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iiseult · 3 months

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𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒯𝓌𝑜: 𝒜𝓈 𝒬𝓊𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝒥𝑒𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓂

CWs → fluff, ANGST, historical inaccuracies, slow burn, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, eventual smut (once reader and baldwin are both over 18), leprosy, time-period accurate sexism, arranged marriage, descriptions of birth (not the reader), blood and mild gore (they don’t call it the dark ages for nothin!), one-sided pining

Wordcount: 5.1k

Note: Remember like three weeks ago when I lied to you all and said I’d have this out in a few days? I had to plan out a bit of the actual plot so that’s what took me so long. But I finally did it, so eat up! Also, I really do NOT know how medieval royal weddings worked but the shallow google searches I made weren’t good enough so let’s all hope this isn’t horribly inaccurate, though I’m sure it is. Do we care, chat?

Every day leading up to the wedding was a day that you saw red. Greeting your traitorous mother in the mornings made you see red, sharing a meal with your power-hungry father made you see red, and listening to the two of them prattle on about how you ought to behave once you were queen? That turned the world absolutely crimson. Each night, you crumpled up and clutched your skirts under the dinner table with shaking fists, creasing them with deep wrinkles that would take days to iron out, but all the while you continued to hold your head high, speaking only when spoken to just as you were taught as a girl. Your strained, thin-lipped smile was only let go of in the privacy of your own bedchambers, when it was replaced with a cold expression and even chillier disposition. Somehow, drifting apart from your family day by day wasn’t as painful as you had imagined it would be. It was easy, really, because there was nothing left for anyone to talk about. After all, your mother had always taught you that if you had nothing nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all. However, your sudden “demureness and obedience”, as they put it, did not go unnoticed.

Your parents were positively delighted with your recent change, or “improvement,” in attitude. Your lady mother congratulated you for finally agreeing to fulfill your societal role as a subservient wife and mother– an aspect of life of which you had previously been a bit resentful– and your father perpetually reminded you how beneficial this marriage would be to the rest of your bloodline. Even your younger brothers seemed excited for you, constantly coming up with new questions to pester you with regarding life as royalty. The only thing keeping you sane was the knowledge that soon you’d be living far, far away from your conniving parents, free to do whatever you wished. Whichever benefits a royal connection brought them would be nothing compared to your own guaranteed lavish lifestyle. You’d soon have your own castle, your own servants, and even your own soldiers! Oh, and the husband, too. You kept forgetting about that part.

In some ways, the fact that he was a leper was a great relief to you. That meant you’d most likely be spared many of the wifely duties you had so been dreading; mainly, consummating the marriage. At your age, only 14 years old yet, there was nothing that interested you about the male body, giving birth, or raising children. It was not so long ago that you had helped raise your own little brothers, and the idea of going through all of that again made you feel so trapped. Not to mention the fact that giving birth was extremely dangerous. And painful. And frightening. That thought caused a memory you had been repressing for years to resurface from the depths of your mind, like a buoy in the ocean. It was the tortured screams of your mother the night your youngest brother was born. Had you not known better, you might have thought she was being ripped in two, and the labor lasted for so many endless, terrible hours, which felt more like days. You remembered the midwives rushing around, and the maids leaving your mother’s room with armful after armful of blood-soaked sheets and sloshing buckets of burgundy water. As they passed the place where you were hugging your knees in the corridor, a drop fell at your feet and sunk slowly into the stone floor, leaving nothing but a small round stain.

Once it was time to leave your family home for the castle, you said goodbye to the view from your window, which you had become well-accustomed to. It was probably the thing you’d miss most, besides your brothers. You closed your bedroom door for the last time and meandered down the familiar, dimly-lit corridor, taking note of the particular stone which was still adorned by that tiny dot of brownish red. A shiver ran down your spine. You opted out of doing a final sweep to make sure you’d packed all of your belongings, because soon enough, you’d have better things to replace them with, anyway. The knights they’d sent for you had loaded your bags onto their horses about an hour ago and set off for your new home. Now, the only thing left to transport was you.

Another knight was waiting for you outside with a large white horse. He watched as you hugged your mother and father stiffly, pretending not to notice your mother’s tears as she kissed you on the forehead like she used to when you were younger. Before you were a lady. Before you were the queen of Jerusalem. Your father said nothing, but his somber expression and the distant look in his eyes and the loose grip he had on your hand as he kissed the top of it told you everything you needed to know. The knight helped you mount the horse and get comfortable sitting behind him, and you waved goodbye to your family as you were carried away, truly intending it to be for everything you had ever known. But whatever sadness you might have been feeling was overpowered by sheer determination. Now, at 14 years old, your life was finally beginning.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The knight who sat in front of you on the horse did not turn out to be a very good conversationalist. The only responses you could draw out of him were along the lines of “Yes, Your Majesty,” or “No, Your Majesty.” You were hoping for someone a bit more…engaging, perhaps, as you were feeling an odd mixture of excitement and anxiety that grew with each and every gallop towards Jerusalem. And anxiety always made you talkative.

“Is it fun at all, being a knight?” You shouted over the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, breaking the long silence that you had been enduring since the beginning of the journey.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”

“You know, protecting the kingdom and such. Isn’t it exciting? I find the idea to be absolutely thrilling! Don’t you think so?”

He paused for a moment, and then replied flatly, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

You pursed your lips, waiting in silence for a few moments, expecting him to elaborate, but no such luck. Was it really so hard to share a gory battle tale or two to pass the time? You knew knights were known for having excellent integrity and virtuousness, meaning they would never say something that could potentially scare a lady, but couldn’t he humor you just this once, while you were alone? But maybe he doesn’t want to talk about it, you thought, imagining how burdensome it must be to know the feeling of cutting someone’s head off. So, you graciously changed the subject and mentally patted yourself on the back for being so kind and just. It simply wouldn’t do, as future queen of Jerusalem, to force sensitive information out of this poor, traumatized knight for your own fleeting amusement. Maybe a few months earlier and it would have been acceptable, but alas. You sighed.

“This noble steed of yours is breathtaking. Does he have a name?” you questioned, admiring the animal’s snow-white pelt, entranced by the way its powerful muscles rippled beneath it.

“I do not know, Majesty. This horse belongs to the king. It is the only one His Majesty trusts, so he instructed me to collect you using it.” Another memory flashed through your mind, this time of your first meeting with your future husband. He had been riding this very horse that day, its stunning color matching that of his robes. Your heart fluttered at the idea that he’d cared so deeply for your safety, although it shouldn’t have surprised you. It was not as if he had parents forcing him into this marriage. He was accepting you in holy matrimony for some other reason, a reason entirely of his own. His own choice. A blush crept up the back of your neck, and you were suddenly thankful for the fact that the knight was facing away from you. You cleared your throat nervously.

“Well, what’s it like, working for the king? Is he nice?”

You felt the knight’s huge sigh before you heard it, your arms that were wrapped around his midsection rising and falling in tandem with the breath.

“Yes, Your Majesty, the king is very…nice.”

“Is that all?” you muttered, rolling your eyes at his reservedness. You got the hint. You understood he didn’t want to talk, that much he had made very apparent, but that was just too damn bad. As queen of Jerusalem, you wanted to get to know your subjects, and who better to start with than the one sharing a horse with you?

“Will I have my own chambers, or shall I share with the king?” You asked, holding back a giggle at the expression you were imagining the knight had on his face.

“I am sure you will be provided with your own chambers, Your Majesty, but the choice of whether to use them or not will be entirely yours and your husband’s,” he replied, a hint of dry humor in his voice. You let out a loud laugh, which actually startled him a little, and then followed it up with another.

“I wonder if he snores!” you said, between giggles. The knight smiled, shaking his head. After that, the journey to Jerusalem was easy.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

The next time you laid eyes on the king was when you were getting married, standing opposite each other in an architectural marvel of a cathedral, both dressed in extravagant clothing and expensive jewelry. His silver mask had recently been polished, and it shone beautifully in the sun, but still not as beautifully as his blue eyes. They were as you remembered them, only a bit brighter. His gold-trimmed robes were as white as ever, freshly washed and perfumed for the occasion. Even the gloves on his hands looked new and clean. You admired them as the priest rambled on in front of you. If God was listening right now, you thought, he’d surely be bored to tears. There was one part of the day you had enjoyed, though, which was the preparation for the wedding. You had been doted on by countless maids all morning, lining your eyes with black powder and weaving your hair into an intricate, interlocking braid pattern. The gown was altered to fit you perfectly, and the large, bell-like sleeves fell around your arms like wings. You were finally beginning to feel like a real queen.

The ceremony seemed to drag on forever, but you passed the time by maintaining eye contact with King Baldwin. You drowned out the rest of the world and focused only on him. When you smiled, he smiled back. You could only see the corners of his eyes crinkling, but you knew what that meant. You cocked your head to the side, trying to imagine what his smile really looked like. During that evening you spent with him, you hadn’t gotten the chance to see it. Just as soon as he had taken off the mask, he had to put it back on. The consequences of your parents seeing Baldwin’s face would have been disastrous, but thankfully, their loud footsteps and jovial voices had carried quite well down the corridor, warning you of their arrival. Regardless of how short they were, those few seconds you’d spent admiring his bare face were enough to conjure up a half-formed image of what his smile might look like. However, that image disappeared when you saw him cock his head to the side, too, just as you had. You blinked twice.

He blinked twice, too.

Was he copying you on purpose?

You shifted your feet, and he mirrored you, his robes shimmering like the ocean as they fluttered around him. You bit back a giggle. He was. Flames of mischief danced in his eyes, and something else, too, ignited there when you grinned at him.

“…that these rings shall forever remained blessed, O Merciful Lord. Amen,” said the priest, approaching the king with a book, two rings laid on top of it. Suddenly, Baldwin became very serious, plucking one of the rings between his slender, gloved fingers and holding it gently. You stared as it glistened in the sunlight, which was penetrating the stained glass windows and casting colorful shadows around the altar. He slowly stepped towards you, making your heart begin to beat faster. His head stayed bowed as he presented you with his open palm. You held your breath and lifted your left hand, gingerly brushing your fingertips against his palm, now understanding what was about to happen. He effortlessly glided the ring onto your fourth finger, where it rested beautifully. The diamond glittered like water, mesmerizingly. Baldwin wrapped his fingers around your hand, now holding it as gently as he could, and the priest was now presenting you with a ring. You followed Baldwin’s lead, pushing it onto his fourth finger, which was waiting outstretched for you patiently. You stood mere inches apart, fingers of your left hands interwoven as the priest finished the prayers. The ring, as breathtaking as it was, was somehow still only secondary to the cerulean eyes of your now-husband, which were like two rich sapphires lined with delicate blonde hairs.

“…And may God bless, preserve, and keep you, that you may have life and love everlasting. I pronounce that you now be man and wife together, in the Name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The cathedral filled with polite claps and murmurs of “amen” as Baldwin released your hand and you turned to face the pews. Next to you, much to your surprise, he quickly dropped to his knees, his body angled towards you, clasping your fair hand between his. You gazed down at him through your lashes, suddenly feeling your cheeks burn. Boldly, Baldwin drew one hand up to his masked face, grasping it by the nose and swiftly pulling it to the side so that it was hiding his face from the crowd, but revealing it to you. He lifted your hand to his pink lips and pressed a searing kiss to it, liberally letting the physical contact linger, all the while maintaining eye contact with you from under his furrowed brow. You covered your mouth with your other hand to try and hide the toothy grin spreading across your face. He saw it anyway. The next thing you knew, he was grinning, too. You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and laughed. He laughed. You realized that you no longer had to imagine what his smile looked like.

After the wedding ceremony, you were promptly bombarded by happy civilians wishing to congratulate you, or simply to catch a glimpse of their new queen, and Baldwin was whisked away by his mother, who seemed to be perpetually by his side. It seemed that she was not quite ready yet to surrender the role of Baldwin’s caretaker to you– but you had no gripes with that. You figured you’d grow into the role of loving, doting wife, as opposed to starting it right away, and unfortunately, the idea of changing his bandages each night before bed still made you shudder. In reality, his mother was not exactly thrilled about the marriage, either. She hadn’t found you or your family quite noble enough for her precious son. However, she was smart enough to see that it was unlikely that anyone else would ever volunteer their daughter to marry a leper, so she begrudgingly allowed the union.

From the crowd, two plainly dressed women had introduced themselves to you as Matilda and Amelia, claiming that they were to be your servants. They would apparently be with you at all times, tending to your every whim and aiding you during your ascent to the throne, as well as bathing you and dressing you. Matilda was an older, more severe woman who had immediately intimidated you; her lips were drawn together thinly and permanently pursed, creating deep wrinkles around her mouth, and the rest of her face was an intricate web of creases and lines. Her graying hair was pulled back tightly, exposing her thinning hairline and sun-spotted forehead. Even her hands looked harsh, the skin rough and dry, cracking in some places, like mud that had been baking under the summer sun for too long. Amelia was quite the opposite; a timid, pretty young thing with wide brown eyes, fair hair, and a delicate frame. She’d barely had the courage to tell you her name, and rushed into the curtsey to avoid having to make eye contact with you for too long. She seemed to be around the same age as you, if not even younger.

After the attendees from the wedding had mostly dispersed, Matilda brought you back inside the castle to finally see your bedchamber, which you were to have all to yourself. She and Amelia led you through winding corridors and beautiful flowering courtyards, pointing out all the most significant landmarks along the way, such as the great hall, the kitchen, the maid’s chambers, the library, the chapel, the towers, the gardens, and the hundreds of guest bedrooms with conjoined washrooms. The last thing she showed you before your own room was the king’s quarters, which were directly across from yours.

“Now, Amelia, go draw us a bath. There’s no need for two of us to be standing around here idly while the Queen inspect her chambers,” she ordered, and Amelia nodded, scurrying away to the washroom silently.

As Matilda threw open the giant oak doors of your room, you couldn’t help but gasp, suddenly rooted to the spot. It was glorious. Taking up the majority of the room was a massive bed with four handsome posts, all carved with intricate floral patterns and stained a deep brown. The mattress was topped with overly-stuffed burgundy throw pillows and a comforter to match. Connecting to the four posts was a frame, from which wine-colored velvet curtains hung to give you some privacy. The same fabric was used to shroud the windows, which were floor-length and leaded. At the foot of the bed lay a pile of bags and wrapped items– all of your belongings from home! On the wall across from them was a large dressing table, covered in jewels and precious metals and bottles of fine-smelling oils. A small, round stool with a cushion on it sat underneath. Your eyes sparkled with excitement, and you couldn’t help but abandon Matilda in the doorway, running and throwing yourself face-first onto the bed, just like you used to at home. You giggled and kicked your feet up into the air, unsurprisingly beginning to sink into the plush mattress. Immediately, you felt your body melt against the malleable, pillowy surface, deciding that you definitely approved of its fine quality. Your bed from back home simply couldn’t compare. However, your glee was short-lived, because it was abruptly interrupted by a stern voice.

“Your Majesty! You must cease this behavior at once and right yourself! That wedding gown is priceless, and you mustn’t risk causing it any damage!” Matilda scolded, pulling you up by the arm and frantically kneeling to check the delicate garment for any possible tears or imperfections. You winced and apologized quietly, suddenly feeling embarrassed at your juvenile behavior. She was right. As a matter of fact, most things in the palace were probably priceless, and it wouldn’t do to act so impulsively, to be so unladylike. Even you, in your youth, knew better than that. You crossed your arms over your chest, beginning to feel rather insecure upon realizing just how much you had to learn about life as royalty.

“Come, child, it is time to undress. You must be bathed and prepared for your wedding night,” Matilda called, holding out a hand, her voice much more soft and gentle this time.

You gulped, not wanting to think about that, preferring to cross that bridge when you got to it. She bustled over to the magnificent dressing table, pulling out the stool for you to sit on. You obliged, seating yourself in front of her and watching in the mirror as her spindly fingers deftly unwound your intricate braids. It was relaxing, the feeling of her experienced hands nimbly dancing around your scalp, so you let the buildup of tension from the day slowly seep out of your muscles, loosening up more and more every second that passed. Soon, she was finished, and helped you to your feet, ordering you to keep your arms out straight as she undressed you. She pulled out pins from here and there, untied laces all around, and in a matter of minutes you were ready for your bath.

The water was warm and steaming as you stepped in, your skin breaking out into goosebumps at the feeling. Rose petals floated across the surface of the water, giving the entire washroom a fresh scent. As you expected, Amelia was waiting for you silently, brush in hand, ready to scrub you vigorously from head to toe. You braced yourself, expecting the rough bristles to be painful, but once she began working attentively, it wasn’t so bad at all. Yes, they were scratchy, but that’s exactly what you needed to get rid of all the dirt and dead skin. She lathered you in delicate smelling soap and added some more fragrant oils to the water, letting you soak until your skin had absorbed all the moisture it possibly could. Not a single inch of you was neglected by the time the water had grown cold, at which point you got out and were dried with a fluffy white towel.

Next, you were ushered back into your chambers and changed into a pretty blue gown made of satin, which apparently “complimented the color of the kings’ eyes perfectly,” according to Matilda. You felt your gut twist at the mention of him, at the prospect of being alone in a room with him and that piercing gaze again. Now that you were man and wife, everything was different. You had a duty to fulfill, and it seemed to be unavoidable, despite how young and vulnerable you were. Despite how averse to it you might be. Your mother had told you all about it, about how it would only last a few minutes if you were lucky, and that you just had to breathe deeply and count the seconds until it was over. How it happened to every woman at some point in her life, and that what follows would be completely and utterly worth every second of endurance. How rewarding it was to raise a child, or two children, or as many as your womb could bear. But no matter how much you tried to reassure yourself, you were still scared. You didn’t want that yet. You were only 14.

But before attending to your marital duties, first, there was dinner. You were seated at the complete opposite end of the table as Baldwin, as far as physically possible away from him, despite the fact that he was the only person there you had ever spoken to. You were too far away to be able to tell if he was even looking at you from under his mask. Next to him was his mother, who proceeded to shoot you sideways glances the entire night. The rest of the table was filled with noble men and women whom you did not recognize, their titles unfamiliar to you and the lands they hailed from even more obscure. You picked at your food and tried to stay as silent as possible to avoid making a mockery of yourself on your first night as Queen of Jerusalem. Sooner than you had hoped, dinner had concluded, and you were taken aside by Matilda, who pulled you into an empty corridor as the guests began filtering out of the castle.

“Child, do you know what is expected of you on your wedding night?” She asked, her voice low so that nobody except the two of you could hear the subject matter at hand. You took a deep breath and straightened you back in an attempt to appear more mature, before replying,

“Yes, I will lie down and be still and hope that I am blessed with a child.”

The woman smiled at you and clasped your shoulder, seemingly approving of your answer.

“Exactly right, my dear. The king will call on you when he is ready, so you may go back to your room and occupy your time with an activity of your choosing until you are collected.”

You nodded solemnly and thanked her before slowly making your way back to your room, trying to take as long as possible in an attempt to actually slow down time. Upon deeper reflection during this walk, you came to the conclusion that it was not being alone with the king that you were afraid of, but rather the act of consummating the marriage, which was, of course, something he had every right to do with you that night. It was the correct course of action. It was what all newlyweds did, no matter how young and afraid they were. Did he know what he was doing, you wondered, or was he just as oblivious as you? You couldn’t imagine the young king being oblivious about much of anything, in all honesty. He was far too intelligent– something you had seen for yourself over that game of chess.

Once you arrived at your room, Amelia was waiting at the door for you, an even more wide-eyed look on her face than usual. Uh oh, you thought to yourself.

“His Majesty the King has requested your presence in his chambers, Your Highness,” she said quietly, bowing her head as she spoke. How did he get here so fast? You thought to yourself, terror rising in your chest. Amelia watched in half fear and half amusement as you frantically wiped your clammy hands on the bodice of your dress and ran your fingers through your hair, which was cascading down your shoulders freely. She was young, too, and unwed, and the idea of a wedding night was something that made her stomach churn as well, so she offered you a sympathetic look and watched as you dragged your feet across the hall, knocking on the imposing oak doors of the king’s bedchambers.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Baldwin had never been so jittery in his life. As he sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for you to arrive, he fidgeted with his gloves, pulling them off by the fingers and then pulling them on again, over and over. All throughout dinner he had been gazing across the table at you, ignoring his mother’s neverending ranting as you stared down at your plate. Though you were only a blue blur with a vaguely maidenlike shape from where he was sitting, he was still completely enchanted, his heart beating in his throat every time you looked up in his general direction. He wondered if you could tell he was looking at you. Since the hour you were wed, he was able to think of nothing but you; your dazzling smile, your gorgeous hair, your playful sense of humor, the way the light in the cathedral illuminated your eyes. As the servants bathed him in strong-smelling medicinal herbs and wrapped the raw areas of skin with fresh bandages, he daydreamed about your voice, your laugh. And now, as he sat on the edge of his bed, awaiting your imminent arrival, he thought of practically everything except you.

He panicked about the state of his body, the pressure of consummating a marriage, the burden of fathering a child at such a young age. He panicked about the weight of ruling an entire kingdom all by himself, no longer able to entrust the brunt of the work to Raymond, and of being a suitable husband. He panicked about how many years he might even have left, if his illness continued to progress. But every worry, every fear, every doubt left his mind as soon as he heard you knock on his door.

He leapt to his feet, hastily pulling his left glove all the way back on and bounding over to the door, throwing it open wide with a grin on his face, to reveal… you, standing there, gaunt and sweating, looking like you had just suffered a bout of cholera. The smile on his face fell a bit, but it couldn’t be wiped completely clean. At least he could finally be with his bride, his love, his queen.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” you murmured, your head bowed, pointing down at your shoes, as well as the freshly polished ones directly across from you.

“Good evening, my Queen,” he breathed, heart beating quickly as you shuffled into his room. He closed the door behind you, letting it shut with a ‘click’ before following you over to the middle of the room, where you hovered like a ghost, still staring at the ground and clasping your hands tightly in front of you. A tense, silent moment passed, and still, you didn't move. Whatever was left of his smile faded from his unmasked face, and the panic from earlier began to return, crashing over him in icy waves. Why wouldn’t you look at him? He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from leg to leg.

“Are you feeling very well tonight, my lady?” He asked tentatively, shuffling a bit closer.

You sucked in a sharp breath and suddenly turned, stiltedly making your way over to the bed.

“Let’s just get this started then, shall we?” You said tersely, laying down on your back on the plush covers and screwing your eyes shut tightly.

“I am ready.”

King Baldwin stared at you blankly, frozen in the middle of the room, and completely panicking. No, no, no, this was all wrong, this was not how he wanted it to go…he absolutely did not want to force you into it, to do anything you didn’t also want…and you clearly didn't want it. You were lying there, as stiff as a board. This was the final straw for him.

He wasn’t ready for it yet either, he decided. He would just have to lie to his mother. When she discovered that the queen was, in fact, not pregnant, he would blame it on his own body, claiming to be infertile. It was probably true, at any rate. He took a deep breath, feeling shame and embarrassment at not being able to consummate his own marriage rise to his cheeks, and spoke three words,

“You may go,”

And those were the last three words he spoke to you for the next three years.

Note: I'll give you a kiss if you can count how many times I reference you being the "Queen of Jerusalem" in this chapter.

#baldwin iv #kingdom of heaven #baldwin iv x reader #king baldwin iv #king baldwin iv x reader #baldwin iv one shot #baldwin of jerusalem #highnoonsunlight #baldwin iv fic #slow burn #one sided pining #wedding night

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sztupy · 1 month

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dollsonmain · 20 days

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I've forgotten how to sleep and startled myself when I looked in the mirror on my way to bed last night. The eye wells in my skull were very, very visible. Slightly less bad this morning.

So sleep hasn't happened due to both anxiety/stress and the AC having been broken for a while. AC was out for about a week and once it was fixed, I was too stressed about the absences thing at school to sleep the first night, and then too stressed last night because Son broke his school laptop yesterday and we have to tell That Guy today, AND That Guy had gone out partying with friends after work which means he drives home like that in the middle of the night and I always worry he's not going to make it. I can't sleep until I hear the garage door open. If he crashes, with the way he has our finances set up, Son and I are effectively homeless immediately. Part of why I am trying to work. Him not coming home until 1am also prolonged the anticipatory anxiety of having to wait to tell him the problem and get over the aftermath.

And then I woke up at 3am like always and couldn't get back to sleep.

Anyway.

Work stuff ish again

I will not complain about being expected to work 6 hours a day because that's less than a "normal" job anyway, but really at that point I'd rather work a full 8 and get benefits.

I very much think it should be illegal to schedule people juuuuuust under the cut off for benefits to be required by labor law. You should have to either schedule people 40 hours or 20 hours, no in between, IMO. Scheduling someone exactly 20 hours gives them plenty of time to go work SOMEWHERE ELSE for the other 20 hours without having to worry about being scheduled to work 60+ hours a week because both employers are cheapskates that will work you 30 hours.

I also need to completely change my daily routines AGAIN to get to work on time.

My current-new routine is:

wake up at 3:30 and get my morning coffee

sit around and wait for That Guy to leave for work which is usually 4-4:30

Son gets up and we have the morning together

Son leaves for school at 6:50

I don't get hungry until somewhere between 7 and 9 and will have breakfast then

depending on how exhausted I am I will or will not do chores between 5 and 10

leave to walk to work at 10:20

get to work at 10:40/10:45

work 11-3

That Guy picks me up on his way home from work, though I did have to walk home yesterday

do chores

dinner between 4-5 or so

vegetable time

Now, I'm going to have to skip my morning coffee because it makes me poop and I don't want to be pooping while I'm also the only cashier at work.

So it's going to be like....

wake up around 3 and shower OR shower in the evenings and deal with being gross from night-sweats at work so wake up at 3:30, I do prefer to show up to work nice and clean but it is a gas station...

force feed myself some sort of solid food while waiting for That Guy to leave for work around 4-4:30

make sure the boy gets up no later than 5

leave to walk to work at 5:20

get to work at 5:40-5:45

work 6-whenever (she hasn't decided when????)

leave work to walk to home whenever that happens to be and I'd rather it WASN'T noon because it's going to be stupid hot, then, but stop on the store's "porch" to put on sunscreen real fast... which means I need an opaque travel size bottle for sunscreen, and eat something so I don't pass out on the way home (yesterday I took a small bread roll and some jerky and ate that and drank a second V8 Energy while walking)

get home around 1 if I left at noon because the walk home is slower than the walk to work

eat a real lunch? finally have my poopin coffee?

chores

Son and That Guy get home at 3

profit???

I'm going to have to prep and take multiple sugar drinks so my blood sugar doesn't bottom out while at work. Right now I've been taking one bottle of water with a Real Lemon lemonade drink stick mixed in and I forget to drink it but it's there so I can slam it before leaving. I'll need to also take a meal replacement shake got sugar, salt, and other nutrients, I think, and an extra water.

Manager keeps trying to get me to buy something at work before my shift starts and I'm like no thanks those are MY monies, now, you're not getting them back on your overpriced bottled water.

Today I need to do laundry, deal with the fallout of telling That Guy that Son broke his school laptop, go to Kohl's and see if I can find some New Balance cross trainers to wear to work since I will be doing walking, standing, and lifting and I think cross-trainers would be the best option AND already know NB is the brand they primarily carry, need to find a hi-vis vest or couple of belts because I'll be walking to work in the dark, and That Guy said he'd take me to dinner today for leaving me to have to walk home from work Yesterday but what does that matter? That's going to be every day from now on.

A few more paychecks and I'll look for a scooter again. Or something. Still kind of like the idea of getting a cargo trike, ngl. Would be harder to steal than a bike anyway.

I don't know what I'm going to do in the winter.

Running a salary and income tax calculator and factoring in about $3k in short-term hobby income, even putting that no tax is withheld, it looks like I'd expect a tax return of $3k? Because there's about $3k in tax credits??? Whatever. I'll figure it out when it's closer to the right time.

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 6 months

Text

By: Szu Ping Chan

Published: Mar 31, 2024

Britain has a boy problem. If you are born male today, you are increasingly likely to struggle in school, in the workplace and at home.

The gender attainment gap is not new – girls have been outperforming boys at GCSE level for over three decades now, while the number of women completing degrees has exceeded the number of men since the 1990s.

But solving the problem of underachievement among boys has never been more crucial. Economic growth is stalling, productivity is flatlining and public finances are creaking under the strain of growing benefits bills.

At a time when businesses are struggling to hire, more and more men are dropping out of the workforce. Everyone in society must achieve their fullest potential if we are to fix our economic problems.

There is a political dimension too – William Hague earlier this month raised the alarm about the growing numbers of disaffected young men who, with little offered or promised to them in life, were turning to far-Right politics.

There is nothing innate about boys’ underachievement. There is no fundamental reason why outcomes should be getting worse.

Yet without a concerted effort to close the attainment gap, it seems destined to widen. Ever more men and boys will find themselves unwittingly consigned to life’s scrapheap.

The problem is clear – where are the solutions?

Deepening development gap

Before children even step a foot inside the classroom, boys are already behind.

The Institute for Fiscal Studies (IFS) notes that “a significant gender gap in both cognitive and socio-emotional development” emerges by the age of three.

By the time children start primary school, two-thirds of girls have reached a “good level of development”, suggesting they are able to write a simple sentence or count beyond 20.

Just under two-thirds of boys have hit that same milestone. For children eligible for free school meals, the disparity is even larger.

This gap that opens up at three never completely closes, according to the Institute for Fiscal Studies’ (IFS) analysis of Department for Education data.

“There’s a silent crisis brewing among boys and men in our classrooms, workplaces and communities,” says Richard Reeves, academic and author of Of Boys and Men, which explores the male malaise from cradle to career.

“Boys now lag behind girls and men lag behind women at almost every level of education. That’s true in nearly every rich economy.”

Reeves, a former adviser to Nick Clegg, the former deputy prime minister, says biology is behind some of this gap.

All the academic evidence suggests that the prefrontal cortex – or in Reeves’s words “the part of the brain that helps you get your act together” – develops around a year or two faster in girls than boys.

Girls are not smarter, they just mature faster, Reeves says. “Anyone who spends any time with teenagers knows exactly what I’m talking about.”

His conclusion is that there are simply some “natural advantages of women and girls in the education system”.

Rather than recognise and compensate for this, the system has in fact evolved in ways that favour girls. A switch to more coursework at GCSE level benefitted girls more than boys, according to the IFS, which noted that the gap in performance first emerged in the 1980s when exam-based O levels were replaced by GCSEs in England, Wales and Northern Ireland.

“The shake-up brought a move towards more continuous assessment, which seems to have benefitted girls,” the IFS said in a recent paper.

This idea is “quite hard to get this across because many people say: well if girls and women always had this natural advantage, why didn’t we see it 40 years ago?” Reeves says. “The answer is sexism.

“There is no doubt my mum would have gone to university if she was born 50 years later, but it wasn’t considered to be a thing. But now having taken the lid off, that potential for women in education just keeps going. There’s nothing wrong with that, it’s just that along the way a lot more men have fallen behind.”

Woes of the white working class

Of course, it would be wrong to suggest women were doing better than men in the working world. A median gender pay gap of 7.7pc still shows women are being shortchanged.

After graduation, men are more likely to get a “highly skilled” job than women and average earnings for a male graduate are around 9pc higher than a female a year after they leave university, according to the IFS.

That gap rises to 31pc a decade later.

However, what is worrying academics, politicians and teachers is that attainment among men and boys seems to be declining while for women it improves.

Average pay adjusted for inflation has fallen by 6.9pc for men since 2008, according to ONS data. Among women, it has climbed 2.2pc. In fact, men’s wages are no higher in real terms today than they were in 2002.

Men have been behind the fall in average hours worked since the pandemic, while women are working more.

Louise Murphy at the Resolution Foundation says the worsening prospects for boys and men reflect structural factors.

“The industrial structure of the UK has changed. Some of these manufacturing jobs that existed don’t exist in the same way now.”

Reeves says: “It used to be true that men with relatively modest levels of education do OK in the labour market. And that is not always the case anymore.”

The experience of boys in schools has led them to “underperform in the labour market” more broadly, he adds.

Achievement has become a particular issue among one subset of boys in particular: the white working class.

“Too many people in society just see these boys as the people on mopeds with a balaclava on their head,” says Andy Eadie, assistant headteacher at Cardinal Langley school in Rochdale. “Actually, that’s only a tiny minority.”

Eadie has taught at the mixed comprehensive school of 1,200 pupils since 2016. A fifth of his pupils are eligible for free school meals.

Many have already been “written off” by teachers as soon as they enter the classroom, Eadie says, particularly if they are white working class boys.

“There is a perception that some boys are already signed off and have no hope,” he says.

“The danger is that people aren’t bothered about these gaps. They’re just bothered about keeping them quiet so they can get on with other things.”

Just 14.6pc of white working class boys went into higher education in 2021. This was the lowest figure of any ethnic or socio-economic group and a third of the overall average, according to research published by the House of Commons Library.

Eadie says: “A lot of young people in the white working class background actually have really low self-esteem.

“And so you’ve got a lot of young people who potentially all underachieve and not feel very good about themselves.”

There are signs that this malaise is adding to Britain’s worklessness crisis. One in three 18 to 24-year-old boys were classed as economically inactive – meaning they’re not in work or looking for a job – in the three months to January, a record high.

The figure is up by more than five percentage points since the end of 2019, before the pandemic. Inactivity among 50 to 64-year-old men has climbed five times slower over the same period.

The inactivity rate among young men has roughly doubled since the early 90s, with almost two million now out of the labour force.

Some are choosing to stay on in education but the share of men not in employment, education or training (NEET) is climbing back towards financial crisis rates at 15.3pc. For women, it has remained on a bumpy but downward path.

“I think it goes back to the idea that we just don’t expect our boys to do well. So they don’t do well,” says Conservative MP Nick Fletcher, who leads the All-Party Parliamentary Group (APPG) for men and boys.

Caroline Barlow, headteacher at Heathfield Community College, has submitted evidence to the APPG suggesting there was a culture of low expectations for male students.

“In the early days, there was a tendency to almost just be grateful if boys were there and they were doing some work,” she said.

By shifting teachers’ expectations of their pupils, results improved and Heathfield was also able to close the gender gap.

Fletcher says: “We expect our boys to behave badly, so they behave badly. We are letting our boys down and unless we actually recognise we have a problem, then we won’t really start searching for the solution.”

Where does the problem start? Some think it is in the home.

Family circumstances have changed dramatically over the past few decades, with a sharp rise in lone parent households as divorce becomes more common or people don’t even get married in the first place. The vast majority of children in these circumstances grow up with their mothers.

In part, this reflects the economic empowerment of women: they can afford to be a single parent.

However, it raises the question of where male role models are coming from. Research conducted jointly by the Fatherhood Institute found that fathers who read to their children every day are contributing to their development and can help to address early attainment gaps.

The Conservative peer Lord Willetts writes in his book, The Pinch: “A welfare system that was originally designed to compensate men for loss of earnings is slowly and messily redesigned to compensate women for the loss of men.”

This too can leave men rudderless in mid-life.

As Reeves puts it in his book: “Economically independent women can now flourish whether they are wives or not. Wifeless men, by contrast, are often a mess. Compared to married men, their health is worse, their employment rates are lower, and their social networks are weaker.”

‘Crisis in masculinity’

The underachievement of men and boys was once seen as almost taboo.

“There have been people who have sniggered when I stood up and asked for a minister for men and a men’s health strategy,” says Fletcher.

“I genuinely believe some of the problems we face are down to the lack of interest in young boys and men, who we’ve always assumed are going to be fine.”

However, politicians have now started to notice.

Wes Streeting, the shadow health secretary, has announced that Labour is looking at introducing a men’s health strategy to address what he describes as a “crisis in masculinity” that is costing lives.

It is understood that Labour’s forthcoming review into mental health by Luciana Berger will include a chapter that focuses on male suicide. It remains the biggest killer of British men aged under 35.

William Hague, the former Tory leader, believes the issue is reshaping politics. He recently highlighted that a majority of men now believe they are being discriminated against, which is fuelling support among young men for extreme parties.

Fletcher is calling for a dedicated minister for men to match the minister for women, Kemi Badenoch, who is also part of the Cabinet as Business Secretary.

Despite overwhelming evidence that boys are falling behind, some colleagues still treat the idea of a dedicated minister with ridicule.

Fletcher says: “I think one of the problems that we’ve had as a society is there’s a lot of reluctance to speak up for men. We’ve noticed it in parliament over the years.”

Reeves wants to challenge the longstanding assumption that gender gaps only run one way.

He takes particular issue with the World Economic Forum (WEF), which looks at progress on gender equality across the world.

Countries are scored on a scale from zero to one, with the former representing no equality and the latter signalling full equality. The problem, says Reeves, is that the index itself assumes that only women have any catching up to do.

For example, it “assigns the same score to a country that has reached parity between women and men and one where women have surpassed men”.

This is a deliberate choice. However, as a result the UK’s educational attainment score stands at 0.999 despite the fact that girls have clearly outperformed boys for decades.

Reeves believes continuing to publish the index in this way is damaging and leads “to a lack of policy attention to the problems of boys and men”. In short, he says: “It makes no sense to treat gender inequality as a one-way street.”

The Government insists it is making progress, with a Department for Education spokesman saying the gender gap “across most headline measures is narrowing across all key phases.

“Education standards have risen sharply across the country, with 90pc of schools now rated good or outstanding by Ofsted, up from just 68pc in 2010.”

Reeves offers some radical solutions to closing the attainment gap in his book, including starting boys a year later in school. Many teachers and academics believe this is not practical and Reeves himself says the idea was designed to spark a debate.

Reeves says the evidence also suggests children should take more frequent breaks at school because boys find it harder than girls to sit still. He himself was put in a special class for English because his teachers felt he lacked focus.

At Balcarras secondary school in Cheltenham, headteacher Dominic Burke felt the only way to tackle what used to be a 15pc gender gap in the GCSE results was to level with his students.

“We got the boys together en masse and said to them: ‘You’re going to underachieve. The girls are going to beat you hands down’. And then we showed them the evidence. Their ability profiles were the same. But we said the reality is girls are going to get better results than you and we challenge you to be the first year group to stop that. We called it the ‘effort challenge’.”

It worked. Competition and the offer of cold, hard cash was enough to encourage many to put the effort in. Boys who were judged to have done so received £20 at the end of term. The school managed to close the gender gap and a few years ago, the boys beat the girls for the first time.

“Competition does work I think, and it’s a good tactic for teaching because it becomes a rewarding experience to meet the challenge,” says Burke. “If you make something more engaging and enjoyable, people are more likely to do it.”

Healing

No survey of the state of boys and men in Britain today can ignore the changing ideas of masculinity.

Whereas men were once seen as breadwinners, American sociologists Kathryn Edin and Maria Kefalas point out that many women in poor US neighbourhoods have come to see them “as just another mouth to feed”. This is disorientating.

Yet perhaps the way to survive as a man in the job market of the future is to junk ideas of traditional masculinity altogether. Many of the jobs of the future will be in things like caring and education.

Reeves wants governments to spearhead a drive to get more men into health, education, administration, and literacy jobs – which he brands HEAL – just as they have ploughed efforts into getting more women into science, technology, engineering, and mathematics – or STEM roles.

Increasing the number of male teachers would also raise the number of role models for boys in class. Three-quarters of state school teachers are women, according to data published by the Department for Education.

The share of men working in state-funded nurseries is even lower, at just 14pc. Around 30pc of primary schools have no male teachers at all.

“I did actually get some funny looks when I first started,” says one male nursery worker who does not wish to be identified.

“Even now I tend to leave the cuddles to my female colleagues as I think there’s still a stereotype that any man who wants to work with young kids has to be some kind of pervert.”

Encouraging more men into these types of jobs would be no small undertaking. Perceptions that men are not suited to caring or creative professions are deep-seated.

Florence Nightingale, who in the 19th century established the principles of modern nursing, insisted that men’s “hard and horny” hands were “not fitted to touch, bathe and dress wounded limbs, however gentle their hearts may be”. The Royal College of Nursing did not even admit men as members until 1960.

Edward Davies, policy director at the Centre for Social Justice think tank, cautions: “It’s absolutely right to remove cultural, perceived and real barriers that keep men from certain careers, especially caring and teaching professions. But we also need to be careful not to pretend men and women are exactly the same.

“At a blunt population level women seem more interested in people and men in things. You would expect to see that reality play out in the jobs they do too. Imposing quotas or expectations that all professions should be evenly split between men and women will probably drive some people into careers they are not suited to.”

Fixing Britain’s boy problem may be harder than even experts think.

[ Via: https://archive.today/AFaiR ]

The people who talk endlessly about "equality" and "equal rights" are strangely silent when it comes to areas where boys and men fall behind: education, health and lifespan, and life satisfaction.

https://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0205349

[ The Basic Index of Gender Inequality (BIGI, x-axis) as a function of the Human Development Index (HDI, y-axis).

BIGI is the average of 3 components: Ratio in healthy life span, ratio in overall life satisfaction, and ratio in educational opportunities during childhood (see Materials and Methods for details). Deviation from zero implies the extent of gender inequality. The plot shows the largest contributor to the overall score for each nation: Purple dots indicate healthy life span is the most important component, green dots indicate educational opportunities, and red dots indicate overall life satisfaction. The Ns indicate for each level of HDI how many nations have a BIGI score greater than 0, and how many less than 0. ]

Almost like it isn't "just about equality."

#Szu Ping Chan #education #education crisis #boy crisis #equality #religion is a mental illness

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tamamita · 2 years

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I know you've probably answered this before, but I gotta ask it again. Basically, what do you need to do to get stronger? Like, just to GET more strength. Is it weightlifting AND diet? JUST diet? JUST weightlifting? I can never find any clear answers and I was hoping you'd be able to answer in the most braindead way that an idiot like me can understand.

From a powerlifting perspective, the best way to increase strength is by means of heavy weights with low reps until failure (3-6 reps). While one could utilize a high rep regiment, strength will not improve as fast unlike with a heavier set of weights. Using relatively light weights and having a high rep routine can lead to Junk training. Junk training is when your investing too much energy and time, while not gaining any benefits from it; avoid it at all cost. For efficient strength growth, I recommend heavier sets when you do the big threes: Squats, Deadlifts and Bench presses, because of how many muscles are activated, and moderate sets for any other exercise (7-10 reps). Progressive overload is also a great way to increase strength by means of progressively adding more weights in your workout routines, which puts more stress into your muscles, allowing for effective hypertrophy and improvement in strength.

As for diet... It all depends on what you aim for, the most beneficial way to increase muscle growth/strenght is by proteins. It is always recommended to drink a shake of proteins within 30 mins after a workout routine to avoid muscle waste and fatigue. It's also a matter of meals, because shakes aren't enough to increase muscle strength and you should never replace your meals with supplements, make sure to eat enough protein and carb-based meals to increase protein synethesis. (The body prioritizes carbs as fuel, allowing your proteins to be utilized for other tasks) Furthermore, if you can afford it, I'd also recommend Casein, which is beneficial before bed. Casein is a form of milk protein found in cheese and various dairy products. Casein has the property of being slow-absorbant, which is especially beneficial when your body is in a state of rest. Carbs are great as an energy resource and should always be taken in moderation before a workout routine, I'd recommend a bowl of granola/musli with yoghurt and some slices of banana an hour before hitting the gym. Eating a heavier meal before the gym can make you nauseous, so avoid that.

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triplesilverstar · 11 months

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Sitting by the meager fire just outside the bus you almost have to laugh at how comical the situation you’ve been placed in is.

When you’d been leaving your small sleepy settlement for the city you knew it was going to be a while, almost three days of sitting in the cramped space and had packed enough water and food for a week. Part of you had felt paranoid at the time stuffing things into your bag in your rush to leave, your few belongings barely even took up half a back pack. So you’d kept shoving meal blocks and bars with bottles of water into it until it would barely close, you’d take whatever you could while trying to find a better life for yourself.

Now, a day and a half into the trip you were glad. Glad for a simple reason.

The bus had broken down.

In the middle of nowhere.

One benefit to it all was the fact the bus hadn’t been too full and for the most part people were sleeping in their seats when they weren’t up and about complaining about the delay. You had zero complaints, this far from the town you at last felt safe for the first time since you parents had died. Sitting there beside one of the large rubber tires watching the stars glimmer in the night sky, a feeling of hope blooming in your chest.

Jumping when a thin blanket was dropped over your shoulders. “I was wondering where you might have slipped away too!” Looking up to see the smiling face of the preacher that had hopped onto the bus just before it left town.

“Just minding my own business” Trying to keep your tone neutral as you felt yourself shrink under his gaze.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Almost right away his boisterous tone drops away as well as the volume of his voice. “I was worried you might have been in a hurry to get moving and might have tried to walk the rest of the way.”

Huffing at his answer and feeling a little bit of indignity you look up at him with your eyes narrowed. “Why do you care?”

“Well, I am a man of the cloth.” Turning on his feet and sliding down the side of the bus but keeping a respectful distance from you. “You might be young, but I can tell you’ve seen some things in your life. I’d have hated to see it cut short because you couldn’t wait a little while longer for the bus to get fixed. Walking the desert at night is no place for a young person such as yourself.”

For a while you sit there in silence thinking about his words before licking your lips to answer. “I just wanted to sit outside and enjoy the fresh air. I’m not stupid enough to think I have enough supplies to walk through the desert.” Shifting forward so your bending a little bit and letting your chin rest on your knee, looking out towards the distance where you can see the rolling sand dunes painted almost midnight blue is comparison to the pale tan of the day.

“I never meant to imply anything about your intelligence. Just that when people are running they don’t always make the best choices.” Sending the man a side eye as he seemed to be looking around in his pockets for something and growing a little frantic before slumping in relief. “Now that might have been a real tragedy.” Placing a long thin white stick to his lips before clicking his lighter. The flame casting a random pattern of shadows along his face, highlighting the prominence of his facial features and the thin smattering of dark hair along his chin before that light goes out. Replaced by the smouldering ember of the cigarette between his fingers, the image making you laugh a little wondering if that’s how the stars view your lives. As bright flames that disappear just as quickly as they appear.

“A tragedy if you couldn’t find a smoke?” Feeling the tightness in your shoulders starting to ease as your wariness of the man loosens.

“Everyone has a bad habit, and this happens to be mine.” Turning and holding out his hand towards you to shake. “Nicholas D. Wolfwood.” A long exhale as you reach out to take his hand and giving your own name in return, he’s been nothing but friendly with all the passengers and the driver on the bus. You can’t see giving him your name as something to come back and bite you in the ass in future.

“Nice to meet you, and I do apologize if I came off as a little creepy.” The hand not holding his cigarette rubbing at the back of his head. “I was just worried about you.”

“You don’t need to be. I’m heading to a new life.” Looking back out over the sands you smile. “I know it won’t be easy, but it’s what I want.” You don’t want to think about the last five years, you’re happy to forget it ever happened and wash it from your mind. A new chapter in your life.

A low chuckle from your companion next to you. “A new life. Are you sure you know what that entails?” There’s something in his voice, that you can’t tell if it’s wistful or something else but you don’t miss the light tremble in it. Almost as if he’s mournful of the life he himself has to live.

“I know it’s going to be hard and I might not make it, but I want a tomorrow of my choosing. Not someone else’s.” Slapping his knee and laughing loud enough you hear someone inside the bus telling him to keep it down you have to smile. It is the most relaxed you’ve felt since you left town the day before and your hope for the future soars while he apologises to the voice that had called out to him before turning his attention back on you.

“You’re something else that’s for sure. You remind me of some of the kids at the orphanage.” Looking towards him as the chill night air starts to settle in more and asking about those kids as he grows more animated. Filling the night air with tales of the shenanigans of children, from getting into trouble and tender moments of looking after one another and it warms your heart. Yes you had no idea what the future might have in store in for you, but if there are more men like this priest willing to worry about a stranger like you than you have hope you’ll see more dawns out on your own than you did in your old town.

#trigun #twink writes #nicholas d. wolfwood #trigun 98 #Wolfwood #Reader #wolfwood wednesday #fluff

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cherry-flavoured-thot · 2 years

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Hmmm, I'm not sure if this has been requested before so feel free to ignore this if it has. The brothers with a motherly and caring reader that always makes them breakfast, lunch bentos, and dinner, and is a master of textile work (sewing, knitting, etc.) but will beat up anyone who dares to test her patience.

Lucifer, who sometimes thinks coffee is an acceptable meal replacement, kinda needs someone like this in his life. At first he acted offended, all "don't coddle me. I am not a child. >:(" But quickly turned that frown upside down when he realised how much mc's kindness has benefitted everyone in the house. Including himself. He really appreciates no more arguments about cooking, and he also appreciates the only argument he hears about it these days is mc making sure he actually remembered to eat today. He always takes his packed bento box with him, the only member to never once forget his lunch at home.

“How fast do ya think you could knit another one?” Is Mammon’s first question upon mc handing him a sweater they knitted. And regardless of their answer, he’s asking because he wants to own another so he can constantly show off to his brother’s at what mc made for him. Mammon always cleans his plate from mc’s cooking, swears up and down it is the best cooking he’s ever eaten, to which mc claims that it’s because they make it with love. He’s asking for seconds. Sometimes forgets his bento on purpose because mc always comes and offers to share theirs with him, meaning they get to have lunch together. mc has caught on and now packs extra in their own lunch.

Leviathan, who already knows sewing tricks thanks to enjoying cosplay, learns a few other things from mc. When a fabric just isn’t cooperating, he’s calling them in for back up, and normally between the two of them, they manage to pull through. When mc offers to make him a bento box for lunch, presents them with his Ruri-chan bento box while on his knees. Yeah he doesn’t always go into RAD but he still needs a healthy nutritious lunch too, is what mc tells Lucifer, who shakes his head while watching mc shape Levi’s sandwiches into cute faces similar to his favourite anime characters.

Satan proudly owns a knitted set by mc, that all have the matching themes of, you guessed it, cats! On cold winter days off he can be seen walking around with his cat beanie, gloves, sweater and socks. He also has a plain green set but he clearly likes his cat set more. I can also see him asking for mc to teach him how to knit so he can eventually knit them a set. But he’s probably terrible at it at first and nearly ends up throwing the knitting needles through the wall due to not understanding how mc can just make it look so effortless.

“I can patch that up for you!” Is how Asmodeus finds out about mc’s sewing talents, especially their efficiency under pressure. He needed his outfit ready by 8 and they had fixed ten minutes before. He’s very grateful for everything they do, not just fixing up outfits, but all the cooking too, he always loudly thanks mc for their delicious food before eating or when they give him a homemade bento. But he also worries that they might not be taking enough time to take care of themselves, so he offers pretty frequently for them to come do something with him to relax. Spa days, shopping trips, brunches, he’s happy to offer as long as they come with him.

Mc cooks for Beelzebub, and he’s ready to defend them in every scenario. No but in all seriousness, he is so grateful. He will eat any dish they put in front of him, he will always say it’s delicious and clean his plate, as well as everybody else’s, after he makes sure mc has eaten something of course. He will always accept their bento lunches, and will send them crying stickers if he forgets his. “Mc I forgot my bento, I’m sorry.” Apologies to them because he feels terrible that all their hard work cooking for him was for nothing, only to be pleasantly surprised when they do out of their way to bring him theirs. He takes them out for dinner as thanks. He also really loves the sweaters mc knits for him, says they feel comfy and wears them all the time.

Belphegor gets a handmade cow plushie made by mc for his birthday, to which he laughs dryly at. But for some reason, every now and then it makes it into his bed, along side his favourite pillow. Swears up and down he must’ve just accidentally thrown it into his bed. That it’s a strange coincidence he’s ended up hugging it. Not that he treasures a silly little plushie mc made for him as a joke. Yes he forgets his bento, yes sometimes he doesn’t even wake up in time for lunch and it stays in the fridge the whole day. But he is furious if anyone else even touches the bento mc made for him. Not even Beel is safe.

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wheenthrod · 2 years

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weird-writes · 1 year

Text

Hot Off the Trail (Andor/Rogue One, E)

Title: Hot Off the Trail (11k)

Description: You've been comrades-in-arms for years, and you'd trust him with your life. So when Saw Gerrera's best rifleman offers to help you blow off steam, what's the harm in saying yes?

Pairing: Benthic "Two Tubes" x Female Reader

Maybe it's the drugs changing your mood as chemical byproducts drift into your bloodstream but the contented, heavy feeling is sliding away, replaced by something sharper. Curiosity. You would normally leave the conversation where it lies but the spice makes things that would usually be difficult easy. It's not that you're out of control, it's just not as hard to ask as it would be if you were sober.

You still make sure you’re looking straight ahead when you say, "Not so different how?"

The response is equally casual. "Want to find out?"

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex, penetrative sex, anarchist philosophy, drug use, squirting, knotting i guess??, monsterfuckin' galore, we playin' fast and loose with biology baby, open-ended romance, no betas we die like men

Tropes: friends with benefits, porn without plot, sex comedy if that's a trope, fluff or as fluffy as you can get with saw gerrera in the mix, is dirtbag4dirtbag a thing?, awkward first times

Author's note: i have no excuse i just can’t be trusted around a masc lifeform with a rifle and their face covered SORRY

***

"What, seriously? It doesn't feel good at all?"

You're sitting with your head resting against the rock wall of the canyon, looking up at the twinkle of the galaxy above you and watching the firelight in camp flicker and dance in the distance. It's been a long day - a long week - maybe a long month - and you can't remember the last time you had an evening to relax like this, let alone a whole day off. It's been nothing but one run after another for a while now, and while all of Saw's guerillas are tough, there's a limit to your comrades' ability to fly close-quarter combat missions without rest. And a limit to your ability to put them back together after exhaustion takes its toll, turning minor accidents into major ones.

Which is why you'd handed off tomorrow's assignment: pilot and, if need be, medic for the saboteur crew harassing the Imperial arrestor cruiser that often patrols this sector. Bokk's not as quick on the controls as you, but Cantwell-class ships trade speed for power anyway. He'll be fine.

Benthic is next to you, his lean shoulders swathed only in his usual seamed shirt and dark cloak. You, by contrast, are practically drowning in layers, undershirt and tunic and sweater and at least two coats. It's freezing to your frail human body, Segra Milo's winter unforgiving under the best of circumstances and now only exacerbated by your position away from the fire and the portable heating units that keep your makeshift living quarters at a nearly-tolerable temperature. On the sand between you and the Tognath rests a thin pipe, its tip a smoldering orange glow in the shadows.

The spice has made you chatty, prone to talk about nothing at all. Your day off has been mellow already and the feeling is only enhanced by the drug. You'd volunteered to scrape together dinner as the duty rotation changed, bodies crowding your workspace as your fellow partisans huddle gratefully near the little plasma stove to shake off the chill. Benthic had appeared mid-meal, returning from his overwatch position on the cliffs. He'd been back long enough to tidy up, his headplates shiny from the sonic Saw had grudgingly permitted after his crew insisted that they'd be no good if the Empire could smell them coming.

Benthic had told you once he didn't actually need the sonic, that his kind cleaned themselves mostly with soft bristle brushes and dry, sweet-scented abrasives, but he enjoyed the sensation as a ritual that delineated the end of a sentry shift. He'd been obviously off-duty by then, unarmed except for the slender rifle he carries everywhere, the pipe that now rests between you extended in his hand as an invitation. You'd held up one finger across the crowded room, the universal sign for hang on a minute, then come to find him after the last of the plates were cleared away.

Which is how you ended up here at the mouth of the canyon, cold but pleasantly aware of Benthic's undemanding company, and a bit sleepy. At least, you had been sleepy - until he'd said the thing that made you wonder if he's messing with you.

"Not at all," Benthic confirms, picking up the pipe as his articulated finger-scales click against his joints. He can't draw on it the normal way, not with the respiratory apparatus that lets him thrive in oxygen-rich environments like this one clamped over what you presume is his mouth, but he thumbs open a port on his filter unit and takes in the smoke through there. Finding out that you both enjoy the effects of sansanna spice despite your differing brain chemistries had been one of your stepping-stones on the road to friendship.

"That makes no sense," you say, watching spice fumes leak minutely from the seals of the breathing tubes that gave him his nickname. "What's the incentive for..." Your vocabulary fails you. "You know... making young? Children?" You're both speaking Tognath, which Benthic prefers: partially as an act of defiance and partially because the low, buzzing pitch carries well through the modulator that transfers sound outside his mask.

He scoffs. "The incentive is the children themselves, isn't that enough? You purely mammalian types wouldn't recognize any of what we do as mating, not really. The selection process for reproducing pairs is not physical, and the eggs aren't parented the same way that human infants are. It's the father that provides the first six months of care after hatching, until the larvae select their nursery tree for cocooning."

Your eyebrows lift. "The fathers? Tognaths have two sexes? Have you been a father?" You've never really thought of your friend's choice of pronouns as anything but convenience for the less worldly. Maybe it means more than that.

“My sex is most closely analogous to male, yes," Benthic shrugs. "But I've never been a father. And now I won't ever be," he adds darkly. You know what he's talking about: the occupation of Yar Togna. Most of your comrades have similar stories. It's not something any of you dwell on in conversation, preferring to let the struggle you enact together against the Empire speak to your shared grief. There are no words loud enough to convey the pain of losing a homeworld, but the sudden violence of a blaster bolt, or a bomb, can sometimes come close. For a while.

But that's an on-duty sort of thought, and you're determined to spend your first free night in ages thinking about anything else. "Does that mean you've... you've never...?"

Benthic matches your attempt at levity with the ease of long acquaintance. His willingness to feel emotions other than rage and despair despite his hatred is one of the reasons you prefer his company to that of his brother Edrio. Benthic can be quick to anger, terse and intimidating, but with you he’s also funny... and kind. The tall Tognath was one of the first partisans you met after Saw recruited you straight out of your Imperial labor camp. He'd never objected to your presence, even when you spent your first few weeks on Segra Milo living in his shadow and avoiding everyone else. In the intervening years, many of the partisans you'd been terrified of had become your friends, but Benthic is the one you seek out when you need a sympathetic ear. Or someone to listen to your stupid jokes.

You're teasing him now, and he knows it. "Never what?" Benthic shoots back. "Never--" and then he makes a sound you don't know but you have no trouble deducing the meaning of. You’re pretty sure you just learned the slang for fuck, past tense. "Of course I have." He turns his head toward you in that way you've learned is smug. "I'm very good at it."

You're still catching up. "Hunh? If you're not a father and it doesn't feel good..."

"Making children isn't pleasurable," he corrects. "You would say we have two types of sex. Sex for reproduction, which is honorable but not pleasurable, and sex for... social function. For fun. That, I assure you, feels quite good. Especially with a partner one... enjoys." You do know that word, but here it has a connotation you're not familiar with. It sounds an awful lot to your human ears like hunger, and not necessarily in the metaphorical way.

"Oh," you say in sudden enlightenment. "Sex without children. We do that too. Well, most of us do, anyway– not everyone enjoys it." Your turn with the spice. You breathe in the smoke and hold it, letting the taste that gives the drug its name fill your mouth before exhaling. The cloud drifts away, broken apart by the cold night wind. Your head feels heavy and fuzzy and very slow.

"Do you?" Benthic's tone is lazy; he's feeling it too.

Well, this is one of the weirder conversations you've ever had. The tips of your ears warm with the start of a blush as you consider how to answer his question. "Um, yes? It depends on who my partner is, I guess. It's always so different from person to person, even if the... equipment is similar. I don't know."

He makes a sound that you interpret as his version of hmm. "Much the same for us, I think. Sometimes a good match, sometimes a bad one. My eggmate Edrio and I once coupled with a--" He must be able to see your expression in the dark because he breaks off mid-sentence, creaking out a laugh. "Maybe not so similar after all. Have you ever–" he makes the fuck sound again "--with a non-human?"

"No," you say quickly. "Not even with a human, not in a long time." You might be embarrassed to admit it under other circumstances, but running with the partisans means privacy is mostly an illusion. If you'd lied to save your pride, he would have found out.

Another thoughtful noise. Then: "Is it bad for you? To go so long without sex?" The polite version of the word this time, the one you've heard before.

You have no idea how to answer that. "No, it isn't bad for me physically." Mentally, probably.

You haven’t been completely without offers. Plenty of your comrades sneak off together or share blankets in a more permanent arrangement. No one minds as long as it stays out of the command room. You'd had opportunities, but none enticing enough to risk the possibilities of things getting... difficult. If human sex has a defining feature, it's unasked-for emotion turning up to make a simple thing complicated.

You wonder if it's the same for Tognaths. "Your turn. Are you sneaking off-planet to get laid?" That last sentence is in Basic, since you're not sure you understand the arrangement of syllables he's been using enough to reproduce them.

You'd meant it as a joke, but Benthic seems to take the question seriously. "No. The urge is not physiological. There are no consequences to going without, except for perhaps... yelling more than usual." His tone is dry. He's referring to himself, of course.

You snort. "With this lot, yelling is part of the job. How about you, have you ever..." You make a vague gesture with your shoulders, something like a shrug. "With a human?"

"One or twice," Benthic says. "Mostly females. Our bodies are not so different that one can’t navigate the difference.” He uses the same expression in Tognath as he would for the action of charting a course in hyperspace or memorizing a new star map. It's a romantic turn of phrase from the practical warrior. Apparently your friend has hidden depths.

And besides, come on, you're talking to Benthic. You've known him forever. He once showed you how to make a fire from dried-out bantha dung on Tatooine. You'd failed to account for the wind, inhaled a lungful of the shitty, oily smoke and then thrown up until you drowned the coals. The Tognath had laughed so hard at your mistake you thought he might pass out instead of you. Between the two of you there's not much dignity left to preserve.

You still make sure you’re looking straight ahead when you say, "Not so different how?"

The response is equally casual. "Want to find out?"

And with Tubes it genuinely sounds like a straightforward question. As if there will be no consequences at all to your answer, as though no is just as good as yes. Like this could be simple, if only you'd let it.

Wait. Are you letting it? Are you about to say yes to perving on your best friend, who isn't even human? How high are you, exactly?

Benthic is waiting patiently for your response. You sneak a glance at him. His posture is relaxed, leaned back against the rock with his boots outstretched in the sand, his face betraying nothing - not that the configuration of hard bone enhanced with metal gives you much to go on. Only his hands show any sign that he'd said anything at all; the pipe is lifted halfway to his respirator as if he's forgotten he's holding it.

"Uh. Maybe?" Even you know you're stalling. "How– exactly what kind of... equipment are we talking about here?"

"Nothing damaging to you," he answers instantly, as if he'd anticipated this. "I could show you, if you like." From anyone else, this would be an unbearable pickup line; from him it sounds merely polite.

The entire idea is insane.

Or is it? This would just be an experiment. Between a human and an alien. Building intergalactic bridges, you think, with a twinge of hysteria. Hells, it's practically an exchange program.

"Okay," you say in Basic.

He seems as surprised by your assent as you are, and you are kriffing floored. You stare at each other for a long moment, or at least he stares at you and you stare at the small servo motor-driven diopter augmentations that make real eye contact with a Tognath impossible.

"Okay," Benthic repeats eventually, also in Basic. The word seems to unlock the strained pause between you. He puts the pipe down and shoots to his feet in one fluid, enviable motion. He's already close to a third of a meter taller than you even when you're standing and with you still sitting down he seems like the tallest thing in the universe. You find you have to swallow several times, your tongue a foreigner in your own mouth, your throat suddenly thick with - you don't know what. Embarrassment? Anticipation?

By contrast, Benthic seems entirely comfortable now he knows what the immediate future holds. It's clear you just said yes to a sexual proposition but you're still not ready when he reaches up, takes hold of the fabric near the shoulder, and starts to shuck out of his surcoat.

You make a noise like a baby Wookie, a sort of high-pitched, terrified squeak, then clamp your hands over your mouth, mortified. "Sorry! Sorry," you say around your own fingers. "I just didn't expect– are we getting naked right this minute?"

Benthic looks down at you. "I am not undressing," he says, and his voice is warm and amused under the modulator. "I thought perhaps you would like to lie on something other than sand." He doesn't add you idiot, which is kind of him. Then again, maybe he doesn't need to. "We will go at whatever pace you wish."

"Oh," you say lamely. "Oh, I thought– it's fine." And you find, to your shock, that it is fine. You're nervous but it's good nervous, the kind you get when you're about to do something that you know is worth a little discomfort. Like jumping into a cold lake on a hot summer day.

You're not in love with him and that's fine too. This is Tubes in front of you, taking off his cloak and spreading it on the ground to shield you. Tubes, who's seen you sweating and shaking, covered in blood or changing out of your flight suit more times than you can count. Tubes, who once talked you down after a near-miss with a TIE fighter when you refused to let your fellow medics near you because some broken part of you was still inside that cockpit as it came apart. You don't need to be in love with him because you trust him.

Stars, you're really going to do this.

"Here," you say, and it only comes out a bit strangled as you stand too, shrugging out of your outer layer and handing it to him. You feel a burning and nonsensical need to contribute somehow, to show you're invested in whatever the fuck is about to happen. "It's cold."

Tubes adds the thick coat to the pile, buffering the spot where you'll be laying under - under? Don't think about it yet - him from the freezing ground. "It is not cold to me," he says. "But we Tognaths have a very fast metabolism. I think you will find yourself adequately warm if you are close."

Close. You can manage that. Warmth sounds nice. Really nice, and it opens the door to something you've wanted to do for a long time, even if before tonight it was only from idle curiosity.

"Can I touch you?" you blurt out, faster than your nervousness can stop you. "I mean– I mean– like this. Standing up. It might help me to..." You swerve away from relax. "I just want to know what you're like.” Oh, you hope that didn't come out as insensitive as it sounded. Like he's an exhibit in a Coruscant museum.

Benthic chuckles, a sound that combines the low register of a mature human male with the rasping, clicking buzz of a grasshopper. "Yes, you can touch anywhere you like. Gently to start, if you don't mind. Some of me is... very responsive."

Every aspect of this conversation so far has been thrilling, but the sensation has been... not intellectual, exactly, but mental - constrained to your spice-fueled mind. You're curious and excited and weirdly honored to be trusted to do this, but it's as if your body has been playing catch-up, unconvinced that it might get something out of the encounter too. Your limbic system is dormant right up until the moment Benthic says very responsive in that rumbling baritone and then everything comes online all at once, flooding your brain with hormones as goosebumps erupt under your layers of sweater. Something animal in you responds to the unspoken promise in his voice, the same voice that had assured you he's good at this, and your pussy gives a little pulse that feels like the equivalent of a dreamy sigh. You've never known Tubes to brag.

"Take off your shirt," you say, and if your voice is still a bit shaky this time it's for a different reason.

Benthic moves so obediently it takes you a moment to realize he's reached up instead of down, gripping not his clothes but the connector gaskets that attach his breathing apparatus to his face. The first seal unlocks with a hiss.

"Oh shit!” One of your own hands shoots out too late to stop him. "Wait. I didn't– we'll figure it out. Don't suffocate, please?"

"Your concern is appreciated.” Once again you can hear how he's pointedly not laughing at your expense. He moves from one seal to the other, taking your hand with him so you feel the click as the coupler unseats. "I am not in danger. The oxygen here is more than I'm used to but in the short-term, the effects are not unpleasant. Like spice."

Your first unkind thought, which you wouldn't admit with an Imperial blaster to your head, is, Wow I've been sharing my stash with this nerf herder when he gets high on the air for free?

Your second unkind thought is I am such an idiot, as he unbuckles the harness straps that hold his filtration pack and adds, "How else would I get dressed every day?"

"I'd never thought about it," you respond defensively, pulling your hands back to yourself and trying not to stare. You've never seen his real face before - or most of his face, since the mechanics that enhance his vision and hearing are still in place. You have an unobstructed view of his mouth, though, and it's... not human. Not even remotely, a blank hole in his otherwise familiar form that changes shape when he speaks more than a human's would, shielded by two ductile protrusions from above and below. The whole thing looks not totally unlike a blast door in miniature. You swallow hard. Kissing is apparently out of the question.

Now he’s reaching for the hem of his loose tunic, pulling harness and tunic off together in a bundle and letting them drop into the sand. You're not sure you can take another surprise like his mouth, but he looks… not so different than he did with the tunic on, anatomy some combination of lean strength and what you think are hard plates or scales in flexible, overlapping configurations a bit like the many seams of his shirt. His skin is the same pallid grey-green color as his face and it reflects the starlight just a little, smooth and clean. It's manageable as long as you don't spend too long looking at his mouth. It's more than manageable, it's... inviting, like allowed to touch a marble statue.

Benthic tilts his head in the same assessing motion he uses for range-finding over the barrel of his rifle. "And this?" he asks, as though you hadn't stopped talking. The volume of his voice has dropped noticeably without the modulator, although it's still audible in the quiet. You recall that his vocal cords, like his respiratory system and his tympanic membranes, are made for much thicker atmosphere, although you can't remember if he told you or you read it in one of the rare medical manuals that Saw sometimes barters for. "Did you think about this?"

You're not sure if he means himself, half-undressed, or the evening's planned activities more generally, but the answer's the same either way.

"No," you say. It sounds honest because it is. "No, I never thought about this. Not before tonight. It seemed... impossible." You're not sure why it had seemed so impossible, only that it had. You've never been a xenophiliac, but you don't think you harbor any strict prejudices about your partners' species. You're a healthy human woman and - speaking based on ancient historical data, anyway - you like sex. And Tubes has always been different with you than with the others, teasing and affectionate in a way that you've sometimes thought would be flirtatious if... You really are an idiot.

"And you're not in the habit of dreaming the impossible." That dry wit again, laced with humor.

You know what he's referring to. You do your best attempt at Saw’s hoarse rasp back at him: " ‘In order to fight for the future we want, we must first be able to imagine the world as it should be.’ "

You'd meant it to be funny, but there's nothing funny about it when Tubes takes a long step towards you, his height forcing you to tilt your head back if you want to keep looking anywhere but at his broad chest with its distinct bands of muscle and plate. He's doing something with his fingers you can't quite follow in the dark at first, and then he makes a motion you do know, peeling away the articulated finger-joints of his.... gloves. He wears gloves, the same color and plate pattern as his skin. They're so well-fitted and camouflaged you've never noticed, the edges hidden under the cuffs of his surcoat. Just like his mouth, you've never seen his real hands.

So you never knew what you were missing until he raises those same hands and circles them, loosely but with conviction, around your wrists. He has beautifully long fingers, their color dark and indiscernible in the dim light, and they bend and flex in a way that suggests more joints than a standard human's. And oh, he wasn't kidding about his body heat. The first touch of his palms is burning hot, nearly as warm as some of the heating units you've slept huddled against since you came to this planet, and they feel excruciatingly good against your bare skin.

"Not impossible," Benthic says, and without the modulator he has to bend down so you hear it, putting his strange mouth close to your ear. His breath is warm too, and smells faintly of something dry and pleasant and inorganic, like the mineral incense in the temples you visited as a child. Your whole body reacts to his proximity, your stomach fluttering and your mouth going dry. Whatever pheromones or other chemical signals he's producing, they clearly work on you, despite your species difference. "Now, I recall you said something about touching?"

What follows is an unhurried interval containing nothing more overtly sexual than your hands on the Tognath as he stands, patient and impassive, allowing you to enjoy both the novelty of his form and his service as your own personal hand-warmer. You find that, despite the nerve-wracking presence of cloak and coat waiting on the sand, you can't turn off the medic part of your mind, and so you start to ask questions as your touch wanders over him.

"This?" you say, as the tips of your fingers ghost over the biggest plate-scale on his abdomen. "Protects the vital organs," he answers. "Here?" you ask, as your palm brushes something soft and yielding just under what you think might be his sternum. "Adipose - helps sense vibration," he responds, and so on, until you've worked your way up to his shoulders to his neck. The moment you run your fingers along the vulnerable stretch between the last plate and the line of his jaw he hisses, the subtle rise and fall of his chest hitching for a moment as his own hands twitch toward yours.

You pull away instantly. "I'm sorry. Did that hurt?"

"No," he says, and his voice is even deeper now, raspy and polyphonic. "No, it didn't hurt."

"Then what--"

Benthic cuts you off. "I told you I can be... responsive."

And that gets through even your thick human skull. "Oh," you say, and can't keep yourself from licking your lips as you repeat the motion, still tentative but slower this time, drawing a long straight line from the top of his sternum plate to the edge of the ridge shielding his mouth. He's silent as you do it, but you can feel a faint tremor through him and the air between you thickens with tension like a spring coiling. Feeling him feeling you affects you too, action and reaction, your heartbeat kicking to life at the juncture of your thighs.

You stop when you reach his mouth; he moves to meet you, taking your hand and pushing it gently away. "You've touched. Will you permit me the same?"

Your response is to try and pull your remaining layers off at the same time as fast as possible, which ends with your arms stuck in the coat sleeves and your head engulfed in the neck of the sweater. It takes a deeply awkward moment of wriggling to get free and Maker, in that instant you can't believe anyone, let alone someone as competent and experienced as Tubes, would want to fuck you. The absurdity of it all strikes you again, painfully, as you finally manage to pull the sweater off only to find your friend regarding you with a serious expression.

"You could have helped," you accuse.

"I thought," Benthic says, solemn as the grave, "it was a mating display."

And that does it, breaks whatever magic spell of nerves and uncertainty he's cast over you. You laugh so hard you have to bend double and put your hands on your knees, not trusting yourself to stay upright. Tubes is laughing too, not at your expense so much as your reaction, the creaking-door sound soft without the modulator to carry it. When you can finally breathe you take off the rest of your clothes, still laughing, and lay down on the nest of warm coats he's made for you. You're smiling as he kneels between your legs, putting one hand gently on your waist and running the other lightly from the seam of your lips all the way down to where soft hair covers your pubic mound, like someone soothing an animal.

It feels divine, warm and textured and safe, the sand yielding under you. "More," you say, and you're startled by the change in your own voice now, lush and imperious. He indulges you, petting you again, then again, and you're just about to close your eyes and sink into this undemanding touch when Benthic changes course, dragging his fingers down your neck, your collarbones, and over the swell of your breast. You hum as those long, facile fingers find your nipple, circling tentatively.

"Good?" he asks.

"Good," you answer, your breath catching.

He lets go, then palms the weight of your breast in his hand, squeezing lightly, watching your reaction closely. "Good?"

"Good," you say, as your head falls back to rest against the pile of fabric under you.

His other hand joins in on the other side, hefting and pulling, half-experiment and half-massage. Then he stops, and you yelp at the mingled sting and pleasure as he pinches your nipple between thumb and forefinger. "Too much?"

"No, good," you say hoarsely, and moan as he does it again. You're going to have to remember to speak up. You don't know much about sex with aliens but you know enough to know that verbal consent is imperative since cues like involuntary noise are unreliable across species. You'd pulled your underwear off along with everything else and you can feel yourself starting to get wet, as much from his focused attention as from the sensation itself.

His exploration continues, stroking along the underside of your breasts, sliding along your ribs - good thing you aren't ticklish - and pausing to dip into your navel, which feels... not bad, but surprisingly intimate. But then you suppose his kind don't have breasts or navels if reproduction is all done through eggs, and your body must be as mysterious - and you hope enticing - to him as his is to you.

Benthic's hands drop a little lower and then come to rest, long-jointed fingers splayed from the crease between your ass and thighs all the way to the swell of your hipbones. You want him to keep going, want to whine and part your legs wider to shamelessly ask for more, but you don't really know what to expect next. Tubes must sense your confusion, because he decides for you.

"Do you usually orgasm with a partner?" he asks in Basic. It's a clever inquiry to make with a new lover; reconnaissance to calibrate expectations, like scouting the terrain before a mission. It also drives home something else: this is, by far, the most questions you've ever been asked during sex. Maybe that's why some humans like fucking aliens so much - no preconceived notions of pleasure and capacity, every new species a fresh slate.

"Sometimes," you answer, avoiding his gaze. "Um... skillsets have been... varied. Not everyone can make me come." That last in Basic too. You're learning that when it comes to sex, your Tognath vocabulary is sorely lacking.

Benthic cocks his head. "Come?" The word is fuzzy and loose. He doesn't know it.

"Orgasm," you clarify. "Slang for orgasm."

"Come," he parrots, enlightened. "We would say-" and he rounds his mouth around a word in Tognath, ending with a round, liquid-sounding vowel that's pleasing to the ear.

You repeat it back to him once, then once more after he corrects you. "Very good. I should warn you– that is a private word, used only between mates. If you meet another Tognath, I would not give away that you know it unless you are in a similar situation."

You snort. "Tubes, you and Edrio are the only Tognaths I know. I'm not about to go on a sex spree."

"You couldn't even if you wanted to, there aren't enough of us left. Anyway," he adds, brutally practical, "you haven't even had sex with me yet." He must have noticed how you responded when he was close to you before, because he curls over you, obscuring the night sky, and puts his mouth right against the curve of your ear. "I would like to help you come," he says in Tognath. "And then I would like to feel what you are like inside and make you come again, if you can."

If you can, not if he can, some part of you notes, the bit that isn't fading to sex-drunk stupidity. He's infuriatingly sure of himself. Any other time you'd come back with something sarcastic but the feeling of his fingers digging into the curve of your ass is like someone just popped a bottle of fizz at the base of your skull.

"Yes," is all you can manage back. "Yes, please." You shouldn't be so willing to beg yet, he's barely even touched you, but kriff, it's been so long since anyone but yourself has made you come. You'd almost forgotten what it's like to want someone who wants you back, the push-and-pull of mutual desire blotting out everything else.

"Please," Bethic repeats, sounding pleased himself at your response, and lets go of your hips to nudge your legs further apart. He looks down at you for a long minute while you fight the urge to squirm, out of practice with such direct scrutiny of your sex. You're sure he can see the deepening flush of your folds and the slick heat that's your body’s hopeful response to the promise of penetration.

Then he makes a clicking noise - the Tognath equivalent of clearing his throat. "I am not completely inexperienced when it comes to humans. But it might be helpful to see what you like."

And suddenly the awkwardness returns, creeping back in like a thief - although this time it's nothing to do with him and everything to do with you. You've just been asked to put on a show.

It's a sensible thing to request, given your differing anatomies, but something about it tugs at the same stage fright you used to have at academy. None of your previous lovers had ever even hinted at something like this. None of your previous lovers were aliens either, you reason, but the thought doesn't help.

"Uhhh..." you say, since you don't know what else to do, and then wince internally. Real sexy, genius.

Benthic, being Benthic, reads your reluctance immediately and returns to the same unthreatening petting motion as before, gentling his warmth over your skin. "Not if you don't want to. There are other ways to learn."

For some reason, the generosity of his reassurance annoys you. He's being so lovely and it occurs to you in a burst of irritation that you are being managed, almost like he managed you when you were new to camp and jumped at every shadow. It makes you profoundly grateful that he's being so careful not to hurt you, and irrationally angry that he thinks he could. Which is ridiculous, of course he could hurt you, he's a third of a meter taller than you and basically made of durasteel and might have needle spikes on his dick for all you know.

But he doesn't have to act like it.

You react the way you always have to Tubes proposing something logical when your blood is up: stubbornly. "I want to," you say and it comes out like a challenge. I want to, are you going to let me?

The Tognath doesn't have eyebrows to raise, but you suspect his expression is skeptical and that makes you even more determined. If he wants to run the game like he owns the board, he's going to learn you don't play fair.

"I want to," you say again, and sit up so you're sure he can hear you for the next part. "I want you to watch me while I make myself come." This time you use Tognath, the liquid word he said was private and only for use between mates, and then, just to drive the point home, you reach up and lick a hot, wet trail from the center of his chest plate to a spot just under the metal bands encircling his ear.

The noise he makes is incredible; you're so close you can feel the rumbling, purring vibration start somewhere in his chest, making his plates shiver against one another before it comes out as a drawn-out groan. Hearing it fills you with something headier than spice, the missing piece slotting neatly into place as you give an involuntary shudder and your cunt seizes hard around nothing. You want to hear that sound again. You want to hear it a lot. No, you don't just want to hear it - you want to be the reason he's making it.

You don't bother to explain as you move into position. If he doesn't know, he'll find out. But Benthic says nothing as you turn around to kneel on all fours. He's silent as you dig your kneecaps into the coats and rock a little, making a divot to help you keep your balance. He's silent as you shove your own fingers in your mouth with a noisy suck, showing off while slicking them up. He's silent right up until you reach down and part your folds and provocatively slide the very tip of a finger into yourself. Then he makes the noise again, and this time it's even deeper.

When you pull your finger back out, fluttering around your entrance before reaching up to firmly circle your clit, making your hips buck and your breathing stutter, he unleashes a slew of Tognath. You know only a few of the words - all of them rude - but they sound enthusiastic. It's easier like this, forcing him to observe from behind, the last of the spice in your bloodstream making you bold. You don't have to watch him watch you and you know he has an excellent view with your ass in the air and your pussy on display. It makes you feel gloriously obscene.

"Good?" you ask.

"Good," he says, guttural and broken, and that's even better than your fingers.

You have to work for your first orgasm and you swear the rolling clench of your cunt when it finally happens feels rusty and out of practice. With his eyes on you it's gratifying anyway, even if it's not enough to quench the fire building in your cunt and crawling up your skin. You can feel Tubes shifting restlessly, gripping your thighs like they're the only thing keeping him in place.

When the short, sharp waves of your climax have stopped, you peel one of his hands off your skin and place it over your swollen mound. "You wanted to learn, so learn," you say, and use his cooperative fingers to map the places that pleasure you most.

The heat rolling off him is as just mind-numbing between your legs as you'd imagined. When he finally opens you up with one long, clever finger, pushing inside only to the first knuckle as he tests what might be too fast, too much, he groans again, and this time you let out a few rude words of your own. You’d swear you can feel the vibration reverberate through his curious bone structure all the way into your clit.

"You're so sensitive," he rasps, and that calm self-assurance has been replaced by something hot and urgent.

"Kriff," you say eloquently back, as he pushes a little further. "Holy fuck." His fingers are thicker than yours, and the texture is nothing like human skin. They're firm and ridged on the pad, rough and scaled over the knuckles. It might be too much if you weren't practically dripping, the sensation rendered safe by how willing your body is to receive him, but right now it's wonderful. If this is just his hands, what does the rest of him feel like?

There’s a shock of cold air against your pussy as he slides away, taking his warmth with him. "I want to taste you," Benthic says. "I want to make you come--" he uses the mate word, as you did, "-- on my tongue."

Better hanged for a thousand credits than a hundred, you think. You can handle that; you just won’t look down while it’s happening. "Fine. I mean, yes."

That's all you have to say; Benthic flips you around as easily as if you weigh no more than his rifle, tugging on your hips to move you closer as his broad shoulders part your thighs. You try not to think about what's about to happen but you can't help it, imagining your most vulnerable parts being pulled toward the unsettlingly mechanical arrangement of his mouth. You trust Tubes, you really do, but that glimpse of his mouth was just so... alien, opening and closing like a lithe black hole. What if -

"Wait," you blurt, as you feel the first brush of him against your legs. Trepidation slithers up your spine to whisper a very stupid question into your soft mammal brain. "You don't– like… eat your mates or anything after, right?"

That same mammal brain shrieks in alarm at the strange rattling sensation he produces in response. It takes you a panicked moment to realize what you're feeling is Benthic laughing, the thin and flexible plates that surround his mouth knocking against the skin of your inner thigh. "No. Besides, most mate-consumption is done by females anyway. I should be the one worrying."

"Don't," you say, intending to be flippant. "I don't eat Tognaths.” Except it comes out more like, "I don't eat Tognaaa--" because those same lips have just closed over you. All of you. He must be able to open his jaw a lot farther than a human because your whole sex, from the top of your pubic bone to the sensitive flesh just above your asshole is enveloped in plush heat. It feels incredible, a sharp contrast with the punishing chill, and your sentence ends in something between a surprised yelp and a moan.

Another rattle, this one a rumble of satisfaction. You know because you've heard it before: through your headset after you've hit a particularly difficult target with your U-wing's laser cannon - a shot your squadron leader said you couldn't make. Before this you've always interpreted it as pleased, but now you realize it’s not just pleased, it’s possessive. You’re not sure your pussy can get any wetter, but the knowledge that Tubes would feel that way about you, like you’re his - has felt that way for a while and you’ve just been too dumb to notice - makes your brain melt too.

"Good?" Benthic asks, his voice even more muffled. You have no idea how he's talking with his mouth this far open.

"Good," you confirm. "Don't stop."

He doesn't. Something smooth and slippery and even hotter than the temperature of his mouth glides gently through your folds and slides up to investigate your clit, petting and tapping. You squirm, unable to hold still at the inconsistent stimulation. Whatever's touching you seems a lot like a tongue but more muscular and certainly more capable than the human variety. It's clearly attached to a fast learner too, because after a minute or two of exploration, Benthic starts to hone in on what makes your hips jerk the most, circling and pressing in the same pattern that you'd used to get yourself off during your little demonstration. The pressure combined with the overwhelming heat is so fucking perfect you start to lose yourself, chasing friction by bucking up into the sensation. There’s a tight, explosive feeling building somewhere in your core as your stomach tightens, your breath turning into pants, little ah-ah-ahs of pleasure driven out of you with every stroke of his tongue.

You’re building quickly towards a very satisfying climax, which leaves you totally unprepared when something else joins the party - this time pressing into you. You yelp again as you almost levitate off the coats in surprise, your hands scrabbling instinctively towards the head between your legs. Tubes has two tongues?

He’s laughing again, the bastard, and this time you can definitely feel it all the way through you as the second tongue flutters against your lips. He’s teasing you, flicking against your entrance and barely dipping inside while further up, the steady rhythm across your clit never falters. It’s torture, delicious torture on every sensitive part of you at once, especially after having come so close before, and you abruptly find you don't care if Tognaths do eat their partners afterward. You just want whatever's happening to keep happening.

"Fuck that's— fuck," you gasp, remembering this time to give your approval without being asked. "More.”

The tongue against your cunt pauses for a moment as Tubes encourages your knees to part even farther, making more space for him to maneuver. You realize belatedly that you’ve been so focused on your own experience that you haven’t checked in. It’s only fair that you ask if this is working for him. And, a selfish little voice that comes straight from your sex whispers, maybe you’ll get to hear him sound horny again.

As turned on as you are, you still don’t quite have the courage to look down. “Good?” you say to the empty air above you instead, and then choke as the only response is a growl so deep it vibrates right through the joints of your hips and the cup of your pelvis to rattle your womb. His grip on you changes, the hands on your knees sliding up to grab your ass, lifting until you’re half off the ground and tilted at an angle that allows the tongue that’s been tentatively lapping at your entrance fuck you for real. The first thrust would have had your spine convulsing off the sand if you weren’t already in place, a hot firm slide into you that’s overwhelming after so long on the brink of being fucked. It probes against your inner walls, questing in a way that feels like a question.

You think you know what he’s after. "A little further up," you tell him, and then, "Kriff." The thing inside you has redistributed itself somehow, swelling and hardening once it finds its goal: the textured, sensitive spot inside you that feels like too much and not enough all at once. It pulses against you at the same time as the pressure on your clit increases and oh, fuck, oh, oh…

If you had to work for your first climax, your second works you - what seems like every muscle in your body seizing at once as you come with a soft wail somewhere between a gasp and a sob. It’s so strong it takes you by surprise, flooding from the top of your head to the tips of your toes as your cunt seizes around the tongue inside you, clenching and releasing in time with the frantic beat of your heart. Tubes must be able to feel what’s happening but he doesn’t slow, working you through your peak with steady, unyielding patience. You only stop him, batting at his head with one clumsy hand, once the stimulation on your swollen clit threatens to move from pleasure to near-pain.

“Good?” he asks again, as he eases out. You can feel how fucking soaked you are in the aftermath, your own arousal combined with whatever serves Tognaths for saliva.

“Good,” you answer, tugging lightly on his shoulders. “Really good. Come here.”

There’s a disconcerting click and a rasp as Benthic raises up to hover over you: the hinge of his jaw, you think hazily, slotting into place, his plates moving back into their protective position. By the time you can see his face it’s the same as before: sharp chin, high flat cheekbones and the odd blast-door arrangement of mouth and lips. You find it interesting rather horrifying this time, and that alone would be enough to tell you that your orgasm was a good one even if the thick, sated feeling in your blood wasn’t.

You reach up to trail a finger lazily along the line of his cheek, skipping unsteadily as you drop to his collarbones, then sternum, then lower, trailing down. You might have just come harder than you have in years, but you still want. You want to find out what will break that uncompromising courtesy, even the playing field by making him as desperate as he’d made you.

When your wandering touch glides over the plate covering his abdomen, Benthic reacts like you’ve scorched him, jerking away as he grabs your wrist in a grip that isn’t painful but conveys every fiber of his wiry strength. You make a spoiled, childish sound before you can stop yourself, disappointed at being denied further contact.

The hand around your wrist remains. “What are you doing?” Benthic asks, and his tone is flat rather than playful.

You whine, fighting his grasp. “Touching you. Is that okay? Is something wrong?”

“You want…” He trails off for a moment, unsure. “Did I not… did I not satisfy you?”

“What?” Your mouth drops open. “Hells yes, you did. What about you - do you not want…?”

“That’s not necessary.” Benthic lets your wrist go with an air of finality, straightening up. You can tell from the set of his shoulders that he’s about to stand, ending whatever this is between you, and you’re surprised at how much it stings. Guess he decided he doesn’t like human women after all. You’re so focused on bracing for the impact of rejection that you almost miss what he says next: “You don’t need to make yourself uncomfortable. Not for me.”

Ah. A slow, triumphant smile creeps across your face as the implications of that particular piece of nonsense register. That’s what this is about. For all his cool self-assurance, Benthic thinks you don’t want - is somehow under the mistaken impression that - he’s being stupid.

“Tubes, stop. Look at me,” you command, putting all the iron in your voice you can. He pauses above you, which gives you time to snag his hand in yours. You wind your fingers through his long ones and reach down. “I’m not uncomfortable,” you say in Basic, not looking away from his face. “I like touching you.” You place your twined fingers over your pussy, the same way you did earlier - only this time you can see his reaction, see the sharp intake of breath as he feels how wet you are, how open. You give him a soft sound of encouragement. “You seem to care a lot about what I want, and I appreciate that,” you continue, as you work his fingers inside the inviting velvet of your cunt. “And what I want is for you to fuck me with your cock– or whatever – until neither of us can walk tomorrow.”

For a minute you think maybe he doesn’t understand, the idiom too colloquial to register. Then Benthic makes a new noise: a low, echoing snarl that no longer sounds even remotely human. It’s thrilling and terrifying and comes out of his throat as pure bass, so reverberant that it jostles the plates of his exoskeleton against each other with a sharp clack as he closes the distance between you. He’s everywhere, against and above you, crowding his impressive size into your space in a way that both reveals how much he’s been holding back and makes you dizzy with desire. The shift in stance jams his fingers further into you and you stifle a sound of your own, the coarse treatment so unlike his previous careful handling. Your arousal sparks to life again, a first step in the inevitable chain reaction of your climax.

He’s pressed so close that you can feel his other hand unbuckling his belt and shoving at the waistband of his trousers. You suppose you shouldn't be surprised: between the legs seems to be the most common place for bipeds keep their genitalia. You’re still spread out on the coats without a clear view of what, exactly, is about to happen but you have no doubt that whatever it is, Tubes will ensure your enjoyment at least as much as his own.

Your suspicion is borne out as the fingers inside you withdraw. Something stiff and ridged and hot nudges through your soaking folds and barely breaches you, sliding just inside your cunt and settling there. “Good?” comes the inevitable question, only this time he pairs it with a nearly imperceptible rock of his hips. Even that small adjustment makes you hiss, the motion catching against the sensitive rim of your entrance. Whatever Tognath anatomy is, it’s thick - pleasantly rather than painfully so - and has a strong upward curve that bumps against your inner walls.

“Good,” you say. An unwise but irresistible idea has taken hold and, not waiting for your cue, you dig your hands into the coats underneath you and use the leverage to shove yourself as far down on what you think is his cock as you can.

It’s a stupid gamble without being able to see the rest of what you’re pushing into your eager pussy, but it’s far from the riskiest thing you’ve ever done and you refuse to give Tubes a chance to collect himself in case he starts refereeing again. Fortunately for your delicate bits, the size and shape of him is amenable. You feel his cock bottom out after only a few more inches; it’s thickest toward the tip but the upward curve is so strong you feel stuffed full anyway. The sensation is unique but not too intense, pleasing but not overwhelming.

Until he moves.

The first real thrust slams the tip of him against the sensitive spot behind your clit like a meteor impact. The onslaught is so powerful you sink your teeth into your lower lip to keep from shrieking. You’re still raw with the strength of your last orgasm, every bit of you hyper aware of even the smallest touch, and his sudden invasion rides the edge of overstimulation, lighting up your nerve endings like fireworks. You can’t bring yourself to regret it, though, not with the sounds he’s making, his Tognath slurred almost beyond recognition as he tells you how much he likes feeling you like this, so wet you’re running down his length. The rough fabric of his trousers is rubbing the inside of your thighs and his hands are back on your ass, holding you exactly where he wants you.

Benthic sets a punishing pace, not slowing even when you thrash beneath him, open-mouthed pants turning into mewls of happy agony as he gives you no quarter from the relentless stimulation of his distinct anatomy. The high-handed, generous lover of a few minutes ago has vanished and if you weren’t so wrapped in the euphoric high of breathtakingly good sex, you’d be a little ashamed of how triumphant you feel. Motherfucker’s not asking you questions now - he’s too caught up in chasing the sensation of your cunt clutching him tighter with each punch of his hips.

You’re halfway to another orgasm from the internal stimulation alone when the heavy rhythm of Benthic’s strokes stutters, breaking apart to crash into your slick heat once– twice– three times. His cock swells, becoming impossibly harder as you feel all the long muscle in his body convulse, drawing tight like a pressed trigger. Something is happening, from the noises he’s making; and it sounds a hell of a lot to your untrained ears like the desperate, satisfied groans of a man who’s come so hard he can’t form words.

You’re just about to cheat a hand down between your legs for your own raucous finale when the firm, hot thing inside you shifts again. Instead of the pulsing feeling of ejaculation, something complicated and entirely unexpected happens. You can feel the protrusion that he's been using to pleasure you both split, lengthening as each segment unfurls like a flower. One hooks back on itself to bump against your entrance from the inside, another drifts upward to curl gently against your cervix, a third presses and presses and presses into your g-spot. You try not to move, afraid that you'll hurt whatever fragile process just unfolded inside you, but you can’t help the noises that are coming out of your mouth, high-pitched and frantic.

"Kriff," says Benthic in Basic from above you. His chestplates are rising and falling rapidly, which you hope is a sign that whatever's going on feels half as good to him as it does to you. "Sorry." He sounds uncertain, even awkward. "I... I'm not able to– remove myself." It's a formal turn of phrase where anyone else would have said pull out. Maybe he doesn't know the expression. He adjusts his hips against you and you moan again. You feel unbelievably stretched, every part of you stimulated simultaneously except your clit, which is whining for attention between your thighs. "I will need to stay like this for a little while. If you don't mind."

Your first thought is that the spice must have been stronger than you thought if he thinks you mind this. Your second is a reminder to yourself: words. You have to use words. He can't read your body automatically like another human could, doesn't know that your galloping heartbeat and throbbing cunt mean you're on the edge of another climax already. "Don't mind," you choke, between sounds that are rapidly becoming sobs of pleasure. "Fucking amazing– I’m close. Same– same spot." He doesn't move. He might not know what you mean, and you're not sure at this point you can explain. "Tubes– before, your tongue– on the outside– the same spot. Please." That last please is in Tognath and seems to get through, which, thank the Maker, because you might actually die if he doesn't touch you there again.

Benthic grunts and reaches down to slide a warm hand between you. Your eyes fall shut with the first press of his fingers against your clit, stars exploding across the backs of your eyelids as he finds the same pattern that worked before, drawing sharp circles over the sensitive spot. You can feel that there's a new texture rubbing inside your cunt now too, rough and catching and so good that it's driving you out of your mind. Something is building within you, something more than the normal tension, the flickering touch on your clit and the constant pressure of whatever is happening inside you combining to spark a blaze that isn't contained to just your sex anymore but roaring through your whole being, consuming each nerve ending in a flash of intensity as it goes. You're so close to something important, something vital to your continued existence, but it's not quite enough–

"More," you gasp in Basic, and this time Benthic understands just fine, increasing the pace as he slips his ridged fingertips against you over and over. He has to lean back a little to make space, which has the unintended effect of driving the multi-segmented thing inside you against your inner walls. One of the protrusions drags against your g-spot at the same time he hits a perfect rhythm on your clit, making you clench so hard he curses. You're so full and you can feel every bit of where he’s touching you, inside and out, and it’s finally all too much, too much, and you can't do anything but let it take you, white-hot oblivion searing across your vision. The strength of your orgasm pulls your hips off the ground as you clamp down around his alien cock in a warm, wet rush, soaking the Tognath and yourself and the cloak underneath you as your scream echoes off the canyon walls up into the freezing sky.

You don't think you black out but you're not sure what happens next either. By the time you're aware of yourself again, Benthic is still inside you but the sensation is different somehow, softer and more accommodating in a way that it wasn't before. He's also leaning over you in the posture you know means worried, touching your cheek gently with one ridged palm. "Are you all right?" You get the feeling this isn't the first time he's asked you and you were too far gone to notice. "Do you need a medic?"

Of course. Of course he doesn't know what he just did to you. "No," you manage to get out. "No medic. I'm fine." You're better than fine, you're one hundred percent awesome, and also maybe your bones have liquified and you'll never be able to stand again, not that you care. Something incredible is happening in your shoulders and back, kinks and knots you'd thought were permanent unlocking as your body makes room for a crazy new idea called relaxed. Even with damp thighs and the wet fabric of the cloak seeping cold into your tailbone, you feel better than you have in ages, like you've just gotten a massage and a good meal and a thousand credits all at once. Hot damn, maybe the xenophiles had the right idea after all.

"Then you might want to tell them that too," the Tognath says drily in your ear, and your head whips around to follow the sound of rapidly approaching boots on sand. Your comrades, coming to investigate the commotion. They're not around the corner of rock shielding you from view-- yet. "Soon," Tubes adds, and you realize that he can't shout: not with his modulator off; not in the thin air of this planet that's so perfect for you and toxic for him.

Modesty might be in short supply among your partisans but that doesn't mean you want an audience while parts of Tubes are still inside you either. "Sorry!" you yell in the general direction of camp. "That was me! I'm okay!" The last part comes out more strangled than you meant it to, because Benthic shifts again, settling back on his heels as he wraps his arms around your thighs to drag you with him. Your cunt gives a pleased, exhausted flutter at the feeling of you moving together, his - whatever it is - still buried inside you.

There's laughter from around the bend. You clearly did a piss-poor job of hiding what's going on, the panicked note in your voice enough to give you away even if the scream hadn't been. You can't bring yourself to care. "About time you two got some!" you hear someone shout back, but the footsteps are headed the other way now, back to their sentry vantage points, and at least some modicum of your privacy is still intact. The teasing will be relentless in the command room tomorrow, but less detailed than it might have been if your comrades had gotten an eyeful.

Benthic, on the other hand, is focused only on you. "Truly, are you all right?" he repeats, and while his voice might not carry far you can't mistake the concern in it.

"Better than all right," you say. You can't help grinning stupidly up at him. You're back to Tognath because you want to make sure he understands you. It's suddenly very important that he knows how wonderful he made you feel. "That was... you weren't lying. You are good at it."

There's a hint of a preen in the way he straightens up, but his tone is all business when he says, "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. If I can ask... this?" And he raises two fingers now shiny with the slick that gushed out of you.

"Oh," you say, but you're not embarrassed. You should tell him, he's more than earned it. "At the end... you know, coming again?" You're fairly certain you pronounced that right. "That only happens when I'm really enjoying it. When someone is very skillful and very--" You don't know the word for compatible. "Paired? The best pair for sex. It means you made me feel very, very good."

He drops his hand and taps the same fingers lightly on your stomach, considering. Then: "Better than anyone else?"

You have to laugh, because it's such a Tubes question. Always ambitious, always considering how to hone his skills, the same in bed as on the battlefield, which you would have known if you'd ever thought about it before tonight. Sometimes the best things are surprises. "Yes," you answer, still smiling. "Better than anyone else."

"Good," he says again, with a tinge of satisfaction this time.

You're curious too. "I have a question of my own. If it's not rude. This?" And you tilt your pelvis just a bit, nudging where he fits snugly inside you, making it obvious what you mean.

A scant second of silence, then his shoulders begin to shake. He's laughing too, although you can't hear it. "The same," he says, and flicks one of your nipples experimentally to watch you twitch, still obviously fascinated by the sensitivity of mammalian breasts. "A good pairing indeed. Very good. I should be able to let you go soon. If you wish."

There's a moment of hesitation before his last sentence, a breath of a pause that you know you're not imagining. An invitation, politely unstated. The implication: what happens next is entirely up to you. It only takes you a second to decide. This is Tubes after all, he knows you thoroughly, every quirk and joke and fear, why shouldn't he get to know your body too, as much as he wants - as much as you want?

"No," you say thoughtfully, reaching for his strange, warm hands and placing them firmly on either side of your hips. "I don't think I do wish. I think I want you to stay."

It won't last, you know it won't. It can't. Either of you could die tomorrow, leaving the other to struggle on alone. There's a war out there in the dark, past your little cocoon of cloak and coat and the heat radiating from Benthic where he's still pressed against you. A galaxy full of hurt, of pain and injustice and the unceasing, unthinking violence of Empire against human and alien alike. But for just a moment it's possible to imagine something else, a world composed of nothing but this: you and your best friend, a human and a Tognath, tangled together in a pool of warmth and laughter with the sound of your trust echoing over the sand.

***

masterlist

#andor #rogue one #star wars #benthic two tubes #benthic two tubes x you #reader insert

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