek into a lion’s den with no warning and guilting them into sacrificing who they are to do it, but Victor has so many wonderful qualities too: he was courageous and stood up for Benji over his own family in the end; he also stood up to a school bully on his very first day at school; he treats everyone with respect; he has such a positive attitude; and he has a special way of making Benji feel all warm and good about himself. Benji appreciates the person Victor is, and he wants to celebrate that with everyone. And I just love that so much!

Like, wild horses couldn’t have dragged Benji away in that moment. And then, er, when a wild horse (ie. an anniversary-allergic boyfriend who finds birthday songs equally discomforting) eventually does manage to drag Benji away, there is still that lingering look Benji gives Victor before he finally leaves:

So yes… This whole scene has so many facets that just reduce me to a weak blob. Thank you for blob-ing it up with me.

[riddlehoes]

Character: Harry Potter

Warnings: None!

Summary: character looks back on the times that are relevant to her now with her then lover, Harry Potter.

I had always wondered what it was like to feel that type of love where you love that other person so much that your hometown doesn't really remind you of hone or family, it reminds you of them. And it's nice at first, until they stop loving you, and now when you think of your hometown, your heart hurts.

I was born in Little Whinging, Surrey, England. February 11th, 1981. My mom was a pure blooded witch, my dad as well. Though after 3 years at Hogwarts, it was just me and my dad.

" Oh angela, you'll be okay. I promise. You still have your dad. "

That's what Harry Potter told me a few hours after I was told my mom died in our third year. He had grown close to my parents since we started at Hogwarts. We had always lived next to him but him never being able to leave the house alone, restricted us from connecting.

" I remember when I would watch out the window and I'd see you play with one of the neighbors and you'd be doing something..." he told me as he trailed off, a smile creeping onto his face.

" you made this colorful butterfly fly around you and the girl and she started screaming and ran home. I thought you were some sort of magician. I was amazed. " He said, smiling bright. I pecked his lips then laid back against his chest.

He told me that as we were leaving for Hogwarts for our 4th year. The year we said I love you for the first time.

We were young, maybe I shouldn't have fallen as hard as I did, but I thought he was too. He wasn't.

" s-so you know me and Ginny. Well you know I um spent Christmas at the burrow since I had no where else to go- " I cut him off with an eye roll. " you could have came to my house. It was just me and my dad, it was sad. " I huffed, putting my fist to my cheek.

" Um okay anyways, me and Ginny were um just sitting in the living room, then she um fed me a pie then we um kissed and I'm so sorry. " he muttered, holding onto my hands. " Harry, if it was only a kiss and you're truly sorry then it's okay. I love you, and I know you won't do it again. " I told him, a sincere smile making its way to my face, not knowing it'll be scared off soon enough

" No, no Ange. Um I want to do it again. I want to kiss Ginny again. "

My heart dropped at his words. Completely shattered. My cheeks got red and my face was contorted into confusion.

" But me and you Harry, we're together. " I whispered, looking down at my lap. " I wanted to end it with you before she and I went any further with our relationship. " he told me, attempting to grab my hands.

I pulled them away and shook my head as tears slowly streamed down my face. " So, so you decided to tell me at my birthday dinner? " I said finally looking up at the face that usually only brought warmth.

Now it only brings a cold feeling in my chest.

" I know okay, but I didn't want to tell you in front of everyone. I didn't want to embarrass you. " he said. I looked at him in disbelief and stood up, throwing my napkin on the table.

" You didn't want to embarrass me? YOU CHEATED ON ME AND ARE NOW DUMPING ME FOR A BLOODY FIFTH YEAR HARRY AFTER FOUR BLOODY YEARS HARRY. FOUR.  " I raised my voice, the tears choking me up as I picked my wand up off the table and walked out. Not even picking up my jacket.

He did this in the Leaky Cauldron. Where we were celebrating my 16th birthday.

After that night,  I locked myself in the bathroom with Moaning Myrtle. Ginny tried to give me my jacket, but once I threatened to hex her, she just left it on my bed.

She and Harry went on to date, and are now engaged, to be married any day now. I was invited, of course. Harry still saw me as a friend, an important one at that.

" I'm Angela X- " the young boy cut me off, " Angela Xoren. Yes. You live across from me. " he told me, offering his hand. I sent him a smile and shook it, " I'm Harry Potter. "

This interaction happened sometime after the sorting ceremony, and it was our first official greeting. Other than the few glances we shared while I was outside and he was inside peering out.

" honestly kinda surprised I was sorted into Gryffindor. Mum was in Gryffindor. Dad was in Slytherin. " I told him, as he and the ginger boy ate next to me

" Both of my parents were in Gryffindor. I didn't even know my parents were wizards, no I didn't even know I was a wizard until just days ago when Hagrid bursted into my aunt and uncles hut. He explained everything to me over the next few days now I'm here. " the young boy explained. A pang of hurt thrusted into my heart as I remembered my father telling me about the boy who lived.

" My father told me about you. He didn't know your parents well, mum was in Gryffindor with them. She always tells us stories about Sirius, Remus, Lily, James, Peter, Marlene. Even Severus. " I told him, he looked at me with curiosity.

" tell me the stories about them, the ones your mum told you. Please. " he asked, more like pleaded.

We bonded over that moment, it sprouted a friendship. Long lasting, or at least... it was supposed to be.

" mum told me that Lily was very funny, very smart. And your dad was very athletic, very sweet. " I told Harry as we sat in the common room, the fire soaring in the fireplace.

" Your dad was very much in love with your mum. For many years. Then, when Lily became head girl in her 7th year she began to date james. It was truly a one for the books. " I said, his smile widened

( these next few stories are made up to make the friendship strengthen. )

" Mum was with Lily, who was really good friends with Marlene who dated my father during their 4th and 6th year. Mum and Lily were out in the courtyard, it was snowing. Marlene, Sirius, James, my father and Remus were hiding behind a snow wall of some sort. And they began to just fire snowballs at our moms. " I had to stop to let out a laugh, Harry as well.

" and so mum and Lily had to hide behind one of the stone benches, trying to dodge the um nonstop snowballs. Mum said it was one of the best days at Hogwarts. Marlene and Sirius ran over and joined them so they could attack Remus, James, Marlene, and my father. Mum said that was the first day she had truly bonded with my father. James targeted your mum, he thought that if he targeted her she would like him. She didn't, or she did. Not that she'd admit it to herd self until 7th year. " he chuckled.

" your father didn't really know anyone you said? " he asked, I shook my head and scooted back further into my seat. " He really only hung around when Marlene was with her friends. But in those two years, she spent more time with my dad, cause she thought they were meant to be. But they weren't. "

I was like Marlene in a way. I thought Harry and I were meant to be. But we obviously weren't.

As I sat down in my living room, I heard a whoosh in my fireplace and Ginny walked into my living room.

" Angela hi. " she said, smiling that bright smile. I sat my book down, and got up going to hug her. " Hello Gin. How have you been love? " I asked pulling away from the hug, and pulling her to sit on the couch.

" I've been good. The wedding planning has finally ended. The wedding is soon. Will you be coming? " she asked, my throat closed up but I nodded.

" Of course. You and Harry. Y'all have been very good friends since Hogwarts. I would not miss that special day for the two of you. " she nodded, and stared into my eyes. Grabbing my hands.

" Ange, if you are not comfortable with it I do not want you to feel forced to come. I have always cared for you, and if you do not feel comfortable enough to come I don't want you to feel forced to come okay. Just take time to think it ov- " I stopped her, shaking my head. " Ginny. I don't care what happened between Harry and I. You Ginny, you told me about how you dreamed for your wedding day since you were five. You dreamed to leave the big ginger family and starting your own new family. I will be there for you. For you and Harry. Okay. " I told her, trying to reassure her. She nodded and pulled me into a hug.

" Angela I love my family. Dearly. But it's such a big family. So many rooms to clean, so many people to feed. When we graduate, I dream to move to somewhere quiet, secluded. In a small but big house with to many rooms for all the kids we're gonna have. " Ginny told me as we sat in the library, acting like we're reading.

" Okay, I'll see you next Friday then? Hermione  is throwing me a bridal shower and id love it if you came. " I nodded with a smile, and put the dirty dishes into the sink.

I walked her back to the fireplace and handed her floo powder. " I love you gin, I'll see you Friday. " she nodded and gave me another hug, " I love you too Ange. I'll see you then. "

Then she was gone. I went back to my book as my mind wondered back to Hogwarts.

" how many kids do you want ange? " Harry asked as we sat on the common room couch, cuddled up. I shrugged as I think about my non. " My mom wanted two more kids, so I'm thinking maybe 3. She never got her three kids in her big suburban wizard neighborhood. " I whispered as he played with my hair.

" I want three kids too, my mom was pregnant when Voldemort killed her. Sirius told me before he died, that. And that mum wanted 2 more kids as well. Maybe I can live her dream. " I nodded at his words with a smile, imagining our life together. Three kids. Big house in a wizards suburbia.

Planning my future so early on with my one sided lover, was a mistake. A mistake I shouldn't have been dumb enough to make.

-

" I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride! " the minister said, then Harry kissed Ginny. A passionate kiss.

They were married, finally married.

" I never really thought Ginny and I would happen Angela. I never thought I would be with anyone else, anyone else but you. " Harry said, I nodded as tears threatened to escape.

" Harry, I love you. I love you very much and I think... I think I always will. Which is why I want, no I need you to always be happy. " I started grabbing his hands, " you are so obviously happy with Gin. So I will continue to support you two until the day I die. " I pulled him into a hug and he smiled widely.

" thank you Angela. I will always love you, you will always be very important to me. " he told me. I nodded and pulled away, standing up from the common room couch.

" I will see you after break, have a nice Christmas. " I said, and bid a goodnight.

Me, Fred, George, Luna and everyone else on Ginny's side jumped up and cheered as Ginny and Harry walked down the isle hand in hand in tears.

I hugged Fred, George and Ron who joined us.

" you good angela? " Fred asked, I nodded with a smile as we all walked out of the chapel and apparated to the venue.

Fred and I had been seeing each other for a few months, he had known of my infatuation with Harry. But he knew I could move on, that I was.