#ive never minded the feeling of chewed food in my mouth

[baekura]

.

[nmn-yty]

— ๋࣭ ⭑࿐ first time ｡o♡⋆˚｡⋆.

read part 1: here!!!

pairing: lee know x reader

summary: caring for a bunny seemed harder than you thought

tags: 「SFW! fluff! (ik the title is misleading but i promise this is all fluff!) | hybrid!lee know | referring to lee know as minho | soft!lee know (he's even cuter in this one) | hyper lee know>< | bunny bath time! | the neediest bunny ever | another sweet little kiss! | reader has no gender」

word count: 1.7k

a/n: back at it again! ik ive said it so many times throughout my blog but im truly thankful for all the likes and reblogs(◞‸◟)♡ this will not be the last of my bunny lee know endeavor but stay tuned for more hybrid, skz, and kpop stories in the meantime! also keep in mind that ive never owned any pets so the animal behavior is based on memory of things ive seen online, dont come for me pls>< anyways, i hope this one lives up to the hype of the first part, enjoy!!! (also i apologize for not posting sooner><)

+ stylized lowercase, missing punctuation (not done on purpose), and minimal revisions

a few days in and the days seemed to get harder and harder for you. not because minho was causing you any trouble, but because the fluttery feeling in your stomach kept growing the more you spent time with him. it was scary how perfect he was in every way.

you were sitting on your couch enjoying a nice hot drink, when the familiar sound of thumping on the wood floor caught your attention. you looked down to find a playful bunny minho. he was scurrying around your feet, even moving his paws to your legs.

"what's wrong?" you set your drink down on the table in front of you.

minho kept on pawing at your legs. you reached down to pick him up, placing him in your lap.

"i can't understand you when you're in the form, you know?"

he looked up at you with a nonchalant expression, you expected nothing out of him. before you knew it, you had a hybrid minho sitting in your lap bridal style, hands wrapped around your neck. the weight and size change startled you, but he loved to tease you and transform whenever he pleased.

"can i please go outside for a bit?" he was really bouncy and sounded out of breath. you had to remind yourself that he was a wild animal. although you took him in to stay in your house, his animal instincts couldn't be suppressed.

"okay, but only for a little-" he cut your sentence off by changing back into a bunny, still knocking you off guard.

he scurried off your lap and towards the back hallway, scratching at the door for you to open it. he looked back at you with those big dark eyes. they always sparkled perfectly in the right lighting. seeing him being all hyper as an animal was truly so endearing. you've always wanted someone like him in your life. the universe definitely planned out your lives to be intertwined.

you rolled your eyes from his fast movements and got up. the second you opened the door wide enough for him to fit, he dashed out onto the grass. it has still been snowy for the past couple of days, but today the grass held a light layer of snow from earlier that day.

he was hopping around the entire yard, sniffing around bushes, chewing on some of the obtainable food he could get his mouth on. you could see the footprints and tracks beginning to circle around the snow. the whole surface of your yard was being fully inspected by him.

you couldn't help but sit down by the steps of your back porch. hugging your knees in admiration, you followed minho's path all throughout the whole time you were out there. you couldn't help but get flustered about the racing thoughts in your mind. something as simple as watching him be comfortable in his environment made you feel at ease.

what you didn't know was minho found himself wanting to be human more for the both of you. it was exhausting for him at times, but he couldn't help but laugh with you, smile with you, feel with you. he never got to experience these moments with anyone before. he wanted each adventure with you to last for hours.

he looked up to find you staring at him, which made his heart race faster than it normally should. draining energy fast, he flopped on his back, waving his paws and feet in the air. getting a chuckle out of you from the distance, he felt satisfied. the sudden urge to dig overwhelmed his thoughts, getting back to his feet and digging straight down from where he was standing.

luckily, you had your mind to distract you from his actions. he started to go feral, getting the dirt and snow all over his face.

drifting away from your daydream, you found your white fluffy bunny turning brown from the dirt and snow.

"minho, no!" you quickly ran over to him, making him realize he was likely in big trouble. thinking two steps ahead, he dove out of your attempt to grab him. shocked and stunned, you still chased after him. he was running steadily back towards the house. the universe was on your side though, as the back door was closed and all minho could do was try to reach up and grab the handle. however, being in his small form, he failed miserably.

"cmon silly," you bent down to grab the squirming animal in your arms, the warmth from your body making him docile and shut down.

once you got to the bathroom upstairs, you gently set minho on the floor. his eyes were slowly closing and he tried his best to keep them open again. before he could fall asleep, he jolted himself awake, which unfortunately turned him into his hybrid form.

"do you want me to take my clothes off so you can bathe me?"

his question made you whip your head around in shock, stuttering nonsense to try and distract yourself from the image of himself being naked in front of you.

"dont be difficult... turn into a bunny so i can wash you quickly."

he let out a small whine, almost like it was his plan all along to get dirty and have this scenario go his way.

you crossed your arms and gave him a dissatisfied look. you weren't really mad at him, you just wanted the day to end quicker so you two could snuggle in bed together.

one big movement turned him small again, he hopped onto your legs, as you had knelt down to get comfortable. you turned on the water in your bathtub and ran some warm water about two or three inches from the bottom. placing him inside the tub, you grabbed a cup to scoop up the water onto his body. the first rinse was quick, he even shook some water off himself like a dog which made you smile.

the scrubbing process also went by fast, working your fingers gently through his coat, the dirt coming off completely. you picked up the cup again, filling it with water. washing the soap away, he shook his body again, trying to dry up as fast as he could.

"calm down minho! ill dry you off in a second."

the water beginning to flow down the drain, you picked up a sopping wet minho from the tub and placed him on the rug next to you. the towel to dry him was hanging on the side of the tub. you laid it flat against your lap, picking him up again and placing him on top of the towel.

you wrapped him up in the towel, trying your best not to cover up his face. you patted and rubbed the cloth into his body, making sure to cover all the spots. his ears, his tail, and his paws all becoming dry and fluffy again.

he hopped off of your lap, turning to his hybrid form. this time you expected something from that big of a leap. you were starting to learn and master his behaviors. he was sat on the floor facing you. for some reason, his hair and ears were still wet in this form. he held one of his ears out, squeezing it to wring out the remaining water off himself. you got to your knees and threw the towel over his head. going a little harder this time, you scrubbed his hair dry to the best of your ability. you noticed him closing his eyes in comfort, especially when you got to his ears.

he looked up at you through his messy hair. he hummed softly, he was so happy you were taking such good care of him. not noticing at all, when you removed the towel his bunny ears went away. he was noticeably more dry and your job was done. you turned around slightly to drape the towel on the tub again.

he let out a cute yawn, so ready to flop into bed and get some sleep. when you turned back around you couldn't help but notice some brown specks on his face. did he have freckles this whole time and you were just too star struck to notice? you reached out to rub his face, making him freeze and have his full semi-conscious attention to your actions. the specks turned to brown streaks against his skin.

"youve been digging so much in the dirt, come here."

he scooted over to you, patiently waiting for anything to happen next. you realized now his nose and cheeks were lightly covered in dirt. you reached over for a new towel and quickly turned the faucet on to run some water on it. swiping the warm cloth on his cheeks, his face became very pink. you didn't know if it was because of the pressure you applied to his face, or if he was actually having some emotional reaction to this.

his gaze was so sensual, almost like his mind had gone to mush and he could only display emotions of pure submission. his thoughts became chaotic, trying to resist the urge to tackle you and have you all to himself.

after a while you could feel your face burning up, scared about any of his next moves or words.

"why are you looking at me like that?" the dirt was almost gone. you moved closer to his face, only inches away in order to get the last bits off.

minho didn't answer you, instead he stared more intensely at you, patiently waiting for you to finish. putting the towel down, you gently rubbed the wetness off his face. even more skin to skin contact was making him lose control. the hue of pink showing from his face becoming almost cartoon like.

"mm tired," his eyes began to droop again. he wanted his last conscious thought to be that he was secure next to you. as dramatic as ever, he laid out his body in your lap, slowly beginning to drift off and finally recharge.

this feeling was starting to become a natural occurrence in your daily lives. whether he was a small bunny, a cute hybrid, or a human who could actually sweep you off your feet, you had him. he felt safe around you and wanted to be near you. using one hand to meet his hand, rubbing it gently to soothe him, you used your other hand to play with his hair. even as a human, he was still soft and cuddly. you bent down to place a small kiss on his head, making him nuzzle himself deeper into you.

part 3 is up! click here!!!

♥︎taglist: @lailac13 @palindrome969 @lunathewonyoungstan @syedazarintasnim @yourlocalstayyxi @mmarusa @yukichan67 @qwonyoung23 @cupidcures @verynormalsstuff @leezanetheofficial

© nmn-yty ★ 6.07.2024

[ultra-raging-ghost]

It's midnight here and I'm tired and soft so! Here's some thoughts that don't make sense (every time I see videos of foster kittens or like kittens in one of those little enclosures, I think of Bagi and Cellbit for whatever reason.)

Do you think there's a world where Bagi and Cellbit weren't separated? Do you think there's a world where Cellbit and Bad walked off the battlefield together? Do you think there's a world where both of those are true?

A world where a demon walked off the battlefield with two young teens (they can't remember their names, they are fifteen, and that's all they really know anymore)? A world where a demon sees the brother and sister, that he taught indescribable violence to, sleeping peacefully in a hotel room bed (nobody questioned them, they probably should have)? Is there a world where the demon teaches the twins (they're twins, they remember that) how to be human? Does the demon know what it means to be human?

-miscellaneousplusmore.

Oughhhh ive never thought about this before... i was gonna hit you with angst but its 2:30 am and im also feeling soft.... so im gonna write you something like fanfiction but not quite.... just how i imagine it :3

-

On the battlefield there was hushed whispers about a pair of little demons, wild children mirrors of one another, in looks, instincts, actions, demônios da guerra. They spoke to no one but each other, and barely that, in growls, yowling, grunts, noises. They slept huddled on top of each other in bushes and trees during the day, and at night four glowing, amber eyes haunted the earth they roamed.

Silence, yowling, screaming, rips, tears, gushes, chewing, a cannon, silence.

The only thing you heard before death, it was rumored, was the pattering of bare feet on grass, and the soft rasping breaths of a child who's been running for too long. You couldn't even bother with the flora of the area, if you were close enough to hear the gentle purring that indicated someones were sleeping inside, you were already dead.

Some weeks into the war, tiny mouths were gasping between bites, gorging themselves on as many mouthfuls of human meat as possible before it was too dangerous to stay out any longer. A cannon had fired, birds scattered, and the two children had looked up from their meal. Their first time making eye contact, not only with each other but with themselves. An almost perfect mirror image. Nobody else was there to witness it, but cellbit's first word with his mind running wasn't even a word at all - it was a soft whine, something in the lower part of his throat that didnt fight its way out like most things that escaped him. Bagi's didnt happen immediately, she was chewing, chewing, chewing, mostly human teeth was not built to chew mostly human meat, she had just chewed and chewed and acknowledged the boy with handfuls of chunky red food in his hands with wide eyes, not even a smile.

And there is a demon on the field, and there is an uninvited guest on the field, and there's death, and there's his scythe and there's his not-too-full change bag waiting to be fuller because if it is not filled the souls of people who had passed were going to stay here, and they're going to haunt this land, but the thing is most soldiers dont exactly intend to die when put in battle, on a sunny day. Every soldier expects to win. The smart ones prepare for the alternative ending, but there aren't a ton of smart soldiers out there in places like these.

And after every cannon fire, a cold air sweeps over the battle grounds, and it settles, and it settles, and then it gets colder, and then sometimes the cold leaves, but most of the time the cold stays. And over the course of this war, the grounds keep getting colder, the fog keeps getting denser, the amount of eyes that watch this war don't change much. They should be going down - but only smart soldiers mean less eyes.

I remember my first memory, and there's something that happens when you get your first memory, and there's something that happened to Cellbit and Bagi when they got their first memory. Something starts working, the gears start turning, like someone switches a lever and suddenly your eyes are light bulbs and your active, moving thoughts and transcribing mind is what makes the lights not turn off, and you know you were moving and breathing and living before, and you know these people around you who youre just seeing for the first time, and you dont know why but despite it being your first time being conscious and aware of this person you've known for however many years, you care about them so much.

There's a certain attachment that comes with sharing your first memory with someone - a parent, a brother, a home that you're acutely aware that you're not staying long in - and Bagi and Cellbit were only intending to share that between them, and of course the body they were eating, but by the time the light bulbs turned on and the gears started turning it was already cold, it was already so cold and they weren't running or hiding they were sat there because the gears were turning and the first thing you have the urge to do when your mind starts working is drink in the face of the first person you see - its your first real time seeing a person after all.

The feeling of cold didn't scare them like most people, it settled around them. The dense fog and the freezing mud against their bare knees and the bone chill that seemed to bake into their skin didn't scare them, its their first memory and although their instincts would usually scream to run, get away, their freshly working minds were just... confused. Quiet for the first time in a long time. Settled in spot.

Death itself had seen the corpses left around, chunks bitten out of them and claw marks mangling throats and something that had split the bones and sternum of the corpses. Death expected some big animal, something over 300 lbs that had somehow made its way into the battlefields by accident and was stealing kills and eating to survive - but what greeted him was two small creatures of desperation, of habit, of instinct and bonds that were aggressively apparent, they stunk of the same blood, of the same skin, of the same origins in one way or another. Death has seen many of kin, more often than not after their time when one was stone cold in its hands, but he was able to identify these two.

He had appeared to them, quite literally, and he did not look like any man - did not smell like any man, probably didn't taste like any man they had tasted, but cellbit had still swung his knife at Death's midsection, the softest part of the belly which usually allowed guts to spill and people to fall if placed correctly. Unfortunately for him the knife had only cut into smog, and his face made contact with knees and shins upon far-too-late realization that he had not only not hit his target, but under-stepped and instead fell to this demon's feet. The only thing he could utter was a soft "que diabos?" as large, freezing, soft hands reached down and wrapped themselves under his arms, bringing the boy to his feet. The only response to him was a firm "Language" and Bagi's own first word - a strangled cry of fear.

The soldier had nothing for Death, and Death had nothing in return but another degree of cold for the land.

The twins second emotion they experienced together was fear. Fear for one another, this thing that had found them, had appeared from nowhere, had picked cellbit up off the floor and taken the knife from him. They were afraid, which was understandable, and even expected, but as the demon's hand guided the knife into untouched flesh of the victim, and raised the slice of flesh to his teeth, a sense of familiarity washed over them. The criticism "tough." rattled around their minds, rolled around, made indents in the mold that would form them in the future. It was tough, it did stick in Bagi's teeth, it wasn't worth saving for a future meal, they could get better - they have gotten better, at least they think? A memory didnt wash to the forefront of their mind, but a feeling did. Of the warmth of a fresh kill, someone who hadn't been fighting for very long - who was mostly fat and not game. Of something they should've savored longer.

Death is not the ideal way to be Born, but neither is War, and Unfortunately the feeling of cold, of fog, of a hand guiding a knife into fresh meat, was now home for Bagi and Cellbit. Demon children and their demon guide, walking alongside Death. They had come to the conclusion that with death at your side, is there even reason to be afraid in a war? But Death had warned them "I am your Shepard as I am for all else, not your folding, nor your straw nor your pen. The coyote still come to feed, and you must be the stock, and you must be the water the stock drink, and you must be the folding, and you must be the Shetland who defends you." And they were the water, and they were the dog, and they were the stock, but they were never the pen that contained them.

The two left standing after the final cannon had fired were born of the same blood, and forged in the same fires. They were guided by the same Shepard, they were each other's sheep, they were each other's Shetland, they were each other's folding.

The unfortunate thing about a Shepard, is that although he may raise his stock, and he may buy dogs to defend them, and he may build housing to shelter them, the coyote are hungry, they are dangerous and they are stronger than sheep and in enough numbers they may even be stronger than the Shetland. In the dead of night, when the only thing standing between the coyote and the sheep is a fence, the Shepard leaves his stock to fate.

"They will be coming to collect you tomorrow." Death had whispered to the children he had cared for, had guided and watched as they honed their skills, sharpened their claws, survived and clawed their way up.

"Vindo nós pegar?" Bagi's soft voice rasped back at him in her mother tongue.

"There's nothing I can do, before you ask." Death had preempted, "I cannot join you, I cannot stop it from happening. I'm sorry."

Death's ears were familiar with the rolling sounds of tires, that were approaching from miles away. They would be coming to collect the children before dawn, the men would rush the cave they had made their temporary home, and they'd have to wade through the thin layer of blood both dry and wet that coated the floor, the bones that were strewn about - the best meal they could get in this environment. Death would stay the night, and Death would stay the morning, but the soldier's would only see two sleeping forms in the cave, and despite the smoldering fire it would be cold.

"Você vai ficar bem?" Bagi had spoken again, looking up at death. Her hand found its way to her twin's head, sleeping in his cot next to where she was sat on the floor, his head by her knee. They had allowed themselves to eat as much as they wanted tonight, it was their victory after all.

"I will be fine. But I can't join you." Death confirmed to her, a strange feeling bounced around his ribs. Something he was unfortunately, continuously familiar with.

"Quando vou te ver de novo?" She had finally asked, a frown tugging at her expression. She didn't fully understand what he'd meant. Of course something would happen after they'd won, but why couldn't he join them? He'd won alongside them, hadn't he?

And Death responded, "One day I will. Someday, when it's your turn to be put to rest, i'll be there. I'll be there to guide you again, and when that happens we can go for a boat ride together."

The girl was tired, she was full and although anxious she was content, and she had leaned her head against the demons arm, eyes fluttering as she fought sleep. "Um passeio de barco?" It was so silly to her that she was excited about it, had she ever even been on a boat? She couldn't recall even if she had.

"Mhm." He'd hummed, "A boat ride. I just need you to remember to carry some coins on you, okay? We have to pay to get on."

And Bagi fought to keep her head up, aggressively rubbing her forehead against Death's arm to try and wake herself up, but the only thing she could do before dozing off was mutter a confirmation. Coins. She could carry coins, that didn't seem too hard.

And in the morning, when boots stomped into the cave, and rough hands grabbed the two bone-chilled children from their cots, and yowling and screaming filled the cave, eyes watched the occurrence from the walls of the cave. And tears stained the wall where the eyes had watched, and from the cave a coldness was sucked out as if it was sealed from the world, never to be touched again.

As two children were loaded into the Prison Bus waiting for them on the road down the hill, they were screaming for Death. And Death watched.

'Never get attached to Mortals. You always get yourself hurt.' He was familiar with this, but he couldn't help the tears that fell into the dirt and killed the grass they landed on.

He knew he'd only see the mortals again when it was time for their eternal rest, but there were a lot of corpses on the war grounds - now abandoned, cold, foggy.

Badboyhalo's heart sunk like a stone down to the bottomest part of his ribs, and it beat against his sternum.

He has a job to do, he has souls to ferry.

He turned from the bus.

[sushigirlali]

No Body, No Crime - Part II (Reylo Fanfic)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI (Coming Soon!)

Summary: Assassin!Rey Palpatine is on her first mission for the evil Darth Sidious. The goal is simple: kill Prince!Ben Solo by any means necessary.

Pairing: Rey + Ben Solo

Rating: E

Continuity: Canonverse AU

A/N: I’m back after a long hiatus!! Couldn’t stand leaving an unfinished fic up, but I’ve also been battling writer's block ugh. Residual tros trauma I guess (sigh). Anyway, get ready for some dramaaaaa! Enjoy!

Master list –> AO3 | ff.net | Tumblr

——————

No Body, No Crime - Part II

By: sushigirlali

——————

Hanna City, Chandrila Noon

——————

Rey sat on a long bench in the atrium, anxiously twisting calloused hands in lacy skirts. “What the hell am I doing? Who’s game am I playing? Not my own, that’s for sure.”

Given all she knew about her grandfather, and what she now knew about Ben Solo, it seemed more than likely that her first mission was also supposed to be her last. 

There had been a moment once, a brief second, when she thought she’d gained her master’s approval: the day she forged her lightsaber. After meditating for hours, for days, she was sure she would produce a weapon worthy of her house, but when she ignited the kyber crystal for the first time, it’s heart was amethyst, not crimson. 

And Sidious had never let her forget it. 

“There’s too much of your father’s heart in you, young Palpatine,” he liked to taunt...

Pushing down those chilling memories, she tried to parse out his intentions. If the old Sith had never meant for her to kill the Skywalker heir, then what was his aim? Distract the Resistance long enough to do—what? Invade the heart of the galactic government? “No, that’s too bold,” she thought. “Darth Sidious always strikes from a distance, he never puts himself or his advantage at risk.” But, then… what was his plan?

Feeling Ben’s approach before his long shadow loomed over her, Rey jumped up to meet a pair of fine eyes. “Ready?” she asked before Ben—the prince, she quickly corrected herself—could. 

“Yes. Would you like some lunch? I have time before I’m needed at the Senate building.”

Rey’s stomach rumbled as if on cue. “Yes, your highness.”

He rolled his eyes at the title, but didn’t correct her. “Shall we then?” he said, presenting his arm for her to grasp.

Uneasy about the way his name was suddenly at the forefront of her mind, she ignored his courtly gesture and breezed past him. “Sure, I’m never one to turn down free food.”

——————

Wiping his mouth with a crisp linen napkin, Ben hid a smile as Rey tucked into the stew his prized chef Maz had prepared. Despite the childish way she was pushing her vegetables around the bowl, it was clear that she was enjoying the rich dish.

“Would you like some bread?” he queried, motioning toward a covered basket.

“There’s bread?” she asked, eyes wide. “Real bread? Not portions?”

Ben’s smile slipped at her innocent question. “Do you… not have bread? At home, I mean.”

“The citadel isn’t my home, not really,” she replied, reaching under the napkin for a thick roll. “But… no.” Tearing it into little pieces, she dropped them into her bowl and resumed eating.

Staring down at his own lunch, Ben tried to conceal his anger. Not at Rey, but at the neglectful monster who was supposed to be responsible for her. Here he’d been in the lap of luxury for nearly thirty years and his intended had lived off scraps. 

“Can I get you anything else?” he asked, realizing the only sound in the room was Rey’s hurried chewing. She must be famished after skipping breakfast... and who knew how many other meals in her young life. He would have to take better care of her from now on. “More stew?”

Rey held out her nearly empty bowl in response, but avoided his gaze. “Thank you.”

He filled it to the top and handed her another piece of bread for good measure. “Rey?” he said after a moment.

“Mmm?”

“I just want you to know that if there’s ever anything you need, you can come to me. You can take whatever you want.”

She froze mid-chew and looked up at him. “W—what?”

Ben felt his face heat. “Sorry, uh, that was probably inappropriate.”

“Probably,” she echoed before going back to her food. “But, um…” she murmured after a few more bites, “thanks.”

Regaining his smile, Ben pushed what remained of the breadbasket toward her. “You’re welcome.”

——————

Watching with rapt attention as the senator from Chandrila gave an address to a room packed with politicians, Rey wondered what it would feel like to command such respect. Her grandfather certainly never had; ruling with fear was not the same thing as having the trust of your people. She understood that now.

His full lips quirked up at the corners as he glanced in her direction and she was struck with a sudden remembrance of the kiss they had shared upon first meeting. Rey touched her mouth, recalling the sweet pressure of the prince’s lips on hers…

“It was more of a distraction than anything,” she thought unconvincingly. She purposefully didn’t dwell on who was distracting whom.

Although, if a distraction could be defined as something she wanted to do again for purely practical reasons, maybe kissing the prince would make him trust her enough to relinquish her lightsaber.

“Well, that’s one way to rationalize making out with the enemy,” she chided. “Get it together.”

“...And on behalf of my mother, General Organa, I would like to reassure you all that the Sith threat will soon be extinguished.”

Rey tilted her head at Ben’s bold proclamation. “Oh, will it?” she silently challenged, willing the prince to look at her. 

As if picking up her thoughts from thin air, Ben met her gaze from across the hall. “Yes,” he mouthed over multiple heads of state.

Shocked more by the fact that he had responded to her unspoken question than his answer, Rey kept her eyes on him throughout the rest of the meeting. He would look at her from time to time, smile mysteriously, and then resume talking. It was mildly infuriating, sure, but Rey was determined to puzzle him out. 

Taking a deep breath, she tried to clear her mind, to focus solely on the man at the podium. “There must be a pathway,” she thought, recalling the feeling that he was trying to impart something nonverbally to her earlier in the day. “With force abilities, there’s always a path...”

And if he’d figured out a way to get into her head, maybe there was a way to get into his too.

Relaxing further into her seat, she reached for him, parsing out the energy flowing around her until only Ben’s signature remained. It almost hurt to perceive him, his light was so blinding. But somehow, it was easy too. Familiar and sort of… warm? He felt so warm...

“Rey, what are you doing?” 

She barely managed to stifle a gasp as he slipped into her mind. “What am I doing? What are you doing? And how are you doing it?”

“This isn’t the time or place,” he replied sternly.

“You can’t keep using that excuse,” she huffed. “You promised to give me answers, remember?”

“And I will.”

“When?!”

“Tonight.”

——————

Dusk

——————

The sun was setting by the time Ben ushered Rey out of the Senate House. He felt nervous, Force knew why. She had become considerably less hostile and more trusting throughout the day, so he hoped telling her the truth about them wouldn’t scare her off.

“Or send her into a homicidal rage,” he worried. It had been necessary to disarm her the night before, in case she realized how much power she had over him. “If only she knew how long I’ve been waiting for her, then maybe she would understand why I could never lift a hand against her.”

He supposed now was the time to enlighten her, but having never handled rejection well, the prospect terrified him. “All these years, I thought it was the same for her as it was for me; I thought she was dreaming of me too...” 

Spending an entire day in her presence had made his visions of her and their future together more clear, provided context, but there was still a lot he didn’t understand about their connection. His uncle had helped him research this rare phenomena, a dyad Luke called it, but Ben’s thirst for knowledge had yet to be sated.

“Old books can only teach me so much,” he reflected. The practical experience of being in his dyad’s presence was proving to be much more educational.

“Prince,” Rey murmured as they passed a few younglings playing with a ball.

“Yes?”

“What are they doing?”

“Who?”

“Those children.”

“Oh,” he paused, “they’re playing.” Catching the eye of a small Twi'lek, Ben motioned toward Rey.

“Oh!” she jumped when the grinning child kicked the ball toward her.

“It’s okay,” he assured her, placing a placating hand on her back. “It’s a game.”

“A fun game?” she asked.

“Why don’t you give it a try and let me know.” 

She looked up at him with big eyes. “But what about you? We were going to talk...” 

“And we will,” he promised. “Play for a while and then come find me. I’ll be in my quarters.”

She gave him a searching look, as if to say, “You really trust me not to run?” 

Departing with a playful push forward and a contented smile, he knew she understood the answer to be, “Irrevocably.”

——————

An hour later, Rey was practically skipping back to the Old Guard House when a commotion stopped her short of the building. “What--stormtroopers?!” There was a cloister of them standing in a small circle around a beleaguered sounding gold droid. “Ben!” she thought, fearing the worst.

Rushing forward, she forgot all her training in her panic, taking exactly zero care to remain hidden. “What’s going on here?” she demanded of the closest soldier. 

A handsome young man looked up at her in surprise. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, a strange sight for a stormtrooper, but instead holding it under his arm. The white mask was splashed red, forming the shape of a handprint. 

Looking around, Rey realized all the helmets were similarly marked.

“I’m Finn,” the soldier said. “Who are you?”

“What are you doing here?” Rey pressed on, ignoring the question. “Where’s Ben? What have you done with him? I want to speak with my grandfather.”

“Uh—what?” Finn blinked. “Who’s your grandfather? Who are you?”

“She’s my guest.”

Rey flipped around and nearly ran into the prince’s muscular chest. “What's going on?” she glared up at him. “Where have you been? I thought you might be—what are you laughing about, idiot?!”

Ben chuckled as she fumed, “I’m sorry to have worried you, sweetheart, but Finn and his crew are friends.”

“But they’re stormtroopers.”

“Former stormtroopers,” Finn corrected her. “Hi,” he said with a charming smile, “let’s try this again. I’m Finn. And you are?”

“Rey,” she replied uncertainly, looking between the two men. 

“Rey what?”

She could feel the prince staring a hole into the side of her head, but she didn’t falter. “Just Rey.”

“Well, Just Rey, it looks like you’re right on time for the party,” Finn grinned.

“Party?” 

“Rey, I don’t know how to tell you this,” Ben started gently, “but the war is nearly over. Finn and his stormtroopers rebelled and turned the tide. The Republic is on the brink of winning.”

“And… and him?” 

“He was losing well before he sent you here,” Ben said honestly.

“Then why send me?” 

“Why indeed?” a regal voice sounded.

Ben stepped in front of her, obscuring the newcomer from view. Belatedly, Rey realized he was being protective and it made her feel… weird. Jittery. Safe. And… something she’d never felt before…

“Mother, I can explain,” he said lamely.

“Glad to hear it, son,” General Organa murmured sardonically. “Because this looks like a royal fuck up to me.”

——————

Evening

——————

Ben tried not to preen as Rey stuck like glue to his side at dinner. It was clear she was uncomfortable meeting so many new people at once, but her body language was also protective, as if a battle could break out in the dining hall at any moment. 

“To be fair,” he thought, “mother is a force to be reckoned with under the best of circumstances...”

“Rey, was it?” Leia queried. 

“Shit.”

His intended froze while reaching for another soft roll. “Yes.”

“How did you come to our cozy, yet rebellious little planet? I don’t believe I’ve met you before.”

“Mother.”

Leia ignored him, eyes intent on Rey’s visage. “You seem to know my son well, somehow, and you’re wearing clothing of my house, my mother’s I believe, so I think it’s perfectly rational we should get to know one another.”

“Mother, please.”

“No, it’s fine,” Rey said with false confidence. “Your mother is just being careful. And I am practically a stranger in your home.”

“You’re not!” he refuted, reflexively reaching for her hand under the table; he was a little stunned when she didn’t pull away. 

“It’s okay,” she reiterated, squeezing his fingers. Turning to Leia, she said, “I was sent here.”

“Rey, don’t!”

“I was sent here by my grandfather.”

Leia’s back straightened, as if seeing the younger woman properly for the first time. “Stop,” she commanded, standing from the table. “You two, come with me. Finn, you as well.”

Rey shot to her feet before Ben could react, dragging him up the strong grip she had on his hand.

Leia noted their bond, but just said, “Follow me.”

——————

General Organa led them to a chamber Rey had never seen before, with comfortably staged couches and reading chairs enticingly lit by warm fire. The walls surrounding the hearth were lined with high bookshelves and dazzling art pieces and ancient weapons of eras gone by. 

Rey was awed by the collection, by the overwhelming sense of rightness she felt standing in this very place at this very moment, with…

“Please, sit,” the General said, indicating a plush couch covered in green velvet directly in front of the flickering fire.

Ben let Rey guide him to the sofa, while his mother took a seat to the right and the stormtrooper sat across from her on a second, identical wingback chair. Normally, Rey wouldn’t have felt intimidated, but Ben’s unease was making her nervous. The library was a sanctuary from all life’s ills, yet she could feel the prince’s urge to run.

“Calm down,” she thought.

“I am calm,” he returned.

“Now then,”—they turned to the General in unison, waiting for her to continue—“why don’t we start over.”

“What happens if I tell the truth?” Rey wondered.

“I don’t know,” Ben answered honestly. “But if anyone besides me is willing to hear you out, it’s her.”

“Okay.”

“But still—”

“I’m Rey,” she blurted before she changed her mind. Ben’s hand tightened almost painfully around hers, but she pressed on. “Rey Palpatine.”

Finn gasped, but Leia didn’t visibly react. “Yes, I thought so. My brother mentioned your arrival was likely during the climax of the war and here we are.”

“What?” Ben said, bewildered. “You knew about her? About us?”

“Us?”

“Darling,” his mother said softly, “you don’t honestly believe your uncle would have kept the possibility of a dyad from me, do you? You know the consequences of such a bond, and the toll it can take if not properly nurtured.”

“It was my choice.”

“Yes, but you haven’t given her a choice yet.”

“There hasn’t been time,” he said stubbornly.

The General gave her son a look only a mother could. “Then make time.”

He nodded solemnly, but didn’t look at Rey.

“Excellent,” Leia smiled. “Now, onto the pressing matter of Palpatine’s last defenses…”

Ignoring the fact that her supposed enemies were discussing tactical plans in front of her, Rey focused on the word now at the forefront of her mind. “What the fuck is a dyad?” she asked. 

Ben’s thumb traced the inside of her wrist, feeling for her pulse as she had done to him earlier in the day. But this time, something was different. Something had shifted. She could hear her own heartbeat and the echoing of his just as strongly; as if their hearts beat as one. 

“Ben, what have you done?” she demanded, pulling back from him.

——————

Ben half paid attention as his mother and Finn prattled on about strategy and war games, his mind preoccupied by the live wire sitting next to him. Rey’s fingers slipped from his as she turned to face him and the loss was like a punch in the gut. 

It was all too fast, too soon, but Rey deserved to know the truth about their bond all the same. And besides, it wasn’t something they could realistically fight. Telling her everything was a gamble, but the arrival of the Resistance fleet made his personal timetable irrelevant.

He’d promised they’d talk tonight, but he thought there’d be more time to warm her up to the idea of—

“What do you think, Ben? Ben. Ben!”

“Huh?” Ben belatedly realized Finn was asking him a question.

“Did you hear what I said?” His friend asked.

“No,” Ben said honestly.

“Palpatine knows about the stormtrooper plot, but it’s too late to stop it. I’m worried a lot of good people are going to die. What should we do?”

Ben contemplated their next move, knowing the original plan was too costly to continue. “Do you remember when we first met?”

“Yeah,” Finn grinned, “you were trying to kill me.”

“I aimed wide,” he scoffed, “but more importantly, do you remember how I convinced you and your team to turn?”

“You hacked our comms!” Finn exclaimed. “And gave us the sappiest motivational speech on record.”

“Shut up. But, yeah, exactly. What if we get Rose to hack all the helmets at the same time and broadcast a call for surrender? The rebel troopers will have cover to escape in the confusion and it should give us enough time to cripple Palpatine’s operations while his attention is focused here.”

“A diversion,” Finn nodded. “Once the command structure is gone, I doubt many of the remaining stormtroopers will continue fighting.”

“Why would his attention be focused here?” Rey piped up.

“Because he sent you here to kill my son, dear,” Leia said calmly. 

“A move that big is guaranteed to split his attention and forces,” Finn agreed. 

“But I haven’t, I mean, I…” Rey trailed off awkwardly.

“No, you haven’t,” Leia said pointedly, “and he knows it.”

Rey fell silent and Ben ached to reach out to her again, physically, telepathically, anything to bridge the sudden gulf between them. But her posture said she needed space and he wouldn’t deprive her of that.

“What about the praetorian guards?” Finn asked, clearly trying to keep things on track. “They’re loyal to a fault.”

“All enemy combatants will be given the chance to surrender,” Leia said.

“And if they don’t?” Rey pressed.

“Then they’ll be dealt with,” his mother said dispassionately.

“And my grandfather?”

No one said anything for a long moment and the silence was uncomfortable. The truth of matter was Palpatine had to die and they all knew it; he could not be allowed to regain power ever again.

But Ben felt disquieted about the actions of his side for the first time since the war started. For a person who believed themselves to be extraordinarily empathetic, it had never occurred to him that the Resistance wasn’t the only group to suffer losses. 

“Rey, I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, suddenly feeling inadequate. He didn’t know how to comfort her. He didn’t know if he should. 

She shook her head. “I didn’t expect you to.” 

“Rey, wait!” he called as she stood and stiffly walked to the door.

But she left without another word.

——————

Rey retreated to the prince’s room, peeling off the costume he had given her this morning and tossing it on the end of the bed. Lifting up the soft sheets, she dove into the center and pulled them over her head.

The shock of the last few hours was only undercut by how much she still didn’t know. There was a lot of talk about war and plans and death, but there was still a missing piece to this puzzle.

She understood now why Palpatine had sent her. She was as a last ditch effort, a contingency plan, to stop the Resistance if he failed to fool the stormtrooper rebellion. Without his brainwashed child soldiers, he would certainly lose.

“A means to an end,” she thought. But what if her next move was so impressive that her grandfather had to take her back?

Despite the General’s relative lack of hostility, Rey knew that Ben’s mother wouldn’t hesitate to “deal with” her if given the slightest provocation. But Palpatine was the devil she knew. And sometimes it was just easier to go with the original plan when every alternative went bust. 

Even if he was trying to end them all.

“Rey?” Ben called out quietly. 

“Sneaky bastard.” She hadn’t even heard him enter the room.

The bed dipped as he sat to her right. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t how I wanted you to meet my mother.”

Rey didn’t respond, waiting to see what else he’d say.

“I want you to be comfortable here,” he went on. “I was born here. My mother and father made this planet home after Palpatine destroyed Alderaan.”

“What happened?” she mumbled, interest peaked.

“It was a planet much like this one, beautiful and peaceful. My mother was part of the royal family, a princess, but about 30 years ago, during the last war, she was captured and punished with the death of her family and friends and everything she knew. The planet was destroyed with the use of a massive weapon. It was called the Death Star. Your grandfather and… mine built it.”

Rey snatched the sheets away from her face in shock. “Your grandfather was… he worked with mine?”

Ben nodded. “Darth Vader was Palpatine’s greatest pupil.”

Just when she thought the night couldn’t get more shocking, Rey suddenly understood why her grandfather hated the Skywalker’s so very much. “I need to think.”

“Alright,” he said gently. “l need to meditate, anyway. Today has been… a lot.”

“Wait,” Rey said, grabbing his arm.

“What is it?”

“I’d feel safer if you slept here,” she invented.

“Here?” 

“On the bed.”

“Oh,” he gulped.

“I’m just going to use the fresher first,” she said in what she hoped was a nonchalant tone. Slipping past Ben in nothing but her underwear, Rey was starkly aware of his eyes on her. Ignoring the shiver that ran up her spine, Rey finally knew what she had to do.

She had to kill him. Tonight.

——————

A/N: Dun dun dun!! Dipping into a little more angst than I usually do, but never fear, smut is always just around the corner in my fics :D

[alienaiver]

Hi Nohr, I hope I'm not being rude for asking but I read you have ARFID? What is it like for you? I think I may have it but Im afraid of 'self diagnosing' and being judged 😖

hiii sweetheart! ✨ youre not being rude at all, im very open about my issues and stuff, so ill be happy to talk to u about it !! (if u also wanna rant or open up abt ur situation more privately u can go off anon (if ur comfortable) and ill reply privately or thru dm's <3)

and yep, ive had arfid my entire life. its been different things that have been safe foods at different periods of my life !!

im putting the rest under a read more bcos i go into detail of my current restricted diet and stuff, so if that triggers anyone, they wont be forced to see it !! its also just a bit long lmao

rn its Very bad and the only things i can get thru my mouth is crushed corn flakes, gummy bears, a specific ice cream and on/off cucumbers. like ive eaten nothing else since sunday and very little of either. anything else i try makes me gag, nauseous or can even give me meltdowns if forced to eat. im dizzy all the time rn and very frustrated about it 🙂‍↕️ its also sooo embarrassing because like ??? my dude those safe foods are literally candy? and im afraid i seem like i just do it to eat candy but its not and i feel so ashamed 😭

i AM hungry tho; i feel the hunger and the low blood sugar, so i try to eat, get clammy and/or triggered and then thats that. cant try again until ive regulated back to a calm state of mind and feel ready to try again.

i also react strongly to my roomie's food/the smell. i have to go into another room if they eat anything with a strong scent, or sit in the opposite end of the living room. luckily, theyre VERY understanding of it so they dont get offended!!!

as i said im going thru a kind of extreme phase right now, but in my usual day-to-day life theres still tons of food i can eat. when im stressed, have my period, big decisions or other life crisis my food selection instantly limits themselves.

but like normally i have at least 10-12 different safe food meals, besides my 2-3 comfort foods and am usually more willing to try new stuff and comfortable exploring new things.

my current arfid flare-up started during early summer where i started repeating the same three meals (like last year when i lived off of onigiri and ramen) ill go to great lengths to prepare and make the food that is safe but as soon as its unsafe, i dont go thru the trouble anymore; thats usually my first warning sign. i repeat few meals and feel safe eating less and less varieties.

for me its not about calories or weight restrictions; its 100% sensory input. im not afraid of having adverse reactions like allergies, i just physically LOATHE the food in my mouth, it grows as i chew it and it instantly triggers my gag reflex.

theres little else to do about it but go thru it as best as i am able, drink lots of water and then supplement with shakes of fruit and protein powder. usually my arfid is a symptom of distress, which means i have to fix the underlying issue before it goes back to normal.

you should never fear self-diagnosing in any capacity, because the only thing an 'official' diagnosis is important for is a) treatment accessibility and b) inner understanding and comfort in knowing youre not alone. in a lot of countries, assessments like these cost so much with no insurance, so theres no shame in learning and figuring out yourself.

even if you end up not 'qualifying' for an arfid diagnosis, it does nOT take away your issues around food or the validity in your search for solutions !!!!

i wish no one would get judged for any 'quirky' eating habits but i think its something - depending on what youre able to eat - you may need to face daily or weekly. i have a very understanding circle of people around me, and ive been struggling with eating since i was a kid, so many people in my circle are also just. used to it. they worry and in the past theyve tried to force me to eat by taking me to restaurants that didnt have my safe foods to entice me to eat differently which is ALWAYS humiliating (they dont do it anymore). theyve since learned that taking it into consideration is way easier for everyone, and will make for a more positive experience if they want me included in the eating part of anything social.

a way to handle it is to practice how to respond to judgy comments, and figuring out what you want to get out of those. are you interested in educating them about arfid and why it is hard for you? maybe learn and remember some facts or offer some sources to send that they can read, and that youre happy to explain your experiences (if you are). maybe youre just looking to appease the situation and make your eating a non-topic? then shut it down 'nicely' with a smile and a laugh like 'yea, i definitelt am picky ahaha'. it can feel a bit like shooting yourself down choosing that road, but if its people u know you dont want to have the discussion with/will make it uncomfortable or youre just not that interested in opening up to them, you can shut it down like that. for me, practicing a few formulated replies in case anyone comments on it, have made it way less anxiety inducing for me to join in social gatherings and feel less blindsided !! (and if i have to go out to eat somewhere new i check the menu online beforehand!)

my twin has pretty hardcore arfid too and when we were kids, a little worse than me, so in some aspects ive never really been alone with my issues or felt completely ashamed because she was going through the same thing, which in my case, was lucky. i wasnt the odd one out or the weird kid (we were the weird twins tho lmao but we had each other !!!) but im sure finding community in facebook groups or even here (with me or others) can also really help on the shame around being so picky. let me know if you have any more questions or wanna talk about ur experiences, im genuinely genuinely always up for a chat and here for anyone who needs it !!! 🥰🧡

[fatfantacies]

Weve eaten ourseleves up to 615-630 pounds and now were attempting to get together. Sometimes i attempt to lift my gut onto your ass ass so you can attempt to do your thing. Both of our bodies wobble at the slightest movement. Our rolls are pressed up against each other. I love that most of your weight goes to your belly and thighs. The bed starts to sag under out combined weight. I wonder how its going to handle us both getting even bigger.

We struggle to sit on the sofa together because were so wide. We must have the strongest couch on earth because we’re rather hefty humans. I know were both looking forward to this being the social norm and most people would never be 400 pounds. As I watch your pig tails bounce against your tennis ball sized cheeks and your chins wobbling as you chew, I think back to when I first met you. I watch in wonder watching you absentmindedly bringing the fork to your mouth again and again. Youve eaten almost the entire two layer chocolate cake. Your plump limps are covered in chocolate and I want to kiss them so badly, but first I want to indulge myself, looking back on watching you grow to this size.

Your mother wad disgusted when she met me. I was already 300 pounds when you introduced us. You were a slim 165 pounds. Your mother couldnt stop commenting on size, making snide comments when I would come over for dinner. You starting to express and interest in gaining weight and being fed, so I started to introduce you to my world. You took to it right away, digging in to every dish you could get your hands on and with an office job for 45 hours a week and fast food for at least 2 meals a day was producing quick results. You loved the freedom to eat. I wasnt gaining, wanting to focus more on her gain.

It didnt take long for her to reach 200 pounds. She said she loved it and wanted to get bigger. “I wanna gain 50 pounds in three months.” “I can help with that i just bought us a few sheet cakes, a few pounds of pasta and 15 bags of pre fried chicken. She jiggles my upper belly roll. Looks like a little bigger. “Tell you what, well both weigh ourselves in six months to see how much weve gained. Im not going actively gain mind you.” I watched as she stepped on the scale spun around to 275 pounds. “Oh my god! I felt like id totally ballooned but i had no idea! I cant wait until i get to 300 pounds! Ill be too heavy for this scale then and will have to borrow your big boy one! I dont think that ill be outgrowing that one anytime soon. I love my soft curves and i have every intention of making them even softer!”

“What about you tubby? Looks like you’ve gained a few pounds yourself!” “What gives it away?” “The fact that you can barely button those shorts?” I chuckle and step onto my scale. “Whats the number say? Im having trouble reading it.” “380 pounds. I think youd be quite a catch at 400.” “Youre a terrible influence on me! You just want me to be a big fat pig!” “While I would find you adorable at that size, lately ive been thinking of myself gaining to that size and wondering how it feels. Who knows, i might decide to get even fatter. For now im loving eating and expanding with you. My world is full of flavour and freedom now.” The idea of seeing her at 400 pounds just set me on fire. I dont want to even think how huge Ill be when shes 400 pounds. “Do you want to take this into the bedroom? Maybe feed each other some chocolates and fondle each others growing rolls?”

Shed discovered ice cream and cake mix shakes and it was then i knew that my girlfriend was going to end up bigger than a beached whale. She would chug one of the shakes twice a day. She was going through clothes rapidly, so we got her stretchy clothes she could grow into. By the time September rolled around, 6 months have gone by and both of us had really packed on the pounds, but her more than I. She really stared to widen in the hips and the thighs, her belly filling up more of her lap when she sat.

One day your mother came to visit. She couldnt believe how fat you had gotten. “Oh my God what have you done to my daughter! Shes double the size she was when she met you! I expected him to continue to make a pig out of himself but I was hoping you would drop him before his bad habits rubbed off on you and you started swelling up as big as a house!” “Do you have any idea how much you weigh?” She shrugs her chunky shoulders. “Were going to find out right now and were going to get you on a diet plan before you end up the size of a parade float!” I watch, trying to hide my arousal and my girl steps on the scale. “325 pounds! My God what is he doing to you?” “I’m happy, mom.” “I think youre confusing huge and happy!”

“You know what, mom? I hope the next ten pounds I gain goes right to my face. Ive always liked that overfilled balloon look, that way it looks like my cheeks are constantly bursting with food even when Im asleep.” I watch as her mother storms out of the house screaming that it isnt over. You turn to face me. I wonder how much fatter im going to be when she comes to visit again?

She squeezes my round moob. “I love how fat these are getting. Maybe when you gain more weight youll catch up with me!” She takes my hand and rubs it against her stomach. “She hasnt seen huge yet. What do you say we go do a bulk shopping snack trip? But before that…why dont you see what youre tipping thr scales at. My hips and stomach wobble like jello as I get up on the scale. “You have such a cute waddle starting! I hope it gets cuter as you gain more! I hope we can have matching waddles!” “Well have to wobble and waddle behind each other, we’ll be too wide to do it next to each other! The dial settles at 425 pounds. “Were gonna need a more heavy duty scale if we wanna keep eating like we do.”

By our third anniversary i was well over 500 pounds and she was well over 400. Some days i would look in the mirror ans see how massive i was getting but it didnt bother me. I chose to stuff an extra cheeseburger in my mouth and tell myself that a mans gotta eat. I probably should have been concerned that I was having trouble waddling around the office, but that didnt stop me from taking an extra large slice of ice cream cake at my co workers birthday party.

We were invited to a wedding ans needed to spend some time shopping around for outfits, especially since I was rapidly becoming supersized. My co worker assured me that they would have two chairs that would be able to support both me and my girl. I assured him that we could also eat before the wedding so he wouldnt go broke attempting to fill us both up.

“You look adorably enormous in your suit.” She rubbed my stuffed belly with her chubby hand. “God I need to undo the buttons on my jacket before my stomach decided to do it for me. i didnt realise how fast I was porking up; i should have realised with all the delivery food weve been eating lately. “I love how fat that necklace makes your neck look. “Youre not wearing a bra!” “The girls got too big for the cups. And anyway the band was cutting too much into my sides.” “I cant wait until your roll of back fat stretches the next band to its limits until it bursts open unable to contain all of your sexiness.” “You really know how to pamper a piggy.”

For my birthday and to celebrate her reaching 500 pounds, she found a 5x catholic school girls outfit to indulge a fantasy of mine. I watched as she waddled through the doorway, I realised she should have probably gone a size up as the waistband failed to contain her. Her fat laden calfs were squeezed into white stockings. The white blouse she had on, shed obviously outgrown as it failed to cover her expansive breasts and belly. And she did her hair in the pigtails! She knows how I love how it makes her face look even rounder than it is. My morbidly obese woman, who at this rate couldnt do anything to stop herself from swelling fatter. “What do you think?”

We ran into her mother when we were our for dinner on our fourth anniversary. It took her a few minutes to realise who we were because we were both over 200 pounds heavier than the last time she saw us. She looked in horror as she really took in the size of us for the first time in quite a while. We both needed two chairs to sit. We filled up the sides of the table we occupied. Her mother saw the piles of dishes on the edge of the table. “No wonder that you two are the size of planets. I never thought that my daughter would grow so enormous that she needs her own zip code. I suppose you two arent coming to her younger brothers graduation? Worried that it would be too much waddling for you? I suppose we could get a few ushers each to roll you two around.”

[wienerbarnes]

Italian Heart

Pairing: Bucky x Italian!MobBoss!Reader

Word Count: 4,867

Warnings: canon level violence, possible inaccurate italian slang lol

A/N: ive been watching a lot of the sopranos lately and i feel like ive never seen a bucky x mob boss reader au (ive only rlly seen em where buckys the mob boss. if there are ones where reader is the mob boss PLS SEND EM TO ME I BEG) a lot of the slang and mob stuff here is from sopranos bc... im not in the fucking mafia so forgive me anyway enjoy :)<3

MAIN MASTERLIST

Bucky’s never seen a woman quite like yourself.

Dressed in expensive satin and jewelry that hangs between your breasts, an angry look on your face at the fact you’re sitting before him and Sam in an interrogation room in the tower. Freshly done nails, clean and crisp lipstick, spicy perfume, and an expression of annoyance.

As put together as you look, you don’t look like someone to be fucked with. Which, he supposes is good for a mobster; the Boss of Newark.

Looking at you, though, he’d never thought you to be such a figure of intimidation. While the mafia is still alive, despite how the media tries to deny this, he always pictured an old Italian man that chain smokes cigars. He doesn’t think he’s too far off, to his credit; he can smell the remnants of smoke on you.

“Mind if we make this fast? My cousin’s comin’ for dinner and I was gonna make ziti.” You huff, crossing your legs under the table.

“Sounds delicious. Sorry for dragging you all the way out here.” Sam says, a calm look on his face even though he’s well aware of what you’re capable of.

When hunting down the last traces of the super soldier serum, he never thought Nick Fury himself would suggest getting in touch with you. He didn’t think it was worth the time to question how the two of you knew each other.

Theft. Drugs. Murder. Bribery. The list goes on, and there’s not a single thing that ties you to any of it.

A shrug of your shoulders, “So, what exactly is this about?” You ask.

“What is it that you do for a living?” Sam asks.

“I work in waste management.” You respond, a rehearsed answer.

Not exactly a lie, the environmental facility you manage is one of hundreds of covers used by your crew for your crimes. Environmental facilities, deli shops, strip clubs, auto shops. There isn’t a business in Jersey you aren’t tied to.

“Waste management? Like, garbage disposal?” Bucky asks, knowing exactly what it is you do for work.

You smirk, “Yeah, we dispose of garbage sometimes. What’s that got to do with me being here?”

“It’s to my understanding that you’re in the business of… buying and selling things. You and… the people you hang around got a real knack for it.” Sam tells you.

Bucky holds back a roll of his eyes. More like stealing and selling. Expensive Italian suits, antique watches, cars, electronics, illegal cigars. Who knows what else.

“I don’t know where you heard that… but I’m a popular gal, maybe I know a guy who might know a guy. What are you lookin’ for?” You ask.

You know this game, after being in the mob for so long. After being a part of your own crew for years, your patience and hard work paid off, working your way up to a captain and finally a boss. It didn’t take you long to learn in this business that government officials are jokes. Always wanting to bust my balls and then come crying to my corner for help, it’s a bunch of ugatz.

“Serums.” Bucky finally speaks.

A laugh escapes you, “What, like vitamin C?” You teasingly smirk at him.

His chair makes a loud sound in the small room as he pushes it back harshly and stands, resting his hands on the table in between the two of you. You don’t flinch.

“Enough with the bullshit. Super serums. To create super soldiers. We need to get them before they end up in the wrong hands and make a big ass mess.” He snaps at you, but you don’t seem phased in the slightest. In fact, you seem rather amused.

“You must have a lot of agita with all that anger, Sergeant Barnes.”

He doesn’t hold back this time and rolls his eyes before you speak up again, “Your first name is James, isn’t it? Ain’t that Italian?”

“No, it’s English. Or Scottish. Or Jewish - I don’t know, who cares? Are you gonna help us or not?” Bucky takes his seat again, crossing his thick arms over his broad chest.

“What’s in it for me?” You ask, leaning back in your chair.

“Not being arrested for all the shit we know you’re caught up in.” Sam offers.

You roll your own eyes this time, “I’ll take my chances. Thanks for wasting my time, boys, don’t let it happen again.” You stand, prepared to make your way back to the train station to go back to Jersey.

“Wait,” Sam stops you, “What is it that you want?”

You smile innocently and take your seat again, taking a minute to think before answering, “My little sister’s a big fan of yours. I’m sure she and all her friends would think it’s cool if you showed up to her prom as her date.” You wink at Sam.

Silence fills the room as the men think about your request.

“You’re gonna do it, right?” Bucky looks over at him and sees Sam rubbing the crease in between his eyes. He was expecting you to ask for immunity, protection, money, guns. But after hearing your request, he supposes you have enough of all that stuff anyway.

“Man -” Sam begins to refuse.

“Sam, it’s a fucking school dance in exchange for some of the most powerful and sought after serums on the planet - go to the fucking prom.” He tells him, eyebrows scrunching in confusion as to how he would hesitate on something so simple.

“She’s eighteen, so you won’t have any problems with the media or none of that.” You add, the information not really making Sam feel any better.

“Alright, alright, fine. I’ll go to the dance with your sister if you help us get these serums.”

You smile, happy to have done business with the two men, “What information do ya got for me?”

…

Bucky and Sam wait outside a back room in the facility you own. They passed the garbage trucks parked neatly outside, but could hear your screaming and the smell of Cuban cigars as soon as they entered the building.

She’s with a customer, they were told, by someone in your crew, them meeting Bucky’s expectations for mobsters more than you did. None of them ask any questions, but Bucky and Sam aren’t stupid, they’re sure your crew is aware of what’s going on and know the exact reason they’re there.

“You’re a fuckin’ asshole, you know that? The Bible says, Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit -”

“You listen to me, you take your Bible and your quotations book and shove it up your fat fucking ass! Now get the fuck out of my face!”

Bucky can’t help but scoff listening to you scream at whoever’s inside. Sam elbows him, silently telling him that now isn’t the time to find your work funny, especially not in front of the rest of your crew.

Bucky knows he’s old-fashioned, and while things that were taboo such as body modifications or certain fashion styles don’t phase him anymore, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to hearing a woman talk like that. He doesn’t think he’s ever even heard anybody talk like you do.

Suddenly a man bursts out of the room, huffing and puffing, and you walk slowly behind him, as if to make sure he makes it outside okay.

“Grab his plate for me, will you?” You say not to anyone in particular, voice smooth and calm as if you hadn’t been yelling and threatening that man’s life for the past twenty minutes.

One of the men from your crew follows outside, seemingly to collect the license plate of the man who just left.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to that guy, right?” Sam asks as he and Bucky enter the room, taking a seat in front of the desk you have in there. He knows there’s no point in asking, that you’ll do whatever you want regardless because it’s obvious you’re passionate about receiving respect, but it was worth a shot.

“Is that what you came all the way to Jersey to ask me? Christ, I’m fuckin’ starving, you boys want anything to eat?” You ask, accent heavy as you reach into the side drawer of your desk and pull out what seems to be some kind of meat wrapped in paper.

“Gabagool?” You offer to them, picking out a slice for yourself and placing it in your mouth.

“Gesundheit.” Sam responds.

“It’s pork, you asshole.”

Bucky silently reaches over and picks off a slice of the cured cold cut, putting the meat in his mouth and savoring the flavor. While he can’t stand the way you make a living or the sailor’s mouth you have, he loves Italian food, and actually chose a neighborhood in New York that has plenty of traditional cold cut markets and restaurants to live in in order to fulfill his cravings.

“There’s a big party staged downtown this weekend, we think that’s when the drop is going to happen.” Sam tells you, bringing the focus to their reason for coming here in the first place.

“I’ll send one of my boys.” You reply in between your chews.

“That wasn’t the deal. The deal was you get the serums.” Bucky speaks up.

“Buck, you know how many people want her dead?” Sam tries to reason.

“What the fuck do I have a crew for then? - No, if pretty boy wants me to do it myself, then I will. The same people that want my head are the same fucks who are terrified to be within twenty feet of me in fear they’ll make eye contact. I’m not scared of nothin’.” You say, narrowing your eyes at Bucky.

“What did you guys come here to talk about?” You ask.

Sam looks confused at your expression, “...To go over the plan? Hash out details? So you know how everything’s gonna go?”

“I’ll be fine; I’ve seen The Godfather once or twice,” You tell him, wrapping up the cappo, after Bucky picks off one last slice, and replacing it in the drawer, “Don’t worry Captain, this ain’t my first rodeo. I’ll get the serums for you.” You open a different drawer and pull out a cigar and a lighter.

Bucky watches as you place the large cigar in between your red-painted lips, bringing the flame of your lighter to the end and hollowing your cheeks until smoke exits from the corner of your mouth. Bucky feels blood travel south as his eyes glaze over your hand grab the cigar out of your mouth and blow out a long string of smoke.

“I guess we’ll be in touch then,” Sam stands and Bucky follows after.

“My sister’s wearing blue, so find yourself a nice tie.” You call out, lifting your feet up to cross them on the desk, dress rising and showing your legs.

Bucky blushes, and then laughs as he exits when he hears you, in a deep and more exaggerated accent than your own, “Just when I thought I was out… they pull me back in!”

…

The morning of the party, Sam and Bucky pick you up from your house, planning to take you into New York to discuss final details before tonight.

You get in the passenger seat, Sam offering it to you and climbing in the backseat. As Bucky begins to drive off, your phone rings.

“I told you to leave that.” Bucky says, telling you explicitly to leave electronics here to prevent anyone finding out where you are, and also to avoid any distractions.

“Wanted to see what you’d about it, Sarge,” You wink at him, pulling out a flip phone and answering the call.

“Yeah… Uh huh… He what? Are you fucking kidding me?... Alright… Tell him not to move a fucking muscle.” You hang up, slamming the phone closed.

“Stop at the facility for a sec, I gotta take care of something.” Bucky sighs and turns away from the route to head to your facility.

“Bucky’s going to be going with you tonight, by the way, he’ll be in disguise. Just in case anything goes wrong.” Sam tells you, not really caring anymore about having to make a stop for you to take care of whatever business you need to take care of.

Your only response is a hum as Bucky can feel the anger radiating off your now tense body.

You slam the car door shut as Bucky parks behind a garbage truck outside, not even waiting for him to fully put the car in park before you exit.

Him and Sam follow quickly behind you to see what’s going on. You enter through a side door that leads to a large room, a garage for the trucks, Bucky assumes.

There’s a large truck inside, and racks of suits wrapped in plastic scattered around. A younger man stands near the truck as your crew peruses around the racks, he couldn’t be older than twenty-five years old. Your heels click on the ground as you approach, slowing down as you glance between the suits and the young man. Bucky and Sam hang around a few feet behind your trail.

You stop, fuming, staring at the man before you speak, “You wanna tell me what the fuck happened?”

“I -” He begins, but you cut him off, raising an open hand at him.

“Actually, I don’t even want to hear your fucking voice right now. Because if what I heard you did is true; if what you did to Vinny’s guy is true, you’re gonna be a fuck load of trouble.”

“Can I -”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“But -”

“I said shut the fuck up, Christopher! What part of that don’t you understand?” You yell, and even Bucky feels intimidated.

You turn to your crew, “What the fuck happened.” You demand, more than ask.

“Kid says he tried to take the truck, Vinny’s guy had a gun that fell outta the seat, went off, shot him.” One of the men summarizes, not looking up from the rack of suits.

You raise a manicured hand to pinch between your eyes, “You keep me skinny, Christopher, with all the fucking stress you cause me.”

“Would you let me explain?” He tries.

“If you don’t do as I told you and shut your fucking mouth, you’re gonna be buried with two assholes,” You threaten before continuing.

“They were fuckin’ suits! All you had to do was take the truck! How did you fuck that up -” You stop yourself and sigh, attempting to calm yourself down.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna take all this shit, you’re gonna take it back to Vinny, and you’re gonna tell him what happened yourself.” You finish.

“Marone!” He exclaims, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Enough with the theatrics! You’re lucky I don’t put a bullet in your ass! Now, I don’t see you grabbing that rack and that rack and that rack and putting it back in the truck!” You wave your arms around the room.

The kid sighs and begins grabbing the racks one by one and rolling them back in the truck.

“Would it be such a shame if they all went back?” An older man from your crew asks, already wearing one of the expensive suits. You scoff and laugh.

“Bucky, pick yourself somethin’ nice for tonight,'' You turn to face him, and he jumps at the sound of your now calmer voice being directed at him, as opposed to the harsh one used on Christopher, “On me.” You wink.

...

Sam and Bucky sit on the bed and watch as you get ready. A small apartment near the party that’s already been swept for bugs. A favor, you called it, from someone you know.

They don’t question it.

“You and Bucky will go in together and I’ll be waiting at a secondary location watching and listening to everything.”

Bucky can’t tear his eyes away from your dress. A mermaid dress, he thinks it is, black and tight and hugging you in all the right places, curving around your ass and sleeveless at the top, allowing you to show off a nice necklace and your cleavage. It’s an understatement to say that he’ll enjoy accompanying you tonight, even if it’s in a costume.

His mother probably would’ve loved it if he would’ve gotten with someone like you. Someone who loves their family, a spitfire that wouldn’t take any of his shit, and whose god damn gorgeous. She might’ve had to wash your mouth out with soap, though.

“So, why is Bucky goin’ again?”

“Safety.” Bucky answers.

“Is he going for my safety or am I going for his?” You tease, finishing the last few curls of your hair, smoke coming from the iron after each time you pull your hair away from it.

“Once you find our guy, get talking with him and see if you can get him to make you an offer,” He begins.

“One I can’t refuse?”

“Then, you’ll try and get him alone, see if he’ll show you the serums, and once you do, we’ll be taking care of the rest.” Sam finishes explaining.

Bucky plucks a box from his pocket and opens it to reveal a pair of diamond earrings. One, a camera, and the other, a microphone. You’re also given a comm to hide in your ear so both him and Sam can hear everything and you can hear them.

“Easy - peasy.” You respond.

The ballroom is lively, loud music and people everywhere, and Bucky attunes all the action overwhelming him to a sweat and not that fact that you’re pressed up against him, his arm wrapped around your waist.

About a hundred different people come up to greet you, asking about your family, offering you drinks and food. Bucky can see right through all of them though; they’re all putting on the act out of fear. Everyone’s attention is on you, and Bucky’s sure if he wasn’t in disguise right now, no one would even notice.

You bring him to the middle of the crowd and he can’t be surprised when you start to dance with him, pulling at his arms to get him to loosen up. He complies, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close as the two of you move together.

“I’ll let you know when I spot him.” He tells you, voice causing goosebumps to rise on your neck; goosebumps that he notices but doesn’t point out.

It only takes a song or two before he spots who he’s looking for and sends you over, making sure your com is on, and choosing to stick by the bar, giving him a good view of you and allowing himself a break of having your body pressed against his.

He’s impressed listening to you talk to this guy, voice smooth and sultry, yet still commanding.

He knows there was a lot of talk when you took position as boss; not a lot of people in the mob took you seriously and didn’t think you or a woman in general would be good in that kind of position in power. So, you use that to your advantage to get shit done, and Bucky applauds you for that.

It’s not long before the guy offers to go somewhere more private to discuss business and Bucky follows far behind, Sam praising you through the coms from where he waits in the car outside, watching through the camera in your earring.

Bucky waits outside of a closed office door upstairs, listening to the conversation through the coms but hearing your exclamation through the door when the guys give you his asking price.

“5 mil each?! What do you take me for, some kinda stunad?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Take it or leave it, yeah, I can put a bullet between your eyes and take it, alright.”

“Stop messing around and take the offer, it’s not real anyway!” Sam tells you, not wanting to lose their chance on the serums.

You ignore him prioritizing your need for respect over the stupid mission, “How do I know these aren’t Kool-Aid pouches poured in glass bottles?”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to test ‘em out for you.” The guy scoffs.

“Stronzo. You’re outta your fucking mind offering me that.”

“I’ll lower the price for you if you give me a little dance, how ‘bout that?”

“Vaffanculo.” You curse at him.

“Up yours, lady!” He yells back, and Sam sees through the camera, he grabs at you.

“Buck, get in there.” Sam tells him, and it only takes Bucky a second to kick open the door.

He’s a bit taken aback when he not only sees the case of serums out on the table, but you holding the man bent over the small table in the middle of the room next to the serums, gun held to the back of his head.

He very quickly decides that you’re fine and moves to grab the serums, closing the case and holding it securely in his left hand.

“Don’t kill the guy.”

You stay silent and Bucky looks at you again. He can almost see the steam coming out of your ears and he notices a small cut on your cheek bone. He looks down to the man’s cowering figure and notices a large ring on his hand.

You mumble something in Italian to the man, a threat of some kind that Bucky can guess given how the man shuts his eyes and shakes a bit under your hold. Sam finally enters the room, military grade handcuffs in hand.

“Feds are on their way, get her out of here.” He tells Bucky.

You slowly lift the gun off the man’s head and stand up straighter, walking over to brush past Bucky in the direction of the back door.

He makes eye contact with Sam and gives him a nod before following after you, watching as you scrunch up the bottom of your dress to replace the gun in an ankle holster. Once outside, he stops you under a street light near the car and raises his hand to look at your cheek.

“We gotta get going,” You swat at his hand.

“You’re still bleeding.” He says, using his thumb to brush away the line of blood, smearing a red tinge on your skin.

He looks into your eyes and for a second he sees the tough exterior drop. The face of someone who got smacked across the cheek all for mouthing off at some asshole.

Your vulnerability doesn’t last long, though, as you sniff and walk towards the car, opening the passenger door and sitting inside before Bucky can make it over there to open the door for you.

The drive back to the apartment is silent, and Bucky doesn’t know what to do or say to fill the silence. Stepping into the apartment, you immediately go to change and collect your things. Bucky moves to the bathroom to look for a first aid kit of some kind.

He meets you in the room and you’re now in cotton pants and a large t-shirt, sandals on your feet showing the bright red color of your toenails and the lines indented in your skin from how tight your heels were. You’re hanging up the dress and zipping it back in the cover when Bucky drops the first aid kit on the bed.

“Christ, it’s only a small cut.” You mumble.

“Just - Let me, would you?”

He takes out the liquid of disinfectant and soaks a cotton pad, cleaning off your cheek bone with it before covering it with healing ointment and a bandaid.

You don’t thank him when he finishes and he huffs as he closes the kit, “When do you drop the act, huh?”

“I don’t.”

“Really?” Bucky asks in annoyed disbelief.

“No. People tend to try and have me whacked when I drop the act.”

He sighs, “So, what, nobody ever takes care of you? Treats you? You don’t have any days off? Time to be yourself?”

“This lifestyle doesn’t really allow me to have days off, Sergeant Barnes.” You snap, gathering the dress in your hands and turning to face him completely.

“Take me home, I’m tired and my feet hurt.”

You leave him in the room and he waits an extra few seconds before dropping the conversation and following you out.

...

Bucky opens the back door to the environmental facility with his right hand and sees the door to your office open, you and your crew sitting together surrounded by cigar smoke and he can hear a TV on.

“Sir, please step into the vehicle.”

“Like the cop would be callin’ this asshole Sir if the fuckin’ cameras weren’t around!” You wave a hand at the TV, not yet seeing Bucky standing there.

He finds it funny that the gnarliest criminals - the literal Mafia - spend their time watching shitty, scripted cop shows.

It’s been about two weeks since the mission with you where you retrieved the serums. Sam went to prom with your sister five days ago, which was hilarious for him, especially when he got photo prints of different sizes in the mail at his apartment. He didn’t bother thinking about how you found his address.

One of the men sitting next to you glances his way and sees him standing there, smirking at the vision of him; hair combed slightly back and to the side, and a large bouquet of flowers in his right hand and a small paper box in his left.

“You got company, Boss.” He says.

You look over to the doorway and your jaw drops in an open-mouthed smile.

“Look at googootz! Now this is a man that knows how to treat a lady, are you boys paying attention?” You tease, scurrying over to him and pinching one of his cheeks, resting your free hand on his large bicep to guide him into the room, the rest of your crew ushering out to give the two of you privacy.

“What’s in the box?”

“Cannoli.”

You throw your head back with an exaggerated moan, “You know the way to an Italian woman’s heart, Sergeant Barnes. What’s with all the gifts?”

“Thought I’d treat you.” Is all his response is.

You narrow your eyes at him and stand up a little straighter, crossing your arms over your chest.

The last conversation before he dropped you off that night hasn’t escaped his mind. He understands the difficulties of life - how it’s hard to find time for yourself among the busy schedule that is existing. He catches himself sometimes, too, forcing his body to run with no sleep, burning through all of his energy until he’s completely drained and blaming it on life.

But life’s not always like that. Life allows for days off. For treats. For a bit of kindness. And Bucky’s come to show you just that.

“What, a beautiful woman like you never received flowers and pastries before?” He says, taking a half-step forward to be close enough to look you closer in the eyes.

“Are you flirting with me?” You whisper in amusement.

His eyes glance away from yours to look down at your red-painted lips. He gives you a shy smirk, really turning up the charm. For a big, bad, boss, you’re pretty easy to break down.

“Let me take you out tonight.”

“Maybe I’ve got plans.”

“Cancel ‘em.”

“What makes you think you’re worth canceling plans for?”

“Why don’t you trust me and find out?”

“You should know by now, Sergeant Barnes, that I don’t trust.”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, setting the box of cannoli on your desk before reaching his now free hand up to your face, using his finger to brush away a stray hair and push it behind your ear.

He then takes a hold of one of your hands, turning it over to place a kiss on the top of it, before wrapping your fingers around the flowers in his other hand, forcing you to take them.

“No restaurant you’ve been to a hundred times over, no drama, no business. Just a man trying to treat a lady.” You look down at the flowers before meeting his eyes again.

“I get to pick the place.”

“No.”

“The kind of food.”

“No.”

“The -”

“No. Let me take care of everything.” Bucky insists, determined to get you to give up control for the first time in what he can only imagine has been a very long time.

Bucky knows better than anyone how terrifying it is to give up control. It was terrifying when he was forced to give up control, his free will taken away from him in the war for decades upon decades, but it’s terrifying even now when he has to do it as a free man. It makes a person vulnerable. When was the last time you were allowed to be vulnerable for somebody?

“I’m gonna pick you up here at six. Wear something nice and leave the executive attitude at home.” He finishes, leaving you with the flowers and cannoli before returning back outside, ignoring the stares he receives from you crew who wait patiently outside your office.

He feels your eyes follow him at the door, and he can’t wait to sweep you off your feet tonight.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: IV

“I had a few, got drunk on you

And now I’m wasted

And when I sleep, I’m gonna dream of 

How you tasted.”

— Medicine, Harry Styles

A/N: if i said i’m apologizing for the way i left off ch3, yes i did ❤️ no i didn’t ❤️ it was fun ❤️ as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!! and if you enjoy the piece, please reblog it!!! it keeps content creators motivated!! without further delay, hope you enjoy what’s in store for Sherlock and Watson this chapter cause it’s uhhhh quite a bit of uhhhh ~stuff~ 😌

harry’s condo : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : ysijwa playlist

word count: 26.4k

content/warnings: a mild addiction to sexting, some pretty sparkly lingerie, a very interesting photo, a strange but satisfying gift, rough sex and degradation, pillow talk about the validity of the men in Twilight, the satisfying gift being put to even more good use, Y/N going over to Harry’s apartment for the first time, mild mentions of blood, and an impromptu Hamilton re-enactment amidst more lemon blueberry pancakes

///

For the next three days, the sexting grows more frequent. 

Harry feels somewhat humiliated by it, really. He’s an adult— a full-grown, two hundred and nine year old man— and trading nudes with a simple girl shouldn’t be getting him as worked up as it does. He should know how to handle his hormones better, and the thing is, he usually does. But no one in the last few centuries has made him feel as desperate as Y/N does; he hasn’t felt this helpless for someone since he was alive. The vampire just wasn’t prepared to handle the needy responses she so easily yields from his body and he’s horribly rusty on how to skate this thin sheet of metaphorical ice. It’s like he can feel it cracking and crunching beneath his feet, but he has absolutely no power over how to stop it. Any minute, it’s bound to take him under, and he has no choice but to allow himself to drown in it. 

The following seventy two hours are full of so many dirty promises and explicit images, his phone might as well be a porno hard drive.

After coaxing Y/N into a few orgasms through the phone and receiving just as many in return, a dangerous game is set into motion that Harry knows is probably unhealthy not only for his self-worth, but for the sensitivity of his anatomy. He can only get off so many times before his joints are begging for a break. 

He wakes up Wednesday morning with a stiff ache running along his inner thighs and ebbing across the underside of his balls, but there’s an undeniable contentment stewing behind it. He doesn’t truly mind the throb, comforted by the fact that Y/N is probably facing similar issues at the moment. He finds himself smiling coyly as he flips an omelette onto one of his marble-print platters, recalling the events from the night before. 

According to what he’d heard on the other end of the phone, present throughout the array of shaky gasps, cracked whimpers, and wet sounds of pleasure that had echoed from the speaker, Harry had made Y/N squirt. 

That was a tremendous stroke to his already huge ego. The idea that he’d been able to make her cum so hard that she’d soiled her brand new sheets had been circling around his head for the last couple of hours, fluffing his confidence. It’s a milestone achievement, to be honest. He’d done something that very few men have the skill to achieve in person, meanwhile he’d done it just by using his voice and extensive imagination. The arrogance he’s sporting right now is more than justified. His cheeks are starting to ache from how hard he’s grinning.

The vampire is so lost in his recollections that he nearly misses the chime of his phone, the unique ringtone that beeps out being as welcomed as ever. 

Harry scoops up his device while spooning a piece of his green pepper and mushroom egg dish into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he swipes into Y/N’s text conversation. He smoothers the giddiness fluttering in his stomach; he’s not a child. 

As it turns out, he’d killed those butterflies for no solid reason because the instant her message pops up, they come right back to life. 

Morning! Thought I’d show you what I’m planning on wearing to work today. 

Harry roughly swallows down his breakfast at the attachment following the caption, a shiver coiling down his spine. “Fucking hell.”

The photo is a mirror shot, taken in her tiny bathroom. It’s a full body image where she’s clad in a matching set of bra and panties, the material sparkly bright red lace. The bottoms are high-waisted, hugging her tummy and hips in a way he deems perfect, the lace decorating her skin beautifully. The bra is see-through, so he has an unrestrained view of her chest and he doesn’t know why, but he thinks he might love the way her breasts look in lingerie more than without it. Make no mistake, he’ll willingly drool over her no matter what, but there’s just such a refined beauty in seeing her figure in such an elegant piece. She’s like a present set out for him to unwrap, preferably with his teeth. 

Then he notices the garters and the next forkful of food lodges in his throat. They hug around her legs deliciously, the bands settled midway down her thighs as the straps run up the sides and clip onto the hem of her panties. Yeah, he would definitely use his teeth. 

After gawking at the artwork for a minute, Harry finally gathers himself enough to type back a decent reaction.

I’m pretty sure that outfit doesn’t apply to the workspace dress code. 

Y/N shakes her head in amusement at his response, giggling softly as she finishes shimmying into her black skinny jeans, buttoning them over the skimpy lace. 

I’ll cover up for the sake of the customers. But it’s just such a nice set, I figured someone else should get to appreciate it with me.  

Harry sets his utensil down on top of his plate, omelet only half eaten. His appetite has molded into a very different type of hunger. He pads out of the kitchen, feeling the ten AM sunlight filter through the glass wall of his living room and warm his bare chest and back. He heads for the bathroom that branches out of the entrance corridor, coming to a stop right in front of its mirror. He begins to clean up his appearance, combing his bed head into a presentable state (he hadn’t slept, per usual, but rolling around his pillows last night while he indulged fantasies about Y/N had done his curls in something fierce), fixing his royal blue briefs along his hips and dragging the waistband down to show off the dip of his prominent pelvic bones.

Once the immortal is done, he taps back with eager strokes of his thumbs. 

I can’t believe you’ve never worn that for me. That’s a criminal offense. Literally worth capital punishment. 

Oh, really? Capital punishment? And who are you to decide my verdict?

I’m the executioner, obviously. I’m in charge of dispensing the verdict and I promise you, I’ll see to it that you get what you deserve. It’s my civic duty.

Y/N scoffs at his quip, tugging her navy polo shirt over her torso and quickly running a brush through her hair. She puts it up into a neat ponytail, sighing lightly as she stares at her tired reflection. She wishes she could ditch work for the day and entertain more conversation with Harry, but she literally can’t afford to.

Well, you’re gonna have to wait while I go perform my own type of civic duty. Making the world a better place, one grilled panini at a time. 

Harry’s lips jolt. She’s so clever and witty, he doesn’t know how she could possibly be from such a dull, monochrome town. 

I understand. Justice calls. But before you go, can I send you a picture of what I’M wearing today? Could use a few style tips. 

That’s pretty ironic coming from someone whose last name is literally ‘Styles.’

I know, I know. But even fashion icons have their insecurities sometimes. 

Fair point, nobody’s perfect. Lemme see your OOTD, then.

The outfit of the day appears to be no outfit at all, according to Harry’s picture. It’s taken on a mirror, like her own, and it depicts him standing with one hand holding his phone in front of his face while the other seems to be doing jazz hands down his body playfully. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of deep blue briefs (probably because he’d completely ruined the maroon pair he was wearing last night, if his broken moans and heavy panting had been any indication) and they hug his frame flawlessly. The fabric is bunched around his lean thighs, tiger head tattoo peeking out to accompany the rest of the collection, which includes all the inkings running the length of his left arm as well as the butterfly and swallows across his torso. His v-line is evident as ever, dipping below the elastic band teasingly. His chest is broad and his biceps are taut, despite the fact that he’s not even flexing. He looks like a Greek statue and Y/N is positive the higher powers designed Harry with that specific thought in mind.

Y/N doesn’t realize drool is gathering in her mouth until it tickles the inside of her bottom lip. She snaps her jaw closed, clearing her throat sheepishly. Over a minute has passed of her just ogling and she can feel heat layering across her cheeks. She knows Harry probably has the cockiest expression on his face at the moment, obvious in the tone of the next comment he delivers. 

Damn, it’s that bad, huh? Guess I’ll have to change. 

No, it’s perfect. Simple, but effective. Very professional. 

Why, thank you! 

My pleasure.

Here, take this as a token of my appreciation. Hopefully it can help get you through the day. 

This specific photo is taken from an above point of view, as if Y/N were looking down at Harry’s body along with him. His pectorals and stomach muscles appear more defined, tattoos darker and skin more evidently sunkissed. Lower down, there’s the obvious outline of what lies within his boxers, snuggled up against his thick thigh and tempting her to let out a soft whine. Then, resting casually against his abdomen is his free hand, sporting a thumbs-up that gives a purposefully goofy vibe to the risky image. He’s such an idiot. 

The mortal’s answer is just as silly and lighthearted as his gesture. 

Thank you, I’ll keep it locked in my heart forever. 

I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

That’s the first interaction of many that further opens the door to their virtual sex life. Things hardly stay that innocent. 

That night when Y/N gets home from work, they undergo another round of phone sex. It starts off the same: cheeky banter that leads to cheeky pictures that eventually leads to utter filth. 

And that’s how they spend the next few days— taking care of each other’s needs digitally until Friday rolls around. There’s plenty of those encounters, but there’s definitely favorites. 

A session during one of Harry’s self-care baths, when he puts her on speaker and she talks him through tugging one out while the scent of lavender salts— which he’d chosen because they smell like her— leave his heated skin feeling soft and supple. Another instance where he makes her orgasm while she has gotten bored watching a scary movie marathon on her couch, the screams of the horror film mere background noise compared to all the sweet nothings Harry huskily mumbles into her ear, his dominant voice filtering through her headphone and instructing her on how to make herself feel good.

Harry messages her at three A.M. at one point, wide awake as ever, all of his thoughts occupied by the concept of Y/N laying on her tummy between his thighs and sucking him off at a slow pace. He can practically see her small hands wrapped around his girth, stroking up to meet her pretty lips, her tongue lapping at his tip eagerly as she whines around a full mouth. She’s always just so eager. Even at the crack of dawn, she’s awake by some miracle, and happily willing to delve into that fantasy with him. Her soft, timid tone drifts across the shells of his ears, explicitly sketching out how she’d take him all the way down her throat until she gags, and how she’d kiss all over the head of his prick just to smear his precum over her lips to then lick it off, and how she’d rock against his lap fast and hard while he takes her nipples between his teeth. How she wouldn’t stop until he’s dripping down her thighs and groaning into her throat. How she’d let him fuck her as many times as it takes to tire himself out. 

Harry obviously repays her, and it comes in the form of him painting out a scenario where she’s gotten home from a long day at the café. He tells her about how he’d be there waiting for her in nothing but his underwear, sitting back on his elbows in her bed, touching himself over his briefs just at the thought of pleasuring her. About how he’d lay her out and taste every inch of her body with his tongue, and how he’d run his teeth across her inner thighs tenderly while his fingers play with her clit, and how he’d have her ride his face deep and sloppy until she’s shaking and sensitive. How he’d tie her to the bed and toss her legs over his shoulders while he pounds her into the mattress, marking bruises across her neck as she sucks on his fingers and tightens around his cock like “the snug little thing you are.”

They even take their fun out of the confines of their houses and into public settings, just to give it an adrenaline high. Those situations are foreplay; it’s how they prep each other throughout the day for when they’re both finally alone and can truly help one another to the fullest. 

It happens Thursday on two occasions. 

First, to Y/N, who is sitting in the backroom on her lunch break, though she’s barely touched her food. She’s much more interested in what Harry has to say. Much more interested in how he says he wishes he could be there with her right now. That she could sneak him in through the back door of the restaurant and they could lock themselves in that tiny supply room, making sure no one would disturb what he’s about to do to her. That he would drop to his knees and drag her jeans down her legs, pressing damp kisses in the denim’s wake, biting hickies in the areas he knows she loves to receive them. He would mount her knees over his shoulders and bury his face between her thighs, looking up at her through heavy lashes as he licks into her desperately. He would have her grab onto his curls and guide his tongue just the way she likes it, and she’d have to bite into her cheek to keep from getting caught. 

He talks about how he’d take her against the supply shelves, one hand clamped over her mouth while he pants praise into her ear, her body jolting roughly upwards against the surface as she clings to his back. How he’d hold her up with the other arm and slam her down onto his cock, cooing things like, “Gotta keep quiet for me, sweetheart. Can’t make you cum if we get caught.” and “Such a filthy girl, sneaking me in here just to fuck you. Baby just wants to walk around the rest of the day full of me, doesn’t she?” 

That fantasy leaves her in a bothered haze the rest of the work day. It’s bad enough that she almost drops her tray three different times and has to ask multiple customers to repeat their orders. 

Y/N gets back at Harry, though. That revenge is the second occasion. 

The vampire had mentioned that he would be going out with his friends that evening to a bar and she takes full advantage of that. When the picture comes through, Harry nearly spits out his Manhattan drink. 

He’s sitting in a booth surrounded by his entire group and he’d been talking shit with Niall about golf. The vampire doesn’t care for the sport, but Niall loves it, and Harry loves getting on Niall’s nerves, therefore it’s all pretty self-explanatory. Mitch and Adam join in, with Mitch obviously supporting Harry, when he randomly decides to check his notifications. Even in the shrunken little banner, Harry can immediately tell the photo is graphic. Xander asks if he’s alright, telling him he looks freakishly pale and to get his eyes under control because they're in public. Harry blinks the red from his irises, hurriedly excusing himself and clambering up from his seat, jetting across the restaurant towards the restrooms. It’s occupied, much to his luck, so he settles for simply pressing his back against the wall of the corridor, leaning his head against the bricks and taking deep breaths to calm the raging in his stomach. He gingerly opens the message and his knees nearly give out. 

The image is taken from the back, probably using a timer. Y/N is wearing one of her big tees and another pair of cheeky lace panties, but this time around, they’re pastel peach and crotchless. She’s bent over with her ass up and spine arched, knees parted for balance, her shirt bunching downwards due to the angle. Her arms are pulled behind her back and her chest is flushed to the bed, wrists crossed submissively as she gazes at the camera over her shoulder. There’s an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes and he can tell she had sent this now on purpose just to fuck with him, knowing good and well that he was out and occupied.

The shot is more than he can handle and he has to swallow down the urge to stomp out of the bar, get into his car, race to her flat, and make her rethink her decision. Preferably, in the form of harsh spanks and overstimulation. He can see everything— the intentional rip at the crotch of the panties are meant for that sole reason. The closer he looks, he comes to realize that she’s wet, which in turn means she had been touching herself. She’d set this up perfectly, knowing that he’d easily be able to deduce that fact and that it would haunt him for the rest of the night. 

The monster releases a quivering exhale, typing back slowly and carefully, sight bleary. 

You’re going to regret that. 

Pinky promise?

///

When Harry arrives at Y/N’s apartment the next night, as he has for the last three Fridays, he doesn’t saunter up to her door and bang on it angrily. He doesn’t grab her by her hair and drag her into her room, how he’d intended. He doesn’t even have a single cinch in his sculpted brows. 

Instead, he raps softly on the door with one jeweled knuckle and waits calmly. 

The human goes to answer, her stomach twisting in excitement at all the possibilities of what punishment she might face for her antics. A small, sly smile buckles the corners of her lips at the thought, her fingers trembling as they wrap around her cold doorknob. She expects to find a furrow-browed, intense-eyed, red-faced Harry behind the threshold, who would shove past her, nab her by the arm, and throw her onto her bed. She expects him to yank his belt from around his hips while a distinct darkness swallows his emerald irises, his mouth curling into a sinister grin. She expects him to roughly command she get on her hands and knees, his palm finding the back of her head to shove her face-first into the sheets while he rips her panties down her legs and drags the cool leather of his accessory over her backside tauntingly.

What she gets is something— and someone— completely the opposite. 

When her door swings open, Harry is standing standing there, sure. But instead of looming over her with flaring nostrils and cruel intent, he’s decided to lean against the door frame with his arms folded casually. His body is completely empty of tension, his ankles are crossed offhandedly, and a small, bright red paper bag full of sparkly black tissue paper is hanging off his wrist. His expression is a relaxed facade of indifference, lips set into his usual signature smirk, no explosive emotions present whatsoever. 

That startles Y/N. This has to be an act; it feels like the calm before a violent storm and it has her shifting in her socked feet. Did he...Did he forget what she did? 

There’s no way he forgot. It was too brazen a move to dismiss.

Harry steps forward into her home, comfortable enough that he no longer has to wait for an invitation. Y/N moves to the side to let him through, hesitantly closing the entrance behind him, contemplating the man as if he were a ticking bomb. She does a quick sweep of his physique, looking for some other clue as to what he could be plotting, aside from the mysterious gift bag in his hand. He’s wearing a pair of flared denim jeans, a white tee with a royal blue cartoon bee printed in the center along with the words Enjoy health! Eat your honey! surrounding it, his white Vans, and an oversized colorful patch-work cardigan. The outfit is surprisingly domestic compared to his usual taste, but she finds it’s easily one of her favorite fits on him. He just looks so boyish adorable. 

The human comes up with nothing suspicious, glancing back up to lock eyes with her guest. Harry beams at her innocently and she knows for sure he’s planning something, but she can’t place what. 

“I got you this.” The vampire speaks up first, holding out the paper bag towards Y/N with his index finger, bouncing it encouragingly. “Take a peek.” 

The girl accepts the gift gingerly, giving him one more hard look before breaking away to investigate what lies beneath the tissue paper. She pulls out a small cardboard box, her eyes squinting slightly as she reads its print and surveys the label. The image on the surface appears to be of five silicone finger gloves, each about the size of a thumbtack, tiny metal plates embedded into the pads. She’s voicing her curiosity before she’s even finished studying the container. 

“What...What are these?”

Harry rolls his eyes jokingly, tapping the object for emphasis. “Read the fine print, love.” 

Y/N focuses on the region he’d pointed out, reciting aloud. “‘Vibrating silicone finger gloves. For the use of personal pleasure or with partners.’”

Then it all clicks. 

“Oh my God, you got me— what?!” Y/N’s head snaps up in shock, mouth parted and brows creased. “Harry, what?”

The young man laughs airily, gently opening the seal of the box in her hands, which she is now holding as if it were a weapon of mass destruction. It’s such a weird present to give in general, moreso all out of the blue, so she can’t be blamed for her reaction.

He uncaps the packaging, rummaging through its contents and pulling out two of the tiny rubbery gloves. They’re transparent and ribbed, obviously meant to deliver as many sensations as possible, and they’re about two inches in length. He slips them onto his index and middle finger, making scissoring motions for the purpose of symbolism, but mainly just to watch Y/N fidget. “I remember how you said you don’t have sex toys because you’d never really thought about buying any, so I went and picked these up down at my favorite shop. Jessi said they’re good for beginners.”

“Jessi?” Y/N’s voice is tight. She’s not sure how to respond to this; she’s never been in this situation before. No one has ever just given her a sex toy as if a were a candy bar. “Who’s Jessi and why do they need to know about my sex life?”

“She’s the manager.” Harry says matter-of-factly. He doesn’t seem to find anything strange about this encounter. “She helped me pick out my first pocket vag, so I trust her with my soul. Here, look. You just slip them on and—” He makes finger thrusting motions in the air, wiggling his digits playfully. “Big O. Not as good as what I can give you, obviously, but close enough.”

“Harry, you do realize this is a little…odd, right?”

The boy blinks at Y/N blankly. “What? Why? Sex is literally the basis of this whole thing.” He signals back and forth between them with his gloved forefinger. “It’s really not that weird at all, if y’think about it.”

“I just...it’s like…” 

Her argument fizzles to an end the longer she stares at him. He has the most wholesome expression painted across his handsome features, his eyes glossy with excitement. He looks genuinely elated about the present and she can’t find it in herself to question him any further. As unorthodox as this may be, it’s the first true act of kindness anyone has shown Y/N since she had moved to California. It’s the first time anyone has given the girl anything without her having to request it. She comes to the realization that Harry really is the only friend she has at the moment, and she refuses to pick and prod at that, lest he retract from her on the grounds that she’s ungrateful. Yes, this is a little atypical, but so is their whole dynamic. In his own twisted way, this is how Harry shows his friendship. 

The more she ponders on it, she starts to understand that this truly is something she should accept. He went out of his way to get her this gift, which solidifies their acquaintanceship. It’s sweet.

“You know what, never mind. Thank you! I love them.” 

The giddy smile that cracks his face melts her heart. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Harry then softly grasps her hand with his, tugging her down the entrance hallway, his intentions set on her bedroom. His voice takes on a deeper sultry twang, the corners of his mouth twitching suggestively. “Because on my way here, I was thinking, yeah? And I figured: who better to teach you how to use these than the person who picked them out.”

“Of fucking course.” Y/N huffs in amusement, shaking her head but allowing herself to be guided forward. “I should’ve known you had an ulterior motive.” 

“Heyyyyy!” Harry’s whine is offended, but the coy simper dimpling his cheeks ruins any defense he could possibly try to spin. “This isn’t an ulterior motive, it’s simply a supporting one.”

“Right.” Y/N states flatly, shuffling forward slowly as he backs down her corridor, momentarily glancing over his shoulder to orient himself. “Buying a fuck buddy a sex toy is totally selfless and mutually exclusive of the agreement.”

Harry takes a turn and crosses the threshold into her bedroom, releasing her arm and instead, he opts for wrapping his fist into the loose material of her large Transformers tee, twisting the fabric around his knuckles and giving it a sharp yank. She stumbles into his chest and almost drops the box. 

The vampire gazes down at her with half-lidded eyes, long lashes tempting and plush lips the color of roses. “I never said it was mutually exclusive. I just said it wasn’t meant to be evidently inclusive.” 

He takes the box from her grip, sliding it onto her nightstand so that any obstacles between them are eliminated. He beckons her closer with a flick of his wrist, feeling heat erupt across his chest as her palms slap down against it to steady herself. She’s always so warm, almost like a furnace. It’s a nice contrast to his ever-present coldness.

Harry’s cupped fingers nurse the slope of her jaw, tilting her chin up to level his, Cupid’s bow ghosting over her own teasingly as a grin threatens to betray him. His accent is thick, heavy with condescension. “Now do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Y/N gulps audibly, the sudden jump in her heart rate causing Harry’s cock to give a foreshadowing twitch in his designer jeans. Her eyes soften with a form of weepy desire, head nodding in his grasp. 

Harry’s top teeth catch on his lower lip as he appraises her from over the crest of his defined cheekbones. “I don’t think I heard you, pet. Must be the AC draft.”

The mortal’s eyes fall shut as she composes herself, a shaky sigh faltering past her nostrils. She tips forward onto her toes, connecting her itching mouth to his. Harry allows it, listing his head to the side to grant her more access, his free arm roping across the dip of her spine and pressing her front flushed to his. The kiss is soft and heated, full of drunken tongues and muffled whimpers. It’s tame compared to most of the others they’ve shared, but Harry likes it. It’s sloppy and intimate; only the beginning of what he knows will be a long night. 

Her words sting the ridges of his lips, hot and bated. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Harry speaks into her mouth, tone gentle but packing a punch. “Get my belt off for me, will you? I’m tying you to the bed tonight.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice, a dark chuckle vibrating across his tongue when her fingers immediately begin to fumble with his belt buckle. 

Once Harry has looped the leather tightly around Y/N’s wrists and has knotted them to one of the wooden railings of her headboard, he sits back on his heels to admire his work. Y/N is splayed out across her mattress with her arms suspended above her head, bare thighs clasped in anticipation as her t-shirt gathers around her waist. Her hands are curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as she watches Harry leisurely shrug off his cardigan, keeping eye contact with her the whole way through. His tattoos stand out against the buttery light of the single lamp on the table, tanned arms flexing sinfully. 

He shifts around, laying down onto his stomach and coasting his palms up her quivering legs, kissing over her kneecaps and along the crease of her inner thighs, bunching her shirt further up her body as he goes. As soon as he spots the first garter, he blacks out for a millisecond, vision washing red. 

“Fuck, wait— did you…?” His voice is strained and desperate as he shoves the rest of her clothes up her torso, pulling her shirt over her head and letting it rest at her elbows. He hums appreciatively when he’s met with the full cherry-colored lingerie set from a few days ago, garters and all. “God, you did.”

Y/N’s gaze falls timidly, a sheepish smile brushing over her face. “I thought you’d want to see it in person, since you seemed to like it so much.” 

“Mm...” Harry struggles to swallow, fingers hooking under the straps that clip to the hem of her underwear, pulling the fabric from her skin and letting them snap back into place. He revels in the tiny noise she lets slip, the pads of his digits now toying across the frilly bands encircling her upper legs. After a thoughtful heartbeat, Harry speaks up, wistful but vehement. “I’m going to make you soil your sheets again.” 

Y/N bucks a tad at his promise, wrists stressing against the leather belt, but Harry’s practiced enough bondage in his lifetime to know she won’t be getting out anytime soon. He parts her knees open with his palms, dragging his silicone-covered fingers down her clothed clit and tutting when she lets out a stuttery gasp. 

“Always so sensitive, aren’t you, angel?” The vampire pets at her core patiently, heat pooling at the base of his abdomen as he feels her panties damped with every stroke of his touch. “Christ, you’re already soaking through.”  

“Want more.” The girl’s plead is strangled as she actively forces herself to keep her legs wide open, knowing that if she were to allow them to snap shut, Harry would only pry them apart again. “I’ve been thinking about this all week. Please.”

“All week?” Harry drags tongue across the inside of her thigh, nipping at the flesh tauntingly, the amber specks in his eyes glittering amidst his lashes. He continues to rub through her underwear, drinking up all the little noises streaming from her throat. “Tread lightly, dove. You’re swelling my ego.”

“I just…” Her hips give another jerk when he wriggles two rubber-clad fingers into the crotch of her bottoms, spreading her open just a bit and grinning against her skin at how wet she’s become. “I just need it hard tonight, Harry. Need you to leave me sore.” 

“I always leave you sore.” The monster reasons mockingly, taking one of the garters between his teeth and tugging, releasing so it stings her like before. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.” 

Y/N trembles out an exhale, gathering herself enough to give him what he wants. “I need you to fuck me like you hate me.”

Harry grabs onto either sides of her panties, slowly peeling them down her legs and then scooting closer forward, planting an open-mouthed kiss right onto her bare clit. She mewls in return, her restraints creaking the bed. He continues pressing messy wet pecks to her cunt, feeling her tense up each time his soft lips suckle her fervently. 

“Is that why you sent that picture?” Harry wonders aloud, pausing his motions and raising one eyebrow at her. “Because you wanted me mad?”

The human nods, face wracked with guilt. It’s cute that she feels bad, especially because Harry had, in actuality, enjoyed her little stunt. Seeing her bent over like that, in a position that shows she couldn’t wait to please him— that she couldn’t wait until Friday came around so he could do to her whatever he deemed fit...It was the best form of edging he’s ever experienced. But for the sake of giving her what she wants, he’ll bite the bait. 

Harry rises up onto his knees, parting her thighs further as he fits himself between them, the pads of his gloved digits dancing across the thick of her damp clit. He bends down until his nose smudges over hers, the breath of his low words hot against her parted mouth. 

“Well, it fucking worked.”  

Harry taps his index and middle fingers against his palm in one quick flick and the tiny metal plates situated along the tips purr to life. He sinks knuckle-deep inside of Y/N, cold rings catching on her folds as he curls upwards to get at that special spot that resides along the pit of her tummy. The moan she releases it so raw and broken, it sends a zip of lightning through his veins. 

He fucks her like that for a while, with his strong chest poised against her heaving own as he marks love bites onto the cleavage spilling from her lace bra, his skilled fingers pumping into her at a harsh pace that has her legs shaking on either sides. He thumbs over her clit messily, the silicone molds sending waves of vibrations through her clenching walls as he relentlessly toys with her g-spot, her arms thrashing against his belt. Fragmented sounds of bliss freely stream from Y/N’s mouth without shame, his name intermingling amongst the whimpers as her head throws back against the headboard. Harry grips her throat in one hand, holding her to the sturdy surface as his other bobs between her thighs roughly, the bed groaning as a result of their intense actions. His wrist begins to ache from how hard he’s going, but the tears trickling out from the corners of Y/N’s eyes and the way she’s panting into his mouth are enough to keep him going.

“Look at me.” Harry squeezes her jugular tighter, garnering attention. She forces her eyelids open, inhales hiccuping when he braces his cool forehead to hers, his irises the color of a forest at midnight, pupils blown out of proportion. His teeth dig into her bottom lip just to feel it swell, a growl stirring the gravel in his chest. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes.” Y/N boggles her head feverishly, glimpsing down over her sweaty cheeks to see the way his veins are chiseling along the forearm that is flexing between her drenched thighs. “Fuck, it’s so g-good.”

“Yeah? How about we go a little higher, hm?” Harry scrapes the pads of his fingers against that spongy place inside her, pressing the vibrators down and the motion clicks the toy into a higher level of intensity. 

Y/N writhes in his grasp, back arching off the headboard as deeper, more concentrated rumbles lap throughout her body. “Harry— I— that’s— God, just please!”

Harry takes ahold of her jaw as he continues finger-fucking her without remorse, his short breaths warm against her burning lips. “That’s my girl. Taking it hard and loving every second.” 

Y/N’s eyes lull back into her head. She doesn’t know why, but hearing Harry call her his girl satisfies her in a manner so deep, she didn’t know it existed. Just hearing him recognize her as his— as something he claims for himself, almost like an extension of who he is— stirs a foreign form of fulfillment in the back of her mind. 

“I’m—” The girl chokes on her sentence, finding it difficult to concentrate with so much pleasure coursing through her system, as well as with Harry painting hickies across the side of her strained neck. “I’m gonna cum.”

The immortal’s voice is stern and authoritative. “No, you’re not.” 

“I am, I can’t hold—”

“Yes,” Harry’s grip firms, pace sharpening into unapologetic slams, “you can. And you will. If you cum before I let you, you’re not getting anything else from me for the rest of the night. Do I make myself clear?”

Y/N’s cunt tightens around his fingers, warning him that she’s about to peak. “Harry, I’m sorry—but— but I—”

“Do I make myself clear?” 

Y/N has no hope that she can keep it in, but she adores the darkness swirling in Harry’s eyes at the moment and she’ll do anything if it means getting to witness it for a while longer. “Yes.” 

“Good.” She winces when she feels his teeth skim her earlobe, his whisper dripping with arrogant amusement. “I told you I’d make you regret it.” 

And he really does keep his oath. Minutes simulate hours as Harry continues to flirt her just along the seams of relief, pulling her back every time he sees her about to tip. Whenever he feels her begin to spasm around his slick fingers, he gives her a cautionary quirk of his brows accompanied by a testing, throaty, “Don’t you fucking dare.” or a simple, silent shake of his head. By some miracle, she manages to reign herself in every time, but each ruined orgasm makes it harder and harder to stifle the next. She doesn’t know how many times it happens; she stops counting after four. 

After what feels like decades of torture, Harry finally releases his hold around her jugular, allowing her to properly gulp air for the first time in a while. He sits back against his heels, pulling his hand from between her thighs with a sarcastic sympathetic hiss. “Poor thing.” 

He watches as a trail of her juices strings from his digits to her cunt, eventually snapping in the middle as he lifts his hand to study his work. Her release drips down his knuckles and palm, gleaming in the dim lighting. A mildly sadistic glint washes over Harry’s irises and for a split second, they look almost red, but Y/N dismisses it. Her brain is too fogged to trust right now. 

The boy’s sight flickers past his hand to where Y/N lies limply, wrists bruised from the bonds, arms quivering weakly, and legs trembling in overstimulation. He’s never seen her look more beautiful than now. 

He locks his bright eyes to her exhausted own, watching them shatter to pieces when he pushes his drenched fingers past his pillowy blushed lips. His lashes flutter as her taste washes across his tongue, sweet and decadent as always, a soft groan thrumming deep in his throat. God, he can only imagine how delectable her blood must be at the moment, honeyed by the plethora of endorphins he had repeatedly coaxed into her. He can't wait to feel its warmth fill his mouth later tonight.

Harry removes his fingers with a wet pop, licking across the back of his hand with finality and giving her a daring once-over. “Do you still want my cock? Or are you too sensitive for it, darling?”

He sounds so conceited and self-assured, it causes Y/N’s pride to flare. She wants to make him eat his stupid words.  

The mortal licks her chapped lips, wetting her dry throat and clearing it softly, wiping away the sweat on her forehead with her shoulder. “I still want it.” 

An impressed expression decorates Harry’s features. “You think you can take it?”

Y/N’s jaw clenches with dedication, her thighs spreading open a tad more and she wills herself not to flinch. Her chin cocks upwards. “I know I can.” 

Harry’s brows kink challengingly, a borderline evil smirk sewing onto his face. “Let’s see, then.” 

As it turns out, Y/N can take it. However, she knows for a fact she won’t be able to walk right for at least the next week.

Harry lowers his jeans and kicks them off, reaching into his navy briefs and tugging himself out, giving his length a few pumps for good measure as he shifts forward toward her. He flips the girl onto her belly as easily as he’d turn a sheet of paper, tying one arm around her hips and lifting them up as he slides a pillow below. He situates her accordingly onto the cushion, her ass slightly elevated to give him more range of depth. He pats at her backside lightly, telling her to part her knees and she does so obediently, gripping onto the leather strap around her wrists anxiously when she feels the bed shift with his weight. Harry lowers himself over her body, the tee covering his broad chest soaking up the thin sheet of sweat on her back. He moves all of her tangled hair to the side, burying his fingers into her roots and yanking her head back cheekily. He runs his nose across her damp cheekbone and chuckles when she jumps slightly at the feathery sensation. 

“You’re pretty stubborn, aren’t you?” 

Y/N gnaws on her bottom lip as she struggles to swallow, throat taut from the angle he’s put her in. Her voice carries a confident bite, despite her compromisable position. “I like to think I am, yeah.” 

“Well, you know what that makes you, right?” Harry murmurs as he lines himself up with her entrance. 

“Mm-mm. What?” 

The vampire presses a lingering kiss to the tittering pulse in her temple, feeling it thunder below his skin as he forms his next comment slowly with an ominous edge. “It makes you a brat.” 

He feels her heartbeat trip. 

“And you know what I do to brats?” 

Y/N shakes her head as much as his dominant grasp will allow, body tightening in suspense. 

“I fuck them until they break.” 

Y/N learns that he’s telling the truth. The first thrust Harry delivers is swift, hard, and unbelievably deep; it causes her to let out a choked scream that no one else has ever drawn from her before, except for him. It’s like he can tap into certain aspects of her body she was unaware of; parts of her waiting for the right person to come along and reveal them. She feels that stroke rip into her tummy, but the pain of his size is something she’s become accustomed to in the last three weeks. She hardly feels it anymore; it had molded from a sharp throb to a dull ache, due to how often she’s experienced it. 

Harry doesn’t waste any time, quickly picking up a sloppy, adamant pace that has her hips bouncing against the mattress. He twists her hair around his fist, mouth pressed to the side of her head as his hot pants of exertion send a prickling through her scalp. His other forearm keeps him anchored to the bed as he pounds into her with absolutely no hesitation, the sound of skin slapping, cracked whines, and raspy grunts filling the tense atmosphere of her chilly room. 

“Is this what you were hoping would happen when you sent that slutty picture?” Harry grits out, short nails digging into the comforter beneath. “Wanted to get me all riled up just so I’d do your back in?”

Y/N mewls weakly in response, hands clinging to each other within the makeshift cuffs. 

“If you wanted me to fuck you like I hate you, you could have just asked. I’m more than happy to give you whatever you want. You don’t have to tempt me.” The vampire gives a particularly deep slam, laughing breathily when the girl’s back instinctively arches forward, paired with a watery yelp of, “Oh!”

Harry’s tongue grazes across the shell of her ear, teeth catching the skin. “But since you did, I’ll give it to you just— like—that.” His thrusts match to each word, fingers coiling harder into her locks. “You deserve it. Especially when you had the nerve to act like such a spoiled little brat right to my face.” 

Y/N’s not sure what emboldens her to speak, but her snarky remark is already halfway down her numb tongue before she can stop it. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

Harry hums tauntingly, circling his hips in long strides that urge a series of fractured whimpers to scrape out of Y/N’s sore throat. “Say it again. Go ahead, say it. I want to see you try.”

She remains silent, spine shuddering as she bites down on her tongue to avoid making any more noises that might condemn her.  

Harry roughly cranes Y/N’s neck to the side, buttoning their lips together in a filthy kiss that has her cheeks boiling. “That’s what I thought. The only thing that sharp tongue is good for is licking down my cock.” 

She gasps against his mouth shakily, tears of sheer bliss gathering along her waterline. “You’re such a fucking asshole.” 

Harry can tell her comment holds no true malice behind it; she’s too sweet on him— too whipped on what he gives her— to ever mean it. She’d only said it to provoke him into a power dynamic struggle. But the thing is, Harry’s dealt with feeling powerless before, so he had spent years teaching himself how to win. How to always win. 

“Am I, now?” His next line dismantles her entire plan. “Would an asshole let you cum?”

And just like that, her whole demeanor crumbles. “I take it back. I’m s-sorry.”

Harry releases her hair and nips at her ear mockingly, beginning to withdraw himself. “Oh, I think it’s a bit too late for that, minx.”

“No, no! Harry, please. I’m sorry. Genuinely. I promise I won’t say it again. Just…” She tugs helplessly at the belt restraints, trying to twist around to look at him directly. Her voice is wringed out. “Just please.”

The boy pushes a few stringy curls out of his eyes, pressing his tongue into his cheek coyly as he glances down, suggestively smoothing one hand over her ass. He gives it a firm squeeze, lifting his palm teasingly and feeling her tense in anticipation. “Do you want it?”

Y/N glimpses at his bejeweled hand with hunger, then back at his eyes. “Yes.”

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Sorry, I seem to have forgotten what ‘it’ was, exactly. Jog my memory, will you? What is it you want?”

Her irises harden in spite at his shit-eating comment. He’s well aware of how shy she can be when it comes to admitting she wants a spanking, and he’s playing that to his advantage. He’s swimming in the way she squirms. 

“I...I want you to spank me.”

He tsks, shaking his head as he twists his HS rings around to face inwards. “You forgot something.” 

Y/N’s fingers tighten into begrudging fists. “I want you to spank me, please.”

“There’s a good girl.” His low, accented purr sends electricity through her nerves. “You’re so cute when you beg.”

Harry’s hand comes down swiftly, digits fanned out so that all of his rings print across her backside. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but strong enough to leave a satisfying sting. He loves the way she jolts forward with a hushed curse of surprise, and he adores seeing the shape of his initials marked across her clammy skin. It’s poetic, almost.

“So pretty.” His mumble is wistful as he massages deeply over the region he had just bruised, but it holds unyielding authority. “Whose is it, doll?”

“Yours.” 

“And don’t you fucking forget it.” The creature lifts one palm to do it again, pausing once more just to rev her further. He reaches forward with the other, shoving her face-first into the mattress to get her back to straighten out. “Look forward and don’t make a single sound.”

Y/N obeys, but manages to sneak a peek at his reflection through the waxy wooden surface of her aged bedframe. He looks so good perched behind her with bare heaving shoulders, looking down at her exposed figure over the crests of his sharp cheekbones, brows furrowed into a starved expression that gives away he’s enjoying this probably more than she is. Her voice comes out small and weak. “Yes, sir.”

Harry’s entire face tightens at the word and she feels him throb against her backside. 

“Now beg me to let you cum.”

///

The next morning when Y/N’s eyes flutter open to the grey light streaking in through her curtains, the first thing she senses is a pair of eyes staring at the side of her face. 

She turns her stiff body over toward where the sensation stems and sure enough, she’s met with a pair of sea glass irises filled to the brim with humor. Harry’s laying on his side with his hands tucked below one of her pillows, tousled ringlets sticking up in wild tuffs (thanks to the activities they’d engaged yesterday), he’s completely bare since he likes sleeping nude (though he’d had the decency to cover himself with sheets from the waist down), and his voice is slower and raspier than usual (a result of being dormant for the last eight or so hours). 

“You drool in your sleep.” 

Y/N tucks her hands against Harry’s cold pectorals, snuggling deeper into his chest and pinching at one of his nipples in playful revenge. “No, I don’t.” 

“Yes,” he reaches up and shoos her hand away, proceeding to wipe at the side of her mouth, where dried spit had accumulated. He makes a theatrical gagging face, cleaning his thumb off across the collar of her t-shirt. “You do.”

Y/N sighs in exasperation, making a bold leap to a different topic to avoid talking about her embarrassing sleep habits. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you staring at people while they sleep is weird? Like, serial killer weird?” 

Harry tucks a few matted strands of hair behind the human’s ear, thumbing over her cheekbone tenderly. He hardly ever indulges in such actions, simply because they’re typically reserved for actual couples, which he and Y/N are definitely not. But last night— after he had finally finished being a prick and allowed her cum along with him, and after she had fallen into the bed with exhaustion taking her under, and after he’d had his greedy fill of her blood for the week— he’d gotten bored of playing on his phone. He’d burned through three cold case documentaries on Netflix and played enough Mario Kart to memorize the race charts; it had grown old quickly, and he eventually just locked the device and placed it on her nightstand. He spent the next hour staring at her hideous ceiling, and the one after that fantasizing about taking down her tapestry and burning it in the oven. And finally, after hours of mindless daydreams and letting his eyes chase the city lights dancing across the walls of her room, he had settled onto his side and watched her sleep. 

Harry did it simply because he had nothing else to distract him. He figured it would eventually bore him enough that maybe— just maybe, if he was lucky— he would fall asleep alongside her. But he didn’t, so he just ended up gazing at her slumbering face until dawn. He had been surprised by how oddly beautiful Y/N looked sleeping— how relaxed and tranquil, with her features soft and skin seemingly made of flawless porcelain. That intrigue had bled into the moment they share now, resulting in his touch drifting down the curve of her jaw and across the faint dimple on her chin. He follows the slope of her neck and admires the smoothness of her flesh with the ridges of his fingertips, hearing her breathing stutter ever so slightly. His heightened senses make it feel as if he’s running his digits over velvet and the only concept he can compare it to is touching forbidden artwork at an exhibit. It’s exciting, but he knows that if he keeps going, he could end up getting himself into a crock of shit. 

When the pads of his fingers land on two prominent purple bruises he’d forgotten existed, he’s broken from his soft stupor. He retracts his touch as if she were made of iron, forcing himself to ignore the pout that automatically plumps her delicate lips. 

He clears his throat awkwardly, a tight chuckle stringing his vocal chords. “Staring at someone in their sleep seemed to work just fine for Edward Cullen, though.” 

Y/N snorts sharply, rolling her eyes up towards her headboard. When she sees his belt is still hanging off of it from the night prior, she hurriedly glances back down, pretending not to have seen it. 

“It’s funny you say that because as I recall, he literally admitted to being a murderer. I believe his exact words were,” she exaggerates her voice into an angsty cry, grasping at her chest dramatically, “‘This is the skin of a killer, Bella!’”

Harry bursts into boyish giggles, falling fully onto his back and swiping his palm up his face, fingers remaining perched over his closed eyes as he laughs. He sighs airily, shaking his head as an afterthought. “What a moron.” 

“Truly. His dad was hotter.” 

“Way hotter.” Harry agrees passionately, burying his hand into his messy curls, attempting to comb out some of the tangles. “And he was a doctor. What a man.” 

“Bella really fucked that one up. She had a midlife crisis over choosing between a sad vampire who looked like he had chronic constipation, and a yappy dog with a shirt phobia. All when Carlisle was right there. Brain damage, honestly.” 

“A moment of prayer for the mentally incapacitated. Couldn't be me!”

“Couldn’t be me, either.”   

“Fuck, yeah.” Harry throws his hand up, inviting Y/N to give him a high five. “To good taste.”

She gladly delivers. “Exquisite taste.”

An instance of comfortable silence suspends between the pair of lovers, filled with the soft thrum of the air vent and the distant chirping of birds outside Y/N’s windowpane. She traces her index nail over the wings of the swallow tattoos along Harry’s collarbones, seeming to be deep in thought. She then speaks up once again.

“Emmett was pretty hot, as well.” 

“You know what? I’m happy you mentioned that ‘cause— full disclosure here— I’d ride him like a fucking bull.” 

Now it’s Y/N’s turn to explode in a fit of giggles, nose scrunching and eyes crinkling shut as she loses herself at Harry’s graphic confession. 

“Why are you laughing?!” The fact that he sounds genuinely appalled only spurs her sounds of glee. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t take that chance if you got it. Like, okay, he’s an airhead, yeah? I’m aware. But fuck’s sake, look at his body. I’d happily let him beat me at arm wrestling if it means I get that celebratory dick afterwards.”

The mortal manages to calm down a handful of heartbeats later and Harry feels strangely proud of how he’d made her pulse spike. 

“You’re valid for that, don’t worry. I couldn’t have said it—” A single giggle interupts her sentence, but she reigns it in before it can spiral. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Literally. There’s no way to express it better than exactly how you stated it.” 

Harry smirks softly up at the ceiling, folding his free arm behind his head as the other wraps securely down Y/N’s back, absentmindedly rubbing in gentle soothing circles. “My mind. It’s amazing, innit?”

“It’s definitely something.” 

Another span of cozy quietness fills the atmosphere of the room, longer than the last. Harry doesn’t mind. He finds it appeasing, and he continues to delight himself with running his touch up and down Y/N’s spine. He’s not sure how much time passes, but he’s aware that it’s probably a bit. His theory is supported by how he witnesses the beam of watery light that filters over the duvet gradually fade from silver to a sunflower yellow, indicating full daybreak. 

Even then, he doesn’t say a word, too caught up in this innocent bubble of domestic bliss to pop it so suddenly. He just lays there and listens. Listens to the birds harmonizing with each other across the branches of the tree outside. To the steady breaths that fill Y/N’s lungs with cool air, faltering past her nostrils in the same manner and fogging the metal of his cross necklace. To the faint sound of footsteps trotting down the staircase outside her apartment, and to the vague spritz of the sprinkler system going off at the front of the complex. To the distant honking of car horns in traffic, and to a random conversation between two friends as they walk past the pavement just under Y/N’s balcony. He hasn’t felt this at ease in eons. 

Harry just allows himself to grow in tune with the world around him— a world he’d been convinced was against him for the longest time. A world he was convinced stole his happiness and replaced it with the shackles of a blood-driven afterlife, for no other reason than because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and met the wrong person. But now, he feels like he’s in the right place, at the right time, spending it with the right person— or at least a half-decent person— and he doesn’t want to let it slip between his fingers so soon. He wants to bask in it, even if he knows it’ll pass. 

And eventually, it does pass, and Y/N is the one who brings it to an end. 

The girl slowly peels away from Harry’s side, his lips dipping downwards slightly at the loss of the warmth she radiates. He thinks she’s about to get up to probably go use the bathroom or to make breakfast, but instead, she just bends her upper body over the edge of her bed to retrieve something from the floor. She comes back up with the box he’d brought her the evening before (which had ended up on the ground as a result of her bed rocking violently), setting it in the small space between their laps. She then returns to her place cuddled into his torso, looking up at him with an expression that Harry can only interpret as expecting. 

The vampire glances down at the container and then back up to Y/N’s face, raising his eyebrows curiously, voice tinged with comedy. “What did I say about bringing sex toys to the dinner table?”

Y/N stares up at him flatly for a second, fighting off a smile. “I just wanted to thank you again. It’s nice of you to bring me a present, even as strange as this one.” 

Harry sucks at his teeth, waving a hand dismissively, blinking down at her with slyness sparkling around his pupils. “What are friends for, if not for buying you vibrating finger gloves and then fucking you with them until you cry?”

Despite having been acquainted with Harry’s crude humor for three weeks now, it still manages to make Y/N’s cheeks sizzle. It could also be the fact that this is the first time Harry has openly accepted Y/N as a friend. It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned her name and that word in the same sentence, meaning that she can now shake a weight off her shoulders— a weight that had insisted he was only using her for sex, that he would eventually grow bored of her, and that he would throw her away once he was done. It’s good to know that’s not the case, and that the friendship aspect of their agreement is true to its name. 

“Right.” Y/N’s smile is full of so much genuine warmth, Harry feels like she could outshine the sun. “What are friends for, if not that. Thanks, Harry.” 

He wonders what she’s thinking, and he finds himself wishing that he had the one valid trait that idiot Edward Cullen possesses: mind-reading. But he doesn’t have it, so he simply returns her gesture and skates the conversation how he best deems fit. “You don’t have to call me ‘Harry’ all the time, you know?” 

Y/N’s brows cinch in entertained confusion. “What would I call you, then? Sherlock?” 

Harry scoffs lightly at the inside joke, shrugging one shoulder casually. “I mean, you could, if you want to. It might take some getting used to, but I think I can shoulder a full-time second identity. Just for you.” 

“How chivalrous.”

“You ain’t ever met a man like me, sweetheart.” He boasts in an over-the-top American southern accent, prying another round of laughter from Y/N, similar to the one before. “But you could also just call me ‘H.’ It’s what most of my other friends use.” 

“H.” Y/N repeats, getting a taste for the new nickname. It’s simple, unlike him, but it somehow fits. She then recalls something from a show she’d watched when she was younger and she can’t help but bring it up. “So, like, just your first initial? Like in Gossip Girl?”

Harry’s face immediately drops at the comparison she makes to the cringey teenage soap opera. “You know what, I take it back. You’re not allowed to use it. Illegal. Banned. By an official court. Gavel and all.”

“I’m just making a point!”

“Yeah, a shitty one.” 

“Oh, whatever. You’re just mad I debunked your little hipster alter ego. ‘That’s a secret I’ll never tell. Xoxo, H.’”

“Restraining order.” Harry pinches at one of her love handles, an evil grin dimpling his cheeks when she squeals. “Actually, nevermind. We’re going straight to the electric chair. Immediately.” 

“You don’t get to decide my punishment, remember?” Y/N slaps at his wrists, trying to ward off his attacks but failing miserably. “You’re just the—stop!— just the executioner.” 

“That’s right. I get to strap you to the chair.” Harry finally lets up on the tickling, his lighthearted grin taking on a slightly seductive hue as he momentarily glimpses upwards towards where his belt is hanging. “Though you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Fuck off.” Y/N smothers her palm against his face, breaking eye contact as she feels her ears bristle with heat.  

“Mm, exactly.” Harry gnashes at her hand playfully, but she manages to yank it away before he gets a bite in. “You can’t even admit you like being called a whore.” 

“Hey!”

“What?” The vampire gives her a cocky look, wagging his head knowingly and then mimicking her voice in a higher pitch. “‘I’m just making a point!’”

“You’re a dick, you really are.” 

“And yet you still ride mine, so who’s the one with the real issues here? Specifically, daddy issues.”

“I’m done with this conversation.” Y/N huffs, returning her attention to the box beside her thigh, muffling the twitching across her lips. 

She takes the cardboard into her hands, tracing over the small flap used to pry the top open. Harry watches her with interest, pondering as to what could possibly be scurrying around her skull that she seems so caught up with the context of the gift. He’d gotten it because he knew they would both benefit from it. It’s as simple as that. 

“You know,” she starts, but her gaze remains glued to the box, “I feel kinda bad ‘cause, like...You got me this gift, I have nothing to give you in return.” 

Harry’s face contorts into a silly frown for a moment, tone humorous. “It’s fine, Y/N. You don’t have to give me anything back. I got it ‘cause I knew we’d enjoy using it together, and because this way, you have something to play with when I’m not around. And you can send me videos of said instances. It’s truly a win-win. A double-ended gift.” 

“I suppose.” She mumbles softly, continuing to pick at the lip of cardboard sticking out. “But I feel like it’s only fair that you get to use it, too, don’t you think?”

And then the reason she’s insistent about this dawns on Harry. The way she’s avoiding looking at him directly, how her heart rate is slowly ebbing upwards, how she is gradually scooting closer to his body, how he can feel her thighs are clasped tightly below the comforter. How the scent of honey and lavender has intensified. How she keeps glancing towards where the sheets are crumpled messily around his hips in a haphazard attempt to remain civil. 

When the monster speaks, it carries all the arrogance brought forward by his discovery. “If you wanna give me a handjob with the toy on, just say so.” 

The human’s head snaps upwards, her expression one of utter alarm at his lewd comment, but he can see right through her act. It’s obvious that was her intention all along— the desire in her eyes is poorly masked. She looks so adorable, pretending not to know what he’s referring to, her palms gripping the box slightly tighter than before. 

Harry twirls a strand of her hair around his finger nonchalantly, giving it a jesting tug. “I just find it funny how much of a horny menace you can be.”

“What—?”

“And it’s not even ten A.M. yet.”

“What do you—?” 

“Y/N,” Harry sighs tiredly, giving her an omniscient look, “I’ve slept with you enough times to know when you want something. It’s written all over your body language and you’re pretty shit at hiding it in your eyes. Just admit you want to and I’ll let you.” 

The faux shock slowly melts off her face, replaced by sheepish humiliation at being so easily sussed out. She chews on her bottom lip pensively, struggling to sew together the appropriate words to communicate the very inappropriate activity she wants to engage in. Harry has to withhold from leaning down and taking a bite from her tempting mouth.  

She inhales a deep breath through her nose, puffing it out slowly and tapping her fingers across the box nervously. Her voice pipes up so softly, it’s almost inaudible. “I want to give you a handjob with the toy.”

Harry gently cards his fingers into the mussed roots along the back of her head, using that hold to guide her sight upwards until it meets his. He leans down, smearing his lips over her own, feeling static pass through the ridges of their skin. “That’s all you had to say, darling. Go ahead, then. Make me cum.” 

Y/N swallows thickly, lashes fluttering bashfully as she pastes her mouth to his in a soft kiss. It’s a simple action with just their lips and nothing else. No tongue, no teeth, no sucking, nothing sloppy or desperate— not yet, anyways. He can tell she does it as a way to ease herself into this. She wants to, that much is arousingly obvious, but for some crazy reason unbeknownst to him, she’s still shy about it. That’s what happens when you come from a conservative raising: you get intimacy issues. He of all people— with his Victorian era background— would know. 

The hand Harry has cupping the nape of her neck shifts over a smidge, ending up splayed across the side of her face. His palm rests on her cheekbone and his fingers in her locks, his wrist cradling the back of her skull as he patiently deepens the kiss. His chest begins to heave slightly, a familiar sensation already frothing at the trench of his stomach. Harry can feel Y/N’s clumsy movements as she unboxes the vibrators, digging through the packaging and trying to slip them on blindly, not wanting to break away from his embrace. The way he’s flirting his tongue along the inside of her top lip is just too consuming to leave. 

After a few seconds of grappling and a string of annoyed curse words, Harry giggles lightly into her mouth, nudging the tip of his nose across the bridge of hers. The jade tint in his irises is waltzing with amusement, all at her expense. “Sometime today, love.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, I just— I can’t— they won’t—” The mortal releases an irritated growl into their kiss, reluctantly splitting away when it becomes clear she won’t be able to get the rubber gloves on without giving the task her full attention. “God, I’m such a...Sorry.” 

Harry rolls his eyes in mirth, pecking sweetly along the angry creases present over her forehead and between her brows. He thumbs over her cheek affectionately to soothe her nerves, his other hand scratching distractedly at the back of his neck. He filters curls through his fingers as he waits, bicep jolting in the process. “It’s fine, I’m just teasing. I’m not going anywhere, babe.”

“Thanks. Just give me—” The girl pauses her actions for a second, jutting her chin back up towards him and locking the vampire into another quick kiss, solely for the purpose of keeping him interested while she figures herself out. She breaks away again, returning to her mission. “Just give me a minute.” 

Now that she can see, Y/N successfully wriggles all five of her fingers into their designated molds. She prods at them gingerly, copying Harry’s actions from the night prior, using that experience as a manual. The mini-vibrators purr to life, a buzzing sensation trickling down her fingers. She glances back up at an awaiting Harry, who gives her such an easy, good-natured smile, she instantly reaches up and glues their mouths together again. 

“You’re so eager.” The boy grins into the kiss, jumping a bit when he feels her tittering fingers duck beneath the covers around his lower torso. “It’s hot.” 

“I just want to make you feel good.” Y/N mumbles, one palm braced to his strong shoulder as the other rides down his bare abdomen. She can feel his grip on her hair tightening the closer she gets to his cock. “That’s all.” 

“Guess I’m just the luckiest— shit.” Harry’s quip is interrupted when Y/N wraps her digits around his length, giving it one slow, testing pump. His jaw drops open and he begins panting into her mouth, the corners of his lips ticking upwards into a smirk as an intense pleasure swells between his thick thighs. “Jesus fucking Christ, that feels— fuck, that’s incredible, oh my God.”

“Yeah?” The human asks timidly, gazing up at him dreamily from below her lashes as his eyes lull back into his head. “Not too much?” 

Harry loves how attentive she is— how she’s checking to make sure he’s alright before continuing. If he had a heart, it would surely be glowing right now. 

Harry gulps down the lump in his throat, voice more strained and needy than she’s ever heard it. “No, I’m good, I’m good. Keep going.” 

Y/N gradually sinks her palm back down to his base, feeling his cock twitch desperately as the vibrators work their magic. She slowly slinks back up to his tip, thumbing over it carefully, pressing the toy on her thumb pad right over his slit. The garbled moan that emits from Harry is a sound her ears will never forget. It’s a sound she wishes she could record and listen to on a loop. 

“Fucking hell, don’t— please, just— oh—” Harry stutters through a plead, voice bleeding, naked chest now heaving wildly against her own. His hips buck forward into her hand, but she maintains a steady grip, keeping the vibrator pressed to the center of his cock’s head. 

“Don’t what?” She whispers into his mouth, suckling at his Cupid’s bow and reveling in the little broken noises he pours onto her tongue. 

Harry’s breaths are shallow and pained, the grip on her hair stronger than she thought possible as the fingers of his opposite hand yank at his own feverishly. He’s barely able to choke out his next sentence. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” Y/N begins to fish for a solid rhythm, her strokes setting into medium pace and gauging the receiver's reaction. “How’s that?” 

Bright colors web across Harry’s eyelids and he feels like his soul is being torn from his body. “Y-Yeah, that’s perfect, baby. It’s so good— you’re so good.” 

“I am?” Y/N swipes her thumb over his tip again, and when he whimpers brokenly against her lips, she does it again. It urges the same exact reaction, but more shattered. So she does it again. And again, and again, and again. And each time it happens, his hips jerk more violently, chasing her intoxicating touch. She can feel Harry’s precum drip down his length and leak between the cracks of her fingers. 

“You are, you’re just so fucking good to me.” Harry’s spewing words at this point, brain half conscious, half floating in bliss. Whatever dam of common sense holds his mind together crumbles, all of his thoughts rushing out in the form of jumbled phrases and cracked whines. “You get me going like nothing else, pet. You get me going so easily, it’s embarrassing. You make me cum so hard, it feels like I’m touching h-heaven. And your mouth— God, y-your mouth. It’s the best I’ve ever had. It’s so soft and warm, and your lips are so pretty and silky. I could kiss you for hours. And your tongue— you know how to use it so well. You lick me once and I’m already on edge. And every time you get down on your knees, I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Y/N sighs shakily at Harry’s string of confessions, staring up at him with wide eyes as his own stay shut loosely, long lashes perched on his rosy cheekbones, handsome features slack with euphoria. She doesn’t halt her motions, continuing to pump him excitedly. The girl passes her thumb over his tip every time she gets to the top, and gives a hard squeeze every time she thunks down against his base, twisting her wrist as she glides back and forth between the two points of reference. That combination seems to work well, evident in the steady stream of vulgarities falling from Harry’s swollen lips as he thrusts upwards to match her pace. His groans splash across her tongue, traveling down her throat and burning into her stomach. She wants him to cum probably more than he does.

Y/N glimpses down, watching her sheets tent as she works Harry over, the outline of her knuckles pressing into the turquoise fabric. It’s such an erotic scene and she knows it’ll be branded across the front of her brain for years to come. She cranes her neck back up to look at the vampire, her breath catching in her lungs. He looks so pretty with his dark pink lips parted in pleasure, his damp ringlets matting along his sweaty hairline, his structured jaw ticking, and his usually sharp traits softened by ecstasy. She’ll do anything to make that image last.  

“Tell me more.” Y/N murmurs, swimming in the praise he is so willing to dish out. 

His eyes flicker for a heartbeat and in that instance, they look oddly darker than normal. Almost crimson, but she knows it’s due to the shadow of his lashes. The words that spill from his mouth next make her forget all about that occurrence, his voice melodic and dark, sticky against her wet lips. 

“Your hands are one of my favorite things about you, I think. They’re smaller than mine and I love how your fingers don’t touch when you wrap them around my cock. I love how they leave my back raw with scratches, and I love how they look tied to the bedpost. I love it when they press flat against my chest when you ride me, and how you lean back on them when I’m on my knees with my head between your thighs. I love how they yank at my hair when you’re about to cum, and how they grip my upper arms when we make-out. I love how your nails dig into my thighs when you're going down on me, and how they look fisting at the sheets when I’m taking you from behind. And I love how they feel tugging me off, like you’re doing now. I just love how perfect they are— how perfect you are.” 

Y/N is left speechless, Harry’s monologue ringing in her heated ears as he gazes at her intensely amidst heavy, barely-cracked eyelashes. His broad chest gasps for air and he takes it upon himself— despite his wrecked appearance— to smush their mouths deeper together, pooling moans across the roof of her own.  

“I’m—” His breathing throttles, voice coming out softer than she’s heard it in the last three weeks. “I’m gonna cum.”

Y/N nods her head numbly, strokes becoming lazy and fast, eager for him to finish. “I want you to. I want you to cum for me so bad. Please?” 

Harry’s hips writhe in a tell-tale sign that he’s about to tip. His whimper tastes sweet on her tongue, the meaning behind it pure syrup to her ego. “You’re the only one who makes me feel this good.”

The mortal whines gently in return, eyes falling shut as she feels him grow heavier in her palm. “You’re the only one I want to make feel this good.” 

The knot of white hot pleasure in his belly begins to unravel, his entire spine shuddering as a result, all strain beginning to wash out of his system in spurts if blissful electricity. He can feel his orgasm racing up his prick, pulling his composure along with it. He gives one last jerk against Y/N’s cupped fingers, feeling her press her vibrating thumb over his slit one more time for good measure. When the first milky ribbon spurts out, that’s when he feels it. 

Harry’s eyelids fly open in alarm as black veins protrude along the whites of his eyes, all his muscles contracting at once, defense mode activated. Y/N’s lips are on his neck. 

His first instinct is to do what he always does and guide her away from that sensitive, highly forbidden area. His fist tightens in her hair and he’s about to yank her back up to his mouth when suddenly, the icy tension present in his veins disappears. It’s replaced by a soothing warmth, which travels through every crevice in his body and kindles his climax, his impulsive hatred for being touched in that specific region funneling away completely. He can’t remember a time where this has happened before. 

Harry’s grip loosens hesitantly as he treads into this unexplored territory, allowing her to continue suckling along his throat. The sensation would usually garner a reaction similar to that of a molten metal brand being placed on his skin, but now— for some startling reason— he doesn’t feel any contempt. He just feels relaxed and cradled in the best way imaginable. The impact is pleasant this time around, and he finds himself wanting more of it. So, he lets her give him more. He lets this strange girl kiss and gasp and lick against his jugular while she finishes getting him off, his own desperate sounds of need bouncing around the brick walls of her bedroom. He lets her coax wave after wave of cum out of him, feeling it splatter against her bedspread and coat over her hand. He whines and grunts into the hair along the crown of her head, tears blearing his eyes as her scent of sugar and flowers clouds his mind. And when his release finally sputters to an end, he lets out an elongated groan so deep, it makes his chest ache.

“Fuck. You’re...You’re an absolute angel.”

Y/N draws her hand out from beneath the bed sheets, turning off the vibrating finger pads by pressing them against her palm. She looks down at the milky substance covering the toys and before Harry can make even a sound of encouragement, she’s already licking it off each individual piece. The girl looks up at the vampire as she cleans every trace of him off her fingers, swallowing it all down with a doe-like tint across her hazy gaze and murmuring a soft, “You taste good.” over a full mouth. Harry just watches silently, heavy breathing slowly starting to even out. God, she really is such a fucking godsend.

The next couple of minutes list by in a blur, all of his focus taken up by the feeling of unsettlement pricking at the back of his brain. Why had he let her touch him there? Why had he let her touch him in a place no one has since before his death?

Y/N puts the toys back in their box, putting them off to the side to thoroughly clean later. She reaches down, bunching up her bedspread in her hand and wiping Harry’s pelvis, thighs, and tummy down until he’s decently clean, as well as whatever is left on her hand. She then snuggles up to his side once again, laying her head into the crook between his arm and pectoral muscles, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully along with him. The irritating red tint across Harry’s chest, stomach, and neck gradually fades away, and he barely flinches when he feels her sponge her lips against his Adam’s Apple. She lulls the tip of her middle finger up along the vein of his cock one more time for finality, smiling slyly when he hisses in sensitivity.

The immortal tilts his head down to appraise her, sniffling lightly and allowing a weak, watery smile across his raw lips. His tone is feathery and detached. “That was…Christ.”

Y/N giggles softly, nodding along to his unspoken opinion. “It was fun. Really fun. We should do it again sometime.” 

Harry splutters into a drunken laugh, mind still floating around the room. “I don’t think I could survive that again.”

Y/N grins up at him cheekily. “Pussy.” 

Her friend breaks into an expression of utter offense, cheeks still slightly rosy. He shoves her head roughly as vengeance. “Hey! Piss off. Don’t blame it on me, blame it on the male anatomy.” 

The girl shakes her head up at him, eyebrows shrugging mockingly. “Excuses, excuses.” 

“Whatever.” 

A moment passes, and then Y/N speaks up again, her index finger poking playfully into the center of his bare chest, right over the butterfly tattoo. “Also, you’re washing my sheets. Your mess, you clean it up.”

Harry grins against her forehead, scratching lightly at the back of her scalp. “Fair enough…Wait, is that why you wanted to do this? ‘Cause you knew I’d soil your sheets and you could force me to do your laundry?”

That hadn’t been her motive at all, and Harry knows that, but she plays along anyways for the hell of the joke. “Perhaps.” 

“Wow. I feel used.” 

“Too bad. Go do it. Now. Before it stains.”

Harry stares at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “I literally can’t walk right now! I can’t feel anything below my waist.”

Y/N lifts the comforter off her body, symbolically showing off the bruises his fingertips and rings had left the night before. “Well, neither can I!” 

Harry reaches down and touches the marks, chuckling to himself. “How unfortunate. Who’s gonna make breakfast, then, if neither of us can even stand?”

“We could UberEats some iHop.” 

“Who’s gonna get the door?”

“Well, I can’t solve everything on my own, now can I?!” Y/N slaps his hand away from her body. “Contribute! You’re the lead detective, after all.” 

“I am, aren’t I?” Harry cocks his head to the side in recollection, remembering his role in their imaginary dynamic duo scenario. “And because I’m the lead, I say…” He ropes his lean arms around the human and buries his face into her warm neck, pulling her close and intertwining their legs together, trapping her to the mattress along with him. “I say we just bum around for a bit longer. Just until one of us can actually muster up the strength to leave the bed.” 

Y/N makes an exasperated noise in the back of her throat, but makes no apparent attempt to leave his embrace. “Fine.” 

“Mystery solved, then! Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“You’re so dumb.” 

The pair stay cuddled for a bit, with Y/N’s hands loosely gripping Harry’s forearms, tracing across his mermaid tattoo absently. She wanders in her thoughts for a period of time, lost in the sensation of Harry’s warm breath fanning down her neck, his hot lips pressing small kisses behind her ear every once in a while. She likes their morning after routine; it’s innocent and fun and sharing moments like this makes it easy to forget her troubles. She wants more of this, and she finds herself trying to come up with ways to convince Harry to spend the night more often. This is only the fourth time he’s stayed until morning and she wants that number to grow. 

An idea dawns on her and she’s voicing it before her inhibitions can kill it off.

“Do you...Do you maybe wanna stay over the rest of the weekend?”

Harry draws his face from the alcove of her soft neck, eyebrows poised in curiosity. “The rest of the weekend?”

“Yeah!” Y/N shifts her gaze up to look at him, hope swirling around her pupils. “Like, spend the rest of today and tomorrow over, and then leave tomorrow night ‘cause I have work on Monday. Does that, like...Does that make sense?” 

“Yeah.” Harry says slowly, mulling over her offer, thinking back to his schedule. He doesn’t think he has any commitments this weekend that would require him being home— none he can’t cancel easily, anyways. He’d told Mitch he’d go see him play again at the pub later today, but it’s the same set as last time, so he doesn’t think his best friend would mind if he missed it just this once. Niall was planning a barbecue at his place on Sunday, but the Irish bloke does one almost every other week so it’s nothing Harry can’t make up. Plus, what type of idiot would pass up two day’s worth of amazing sex? The more, the merrier.

Y/N watches the vampire’s expression carefully, trying to interpret whether her request was out of their boundaries. She doesn’t want to make him feel like she’s trying to tie him down or suffocate him, she just wants to spend a bit more time in his presence, rather than through a phone screen. Her tone comes out dismissive, with just the tiniest hint of panic. “It’s okay if you can’t, though. Like, if you have other plans and stuff, I totally get it. Or if you just don’t want to, that’s fine, too! I just thought it’d be a fun little thing we can do since we already talk so much on the phone and everything, so I guess I just kinda figured you wouldn’t mind—”

“I get it, Y/N.” Harry interrupts Y/N’s unhinged word vomit, voice amused and nonchalant. “I think I’d like that, yeah.”

Y/N blinks in giddy surprise. “Really?” 

“Well, don’t sound so shocked.” Harry laughs lightly, fingers toying with the pearls laying across his clavicle. “The sex is pretty fucking good and I’m more than happy to have it at my disposal.” 

“Right.” Y/N gives him a deadpan look, shaking her head at his bluntness, reaching forward to fiddle with the chain of his cross necklace for the sake of having something to distract her from smiling like a fool. “Great, then. I have some old boxers that I know will probably fit you and an unopened pack of toothbrushes under the sink, so I think you’re set.” 

Harry’s lips purse at the mention of the men’s underwear, brows creasing a tad. “You just casually have men’s boxers laying around?” 

“They were my ex’s and I kept them out of spite. But don’t tell anyone, I don’t wanna get locked up for robbery.” 

The tightness in his chest— which he hadn’t even realized had formed— melts away. “My lips are sealed.”

“Good, or else I’d have to kill you.” The girl states darkly, a theatrical seriousness to her appearance. 

“Oh no.” Harry wails sarcastically, knotting a fist into her oversized tee and pulling her closer, connecting their lips and grinning into the kiss. “I’m shaking in fear.” 

Y/N gives in without much of a fight, hands still clinging to his forearms, a smile of her own creeping across her cheeks. “Asshole.”

“The only thing I’m relatively afraid of is my dick falling off. You have the sexual drive of a rabbit.” 

“Oh, like you’re any better?” 

“I’m innocent in all this! You’re usually the one instigating. I’m just a mere pawn— a poor, unsuspecting nun led astray.”

“God, I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” 

///

The following weekend, Harry officially invites Y/N over to his house. 

It had been talked about in passing a while back, and he figures it's only fair considering all the time they’ve ever spent together has been solely at her place. Plus, he could tell she was curious to see what his living situation is like, which is valid. You can tell a lot about people through their home, and when you’re sleeping with someone on the regular, you want to learn as much about them as possible. It’s important to know who you’re getting into bed with. Literally. 

Harry’s proud of his condo. He keeps it clean, he keeps it organized, and he keeps it styled in a manner that combines his Victorian gothic roots with modern day aesthetics. The floorboards of the apartment are made of waxed light-wash wood, most of the expanse of his living room covered in a furry dark grey rug. The lightness of the ground is contrasted by the matte mahogany walls, of which the largest is covered in Harry’s collection of first edition artwork. He had picked out every single piece himself throughout the span of the last two centuries, ranging from modern digital technique canvases to nineteenth century oil paintings, all arranged in neat alternating rows from oldest to newest. He can’t help that he’s such a stickler; his mom had raised him so. 

Though his art wall is his pride and joy, the glass wall that overlooks the city skyline comes in at a close second. Harry loves the city, despite the fact that he was born in a seemingly irrelevant town whose only redeeming quality was the bustling public market. Urban regions are just full of so much life, excitement, and potential, which are all concepts he never really got to explore before he transitioned. Cities represent everything he wanted as a young man, when he thought he had prosperous years ahead of him and an entire life left to build; they represent diversity, unique experiences, and endless possibilities. When that was stripped from him, he began to bounce around different countries and cities all over the world, seeking a place that would fill the hole his dreams had left behind. Los Angeles fit that space like a puzzle piece. 

That glorified window just means more to him than anyone could possibly know. Sometimes at night, he’ll just stand by it with his arms relaxed across his chest, watching the city gleam and glitter as individuals from all different backgrounds go about their business, blissfully ignorant to the beautiful concept that they all contribute to something much bigger— a concept that only centuries of wisdom could reveal. When he’s not wracked with jealousy and spite, looking out that window and witnessing the world change and evolve is therapeutic, in a way. It allows Harry to live vicariously through others who get to have what he never did. 

Aside from his art collection and the glass wall, the chandeliers that hang from his cavernous ceiling are third on his list of treasured possessions. They’re special and no one on this earth owns anything like them; Harry made sure of that. They were created by a Swedish interior designer Harry commissioned about ten years ago, so they are custom-made in every aspect of the term. They took months to construct and finalize, which is hardly difficult to believe, given their grandeur. Each chandelier is made of two extensive layers of delicate golden chains, all arranged around a wire center, connected by light bulbs at each peak. It gives his home a chic, avant-garde atmosphere that mirrors his personality down to the last chain link. 

The rest of his flat is tailored to compliment these three major determining factors. The wood paneling all around his apartment is carved with intricate, loopy designs, his two rounded coffee tables are made of the same marble that resides across his kitchen counters, and his kitchen sits directly under the second story ledge with elongated fluorescent poles embedded into the room’s ceiling, eloquently highlighting the creme walls and polished detailings of all his appliances. His sectional couches are made of an off-brown leather, covered in large rectangular couch cushions with a checkered print embroidered across the pillow cases, and weighted fleece blankets litter some areas of the elegant sofas. A wide staircase leads up to the second floor, made of grey glass steps and metal railings. 

The top story of his condo is less Victorian era, more modern composition. The ground is dark maroon carpeting, and the ledge leads to one singular corridor that splits into two seperate rooms at either ends. One is the master bedroom, and the other is an accompanying bedroom which he uses for storage. His room isn’t anything extravagant, per se. It’s big, but his decor is minimalistic, covered in all different muted shades of blacks and greys, from the comforter on his king-sized bed to the tall dresser. A fifty inch flat-screen is mounted on the wall, but he hardly uses it since the one in his living room is larger; it’s only really there as an ornament. Starburst lights hang from his ceiling— smaller, downplayed versions of his chandeliers— and his walk-in closet stands parallel to the entrance of his bathroom. 

The humongous bathroom was meant for two people, pretty obvious in the double-sink set up, but he doesn’t dwell on it much. He isn’t one for dating, and he’s just happy to have that luxury because it comes in handy the morning after one night stands. He has a jacuzzi-like bathtub, lined with water jets and all, and a big walk-in shower with a large overhead panel instead of a regular showerhead. The whole room is made of dark marble and porcelain, and he couldn’t possibly adore it more. Some of his best experiences had happened in this room, explicit and otherwise. 

In the end, Harry has every right to be arrogantly proud of his apartment. It had taken him months to decorate, years to fill with fond memories, and an immortal lifetime to find. He loves it with every trace of his soul, even when others disagree. Namely, Niall, who had mocked his sophisticated relics and old-timey architecture from the first time he’d set foot past the threshold; “You went the dark gothic route? Really? Way to feed into the stereotype, Dracula.” 

But no matter what anyone says, this is who he is, and he couldn’t be happier. After decades of migrating and aimlessly searching the globe, he’d finally found a place he could call home, and absolutely no one could take that from him. Especially not some Irish moron who doesn’t even know the definition of “foyer.”

How Harry manages to afford his flat is a whole other intriguing tale.

It had come up in a pillow talk conversation with Y/N once, and he had told her the story he feeds to any human who asks. He’s a regional manager for an offshore company and it’s mainly a lot of online work. Handling duties through business emails, videochat meetings, job portals, and things of the such. It paints a valid image as to why he’s home all the time. He also claims to be the company’s lone contact stationed in California, so he handles all of the responsibilities that would normally be bestowed upon three or four people. This paints a valid explanation as to how his imaginary position would tether such a high pay grade, which justifies his luxurious living arrangement.

That story is part of the truth. Harry does indeed have ties with corporate businesses. That is, ties to their CEOs’ pockets. It’s surprisingly easy to get past secretaries and security dressed in a nice suit and thousand dollar leather shoes, especially with the help of compulsion and Harry’s golden charisma. Thanks to those tools, he has managed to convince some of the biggest leaders in corporate California to quietly deposit generous sums of money into his bank account once a month. And with his persuasive supernatural abilities, he convinces them to write it off as regularly scheduled charity donations in their minds. That’s how he makes a living for himself— by scamming the rich. Xander likes to take the piss and call him a sugar baby, but Harry sees himself as more of a modern day Robin Hood, instead. 

Mitch says his charade is unlawful, but considering how corrupt the business world already is, the vampire feels next to no guilt. The one percent have always taken advantage of those poorer than them— that was obvious even back in Harry’s time— and he doesn’t see anything wrong with taking advantage of them right back, now that he has the means to. How’s that saying go? “Fuck the bourgeoisie” and all that. 

Everything taken into consideration, Harry’s pretty excited to show Y/N his condo. Watching people’s faces break into awe the second he turns the lights on always gives him such a deep surge of satisfaction. It makes all the hassle worth it.  

The immortal is currently sitting in his vintage car, flicking through his Spotify playlist to find something to entertain him while he waits for Y/N to finish her shift. He had offered to pick her up, knowing that it’s what any courteous host would do, and she had appreciatively accepted, telling him she’d be out by eight P.M. It’s seven fifty-three now and Harry had arrived around seven fifty, taking the slot right in front of the cafe’s entrance so she can spot him as soon as she walks out. These ten minutes are the longest he’s ever had to endure, which says a lot considering he’s endured tons of patience-testing moments in his two hundred years.

Harry swipes his thumb down the glass screen of his phone, sampling songs left and right to see what will stick. After listening to the first few chords of an array of forties dance music, seventies rock and roll, and twenty-first century bubblegum pop, he settles for Rodeo by Lil Nas X. Harry has a very intricate taste in music— it’s one of the traits he’s most proud of— and Mitch often tells him he’s too snotty when it comes to his preferences. He’ll admit it freely that, yes, he can be a piece of work musically, but just because he thinks the industry peaked in the seventies doesn’t mean he hates modern music. He likes most of it, including rap, and Lil Nas X happens to be one of his favorites, much to everyone’s surprise. Most of the artist’s songs are eccentric not only lyrically but also instrumentally, to the point where it’s almost comical— who names a song Panini, of all things?— but the music is catchy and Harry can let loose to it easily. 

The vampire also happened to meet the musician, on one occasion. He ran into him at a club and after a few drinks and some banter, somehow ended up getting invited over to a party at the celebrity’s Malibu mansion. That night is a blur, definitely due to the copious amounts of alcohol and psychedelics, but Harry remembers they had fun and that the guy was worth a listen. In fact, he was the genius that came up with the theme for the rapper’s Rodeo music video. 

A light knocking on the passenger’s seat window brings him out of his memories. Y/N stands outside, hugging her arms loosely over her tummy, decked in her usual work uniform of a navy polo and black skinny jeans. When the two lock eye contact, she gives him a soft wave and a tired smile. Harry lifts two fingers in greeting, returning her polite gesture and swiftly lowering the window. He leans forward across the center console, his grin taking on a playful hue, voice carrying the same effect. 

“Uber for Y/N?” 

The girl snorts and rolls her eyes, but plays along, reaching forward and jiggling the handle of his black Cadillac symbolically. “That’s me, yes. Open up.” 

“Eh, eh, eh.” Harry tuts, wagging a finger in her direction and then making a motion that tells her to back away. “I’m gonna have to see some ID. It’s one of our new safe driver policies. Gotta make sure you are who you say you are, miss.” 

Y/N’s expression drops flatly, eyes half-lidded as he smiles up at her brightly, batting his eyelashes innocently. “Open the door before you end up sucking your own dick tonight.” 

Harry’s shit-eating face falls so fast, it causes her to burst into laughter. A soft click vibrates through the handle below her fingers. “I’ll waive the background check. Just this once.”  

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Y/N taunts, yanking the door open and ducking into the shotgun seat, gently tugging it closed behind her. 

Once the human is situated in her spot, she releases a lengthy sigh, sinking down against the cushions as she grabs her seat belt and clicks it into place. 

Harry puts his cell phone down into the cubby hole below the stereo set, setting the car in reverse and slinging an arm behind her headrest to get a better view as he backs out of the parking space. His gaze momentarily flickers to her slumped form as the car retreats slowly, tone curious. “Long day?”

Y/N glimpses over, giving him a quick once-over and taking in his olive green Nike jumper, ripped denim boyfriend jeans, and pastel yellow Vans. He looks so boyishly cute, which is ironic given the premise of tonight’s rendezvous. The shoes (which he had worn the night they’d met all those weeks ago) and the position he’s in (perched above her with his sharp jaw and neck flexing as he cranes his torso to look for oncoming traffic) flashes her back to the first time she had been in his car. They had been way less acquainted, she had been much less relaxed, much more nervous, but the encounter very much carried the same exact intentions. That recollection makes her lips quirk a bit. The pair had grown so comfortable with each other since then, that Friday evening feels like it happened decades ago. 

“Yeah.” Y/N murmurs softly, gladly indulging a deep inhale of the vanilla and tobacco scent she had become familiar with, allowing it to soothe her nerves and wash away the stress of a hard day. “I’m just happy it’s over and that the weekend’s finally started. Wanna forget all about it.” 

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, love!” Harry plops back into his seat, shifting his car into drive and gifting her his famous brilliant smile, dimples winking to life as he taps his ringed fingers across his steering wheel humorously. “I’ve made you forget your name plenty of times before; I’m pretty sure I can erase one shitty work shift just fine.”

Y/N scoffs at his pompous claim, reaching up and prying the hair tie out of her locks, looping it over her wrist and shushing her stiff roots. She tucks strands behind her ears, the corners of her mouth twitching in endearment at the giddiness of his aura. “Just drive, Sherlock.” 

The mortal isn’t surprised to find that building in which the vampire lives is one of the tallest in the city, and that it’s basically smack in the center, as well. One look at Harry and anybody could immediately tell he thrives off being the center of attention, so of course his home is a direct reflection of that. Refined boy, refined personality, refined environment. It’s practically a law of science. 

Once Harry’s car is parked and the ignition rumbles to a smooth stop, Y/N unbuckles her seat belt and goes to unlock the passenger’s side door. Right as her hand is wrapping around the handle bar, the door swings open of its own accord and she just barely manages to stifle a blood-curdling scream full of shocked fear. When her eyes focus, Harry is standing there holding the door open for her, features painted with cocky amusement. 

“How did you—?” The girl whips around to look at the empty driver’s seat, eyebrows cinching in bewilderment as she turns back to face him. “How did you get around so fast?” 

Harry shrugs his shoulders offhandedly, reaching one bejeweled hand down to aid her out of the vehicle. “I did track when I was younger. Made me a fast walker.” 

Y/N hesitantly takes it, body language still slightly tense from the jump scare. With his help, she gradually climbs out, the door shutting behind her as she sweeps her sight around the parking garage in wonder. This is the first time Harry has ever invited her anywhere, let alone to where he spends most of his life. She doesn’t want to miss a thing. Even the simplest aspect can tell you a lot about a person. 

Y/N jerks a tad when she feels her friend’s cold fingers slipping down her palm, sifting between her own. She glances down at their intertwined hands for a second, a warm glow bursting through her chest. She’s always admired how his are so much bigger. 

Harry tugs her forward toward the elevator at the other end of the parking lot, bottom lip caught between his teeth in a sly smirk. “C’mon, Watson. Let me show you around.” 

Y/N stumbles after him, allowing the boy to guide her to where she needs to go as he weeds through cars effortlessly. She suddenly chimes up from behind, asking a random question to fill the leftover silence their footsteps spare. “That car next to yours had such a weird license plate. What the fuck does ‘craic’ mean?” 

Harry chuckles knowingly, perfectly aware of whose car she is referring to. “It’s this odd thing Irish people say. Utter rubbish, honestly.” 

A comfortable quietness fills the air of the elegant elevator as it shoots up towards the twenty-fourth floor of the skyscraper, the only other sound being the gentle lullaby of a nameless tune wafting through the speakers above their heads. Harry finds himself studying Y/N as she looks out at the city through the glass walls, the lights of the exterior buildings casting a beautiful buttery gleam across her relaxed characteristics, along with a radiant glint over the surface of her glossy eyes. Despite the slightly smeared mascara staining her waterline and the inherent frizziness her hair carries after being pulled into a tight ponytail all day, Harry finds that she looks nice. Pretty, even. 

The girl senses him staring, craning her head to return his gaze, the edges of her lips lilting upwards lightheartedly. He returns the gesture, peeling away to focus on something— anything— else. He deems the control panel a worthy replacement.

As the numbers on the dial drag by, Harry finds himself absentmindedly thumbing over Y/N’s knuckles. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind, so he continues doing it, massaging the crest of each bump and pressing down gently along the troughs. He enjoys the sensation of her silky warm skin heating his icy own, and he ponders whether she likes how cold his touch is, or if she hates it as much as he does. He expels that notion from his mind; he refuses to let such a stupid concept upset him. He just keeps caressing her hand, restraining his mind from ambling too far into its meaning. It’s just to pass the time. 

He keeps the movements going until their ride skates to a joltless halt with a sharp ding! and then he steps out, having to give his full attention to leading her down the long corridor to his flat. Y/N is so caught up in drinking up her surroundings, she almost bumps into the creature when he comes to an abrupt stop in front of the entrance of what she can only deduce is his home. Harry drops her hand, much to her disappointment, fishing into his back pocket for his keys. He patiently filters through his keychain, picking out the right one and working it into the lock, a soft click emitting from the mechanism. 

Harry pushes the door open with his palm, standing off to the side just outside the threshold and tilting his head towards it, posture bowing slightly. “Ladies first.” 

Y/N thanks him quietly, taking a cautious step forward into his hallway. She can’t help the way her heart skips a beat at his gentlemanly tendencies; she rarely meets anyone as respectful as Harry seems to be and she finds his old-timey attributes to be refreshing. Helping her out the car, taking her hand to guide her through the parking lot, rubbing at her knuckles innocently, holding the door open for her— it’s all such an archaic form of chivalry she wishes she’d see more often these days. She doesn’t know if it’s a British thing, if he had just been raised like that, or if he simply does it to get laid, but she’s thankful for it either way. 

With one last glance at her friend over her shoulder, she begins wandering down the dark narrow path unsurely. The sound of the door slinking shut behind her and Harry’s footsteps ease her. 

She stops once she senses the corridor open up into a larger space, which she guesses is his living room. A soft gasp escapes her at the sight before her. The whole area is washed in darkness, the only source of light stemming from the large glass pane that stretches from the floor of the apartment to its tall ceiling. Dozens of buildings and cars glimmer below, the breath-taking image of the lively city looking almost like a snapshot from a professional movie. It’s absolutely gorgeous and she feels like she could stare at it for eons. 

A chilly hand suddenly presses along the dip of her spine, ushering her forward an inch or two, Harry’s invisible voice and warm breath hitting the shell of her left ear. “S’cuse me, dove.”   

The boy reaches behind her for the light switch and the condo bursts into radiance with one simple flick of his wrist. 

“Oh...my God.”

Harry’s home is something straight out of a luxury catalogue. The light floorboards and the mahogany panels. The massive leather couches and hand-sewn cushions. The extravagant chandeliers and glass staircase. The marble kitchen and generously packed liquor shelves. The ginormous wall of priceless artwork, littered with pieces from all different eras of history. It feels like stepping into a decor wonderland.

“Not too bad, huh?” Harry pipes up playfully, anchoring her back into reality from the floaty stupor that had consumed her mind. 

“Not too—? Are you kidding?” Y/N sputters incredulously, whizzing her head to the side sharply. “You were keeping an entire Four Seasons royal suite from me?!”

Harry belts out a bundle of childish giggles, the edges of his eyes crinkling and the tip of his button nose twitching. “I never thought of it much, to be honest. I’d grown to like your place.” 

“Right. Because a creaky mattress and a kitchen the size of a broom closet is so much more satisfying than chandeliers and a fucking glass wall.”

The vampire glimpses around his flat indicatively. “Okay, I see your point.”

“Exactly.” 

Y/N drifts forward, running the tips of her fingers across the backrest of the aged leather sofa and along the corners of the throw pillow, doing a slow circle at the middle of his home, taking everything in a second time around to make sure it isn’t a mirage. “Fuck, this is incredible. Is your boss looking for any more regional managers, by any chance?”

Harry follows after her, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his boyfriend jeans, chewing along the inside of his cheek to suppress a proud smile— a result of her explosive reaction. “I’m afraid my position is the one and only, sorry.”

Y/N droops her shoulders in exaggerated contempt, presenting a shitty English accent to tease him. “Bollocks.”

It garners the designated feedback, her tummy somersaulting at Harry’s exorbitant laughter. 

The boy comes to stand before her, cocking his head to the side questioningly towards his kitchen. “Can I offer you a drink?”

Y/N glimpses over at his bar area, eyes dancing over his extensive array of fancy bottles. “Oh, please do.”

Despite only having known Y/N for a few weeks, Harry has gotten quite acquainted with her tastes, even outside of sexual matters. She doesn't like the taste of alcohol, but she likes its effects. And he likes them, too, if he’s being honest. Her blood always begins to smell more appetizing after just a few sips and the way her cheeks heat up so easily when she’s buzzed always makes his breathing trip. 

He works his extensive skills, pulling from his liquor cabinet and mixing flavored liquids and syrups until he comes up with something that he thinks the girl will enjoy. It’s fruity, with hints of peach, lime, and strawberry, but also warm and fulfilling, with a rich whiskey and a few dashes of bitters. He plunks in a couple of ice cubes and mixes it together with a bar spoon, tapping it against the rim with finality and swiping it over his tongue in a quick taste test. He’s pretty happy with his concoction. 

Harry glances up to where Y/N is leaning against the armrest of his couch, her legs crossed before her as she stares at one of the abstract paintings mounted on his wall. It’s an original, as are the rest of them, which he had purchased some odd seventy years ago from a barely known artist whose talent had gone to waste in the world. It’s a deconstructed sunflower, with the color palette inverted and the strokes of the brush uneven and jagged. Odd and complicated, but beautiful, nonetheless. Its complexity is what makes it significant. 

The vampire slowly wanders over from his kitchen, holding her drink in one hand and a cloth napkin in the other. He takes the spot beside her along the armrest, speaking wistfully as if recalling a fond memory. “It’s a flower.”

Y/N nods slowly in recognition, peeling her gaze away with the corners of her lips jilting. “Mmhm, a sunflower.”

Harry’s brows jump in shock. Barely anyone ever guesses the identity correctly. He’s found that as time passes and humanity becomes more reliant on technology rather than cognizant knowledge, society in general has reduced to a more pea-brained state than ever. As a result, the amount of people who can interpret and understand the meaning behind complex artwork has greatly diminished, unfortunately, so he’s pleasantly surprised to find that one of the few who still possesses that talent happens to be the girl he’s shagging. “Wow, that’s a first. It’s so unusual, no one ever really gets it.”

“I guess I just have an affinity for the unusual.” His guest quips, giving him a jesting shrug of her eyebrows and a suggestive grin. 

You have no idea.

“You underestimated me, Holmes.” 

“That I did. My sincerest apologies.” Harry returns her joking simper, proceeding to then dip an index finger inside the stout glass in his grasp, bringing it up before her face. “Taste.”

Without breaking eye contact, Y/N parts her lips and allows him to coax the wet digit in, the tangy flavor of the mixture making her taste buds tingle. She encloses her mouth around his finger, lulling her tongue along it slowly with a mischievous glint shining across her irises. 

Harry’s prominent jaw clenches as he watches the scene unfold, breath bated and a moan threatening to betray him. She truly wastes no time.

He gradually pulls his finger from her tongue, struggling to clear his throat, missing its texture already. “How is it? More syrup? More biters?”

Y/N gazes up at him drunkenly, though it’s definitely not from the liquor. Her lips quirk cheekily as a result of how visibly frazzled she’d gotten him. “It’s perfect. Better than anything I’ve had at a club, that’s for sure.” 

“Yeah?” Harry taps his opal ring against the bottom of the lowball glass, trying to reign in his previous composure. “Think I could be a bartender?” 

“You don’t hit me as the type of person who has the patience for it.” The girl remarks wittily, slinking her head to the side and biting back a giggle when Harry makes a face at her.

“You make a valid point, I suppose.” The vampire responds with an airy sigh, nodding in surrender. “The stupid blabbing from drunk morons and impending fear of being vomited on would be too much for me. I wouldn’t last a day.” 

“You wouldn’t last a single night, let alone a whole day.”

“Alright, pipe down!” Harry deadpans, bumping her shoulder with his vengefully. “You’re bruising my ego.”

“It’s humongous,” Y/N snorts, shoving him in return, “it can take a few hits.”

The pair sit there in silence for a suspended moment, just taking in the expanse of the art before them. Harry then turns his torso towards her once more, bringing the drink in his grip up to her mouth. “Here, have a proper sip. Put my all into it.” 

Y/N obliges, looking up at him with her signature doe-like air of trusting innocence, allowing him to tip the hem of the cup against her mouth. The cool beverage filters through her taste buds and down her throat, the sweet and sour mixture leaving an enjoyable tingle in its wake. A few streams of the liquid bead out of the corners of her lips and Harry impulsively gathers them with the side of his index finger, the napkin in his other hand completely forgotten. 

As he goes to pull back in order to clean up, Y/N leans forward and traps his digit between her lips like before. This time, there’s a more insistent sultry hint sparkling around her pupils. 

“Christ...” Harry pants, watching Y/N work her way down his forefinger with a silent groan hinging on his teeth. 

He doesn’t deny himself from indulging the dirty action this time around. Her mouth is as soft and warm as ever, sending chills racing down his spine despite the sweater hugging his body. His mind slips for a second, reminiscing in all the other ways he’s felt the inside of her mouth before, a faint red tinge splattering across his cheekbones. 

Y/N draws his finger out, kissing messily across its length and over the pad, looking up at him through tension-heavied lashes. She doesn't speak a word, but her intentions are clear in the electricity between them.

He can’t hold back any longer, his next comment coming out as a pained growl. “God, you’re such a filthy little thing.”  

She hums softly in the back of her throat at his explicit compliment, suckling at the center of her bottom lip needily. “I like being your filthy little thing.”

Harry swallows thickly in order to keep himself somewhat tame, fangs suddenly pricking his tongue in warning.

The mortal scoots closer to him, sifting her fingers between his around the drink and bringing it upwards, downing the last couple of inches in one go. She draws the cup from his grasp, reaching over to set it down carefully on the coffee table before turning back and snuggling deeper into his heaving chest. 

Harry scoffs in amusement, but he can feel a certain charring scratching at the back of his throat. “Drinks like that are meant to be savored, darling. You’re not supposed to just pound them.” 

Y/N stretches her neck upwards, taking his earlobe between her teeth, lips wet and cold from the alcohol. His lashes flutter when her warm breath hits his skin, contradicting the sensations from before. 

“Why don’t you let me worry about how I drink, and you can worry about a different kind of pounding.”

And that’s all it takes, really. That’s all it takes for Harry to completely drop any self-control he has left. 

The creature jars his face towards her, large hand shooting upwards to grip her jaw firmly, holding her in place as he crashes their mouths together. It’s all tongue and clacking teeth, desperate whines and stuttered gasps. Y/N’s hands fumble for something to tether to while Harry takes it upon himself to grasp at her opposite hip with his free hand, yanking her onto his lap. She buries her fists in the cotton fabric of his jumper, balancing her knees on either sides of his parted thighs. The boy’s fingers coast from her jaw down to her throat, tightening ever so slightly. The action is minimal, but it reveals that flare of dominance Y/N has become addicted to. 

“Do you want it here?” Harry rasps against her eager tongue, smirking into the kiss when he feels her start to rock along the bulge that is beginning to tent his denim pants. “Do you want me to bend you over the couch and fuck you, baby? With the chandelier making your skin glow? Where we can put on a show for the whole city to see?”

It’s a tempting offer and his words obviously have some form of impact, seen in the way Y/N’s grinding takes on a hungrier, deeper pace against his clothed cock. 

“I want…” Y/N finds it difficult to voice her desires, the responsible party being the manner in which Harry glues cracked mewls onto the roof of her mouth. “I want it in your bed.” 

She doesn’t know why, but she just wants him to take her some place where the moment they share is intimate, unseen by the prying eyes of others. She wants to christen his bed exactly how he had done hers; she craves that strange connection, for some reason. Y/N isn’t naive, she knows she’s not the only person Harry has had in his home and in his sheets. But she wants that experience, nonetheless, even if it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She knows she’s not his only, but at least she’s one. 

Harry slowly breaks their kiss, brushing the tip of his nose across her own in a small comforting gesture. He blinks at her groggily, the copper specks in his eyes glitzing under the golden hue of the lighting. When he speaks, its soft and low, almost as if he doesn’t want to risk another soul overhearing. “Okay. Whatever you want, it’s yours.” 

Y/N almost doesn’t get anything she wants, given that she nearly kills herself on the trek up the stairs, courtesy of her weakened knees and wobbly ankles. Harry just barely manages to save her, but he finds the occurrence too hilarious to spare her the embarrassment. 

“Stop laughing, it’s not funny!” She exclaims indignantly as he helps her up the last few glass steps, clinging to him like a scared puppy, her hands still shaking with adrenaline. “I could have died!” 

Her shrieking only makes him laugh harder and he nearly keels over, palm clutching his stomach as if to keep it from popping. “I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s just— your face when you— and how you tripped sideways— I—”

Y/N shoves him hard towards the corridor where his bedroom lies, but it’s hard to maintain an angry demeanor when the young man’s giggles sound like bells and when he looks so cute with his curls flopping across his forehead. “Dickhead.” 

They’re almost at his bedroom door when Harry grabs onto her wrist, tugging her roughly so that she lurches forward into his chest. He plants a wet kiss onto the bridge of her nose, expression entertained. “Stop being such a bad sport. It was pretty funny.”

“Yeah, okay.” She huffs begrudgingly, glancing down impatiently at his plump lips as he walks backwards down the hallway with her in tow. “You can invalidate my rage once you have a near death experience yourself.”

The irony of it all. 

Harry kicks the door open, ghosting his mouth over Y/N’s and watching her sight do a quick sweep around the area. “Welcome to my lair.” 

The human likes his aesthetic. The room has different hues of the same color, so it all ties together nicely, and the hanging lights look like miniature versions of the two large ones downstairs. The bed is huge, which is a relief because for once, they won’t have to actively worry about accidentally rolling off the edge mid-fuck. “It’s nice. Very chic.” 

“Thanks.” Harry reaches up and cups either side of her neck with his palms, dragging his damp lips over her chin and down the center of her jugular, smiling against her skin when he feels her shiver. “It doesn't have a bookshelf wall like yours, but I make due.”

“Yeah.” Y/N wisps out weakly, leaning her head back as he speckles his mouth across that sensitive point on her throat he discovered ages ago. “I bet.”

She feels Harry’s touch travel down her torso, cold fingers suddenly smearing across her love handles beneath her work shirt. His grip tightens at the hem with the intention of pulling the polo off, breath hot as it washes over her collarbones. “Wanna find out just how good I make it work?”

Y/N’s arms instinctively raise on command, her reply shaky and fragile. “Yes, please.” 

Harry makes it work. He makes it work so fucking well. He doesn’t need crazy positions or any vibrating toys to make her feel good; he just knows her so thoroughly by now that he’s able to tend to every single one of her needs like it’s his sole purpose. The sex is missionary, with her splayed out across her back upon his mound of feathered pillows, her thighs clamped over his hips as he slams into her at a harsh, curt pace. Her calves are tied around the backs of his thighs, her nails are carving memories into the broad expanse of his shoulders, they’re both panting curse words and encouragement into each other’s mouths, and he’s cradling her to his chest as if he wants to absorb her heartbeat right through her ribs. If only obtaining one were that easy. 

Y/N allows her head to fall back against the cushions, drawing away from the prolonged kiss only because she needs air to continue. Harry’s lips busy themselves elsewhere, running down the valley of her chest and toying with one of her pebbled nipples. Y/N’s back gives a sharp arch the second he brushes across the sensitive nub and the taunting coo he releases goes straight to her core. 

“Liked that, darling? Like it when I kiss you there?”

The girl’s lashes have fallen shut, her eyes lulling around in their sockets as he maintains a steady rhythm between her thighs, ramming into her with so much force, the headboard is knocking into the wall. It’s loud and intense enough that Harry has to fit one of his palms between the railings, bracing the weight of the bed in order to prevent a hole from forming. 

Y/N’s voice fills the dense atmosphere, so shattered and raw, she can hardly understand herself. “It feels so— so good, H.” 

“I love it when you call me that. Sounds so pretty coming from your lips.” The vampire’s tongue flicks over her nipple a handful of times, dark veins momentarily webbing over the whites of his eyes at the cracked whimper she lets loose. “And of course it feels good. I always make you feel good, don’t I? Always make my girl cum so—fucking—hard.” 

Y/N’s trembling fingers card into the curls along the nape of Harry’s neck as he thrusts to his words, twisting them around her knuckles and swimming in the throaty groan he pours over the clammy skin of her breasts. Her whisper sounds distant and dreamy. “Please...Please don’t stop.”

Harry gazes up at her through heavy lashes, lapping at her chest more fervently, accent thick and deep. “I won’t, baby. Not until I have you dripping all over my sheets.”

After a few more minutes of fractured moans bouncing around the panels of the room and the noise of wet skin slapping together, something catches Y/N’s bleary eyes. She wills past the blissful fog in her mind, focusing on the intriguing object hanging from one of the railings of Harry’s bedpost, swaying back and forth wildly due to his strong tempo. 

“Are those...Are those handcuffs?” 

Harry’s attention jumps to where hers is pinned, his powerful stride coming to a gradual stop. He’s heaving and shuddering above her, ringlets matted to his jaw and across his temples, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of cherry red. His Adam’s Apple bobs once and he gives a short nod. “Y-Yeah. I’ve had them for a while...”

The hope dripping from his voice is practically palpable and Y/N interprets it easily. She glances down at him as he takes quivering inhales against her chest, his eyes bleeding lust. Her mumble is so quiet and soft, he wonders how it’s possible for her to make some of the preposterously loud sounds he’s used to hearing whenever he’s buried this deep. “Use them on me. Please?”

Harry bends to her request without hesitation. He locks her wrists into the restraints, sponging a kiss onto each before giving them one hard tug to check for security. He then regains his rough slams, but with more fervor than before. 

The monster sits back onto his heels, groping her waist roughly and working her against his thighs, watching welts form on her flesh along the pads of his fingers. Y/N unconsciously begins circling her hips to match his speed and the fractured groan that rips out of him makes her walls tighten. He looks incredible looming in front of her, head toppled back between his shoulder blades, bouncing to his every ram. His throat flexes with the weight, jaw taut and inked pectorals glistening with sweat under the dim lights dangling from his ceiling. “That’s it, pet, just like that. Love the way you ride it. You’re so fucking tight and warm and...and just— Christ, just fuck me.”

She wishes she could frame this moment in time and drag it out forever.  

Harry swings his head forward again, blinking the blurriness from his vision to take in the image before him. Y/N just looks so fucking gorgeous like that, tied down at his beck and call, her chest bouncing pertly as her fingers bunch around the chain link, thighs clinging to his waist as she chews her bottom lip raw in an attempt to control her noises. 

The vampire ducks down, connecting their mouths in a sloppy kiss that cajoles her into spilling all the moans she had been withholding. He feels them trickle down his lungs and diffuse into his bones, flames lapping across his insides as their foreheads bump and noses smudge, ragged breaths intermingling. “Let it out for me, hm? Wanna know how I’m making you feel, don’t care who hears.”

As if that isn’t enough, there’s an instance where Harry’s animalistic senses suddenly enhance and he comes to the realization that the metal cuffs have made a tiny laceration along her skin. 

A thin trail of blood travels down her suspended arm, but she doesn’t seem to notice, too lost in the pleasure Harry is pounding into the pit of her stomach. So he simply leans upwards and licks the sweet droplet clean, feeling heat spark across every fiber of his being. He laps up the entire stream and then presses a tender kiss to her palm for good measure, grunting out a gentle, “There’s a good girl.” when she whines at the affectionate gesture. 

The release Harry is getting from between Y/N’s legs mixes with the ecstasy her blood brings, and it shoves him over the edge in a manner he hasn’t experienced since that first time they slept together all those weeks ago. Since the first time he tasted what lies in her veins, while also simultaneously getting to taste the indescribable relief her body so readily brings him.

After all is said and done that night, something peculiar happens. After they both milk their orgasms for everything it’s worth, and after Y/N gives into exhaustion in his arms with her wrists bruised and a content watery smile on her face, and after he gets a heftier drink from her neck and heals the two little puncture wounds with his own blood...The most bizarre, unexpected event occurs. 

Harry falls asleep soundly for the first time in months, and all he dreams about is how Y/N tasted. 

///

Y/N wakes up the next morning to her body covered in Harry’s Nike jumper, to an empty spot beside her in the messy duvet, to a familiar tune tinging her ears from a distance, and to a satisfying ache between her thighs. 

As soon as she cracks the bedroom door open, the smell of pancakes wafts in through the chilled morning air. Specifically, lemon and blueberry pancakes. Her grandmother’s lemon and blueberry pancakes.

A shiver runs down Y/N’s spine the second she sets a toe along the cold glass panels of Harry’s staircase. She takes a deep breath, pulling the extra length of the sweater’s sleeves over her fists and tugging the hem of the article downwards as if she could convince it to cover more than just half her thighs. She carefully works her way down the steps, flinching at the iciness that travels up her legs with every motion. When she finally thunks down emptily onto the light-wash floorboards, her body has grown accustomed to the temperature. As she pads across the furry rug in Harry’s living room, she finds herself wondering why everything connected to him is always so unusually cold— colder than any normal person could withstand. His touch, his lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead, his chest, even his thighs; everything is always freezing, and she doesn’t understand how he can bear it. It’s such an odd affinity to have. 

The human gradually wanders into the vampire’s kitchen, peeking inside the room from behind one of the archway’s walls. What she sees throws her for a loop. 

Harry is cooking breakfast, as she expected from the sweet scent she’d awoken to, but he’s doing it in a manner she never really expected from him. 

Music stems from a portable speaker he has situated at the center of the marble kitchen island, blaring loud enough to fill the entire giant home with high notes, guitar chords, and acapella riffs. The young man is dancing across his kitchen as he cooks, clad in nothing but a set of black Calvin Klein briefs and a pair of fuzzy magenta socks. Y/N rakes down his body, admiring the crimson and purple love bites she had left on his chest and the raspberry red scratches zig-zagging across his back, the marks flexing with the movements of his muscles. They’re strangely faint, for some reason. Practically barely there. 

She chalks it up to the fact that maybe she hadn’t bruised him as much as she’d thought. 

Y/N forces herself to keep her mind from straying onto anymore explicit topics; it’s probably not even ten A.M. yet. She needs to get herself under control.

Grooving while in the kitchen isn’t necessarily weird (she’s guilty of it herself), but Harry’s dancing techniques very much are. The only accurate depiction of it is that for a boy in his twenties, he dances like an old geezer in his eighties. His moves are choppy and old-schooled, almost like what you’d expect to see in a nineteen fifties disco hall, and watching him ebb and flow across the tiled ground to choreography similar to that of Dirty Dancing and Footloose... It would send anybody into a fit of laughter. Especially since Harry is so tall and lanky, so how he manages to move in such a way is beyond her understanding. 

Aside from that, his choice of music is baffling, as well. Not only because she recognizes the soundtrack, but because she would have never expected someone like him— with his cocky behavior and overly-confident caliber— to be into these types of songs at all. She always pegged him for the seventies rock and roll type. 

“You like Hamilton?” 

Harry’s actions creak to a halt and he whips around towards where the disturbance had stemmed, spatula clutched in one hand and a marble plate stacked with pancakes in the other. His face breaks into a bright smile, voice slathered with dramatic friendliness. “Well, look who finally got up! I was starting to think you were dead, Sleeping Beauty.”

Y/N narrows her eyes at him mockingly, walking over to the kitchen counter and propping herself onto her elbows, chin in hand as she watches him set down the platter of food before her. She tips forward onto her toes, taking a deep inhale of the homey, sugary smell, letting it wash over her in flashes of childhood memories. “Are these like the ones I make?”

“Lemon and blueberry, yeah.” Harry bobs his head casually, turning around to place his metal spatula down into the sink, as well as to retrieve a glass bottle of maple syrup from one of his cupboards. “They’re pretty close, I think. I’ve never seen you use a recipe or measuring cups or anything when you make them, so I kinda eyeballed it to the best of my ability. Hope I did your nan justice.”

He pours a decently-sized glop of syrup over the mountain of treats and Y/N watches excitedly as it trickles down all the layers. He then pushes back from the table, pulling open a drawer and rummaging through, continuing to whistle along to the tune of Satisfied as he bops the cabinet closed with his hip and sets down an extra pair of forks and knives beside the plate. 

Harry cuts a neat triangle out of the pancake at the top, pointing at her with his fork as he shrugs his brows nonchalantly. “And to answer your question from before: yes, I do like Hamilton.”

“Hm. Interesting.” Y/N murmurs, going cross-eyed as Harry offers her the forkful of food in his possession, poking at her mouth playfully and getting maple syrup all over her lips. She opens obediently, allowing him to feed her the piece. “You don’t really seem like the type of guy— oh, wow, these are actually really good!”

Harry bites into his lower lip with his two front teeth, a proud smile dimpling his cheeks as the light draft from the air vent ruffles a couple of his sex-mussed ringlets across his forehead. “Yeah? You mean it?”

The mortal nods her head vigorously as she finishes chewing and swallowing, wiping away some of the leftover syrup from her top lip with her middle finger and sucking it clean. “Yeah! You hit it spot on.”

“Aces. I should be on The Great British Bake Off.” Harry makes a small, celebratory fist bump next to his hip and the childish gesture makes Y/N snort softly. 

“Like I was saying, you don’t really strike me as the type of guy who would be into musicals.” The girl comments, watching her friend cut another triangle out of the first pancake and pop it into his own mouth. 

The vampire chews thoughtfully for a second, lifting one shoulder offhandedly and swallowing fully before talking. “I’m really not, to be honest. But this specific musical is pretty good. The songs are catchy.”

He nudges the other pair of utensils across the counter for emphasis, silently inviting her to dig into the dish along with him. She accepts, slicing down the other side of the stack as he leans forward onto his elbows, mimicking her stance. He gives her a curious glance. “What about you? Do you like musicals?” 

Y/N shrugs, poking a few chunks of food onto her fork. “Not really, but I had a major Hamilton phase back in college. That’s why I recognized it.” 

Harry hums in understanding, picking a blueberry off and chewing it slowly, a sly smirk beginning to tweak the corners of his mouth. “So were you, like, a nerd back then?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t say a nerd, but I had decent grades and was pretty quiet.”

He swallows down audibly, blinking impassively. “That’s literally the definition of a nerd.” 

Y/N returns his flat expression. “Fuck off.”

Harry throws his palms up in peaceful surrender, but he still has that shit-eating grin present. “Alright, fine, fine...It’s okay if you were, though. You were probably one of those cute ones, y’know? With the clunky glasses and innocent goody-goody face.” 

“Shut up.”

“Oh, and with one of those short little plaid skirts?” He releases a pained groan, clutching his chest and closing his eyes for a second. She has no doubt he’s sketching some type of graphic image of her in his mind. “God, I bet you looked so good. Do you still have it? Can you wear it for me?”

“I said shut up!” Y/N reaches forward and stabs at his tummy lightly with her fork, ignoring the warmth crawling up her neck and across her cheeks. “Fucking perv.”

Harry smacks her utensil away with his own, giggling lightly as she tries to prick him again, continuing to fight her off. “I’m just asking a question! For science!” 

Y/N twists her fork around his, trying to outmaneuver him into dropping it. “How could my fashion sense in college possibly contribute to science in any way?” 

The vampire easily catches onto her play, slipping himself out of her grasp and trying to trap her makeshift sword down against the tabletop. He purses his lips into a simper, glimpsing up at her through his lashes and quirking his brows cheekily. “Biologically, of course. It contributes to my solo reproductive activities.”

“You are vile.” 

“Really? ‘Cause you seemed pretty happy to help with said activities last night.” 

Y/N drops her fork onto the brim of the platter, reaching up to massage at her temples and keep herself from swatting Harry’s eyeballs out of their sockets. “I’m finished.” 

“Yeah,” the jade of his irises glimmers coyly as he sets down his utensil beside hers in a ceasefire, “you definitely finished.”

Harry chuckles boyishly as Y/N drags her palms down her face, trying to hide away how flustered he’s getting her. She decides to change the subject, not caring to steer the conversation smoothly at all, but rather jumping to another topic right away. “So does this mean you have all the lyrics memorized? Since you like them so much?” 

“I do, yeah.” Harry taps his fingers against the marble counter to the beat of the song currently playing. “Do you?” 

“I was obsessed, so of course I do.” Y/N reasons, her own digits following in tune with the immortal’s. “I think Non-Stop was probably my favorite to sing. It made for a good shower concert.”

“Well, it’s settled then.” Harry quips happily, reaching for his phone and tapping across the screen. “We’re duetting this. Right now. C’mon, Burr.”

Y/N’s motions stop, shyness creeping in from the back of her brain. “Oh, I don’t know, Harry. I never really—”

Her refusal is interrupted by the beginning of the arrangement mentioned, the notes blasting through the speaker as Harry purposefully turns up the volume to drown her out. He taps at his ear symbolically, mouthing, “Sorry, I can't hear you!” and he doesn’t even attempt to ward off the evil grin creeping across his face. 

“Harry, I’m serious—” 

But it’s already too late. Harry juts his hand out in front of him, pointing at his companion with a theatrical edge as he begins to serenade, picking up the slack of her part. 

“After the war I went back to New York. A-After the war I went back to New York. I finished up my studies and I practiced law. I practiced law, Burr worked next door!”

He looks at her expectantly, urging her to jump into the next half as her assigned role. Y/N muscles down her hesitation and recites the lines timidly with her brows creased in hesitation, but at least she’s participating. “Even though we started at the very same time, Alexander Hamilton began to climb. How to account for his rise to the top?”

Harry joins her in the next stanza, grabbing her hand midair in encouragement, trying to shake her out of her rut. “Man, the man is non-stop!”

Y/N is surprised at how well they sound harmonizing together, and she can feel her discomfort slowly begin to melt. She watches as Harry freely boasts his solo with absolutely no remorse, making grand gestures as he slides down the side of the counter, his movements dragging her along. 

“Gentlemen of the jury, I'm curious, bear with me. Are you aware that we're making history?” The boy taps at his chin to symbolize that he’s thinking, acting out the story the lyrics construct. “This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation, the liberty behind deliberation.”

He points at Y/N once again and she does the supporting vocals, gradually beginning to gain more confidence. “Non-stop!”

“I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, with my assistant counsel—”

Harry doesn’t even have to cue Y/N this time around; she picks up her half immediately, falling into line with him flawlessly as if they’ve done this a million times before. “Co-counsel. Hamilton, sit down. Our client Levi Weeks is innocent, call your first witness.”

Harry quickly rounds the corner of the kitchen island, giving her body a grand spin as he draws closer, coming to stand right before her. She gives him a fake exasperated look to match the attitude her character depicts, shaking her head in disapproval. “That's all you had to say.”

“Okay…” The creature yanks Y/N forward into his bare chest, leaning down and flirting his lips right over hers tauntingly, eyes half-lidded in amusement. “One more thing—”

“Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room?” The girl rolls her eyes dramatically, shoving past Harry’s shoulder and she finds it humorous how these lines fit so well, almost as if they were actually directed at him, calling him out on the arrogance he always seems to dote. “Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Soon that attitude may be your doom.”

Harry swivels on his heel, following her as she scurries outside the kitchen entrance, running into the living room. 

“Why do you write like you're running out of time?” Y/N grabs onto one of the couch cushions, pretending to scribble over it with a fake pen. “Write day and night, like you're running out of time? Everyday you fight, like you're running out of time.”

Harry swipes at her from across the couch, trying to grasp onto the jumper she’s wearing. “Keep on fighting in the meantime.”

Y/N ducks out of the path of his grabbing hand, chucking the pillow forward and it bonks him square in the face. She sticks her tongue out at him as Harry scowls dully, climbing onto his sofa and scuttling towards her on his hand and knees.

She jumps just out of reach, diving across the other end of the furniture. The vampire throws his weight to try and tackle her to the sofa, but she just barely escapes. He ends up toppling over the backrest due to his over-abundant momentum. 

“Non-stop!” Y/N waves her middle up at him triumphantly as he pushes himself up off the ground, giving her a challenging look as he takes off after her once again. 

The pair continue to sing back and forth, with Harry chasing Y/N around the living room and kitchen as he belts out his part of the song, Y/N always somehow managing to slip from his grasp as soon as her turn hits. They’re a mess of giggles, silly faces, and boisterous actions as they reenact the play and neither can recall a time they had ever had more fun. There’s never been an instance when they felt so comfortable with another soul that they are willing to run around half-naked, screaming lyrics at each other in their underwear, not caring who sees or overhears. It just feels so second-nature.

A section of the song comes up where a woman is singing and Harry immediately takes up the part, placing his hand on his bare hip and standing in the most feminine fashion he can possibly muster, fanning at his face. “I am sailing off to London, I am accompanied by someone who always pays.” 

The exaggeration makes Y/N bend over laughing and her distraction allows Harry to nab her. He pulls her into his embrace by her forearms, cackling through the following stanza as she wriggles and squirms to try and get free. “I have found a wealthy husband who will keep me in comfort for all my days.” 

Y/N finally gives up on trying to thrash herself free, going limp against his chest and glimpsing up at him with begrudged annoyance, but a fond smile is unmistakably buckling her cheeks. Harry leans down, singing right in her face just to flaunt his victory, their noses brushing. “He is not a lot of fun, but…”

And then, there’s a shift in the ambiance between them. 

Harry gazes down at her as she giggles up at him from his arms, full of so much genuine warmth and excitement, she could power the entire city if she wanted. Her shoulders are heaving slightly as a result of all the running, there’s still faint traces of black mascara smeared under her waterline and down her cheeks from the previous evening’s exertions, she has some acne scarring littering her cheekbones that look fairly recent, and her hair looks like it could nest a family of at least ten birds. But despite these imperfections, Harry finds himself feeling oddly endeared by it all. These flaws are all things he’s gotten used to and has grown to treasure in Y/N. They make her who she is. They make her witty, and they make her clever. They make her fun, as well as trusting. They make her likeable, and energetic, and kind. They make her a good friend and a generous lover. They make her... her. Harry gets the feeling that if she didn’t have all of these traits— if even one was missing— this little arrangement they have going wouldn’t have flourished the way it did. 

Yeah, maybe he would have slept with her once or twice more just to scratch an itch, but he most likely would have let it fizzle to an end after the fact. Her personality paired with these small details— albeit, not all entirely attractive— that make up her existence play a key role in the dynamic they share. And he wouldn’t trade them for anything else— wouldn't trade Y/N for anyone else. Not anytime soon. 

A warm surge travels through his chest, filling his veins like kerosine, heating him from the heels of his socked feet to the tips of his ice cold fingers. An unorthodox swelling sensation twists inside his ribs, right where his heart used to beat, and he finds himself reciting the next line in a soft voice packed with more emotion than he’s shown or felt in the last two centuries.

“There’s no one who can match you, for turn of phrase…”

Y/N seems oblivious to all of the unsettling experiences he’s undergoing, her amused expression not changing in the slightest. Harry allows the rest of the song lyrics to pass by, the lump in his throat too heavy to fight. Instead, he just keeps staring down at Y/N with brows frowning in confusion, his breathing coming out bated and shaky, and that knot in his chest continuing to tighten until it becomes painful. He gets the sudden urge to kiss her— to feel her lips press to his and feel her give into him the way she always does. The way she has for the last four weeks. He doesn’t want it to be sloppy or desperate or sexual; he wants it to be intimate, soft, and caring. He wants it to be special. Something they share. Something only they share.

Then, that moment passes. That flicker of weakness that had leaked through vanishes and Harry feels like he can breathe properly again.

He breaks their locked eyes, releasing Y/N from his hold and taking a swift step back, coughing awkwardly to try and rid the tickling sensation in the back of his throat. He scratches at the nape of his neck nervously, fiddling with his baby curls and attempting to piece himself back together after that unexpected and unwelcome intrusion of his innermost feelings. Though, he doesn’t know if that spectacle even files under the category of emotions; from what he remembers, they aren’t supposed to tangibly attack you in such a manner. It felt more like a violation— like someone had gone in and started poking and prodding at his subconscious with a metal skewer. 

“Harry…?” Y/N inches closer to him, concern prevalent in her voice and across her features as she stretches her hand out caringly. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to be sick.” 

“I-I’m—” His voice comes out higher than usual and quivering, so he coughs once again to get it under control, taking another step back. He's scared that if she touches him, that horrible burning sensation will come back. “I’m fine. Just...Just forgot the lyrics.” 

“Oh, okay…” The girl doesn’t sound convinced with the answer, but she lets the subject falter anyways, her hand dropping back down beside her thigh. “Just checking.” 

“Yeah, I got that. Uh, thanks. But I’m all good now.” He holds up a clenched first and juts out his pinky, wiggling it for significance. “Promise”

Y/N scoffs gently at his playful deed. “Alright, then.” 

Harry eyes her attentively as she returns to her previous spot in front of the plate of pancakes, retrieving her fork and starting to pick at them like before, as if nothing had happened. As if Harry hadn’t just almost had a cardiac arrest, despite the fact that the organ responsible had crumbled to dust ages ago.

“Are you gonna eat anymore?” Y/N signals down at the stack of pastries before her questioningly. “Because if you don’t get some now, I’ll eat them all myself. Don’t think I won’t. They’re better than the ones I make and—”

The vampire suddenly feels like bile is rising up his throat and his words spew out before he can think to stop them, though he’s not so sure he would. 

“Do you want to stay over the rest of the weekend?”

[jangofctts]

Sink Your Teeth In (Part 2 of Are You In Or Out?)

Rated: Explicit (Paz is in the next chapter DONT WORRY)

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings: mentions of violence, blood, the cold?, reader is in PERIL YET AGAIN, vaginal fingering, oral female receiving, unprotected vaginal sex (wrap them schlongs yall), brief hand jobs, swearing, angst, very VERY light choking, din is a sub sorta?? bottom energy 

Summary: Well. At least you aren't dead. After a solo hunt gone wrong, you’re dumped in a cave on Csilla. Hopefully someone finds you before you freeze to death.  

a/n: hey…so uh. HOW ABOUT THAT EPISODE HUH?!? aheM anyway--yall I just wanna thank everyone first off for all the love and support!!! I see all of your comments and tags and AH IM SO LUCKY TO HAVE ALL OF YOU GUYS. ALSO SPECIAL SHOUTOUT TO @djxrxn​ THIS WOULDNT HAVE BEEN DONE WITHOUT YOU BB GORL

Well—

Here you are. 

Taken by surprise by another bounty, further proving how irrevocably incompetent you are at this line of work. You blame the binders. An older, clunkier model—easy to pick if you’re clever enough and yes. Maybe you should’ve asked to borrow a carbonite chamber, but hey—where’s the fun in that? 

Not much, as it so happens. 

Your feet had been kicked up on the dashboard, dozing and unaware of the freed bounty creeping up behind the pilot’s seat. Something delightfully blunt smashed against your temple, jolting you into a brief conscious state where the only thing you could think before passing out again, was a resounding— 

Oh, fuck me sideways with a fucking lightsaber—

The rest is hazy. A blur of colors and the fuzzy shapes of your bounty’s face sneering in amusement when she bound your wrists and ankles and left you in the cargo hold. Vaguely you recall your ship being commandeered, swung into an unidentified atmosphere and landing on said unknown planet Or planets. Planet hopping to cover up a trail. 

The bitter cold, sharper than a needle through skin is what shook off the last dregs of unconsciousness. The bounty’s hand was hooked into the collar of your clothes, dragging your limp body through drifts of snow and ice. You would’ve fought back—should’ve even though each extremity felt like a numb block of lead. Not very useful in a fight…

Soon, the snow turned to mud and the mud to stone as a mouth of a cave slid over the impossibly blue sky. Dumped in a cave, and left to die—perfect way to bite the dust. Your bounty turned captor lands a sharp kick to your ribs, mouthing some curse in a language you don’t understand, and left without a second thought. 

Seems about right. You have a knack for lying helpless and half dead in places you ought not to be in. 

Two days and counting, you’ve been holed up in this blasted cave with no food, no supplies and no comlink. It’s going be a fucking chore to find you—nearly impossible. You’re lucky in that aspect you guess—you know enough bounty hunters to sniff out a a needle in a whole stack of needles, so all it is is a race of time against the elements and how long it takes for one of them to notice.            

Aeris is no help. He left a day before you had—hired as personal protection for some syndicate leader halfway across the galaxy. Ives is in a similar boat, off-world and unavailable to drag your ass out of the hole you’ve dug. Which leaves…

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose between your forefinger and thumb. Anytime you even think of those two a migraine cumulates behind your eyes. It’s…it’s not like anything bad happened in the aftermath—there’s been no fallout or arguments with barbed words as weapons. It’s been quiet. Like stepping onto a sheet of cracked transparisteel in a library full of tight-lipped academics. 

The questions lurk under the surface of every conversation and longing look cast your way. You’ll need to clarify and sort things out eventually, but fuck—it’s such a mess of frazzled heartstrings and fine strands of impossible thoughts that lead into an endless void of doubt. You’re shoving that emotional time bomb to the very back of your mind—everything is still so raw…  

So you ran. 

Picked up any and all jobs that the Guild provided just to escape the looming decision of confronting a certain pair of Mandalorians. That and with them having their own tasks to complete, it was rare to see them, let alone together in the past few weeks. A simple run in here and there in the halls of the Covert, but you were too busy to stop and chat—forced a chaotic schedule upon yourself as an excuse to avoid staying in once place at a time.    

Coward.

The word knots in your stomach like gnarled tree roots escaping their prison of dark soil on untrodden land.  

Maker—how did everything become so tangled? 

You draw your knees up to your chest and release a long, drawn out exhale that echoes through the cave. You sniff and force the swell of tears that prick at your eyes away. You’re pretty sure they’ll freeze and you’re not hoping to find out. 

The only good thing about being dropped on this Maker-forsaken, wasteland devoid of anything but snow, is the free ice for the nasty gash on your forehead. A nice little parting gift. 

It’s shallow…you think—it stopped bleeding the night before and is now just a scabbed over, tender wound that throbs whenever you move your head too fast. Concussion maybe—a mild one.  

Maker willing when someone finds your sorry ass they’ll have bacta. Or a blanket. Either would be peachy.     

Sitting up with a wince, you shuffle to the mouth of the cave for the thousandth time and scour the skyline for a familiar ship. Or, any ship really. The only thing you do see is a lonesome wisp of cloud against the grayish blue sky much to your chagrin. You scowl and stalk back into your little hovel and slump back onto the ground. 

The hours drag on, the watery light of the dying sun barely doing anything to warm you. Sulking is hardly what you should be doing—not great for the burdened mind and all that, but ah, it’s so fun to wallow in misery. You curl your knees up to your chest and you must slip into a doze because when you’re snapped back into the present, footsteps punch through the frozen tundra outside your cave.  

Adrenaline crackles down your spine—the bounty changed her mind. Ultimately decided she’d be safer in the long run with you dead. Fine.

If this is where your grave is going to be, might as well get in one or two punches. What’s another black eye anyway?

A shadow flickers at the mouth of the cave, curling around the wall as she draws closer. A brown boot kicks through the snow and— 

“Changed your mind? I—“

Your words die on your tongue as relief floods your veins. Din Djarin stands before you, a sight for sore eyes in these trying times. 

Frost glitters on the burgundy chest plate, glinting in the dim sunlight that touches the mouth of the cave. A delicate feathering of the dainty crystals that no high end lace maker could ever hope to mimic curls up the front of Din’s visor and eats away at the edges of his cloak. His heavy step forward reverberates off the walls, some of that ease replaced by the prickle of dread. His silence is unnerving. 

“Din,” you say again, just so he’ll say something. “I can—“

You move to stand, but he interrupts with a halting;

“Sit.”       

Your mouth snaps shut and you drop back on the floor. This…is not good. His footsteps are heavy as he approaches you and every muscle in your frame tightens like a fist wrapping around your ribcage and squeezing. The precise edges of his helmet are not a forgiving sight and even when he kneels onto one knee you have to resist the natural urge to flinch. Like this, despite hunching over, Din is broad. All hard muscle and sinew amplified by the bulky layer of beskar.   

Your tongue runs over the insides of your teeth as you track his hand that he thrusts foreword. You hiss and jerk away at the sudden needly pain when his gloved thumb finds the edges of your head wound. A low sound of disapproval filters out through the helmet in a low metallic buzz. 

“You won’t need stitches,” he says. Din reaches into one of his various supply pouches and pulls out a tiny vile of bacta. He casually pulls off his right glove, unscrews the vile and smears the bacta over his thumb. This time you don’t make a sound, even though your nerves scream at the razor like sensation of his thumb working the bacta into the damaged flesh. He doesn’t ask how the injury happened and you don’t care to tell him. There’s a time and place for stories about battle scars and near misses—it’s much too fresh to be spoken of right now. 

The brief torture finally ends after once last glance over for other presenting injuries. He finds none, replaces his glove and stands with a muted grunt. You know what’s next. You’d rather avoid it—you aren’t keen on the berating lectures—as deserved as they are.      

“I found your ship on Sato 3,” Din begins with a growl. “Imagine my surprise when I found your bounty selling it for parts.”  

Ah, there it is. You wince and study your fingernails. “Pile of junk anyway…”

“I thought you’d be smarter about these things,” he snarls, his sharp tone deadly enough to slice through bone. “Was the hole blown into your lung not enough for you?”

You swallow and bite your tongue.  

The bristling Mandalorian, continues and jabs an orange tipped finger at you. “You are reckless.”

Your chest constricts as you look away, shame blooming in the pit of your stomach.This is a new facet of Din you’ve never encountered. You aren’t naïve—even the most docile of people can harbor a temper, you know that. And you know Din is by no means passive—he’s an elite warrior equipped with a small arsenal at his disposal. You don’t expect him to coddle you or treat you different than any other companion; but…but it’s hard not to take his ire to heart. Not when it’s the kind of anger that boils deep in your chest and erupts with molten streams that leaves scathing wounds and blistered feelings.  

You chew your lip hard enough to taste blood and avoid his piercing gaze. You think if you do you might catch fire and burn to a crisp. “I’m sorry.”   

The meek apology settles in the air like a heavy fog. Din’s anger still brews, looming and dark but he reigns in his temper and switches out the searing cadence of his words with chilly informality. You’re not sure which is worse.   

“No more bounties.” 

“What?” Your brows knit together. The fuck does he mean.  

“No more hunts alone—“  

You interrupt with a scoff. “You’re grounding me?”

He strides across the small space and plants himself on the opposing wall. “Until you’re competent enough, you have no business being out in the field. You might as well be bait at this point.” 

“Competent.” You echo through clenched teeth.  

His helmet dips, leveling a steady glare of indifference. “The Crest is a half cycle’s walk from here. In the morning I’m taking you back to Nevarro.”   

“I’m not a child. You can’t just,” you throw your hands up in dismay, “ban me from bounty hunting.”    

Din’s armor clinks together as he moves to sit. He rests one elbow on his propped up knee, extends his other and rolls his helmet to meet your eyes. “Your actions reflect the Covert now. We can’t risk discovery because of one stupid mistake or a careless loose end.”    

That hadn’t even crossed your mind. Stars, you want to smack yourself. Your ship, as shitty as it was, hosted a good chunk of sensitive information, all encrypted and translated into binary. A mediocre slicer could hack through it in hours. Not exactly foolproof but hey, at least you had something. Good thing your bounty wasn’t in the market of selling stolen ships to the Empire. 

“Din?”

The Mandalorian makes no noise of affirmation that he heard you. You sigh and take his silence as a go ahead and clear your throat. “How long was I gone for?”

Here, in the cave it’s been nearly three days, but the rest of it you’re not exactly sure. Hunting the bounty down took up at least a week or two and even longer to capture her and there’s no accounting for the time lost after your ship was commandeered. Your teeth roll over your bottom lip as you wait for him to respond. 

“Almost two months.” He replies evenly. “Your transmissions were cut three weeks ago and I didn’t think anything of it. Comms are always patchy in Wild Space."

Leather creaks as his fist balls at his side. “You didn’t answer for days. Paz and I tracked the ship to Sato 3, but you weren’t there. Do you know how difficult it was to pick through all the planets recorded on your log?”

You blink and return to picking at your fingernails. 

“You weren’t easy to find, I—“ He severs the rest of his sentence with a crackling sigh and tilts his head back. “You’re lucky.”    

The hesitance lacing his words makes you bite your tongue, the snarky retort crumbling to ash in your mouth. Din doesn’t bother to filter his words—he’s blunt. Efficient and to the point when he does decide to speak. That…well that was different.   

He was worried—

You rub at your cheek—numb with the cold and curl into yourself. Din was worried. Easily the most feared bounty hunter in the parsec, worried that he couldn’t find you.   

A different cold—one that settles deep into the marrow of your bones and hugs your soul with a sheet of frost, makes a home in your heart. The severity of what could’ve happened replaces that sheen of hilarity and fuck. You were closer to freezing to death than Din finding you here—alone in some stupid kriffing cave.  

Somehow the idea of that is worse than the brief brush of eternal slumber you had on Nar Shaddaa. Up to that point you expected to die young—no harm and no foul in it either. You had no attachments, no debt to pay—a drifter in an endless galaxy.    

Now you’re here, buckling under the weight of mismanaged friendships and your uncanny skill at weaseling into any and all trouble. 

Neither you or Din jump to fill the silence. The ashes of disaster settle in nicely with the frozen echo of an endless winter.      

It’d been a couple hours shy from sunset when Din arrived, the sun providing weak light that hardly touched the mouth of the cave. Now as the shadows grow longer and with the temperature dropping, the two of you are swallowed up by the unyielding darkness of night. 

Din shuffles and fishes out the solar light from his supply bag. It clicks on and warm, orange light illuminates the cave. It bounces off his beskar, fracturing the light like a million tiny suns in the tempered metal and in the impossibly dark visor. He looks up, and tosses the light over. 

You catch it easily and despite the warmness of the light it emits, it offers no heat for your chilled fingers. You set it to the side and tuck your hands into your armpits. 

By no means is the cave warm—the natural thermal vents kept the ground dry and free of the ice and snow that rages outside, but it doesn’t protect you from the occasion chilly draft that cuts through each layer you wear. Then again, you weren’t planning on taking an unexpected vacation on Csilla. No time to plan really.  

You sigh and pull your knees up to your chest and cast a glance at your ever radiant ray of sunshine across from you.  

He looks nice and cozy—leaned back against the cave wall, one leg crossed over the other while his hands sit intertwined just below his navel. The beskar must provide insulation—maybe a fancy heater in that bucket of his, or maybe he’s just too stubborn to show anything other than indifference.   

Another bout of shivers tear through your frame and you’re certain Din can hear the enamel of your teeth clack together. You shove your hands deeper into your armpits and tuck your chin into your chest to preserve heat and pray that sleep isn’t far off—can’t be cold if you’re unconscious.    

Metal scrapes over stone as Din readjusts himself and you can feel him looking at you. It’s not a terrible weight to bear; intense and analytic, sure and in the past it would’ve unnerved you. Now, instead of it feeling like he were peeling back each fibre of your soul each time he stares, it’s familiar. A pattern of sorts—

It happens each time Din wrestles with an uncertain question. He deals in absolutes, and it’s no surprise he rarely knows what to say to you. 

“You’re shivering,” he states. You roll your eyes. “Are you cold?”

“Boiling, actually,” you snip. “Why else would I forget a jacket?”

A sharp hiss of air crackles through the vocoder. “Don’t get mouthy with me. It was a simple question.”

“Well—there’s not much to do about it,” you sneer, watching your breath condensate in the air. “I’m freezing, exhausted, and hungry.”       

You know you’re being snide—but your nerves feel like they’ve been severed at the root with a dull vibroblade. You have neither the time nor energy to spare for simple questions. Din should understand that—seeing as he’s a man familiar with short temperament.

The space between you is ripe with crackling tension, and maybe—if you weren’t so fucking cold—you’d play the mediator. Thread stitches into the gash you both sliced into your friendship, as small it may be. You’ve lost friends over less—this could end up no different.

You sigh and turn your head. This is a problem for tomorrow. 

Irritated and upset, you squeeze your eyes shut and chase after sleep. You slip in a doze faster than expected, any and all discomfort fading away a you toe the line between a deeper sleep and waking dreams. You think you imagined Din saying your name—Maker you can’t even escape him in your own fucking head—  

It doesn’t end—like a nagging buzz that swells until it’s right near your ear. Spite spurs you to ignore It and exhaustion convinces you to drift further away. That is, until a hand, gentle and warm curls around your shoulder. You once again hear your name rumble low through Din’s helmet, but it’s much too difficult to open your eyes. Why can’t he leave you be? You barely feel the cold now…

“Stay awake.” Din sounds distant, in some other plane of existence despite the steady hold he has on your arm. “Maker—you’re colder than kriffing ice.” 

“Go away,” you grumble through numb lips. Such a pest.  

He’s talking—but the words don’t make sense. Muddled—split between that hazy line of dreaming and consciousness where you can’t decipher what’s real. His hands however—you can feel those plain as day. A bare palm cups your cheek—shreds through the layer of frost you’re positive has crystalized over your skin and rouses you to a more coherent level of presentness.       

“Don’t quit on me yet—“

“Nah,” you mumble. “I’m hard to…to kill. L-like a scrap rat…”  

Din grunts in response. “Rat is a compliment. You’re more of a spider-roach.”

The ends of your mouth quirk. It’s the best you can do—a full smile just might push you to the brink of death.        

“C’mon—I won’t let either of us freeze,” Din sighs. His fingers find the magnetized latches on his cuirass and it slips off with practiced ease, the armored thigh plating following a moment later. He neatly sets it to the side and grabs his cloak to fasten it around you. With another sigh, Din shuffles in behind you and wraps an arm around your middle, nestling his legs and body snuggly around yours.   

Maker—you don’t have time to bother about the intimacy of this because all you’re drawn to is the furnace like heat. Fuck, he’s so warm. You have only a second to enjoy it before your body begins to thaw—bringing forth waves of achey pain.   

His chest molds to your back, both arms curling over your own arms that are scrunched up tight around your chest. You shake in his hold, vicious waves of cold clashing against his body heat—it hurts—like sticking your bare foot into hot coals.     

You squirm, little gasps of discomfort slipping out that echo around the cave. Din shifts, tucking you further under his body until he’s nearly crushing you. It’s a bit tricky to breathe like this but hey—you’re not complaining. Not when your nose is buried in his soft undershirt that smells purely of Din.   

Your fingers and toes still throb as they thaw, but it’s working. Cuddling Din Djarin to stave off hypothermia—sounds kriffing ridiculous. 

“You’re still shivering,” he says. “I might…”

Your breath catches in your throat as he trails off. “Might what?”

Another shiver wracks through your body as his frosty helmet catches on bare skin when he dips his head in embarrassment. You don’t quite catch what he says and he doesn’t bother to clarify. “Forget it.”  

You turn your head as much as you can, straining your eyes to meet the strip of visor. “Tell me.”

He mumbles under his breath again and cuddles closer, slotting his hips against your ass. “Might know…know another way to keep us warm…”

Oh. 

A spark breathes to life in the pit of your tummy. You wiggle onto your back, your nose brushing the vizor. “Does it involve me taking off my pants?” 

Din huffs, his hands, previously latched onto your hips, starting to crawl up your waist. “It could…”    

You smirk and rock your hips back, eliciting a low growl that rumbles through his chest. With your whine of approval, Din’s hand slips between your legs and gives the meat of your inner thigh a squeeze. You let your knees fall open as far as they can in this position and it’s all Din needs to cup your cunt through the thin material of your trousers. 

Crackling pleasure flood your veins as the heel of his palm grinds into your clit, and while the pressure is nice, it does nothing to satisfy. Only feeds the growing flames of desire with brittle kindling. 

You pull at his undershirt and whimper, thrilled once his deft fingers, calloused and thick unlace your pants and yank far enough down to fit his hand. His fingers trace your outer lips, a ghost of a touch as arousal swells in your stomach. He parts your folds once your wetness begins to dribble out and coats his fingertips with your arousal. 

Stars—you need him. You arch into him and whine. “Touch me. Din, please—“ 

You jerk as Din’s thumb swirls a slow circle over your clit, a rush of endorphins surging out like unrefined fire whiskey. Din’s head tilts to watch you writhe over his fingers and the sudden chill of his helmet touching the inside of your flushed neck steals away your next inhale. Goosebumps race down your entire being, adding to the influx of your excitement that pools in your lower belly.       

Your hands tangle into his undershirt, pulling him closer until you can’t find where he begins and you end. His heart pounds in his chest, thrumming to the dance of your own heart that yearns to break free from your ribcage. Your breath catches when two of his thick fingers tease at your entrance. Your walls flutter around him as the slip in easily.   

His fingers roll forward and stroke against something devastating inside of you, and he when his palm rolls back, it bumps against your clit with that divine firmness you need. Your cunt tightens around the two digits as they curl.  

“Fuck. Can you hear yourself?” He pants, groping your breast to elicit a high pitched wail. “You always make—make such pretty noises.” 

Butterflies erupt in your stomach at his words and fuck. You’re already dipping head first into release. A moment later you’re arching into his chest as every muscle stiffens in a crescendo of bliss, your stuttered breathing harsh even to your own ears.  

Your quick pants fog up his visor as Din rests the crown of his helmet on your forehead, the metal a cool relief to your flushed skin. He slips his fingers out of your dripping cunt, your chest still heaving with exertion as the last strands of your high fizzle and ebb away. Din shifts and and snakes his fingers, still shiny and wet with your arousal, beneath the lip of his helmet and sucks them clean with an appreciative groan.  

“Fuck—“ You breathe, pushing your face into his hand as he cups your cheek. Din’s thumb brushes over your cheekbone and swings his leg over your hips to hoist himself over you. 

“Do you remember...” He starts, his voice buzzing through the vocoder. His fingers tickle down your cheek and trace the parted outline of your lips. “When you let me taste you?”

You nod, and it’s all you’re able to do. You’re not even sure you can formulate words, let alone voice them right now. 

Din’s thumb pulls at your plush bottom lip, and you can’t help but slide your tongue along the digit. He grunts and slips his thumb into the wet heat of your mouth. “I think about you every night…how you came on my tongue—”

Your stomach flips as a rush of arousal sweeps through your tummy. You groan and you’re half sure you’re gonna dissipate into the floor from how hot your cheeks burn. “Din—"  

He continues without missing a beat. 

“You were so fucking wet for me—dripped all over my hand,” he murmurs, nuzzling his helmet, still chilly and frosted over, into the crook of you neck.  “I want to do it again—can I?”

You’re nodding before he even finishes his sentence. He wasn’t the only one longing for his head between your thighs on those long nights apart. Remembering those plush lips and addictive touches could only get you so far and well—he’s here now. You said it once and you’ll say it again—there’s no chance in hell you’d be passing up this opportunity. 

Din lifts his head and as you watch the light glitter in the reflection of the beskar, a sudden stray thought ricochets into the forefront of your mind. “Din, the light—your helmet.”

He pauses, his body tensing as he mulls over his options. “It’s—I—it’s ok…It’ll be ok.”

Din inhales a stuttered breath and casts a brief glance over his shoulder. It’s a dim light, kicked into the corner and laying on its side. From this angle, his face would be partially obscured in shadow…but still. There are easier ways to go about this. Ways that don’t risk jeopardizing the very foundation of who he is—what he stands for and what he so devoutly follows.    

To say you know anything about his religion is laughable. Everything you know can fit on the back of a thumbtack and even still, you’re sure that half of that is still based upon rumor and speculation. But this—what Din is hinting at, you know is not something to be taken lightly. 

He’s stripping his soul bare for you—allowing you to glimpse at that bleeding heart of his he guards so securely within layers of flesh and bone and impenetrable beskar. Din is gifting you his trust and there’s no where else to put it except for the space beneath your breast bone.   

Yet, even still—this could mean nothing at all. You have no way to know the exact magnitude of what this means to him. If he’s alright with this, who are you to question?

He mumbles one last thing about the light and sits up. Goosebumps rush up your bare skin at the loss of the heavy warmth of his body. You whine and curl up closer to his legs, greedy for any spare iota of heat like you’ve been denied it your entire life.   

Maker you hate this fucking planet—   

Your attention snaps back to Din when he makes a noise of uncertainty. His hands are cupped around his helmet—hesitant, nervous and you suspect if Din’s hands weren’t plastered so tight around the metal, he’d be shaking. You chew on your lip and prop yourself up. 

Cautiously, so as not to startle, you reach up and curl your fingers around his wrist. You can feel his pulse thrumming through his veins—alive, flesh and bone like you. Not some heap of sentient metal built for the horrors of war. You don’t know why you do it—just seems right to pull the fragile and vulnerable skin of his inner wrist to you mouth. You plant a gentle kiss there and smile when he cups your cheek.           

“You don’t owe me anything, Din,” you say, staring into the darkened depths of his visor. “Least of all this.”    

Some of that tension held in Din’s shoulders melts. He utters something in that clipped language of his people, and the only thing you can make out is your name. He lurches foreword and fuck—you’re terrified for a split second he’s gonna cave your skull in but instead he lightly bumps the crown of his helmet over your forehead.      

“I want to. For you—only you.”

Din doesn’t leave any time to unpack all of that. He sits up again, wraps his hands around the beskar— 

The metallic thunk of the helmet reverberates through the cave like a crack of thunder.    

You were right. 

You can barely see his face—if you really look, you can see the murky outline of his nose, dark hair and a sliver of his tan skin that the light touches. Attractive—but you knew that already. You touch his cheek and smile, your thumb catching over wiry facial hair and soft skin. Din makes a sound low in his throat and pushes his cheek into your hand. 

“I still want to taste you,” Din says, his voice richer when stripped of that tinny vocoder. You like listening to him speak without it, you think, and it’s a damn shame you never get to hear it. “Please.”     

Before he can escape and fulfill that fantasy, you yank him into a blinding kiss. He kisses the same—all wild edges and with desperation lining each motion—but there’s a new found tenderness here. Like he’s savoring each gasp and every brush of skin you grace him with like it’s your last night left in the galaxy.   

He breaks away from your mouth and peppers kisses and nips down your jaw, then lower as you arch and expose the bare skin of your throat. There’ll be a plethora of bruises tomorrow, and with no hope to cover them either but fuck it—Din can leave as many hickeys and teeth marks as he wants. 

If not for the cold still latching onto your very soul, you’d ditch the shirt; give Din better access instead of him needing to shove a hand up under and grope at your breasts. He gives the fabric an annoyed tug, but it’s fruitless. There’s no use when there’s better things to be sought. 

He shoves your shirt as far up as it goes, shivering as he mouths down your stomach, licks around your bellybutton and sucks a bruise onto your hipbone. Your pants are already pulled halfway down—one sharp yank and they’re around your ankles and off in the next breath. 

Cupping your knees with both hands he gingerly spreads your legs and drapes them over his muscular shoulders. Din rubs his patchy haired cheek along your thigh and hooks his hands under your ass, his ivory white teeth catching the light as he smiles.  

“Fucking perfect—“ He groans, planting his lips over your inner thigh. His tongue swipes a wet line up, stopping just before your aching cunt to dig his teeth into the sensitive flesh. You jump at the burst of pain and shoot a hand down, tangling your fingers into the soft curls atop his head.  

Din grunts and jumps to your other thigh, leaving no inch of skin neglected and without evidence of his teeth and lips. By the time his thumbs touch the outer lips of your cunt, the aching need for him is burning you from the outside in. He has to still your twitching hips with a calloused palm, and only after you settle does he surge forward. 

His tongue meets your swollen clit, ripping a tangled cry from you vocal cords. He’s just as eager as the first time he tasted you, if not more—every action backed by needy abandon. He sucks at the bundle of nerves then sweeps his tongue lower. Din’s thumbs part your lower lips as he runs his tongue though your soaked folds, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit that send delicious sparks throughout your whole body. Little noises and breathy gasps fill the cave, encouraging Din to push his tongue deep into your aching entrance. 

Your hand fists into his hair as your hips stutter and rock into the searing heat of his mouth. The noises you make are obscene, and Din is no better. Each pass of his tongue over your pussy is matched with his own deep moans that vibrated against your clit. Fucking hell he’s devouring you alive.          

Your orgasm sneaks up on you, robs you blind and crashes over you in deep waves that drag you out to sea and never to be found again as you spill onto his greedy tongue. Your fingers are threaded tight in his hair as you squeak and press harder into his mouth, riding out your pleasure until it shifts and becomes raw and sore.  

Din doesn’t pause for even a second—all too happy to stay put between your thighs for eternity. Your legs are trembling when you force his head away, a nice, tingly warmth settling into your limbs 

A dark thrill rushes down your spine when he looks up, wild hair and mouth covered in your slick. If not for the low lighting you imagine his eyes would be glazed over and Maker you want him again. Din swoops down and presses his mouth to yours, the taste of yourself heavy on his tongue that slips past the seem of your lips. 

You whine after he breaks away and sits up—an opportunity for your eyes to roam down his body. He’s still got his trousers on, a considerable bulge tenting the front. With a smirk you reach up and grab a handful, delighting in Din’s startled grunt. “Easy.”

You flash him a wry smile and give his clothed cock a playful squeeze. “Take them off.” 

Din huffs and pulls at the drawstrings. “Needy.”

He says it with no bite and no coquettish retort on your end springs to mind—especially when his thumbs hook into the waistband and pull. A slow reveal of sun-kissed skin and a sparse happy trail that your eyes eagerly drink up. 

Din’s cock bobs as his trousers fall around his knees, tip shiny and wet and curling towards his navel. You bite the inside of your cheek and reach out, a rush of arousal pulsing through your core at Din’s low moan. He’s heavy in your hand, deliciously thick and throbbing—and all of it for you. 

Din gasps out your name as you lightly squeeze and stroke down, your pace dreadfully slow and teasing. Who knows when you’ll get another chance like this—a Mandalorian willingly on their knees for you.           

Your other hand slips up his chest as you stroke him, intent on grabbing a handful of his thick hair that curls softly against the column of his neck. Your fingernail lightly scrapes across his nipple and he sways, pitching forward before he catches himself and straightens. Din’s eyes are squeezed tight, chest heaving with shallow pants as a smirk tugs at your lips. 

“It’s ok, Din,” you whisper. “I won’t break.” 

Your fingers twist into the hair at the base of his skull and guide him back. He slumps forward with a sweet moan, laying his weight onto your body that you’re all too happy too bare. His nose is nestled into the slope of your neck as his hands lock around the dip of your lower back while the other cradles the back of your head, drawing you into a loose semblance of a hug. 

Something snaps and crumbles deep in your soul that bleeds the heartstring blues, humming with broken chords in the presence of Din’s soft fragility. Your hand moves from between his legs to instead wrap around the wide expanse of his back, squeezing him tight to your chest. You hold each other like there isn’t tomorrow to look forward to and you wonder if this is how it feels to fall apart. Two spinning halves of a supernova torn apart and destined to collide and shatter into a million fragments of dazzling light.  

Yes, you’re scared he might blind you or burn you with his brilliance, but you can’t look away.      

Your fingers crawl up his muscled thigh and settle on his hip. “Lie down for me?”

There’s no hint of hesitation or complaint as he maneuvers himself onto his back, patiently allowing you to clamber over his legs and straddle his hips. His cock rests on your inner thigh, pulsing and leaving a dribble of wetness every time it twitches.    

“Good boy.” It’s subtle but it ripples out like a heavy stone thrown into a still lake. Din shudders and says your name in a cracked whisper. He rolls his hips, both of you groaning at the sensation of his cock running along your dripping center.     

Another time for that game maybe. 

Your desperation is running hot and wild to have him inside you and you know he’s in a similar boat. You grab the thick shaft of his cock and grind the tip of him through your lips, breath hitching when it extracts such a perfect moan from the man below you. 

“Ride me,” he pleads, clamping his large hands over your hips. “Fuck—I need you.” 

How can you deny such a request?

You line the wide head up with your aching center and slowly work him in. Shivers wrack through you, and Maker—he’s splitting you apart, molding your insides to the shape of him. Beads of sweat dot your hairline by the time you’re seated fully on his member, the both of you pushed even closer towards madness.  

Din squeezes your ass and props his knees up, rolling his hips up into you. You whimper and tip forward, propping your palms over his chest as he sets the pace. You may be on top but there’s no changing the bold colors of power and lust that cloud his mind, fueling the brutal movements of fucking up into you. Your thighs burn already and Maker—why the fuck are you already tired? You’re not doing any of the work.  

Quicker than lightning, Din curls forward and manhandles you onto your back. You squeak as he grips your thigh and yanks it around his narrow hips, thrusting in deeper. His right hand crawls up the front of your shirt and wraps his fingers around your throat in a loose hold. His thumb hovers over the dip at the base of your neck but he makes no move to press down—just allows the weight of his palm to do the work. And fuck—it works. 

Choked garbles of his name pass through your lips as you buck and squirm in his hold, feeling your arousal begin to drip down the back of your thighs. You’re skirting the edge of sizzling release that alights your nerves with liquid wildfire. Your nails harpoon into the meat of his shoulders as your eyes squeeze shut. Din won’t allow it.      

“Look at me,” Din snarls, yanking your head back by your hair. “I want to—to watch you cum for me.” 

A blush scalds your cheeks but you listen. Your eyes flutter open for him, sliding to the dark shadows of his eyes that sweep you into their own gravity well with no hope to escape. You don’t mind. 

“You’re so g-good for me—always so perfect.”

White hot light bursts behind your eyelids, and that’s all it takes. Your body seizes, your cunt squeezing impossibly tight around his cock as you cum. This one is different—steals your breath away and leaves you a broken husk of a person lost in most delectable forms of agony and pleasure. The cry of his name pierces the air only spurring the Mandalorian into a jarring pace to seek his own peak of ecstasy.  

Din’s nose nuzzles into your neck, his pants hot and sharp against your flushed skin. “You f-feel so—fuck. Say—say my name.”

You leap to his request and with a playful nip to his earlobe, you whisper it to him with the sweetness of starcherrries and the promise of better things. 

He tips over the edge, his hips faltering into no discernible pace as he cums. Din buries his teeth into the skin below your jaw, a mess of whines and begging gasps of nonsense as he fills your cunt to the brim. 

Your harsh breathing mingles as you both lazily slip down from your high. He rests his head over your sternum, listening to your beating heart that drums in a wild staccato as your fingers carefully comb through his hair. If not for the ache in your hips you’d keep him here forever. Din pulls out and you both groan at the loss. 

He doesn’t completely move away and you’re glad for it. He brushes his knuckles down the expanse of your cheek and dots a tender kiss to your hairline. Your name rumbles low in his throat as he shifts lower and gives your ear lobe a playful nip. His stubble scrapes along your neck, and you can’t help but giggle and squirm—but the weight of his body keeps you pinned. Your name slips from his lips a second time, breathy and drawn out in a sweet sigh, like he’s savoring the sound of each syllable and roll of the tongue. 

Din lifts his head, only slightly—near enough that his nose bumps into yours and his lips scrape along yours that are still parted and wet. “I—can I tell you something?” 

You cup his cheek and steal a kiss. It’s supposed to be quick—but instead he leans into it, guiding your mouth into a slow dance of sticky sweet movements that are caught in a slow draw, like crystalized honey abandoned in a glass jar. You’re enraptured by his touch—his skin mottled with scars yet somehow still unfairly soft. He smells of snow—like metal and soap and something gentler, that’s uniquely Din.            

Fuck—you can feel your mind slipping away, wrapped up so snugly in his presence you almost forget to answer. “Yeah—anything.”

Crackling static suddenly rips through the cave, startling you both. A distorted voice chatters on the comlink that lies forgotten beside your pants. It blinks and the transmission ends just as abruptly. With a sigh Din brushes it off and tilts his head to tempt you into another kiss but—

Whoever’s trying to patch through is persistent. 

His lip curls in a scowl and snatches the comm. “Jorhaa’ir.”

You only catch your name being mentioned twice as rapid Mando’a is exchanged. Aeris maybe judging by the tone, but no that’s not right.   

“Wait—is that Paz?”

The muscles in Din’s shoulders tense, confirming your suspicion.

“Is everything ok?” Din doesn’t resist you when you pry the comlink out of his fingers and patch in. “Paz?”

Your heart skips a beat. 

“There you are,” the comlink crackles and you smile. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” 

Stars—you didn’t think you’d miss hearing Paz’s voice. Your chest aches. 

The conversation is short, he asks you how you are and when you’re coming home and in the time it takes to answer, Din is peeling himself from your body. While you're distracted, he pulls on his pants and sits at the edges of your vision.

You both pretend when you say goodnight to Paz, return the comlink and crawl into his arms that nothing has festered with savage detachment. You don't remember to ask him what he was going to say and he lets you forget. The golden heart that bleeds molten ichor slips from your sight and becomes shut behind walls of beskar and bushes of thick thorns and overgrown ivy.         

He still holds you, but it’s the coldest you’ve ever been. 

Tag List: @teaofpeach @corrupt-fvcker @nelba @datmando @ben-is-a-hoe @dreams-like-clockwork @aeryns-library @auty-ren @huliabitch @anxiety-riddled-mando @phoenixhalliwell @cptnbvcks @thesoftdumbass @krissology @starlite41 @legally-a-bastard @basslinedweller @cloud-of-roses @elenamiria @goldafterglow @maybege @equalstrashflavoredtrash @wandxrlust @hdlynnslibrary @calamity-queen @sgtbookybarnes @pinkninja190 @lackofhonor @darthstyles @spacegayofficial @absurdthirst​ @blue-writes-a03​ @max--phillips​

[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.

[keilemlucent]

lavender latte: viii

(M (for now!)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

chapter 1   ||   chapter 2  ||   chapter 3   ||  chapter 4   ||   chapter 5   ||  chapter 6   ||  chapter 7  ||  chapter 9  ||

masterlist

word count: ~4.7k

realities, huh. 

warnings: descriptions of blood and bodily injury, post-traumatic symptoms, panic/anxiety attacks 

----

oof. wow. here it is, part one of the BIG boy chapter. please mind the warnings on this one!! trauma and post-traumatic symptoms are a big theme in this chapter and the next. 

as an author, these have been some of the harder, more vulnerable chapters to create and i hope that the writing shows this  :’’’^) all that said, enjoy :’^) 

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Keigo was fucked up.

Or he had fucked up.

It was hard to tell the specifics of his predicament, considering how hard he’d hit his head.

 ‘Hawks’ was known for his speed, his skill, and his ability to finish fights off before they even had a chance to truly start. He prided himself on his prowess, the product of his own diligence and meticulous training. Normally, Keigo kept to these high standards without fail and with faltering. 

On the rare occasion he did get injured, it was usually simple scrapes or bruises.

Except, sometimes time, his shortcomings created much more than scratches. 

 His left arm was twisted the wrong way, wrenched from its socket. His skull ached, hair sticking to the back of his neck and cold.

Keigo blinked slowly, vision tilting and blurry against the asphalt he’d crashed onto. He’d sent his feathers to finish off what was left of the fight, knowing that he was, bodily, down for the count.

It hadn’t started as a large fight, notably. It shouldn’t have gotten so bad. The first alert he’d received just made it seem like petty burglary. Quickly after arriving on the scene, it escalated into an entire firefight spanning several blocks. 

He’d been one of the first heroes there, naturally. It wasn’t hard to disarm and pin most of the villains down, but quickly, things got out of hand. Figures forming from the afternoon’s shadows, quickly turning the simple de-escalation into an all-out brawl. 

Keigo pushed himself from the filthy ground, coughing up spittle and blood on the blacktop below. It wasn’t from an internal injury, he knew, just a bitten tongue and cheek that made the drippings of his mouth pink and cloudy. 

He sat up, forcing himself to his feet as more heroes arrived, finishing the job out of sheer numbers. Mentally, he cursed his mistakes and his stupor. The media circus and bureaucratic bullshit he was undoubtedly going to have to deal with made him audibly groan. Keigo could handle pain without question, but his least favorite parts of his job were the nuts and bolts of it all.

 Maybe it was the head trauma or the fact he’d just gotten sloppy lately, but Keigo didn’t even notice the oddly large amount of shattered glass at the scene or the shadows that loomed and weaved without rest nearby, though they never moved to the offensive. 

...

You sat on your couch, boot propped up (as usual), and a pillow hugged in your arms. 

Typically, you weren’t one to watch the news, but the moment you’d seen the alert from your phone about ‘large scale villain attack- Hawks and Miruko on the scene!, you’d rushed to turn on any channel that had coverage.

Which, creating a sense of dread in your gut, was most of them.

You watched the varying camera angles of the fight, squeezing the pillow tightly in your arms like the pressure would comfort you.

 The fear and terror was such a contrast to the absolute bliss of the first couple of weeks of you and Keigo’s relationship.

During that time, your text-based communication hardly changed, still ambiently throughout the day and including the exchange of many memes and well-placed photographs and selfies. 

The messages had changed, somewhat, truth be told. There was a sweetness to it, soft, warm, and new. The bantering never stopped, but woven within each of your words were small, tender lines that were new to you both.

Wonderfully new.

You found that Keigo was particularly affectionate over text, but it was nothing compared to him in-person.

You hadn’t really expected him to be clingy. Not based on the way he texted and talked previously and how he was generally portrayed by the public.

But god, was he.

He came over several other nights, always bearing food, drinks, and a bright smile. He wouldn’t even think of settling for the evening in the comfort of your couch (or bed) until you’d been showered in kisses and teasing touches, always seeming hungry, maybe even starved. 

He was careful, however, to never go too far or touch too much. 

When you two would finally settle on the couch, usually finding yourself strewn over each other in some way, Keigo would continue heaping on affection in any way he could, subtle or otherwise. You returned the gestures, giving your own too.

You craved the heat of his body in the same way he hungered for yours. 

You found that, as the nights would wear on, he tended to slip his rough hands under any top you might be wearing, settling his grip on your sides or back. He’d either press and massage, or just ambiently draw shapes. At first, you thought it was some sort of sexual preamble, expecting his touch to drift higher and hungrier.

 It took you a night or two of it to realize it wasn’t like that at all— 

Keigo just craved contact.

It all made sense, though your revelation surprised you a bi at first. 

One night, with his head in your lap, you had simply hummed out, “I never thought you’d be touch-starved.”

Keigo hummed as you ran your nails around the shell of his ear, “Mind elaborating on that one?”

“You’re always touching me when we’re together,” You replied simply, heart squeezing at the little twinges of anxiety you could see forming around Keigo’s eyes. “Not that it's a bad thing— I really love all of it, it’s just sweet. I didn’t think you’d be so affectionate and touchy. I would dare to say, it's cute.”

That comment turned Keigo’s cheeks bright red, though you hardly got much of a chance to tease him about it before he was on you with another wave of soft kisses and squeezes.

Maybe, you were a little touch-starved yourself.

And definitely, surely, falling into each other simply and sweetly felt like heaven. 

 ...

 But all of that syrupy goodness was gone, the flavor of it stale and rotten.

All you could focus on was your TV screen as Hawks was being pulled from an alleyway. The camera angle was poor, the quality shaky, but the picture was clear as day to you.

Keigo was walking, barely, most of his weight bared into Miruko’s side. He looked half-dead when he first emerged, limbs twisted painfully and face downcast.

He brightened up a moment later. You weren’t even sure that anyone would’ve caught the change in his expression if they didn’t know him as intimately as you did.

 Your chest tightened painfully when he gave his most dashing smile, pearly white teeth stained with blood that was rushing from a wide cut on his forehead. The juxtaposition of him being purely fucked up mixed with the shining expressions he was flashing at the media made your stomach churn with dread.

He’s hurt.

And it seems bad.

You chewed your bottom lip until it ached. 

The newscast kept playing, showing the wreckage of the scene, all of the hurt civilians— it was a few cities over, but you swore you could hear the sirens just outside of your window.

You dug around for your phone, typing out a message to Keigo, fingers shaking as you did.

 [you]: hey i saw about the attack? how are you doing?

 Texting him was the bare minimum, wasn’t it? If you could, you’d call. But based on the way he was reported to have been taken to a nearby hospital, he wouldn’t be answering his phone any time soon. 

It didn’t feel like enough, but what more could you do?

You felt uncomfortably powerless.

A very lucid, perhaps cruel part of your mind rang out amid your quiet panic:

Get used to it.

 You fell back into the cushions, unable to turn off the screen, though unable to do anything other than watch and churn. 

 |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

 Keigo didn’t have a great recollection of the day's events after sustaining his fairly significant head injury, not to mention the shattering of the bones in his right arm and a few in his left leg. Not to mention his sorely dislocated shoulder. 

Pain blotted things out memory, he knew.

Hospital trips were few and far between for Keigo, but in the unfortunate circumstance he was stuck and strung up with wires and IV tubes, he was more than well taken care of. 

He was aware, somewhat, of the Commission’s hold on the scruff of his neck, though complacent in it. His good attitude and impeccable, nearly-perfect performance earned him the best medical care they could provide. 

Some sweet girl, a student from the west, was brought in to heal his wounds. Healing quirks of any significance were rare, so it was always interesting to see how they worked and manifested.

The girl’s quirk came at the price of any energy his body had, but he was completely patched up in a number of minutes. Fatigue be damned, he was happy to be quickly and easily put back together. He made sure to put on his best camera-ready smile as the girl traced symbols on the backs of his hands, fingers shaking and shyly smiling.

She was probably starstruck, all things considered. Meanwhile, Keigo was exhausted and out of it.

All through it, all of it, the actual fight and subsequent medical nightmare, he had slipped into a far different mindset than the one he’d been occupying for the last couple of weeks. 

Consequently, he hadn’t thought of you at all. 

You didn’t even cross his mind. 

Keigo could’ve blamed it on hitting his head, but that wouldn’t be entirely fair or truthful. 

All the same, the absence would burn later. 

...

Keigo flashed a dopey smile to the door of his hospital room when he spotted a familiar puff of bright yellow hair. 

Despite his stupor, familiarity still resonated. Besides, his PA stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the greyscale scrubs and antiseptic. 

“Akane! I knew you’d never be far in my time of need,” Keigo relaxed against the hospital bed he was still resigned to. He was to be discharged as soon as possible for the bevy of press reports he would had to complete. Not to mention the mountains of paperwork he’d probably have to file and sign. 

Akane kept a stern but humored expression as she shooed a nurse out of Keigo’s room. She was shorter than most, face cut with sharp angles and high ridges. They were dressed immaculately as always, a well-tailored black suit with crisp-looking dress shoes. All professionalism, trained and honed by the Commission in a similar way to Keigo, though it was implicitly recognized. 

“You’ve got a press conference in thirty with Miruko,” Akane didn’t answer his greeting, though Keigo could tell by their quick nod that it was at least acknowledged. They rolled a small suitcase next to the bed. “Extra hero costume in there. I called your normal hair and makeup, they’ll be in a few minutes after I leave. It’s been a while since you’ve been this injured in a fight, so put on a good show for everyone, won’t you?”

Akane’s sarcasm always brought a smile to his face, contrasting so starkly with their well-pressed hems and seams. 

Keigo quickly sat up, dropping his feet to the cold linoleum below, “Always a show.”

He quickly began to re-robe into his new garments, tired mind returning to its trained roots. 

 ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

 You had been watching the newscast for hours, probably (definitely) against your best interest.

You’d have plenty of time to kick yourself for it later.

You couldn’t stop watching the repetitive footage and bland media, despite the report that ‘Hawks’ was safe, well and receiving treatment. 

Until you saw him, you couldn’t rest—- Or that’s what it felt like, anyway.

The image of him bloodied felt painfully etched into the forefront of your mind. The contours and highlights of Keigo’s wounds were uncomfortably bright and hot, nestled next to swirling images of your own. Uncomfortably vivid sensations and colors of your own stitched-up wounds that once wept blood themselves.

If you steeped in it all too deeply or for too long, your breathing would quicken, memories unbridled in the way they sucked down.

Sweat dripping down your brow, you willed your breath even and slowly despite how you definitely were having trouble handling what you were experiencing. 

As the evening wore into night, you remained wired.

You convinced yourself, despite the thorns that ran deep, you would be able to rest once you saw Keigo well. 

Eventually, there was an announcement for a late press conference, a conclusion to the media frenzy.

You knew you’d stay up for it, no matter how long it took to air. You knew he was fine, it had been confirmed over and over throughout the coverage, but it wasn’t enough.

You just need to see him.

Then you’ll be fine.  

Keigo is fine.

No amount of reassurance comforted you. You were sinking too deeply in your throes, ungrounded and crackling within your own fragile mind. 

The memories of blood and gore and hot, white fear rolled over you, suffocatingly close to how you’d felt less than a month prior. 

On the cold cement floor of the tea shop, you had Keigo’s feather, the knowingness that he would be there.

Yet, now?

You were alone in your dim apartment. 

No Keigo.

No villains.

Just you and your skull. 

 You had to pull yourself back when you felt your quirk begin to activate with your adrenaline, thankful for the low stimulation of your apartment, and the pillow in your arms being exchanged for the plushie Keigo had gifted you. You forced yourself to ground, counting your breaths, and holding yourself together. 

(Maybe the trauma of your own run-in was deeper than you wanted to acknowledge.)

You pushed the thought aside as the live footage of the press conference began. It was better to compartmentalize it all, wasn’t it? Why not shove it back where it was easier to not deal with? You’d get a therapist or something.

If Keigo is okay, you’ll be okay. 

The press conference decor was coated with the diamond insignia of the Public Safety Hero Commission, along with a few sponsors and nearby police departments. Local heroes and police officers sat around microphones with plastic waterbottles, ringing around the focal points of the events:

Keigo and Miruko. 

Seeing him, perfectly in uniform and switched-on didn’t make you feel better.

If anything, it made you feel worse. 

Before everything, when he was just your regular you pined after, you saw and heard of him doing heroic duties all the time.

But, it was different when Keigo was your partner, yet living an entirely different reality from yours. In the safety of your apartment, and formerly the teashop, that line of difference was somewhat blurred, or, it at least appeared to be.

But while Keigo was shiny and dazzling, charismatic and blunt as ever on the stage of the conference, the contrast turned polar. 

As there was a jeer of laughter, Keigo grinning as Miruko clapped a hand on his back, your stomach rolled. 

Seeing him fine and good-as-new wasn’t soothing.

It was like pouring moonshine on a brush fire. 

Every moment of the conference highlighted the separation between the two of you, the feeling of fear and now loss so strongly in your mind, it started to taste like the tannin of a rotten wine . 

The concoction was made even viler as the memories of injuries didn’t fade or falter.

Your chest ached.

 The press conference droned on in front of you, but none of the content of it registered. It was all sickly background noise to your own pains

You pressed the plushie against your stomach, ignoring the phantom stabs of rancid-yellow that traced up your leg from your booted foot. 

...

“From what we can surmise, there’s activity of several different villain groups in this area that are connected. This incident is related.”

...

You were getting to yourself, you had been all evening. The problem was you couldn’t climb out— 

Not if you weren’t honest and self-aware.

Too bad you were actively spiraling away from anything even close to the latter and former. 

...

“There is much we don’t know at this time, but it is clear there must be further investigation into the roots of the attack.”

...

You recognized, even then, that Keigo was going to be in harm's way because of his job, constantly. He was always in danger.

It just felt different, having to see it play out in front of you, isolated from him in all ways except the glimmer he showed the cameras and the gore he bore prior. 

The absences burned. 

 Your gaze moved to your phone, the device still dormant. 

With a thick, sticky swallow, you resigned yourself to sitting back into the cushions of your couch, spiraling and numbing as you had been hours. 

 |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

 Following the press conference, Keigo had one priority— 

Sleep.

Despite Akane’s nagging that they ���really needed to talk to him’, Keigo was exhausted after being healed and wanted nothing more than to go home and rest for as long as he could make himself lay still. 

Maybe, he could’ve handled a patrol (if he had had anything significant of his wings left), but he could not stand the idea of dealing with bureaucratic bullshit in his wrung-out state. 

At this admission, Akane sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“Fine, but you need to come to the office as soon as possible,” Akane seemed exasperated after such a long evening (now night), of dealing with the attack. “Seriously, or your publicist is going to kick both of our asses.”

Keigo didn’t ponder too far into the topic of whatever Akane needed him for. Far too mentally wiped-out to bother with what was undoubtedly bureaucratic bullshit. 

He rolled his eyes, sending a feather forward to trigger the automatic doors ahead, “I’ll be sure to come in— It’s not like I don’t have a backlog of paperwork to finish.”

“That too,” Akane sighed, pausing outside of the doors, just dimly lit under the lip of the entrance of the building. “Feel better, quick. And please, stay safe.”

Keigo raised an eyebrow, “You know I always am. I’ll see you around tomorrow, bright and early.”

Keigo flew away so quickly, he didn't notice Akane’s pinched expression and set jaw and she waved goodbye. 

 ...

Nearly featherless and on the edge of total exhaustion, Keigo dragged himself back to his penthouse. His mind and body ached, his thoughts messy and disorganized. 

It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar state, though he didn’t get to it often. 

He had ample training to not get like this. The fuzziness he was clouded by should’ve been tossed aside easily; he blamed his own overcast on the healing he received.

(And, not that he, perhaps, had more on his mind as of late) 

More on his mind meant more to forget. 

It wasn’t until he toweled off from a quick shower that he even looked at his phone. 

It wasn’t until he saw your single text that you even came to his mind.

Keigo called you nearly instantly, jaw going tight.

It made sense that he’d forget, he rationalized. 

The portion of his psyche that was trained to be a hero was the same part that struggled the most with his feelings for you. All of the affection, validation, and deep admiration (and perhaps more) was slowly but surely allowing long-dormant parts of him to awaken— 

Yet, all of the new roots and growth aside, he’d forgotten about you in the chaos of the day. 

Maybe a passing, subconscious twinge in his gut, but otherwise? Nothing. 

A bit of guilt chewed him as the line began to ring. 

 You laid across your couch, curled up with the plushie in your arms. The news reports played like white noise, your mind long having gone to gum and static. You alternated between different horrors of memory and sensation. 

The buzzing and shrill sound of your ringtone made your jump, pulling you from your stupor.

 [birdboy <3] calling...

 You immediately picked up the call.

“Keigo?” You asked, trying to ignore the continual light shaking of your hands. 

“Hey, dove,” His voice was cool and calm. “Sorry, I just saw your message now. I figure you saw all the news, but I’m all good, no worries! How are you?”

Oh.

Was it that easy?

The gears in your skull turned far slower than you wanted them to.

He’s fine, (Y/N).

He’s so unbothered. 

Everything is fine.

You tried to comfort yourself, taking a few methodical breaths.

“Dove? Are you there?”

Get your shit together.

“Yeah, I am.” You shook your head. “I was worried, that’s all. My bad. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“The news really plays things up, huh?” Keigo laughed with a sigh, scratchy from the speaker. “Sorry about the media circus. They like the drama.”

“Uh-huh.” You replied, feeling yourself begin to spin all over again.

Drama.

Dramatics.

...

Calm down.

It wasn’t that simple.

“Hey, dove, are you alright?” Keigo spoke casually from the line. Maybe there was some concern in his tone (or you just wanted there to be). You couldn’t fully tell.

You sank back into the couch, bending your good leg into your chest, “I was just worried, is all. I freaked myself out.”

“I’m sorry about that, angel,” Keigo clicked from the phone. “I don’t get banged up too often. Besides, they always stitch me back together quickly! It’s just like this sometimes.”

“‘It’s just like this sometimes’,” You repeat mechanically, processing so slowly it was painful. Your voice sounded far off— 

You felt like you were drowning.

Why couldn’t you handle seeing him hurt?

It’s part of his job. 

Why does this all feel so bad?

 “Can you come over?” You asked, praying that he’d say yes, and maybe, maybe, you could have your fears be assuaged with some contact. Some support— 

“Sorry, dove, the healer they got for me really drained me,” Keigo yawned from the other side of the line. “I think I’m gonna hit the hay. But, tomorrow is just an office day for me, so I can come by after?”

Your heart sank in your chest, faster and harder than you could try to make yield.

“That works,” You replied, despite how rotten you felt. “Take care, okay? Get some rest.”

You hung up abruptly, not waiting for his reply, and lowering your head.

Tears drip from your eyes, soaking the plushie in your arms as you finally let out the sobs you had been holding back for hours.

 ...

 Despite Keigo’s exhaustion, he knew that the entire phone call was so off. You’d never hung up that quickly before, and you sounded a bit off.

None of it sat right. 

He shot off a kind text or two before knocking out for the night, nodding off just after sending them.

 ...

 You hardly slept. 

You felt like you were being eaten alive as the night wore on and the moon remained high.

It was all metastasized, unchecked. Breathing exercises had stopped cutting it at some point, your own thoughts and methodical actions lost in the soup of it all. 

You ‘rationalized’. 

He’s a fucking hero, he’s going to get hurt. It’s part of the job and you need to get over it.

That doesn’t matter! It’s still terrifying to see someone you care about super injured!

You knew all of that though.

None of it was new.

What was new, and harder to understand, was the storm that had buried itself like a barbed arrow between the two halves of your brain.

The rest of it.

The complex miasma of feelings that were only set off by the events and subsequent feelings you tried to rationalize. 

The mental thunder-cracks kept you tossing and turning, any sleep light and flighty. Your eyes burned and dripped through the entire night, soaking your pillowcase. 

By the time morning light began to shift in from the heavy curtains of your bedroom, you might’ve felt worse than you did the night prior.

Your mouth was dry, tongue tacky, and swollen in your mouth. You forced yourself out of bed, methodically showering despite all of the energy it took with your leg still recovering. 

You felt hazy beyond belief, fatigued, and purely awful.

Quickly, you nested for the day, still damp from your shower and sore from your lack of sleep. Tucking into the couch, you covered yourself with blankets and held the plushie to your chest, not even bothering to turn on the TV.

 Keigo, meanwhile, prepped for his office day. Since his wings were sparse, he made an extra effort for his face. Bit of concealer to brighten his dark circles and smooth out the finer lines around his brow and under his eyes.

It seemed pertinent to cover more, wipe away his anxieties as his gaze flickered to his phone on the countertop of his bathroom.

You’d never responded the night before. You hadn’t said anything— not even giving an indication that you’d seen the message.

Truthfully, now that the drum of the press and his de-facto role had died down, your lack of contact filled him with burning anxiety. 

You two had a habit of texting each other in the mornings, little sweet greetings and the occasional messy selfie that the other adored. Keigo typically woke up earlier than you, but still. 

He gave you a call.

 You robotically picked up on the second ring, hardly looking at your phone and its caller as you held it to your ear, “Hello?”

“Hey, angel!” Keigo’s voice seemed too chipper from the other side of the line. “I just wanted to call and check-in. You just sounded a bit off last night, is all. Are you doing okay?”

“Oh,” You sounded hollow, far-off, and sticky. 

There was a pause, your numbed out psyche far-too slow and miswired to say anything else.

“(Y/N)?” Keigo asked. “Are you there?”

Your name shoved you a bit closer to reality. 

 “Yeah, I am.” You blinked, your name making you twitch, “Sorry, I’m just not feeling well.”

“Awww, since last night too?” Keigo’s wings beat in the background of the call. “Is that why you wanted me to come over?”

Sort of, not really.

Your voice shook as you quickly were losing the will to keep it even, “U-um—”

How do you even explain?

Your quirk spun alive, the feeling of shrapnel and rusted nails running jagged lines down your spine.

You need to be honest.

“I j-just,” You sniffled back tears, though fruitlessly. “I just got really scared.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, holding the phone away from your mouth and praying that Keigo couldn’t hear the muffled sobs you forced to stay in your throat.

 “It’s alright, I’m okay!” He tried to assure you, tensing at the doorway to his balcony. “Everything is totally fine, there’s no reason to be scared.”

You went quiet on the other side of the receiver, all sound muffled and mixed. It made Keigo chew his lip, tightening his grip on the phone.

“I know.” Your voice broke at the same moment as Keigo’s chest tightened. You sounded so hurt. 

It pricked those seldom-used parts of his brain alive. 

It was those weird tingles and shooting bits of cortisol that screamed ‘protect them’. They screamed to life at your distress, hot and bright.

“Dove, are you alright? Are you crying?” Panic seeped into his tone as his feathers rippled from soft to razor-sharp in his instinctual rise. 

“I just got so f-fucking scared,” You choked, voice fizzling on the line. “Keigo, I’m sorry, I just— “

Your voice broke into tears, sobs echoing from the phone.

Keigo’s grip tightened, heart-pounding and feathers vibrating.

He acted before thinking too hard about it. 

“(Y/N), I’m gonna come over, okay? I’ll be there soon,” Keigo assured you, and himself, truthfully as he tore open his balcony door and launched into the sky

 You sputtering out an affirmative as wind-whipped into the receiver. 

Burying your face in your hands, you felt dread weigh you down from the inside out. 

 ||||||||||||||||||||

 ko-fi

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taglist: @thepandapopo @hawksexual @sinclairsamess  @darcia22 @inhalingsoysauce @yee-fxcking-haw @aproperthottie @seasalttrioforever @msgrungie @mia--merc @a-monsters-love @peach-buns-unicorns@amethyst-rose-17 @mega-bastard @an-untamed-rose @ravioliplease @keigosangel @gobestupidelsewhere

(send me an ask if you would like to be added!)

[feliix]

Patio Penetration ✦ PJM (18+)

✦  Pairing: Jimin x Reader ✦ Word count: 2k ✦  Rating: M 

✦ Genre: Smut, Romance, Fluff(ish), Established Relationship!AU ✦ Warnings: pwp, unprotected sex, explicit sex, creampie, fingering, teasing, dirty talk(?), Jimin has a big dick, like no foreplay, semi-public sex (maybe?), dom/sub themes (dom!jimin),a tiny bit of begging ✦ Summary: you burn your tongue on some takeout food and Jimin kisses it better

✦ Requested by @hobiance​ “time to unleash all of the requests ive been wanting to send u but didnt know i could heheheheh okay lets get this started. JIMIN + WINE.” and this anon “Hello!! I saw the drabble and thought maybe I could request from one of my favorite writers? 🥺 Could I have wine with our Jiminie? Maybe something about dates too 👉👈”

✦ A/N: Posting this at 3am because I have 0 self control and because Lainey told me to. also not edited bc its 3am and I’m nothing if not a mess ✦ Written for the BHQ Drinks and Drabbles game hosted by @bangtan-dreamland​​

It was a Saturday, and that meant it was date night. Tonight, Jimin had decided to pick up some takeout on his way home to have a little make-shift picnic on your patio. It wasn’t all that fancy, but it was intimate and it was special – just the way you like it.

Unfortunately, on Jimin’s venture home from the shop the food had become a little too cold for your liking. So naturally, you just threw what you could in the microwave for a minute or so and it was good as new.

Hot steam wafts off of your noodles and into the air, but that doesn’t stop you from digging in. Patience was a virtue, but it was not a virtue that you had ever learned.

Right on impact the hot noodles burned your mouth. Your immediate reaction is to suck air in through your teeth, attempting to cool down the temperature and relieve some of the pain from your burning tongue. An agitated groan leaves your mouth as you find the strength to chew and swallow your food – wincing from the burning feeling that was destroying your tastebuds.

Jimin glances in your direction, his eyes full of concern as his eyebrows quickly raise. By instinct he grabs the water placed beside you and hands you the glass. Graciously, you take it from his hand, chugging the ice cold liquid to soothe the blistering sensation garnering your mouth.

“Ow,” is the only word that you can muster out as you finish swishing the water around your mouth, momentarily easing the pain. With a deep sigh, Jimin raises from his seat, walking around the table to stand over you.

“Let me see,” he says, hand reaching for your chin to lift your head in his direction. As you tilt your head back you stick out your tongue for his viewing, the light chill of the air slightly easing the pain. He analyzes it closely, eyes narrowing in concentration as he looks at the affected area.

Sun still shining brightly onto your patio, you close your eyes. Once again you forgot to put on sunglasses before coming outside, big mistake. And then you feel it. His hot breath fanning over your face as he inches closer and closer. Your natural reaction to him being this close to you is to get turned on. How could you help yourself? He was just that attractive – even if he was just trying to be sweet and check your tongue for burns.

But you underestimate how sweet his intentions actually are. Or maybe they are, and the soft yet savory kiss that he leaves on your tongue was meant to be a sign of care. It could have been nothing more than just a nice gesture, but the arousal beginning to pool in your panties said otherwise.

You suck in a quick gust of air promptly in reaction to his plump lips meeting your tongue once again; you know this is no longer a gesture filled with good intentions. Snapping your head back into place, you meet his lust filled gaze. His eyes are narrowed and his tongue runs across his bottom lip enticingly. He’s taking in every inch of your body as he looks you up and down, and your stomach flips at the thought of him having you right here.

In an instance you are looping your hands around the back of his neck, pulling him in closer to you. When your lips meet his you feel a rush of relief, the heat traveling through your veins and to your core awakening as his hands begin roaming your body. His fingers trace the hem of your top, lifting it swiftly while breaking your heated kiss to remove the garment. The light breeze brushes against your now bare stomach, small goosebumps rising to the surface as you connect your lips with his once more.

“Here?” You ask in a whisper, your foreheads pressed together as your gaze turns downward to his crotch. Just as you suspected – he was already growing hard.

A mumbled “yes” was Jimin’s only response – well that and ripping your pants off your body so fast that you almost fell off the chair you were seated on. “Flip over,” he says as his hand meets the small of your back, guiding you to stand up. Hands placed down on the chair you were just sitting in, you bend at the waist, ass  pointed in his direction as he fumbles with the buckle of his jeans.

Your heart raced as you waited for him to make a move. Desire was growing high and arousal was dripping down your thighs. Of course, this didn’t go without Jimin noticing. His hand parted between your legs, grazing its way up your thighs as he made his way to your entrance. The last thing on your mind was the lingering burning sensation on your tongue.

“Already so wet for me,” you shiver at his words as his fingers circle your entrance. All you could focus on was his erect member rubbing at your ass as the pads of his fingers smeared the wetness along your slit. As a digit brushes past your clit you instinctively wince, so sensitive to his touch it was becoming difficult to control your body. A high pitched moan leaves your throat as he begins rolling your clit between his fingers, pinching it lightly, making you keen over in pleasure.

His fingers trace the extent of your slit back until they meet your entrance once more. Swiftly, his fingers dip into the arousal pooling out of your core. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth. The slow movement of just one finger plunging into your depths taking your breath away in an instant.

As arousal drenched his fingertips butterflies erupt in your tummy. It was getting harder and harder for your legs to support you and your arms were wobbly and unstable. “I can’t hold out much longer,” you say between breaths , doing everything in your power not to lose control right then and there.

“Not yet,” he orders, an arm wrapping around your stomach to stabilize you as he hovered over your shaking body. With this new position you could feel his tip poking against your entrance, teasing you. And with that was the tip of the iceberg. Clamping your thighs together, Jimin’s hand became immobile; trapped between your legs and no longer able to tease you.

“Jimin if you don’t stop I’m going to cum,” you choke out, tears beginning to gather in the corners of your eyes from holding back your much needed release. With a sneer like laugh he retracts his hand, leaving a quick slap to your ass cheek on his way back. Your muscles tighten one again, the knot in your stomach slowly starting to dwindle as he takes his member in his hand.

Jimin slowly begins pumping his shaft, making sure to gather the precum at his tip and coat his member in a beautiful mixture of the both of your juices. Your legs remain clenched together as you try to suppress the desire flooding your system. All you wanted was him to fuck you right here and now, and you were in no mood to beg tonight.

Leaning slightly forward onto your elbows, you arched your back lower, lifting your ass higher to try and get his attention. He was taking far too long and focusing on catching your breath was more important than asking for what you wanted at this point. What better way to tell him to fuck you already than to rock your hips back, causing the tip of his cock to rest against your ass?

“Use your words, Princess,” a smirk grows onto his face as he takes notice of what you’re trying to do. An agitated whine soon leaves your mouth. You were too tired to beg, and he had already wound you up enough.

“Jimin please,” you moan, “please just fuck me already.” Leg bouncing impatiently as you wait for him, he finally lines himself up at your entrance. A steep gasp passes through your lips as his cock slides itself into you; your velvety walls squeeze the veiny ridges of his member as you take him in.

A string of curses leaves his mouth as his shaft slides into your cunt. The arousal spilling from your hole coating his cock as you clench around him. Jimin’s hands find their place on your hips, holding you steady as you adjust to his size. Even after all this time together, every time you have sex feels like the first. Maybe it was cliché to think so, but acclimating to his size would never be easy. 

It was comfortable. Even though you were on your back patio where your neighbors could see you at any moment, the setting was beautiful and everything in this moment was perfect. The sun was just beginning to set and the passing breeze chilled the perspiration beginning to gather on your skin. You’ve never felt better than you do in this moment – speared on your boyfriend’s cock while you waited for your food to cool.

As Jimin began thrusting in and out of you, your hands took grip on the sides of the chair, holding on for dear life knowing what was in store. His movements were beginning to quicken rapidly, the sounds of his skin colliding with yours and the deep moans echoing from his throat filling your ears. Your chest heaves deeper and heavier with each of his movements, soft whines bubbling past your lips as he meets new places within your core.

“Fuck you’re so tight,” he groans, teeth clenching as you squeeze tightly around him. The familiar knot in your stomach was making its way back to you. The repetitive tap of Jimin’s tip deep inside you had you too far gone. With one powerful thrust, you were coming undone around him. Your legs soon begin to crumble underneath you before his arms wrap around you to catch you from falling.

A gentle scream escapes your mouth as you ride out your high, Jimin’s pace only quickening to chase his own. The familiar tingling sensation begins to rush through your veins as oversensitivity starts to set in. When your eyes slam shut all you can see are stars, small white blotches blinding your vision as your pussy continues to spasm around him.

You aren't even able to catch your breath as your orgasm begins to subside. Jimin is too busy pounding into you, his hips meeting your ass with a slap as he bottoms out.

“Don’t pull out,” you say quietly. All that's on your mind is being filled to the brim with Jimin’s cum. You’re aching for his release, squeezing your core as hard as you can to ease it from him. The grip he holds on your waist tightens, his face scrunching as he focuses on chasing his high, “want you to fill me up.”

And with that, he was. Collapsing over you, he held you close as he reached his high. His heavy breathing fanned over the back of your neck, your shirt sticking to your back as beads of perspiration soiled the fabric.

“Love you,” he whispers in your ear, kissing just below it. You can feel the rise of his cheeks against your skin as he smiles. It was comfortable here, with him like this. Almost too comfortable for having sex out in the open like this, but it was past the point of caring as he held you tight in his arms.

“Love you more,” you whisper back as a grin stretches wide across your face.

“I think we might have to heat up the food again,” he chuckles before pulling out of you to look at the food placed neatly on the table.

“I’ll make sure I wait for it to cool down this time,” you giggle as you stand upright, legs still feeling jello-like as you search for your pants.

“I can think of something to do while we wait for it to cool,” Jimin smirks as you turn in his direction. His eyebrows are lifted suggestively, winking at you when you make eye contact. “Round two?”

'Patio Penetration’ is copyright 2020 @parksfilter​​​, all rights reserved. Pleas do not repost on any platform or translate without permission.

[ground-riot-jack]

doesn’t equal forever | r. tanaka | part 1

bestfriend!tanaka x reader

tanaka has been your bestfriend for years, but you’re determined to confess your feelings this movie night

warnings: angst, a lot of angst, cussing of course, a little bit of fluff.

You and the crazy ball of aggressive energy that you called your bestfriend, Tanaka, have been friends since middle school. You’d been sat next to each other in homeroom so it became natural to ask the other for a pencil or homework answers or to just study together. You’d grown close and decided to both attend Karsuno High School. Your first year you realized you had feelings for Ryu. He was funny, nice and he always made sure you were okay. As the time went on your feelings for Ryu only grew stronger.

The only person who knew about your feelings was your mutual friend Nishinoya. You’re not sure how but he figured it out before you did, teasing you quietly to make a move on the bald crackhead you liked.

You never tried too hard to show Tanaka your feelings for him, sticking to light flirting and usual bestfriend antics. You figured if he liked you, he’s forward enough to tell you. By your second year, you quickly realized Tanaka didn’t have feelings for you, but instead was obsessed with Kiyoko, team manager.

It began as a joke, really it did. Noya, Ryu and you would fangirl over Kiyoko any chance you got as an inside joke about her beauty. Then you slowly backed off as the boys took their job as Kiyokos personal hype man and bodyguards a little more seriously.

Today was like every other day. You were helping Noya and Ryu set up some drills in the gym, talking and gossiping about random things when the gym doors opened quickly, Kiyoko and Yachi jogging in quickly and immediately going to Coach Ukai and Takeda.

“Awe man, It looks like Kiyoko got us that practice match we’ve been looking for. What can’t she do?” Tanaka sighs dreamily while watching his older manager. His task was long forgotten and now laid on you and Noya to complete.

“Oí, have some respect for Kiyoko and yourself. Quit staring” Noya smacks Ryu on the back of his shaved head, who jumps and goes back to his task, while mumbling about a new headache.

“So, do you guys wanna come over and finally watch the season finale of-“

“VAMPIRE DIARIES” The boys shouted in unison.

“Of course y/n, we’ll meet at your place at 8. Ive gotta shower and big sis cooked dinner tonight.” Tanaka replies

“Okay, i’ll grab us some snacks and be ready at 8. if either of you aren’t there before 8:30 I’m starting the show without you.” You send a pointed look at the two boys who weren’t very good at time management.

Once practice ended, you, Noya and Ryu were getting ready to walk out when Tanakas name is called. You all stop and turn and see Kiyoko motioning him over.

“She’s calling me? She wants me!” Tanaka stutters out before sprinting full speed to where she’s standing across the gym.

“whatever, let’s just head home, get a head start in my shower and dinner.” Noya pouts, clearly jealous. You both begin the walk home, living fairly close to each other.

“I think tonight’s the night Noya.” You sigh dreamily.

“The night? Like tonight? Woah y/n, when did you get bold?”

“I just-I really really like him and i’m tired of hiding it. Plus, we’ve been flirting since we were kids. He has to have some kinda feelings for me. And if he doesn’t it’s fine, i’m a big girl and rejection is just apart of life” You huff. You look over and see Noya wiping fake tears from his eyes.

“My baby is all grown up” He fake wails into the air, causing you to shove him to the side. He gasps before jumping on you and tickling you making you beg for mercy. When you beg and his hands finally let up, he lets out a light sigh. “I’m serious y/n, i’m proud of you, plus i think he likes you too, you’ll be so cute together” Noya smiles brightly before hugging you and waving bye before heading down his street, leaving you to yourself.

8pm rolls around and You hear a knock on your front door, before you can move to open it, it flies open revealing Noya standing there in pajamas holding candy.

“Damn, do come in them bitch” You giggle at the energetic boy.

“Ryus not here yet?” Noya says, plopping down on your couch.

“Uh, no. I’ll text the group chat.” You vite your lip and pull out your phone.

“Uh he’s so lucky, Id die if Queen Kiyoko asked me to run an errand for her.” Noya sighs dramatically.

“Even if it was during your bestfriend weekly movie night?” You grumble before standing and moving to the kitchen to bust your mind.

“Don’t be upset pumpkin, Kiyoko is just like a little crush everyone, even you, has so Ryu is doing something for her. He will be here in no time, you can confess your feelings and then we can watch our absolute favorite show.” Noya follows you, smiling brightly at you.

“Yea you’re right, i’m just a little nervous. You wanna watch some youtube till Ryu gets here?” You smile back. You both head into the living room to pass time until your other bestfriend arrives.

At 8:45, you and Noya began getting a little worried. You’d called Ryu but he hasn’t answered. He wasn’t always on time, but he was never this late without contacting one of you. You went ahead and texted Ryu and couple more times just in case he fell asleep after his shower. You sat silently chewing your lip, worried about Ryu when Noyas phone dinged. He tapped the screen to reveal a text from the man of the hour.

Tanaka 🥵✨

on my way!

Noya relayed the message to you and decided to use the bathroom before Tanaka got there so you could go ahead and start the episode. While Noya was gon his phone, left on the coffee table, made another ding. You took a quick look so you could tell Noya when he came back, like you usually do.

Tanaka 🥵✨

also y/n kept blowing up my phone while I was with kiyoko, she almost cock blocked me 😭it was low key annoying

Your chest tightened, your stomach dropped, your heart broke and your breathing sped up. Ryu had never once expressed that you were ever bothering him, to your face atleast. Maybe he always texted Noya about you like this. Your eyes stung with tears that you pushed back. You re read the text until it something else crossed your mind. You’d almost cock blocked him? Does that mean-

You’re interrupted by your front door swinging open to reveal a exasperated Ryu. You stood and ran to the kitchen, claiming you needed more snacks. You heard Noya leaving the bathroom and saying hey to Ryu. Then you heard hushed yelling, but you couldn’t make out the words. You gathered food and took a deep breath before waking back out. You just had to casually ask Ryu about his night with Kiyoko, then you could admit your feelings if the time was right.

You walked in and saw Noya looking at his phone then Ryu and then you. You set the food down and got on your phone to text Noya, letting him know you saw the text. You heard his breath hitch and he looked at you with pity and confusion.

“Where’s my hug y/n?” Ryu smiles brightly, you hugged him but pulled back slightly when you realized he smelled like expensive perfume instead of his usual cologne. He took his jacket off and sat on the couch, and your heart broke more than you thought it could.

There were atleast 5 hickies on Ryus neck, and one peeking out the collar of his shirt, letting you know there were more on his chest. You looked at your lap but saw Noya kick Ryu in the shin.

“wha- oh you guys want an announcement, haha i get it. Yes okay, I slept with Kiyoko. No big deal” Ryu bragged, striking a pose as you held back a fountain of tears.

You tried to open your mouth to share a false congrats but the lump in your throat made it next to impossible to say anything without sobbing. You gripped your sweatpants tighter in an effort to calm yourself. The air in the room grew awkward as everyone sat in silence.

“Y/n? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Ryu asks, at his question you can’t help but let the dam break, sobs racking your body as tears flowed from your face. You could do nothing but cry into your hands.

“I-i, i don’t understand. Are you okay?” Ryu moves closer but you run upstairs and slam your bedroom door shut. You can vaguely hear them talking downstairs but not clearly enough to even tell who’s speaking. Meanwhile, the boys were having a heated discussion.

“You absolute idiot! Why would you do this.” Noya gripped his hair and pulled.

“What the hell is going on?” Ryu pleads.

“I-You- You just had to fuck Kiyoko on movie night? You just messed everything up! Oh and y/n saw your text by the way! Some friend you are” Noya laughs dryly at the taller boy.

“My text...Oh shit! I didn’t mean it like that. I just- I didn’t. Kiyoko asked me to help her with something and I did and then she was flirting with me and then-“

“Y/n IS IN LOVE WITH YOU IDIOT!” Noya shoves Ryu over the couch, causing his to trip and land on his ass. “She loves you more than a friend and she was going to confess tonight, then you stroll in here almost an hour late with hickies all over you and smelling exactly like Kiyoko. You don’t think that hurts y/n, and then on top of that you called her annoying when she was worried about you. So you either need to go up there and say you like her too or you need to apologize and leave because I will not sit here while you play with her feelings.” Noya says now standing over the taller boy.

“I-, I didn’t know she liked me. I-I don’t like her like that. She’s my bestfriend Nishinoya. Of course I love her, but like you love a cousin or something.” Ryu spits out, eyes full of regret.

“Then go upstairs, apologize and let her down gently.” Noya picks Tanaka up by his collar and pushes him towards youre bedroom. Tanakas throat tight hens as he gets closer to your room. He can hear you sobbing from down the hall he’s walked a million times.

He slowly pushes open your door and see you laying in your bed, face pushed into a pillow and sobbing.

“I love him so much, Noya. And stupid gorgeous Kiyoko gets him. She wasn’t even there for everything. She wasn’t there for him like I was!” You scream into your pillow before looking up and seeing Tanaka standing in your doorway. You quickly straighten up and wipe your face while avoiding eye contact with your crush and bestfriend.

“Y/n, i’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have-“

“It’s fine Tanaka, if you like her then you like her” You sigh.

“I didn’t mean to call you annoying. You know you’re my bestfriend and I love you, but not like that. I’m sorry y/n, I can’t be what you’re expecting me to be.” He sits at your desk chair.

“Then why are you here Tanaka? Here you can have all your stuff back-“ You stand, speeding into the anger stage of your grief. You quickly grab jewelry and stuffed animals you’d received from him over the years.

“Stop calling me Tanaka, and I want you to keep the stuff”

“I will continue to call you Tanaka because I clearly don’t know you as well as I thought I did. And you think I want your stuff in my room? You think I wanna roll over and be reminded that you will never feel the same way about me and that fucking Kiyoko was the one to get you in the end? I’m not doing that. You think i want your stupid hoodie that smells exactly like you in my closet? or even on me? So i can be reminded that I can never hold you this close again and that you will never be my Ryu. Is that what you want for me Tanaka? So take your shit and leave, please” You box as much of his things as you can and press the box into his chest.

“Y/n...”

“No Tanaka. It’s okay. Deep down I always knew you didn’t feel the same. The way you look at Kiyoko, I knew you’d never look at me that way. I’m just your friend right, so i have no choice but to support you.” You sniffle and open your bedroom door for Tanaka to walk out of.

“Y/n, can you just wait a second. I’ve barely got a word in,”

“If you’re not going to tell me you love me, then you need to go because honestly dude, it’s hurt so fucking bad just looking at you.” You bite your lip and keep your eyes trained on the floor. You dared to sneak a glance at Ryu but what you saw caused ur heart to clench. His eyes were wide and glossy, his hands were lightly shaking. When he was like this, your normal reaction was to hold him and tell him everything’s gonna be okay, but now you couldn’t. You kept your hands to yourself and you waited as he walked out of your room.

“I’m sorry y/n. I am” He sighs before leaving your house completely.

Authors note: PHEw!!! i actually cried writing this so i’m sorry, i hope you liked it. I love tanaka so much and i love kiyoko but i saw the opportunity and i decided to hurt my own feelings :)))

[writingsbychlo]

more ways than one (01)

word count; 4951

summary; your first meeting with the stranger you rescued doesn’t go as smoothy as you’d hoped.

notes; I remind y’all that Stiles was possessed, but it veers off and it goes away, it’s not really mentions how, but the nogitsune never splits from Stiles. Allison is still alive, and Malia and Stiles are not a couple. Oh, and Derek is away travelling with Cora. That’s about it.

warnings; violence, choking, aggression.

You chewed on the straw in your mouth absentmindedly, your gaze trailing off into the distance as the girls talked constantly around you. You were vaguely following the conversation as they spoke, the girls chatting loudly about everything you had all been through lately, as though the supernatural was public information and they didn’t care about the opinions of those tables around you all who could easily eavesdrop if they bothered to listen closely.

Your eyes were squinted a little, the sun shining down and giving a warm feeling over the day, despite the storm that was due to set in later on in the day, and Lydia had texted you all this morning and told you to be ready to go for a late lunch while it was warm. She claimed that after everything that had happened with Stiles’ brief run-in with possession, and the year of supernatural crap that had gone down during your sophomore year, that you were all well overdue a lunch date to chat. That, and she was taking the opportunity to introduce Malia to the world of once again being bi-pedal and human.

Said strawberry-blonde snapped her fingers in front of your face, calling your attention to her and your thoughts snapped away from the nightmare you had somehow landed yourself in, your eyes focusing in on her as you pulled your milkshake away from your mouth, smiling as casually as you could as you looked at her. Her eyes were narrowed, lips pursed as she studied you carefully, before her lips were twisting up in a smirk. 

“What’cha thinking about so hard there, girly?”

You cleared your throat, shaking your head and smiling casually as you lifted one of your fries to your mouth, chewing on the soft potato as you shrugged at her, trying your best to play it cool, but the four sets of eyes on you were throwing you through a loop. “Nothing.” You watched them carefully, swallowing the milkshake before taking a long sip of your milkshake, the chocolate flavour filling your mouth and she merely hummed, Allison was snickering as she turned to whisper to Kira, and Malia simply watched the interactions, taking the last bite of her double-cheeseburger and licking the sauce from the edge of her mouth, humming happily around the food.

“So, you’re not thinking about a pale and male-covered boy with brown hair and bright eyes?” You practically choked on your drink as Allison questioned you, your eyes wide as you wondered whether they’d found out about the lookalike you’d stashed at Derek’s loft, and you sputtered for an explanation, your cheeks heating up with a red flush, Kira cracking up and slapping the huntress on the arm as the two curled into each other in a fit of giggles. 

“She’s totally thinking about Stiles, look at her blushing!” 

You felt relief seep into your body as the tension slipped away, your body slumping in the seat as you rolled your eyes, your racing heart calming as your secret remained safe, for now. “Wait, am I missing something? Why would I be thinking about Stiles?”

Lydia picked at her acrylic nails, not even bothering to look up at you as she spoke. “Maybe because you’re totally into each other?”

“What?”

“Oh, come on. You know the two of you have gotten super close, lately!” Allison insisted, and your brows rose as you glanced around the other girls, and Lydia mumbled her agreement as she sipped at her water, a half-eaten salad sitting in front of her. 

“When I first met you guys, I thought you were together,” Kira added, and you rolled your eyes, nibbling on your lower lip as embarrassment flooded through your system, the copy-cat male you’d hidden away yesterday slipping from your mind as thoughts of the original filled your thoughts. You loved your best friend, you truly did, and you couldn't deny how much closer you’d gotten to him lately, but it was only because he’d come to you when he started to feel the effects of his possession, confiding in you long before anyone else had. “I think you’d be cute together.”

“Are they not together?” Malia muttered, looking intently at the uneaten food on your plate, and you giggled as you offered it up to her, a bright smile taking over his face as she accepted the plate ad placed it down on top of her own empty one, quickly tucking into your leftover food.

“C’mon girls, he’s totally in love with Lyds, since like third grade. You know this, he’s not exactly subtle.” You teased, knowing it was true. The boy spoke about her all the time, and while he hadn't quite been as vocal about it, you knew he was still pining for the red-head girl. 

“Everyone’s a little bit in love with me, but not everyone holds hands with their best friend.” You snorted unattractively, giving her a side-eye and leaning back, your legs crossing proudly as you thought about it. 

“When have I ever held hands with Stiles?”

“Uh, like six times over the past three months?” Kira objected, the others all making various sounds of agreement as you watched Malia finish your meal too, a proud smile on her face as she leaned back in her chair, legs parted and hands sitting on her stomach as she groaned happily at the feeling of having a full stomach.

“Three of those times he was unconscious, one of those times he was going into a bathtub full of ice and one of those times he was checking into a nuthouse.” You pointed out, and the banshee counted them off on her fingers, wiggling a finger at you as she smiled.

“That makes five, what about the sixth time?” 

You shrugged, deciding to bait them a little, a sigh falling from your lips. “You’re right, me and Stiles are totally and madly in love. You caught us out.” Their jaws dropped as they leaned forwards, a collection of squeals sounding as you tried to keep a straight face, eventually cracking up, and one by one they caught on as they scowled at you, Allison flicking you in the arm and Lydia pinching the other one, and you jumped away from both of them, rubbing your arms as you all but cackled at having fooled them. 

The conversation moved on as they began to focus on other things, and you pulled your phone from your pocket, two messages flashing up on the screen and you clicked on the first, rolling your eyes as you opened the message from Stiles.

[batman 🦇💛] bring me ur leftover pizza back from lunch?

can’t, malia ate it, whoops x

[batman 🦇💛]  >:( I can’t believe this, does 12yrs of friendship mean nothing to u?!

You grinned, rolling your eyes and tuning out the taunts and whistles you got from the group around you as they realised you were texting your best friend, your fingers flying over the screen as you typed out your reply, checking the time before you did.

according to the girls, it means we r in love x

[batman 🦇💛]  ha. funny. ive seen u eat sand. couldnt kiss u now.

shut up, dumbass. I was 6 and u dared me x

[batman 🦇💛]  kinda sad to kno the girl i'm in love w/ thinks i love u but that's my luck.

You cooed, rolling your eyes and promising that you’d text him later as you swiped out to the other text, your stomach churning as you realised it was from Derek. Admittedly, he was only asking about his loft, and whether you’d been over to check everything was okay, but it still made guilt twist at your guts before you sent a half-true reply, choosing instead to cover up the real facts. 

Instead, you chose to tell him that you had definitely been over to check and that everything was tip-top okay, neglecting to tell him that you were stashing a supernatural double of your best friend only two weeks after he was mysteriously possessed and released, and that he was cut up and injured and arrived from a weird storm. Minor details.

Clearing your throat, you pulled out a handful of notes from your purse, placing them down in the amount that you owed as you excused yourself from the table, balancing the strap of your bag on your shoulder and smiling at the complaints of your friends as they encouraged you to stay, but it was already nearing the late afternoon and early evening, and you needed to grow the courage to return to the scene of your crime.

The pharmacy was only a quick walk around the corner, and you’d made sure to park your car outside of it so that none of them would see you leaving and entering the building with a suspicious amount of medical supplies, and you pulled the crumpled paper with your list pulled on out of your pocket. Smoothing the crumpled item out in the palm of your hand, the bell above the door jingled, the air conditioning washing over you immediately and you shivered at the sudden temperature drop upon entering the shop.

Peering at your own writing, you smiled uneasily at the cashier who was watching you, a kid who’d graduated just a year or two earlier, and her eyes narrowed on you as you moved through the shelves. Plucking one of the plastic shopping baskets from the side, you held it carefully in your arms, avoiding their scrutinising gaze.

Paper Stitches.

Your eyes scanned over the shelf, a surprising number of options displayed before you, and even the first option was already showing you the impact that this little shop was going to have on your bank account, and you simply prayed it would be worth it. Taking the largest size and strongest strength in your hand, you shrugged to yourself, dropping it into the basket and scanning the other ones. You could always pick up another size of you needed them, but you were definitely going to need at least two boxes of these ones for now.

You couldn't help the scowl on your face as the sum total began to add up in your mind, moving along the aisle to the wrapping sand covers,

Bandages. Gauze.

There were far too many options of bandages and covers, a jumble between compression wraps, light and thick material covers and thick and padded gauze. You could barely tell the difference between any of the options, and you began to think that maybe you should have paid a little more attention to the quick google search you’d done earlier as to what you actually needed. 

First up, a collection of thick, cotton wool paddings to place over the large gashes the man had obtained, followed by gauze and bandages, a hand rubbing over your forehead as the collection began to gather up in the bottom of the basket. Your fingers brushed over the rolls of medical tape, and you dropped a roll of that in too, knowing you’d need something to fasten the material to his torso with. 

You skirted around the corner to the next set of shelves, your cheeks flaring in a blush as you caught the suspicious gaze she was giving you, and you cleared your throat, holding your head high as you ignored the judgement hanging on her sights. 

Antiseptic Wash. Hand Sanitizer. Cotton Balls.

100 cotton balls in a bag for three dollars felt like a good enough offer for you, and you dropped it into the basket, humming to the tune playing over the radio above your head as you swiped a large bottle of antiseptic wash from its place, and finally, a few of the small bottles of hand sanitizer, because you’d been needing some more of that anyway. 

You hadn't quite been ready for the odd glare the ex-peer had given you when you placed the basket on the counter, and her eyes moved slowly between the items and your eyes, a sarcastic smile on her lips as she slowly began to ring them up, placing them all in a paper bag for you and ensuring they would all fit.

In a bid to avoid the wight of her stare fixed on you, you let your eyes scan over the ‘last-minute-purchase’ options on the counter, adding a packet of strawberry bubblegum to the collection and she scanned it through, reading your total to you and you jammed the card into the reader, wincing at the price that was displayed on the small screen. Your fingers punched into the buttons as you bit your tongue, taking the card and the bag as soon as you could and you darted from the shop, barely pausing to take your receipt from her as you fled. 

Placing the stuffed paper bag on the shotgun seat, you rounded the car, letting out a deep sigh as you strapped into the seat and stuck your keys into the ignition. Digging into the bag beside you, you fished out the bubblegum, taking a stick from the packet and unwrapping it, popping it into your mouth and letting the chewing motion and sweet flavour soothe you as you started up the car and began the well-ingrained journey to the loft, anxiety riddling your body.

The radio played quietly in the background as you made your way along, the only sounds filling the car being that of the quiet hum of the latest chart-toppers, and the occasional pop of the bubblegum in your mouth. You weren’t really too sure why you were still keeping this secret from everyone, you had the perfect chance at lunch to tell the girls about what had happened, to get help and confide in someone.

Stiles.

Deep down, it was about protecting Stiles. The ripples on the surface of the water had only just smoothed back down, and you weren’t willing to throw the next stone in a situation that you were absolutely certain you could handle yourself. How dangerous could someone who was 147 pounds and unconscious be?

That was the only thought that was strong enough to force you up and out of the car, your feet carrying you forwards as you unlocked the main door, clicking it shut behind you as you made your way toward the stairs, choosing to walk all the way up to the top instead of taking the rickety elevator. You could use the time to calm yourself down, work out what you were going to do if the stranger you were harbouring was now awake.

Your hands were shaking so much that the keys were jingling as you walked, and you clenched them in a fist, taking a deep breath as you reached the final level and pausing before the silver metal door. With a deep sigh, you unlocked it carefully, sliding it out of the way and looking inside carefully. Natural light was flooding in through the huge bay windows at the other end, the concrete room lit up with warm light that almost made the monochrome grey space look welcoming, and your eyes zeroed in on the space that had once occupied that man you had rescued. 

Nothing seemed out of place, the room wasn’t trashed and rummaged through, and everything was still and calm as you took a first cautious step inside. By the second step, you were sliding the door shut behind you, your brows furrowing. By the third step, a cold hand was sealed tightly around your throat, pinning you up to the wall as the tips of your toes brushed the ground. 

The bag in your arms fell away, the items within it scattering across the floor as you squeaked, coming up to grab at the wrist holding you so tightly to the wall as you struggled to drag in any breath at all, your gaze meeting the furious one of the face you knew so well on the person you didn’t know at all. Those familiar honey-brown eyes were scanning over you interrogatively, and the long fingers wrapped around your throat flexed, tightening for a second before you were released, and you fell to your knees, eyes watering as you took in burning breaths, rubbing soothingly at the skin on your throat as the man merely stood and watched you for a second, before spinning on his heel and walking away.

You watched him go, shaking your head as he stormed away, and once your breathing had finally calmed and your heart had stopped racing so had on your chest that you thought it may burst out, you began to slowly gather up the items you had dropped, stuffing them all haphazardly back into the now torn paper bag and standing it up. Sitting on your knees, you took a moment to gather yourself, your eyes locking with the narrowed brown ones watching you, goosebumps rising over your body and you tried to seem strong, not to let him know quite how terrified you really were, as you took the back, standing on unsteady legs and holding your head high as you stared him down.

Making your way over to him, you placed the bag down in front of him, raising your brows as you moved slowly, the warning growl in his throat being acknowledged as you held up your hands, palms out to him to show you meant no hard, despite the fact that he'd attacked you only moments prior. Instead, you slowly tipped the bag upside down, allowing all the contents to spill out across Derek’s plain black coffee table, the man’s eyes scanning over it all, his face twisted in confusion as he looked at each item.

You stood with him in silence for a moment, letting him look at all the items, before he was stepping away from you, a snarl on his lips as he moved as far back as he could while still being able to watch your movements, track what you were doing. With a heavy sigh, you backed away yourself, never taking your eyes off of him out of fear of what he might do once you did, and for each step backwards you took, he moved forward one, and you slowly guided him toward the kitchen.

He lingered in the doorway as you moved around, never taking your eyes off of him for more than a split second as you searched through his drawers and cupboards, a small sound of victory leaving you once you found something you could work with, and you slipped two packets of the instant-noodles from the collection, dropping them on the counter as you continued your hunt on your meal-making task. 

He flinched each time a pot or pan clashed, his eyes once again narrowing menacingly, and you had to suppress a chuckle because it was no longer focused on you, but instead on the source of the loud sounds, as he glared at a frying pan that had shifted and fallen loudly on another one. Selecting a pan big enough for the job, you quickly filled it with water from the tap, deciding that using the hob was definitely the safest bet, as you worked with this. Tearing open each packet, you held it up to show him as you watched on curiously, and you dropped the solid blocks of noodles into the water, waiting for it to begin to bubble over the flame. 

There was nothing in the fridge that you could use, he’d gotten rid of everything perishable before going away, and you made a mental note to buy food, your heart once again sinking at the savings-draining task you had taken on. Maybe if you told Lydia, she’d give you her card and allow you to pay using her platinum, but you highly doubted you’d get away with telling her now without having to endure a long sit down talk and a lot of disappointed looks, which you weren’t ready to deal with. Lydia Martin could be scary when she wanted to be. 

The silence hung heavily in the room between the two of you, and you tried to school your face into a stoic expression, despite the stormy scowl that was being directed at you, his body shuffling as you looked at him, his shoulders rolling from the discomfort of his injuries and he looked like he was going to try and dash at any moment. Taking two dishes from the lower cupboard beside your legs, you placed them out on the table gently, a fork beside each one and you stirred the noodles, the pasta soft and flimsy as it circled around, the savoury smell filling the air and you quickly dished up the food after switching off the hob, placing a fork in one bowl and pushing it across the countertop toward him. 

He stepped forward as you took a seat on one of the stools, and you watched as he lifted up the instrument, pushing the pasta around the dish, a growl leaving him as he dropped the fork back into the bowl with a clatter, and you raised your eyebrows as you ate your own food, fixing him with a judgemental look and shaking your head. He used a single, skinny finger to push the bowl toward you roughly, some of the soup sloshing over the side and you let out a sigh, continuing to eat your food as he glared at you.

You had never felt quite so intimidated while in the presence of a bowl of noodles, and had you been anywhere else, in any other situation, you might have found this situation funny, perhaps even laughed at it, but right now, you worried you may actually choke on the noodles from stress. When you finally finished, and he was still twitching from foot to foot in front of you, his nervous shuffling giving you anxiety, too. 

“What? You don’t eat, then?” He merely snarled at you, despite the rumbling in his stomach as the delicious smell drifted through the air and you raised a brow at him, shrugging and taking the bowl, his eyes watching as you snatched the food from in front of him. You made sure to make a show of tipping it into the garbage disposal, his eyes watching as the food slipped away into the drain and his jaw tightened, twitching as he ground his teeth together, his body jerking in shock as you slammed your hand down on the button on the wall and the loud grating filled the room, before you finished it, a smug look on your face as you cleared the dishes into the sink to clean later.

He stalked from the room as you did, his nostrils flaring at your actions and you wanted to stomp your foot on the ground and groan, but instead, you merely clenched your fists by your sides, following after him as he whipped his head around to see you following him, choosing to make his way over to the couch and poke through the items spilt out on the coffee table.

He picked up the bag of cotton wool balls, looking at them curiously before dropping them and you cleared your throat, his hard gaze directed back to you as you crossed your arms over your chest self-consciously. “Those wounds on your back are bad, you should let me take a look at you.”

He blinked at you, twice, eyes wide and his face didn’t move, giving you no indication that he was actually understanding a thing you were saying and you took cautious and slow steps toward him, his body tensing up as you did and you plucked the item from his hands, meeting little resistance as you held it up. 

“These are for cleaning the wounds. On your shoulders?” 

You placed the item down, motioning to your own shoulders as you tried to make him understand, and he twitched at the motion, his features falling from their hard glare a little his eyes softening and he swallowed thickly, his gaze dropping from yours for just a moment as he adjusted his arms. A wince was clear on his face as he moved his arms back, his lips parting and a quiet groan left him. 

Your own shoulders slumped as you watched him, and you picked up another couple of items, deciding to offer him a small smile as you held it up, jiggling the packages before him, and the crinkling caught his attention. “These are for wrapping and padding the cuts, because those are really bad, and they’ll get infected.” 

He pursed his lips, but for once they weren’t fixed in a heavy scowl and you felt as though perhaps you were making some kind of progress with him. Placing them down, you moved through the rest of the items, lifting each one slowly and telling him what it would be used for, only receiving the same blank looks and lonely silence as he stood before you, his gaze flicking over both you and the room multiple times. Despite the lack of verbal confirmation, you were choosing to believe that he understood you, because his posture had loosened, his body slumping forward a little and he seemed a little less like he was preparing to fight for his life at every turn of events. 

It wasn’t until you’d finished talking to him and moved toward him that his defensive stance returned to him. He jerked aggressively away from you as you took a step toward him, and you lifted your hands, reaching out to him carefully as you motioned towards his back. “Let me take a look at your injuries!”

He stepped back again, his legs hitting the edge of the couch and he went rigid as you closed in on him, a low growl sounding from his throat, the noise rumbling from his chest in a warning and his eyes were practically burning with rage, his anger having built in seconds and your jaw dropped.

“We just talked about your injuries! I told you what I need to do!”

You tried one final time, reaching for him carefully and he took your wrist in his hand squeezing so tightly that your knees buckled as you released a cry, and he growled once again, this time predatory, as if to tell you to back off or it would get worse. Then, he was using his grip on you to push you back as you stumbled over your own feet, just about stopping yourself from tripping up and falling on your ass.

“Fine!” You snapped, your arms flying out to your sides as you shouted at him, and his eyebrows raised at your increase in volume, his eyes wide as he watched you, your own jaw clenching and you pointed at him angrily. “Go ahead, die of fuckin’ osteomyelitis for all I care!”

Your cheeks were flushed, and you fixed him with the harshest glare you could, before letting out a deep sound of anger, a groan that rippled through your body as you threw your head back, eyes squeezed shut as you tried to calm yourself down. Taking a series of deep breaths, you calmed your racing heart and the heat that was curling up your cheeks died down. 

You mumbled curses under your breath, turning back to him to find him staring at you intently still, and you ran a hand through your head, grimacing as the tension in the air hung thickly. “Look, I’m going to go and get some warm water, we really need to sort out those gashes or you’re going to get really sick.”

You nodded at him, hoping that he understood before you were rubbing your hands together and turning on your heel, making your way into the kitchen. Fishing out a fresh bowl, you turned on the tap, running the water over the inside of your wrist to test the temperature, and when it became too hot for the skin there, you knew it was the perfect temperature. Gathering enough in the bowl, you placed it on the side, searching through the drawers for some clean rags.

When you first heard the metal of the door sliding, your brows furrowed, and it took a second before the realisation of what that particular grinding of metal meant, your eyes widening and you squeaked, dropping the material on your hands as you dashed from the kitchen, your eyes scanning over the empty loft area and your heart raced, bile rising in your throat as you guts twisted. “Shit!”

Your eyes focused on the open loft door, and you ran towards it, your feet moving quickly down the stairs as your tried not to fall, your blood pounding in your ears and you let out a panicked and frustrated yell as you noticed the main door now hanging open too, his taller stature and head-start ensuring you wouldn’t catch up to him even with his injuries, the area surrounding the loft still and empty, as though he had just disappeared. 

Your legs buckled under you as the consequences began to run through your mind. Worry, fear and anger flooded your system as you kicked at a rock on the ground, tears lacing your eyes from the overwhelming floods of emotion bubbling over inside of you as you tried to work out what the fuck you were going to do now. 

The sun was almost setting, dark clouds moving in over the sky and threatening to break at any time as the sun sank lower and lower on the horizon.

“I’m so fucking screwed.” 

[radiorenjun]

I Don't Need It

• Pairing: Na Jaemin x Reader

• Genre: Angst, Comedy, Fluff

• Na Jaemin despised the idea of soulmates, he wanted to fight against fate for choosing his soulmate for him. Even if it means his stubborn childhood best friend wouldn't stop trying to make him accept about the similar tattoos on their wrists.

• Masterlist here!

• Chapters: iv, v

You smiled as you saw Jaemin on the otherside as you opened the door to Jaemin’s room. Your parents always gathered to these monthly dinners at each other’s houses, so usually, Jaemin and you were given some free time to hang out as both your parents prepared dinner. 

“Nana!” you exclaimed, pulling the taller boy into a hug. “I missed you,” you mumbled against his fluffy sweater, his scent filling your nostrils in an instant. “You saw me hours ago when we got smoothies,” he chuckled, reciprocating the hug nonetheless. You shrugged, your smile still evident and wide as you nuzzled your face against the soft fabric.

“I don’t care, I miss you nonetheless. You-” you were interrupted when Jaemin let out an awkward cough, ”Y/n.” He spoke sternly, knowing that you were gonna bring out the soulmate topic again. You look up at him with a cheeky smile, pulling away from the hug as you began to speak,  “sorry, I mean, who knows? You could’ve changed your mind bout it in the past few hours.” you giggled, earning an eye roll from the boy in front of you who lets out an exasperated sigh.

You bit your lip slightly at his annoyed expression, trying to keep your usual bright smile stretched across your face. “Oh!” you exclaimed after a moment of silence, reaching a hand into your jacket pocket and pulling out a small wooden box. “Here,” you smiled, breaking the tension as you handed him the small box.

Jaemin’s frown lighten as he raised one of his eyebrows in confusion, gently taking the wooden box into his hands. “What’s this?” he asked as he slowly opened the box to see a photo of the two of you playing with some action figures and barbies when you were still in kindergarten, his expression lighten and a small smile stretched across his face at the sight as the memory of the two of you roleplaying with your toys came flashing through his mind.

Soft music came out of the small box, it appeared to be a cute music box with a small figure of a porcelain farm girl with red braided pig tails spinning around spinning around in the middle of the box. Jaemin lifted his gaze to your bright one, “it’s a music box, dumb ass.” you replied with a laugh. Jaemin chuckled, as the calming sound of moonlight sonata came out of the music box. He closed the box and turned it upside down to see the crank slowly twisting along with the music.

“I want you to have it,” you smiled bashfully, tugging on the sleeves of your jacket nervously. Jaemin lifted a brow, “me? Why?” he asked, frowning a bit. “Is it a crime to give you a gift?” you pouted, “why are you acting as if I hid a bomb inside of it? That’s a special music box, you know!” you spluttered once you saw his expression hardened. “Sure it is, that’s what you said bout the other unexpected presents you gave me.” he chuckled. “It was to convince you to keep it. Shut up, that music box actually means alot to me.” you pouted.

“If it means so much to you, then don’t give it to me.” Jaemin shook his head with a laugh, passing you your music box back. You frowned when you felt the wooden box handed to you. “But I want you to have it because you, too, mean a lot to me.” You pouted, causing Jaemin to let out an frustrated sigh.

He pushed the music box back to you. Before you could retort, you both heard Jaemin’s mom calling out for the both of you from the dining room. “Y/N! Jaemin! Dinner’s ready, come on down!” Jaemin didn’t spare you a glance as he started walking down the stairs, leaving you standing awkwardly in the middle of his room with your music box in hand.

You sighed, ignoring the pain in your chest as you took a deep breath, trying to maintain a bright smile on your face. You felt the soulmate mark on your wrist sting against your skin. You clenched your fist to try to convince your mind to numb the stinging sensation, taking a deep breath as the pain in your chest and wrist subsided. “Y/N? You up there?” your dad called out from downstairs. “Yeah, hold up!” you spluttered as you tucked the small music box inside your pocket before hurriedly jogging down the stairs.

"What took you so long?" your mother laughed as you descended down the steps and came into view from the dining table. You smiled, “sorry, I spaced out. What did I miss?” you walked to sit in between Jaemin and your mother. “Spaced out? Well that’s very unusual of you,” Jaemin’s mom chuckled as you let out an innocent shrug.

“I’ve been spacing out a lot lately,” you giggled as you began to eat the pasta presented before you in one of Mrs. Na’s prized china plates. “Give her a break, it is their senior year of highschool after all,” Jaemin's father laughed in amusement, “make sure you study hard, you two.”

Jaemin smiled, nodding. “Will do, dad” he responded with a grin. “Anyways, how was school today?” Mr. Na asked, putting his elbows on the table and intertwining his fingers together as he chewed. “You should ask Mr. Captain Of The Football Team.” you giggled, nudging Jaemin by the shoulder, causing Jaemin to let out an embarrassed groan. “Y/N...” he whined, burying his face in his palm, the other holding his fork as an embarrassed smile appeared on his face.

“What? My son? Captain of the Football Team? Jaemin, you didn’t tell us that!” Mr. Na exclaimed in awe. “Congratulations, my boy! Back in my day-” your dad started, making you let out a whine. "Dad, no,” you laughed, "please don't start one of your stories again!"

"Oh hush, you two love our stories!" your dad shook his head as Mr. Na and him began sharing stories of their youth. Explaining how he got hit by the ball when the school photographer accidentally turned on the camera flash during the game and bumped into Mr. Na in the middle of the game because of how bright the light was.

“Oh god.” Jaemin laughed, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes as you clapped your hands in laughter at their stories. Both of your mothers shaking their heads and giggling along as they tried not to choke on their own foods as your dads acted out their stories dramatically.

“Anyways, I see you two are still getting along well. Tell me, Y/N, has my son finally accepted your undying love for him?” Mrs. Na asked curiously. Since that day on your 16th birthday, both your parents were hoping that Jaemin would let go of his dramatic ‘I don’t ever want a chosen soulmate’ idea and accept your love. But they were disappointed that Jaemin didn’t change his mind, they were quite happy at the fact that you were determined to convinced him otherwise.

What they didn’t know was it was starting to become a tough topic to talk about between the two of you. You were starting to grow tired of the ache in your chest whenever you get rejected, how you were clinging onto that little hope that Jaemin was just playing hard-to-get. But you didn’t want any of them knowing that your determination was wavering as Jaemin continues to reject you.

You bit your lip when Jaemin opened his mouth to speak, “Mom,” he whined. “What? Jaemin, it’s been two years. You should really drop this ‘no soulmate’ nonsense. Your father and I are clearly ecstatic that Y/N has a possibility of being my daughter-in-law.” Mrs. Na spoke in a stern tone. “Give the boy some time, Y/N is still as determined as ever.” your mother patted your head with a smile.

You let out a forced smile, obviously feeling uncomfortable with how awkward the conversation was going. “Jaemin, you should really stop rejecting Y/N so much. Poor girl has been waiting for years, for Gods sake.” Mr. Na laughed. “Mr. Na, don’t say that. I'm still eager as ever to keep trying, he is my soulmate after all.” you smiled, not noticing how grim Jaemin’s glare had gotten as the conversation progressed.

"I'll never stop trying." you grinned, "I'm never giving up til Jaemin reciprocates my feelings." Both of your parents laughed at your eagerness, oblivious to how Jaemin was basically bout to burst with annoyance and frustration and how fake your facade was.

Once you stopped speaking, you felt your heart sank once again. His eyes refused to meet yours as he fumbled with his food idly, listening to the conversation with his blood boiling in his veins, causing you to grow anxious. His fingers gripping the utensils so hard, you were surprised they weren't bent.

You bit your lip before you slowly stood up, quickly mumbling that you needed to go to the restroom. You quickly walked away to avoid Jaemin’s dark eyes, quickly entering the bathroom upstairs, locking the door and slide your back down against it as you felt tears stinging your eyes.

You held a deep breath and tried to swallow the lump in your throat. You bit your lip as you pulled the music box out of your pocket, turning the crank before opening the box to hear the serene sound being produced on a continuous loop.

Your breathing calmed down gradually before a knock was elicited from the door. You flinched in surprise at the sudden sound, you quickly stood up and took a second to look at your reflection at the mirror to check if you look presentable enough to walk out. You shut the music box and tucked it behind you as you opened the door to be met with the dark angered eyes of none other than Na Jaemin.

“Nana?” you raised your brow in confusion. “What are you-” you were cut off when Jaemin’s fingers were suddenly wrapped around your wrist. “We need to fucking talk, now.” he growled as he quietly pulled you into his room.

Jaemin pulled you into his room angrily, shutting the door behind him and locking it to prevent your parents from invading. "What was that all bout?" he exclaimed angrily, a slight growl evident in his deep voice.

"What are you talking bout?" you raised your brow, tugging on the sleeves of your hoodie nervously as Jaemin continued. "Don't act dumb! You know what you were doing with all that soulmate talk! 'I'll never stop trying', what the fuck, y/n?!" he barked. "You know how much it pisses me off when you talk bout it."

"Me? They started the conversation, Nana!" you retorted, brows furrowed in response. "Still, you went with it." Jaemin ran a hair through his hair in frustration, "went with it? Okay, yes, I said something but it was to make your parents happy! I thought if I just agreed what they said they would stop talking bout you re-"

"Well you were wrong, okay? You have no idea how it feels to have your parents constantly nagging and telling you what to do and what not to do!" Jaemin barked, his voice getting deeper as his eyes darkened even more. His fists were clenched as the sight of the bright smiley boy was no more as of now.

" 'Oh Jaemin, you shouldn't reject y/n so much. You're actually going to make her give up on you sooner or later'" he mimicked in a high-pitched tone, words spewing out of his mouth uncontrollably in anger as he vented out his frustrations on you.

"'Jaemin, just accept the poor girl's feelings. You should just accept that she's your soulmate before you realise it's too late'" you felt your chest clench with every word. You didn't know he was always pushed by his parents like this.

"'Jaemin, give y/n a chance. Don't reject her all the time, you two are best friends remember.'" he growled, his eyes never meeting yours as he tugged on the strands of his hair in frustration. "I'm sick and tired of it, y/n!" he yelled, eyes filled with fury coming to meet your terrified ones.

"I'm sick and tired of being constantly reminded that I'm bound to be soulmates with someone I didn't chose to love." He continued, pulling on his sleeves to reveal the black mark that caused this entire mess. Your heart felt like crying out, you knew tears were slowly dripping from your eyes but you made a quick move to wipe them off with your sleeves.

"I'm sick and tired of you constantly forcing me and telling me things just because we have the same stupid mark! You don't know what it's like when people tell you how to feel!" he tugged down his sleeve angrily before taking a big step towards you.

You held your breath, trying to stay strong before Jaemin's eyes bore into yours coldly. His finger poking your forehead, right above the space between your eyes. "It's so fucking annoying to have your own best friend nag and whine every single day of your life bout how she's your soulmate."

"Its exhausting to be with someone who's so whiny and pushy. No matter how many times I fucking turn you down as gently as possible you're stubborn self couldn't see how annoying this whole thing is." he spat, his voice laced with venom as you look down, avoiding his cold stare.

You felt your chest tighten with every passing second, you felt like you were bout to burst. Your heart was crying out, begging and pleading to be freed from its pain. Practically saying, 'please let it out. It hurts. It hurts so much.'

"I'm sick and tired of you not leaving me alone. I don't like you like that, and I never fucking will. Get that through your thick skull, y/n." he hissed in your face. You bit your lip when he took a few steps back, the mark on your left wrist burning against your skin. Yet the physical pain wasn't enough to conquer the emotional pain in your chest.

Your heartbeat quicken as you took a deep breath, pulling out the music box in your pocket before handing it to him. "Can you at least keep this? I want you to have it." you sniffled, wiping your tears as best as you could as you tried to keep your voice steady. Nonetheless you hated yourself for sounding so weak and fragile at that moment.

This didn't faze Jaemin however, the anger in his eyes just continued to blind his vision with fury. He didn't know what came over him, but Jaemin pushed the wooden box out of your hand with a grunt, letting it fall to the floor. It's delicate thin parts breaking to pieces.

You gasped, flinching at the sound of wood and twine hitting the floor. You were surprised your parents hadn't come up yet, you look up in shock at the boy who was glaring at you emotionlessly. "I mean it, y/n." he spoke in a bold, cold tone.

You stared at what's left of the precious wooden music box, the small paper that is your childhood photograph poking out in between the pieces of broken wood. You took a deep breath before walking out of Jaemin's room, feeling something get stuck to the soles of your shoes.

You jogged down the steps of stairs, trying to keep your tears in. You felt like your heart had been crushed into pieces just like the music box. Your chest was aching badly, your wrist was burning and you just want to go home, curl up in your blanket and cry.

You needed to get out of there before you break. You knew you can't hold the pieces of your mask together anymore, and you weren't about to use the same broken mask over and over again anymore.

"Y/n, are you okay?" Mrs. Na's voice spoke behind you as you were about to open the entrance door. "Uh," you tried to sound casual with your tone but your weak voice gave it away. "I just remembered I had an essay to finish." you lied through your teeth, knowing you'd get a scolding by your parents later for leaving so abruptly.

"It's a really really long essay," you smiled, sparing the woman a short glance. "Dinner was amazing, Mrs. Na. Good night." you bit your lip to try to make your act last a little bit longer. "Are you sure? Honey, did something happen-" she tried again but you quickly turn the door knob and opened the door.

"Everything's just peachy, Mrs. Na." you smiled, not giving the poor woman another glance as you closed the door in front of her. Ignoring the cold breeze that hits your skin as you ran home, quickly finding the key under your rug and unlocking it.

You tossed the key onto the table beside the door and ran upstairs to your room. You were thankful that Jaemin's curtains were covering your view of him, but nonetheless you pulled your own curtains just for safety measure.

A moment of deafening silence met your ears as you felt your heartbeat in your ears, your eyes finally flooding with tears as you let out loud sobs. You collapsed onto your bed, putting a hand over your eyes to somehow stop the tears that were flowing uncontrollably, your other hand clutching the hoodie over your aching chest.

Ugly cries echoed through your room as you continued to break down. Jaemin's words repeating themselves in your head over and over again. You knew that this day would eventually come, you kept telling yourself to be prepared for the intense pain at this exact moment.

But why does it still hurt so bad?

Why does it still-

"Calling Renjun." a familiar monotonous voice appeared out of the blue. You sat up, sniffling, moving to see that you had been sitting under your phone that was now calling Renjun.

You gasped, "wait, shit, no!" fidgeting to hang up the call before he answers but unfortunately it was too late, he had already picked up the call. "Hello? Y/n?" his soft voice greeted through your phone speakers.

"Renjun, I'm so sorry, I sat on my phone and I think it accidentally-" you spluttered, choking on your words as you tried to hide the fact that you were sobbing your eyes out a second ago. "Wait, are you crying?"

That seemed to silence you. But a hiccup elicited from you gave him his answer, "no? Why would I be crying?" you shook your head, a sob coming out of your throat at the end of your sentence as your heart clenched once again.

"Y/n, it's okay. I'm here. Tell me what happened."

IM SORRY I HAVENT UPDATED, IVE BEEN BUSY DJSKSBSBB

[sparksinger]

lionheart

lionheart is finally finished and is up on both ao3 and fanfiction.net! 

ao3 lionheart

fanfiction.net lionheart

rating: mature 

content/trigger warnings: suicide mention, pregancy, childbirth, stillbirth. 

summary: optimus prime travels into space to find his creators while cordelia prepares for the arrival of her baby. what he discovers will change them both forever. 

________________________________________________________________

“Our story binds us Like right and wrong Your hand in mine Marching to the beat of the storm”

‘lionheart’ – demi lovato

A steady tattoo was beating inside Cordelia Prime’s skull.  It felt as if there was a vice attached to her head, squeezing it until she thought it would explode.  Inside her mind, she screamed.

Silver hands whirred and rested on her face; an oasis of cool paradise against the fire that seemed intent on devouring her.

“Lia?  Are you in pain?”

She struggled to open her green eyes.  Through her eyelids, she could see the faint shadow of Optimus Prime’s large frame looming over her.  She felt his weight settle next to her on the bed.  Since she’d been ill, Optimus had activated his holoform and had not left her side.

She brought a hand up to her face, that one action an Olympic effort.  It was as if there were 50-pound weight attached to each of her limbs and joints, and to move anyone of them seemed just as likely as humanity making it back to the moon.

Optimus was careful not to disturb the clear IV line going into the back of Cordelia’s left hand as he moved to sit beside her on the bed.

Her usually cream skin was devoid of any colour, not even the faint flush that was usually present in her freckled cheeks.  She sat up without warning and lurched forward, coughing.  Optimus realised what she needed and grabbed the bowl from where it sat beside the bed, simultaneously tidying her auburn hair off her face.

She propped herself up weakly on one elbow as she threw up into the proffered bowl.  She spat out shiny, stringy bile and eyed the contents of the bowl with thinly disguised disgust.  She took a small sip from the glass of water Optimus offered her and swilled it around her mouth before spitting it into the bowl.

She settled back against the pillows, the beat in her head reminiscent of war drums.

Optimus looked at her, his blue optics grave with worry and concern.  He gently pressed the back of his hand to her brow and simulated a sigh.

“Your fever is 101.6 degrees Fahrenheit.”  Wordlessly she reached for his hand and locked her fingers loosely around his.

Another shiver made its way through her body, causing her to involuntarily curl into the foetal position.

“That’s it.”  Optimus declared.  “I’m calling Jenny.”  Cordelia heard the quiet click that signalled the activation of his comm line.

She heard but did not listen to what Optimus was saying to Jenny.  All she cared about was being able to eat something or to even simply move without emptying her stomach at every opportunity.

The discovery of her pregnancy had been shocking enough, but three weeks on, Cordelia was beginning to grow accustomed to the idea.

At her twelve-week scan, when she’d vomited for the sixth time in under an hour, the technician had called a senior doctor in to examine her and he had diagnosed her with hyperemesis graviderum on the spot.

Cordelia kept hold of Optimus’ hand as he quietly chatted to Jenny.

“Yes, if you could come as soon as you can, that would be most appreciated.  No, I don’t think she needs hospitalisation.  The IV you set up yesterday seems to be doing the trick, but her fever is 101.6.  I’ll send Drift to come and collect you.”

He disconnected his comm line with a quiet click.  Cordelia found it within herself to open her eyes.  Optimus’ face was etched with concern, his lip plates turned down in a worried grimace.

He stroked her face gently, using the cool of his hand to abate some of the fire within her cheeks.

“How are you feeling little one?”

“Rough.”  Cordelia’s voice was dry and croaky from throwing up so much.  “Who would have thought that something so small could cause so much aggravation?”  Optimus chuckled and placed his hand over the small bulge that was present in her abdomen.

Cordelia smiled and put her own hand over his, interlocking their fingers.  “She’s not got the best timing, but I want her, so, so much.  I can’t explain it.”

Optimus raised an optic ridge.  “’She?’” Cordelia shrugged and smiled to herself.

“I don’t know why…I just see a girl when I picture her.”

“Is it something you wish to find out?  The gender?”  She shook her head.

“No.  Let’s leave it as a surprise.  Life needs a little mystery, don’t you think?”  He smiled in answer.

Abruptly, the steady drum behind Cordelia’s skull upped in its intensity.  She clutched at her head and scrunched her eyes tightly shut, trying to shut out the pain.

“What time is Jenny getting here?”  She asked through gritted teeth.

“Soon little one, I promise.  I’ve sent Drift to collect her.”

Cordelia nodded and rubbed the back of her hand over her forehead a few times.  “Okay.  Ugh, I’m sorry.”  Optimus lowered himself so that he was kneeling against the bed, bringing their faces level with each other.

“Sorry for what?  Lia, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for.”

She made a loose gesture to the immediate surroundings.  Optimus waved her worry away and stood in one fluid motion.  “Jenny has arrived.  I will go and let her in.  I will be right back little one.”  He bent to brush his lip plates carefully along her hairline.

She felt the faint puff of air as he dissipated his holoform to meet Jenny downstairs.

As Cordelia waited for Optimus and Jenny to come upstairs, her thoughts found their way to the kindly midwife.

Jenny’s services had been provided by Joshua Joyce as a way of appeasing his own guilt.  The ranch had also been paid for in full, as well as Cordelia’s medical expenses and that of any children she had, for the rest of her life.

Jenny was a spirited woman in her early forties with a kick-ass attitude.  She was a slim, petite woman with a short, graduated honey-brown bob accentuated by chocolate brown eyes.

At their first meeting, Jenny had put Cordelia at ease right away.

“Hi hon, let me tell you this straight away, I am here to work for you and only you, okay?”

Cordelia smiled at the memory, reaching over to itch the back of her left hand where the plaster securing the IV cannula had begun to irritate her.

The bedroom door opened as Optimus and Jenny stepped through.  Jenny had been informed about Optimus and all the other Autobots and had taken it all in her stride.

Jenny made her way over to the bed, setting her bag down on the floor.

“Hey hon, the big guy tells me you’re not feeling too hot today.  Let’s have a look at you, shall we?  Can you sit up for me chick?”

Cordelia started to shuffle herself up into a sitting position, but Optimus hurried over to help.  He slipped his hands underneath her arms and effortlessly lifted her so that she was sitting comfortably up against the pillows.  His hands lingered for a few seconds before he pulled away.

“Is that okay for you Lia?”

She nodded and smiled at him weakly.  “It’s great, thanks Optimus.”  Jenny turned to look at Optimus.

“Hey, I could use a cup of coffee if you don’t mind?”  Optimus faltered for a second before smoothing his features into a warm smile.

“Of course, Jenny, Lia, I’ll get you some more water.”  Instead of simply deactivating his holoform and reactivating it downstairs, he walked slowly over to the bedroom door, shutting it quietly behind him.

Cordelia listened as his footsteps grew fainter and fainter as he made his way down the stairs.  She turned her gaze onto Jenny, who was busy digging various medical items out of her bag.

“He really adores you, doesn’t he?”  She secured a blood pressure cuff around the top of Cordelia’s thin arm, sticking her stethoscope underneath it before she began to work the pump.

“Yeah.  I’m lucky to have him.  He’s…he’s saved my life over and over, never asking anything in return.”  Her eyes took on a slightly glazed expression.

She wriggled her fingers as the cuff began to loosen on her arm.  Jenny chewed her lip thoughtfully.

“Hmm.  86 over 58.  Not too great Lia – a bit lower than I’d like to see.”  Cordelia lifted her gaze to meet Jenny’s.

“Is it something to be worried about?”

“Not worried as in, ‘you need to be in hospital,’ but worried as in ‘this needs to be a higher figure given the fact that you are sixteen weeks pregnant’”.”

“Okay, so how do we get it to where it needs to be?”

“Medication if necessary, but I want to avoid that where possible.  I brought some medication for your hyperemesis graviderum because you can’t keep getting all your nutrients from intravenous fluids.  When was the last time you actually had something to eat?”

Cordelia snorted, “what, ate something and kept it down?  About three days ago.”

Jenny sighed.  “We need to treat your hyperemesis gravidarum first if we’re going to improve your blood pressure.  You need to be able to eat and keep it down.”

“Trust me, it’s not for the want of trying,” Cordelia sighed and toyed absent-mindedly with the IV line.  “I’m literally eating the blandest food I can think of – I mean yesterday I had boiled rice and chicken, no salt, no pepper and within fifteen minutes it had reappeared.”

Optimus returned through the bedroom door; a mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a plate of rich tea biscuits in the other.  It was all Cordelia could do not to rip the plate from his grasp and stuff them all into her mouth in one go.

Jenny accepted the mug from Optimus’ proffered hand and took a deep swig before setting it down on the bedside table.  “So, what we discussed while you were downstairs –“

Optimus held up a hand.  “No need to repeat yourself Jenny.  We need to find an effective treatment for Cordelia’s hyperemesis gravidarum before we can begin to effectively treat her hypotension.”

Jenny whistled.  “Impressive, were you a doctor on Cybertron?”

“No,” Optimus said with a small shake of his head.  “However, I take any ailment that Cordelia may suffer from very seriously and thus make it my priority to learn as much about these conditions as I can.”

She smiled and tucked the blood pressure machine and cuff back into its little case.  “Fair enough.”   She turned her attention back to Cordelia.  “I’ve brought some medication for your nausea, okay?”  She produced a box from her breast pocket.  “This is Zofran.  It’s one of the stronger anti-nausea medications on the market, but one that my patients have claimed is among the more effective.  And yes, it is safe to use while you are pregnant.”

“How many can I take a day?”

“I’m going to start you on a lower dosage, but you can take three tablets within a twenty-four-hour period, but you must leave at least a four-hour gap between doses.”

Optimus swiped the box up from where it lay on the rumpled bed covers and opened it, withdrawing the little leaflet inside.  He looked at the first side for all of two seconds before flipping it over in a move so fast that it hurt Cordelia’s eyes just to look.

Jenny raised a brow.  “You read all that?”

Optimus offered her a wry smile and folded the leaflet neatly and slid it back into the box.  “All in here,” he said, tapping the side of his helm.

“Again, I’m impressed.  Now – Lia.  I want you to start taking these today and let me know how you’re getting on with them.  You’re to ring me if you get any worse or have a reaction to the medication.  Is there anything else you want to go through with me?”

Cordelia took a deep breath.  “Yeah.  I wanted to discuss birthing plans.”

Optimus stood and brought a chair over to the side of the bed.  He seated himself in it, leaning forwards on his knees with his hands clasped together.

Cordelia looked to Optimus for a little reassurance and he gave her one of his ‘meant for her only’ smiles that didn’t quite reach his mouth.

“I don’t want to have the baby in hospital.”  Seeing that Jenny was about to respond, she held up a hand.  “I don’t want to give birth in the hospital, because let’s face it, this isn’t exactly a ‘normal’ situation, is it?  As soon as I walk through any hospital doors, all of my control will be taken away.”  She turned to face Optimus.  “The world’s media know about you all now, the secret is out, and my face with it.  Once they find out that I’m pregnant, the rumours and the hearsay will start.  Staff at the hospital will be made aware of our…relationship, and I know that you would personally examine the history and possible threat of every single member of staff that would be coming into contact with me.”

Optimus made a noise similar to a throat being cleared and wiped his fingers over the corner of his mouth, as if wiping away an imaginary stain.

“Lia, I will stand by you, however or wherever you choose to have this baby.  I’ve got your back little one, now and always.”

Jenny smiled.  “Okay, well so long as you don’t encounter any serious complications through this pregnancy, I don’t see any reason why you can’t have a home birth.  I do have a question of my own though.”

Cordelia arranged her hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck.  “Sure, what do you wanna ask?”

“Will you let me deliver your baby?”

A wide smile broke onto Cordelia’s face, lighting up all of her features.  Her eyes tilted upwards; her dark freckles prominent on the pale canvas that was her alabaster skin.  “Of course!  I wouldn’t have anybody else obviously.  Optimus, you’ll be there too, right?”

His optics grew misty as he leaned forward and grazed her cheek lightly with his knuckles.  “Little one, it would be my absolute honour.  Thank you.”

Jenny slapped her hands down on her thighs and rose from the bed.  “Great!  That’s settled then.  I’ll get the paperwork in motion and email the details to you.  Does that sound okay?”

“It sounds great Jenny, thank you so much.”  She leaned down and pecked Cordelia’s cheek, leaving behind a waft of floral perfume.

“No problem at all hon.  Please, don’t hesitate to call me if you have any concerns whatsoever.”  She gathered her things together and made her way over to the door.

Optimus got up and graciously took her bags, hanging them casually over his left shoulder.  “Ooh!  Tall, dark, handsome and a gentleman!  You wanna hang onto him nice and tight hon!”

Cordelia felt blood rush up her neck and flood her cheeks with heat.  Optimus shot her a ‘help me’ look as he escorted Jenny to the front door.

Cordelia smiled to herself and popped one of the Zofran tablets out of its blister and swallowed it down with a tiny bit of water.  She waited for the usual gag reflex to kick in, but nothing happened.

Let’s not walk before we can run Lia, she thought to herself.

She pushed the covers off her body and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.  Her pyjama trousers hung loosely on her protuberant hips.  She smiled wryly to herself.  Great, I’ve actually lost weight while I’m pregnant.  She wondered how many women would want to look how she did at sixteen weeks pregnant.  If only they wouldn’t mind living with the constant nausea.

Optimus reappeared then, nudging the bedroom door shut with his hip.  His optics widened and his mouth dropped open in a surprised ‘o’ when he saw Cordelia half in, half out of the bed.  It would have been funny if she had the energy to laugh.

He hurried over and detached the IV line from the cannula on the back of her hand.  “Lia, what are you thinking?  You-“

“I’m fine Optimus, please.  I’ve got to wash or have a bath or something.  I’ve been laying in that bed for two days and I feel absolutely disgusting.  Even if I just wash my hair.”

Optimus’ hydraulic joints hissed air out from between their housings – a sure sign that he was frustrated.  He ground his lip plates together, working hard to bury his frustration.  “Then please, allow me to assist you.  Please?”

She burst out laughing.  “Oh my God, are you actually pouting at me right now?”  He dropped his gaze from hers and she saw the corners of his mouth twitch.  She draped an arm around his neck.  “Go on then big guy, we both know you’re not gonna let me walk to the bathroom.”

He crossed his optics at her – his version of poking a tongue out.  He moved so that his left arm was secure around her back and shoulders, sliding his other arm underneath her knees.

He lifted her carefully, holding her against his chest, supporting all her weight with his upper body alone.  He walked carefully, not swinging her at all.  He turned sideways to pass through the en-suite, gently placing her down into the wicker chair that sat parallel to the bath.

“Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah.  I think that pill is beginning to kick in.  I feel a little groggy, but I don’t think I’m gonna throw up.”  She paused, scratching the back of her neck.  “But...I do feel really shaky on my feet – Optimus, can I ask you something?”

He knelt, resting his hands on her knees and bringing their eyes level.  “Of course, you know you can ask me anything at any time.”

His voice was so sincere and so full of love that it made Cordelia’s throat ache.  She reached up and ran her fingers lightly over one of his ear finials.  He leaned into her touch, almost purring.

“Can you…can you help me?  I mean with washing and dressing.  I don’t think I’m gonna be able to do it on my own.”

“Lia, of course I will help you.  And please, don’t be embarrassed about asking me to do so.”

She stared at him, incredulity present in her green eyes.  “How did you know?”

Optimus chuckled, a warm vibrant sound that warmed Cordelia’s heart.  “Because I know you better than you know yourself.  Seeing you in any state will never, ever change my attitude towards you or affect my love for you.  I will love you come what may, Cordelia Prime.  Through thick and thin, you have my Spark.  Now and always.”

“I’m just worried about…about you seeing me naked.  I don’t want to change things between us.  I mean, I love you more than I have ever loved anyone or anything, but I don’t love you romantically, and I know you don’t love me romantically and –” he placed a finger over her lips, silencing her.

“Easy little one.  You’re panicking.  Seeing you…naked as you put it, will not change my feelings for you.  You are right – I do not love you romantically, so seeing you in any state of undress will not affect me.  But, if it really makes you feel uncomfortable, why don’t you put your swimming attire on?”

Cordelia smiled and shrugged.  “You’re right.  It’s stupid to feel insecure.  I mean, Adam and Eve were okay about it, even if only for a little while.”

Optimus raised a metallic brow.  “Adam and Eve?  Oh, you are referring to ‘Genesis’, the first book in the Holy Bible.  I’ll start the bath.  I’m not going to let it get too deep just in case you begin to feel unwell.”  He got up and flicked the hot and cold taps on, holding one finger under the pouring water until he was satisfied with the temperature.  “Do you want to test it?”  He turned to look at her and she felt that all that was missing from the picture was a pair of half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose.

“No.  I trust you big guy.”  She watched Optimus as he searched through the bathroom, grabbing shampoo, conditioner, bubble bath and body wash.

He lined them all up along the edge of the bath.  Then he went into the cupboard under the sink and pulled out an elegant glass vase.

“What do you need that for?”  Cordelia asked, taking her hair out of the bun, and shaking it loose about her shoulders.

“It is for rinsing off your hair.  I don’t think that it is a good idea for you to get into the shower just yet.”  He turned the taps off and the water settled with a thick blanket of foamy bubbles resting on top.

Lavender and jasmine scents filled the room as Cordelia began to remove her clothes.  She slid her top off and left it in a rumpled heap on the floor.  Optimus respectfully turned away from her, his hands clasped behind his back.

She eased her trousers down over her hips and wriggled them off without needing to fully lift herself off the chair.  She got to her feet and promptly lost her balance, falling back into the chair with a soft plop.

“Damnit,” she muttered under her breath.

Optimus appeared wordlessly at her side and lifted her easily into his armoured arms.  He kept his blue optics on her face as he moved over to the bath, never once lowering them.

He stepped over the lip of the bath, lowering one foot into it as he did so.  He lowered her carefully into the water and as she was completely immersed in the warm water, she realised that the bubbles covered every intimate part of her body.

The water was simply delicious.  It caressed her tense muscles like the soft touch of an old friend.  She sat up against the wall of the bath, her legs stretched out in front of her.

Optimus filled the vase and poured the water carefully over her head.  He reached over and retrieved the shampoo bottle, deftly removing the cap and squirting some into the palm of the opposite hand.  He worked it up into a lather and started rubbing it slowly into her scalp.  He worked in slow circles, slowly growing bigger and bigger as he made his way from the crown of her head down to the nape of her neck.  No words were exchanged between them because they had already said all that had needed to be said.

She leaned backwards into the ecstasy that was his touch, relishing in the simplicity of it.  He ran his hands through her hair, working the shampoo into every strand.  “I love your hair, it’s so soft.  It takes on an entirely different texture when it’s wet.”

Cordelia snorted, turning to face him.  “Do you realise what you just said?”

He met her gaze with a perfect poker face.  “I’m perfectly aware of what I just said.”  His optics tilted upwards in one of his wry grins.  She chuckled and turned back around.

Optimus rinsed her hair, holding his hand over her brow so that the bubbles from the shampoo wouldn’t go into her eyes.  While Optimus was working the conditioner through the ends of her hair, Cordelia began to wash with the honey and vanilla scented body wash.  She grabbed the flannel and worked it over and under her arms and legs before washing in between her legs.

Optimus rinsed the last of the conditioner from her hair.  “Are you ready to get out little one?”

“Yeah.  I feel so much better already.  It’s amazing what a bath can do.”  He helped her out of the bath and wrapped a fluffy blue towel around her shoulders.

He darted into the bedroom and returned seconds later with a fresh t-shirt, underwear and sweatpants.  Cordelia used his proffered arm to balance while she quickly dried and dressed herself.  She wrapped her wet hair into the towel and turned to face Optimus.

“May I dry your hair?”  Cordelia went into the dressing table drawer and pulled out the hairdryer and a round brush.

“Sure!  Knock yourself out.”  She sat down in the chair he so graciously pulled out for her.

She watched his reflection in the mirror, the way his hands gently rubbed the worst of the damp out of her hair with the towel.  He began to guide the brush in smooth strokes through her dark hair, brushing back the shorter pieces of hair that had been her fringe a month ago.

She’d decided to let it grow out.  Being pregnant seemed to have kicked her hair growth into overdrive, and she’d put on two inches in the last six weeks alone.  Not to mention it was much thicker and shinier than it had ever been before.

He turned the hairdryer on and separated the hair into sections, his optics intent on the task at hand.  She watched as he brushed her hair down and under.

Twenty minutes later, he took out the section clip and let her hair fall in loose auburn waves about her shoulders.  He arranged it so that some was sitting evenly on her shoulders.  She looked at him in the mirror.

“Well, I’ll just have to start calling you Vidal Sassoon!”  At his confused expression, she waved her hand dismissively.  “Don’t worry; it doesn’t matter.”

She pushed the chair out from beneath her and moved to gingerly stand.  Optimus’ hands hovered nervously near her arms, ready to catch her should she need him.  At that moment, her stomach decided to emit a thunderous rumble.  “Oh my God, I’m so hungry.”  Optimus swept her up into his arms.

“Allow me to rectify that then,” he said with a wink.  He carried her down the stairs and set her down on the plush leather couch.  “What takes your fancy?”  He clapped his hands together, his metal palms making a soft pinging sound.

“Hmm…something salty?”

“I think I may have just the thing – a cheese and bacon omelette?”  Cordelia’s mouth started to water.

“Oh my God, yes please.  That sounds amazing.”

He grinned at her and then set to work in the kitchen.  Cordelia rose slowly up off the couch and made her way slowly through to the kitchen.

She sat herself in one of the oak dining chairs and leaned forward on her knees, watching Optimus as he prepped the necessary ingredients for her omelette.

He tapped three eggs open with his index finger and poured them into a jug.  He produced a whisk and began to stir the eggs in a whir of red, blue and silver.  The frying pan on the hob began to spit lightly.  He placed the jug down on the worktop and tossed in the bacon and tomato, seasoning it with salt and pepper.  He poured in the eggs and added a splash of milk.  The contents of the pan sizzled when he added the grated cheese.

The ingredients began to bind together, and just as Cordelia thought it was done, Optimus swiped the pan off the hob and stuck it under the grill.

“That’s the secret; it gets cooked evenly on the top and the bottom.  It also disperses the flavour more effectively.”  He grasped the pan and slid the omelette out of it and onto a plate with more flourish than even the most qualified chef.

He set it down before her with a glass of water.  “Bon appetit!”  He proclaimed, theatrically kissing his fingers with a soft click of his lip plates.

“Oh my God Optimus, you are such a dork,” she said as she dug her fork into the yellow mixture.  She popped a mouthful in, and it was gooey and mushy in all the right places.  The flavours exploded in her mouth, the strong taste of salt from the bacon and the sweet tangy taste from the tomatoes.

She finished it in record time, placing her knife and fork down on the plate.  She waited nervously for the usual feeling of nausea to claw its way up her throat, but nothing came.  Optimus cleared the table and began washing up.

“Did you enjoy that little one?”

She nodded.  “Yes, thank you.  It was absolutely delicious.”

“Are you feeling nauseous at all?”

“No thankfully.  I think those pills are doing the trick.”

“That is marvellous.  I’m so glad they are making a difference already.”  He dried the frying pan and hung it back up on the rack above the sink.

Optimus walked over to the couch and sat down on it, patting the vacant space next to him.  “Do you want to watch The Green Mile?”  In answer, Cordelia grabbed the thick blanket from the back of the couch and draped it around herself before sitting against Optimus.

His arms moved to fit her body and he sat with his chin resting gently on top of her head.  His left hand found its way down to the faint bulge in her abdomen, resting loosely on top.

Suddenly, Cordelia felt a fluttering sensation behind her naval.  She and Optimus shot into sitting positions at the same time.

His face was full of wonder.  “Did you just…”

“Feel that?”  She finished, slightly breathless.

Each of their faces broke into a wide smile and they embraced each other, rejoicing in the first movements of Cordelia’s baby.