#probably because every time we do we get piled on by this sort of pointless nonsense from bitter sam girls so...

[the-phoenix-heart]

Right. so uh. The final season of TUA dropped

I don't know how to feel.

(All the Spoilers Ahead)

Like halfway through this season I would have said it's not what I would've done, but I liked it. I enjoyed it. I thought it was iconic. Maybe a bit of an overuse of the Babyshark song, but you know, not that bad.

But like after that I think I started to hate the season when I realized things weren't going to be explained.

Like there is good about the season don't get me wrong. It was funny. The acting was stellar. I don't hate the ending in principle (I'll get to it later). I don't hate most of the ideas in principle. But it's the little things that keep piling up and piling up.

Like we're at the end of the series and I still don't understand marigold or durango. SO much stuff went unexplained. Why was Jennifer in a squid? Why was she in Moldova in the original timeline? Does she have powers herself or is she just a person until she touches one of the marigolds? Are there 43 durango babies like there were 43 marigold babies? Presumably she was the only one because she was the only one Reggie was protecting, but in that case WHY was she the only one. And that's just all the questions I have about Jennifer. Not even getting into her role in the story.

Because yeah, as a character she's pretty much nothing. She's vaguely empowered. She's vaguely interesting. She vaguely something. I'm not against her as a character. That scene where her and Ben are watching The Blob in different rooms is moving and great foreshadowing in hindsight. But that aside she's just a plot device to help destroy the world this time around. After her and Ben have sex she's just there to be in pain because of the virus. At least we known Ben. I can believe Sparrow Ben and hers connection, even if I'm so glad their romance was mostly just a horny world ending virus. Seriously the moment Ben started talking to her in the diner I got love interest red flags and was so uninterested.

Sparrow Ben by the way is a draaaaag on this season. Look, it was probably the right decision to let Original Ben move on, even if I think Klaus should have been involved with it. But it means when season 3 happened they trapped themselves to Sparrow Ben, who is not as interesting a character as Original Ben and also has less of a connection to the original Hargreeves siblings. Like I get why Luther or Klaus are trying to spend time with Ben, but the rest? I don't. Which is why I guess he's so disconnected from them this season, and doesn't get the big ending moment with them (times like this I wish they had kept Ghost Ben around).

But of course at least Ben has things to do this season. Imagine being someone as useless as Luther? Luther spends the season being a himbo, not at all the leader he used to be, and a repository of sex jokes and sconce jokes. And we REALLY aren't looking at his issues??? He's living in the condemned remains of his childhood home and also the place where he fell in love with Sloane, and we're not going to talk about that???

And then there's Klaus...Klaus, Klaus, Klaus. It's tradition that Klaus kicks off a personal sidequest/subplot every season, but by GOD this was the worst one. Like, it's funny, in a dark sort of way, but it's also so POINTLESS. We really wasted precious time in this six episode season on Klaus being kidnapped by his former drug dealer, working as a medium for one customer who is looking to find her ex's money he hid, getting Kill Billed, and then getting rescued. WHY?! Why was Alison the only one who cared? Why didn't Abigail at least say something like, "Where's Klaus? I've been wanting to see him."

And he was so close to really finally getting his this season. His introduction this series showed that more than anyone he was effected by the loss of his powers-ie. being terrified of the world and falling back into his old habits so he's very careful about everything. He also gets to be Claire's fun uncle this season! And then after he is forced to get his powers back he is rightfully pissed and in a state of distress and it's really working. And then it's just...a funny sideplot I guess?

The sideplot's purpose I suppose is to properly redeem Allison after last season, showing she'll still do anything for her family, and I'm sorry but that was the WORST way to do it. Allison and Klaus have always been close with each other in every season, and only now are they saying it's kind of unhealthy. And ultimately it doesn't matter since it's just a footnote in the last episode. Like, this season treats her so weird. For someone who was pushing the plot along last season she really doesn't have much to do this season other than her relationship with Klaus. They don't even really address the whole Allison created another world for us thing, or how much she screwed them over last season (And I am NOT an Allison hater okay. I loved her arc last season. I just also think that they should acknowledge it more in this season). The six year time skip really is doing so much work to ignore the events of last season.

And then there's Viktor. Who is both doing a lot this season and coming out looking like he's doing nothing. He's just kinda there for a few episodes, they imply he has commitment issues and then do nothing with that (I guess it's just meant to point out how awful this new timeline is?), and up until the flashback with him asking to go on the mission and being turned down, as well as the mission with Reginald I kinda kept forgetting he was there. Which is not something you want to do for your actor who gets top billing and is arguably the most important character in the series.

But of course he isn't the most important character this season. Which means it is finally time to talk about the clusterfuck in the room.

Let me just say, I kinda get what they were going for. Lila would be uncomfortable with being a housewife and would need an escape, and her and Five have been set up as connected since the second season so it's not impossible that she would try something with him, and it's not even that creepy from a Watsonian point of view because he's in his sixties and by the time they do anything he's in the body of a 24 year old at least; and from Five's point of view he is an incredibly lonely guy who has no real purpose in life anymore and is still a man out of time so it's not impossible that he might look at Lila as a person for that connection he's been missing since Dolores and yet-

My body STILL cringes at the sight of them.

Like, what should have happened logically is they kiss and then the two recoil in revulsion and talk about how much of a mistake that once and how gross it is. And yet the season tries to string us along with this awful love triangle.

And let's be clear it is not awful for Five. You can call it character assassination for him, personally I don't agree with that, but the framing makes it out that Five is in tragic love with her. Like they could have had a happy life together in that cottagecore universe, but OH the trappings of their universe kept them from it. Five ends the season as the most important character who has the answers and has to tragically give them.

I don't hate the diner with all the other Fives. I don't hate him traversing the multiverse for answers. I don't hate Five in this season, even if it is out of character for him to abandon a mission like that (He spent 50 years in the apocalypse trying to get home he wouldn't give up after SIX). I do hate what it does to Diego and Lila's characters.

It makes sense for Lila to be uncomfortable with suburban life. It also makes sense that Diego is uncomfortable with suburban life. At the same time it makes NO sense. Honestly the roles should be reversed, Diego should be putting all his time into being a full time parent and Lila should have the money making job, that makes more sense for their characters. Diego may be obsessed with heroism, but he also is obsessed with the ideals of family and taking care of them, it doesn't make sense for Diego to be so distant from them. Hell in the end LILA is the one with the big family moments, Diego doesn't even say goodbye to them I think. Diego's character is warped to fit this love triangle subplot they concocted and it REAKS. I HATE it. To make Five look like a viable option they have to make Diego this weird deadbeat-ish out of shape dad which makes NO SENSE.

And Lila is so hard done by the subplot because it controls her motivations. Why would Lila of all people choose to be a stay at home mom? I like that she's still disguising herself and doing her own thing on the sly, but she could do that even if she had a job. She's still a fun character, and I like that they played up her loyalties. I like the scene at the end where she almost dooms the world to stay with her family, but of course FIVE has to talk her down from that decision not her HUSBAND. Because her connection with Five is somehow more important than her connection with Diego that has been built up after three seasons.

And that's not to say anything about the small details that ruin this season for me. In no particular order-

The absence of Ray was the first major red flag for me. I guess he might've been unable to play the role this season so they just wrote him out of the show or they didn't know how to write him into it so they just said he ran out on Allison and Claire. Either way I hate it. Ray was such a good character in season 2 and I know this timeline is supposed to be kinda shitty, but that is doing Ray as a character so dirty, and Allison as well seeing as Allison and him were married and happy in season 2.

The absence of SLOANE. Did Luther not go trying to find Sloane in this new world? Did he just give up? He keeps mentioning her so why didn't he DO anything. Why didn't Sparrow Ben try to find his siblings???

I shouldn't still be mad about the absence of Dave, but I in fact am. His absence in season 3 was already conspicuous (the timeline had already changed with Dave enlisting earlier than expected and Klaus not being with him in Vietnam, who's to say he couldn't have still been alive in that timeline?) but the fact that he's not in this timeline either is so fucking sad for Klaus. Maybe him and Dave were soulmates, maybe they weren't, but the show sure treated it like they were. I know that the ending of the show is meant to be tragic, but we couldn't have THIS?

Seeing as Lila's family is alive in this timeline, why do none of the Hargreeveses have their biological families?

And let's talk about that ending shall we? Again, I get what they were going for. The ultimate sacrifice together as a family. The idea that they were so dangerous their existence was parasitic to the universe. The idea that after death they're still there as a couple of marigolds. It's sweet.

It's also FUCKING STUPID.

I might've been happy with the ending if Gene and Jean had been included being happy. I might've been happy with the ending if Eudora was there. I might've been happy if Dave or Harlan were there. As it stands none of them were there so that ending is already terrible to me, but it means I have no problem ripping apart the fabric of the ending.

Firstly, any story that says there is only one timeline is boring. Any story that says there is only one timeline and that timeline is normal is worse than boring, it's just plain stupid.

The idea that the Hargreeves are destined for an eternal tormenting cycle of destroying and saving the world is, at best, deeply nihilistic. I think it fails to understand that the end of the world could probably be avoided with therapy. But if we really take that as the gosphel then here is a bright idea, how about you spread all of them out across the timeline so they can't come together and end the universe? Then you still get a sacrifice without that horrible one timeline outcome.

That's another thing that makes no sense. So what, the way to make the one true timeline is that in one timeline Lila, Five, Diego, Luther, Klaus, Viktor, and Allison have to sacrifice themselves Cleanseiffer and that fixes everything? When there are countless alternate universes where they still have the marigold?

The refusal to acknowledge all 43 marigold children has always been a thorn in my side, but I really felt it this season. This would've been the perfect time to include all of them. Hell, maybe use the subway system and the other Five's to send the message that they need to give up their marigold. THAT would have been evocative.

Or, I dunno, don't kill everyone. Maybe if you're going to do the durango/marigold plot then maybe have a bunch of durango children to parallel the marigold children. Have them be their equal and opposites to really nail down that whole yin and yang thing you TRIED to give Jennifer and Ben. Just something, god, anything rather than what you gave us.

[astarab1aze]

rping/rpc petpeeves for munday? 💀

i can think of a couple.

anon hate, as if we're not all adults here, to name one. the complete and utter lack of respect some people show toward other writers is just ??? it's nuts. another thing is activism within the rpc and the advent of twitter-esque dog-piling when someone doesn't get their way - most i've found either have good intentions and just get it wrong (sokay, we all learn) or are sort of using x cause as an excuse to bully and isolate people as if that's ever been okay or appropriate (bad faith; the 'cause' is a smokescreen that makes the person getting harassed look bad for defending themselves, which i don't and never have vibed with; i spent a lot of time in discourse circles and people who do this don't actually have any convictions, they're just being dicks because they know they can be and get asspats after). people who take things too personally too, because at the end of the day, this is a hobby and we're all human. we can't all talk to each other all day every day, it's just not feasible, and if it takes a week or more for someone to get back to you, it's most likely the exact opposite of intentional. i forget everything all the time, my notifications don't always work on tumblr or discord, there isn't enough time in the day in the first place, and like some i have children and am married, i'm severely time blind (i thought it was still februrary until last week) or otherwise have 800 different things to do at any given time. a lack of communication, at least from me, isn't ever personal, and i'd wager it's about the same for other folks too. sometimes i need to be reminded or nudged and i don't mind that as long as its respectful. yaddayadda.

also it's weird to me that just a couple of days or a couple of weeks of not talking or writing is enough for some people to unfollow, break off/drop roleplays, or whathaveyou. it's just...weird, to me. it shows an unwillingness to understand that someone else's life doesn't revolve around roleplay, and also impatience. i would understand maybe a month or so, but not anything before. my rp besties and i regularly take a few days, sometimes a few weeks to respond to each other's messages and there's no bad blood there. on this front, this is exactly why i'm as laid back as i am - take as long as you need to, i'm not going anywhere.

i have some probably unpopular opinions too, not just pet peeves, but i'll save those for another day. like if someone writes, idk, noncon, i'm probably not going to jump down their throat because a) i don't know them, b) i don't know why they're writing it, c) i probably never will, and d) i'm probably not seeing it on dash anyway since i block and filter tags. when i said this is a judgment free zone, i really meant it. it's not my place and i don't care anyway. write whatever you want? be it to cope or explore something difficult so you can understand it or something else so you can have fun. because i will, even if that's really just complicated romance with a fantasy backdrop. write whatever wish fulfillment and escapist nonsense you wanna write too, while we're here, because genuinely i'm tired of that being seen as a bad thing also. we've all written something someone hates for one reason or another, whether it be unrealistic or 'disgusting', so really all you can do is keep truckin' cos you can't please everyone and it's pointless to even try.

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

In honour of finally getting a date for the new Taskmaster season, here's a clip of John Robins' approach to pointless games.

It's from a radio show feature called Made Up Games, which they started doing a few years into their radio show. At first they did Winner Plays On, a competitive quiz feature that was my favourite thing about the first 150 episodes, but they did eventually have to retire it as they were running out of topics. They replaced it with Beta Bet, a word game that I found great fun while it lasted, but they had to retire that because Elis was so bad at it (and John was quite good at it, but mostly Elis was bad at it) that John kept winning so easily. So because every good show needs some kind of competition, they replaced that with a feature called Made Up Games, which is a direct rip off of the Bored Games feature from the Russell Howard + Jon Richardson radio show, though those features were played nine years apart and I guess no one has a patent on the concept of inventing games so it's fine.

Basically, listeners write in with the little games they've made up, John and Elis play one per episode. In this episode, the game is to put a pile of coins on a receipt, and try to pull out the receipt without moving any coins. Most of the games they feature are less visual and therefore better radio than this one, but I cut this one out because it seemed so much like the sort of thing they do on Taskmaster (it's almost exactly the same as one of the season 6 tasks), and the way John handled it is so much the way I'm hoping he'll approach every task on Taskmaster.

I don't know what John Robins will show up on Taskmaster. I am currently immersed in the radio show circa 2018, and I realize I am familiarizing myself with the John Robins of the past, whom I hear is quite different than the current John Robins, a man who has quit drinking and maybe got his shit together. I have also expressed that I quite like the John Robins who was bitter and annoying, so I hope he hasn't changed too much, and we still get a bit of that on Taskmaster.

Having now tried to spend some time not drinking alcohol myself (and... not perfectly succeeding, but mostly succeeding, still keeping it up), I've got to say I'm pretty sure that not drinking alcohol doesn't necessarily make a person less miserable or less annoying. Quite the opposite in my personal experience. You can stop drinking alcohol and still be really really annoying.

And the level of annoying in the clip I posted above is really quite tame. I know it's too much to hope that Taskmaster John Robins will reach Winner Plays On-Brian May-gate levels of annoying. He'll probably have more restraint than that, being older and wiser. But I'd still be happy with the lower, more manageable "I beat you at this pointless game and need to make sure everyone noticed that I stared right at you while I did it" levels of annoying. I think that's a reasonable level of annoying to expect him to reach on Taskmaster.

This is actually an episode in which later on we got a very rare instance of Elis James slightly losing patience with the levels of annoying to which he's subjected on a regular basis, which I found quite funny, and I cut out and uploaded the clip before realizing it's not funny out of context. It's only funny if you've listened to Elis be unbothered by a million little annoying Robins comments over several years (Elis James is a saint, by the way, he's an all right comedian but deserves to win a Chortle Award in the category of Extreme Patience), and then this one fairly innocuous little gripe gets him to finally push back. But here it is anyway since I've already uploaded it.

I actually find it a bit weird that I'll be watching John Robins circa 2023 in a couple of weeks - I've been carefully going through all his stuff in chronological order (not just the radio show, but trying to listen to his other podcast appearances and watch his few TV things alongside the radio chronology), and I'll suddenly jump forward in time by five years. I just hope he's still competitive and snippy and annoying. Overly, pointlessly competitive, to the point of sacrificing making entertaining TV. I want everyone on the special secret little internet forums to fucking hate him. That's the kind of Taskmaster I like to see.

[pesterloglog]

Kanaya Maryam, Karkat Vantas

Act 5, page 2694

grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]

GA: Your Speech Was Really

GA: Emotional

CG: OK I DEFINITELY DON'T NEED YOU BUSTING MY BULGE ABOUT THE SPEECH NOW.

CG: I'VE TAKEN ENOUGH SHIT. I GOT A LITTLE WORKED UP OK?

CG: AND IF YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY, WHY DON'T YOU COME SAY IT TO MY FACE.

CG: I'M FED UP WITH THESE BACK DOOR NOOKBITING SHENANIGANS.

GA: I Dont Mean To Critique Your Speech

GA: I Just Wanted To Ask You Something In Confidence

GA: About The Humans

CG: OK, WHAT IS IT?

GA: Are You Sure Theyre Responsible For Our Misfortune

CG: YES. THERE IS NO DOUBT ABOUT IT.

GA: Was It On Account Of Malice Or Incompetence

CG: I DON'T KNOW. MAYBE BOTH?

CG: WHY DOES IT MATTER.

GA: It Sort Of Does

GA: Im Not Even That Sure Why

GA: This Is A Difficult Topic For Me To Broach

GA: For Reasons That You Probably Wont Understand

CG: GOD DAMMIT.

CG: NO MORE MYSTERIES, PLEASE.

CG: YOU'D THINK WE'D HAD OUR FILL OF THEM BY NOW.

CG: IF I HAVE TO SOLVE ONE MORE RIDDLE, I'M GOING TO...

CG: I DON'T KNOW.

GA: Will Your Response Involve An Athletic Maneuver Of Some Sort

CG: NO

CG: ABSOLUTELY NOT.

CG: I WILL JUST GO OVER THERE AND WEEP GENTLY IN THE HORN PILE.

CG: SERIOUSLY, WHAT IS THIS ABOUT?

GA: Um

CG: WHAT I CAN TELL YOU IS

CG: THEY ARE ALL LUDICROUSLY INCOMPETENT.

CG: SOFT, PINK FRAGILE THINGS WHO DO NOTHING BUT WASTE TIME.

CG: THEY DON'T EVEN HAVE HORNS!

GA: What

GA: Really

CG: YEAH, I WAS LIKE, WHOA DID THEY GET FILED DOWN OR SOMETHING

CG: BUT NO IT TURNS OUT THAT'S JUST HOW THEY ARE.

GA: Weird

CG: THEY'RE A MISERABLE POINTLESS CROP OF LIFEFORMS FROM A MEANINGLESS BORING PUSTULE OF A PLANET.

CG: IT'S INFURIATING THEY WERE SOMEHOW ALLOWED TO HAVE ANY INFLUENCE OVER US.

GA: It Is Pretty Disheartening

GA: But

GA: You Are Absolutely Sure They Are All Failures

GA: And That They Have No Chance Of Succeeding

CG: YEP.

CG: IT'S ALL RIGHT HERE.

GA: Im Not Sure Which Depresses Me More

GA: The Sabotage Of Our Session Or The Futility Of Theirs

CG: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT.

CG: YOU'RE BEING REALLY WEIRD ABOUT THIS.

GA: Well I Havent Asked What I Wanted To Ask

CG: THEN ASK!!!

GA: Its About TentacleTherapist

CG: YEAH. THAT'S THE ROSE HUMAN.

CG: SHE'S APPARENTLY PRETTY SARCASTIC.

CG: IT'S IN MY NOTES.

GA: You Have Notes On Them

CG: YES.

GA: I Guess

GA: Thats Why Youre Our Leader Karkat

CG: NO, I'M YOUR LEADER BECAUSE OF MY INCREDIBLE TACTICAL SKILLS AND MY ABILITY TO MOBILIZE AND MOTIVATE A BUNCH OF USELESS PEOPLE TOWARD A COMMON GOAL, AND BECAUSE I'M EXTREMELY AMBITIOUS AND INTREPID. ALSO BECAUSE LEADERSHIP IS IN MY BLOOD. WE'VE BEEN OVER THIS.

GA: Statements Like That Are Also Why Youre Our Leader

CG: OK, I'LL ACCEPT THAT.

GA: Have You Talked To Her

CG: WHO

GA: The Rose Human

GA: Also

GA: Do We Really Have To Say Things Like The Rose Human

CG: OF COURSE WE DO.

CG: IT SOUNDS SUITABLY DISDAINFUL.

CG: I MEAN, IF A BUNCH OF ALIENS STARTED HASSLING YOU, YOU WOULD EXPECT THEM TO ACT REALLY HIGH AND MIGHTY, AND SUPERIOR IN EVERY WAY, RIGHT?.

CG: WHICH WE ARE, OF COURSE.

GA: Uh Okay

CG: AND NO, I HAVEN'T TALKED TO HER.

CG: I WILL PROBABLY STEER CLEAR OF HER FOR THE MOST PART.

CG: I HAVE MY SIGHTS SET ON THE JOHN HUMAN, AND PROBABLY ALSO THE JADE HUMAN, SHE'S A HUGE CULPRIT TOO.

GA: It Just

GA: Feels Really Silly When We Say Things Like The John Human In Confidence Amongst Ourselves

CG: WE HAVE TO COMMIT TO THIS. STAY IN CHARACTER, YOU KNOW?

CG: REMEMBER THE SPEECH.

GA: The Speech Has Become Emblazoned On My Think Pan

GA: Virtually Ensconced In The Fold Of My Personal Mythology

CG: DID YOU WANT TO TROLL HER? ARE YOU VOLUNTEERING?

CG: BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE GREAT, I'D REALLY APPRECIATE THAT.

GA: I Dont Know

GA: Im Not Sure If Ive Got It In Me Right Now

CG: COME ON. YOU'LL BE GREAT AT IT.

CG: PLEASE JUST DO THIS ONE THING FOR ME. WE'VE GOT TO STAY COORDINATED ON THIS.

CG: TOO MANY OF THESE FUCKS ARE GOING ROGUE.

CG: LIKE WHAT ARE WE EVEN DOING.

GA: Fine

CG: GREAT! THANKS KANAYA.

CG: I'LL EXPECT A FULL REPORT SOON.

GA: A Report About What

CG: LIKE

CG: HOW HASSLED YOU GOT HER TO BE

CG: BUT LESS STUPID SOUNDING THAN THAT.

GA: Is There A Metric For That Concept

CG: NO

CG: WELL THERE COULD BE

CG: WE CAN GAUGE YOUR RESULTS WITH THE "FLIGHTY BROADS AND THEIR SNARKY HORSESHITOMETER".

GA: That Seems Just As Disparaging To Me As It Is To Her

CG: YEAH WELL

CG: USE IT AS MOTIVATION

CG: I GOTTA GET CRACKING HERE, LATER.

[mittensmorgul]

:’D

[cdroloisms]

uhhhh ,, , hi ??

i feel bad bc i havent been here in. LITERALLY forever lmao - hope you guys r all doing good!! ive been working on some stuff but it’s been pretty slow going, and school is also A Thing, so i definitely havent been writing as much as i’d like. 

as an apology, have this? really self-indulgent feel-good syndicate + c!dream centric oneshot bc i felt like writing this so u know. why not. 

tws: implied torture, abuse, self-harm, disordered eating, starvation mentions, prison arc themes - overall everything’s just blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mentions, not too much angst here for once! c!sam and c!quackity critical, sorry guys but we r still in the prison arc and they still r on their “fuck human rights” arcs. 

Dream leaves.

 It’s a surprise - or maybe it isn’t one, Niki isn’t quite sure. She’d never grown to quite trust the man, she knows, and she can’t really tell if the bitter twist of emotion that swells up her chest when Phil comes to her city with the news is betrayal or resignation - what can she say. She’s gotten more than her fair share of broken promises. They don’t exactly faze her anymore. 

 None of them seem all that surprised, save Techno, who entirely fails to hide the worry that flickers over his face when he calls the Syndicate meeting to officially inform them of what’s going on. She shares quick, careful glances with the other members when his back is turned - despite how many times he’s been burned, Techno still seems so adamant at holding onto every thread, trusting all too easily those who would use and leave him behind without a second glance. He can handle himself, she knows. Still, that’s not going to stop her from slapping Dream upside the head for being yet another worthless person to betray her friend’s forgiving nature. 

 Nothing much changes in the next few weeks. Niki has to admit, it’s strange without Dream around - he’d not been an ally, much less a friend before dipping completely, but he had been some sort of constant - and Niki is self aware enough to know that she misses him, a little, the same sort of way you might miss an old routine once it’s gone, if only for the familiarity. She still visits Techno and Phil with various baked goods, knowing that Phil would have his hands full just keeping Techno from running himself ragged - makes sure to check on Ranboo, whose nerves have inevitably returned with Dream’s disappearance. To be honest, she doesn’t worry as much as he does - ally or not, she’s spent enough time with the Dream that had left prison to expect that he won’t exactly be able to get himself very far should he come for the four of them, and doesn’t particularly care about he might pull with the rest of the server - if things get bad, she’s sure Phil and Techno will have it handled. She asks Phil, once, what happened, and he shrugs. 

 “I don’t know, mate,” he heaves a chest to the side, pulling out a stack of stone blocks that Niki gladly holds for him. “One day we woke up and he was just- gone. Everything. Was like he wasn’t ever there at all.” 

 Niki hums. “Why’d you think he’d do something like that?” 

 “If I could understand half of why Dream does what he does, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now, would we?” He smiles at her from behind a crate. “Shall we bring these things upstairs and start on dinner?” 

 Niki laughs, knowing that the conversation about Dream is over. “Of course, Phil.” 

Dinner is a welcome distraction; all of them have gotten better at cooking in recent months, between her baking and the veritable library of recipes Phil knows that she’s never even heard of, but Phil is still the only one she really trusts to hold his own behind the stove - Ranboo is still a little too nervous around water, and fire, and much of everything, and though Techno can be a perfectly capable cook, he’s been distracted as of late. She has a strong feeling that left to his own devices, he’d just grab a stack of steak and disappear for another few weeks, searching the server for information. 

 Honestly, she’s a little thrown off by his behavior - he’d not done anything like this with Tommy, if she remembers right, and had hardly seemed affected by Wilbur’s betrayal on the Sixteenth at all (then again, she was a little too lost in her own head to notice if he was.) She tosses her head over to ask Phil, who’s leaning over a few carrots he’s slicing to throw into the stew he’s making, and the man pauses, frowns. 

 “From what I know,” he starts, words slow, careful, “they’d spent three months in there together, and the conditions weren’t exactly- stellar. According to what Techno said, I’d assumed they had come to some sort of understanding.” He goes back to the carrots, expression dipping into shadow and out of sight. “Guess I was wrong.” 

 Niki hums. She can see it, sort of - spending months together with someone, no matter how insufferable, probably would end with some degree of attachment - she thinks back to plotting through sleepless nights with Jack, anger and grief leaving them simmering, crabs in the same pot of boiling water, remembers looking into his dead-eyed gaze and seeing her own stare back - and feels a brief pang of guilt. Besides, Techno is Techno. She’d never met someone so willing to forgive, understand, reach out despite everything that’s happened - for Dream to take advantage of that feels almost too obvious. Of course he would - what were they all thinking?

 “He’s Dream,” she says as if that explains everything, flipping open the oven door and feeling a wave of heat blast her face. Phil hums lowly, understanding. “I hope Techno will be alright.” 

 “He’s tough,” Phil cracks a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “And he has us on his side. He’ll get through.” 

 Niki opens her mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by the front door slamming open. Outside their quaint little cottage, the wind howls - it sounds like the beginning of a blizzard out there, flurries painting the world in a thick blanket of white. In the door, Techno strides into the entrance with loud, decisive movements, shutting the door loud enough to make the walls shake. Inadvertently, Niki finds her eyes drawn to the small pile of snow that he’s tracked into the house - Techno’s usually so careful to kick it all off on the porch, never liked it much when there was a pile of melting ice and snow dampening the floorboards and soaking into his shoes. He huffs harshly, stripping off a snow-dusted scarf from his face - a long, multicolored abomination that had been the product of her attempting to teach Ranboo how to knit. Phil has reached his side, hands splayed over his upper arms, eyes soft in the corners from concern. 

 “Techno, mate-” his tone is chiding but his movements gentle as he brushes snow off of Techno’s signature cloak, “you’ve gotten snow everywhere. What were you doing, dueling a blizzard?” 

 Techno shakes his head, not meeting Phil’s banter as usual, fur sticking up from the snow melted into it. His voice is gruff and holds little humor - unconsciously, Niki feels her shoulders tense. 

 “Phil, call a Syndicate meeting.”

 ---

 Phil, per usual, is unrelenting, so it’s not until a quick dinner and some hurried messages to their final member later that the Syndicate is gathered in their meeting room, Techno pacing the length of the room as they wait in their respective seats. He looks less frazzled than he did when he first entered the house, in part due to Phil’s sitting him down to eat and picking through his fur to smooth it out of its windblown spikes and tangles - Techno had grumbled at him to stop preening him, but looked a lot more relaxed by the time they were all finished with their food. Still, his ear flicks periodically, twitching toward ssome sound that Niki can’t hear, movements tighter and jerkier than she is used to. He’d always been a little flightier after the prison, but not quite like this - everything here feels like that but dialed up to eleven. Inexplicably, it reminds her of Dream. 

 “Techno?” Phil gestures towards his seat, prompting, and he settles into it with an obliging huff. 

 “Y’know, Phil, the code names are kinda pointless if we never use ‘em,” he says, words carrying no real heat - he looks back at the rest of them, lips thinning into a line. “Anyway. I called this meeting because I found a couple leads on Dream.” 

 “O-oh,” Ranboo stutters, tail lashing behind him. 

 “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to, mate,” Phil reminds him gently, a sentiment that Niki affirms with a determined nod. 

 “There’ve been some reports- rumors, really,” Techno says, calling their attention again, and they all turn towards him, “of increased activity around the prison again. The Warden spending more time on its grounds, movement seen around the walls and around the portal- so I decided to go check it out for myself.” 

 Niki frowns, and watches as Phil does the same beside her - Techno had seemed to avoid the prison if he could help it, save for when he went on the initial mission to break Dream out. It was no secret to them that he didn’t exactly like the place. 

 “We could’ve helped if you asked,” Phil reminds him, and Techno shakes his head. 

 “I know, Phil. It’s just- that place is bad news. I’d rather keep you guys away from there if I can-” his hand goes to his head with a poorly hidden wince. “Sorry, Chat’s a little- worked up, at the minute.” 

 “Sorry, we’ll stop interrupting you,” Niki says, cutting off Phil before he says anything else. “So you went to the prison?” 

 Techno takes a second to gather his thoughts, mumbling quietly in the way that usually means he’s telling off Chat. “Right- I decided to stake out the portal. The rumors were right- Sam has been hanging around there, entered and left the prison four times yesterday. And today-” he hesitates, expression visibly darkening. “This morning, about an hour after the Warden arrived, Quackity came to the prison and went through the portal. He left the grounds about six hours later.” 

 “Quackity?” Niki frowns, eyes flicking over to how Phil has stilled in his seat. “What is Quackity doing at the prison?” 

 Phil ignores her question, reaching towards Techno, something indiscernible in his gaze. “Mate…”

 “He smelled of blood when he left,” Techno says, words sharp, and Niki feels her heart skip a beat. “Warden left about half an hour after, and I came back here.” 

 Ranboo clears his throat, sounding tentative. “Okay,” he drums his hand on the table when they turn towards him, eyebrows drawn, “but what, exactly, does this have to do with, uh, Dream?” 

 Techno and Phil trade glances, one of their bouts of unspoken conversation that Niki’s grown extremely used to. They seem strangely hesitant, she notes internally, Phil looking towards Techno with a question written clearly in the planes of his face. Techno sighs, a long puff of air through his lips as he closes his eyes and turns his face towards the table. 

 “You know how Dream was- injured,” he starts slowly, looking back up at them. Niki shifts uncomfortably - of course she noticed, it was impossible not to - if not the bandages that peeked under his sleeves and the cuffs of his pants, then how skinny he’d been, all skin and bones curled up uncomfortably in a pile at the corner of Techno’s couch. She’d not know the extent, by any means, and had always assumed that they’d been self-inflicted - she’d been in a bad enough place on her own before to know how your head can make you want to hurt, sometimes, how eating food can feel like choking on sawdust and the world could feel so much smaller when focused into delicate pricks of pain. Phil’s eyes are trained on Techno - on his face, then on the pinkish raised skin of a still-healing scar along his forearm, and she feels understanding settle like a rock in her gut. 

 “The Warden had apparently been lettin’ Quackity into the cell to torture Dream for the revive book,” Techno trails off, eyes narrowed and seemingly fixed on a random point of the opposite wall. “By the time I go there, it’d been goin’ on for months.”

 “But wait,” Ranboo’s tail moves even more erratically behind him, “You mean you think he’s back- there? How?” 

 “He has to be back in the prison,” Techno points out. “I can’t imagine anyone besides him that the two of them are goin’ to just start torturin’- Sam had been iffy about the whole thing when Quackity started in on me. It has to be Dream in there again.” 

 “But how did he get in there, then?” Ranboo asks, visibly confused. “Last time it took the entire server to lock him up!”

 “There were no signs of a struggle,” Niki points out, matter of fact. “I believe you, Techno, but I don’t really know how they managed to drag him back so easily. I can’t imagine he was jumping at the chance to go back in there.” 

 Techno shakes his head with an uneasy sigh. 

 “I have a feelin’ of what might’ve happened,” he says quietly. “And I really hope that I’m wrong and he’s less of an idiot than I think he is.” 

 ---

 They set out to investigate - and maybe attack - the next day, Techno and Phil taking on the bulk of preparations as Ranboo stays behind. He’d been understandably uneasy about the whole mission, so they’d left him back by the Syndicate room to set off their pearls in case anything went wrong. (“By the end of the day,” Techno had said, giving Phil a look with the corner of his lip quirked upwards, “don’t be like Phil here and think I meant the end of the month, alright?”) They’d all be supplied with armor and weapons, thanks to Phil, but she’d been handed the bulk of their potions, arranged neatly in her inventory by type in case they’d be needed. She lingers in the back of the room as Phil and Techno chat amiably over the sound of making last minute repairs on their armor, listens to Techno’s ceaseless reminders for Phil to be careful, watches as they make sure that their stasis chambers are properly prepared should they need them.

 (She watches as Phil nudges Techno’s shoulder when he lingers behind a certain chair, empty as long as she’s been part of the Syndicate, the fountain behind it bubbling quietly without a pearl inside. Techno sighs, expression strange. 

 “Should’ve set him up with one,” he says, quiet, and Phil pats him on the back. 

 “You couldn’t have known, mate. We wanted to wait a little before telling him about the Syndicate, remember?” 

 Techno hums, noncommittal. “Still.”)

 They Nether travel to the site of Techno’s lookout, which ends up being a little shambling thing with dirt walls dug into a small hill looking towards the prison portal, having hardly enough space to fit the three of them. Phil looks at it with no small amount of apprehension, and Techno shrugs lightly, wearing an expression that makes Phil turn to him with a look that makes Niki break into giggles. Techno crosses his arms- “in my defense-” and Phil looks up at the dirt ceiling with a long-suffering sigh. 

 “You couldn’t have made this a little roomier, mate?” Phil asks, voice dry as kindling, and Techno raises his hands by his head. 

 “Hey hey, it’s discreet, it gets the job done, it’s perfectly structurally sound-” the sound of the leftmost wall crumbling, along with the cloud of dust that puffs from it and fills their tiny space, undermines the tail end of his statement and leaves him sputtering, Niki falling into another fit of quiet giggles. Underneath it all, Phil sighs again, raising his wings behind him. 

 “...these are going to take so long to clean out.” 

 To his credit, Techno looks sheepish. “Sorry, Phil.”

 They sober up quickly; Techno turns around to the opposite side of the hill, where he’s hidden some peepholes inside the dirt - Niki settles herself by one, leaning forwards to put her eye to it and catch a glimpse of the prison looming over the water. It’s been repaired since the breakout, she notes, the gaping hole in the roof completely gone and replaced with obsidian, as intimidating and undamaged as it had been before, if not more so. Phil makes a considering sound from behind her.

 “Same plan as last time?” He asks, and Techno shakes his head. 

 “They’ve probably reinforced it, and Dream’s blueprints won’t include anything new the Warden’s added. I wouldn’t be surprised if they moved Dream to a different location completely. We don’t want to draw too much attention, either, we were cutting it pretty close during the breakout.” He narrows his eyes. “I was thinking we’d try something a little stealthier, this time. “ 

 He gestures at Niki, who blinks back at him with wide eyes. 

 “You got a couple of invis potions for us?”

 She distributes the potions among them all, one regular and two splash potions of invisibility each, and Techno points towards the prison once she’s done. 

 “The most important thing is to get through the portal,” he says with a grim expression. “Worst comes to worst, once we’re inside we can always blast our way through - but gettin’ through that portal is our first priority.” 

 Phil narrows his eyes at him. “The portal is locked, though. We’ll need to follow someone else inside- and I’m pretty sure Sam uses pearls, so he’s out.” 

 Techno nods. “Which is why I’m bankin’ on the prison gettin’ another visitor today. We’ll just have to wait.” 

 Niki swallows. “Do you mean-”

 “Quackity?” Techno turns away, not quite meeting her eyes. “I’m not totally sure, but he’s not exactly the type to just give up on his goals. He’s pretty predictable- an empire needs an emperor, always needs something new to rule- you know the type,” he says, tipping his head towards Phil. “He’ll be mad at Dream for disappearin’ on him and won’t miss the opportunity to prove he has the upper hand again. I’m not sure that he’s going to come today-”

 “-but you wouldn’t really be surprised, either,” Phil finishes for him, eyes steely with cold determination. “I trust your judgement, mate. Just stay safe- from what I’ve heard, Quackity has been...erratic.” 

 “When is he not,” Techno huffs a short laugh, shaking his head. “I’ll be fine, Phil. Just be careful, both of you. Don’t get too close. And if things get messy- which is what we’re tryin’ to avoid, by the way- then don’t do anything too risky. Our priority is gettin’ in and out alive.” 

 “We can handle ourselves, Techno,” Niki reminds him with a small smile. “And Ranboo is there in case anything goes wrong.” 

 “Alright, then. Here’s the plan.” 

 ---

 It takes quite a long time for Quackity to arrive, long minutes that Niki spends fidgeting in the corner of the room, brushing her hands over seams of the netherite plates that Phil had shoved into her hands, back at the Syndicate room. The set is inexplicably light - not weightless, by any means, as it is still netherite, but not nearly as bulky as any set of netherite armor she’s owned or seen in the past. The runes are precise, lines thin and exact, written with graceful strokes of lapis. 

 “Phil’s the best metalworker I’ve ever met,” Techno tells her with a small grin, catching her in the middle of tracing what she can make out as an Unbreaking rune along the metal strapped to her forearm. “But then again, he’s had the time to practice.” 

 “Are you calling me old again?” Phil huffs, and Techno flashes a smile her direction before looking at Phil with a slight grin. 

 “Well, Chat is,” he says, lips twitching when Phil glares back. 

 “You can’t just blame Chat every time you insult me, you little shit,” Phil groans, and Techno only grins wider. 

 “Phil, my ad revenue,” he complains, a dramatic lilt to his voice that has Niki stifling a snort, and Phil’s glare only grows deadlier. 

 “You’ll have more than your ad revenue to worry about if you keep this up,” he mumbles, going back to keep watch at one of the peepholes and stilling as he does. “Shit- Techno, Quackity’s here.” 

 Techno straightens up, hindered slightly by the low ceiling of their room. “Alright- we all know the plan, right?” 

 Niki nods in the affirmative, pulling out a splash invis and letting it settle in her hand, the glass cool beneath her fingertips. She reaches into her inventory and lets her armor fade into it, takes a deep breath and watches as the two across from her do the same. She doesn’t wear armor often, but so close to the prison, feeling mining fatigue settling deep into her bones - she’s never missed the security it offers more. Techno keeps watch, waiting- drops his arm in a signal. Now. 

 Niki throws the potion at their feet, flinching back at the sound of shattering glass and feeling its effects seep into her skin. When she opens her eyes, she can’t see anything but the inside of the room that they’d holed themselves in and the faintest of wisps rising from where their feet must be, curling around the grass. 

 (Please let this work, she begs to no one in particular as they walk towards the prison. And if you can hear me- please keep us all safe.)

 She hardly breathes as they follow Quackity across the path, holding someone’s hand in her own - Phil’s, by the feel of it - careful to muffle her footsteps in the grass and stand still whenever Quackity’s eyes come a little too close. Thankfully for them, he seems focused, hardly stopping or looking around at all as he walks towards the prison’s portal, movements stiff as he walks forward. He punches the button on the wall particularly harshly, and Sam’s voice comes crackling through a speaker a second later. 

 “I’m here for my visit,” Quackity says, punctuating the sentence with a snort of laughter that doesn’t sound particularly sincere. Niki hasn’t seen him in a long while, not after everything that happened in Pogtopia, and she feels a chill worm down her spine - this man looks nothing like the one that had laughed and danced and sung at her birthday party what feels like an eternity ago. What happened? 

 Sam sighs, the sound turning into a sharp burst of static through the speakers. “Hello Quackity,” he says, voice deep and tired. “Please step into the portal after I tell you to and then wait on the other side.” 

 “I know the drill, Sam,” Quackity rolls his eyes. “Just because the bastard was gone for a few weeks doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten how this damn place works.” 

 “Just going through protocol, Quackity,” Sam replies, and something about this response has Quackity exploding into a brief fit of laughter, the sound grating against Niki’s ears. She feels her grip tighten on Phil’s hand, air caught in her throat. 

 “Protocol- ha. Whatever you wanna tell yourself, pal.” Quackity smiles, cold and cruel, and Niki tries not to think about how she’d seen that same grin on Wilbur, eyes sparkling from the light of the lanterns hung from the bridges and walls of their ravine, remember how she’d looked into them and realized her old friend wasn’t there, anymore. Quackity disappears into the portal, and after a second, the hand around her own pulls her inside of it too.

 On the other side, Quackity taps his foot impatiently, crossing his arms and waiting- Sam’s voice comes through the speakers again, words clipped. 

 “Go through the portal,” he says, and Quackity does- once again, they wait for a second for his body to disappear, then go within it themselves, pressed close enough together within its frame for Niki to feel the warmth of a wing wrap around her shoulders for a quick second before they’re out of the hot, stifling air of the Nether and into a large, neatly made lobby of blackstone and quartz. They duck into a corner, watching as Quackity moves towards the front counter, the Warden waiting there with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks- tired. His movements are slow, footsteps loud against the floor, shoulders tense and back hunched. He walks around the counter, sword strapped to his belt, and Niki feels her breath hitch at the sight of dried blood still stuck to the blade in patches and splatters.

 “He ready?” Quackity asks, holding his hands out - Niki catches a flash of metal as Sam drops something into them, watches as Quackity raises what ends up being a pair of shears, dangerous-looking and gleaming with enchants, to the light. 

 “Yes,” Sam says, side-eyeing Quackity with a small glare. “You know, it’s supposed to be your job to clean those things off when you’re done with them.”

 “I told you, busy day back in Las Nevadas yesterday,” Quackity waves a hand- “I’ll do it, alright? Don’t get all pissy now. What happened to being partners?” 

 “You said we’d be done with this months ago, Quackity,” Sam sighs, and Niki feels a light tug on her arm as Quackity and Sam begin to walk towards the wall to the right of them, breathes in slow and deep as she follows Techno and Phil towards the others. The wall yawns open with the hiss of redstone firing and pistons pulling blocks upwards, opening into a dark hallway that feels like entering the maw of some sort of giant, insatiable beast. They step inside as one, and the door shuts behind them. 

 “We’ll be done soon enough,” Quackity says, and Niki feels hairs rising on the back of her neck. “Trust me.” 

 They stalk forwards through a labyrinth of blackstone, Niki brushing the palms of her hand against her clothes when it goes clammy from adrenaline. Halfway through, she pauses to tip back a second potion of invisibility, careful to keep her movements slow and steady as not to make a sound - the liquid is silvery, cool and light on her tongue, and she lets the effects wash over her with her breath caught in her lungs before moving forward. The tunnels are simpler than she’d expected, bearing little obstacles or checkpoints - Quackity makes a wry comment a second after (“Guard tunnels today, huh? Appreciate the hustle, pal-”) that confirms her suspicions. Despite the potion particles still whirling around their bodies and the sounds of their footsteps, too loud in her own ears, they manage to make it forwards without much trouble, entering a large room with a doorway filled completely with a curtain of lava. 

 “Set your spawn,” Sam says, still stoic, and Quackity rolls his eyes again before doing as told. Niki keeps looking back at the lava flowing past the wall, its heat filling the room and making her already slick palms even worse, and Sam moves to the side to flick a lever, eyes trained on the lava slowly bubbling in front of him. 

 “Give me your tools?” Quackity asks, and Sam sighs before doing so - Niki watches as he hands over a netherite axe, then potions, then a few raw potatoes that Quackity accepts and puts into his inventory. Sam raises an eyebrow once he’s done, hand tight around the handle of his trident. 

 “You bring your own sword, today?” He asks, seeming irritated, and Quackity shrugs. 

 “Sorry pal, I need to make a new one. Guess I’m borrowing yours again.” 

 Sam sighs again, louder, and hands over his sword as well, watching as Quackity swings it a few times experimentally. The blade skims a little too close to her on one swing and she can’t quite help the squeak that escapes her lips as she throws herself out of the way, feels her heart hammer in her ears as she backs up against the wall. Please don’t hear that please don’t hear that please don’t hear that please don’t hear that-

 “Quackity, wait.” Sam raises a hand, ear twitching as he looks over in her direction with narrowed eyes. “I think I heard something.”

 Oh fuck.

 “Well, guess show’s up then,” Techno drawls, and both of them whirl towards his voice, giving Niki enough time to pull her armor back on, scrambling to get her sword and shield in her hands as Phil does the same besides her. Pieces of armor appear where Techno is standing, then a bucket of milk- oh, why must her friends be so dramatic- and Techno’s standing there, smiling sharply, with Orphan Obliterator held loosely at his side. “Let’s get this done, then.” 

 As one, Techno and Phil blur into action - Techno moves forward to catch the prongs of Sam’s trident on his blade as Phil parries Quackity’s blows with his own sword- they move fluidly, easily covering each other’s backs as the room devolves into chaos. Niki remembers their guidance as she flits in and out of the fight, scoring quick hits to keep the Warden and Quackity off balance while remaining out of range from their weapons, and it’s not long before both of them have fallen with a spray of items and experience orbs scattered all over the floor. 

 Techno moves over to block off the exposed face of the bed with a block, looking over at the two of them with an uncharacteristically severe expression. “They’ll be back soon- we have to move fast. Niki, you have those fire res, right?” 

 She nods as she reaches into her inventory, finding the potion’s orange-pink glow and smashing it at their feet. They dive into the lava together, Niki scrambling to keep up, her arms struggling to move through the thick lava, loses sight of both until she flails into something directly in front of her and hands are pulling her up out of the lava. 

 “There you go, mate,” Phil smiles down at her as hauls herself to her feet, making a face at the feeling of the lava clinging to her clothes. “Yeah, swimming through lava isn’t exactly fun. You good?” She flashes him a thumbs up, and he laughs- “Niki, you’re still invisible.” She flushes pink- right.

 A few sips of milk later, she gives him a proper thumbs up, and he laughs, loud and bright. She looks past him to where Techno’s crouched over something- someone, she realizes with a start, in the corner. Dream’s back in prison clothes, ragged and ill-fitting, and he’s curled up with his back towards the front of the cell, shaking enough to be obvious even from where she’s standing. Techno speaks lowly, voice barely more than a deep rumble in the air, almost inaudible.

 “You there, Dream?” 

 She watches as Dream turns his head, looking up with wide, bleary eyes. His hair flops in front of his face, and something within her itches to brush it out of the way. “T-Techno?”

 “Yeah nerd, who else?” Techno smiles, and Dream seems to blink awake, drawing himself up with a shuddery breath. 

 “Techno- it’s a trap- what are you doing here?” he hisses, and Techno gives him a look, deadpan.

 “Yeah, yeah, it’s a trap- come on, Dream, we’ve been over this by now, bro. You have to know that their traps aren’t goin’ to do anything to me by now,” Techno rolls his eyes, reaching forward to steady his hands on Dream’s shoulders when the other man sputters and struggles to breathe. “Easy, now. Geez, you wanted to prove me wrong about being homeless bad enough that you came back here? We could’ve just made you a house, you know. You didn’t have to go this far.” 

 “I- they were gonna kill you,” Dream breathes, face twisted up uncomfortably, and his eyes flick past Techno’s face to where Phil and Niki are standing at the opposite wall of the cell. “All of you- they said-”

 “And that’s what I thought you’d say,” Techno groans. “Come on, you idiot, I thought you were smarter than this-” 

 “They were right there, Techno!” Dream fires back, eyes alight. “You- they were right there, what were you thinking, they could’ve-!”

 “And my best friend is a necromancer, remember?” Techno shakes his head. “Come on, Dream- Sam and Quackity? You know we can handle them in a fight, especially when you can just revive us if anything goes wrong. You don’t have to do this whole self-sacrifice thing, bro- there’s only so many times I can break into the same prison, y’know.” 

 “You’re so stupid,” Dream huffs, but he leans in anyway, head just barely settling against Techno’s shoulder. “I- I can’t believe. You’re so dumb.” 

 “Hey, don’t be sayin’ that to the guy that’s breakin’ you out of prison,” Techno laughs, slinging Dream over his shoulder with an easy motion and laughing harder when it makes him yelp. “That’s just bein’ ungrateful. You’re making Chat sad, man, and when they’re sad they don’t subscribe-” 

 “I regret this entirely,” Dream says, voice muffled against Techno’s shirt, tone completely flat. “Put me down- you idiot- I’m staying here. You’re worse than Quackity.” 

 “Rude. Now you’ve really made Chat mad. I demand an apology-” 

 “Boys, boys.” Niki can’t help giggling, watching the way their gazes snap towards her, rolling her eyes as she moves forward with a few potions held loosely in her hand. “Dream, do you want a health pot?” 

 Dream seems to deliberate for a second, before nodding at her, expression slightly strained. “...sure.” 

 “You two can finish your argument after we’ve broken out of the biggest maximum security prison on the server,” Phil drawls from behind her, arms crossed at his chest. “Come on, now, before Sam gets back.” 

 “Isn’t this the only maximum security prison on the server?” Techno asks aloud, an amused expression on his face - one that only gets worse when Phil glares at him with one ice-blue eye. 

 “Shut-” he sighs, shaking his head. “You two are chaotic little shits, you know that?”

 “Don’t compare me to him, Phil,” Techno complains, Dream mirroring his words with muffled protests of his own, and Phil breathes another drawn-out, long-suffering sigh as he rubs at the bridge of his nose. 

 “Niki, give us some fire res please?” 

 She finds the potion bottle between giggles, throwing it to the ground as she tries to choke down the laughter rapidly bubbling up her throat. “Of course, Phil.” 

 She looks back at Techno and Dream before jumping into the lava, the two of them once again lost in some sort of argument, Dream draped over Techno’s shoulder. He’s breathing easier now, she notes, and Techno looks looser too - a little less tense, leaning back with a perpetual quirk to the corner of his lip as they fire insults back and forth. This is familiar, she recognizes with a soft twist in her chest, the same way that Phil and Techno can finish each other’s sentences and look at each other with laughing eyes sharing the same memories of the past, the same way Ranboo watches Techno’s every step as he adjusts his stance and lifts his sword and Techno laughs and calls him a main character in turn, the same way she and Phil will settle together on the porch over cups of tea and sit at each other’s sides for hours. The rhythm between them is one well-established, the road well-worn - she imagines them, huddled in this dingy cell for months together, and breathes in slow and deep. 

 “Come on,” she smiles, making sure to keep it on her face when Dream meets her eyes with wide, startled ones of his own. Dream still isn’t an ally, and isn’t a friend. 

 But - she watches as he smiles back, something inexplicably warm in her chest - maybe, one day, he could be.

[tteokggukk]

summer heat → jjk

–pairing: twin!jungkook x reader

–genre: fluff, mature (? but no smut), drabble, a minor attempt at humor, best friend’s twin brother type of thing

–words: 2.9k

–warnings: explicit language, sexual tension, tiny bit of humiliation, a hint of jungkook and reader having some sort of “history” if u squint hard enough

–summary: in an attempt to calm you down and prevent your mood from swinging due to the blazing heat, your best friend decides to go out and buy you some ice cream. you’re shocked, however, when he quickly returns and looks different, making you see him in an entirely new light and leaving you trying to resist the urge to give in to your raging hormones and just jump on him.

–a/n: i was thinking of this scenario in the shower but didn’t have the brain power to turn it into a full length story so i might just add this to a pile of drabbles that i may or may not develop heh + ive been in my jungkook feels too lately sigh + also this is unedited 

permanent taglist: @100percent-dum-dum  @mochisjoon​ @boraength @rageyoudamnednerd​ 

It was a scorching hot summer’s day. Sweat was beginning to trickle down your temples and your shirt was getting stuck to your skin, causing an irking feeling of discomfort. Looking around, you quickly grabbed an empty long folder from your best friend’s messy desk and began fanning yourself to cool down. The two of you were just there, sitting in his room in a not-so-comfortable silence.

You were currently plopped down onto a chair with your legs resting on the desk in front of you, too lazy to come up with ideas to kill your boredom.

It was a tradition for your family to travel every summer and visit a new country you hadn’t been to, but this year you had to pass the plane tickets and sight-seeing due to your best friend, Junghan, asking begging you to help him out with a month-long film project. You didn’t have the heart to decline, so you told your parents you’d stay behind and help him out which resulted in you having to stay over at Junghan’s place for the rest of the summer.

You had to admit though, a small part of you felt disinclined to stay because the project sounded like it would’ve been a tedious workload, but working with your best friend was so much more fun than you’d imagined and even the project itself turned out to be enjoyable. So far, your summer break has been spent filming and hanging out with Junghan—though hanging out usually meant staying in his room and watching romcoms all day while crying over fictional characters, ranting about how you two would never meet such perfect men in real life. It was great.

Until the air conditioner broke down.

You glanced over at Junghan, who seemed to be just as spiritless as you were while he sat in front of a fan, eyes looking empty and distant.

“I told you the air conditioner needed to be fixed,” You sighed and looked up at the ceiling, completely missing the harsh glare he sent you.

“I said I was gonna get it fixed,” He replies and turns back to the fan, his voice quieting down a little, “But the number for repair wouldn’t answer.”

“Right,” You muttered absent-mindedly, eyes staring at the ceiling while your mind was too busy trying to come up with suggestions to beat the heat, “We could go to the pool?”

“Closed,” Junghan grunts, “The mall?”

“As if we’d both drive in this state,” You rolled your eyes as you tried to get your shirt to stop sticking to your skin. Junghan glances over at you when he hears you grumbling, one of the many cues that you were beginning to feel peevish. Deciding that it was pointless to keep tugging on your shirt, you opt to take it off instead.

“You don’t mind do you?” You asked before completely removing your shirt, only leaving you in your bralette. Though you knew he never did because of the countless times he’s helped you change and pick out different outfits, you always asked out of politeness. Additionally, his zero interest in women made you feel much safer and comfortable enough to undress around him.

“I really don’t care,” He says and stands up. You hear him rumbling for a moment while you were neatly folding your shirt, and seconds later you recognize the jingling sound of keys.

“Where are you going?” You asked.

“The nearby grocery. You’re about to get grumpy and I am not going to listen to a rambling bitch for the rest of the day,” He says, rubbing his temples as he makes his way to the door.

“So you’re just gonna leave me here?” You asked, too exhausted to even glance at him. He probably wasn’t, you only asked for the dramatic effect.

“No, dumbass. I’m just gonna go and buy ice cream. See you in a bit.”

And with that Junghan leaves and closes the door shut. Only a few minutes later after the sound of the engine had gone did you decide to exert a little effort and move over to his previous spot to sit in front of the fan, the air immediately cooling your skin. You sighed in relief and grabbed a few tissues to wipe your temples dry before grabbing your phone and texting Junghan to buy some lemonade, followed by a second text telling him you’d pay him back once he returned.

You were surprised to hear, not even ten minutes later, that the car was already back and pulling up in the driveway. It couldn’t have been Junghan’s parents as they were out working, and it was only you and Junghan around—not like you two had many friends who would come and visit. Instead of rationalizing with yourself on how Junghan came back home in supersonic speed, you decide to drop it and wait for him to come up back to his room.

Someone knocks on the door, causing your brows to furrow in confusion. Since when did Junghan knock?

“Come... in?” You answer, though it came out more as a question. Your head turns at the sound of the door opening, and your eyes widen at seeing Junghan standing by the doorframe.

Looking oddly different.

“Dude,” You stood up from your place and stared him up and down, “Is that what you were really wearing when you went out?”

His eyebrows raise in shock and you catch his eyes taking a quick glimpse from your chest before quickly looking back at the perplexed look on your face, a small smirk forming on lips. You decide to ignore it.

“What a warm ‘welcome home’,” he chuckles.

“You didn’t answer me,” you replied, still oblivious to the difference in his tone.

He was wearing an all-black ensemble—a black cap, a black leather jacket, black pants that outlined his toned thighs (how have you never noticed?), and some chunky black boots—a huge contrast to his normally colorful and baggy clothing. You were genuinely curious because you hadn’t noticed what he looked like before he left the house as you were too tired and lazy to even look up and say goodbye.

“Uh, yeah. This is what I was wearing?” He narrows one of his eyes, looking confused, “Why?”

“I don’t know… since when did you wear all black?”

“Since way back then? I don’t know,” He replies, and you now noticed how his voice was unusually low. Junghan steps inside and averts his eyes from you, looking around in his room before scrimmaging through drawers as if in search for something.

“What are you looking for?” You asked, folding your arms and following him around.

“A charger,” He replies, and a chill runs down your spine at the sound of his voice. You thought maybe you’d detect how he was just trying to change his manner of speaking, but it was effortlessly low; like he wasn’t faking it or anything. It was weird because Junghan normally sounded a little more high pitched. 

“What charger?”

“A laptop charger, mine broke,” He continues searching and not once does he meet your eyes.

“Oh okay, let me help you then,” You begin to look around and help him search, “Though I don’t know what it looks like, I’ll let you know if I see a charger.”

He looks up at you and smiles, but you don’t catch him watching you as you were already busy searching, “Thanks.”

The two of you continue searching in silence, though occasionally you’d look up and glance at Junghan. What exactly was he doing? Was this for his film? Is he supposed to be in character? This new look and manner of talking that he somehow adopted after a quick trip to the grocery store did things to you. Every time he grunted in annoyance after a failed search, something in your stomach would twist and you found yourself suddenly feeling drawn, or maybe even more than drawn, to your best friend. Your gay best friend.

You shook your head to get rid of those thoughts.

Only a few minutes later did you find something that looked like a charger hiding underneath a pile of unfolded clothes before presenting it to Junghan, “Is it this?”

“Yes! Exactly that,” He jumps up from crouching over one of the drawers at the bedside and walks over to you, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, sure. I don’t know why you took such a long time searching for something in your room, though,” You rolled your eyes.

“My room?” He smiles, voice a little deeper but with a hint of amusement.

God, you could just jump on him right now.

“Yeah?” You knit your brows, “And stop doing that!”

“Stop doing what?” He asks, sitting down on the edge of the bed so he was looking up at you. He leans back a bit a folds his arms, a smile still tugging on the corner of his mouth.

Maybe it was the summer heat doing things to your head and making you think about all these things that you never thought you’d ever want to do with your gay best friend, but he seemed so in character it was actually beginning to bother you. What store did he go to exactly? And where the hell is the ice cream?

“That! What’s up with your voice? And your outfit? You look so different, it’s weird,” You folded your arms as if to mirror him.

“Weird, huh?” He asks and looks at his clothing before looking back at you.

“Not in a bad way. It looks good, it’s just not you,” You squirmed slightly before shaking your head to snap out of it, “I don’t know what store you went to that made you look like this—and congrats I guess, if you’re trying to switch up your fashion, but you completely missed the ice cream, so good luck trying to handle this rambling bitch.”

He laughs at the words “rambling bitch” and oh god that is not what his laughter sounded like before. When did the sound of his laugh sound so deep and sultry? You subconsciously sucked on and bit your lip at the sound of his laughter, trying your best not to visibly drool in front of him. He catches your subtle action and his brow raises at the sight.

“Despite all the things you said, you think this looks good?” A playful smile rests on his face and your heart beats erratically at his expression.

“Y-yeah, I don’t know,” You mumbled. He shifts on the edge of the bed to move closer to you.

“And because there’s no ice cream, you’re going to turn into some rambling…” He reaches his hand out, the back of his fingers feeling the skin on your exposed waist before resting his hand on your back to pull you in closer.

“…person?” he continues, brows raised and eyes staring intently at yours, not using the vulgar word you had just used to describe yourself (or the word he had just called you before he left to go to the store).

“I...um, we’ll see,” you replied, and he only chuckles deeply. Your voice had transformed into a murmuring mess and it annoyed you, but you couldn’t really do anything about it, right now he reminded you so much of—

“I think you look good too, you know. Maybe I did miss you a lot more than I thought I did,” he whispers, pulling you in even more so you were now standing between his thighs.

Missed you? After an eight minute trip to the grocery store?

You didn’t question it. Your mind was blanking out, malfunctioning, even. Here was your best friend, your gay best friend (as you had to keep reminding yourself), placing his hands on your bare skin in a way that you knew wasn’t going to turn out to be so innocent. Right now you were extremely attracted and possibly even turned on by whatever the fuck he was doing, all you could do to save yourself was blame it on the heat. Was this absolutely weird? Hell yes. Did you want to stop him? Fuck no.

Were you now completely devoid of all reason and logic?

Definitely.

Softly, he tugs on your arm and pulls you into him so you were now sitting on his lap with your hand resting on his chest. One of his hands was still attached to your waist, the other was resting itself on the bed, gripping on a blanket.

Chills run down your spine for the second time now as his mouth moves closer to your ear, “Lucky for you I know the perfect way to handle rambling bitches.”

Your breath hitches for a moment and Junghan moves back to face you, his lips grazing your cheeks a little before you meet each other’s gaze. The summer heat was definitely nothing compared to this, but you didn’t mind. Your faces were only mere centimeters apart now and you could’ve sworn he was beginning to lean in by the look in his eyes, which were now fixated on your lips.

Seriously, you could just grab him by the collar right now and speed things up. He’s the one who pulled you in first, anyway, you just wanted to get things going. Though you haven’t exactly a clue as to where this would end, you wished he would hurry up a little to find out.

But for some strange reason, your senses were enveloped with the distinct smell of a signature fragrance that you knew did not belong to Junghan and it snapped you out of your thoughts. The scent was strong enough to flash some memories back in your mind, making you frown. Did he use this perfume on purpose? Or was your mind just playing tricks on you? In a flash, you could suddenly think straight and you couldn’t help it, the moral side of your brain had turned far stronger than your currently raging hormones (thank goodness). Something was definitely off.

“But, Junghan… aren’t you… gay?” You asked, your voice trailing off a little.

His eyes widen and he pulls back from you. He stares at you for a few seconds before it hits him, and he starts erupting in laughter. You narrowed your eyes at him and got off his lap, moving over to the side and sitting beside him instead.

“Junghan?” He stresses on the name. You’re staring at him blankly now, like you knew he was just messing with you. His laughter eventually dies down and he places a hand on your thigh, though it seemed much more innocent now, “I’m so sorry, ____, you’ve got the wrong person.”

With one hand, he quickly grabs the blanket off the bed. The back of his other free hand endearingly caresses your jaw, and you notice how he lingers for a while as he moves a bit lower down to your neck—before wrapping the fabric around you and covering your whole torso with it. Your face immediately turns pink as you clutched onto the blanket to further cover yourself, feeling slightly humiliated, though you were still confused.

“Wrong person? What do you mean?”

“I was wondering why you had no shirt on, I thought that was just a regular thing for you now. But it’s probably cause you’re more comfortable around my brother, huh?”

“Your brother…?”

“Has it really been that long?” He chuckles, and instantly your mind began connecting the pieces together. Could it actually be him? You haven’t seen him in years, and no one even bothered telling you he was coming back today. No way, surely this was Junghan playing a joke on you.

“I’m not Junghan. I’m his twin brother, Jungkook. Remember?”

You hastily stood up in defense, still clutching the blanket close to your chest, “Shut the fuck up, Junghan. No one said anything about Jungkook coming back today!”

Junghan Jungkook only laughs and stands up, the melodious sound filling the room, followed by the sound of footsteps approaching the wide open bedroom door. 

“What a shame, but it was a surprise. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming home today,” He folds his arms, “And if I am Junghan, then who is that?” He points at the doorframe and true enough, Junghan was standing there holding grocery bags in his arms wearing his usual oversized colorful jacket and khaki colored pants.

You and Junghan both looked at each other with mouths dropped down to the floor before you looked back at Jungkook, who had the same smirk tugged on his lips, clearly amused at the whole situation.

Jungkook bends forward and leans in to your face, his voice in a lower tone but still audible enough for his brother to hear, “Probably shouldn’t take your top off so leisurely around the house anymore, huh?” He grins and winks at you, causing you wince and force an awkward smile, internally cursing yourself at everything that just happened.

“Anyways, I should probably rest up in my room. See you around,” Jungkook flashes you a smile before placing a chaste kiss on your (now dry, because your body had frozen up) forehead before walking away from you, taking the charger and dangling it in his other hand. He taps his confused looking brother on the shoulder before turning his head back to take one last look at you before walking out, leaving you and Junghan staring at each other in shock.

Junghan walks in slowly and sets the bags of grocery on the floor, shutting the door behind him.

“What the fuck just happened?” He asks you, eyes wide in anticipation.

Your mind replays everything that had happened between you two. Was Jungkook really just about to kiss you minutes before? Heart racing, you clutch on your chest from underneath the blanket he had covered you with. No way was Jungkook back. No way is he back and looking even more attractive than he did the last time you saw him. Not when you had just gotten over your small crush on him a couple of years ago.

The heat returns to your body, but it mainly pools on your cheeks. You look back at your best friend, but no words of explanation come up. 

“Believe me, I’m asking myself the same thing.”

↣ all rights reserved © 2021 tteokggukk. please do not repost. translations/modifications are not allowed.

[folkloreguk]

Moving Antics (M)

A/N: This was requested a while ago and I hope you will enjoy it! I always welcome feedback of any kind! Have a good day x

genre: smut, optional bias (m) x reader (f), oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, overstimulation (a tiny bit), dom!bias, very lowkey roleplaying??, reader wears a maid outfit (not in a degrading way)

words: ~ 5.4 k

tag list: @mochi-ficz (let me know if you wanna be tagged when I post new fics!)

People had told you over and over. Moving is a stressful, exhausting process. It would take a while for you to settle in. Until everything had found its perfect place, weeks could pass. At least that’s what everybody said. What they all failed to understand, though, was that being in love could make the most tiring experience fun. Was it stressful? Sometimes. Exhausting? Why don’t you ask yourself that, when you fell into bed like a walking corpse at night? But all it took was a glimpse at your boyfriend as he carried inside the box that said ‘anniversary gifts’ and it was all worth it. You were confident in one thing at least. In the settling in department you were both ranking foremost.

You had lived in the apartment for only a week, and you couldn’t have been more all-over-each-other. Somehow there seemed to be an unspoken challenge you had both taken on. Maybe you two could set a record for most surfaces in a flat someone could have sex on. Or perhaps you should have started marking the rooms and spaces you hadn’t been able to add to your list yet. There wouldn’t have been many left. At the moment, there was only one downside to being so head-over-heels in love. A lot of the boxes in the apartment had been left unattended, as if you only waited long enough, the things would start flying out of the cartons and miraculously sort themselves out while you could stay there, in bed with your lover between your legs.

But this wasn’t Hogwarts and you weren’t some magician. And so one rainy Saturday noon you decided it would be thatday. The day you finally put away all the things that were still in the boxes. Not that the day had been successful so far. It was 12 pm and you were in bed. The shower was running in the bathroom next door, and you wondered how you would convince your boyfriend and yourself that getting things done would be a worthwhile pastime. Telling yourself you would come up with a tactic with your eyes closed, you tricked yourself into daydreaming for a little while longer, cuddled in the blankets that still smelled like him.

When you heard footsteps approach, your mind snapped back to reality. He strut through the door like a nude model, searching for some clothes to wear. His smirk when he saw you eye him was prominent and made your stomach flip. It took every last will of yours to not ask him to come back into bed with you, forget all your earlier plans and live like you were the last people on earth.

“Do you want breakfast?” he asked, finishing his outfit by pulling a shirt over his head. “I’ll make you some.”

You hummed, starry-eyed at his perfection. “Thank you,” you said. Quickly, he kissed your forehead and then walked off, presumably in the direction of the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, at the kitchen table, you finally brought up your wonderful idea.

“I think we really should unpack some more stuff today,” you said, “Don’t you think?”

“You’re right,” he said, “We’ve really been procrastinating.”

“You can say that again,” you laughed.

“Although I wouldn’t describe our scientific research of the last few days as completely pointless.”

“Our what?” you asked. You were getting up to put away the plates of your late breakfast.

“Us testing which room of the house is the most fun to have sex in,” he stated, matter of fact. “I vote for the bathroom.”

“You just love the mirrors,” you grinned, and he mirrored it.

“I do,” he said. His arms snuck around your waist from behind. “Almost as much as I love you.”

“I love you too, babe,” you said, “You know, there’s one room we haven’t tried yet.”

“The office,” he said. You turned your head and you kissed him deeply. In agreement you hummed, your arms wrapping around him. He pulled you closer, hands ghosting over the back of your thighs and up to your hips. You felt like jumping onto the counter and having him there, again, just like you had done it two days ago. But then you remembered you had other projects for the day. If you gave in to him now, you’d end up back in bed for the rest of the day, probably. Guilt was already setting in at the mere thought.

“Wait,” you pulled away and said, “We have things to get done.”

His nod was dilatory but then he seemed to recall his own determination from around two minutes ago. You wished you could have motivated him otherwise, but you were already struggling to spur on yourself to be productive. Then, you suddenly remembered something. Your eyes must have widened in surprise because he furrowed his brows at you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Stay here,” you announced, “I’ll make sure we get through with this today.”

And you were off to your bedroom. You pulled the box out from the far back of your closet. Memories flashed your mind, of when you and your boyfriend had been watching a show together. One of the characters had been wearing a provocative maid outfit, and you still thought about the way he had grinned at it, or how he had said he found it cute, which you believed translated to sexy, but he had been a little shy back then.

Long story short you bought one. And what better occasion to put it to use than now? You went all out, stockings and heels as well as your attempt at fixing your hair quickly, which you knew didn’t really matter, since you would want it out of the way if you were really going to be emptying boxes. You strut down the hall, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The black and white costume just about covered your ass, and on your chest was a cutout in the shape of a cat’s head. The ruffles of the material bounced as you walked, excited to see your boyfriend’s reaction.

“Close your eyes!” you shouted. “No cheating!”

“I never cheat,” he said. You rolled your eyes, remembering his video game antics from the past.

“Before you say anything…this is supposed to be a motivation for us to empty the boxes. If we do that, we can have our reward,” you said.

“What reward?” he asked, eyes still shut.

“Open your eyes and you’ll know,” you said. Oh, how dearly you whished you could have captured his face on camera.

“Babe…,” he said. Then his mouth just stayed agape, as he ogled at you shamelessly. Just because he could. Because he was just thatlucky to have you.

“Do you like it?” you asked.

“Yes. Of course I do,” he said. His tone was emotionless because he was way too busy sorting out his own thoughts in his head. “But do you really think this is a good idea? How am I supposed to focus on anything but you?”

“We’ll figure it out,” you said. “Don’t you want to feel accomplished at the end of it all? If we don’t start working now, we’ll just end up feeling guilty. Again. Come on, let’s do this.”

“Alright,” he said. “Let me have one kiss.”

You laughed and granted him that one wish. His lips lingered on yours for a while. You knew he didn’t want to pull away. Neither did you. But at last, he had enough control to remove himself from you. It was the office that still needed the most work to be done. Cardboard boxes were piled on top of each other, labelled with some sort of theme or room of belonging on the outside. When you looked his way, he was only eyeing your legs. But then you grabbed the closest box to you and handed it to your boyfriend, and he snapped out of his trance.

Believe it or not, there were up- and downsides to the maid costume in this situation. The pros included feeling unnecessarily sexy whilst doing an unbelievably humane task, not getting too warm since you were already wearing little clothing and having your boyfriend virtually drooling over your appearance. The downsides were mostly reduced to one word: heels. Climbing a ladder and balancing three boxes on top of each other in your arms was an arduous task to begin with. Now add the possibility of twisting your ankle on the top step of a ladder and crashing to the floor, probably breaking your back or worse. You really couldn’t endanger the prospect of the fun you were planning on having later by taking that risk.

That’s why you chose to abandon the heels somewhere on the floor about half an hour into the process. And you came to the conclusion that finally getting over and done with what you had been procrastinating for the last week wasn’t all that bad. You were a whirlwind, running from room to room to make sure everything had its place. At some point he had turned some music on, and it was making everything even better. After all this time, you finally had your own place to decorate however you desired. As you admired how nicely things were coming together, you hummed to yourself quietly.

You weren’t sure whether he was having as much fun as you were. Especially not when you walked past him in the doorframe, carrying four pillows. Your ass – maybe not all that accidentally – brushed against his front as you entered the room. Innocence and feigned ignorance were on your face but you noticed exactly the way his eyes dwelled on you for a little longer until he got back to work.

But everything you could do he could do just as well. Fifteen minutes later, you were occupied with stacking books onto a shelf. Wanting them to stand in a very specific order turned out to be more time-consuming than you had anticipated. You heard his steps behind you, assuming he was going to walk past you. Suddenly his lips brushed against your exposed neck.

“Remember this song?” he asked. You hadn’t been focused on the music for a while now, but of course you remembered. “Remember when I fucked you to the beat of this? Because I do.”

“Babe,” you said. There was a little part in your brain that had the glorious idea of him having you right there, against the bookshelf. You wouldn’t even need to remove your clothes. With him, it took nothing but a few magic words and you felt like giving him all of you. No. It’s not time for that yet. Your rationality vanquished that little avid thought and pushed it away, back into your unconscious where it had come from. It wasn’t gone yet, only not so urgent anymore.

“You’re right,” he said. “We’ll save that for later. Just wanted to remind you of how much of a good time we can have.”

You only shook your head and grinned as he walked off, pretending to be blissfully unbothered. What goes around, comes around, after all. And you deserved that for pushing up against him earlier. It took a minute and you got back to sorting your book titles. Time passed surprisingly fast when you were being productive. Box after box emptied itself, almost as if your wish for magic powers had become reality. But it was just two people, who were so excited about their reward that they forgot to even take a proper break in between the chaos. And soon you were down to the last cardboard box. It was full of decorations you didn’t need for the current season.

Just a few more climbs up and down the ladder to the very top of the closet and you were done. He stood next to the ladder, handing you the things so you didn’t have to go all the way down each time.

“Last one,” he said, giving you a box with holiday lights. Successfully, you placed it in its new spot. When you finally made eye contact with him, he was already staring at you like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at. To be fair, from where he stood, there wasn’t much left up to his imagination. With your stockings on display, his eyes could probably go all the way up to your garter belt.

“Is this angle too revealing?” you asked.

“Absolutely,” he said, making you laugh. Smirking, he took your hand as you stepped off the ladder. You stumbled into his body as you grinned at each other. You both had the same thing on your mind, without a doubt. It was like a little inside joke you had made up just now, making you flirt through looks and small touches. His hand rubbed the small of your back as he bent to your ear.

“My pretty maid, haven’t you worked enough for the day?” he asked. “All that teasing you did today must have been soexhausting.”

You nodded overly seriously, as if riling up your horny boyfriend was physically tiring work. “I hope I did a good job. Did I?”

“No one else could have done it better,” he said. “Now let me treat you, baby.”

You hummed with your mouth already too close to his to say anything. Then your lips finally crashed onto his. It was a little ridiculous how much you missed his touch after only hours of being without it. People had told you you’d get tired of being with each other all the time. But it had been years and you still wished you could have cuffed his wrist to yours because you loved him just that much.

Your tongues fought playfully as you pushed him against the closet front. Small noises came from both of your mouths, quietly agreeing that this was what you had been waiting for – more or less patiently. Your hands became busy with the buttons of his flannel. When you came across his bare skin underneath instead of a shirt, you smiled into the kiss. Every layer less to remove meant you were one step closer to what you wanted.

“We’ve never done it in here,” you muttered against his hungry lips. “That table looks nice, doesn’t it?”

He grinned. Your hands had already messed up his hair, but nothing came close to his dark eyes in moments like these. His look never failed to make your heart skip a beat while you wondered how you had ended up with the most handsome guy in the world.

“Will you think of us, if you ever sit there and work in the future?” he asked, leading you over to the office table. He dropped his flannel on the ground on the way.

“I always think about us,” you said. “But you can make sure this one stays especially prominent in my memory.”

“There’s nothing I’d rather do,” he said, and kissed you again. Your ass was backed against the edge of the table and one of his legs pushed between your thighs. It made you whimper quietly in anticipation. He touched the little part on your thighs that was bare, playing with your garters. With your eyes closed, his tongue on yours and his hands being so close but so far from where you needed him, your head spun with dizziness. He was like a drug, like alcohol dripping straight from his lips and the more you kissed him, the less control you had over yourself. His attention gave you loose lips and the impulse to be risky, all whilst feeling so high up in the clouds you weren’t sure you’d ever find your way back down. You hissed when he pressed his fingers against your underwear.

“You’ll keep the dress on,” he said. “Will you?”

“Of course,” you obliged. “If that’s what you want.”

“Good girl,” he said, and he pulled aside your panties to slide his finger over the slickness that had formed between your thighs. As if on command, your hips moved closer to his hand as you whimpered at the too gentle friction. All afternoon you had been thinking of his hands on you. When you had watched him peel away the tape from the boxes, when he was taking your hand to help you down from the ladder and when he had run his fingers through his hair absentmindedly – all you could think about was how much you wanted those hands to grab your hips and for him to have his way with you.

“Take these off,” he ordered. His stern but gentle voice turned your insides into mush. It made you behave almost like a robot, no ifs ands or buts. When you usually liked to tease him, you knew not to test your limits when he spoke in this tone. Your underwear dropped to the floor and you kicked it a few meters away. Again, his hands ghosted under your dress and found your center. You felt like your knees would buckle from the way he rubbed small circles on your clit. Moaning quietly, you wrapped your arms around his neck for support, leaning your forehead against his chest for a moment. You let out small huffs and whimpers against his skin and nuzzled especially close to him when he touched that one special spot for a few seconds.

“Look at me.” He watched intently as your eyelids fluttered like your eyes were going to roll to the back of your head. You tried your best.

“Put your hands on the table by your sides,” he said. You hummed in disapproval but didn’t dare say so. After all, he could have also told you to put them on your back. And holding on to a wooden edge was still better than not holding on to anything, when you felt like a child standing on its feet for the first time. When he hooked his free hand under your thigh, lifting up your leg a little, your grip on the table tightened. You swore under your breath when he plunged two of his fingers into you. He curled them, pushing hard against your sweet spot and you curled your back in response.

All day you had gone without any sort of attention, when your head had been so full of things you knew you could do with him. The most release you had gotten – which was basically no release at all – was from pushing your legs together tightly when the dirty thoughts had become too much for your brain to handle. You knew it was your own fault for setting yourself up with this challenge. But now with your chest heaving and your head feeling like a tsunami of emotions was raging inside of it, you didn’t regret it as much as you thought you would two hours ago. Maybe you should play this waiting game more often, instead of jumping onto each other any chance you got.

“You look so hot like this,” he said. At the sound of his voice your eyes opened. Those eyes. While they usually held loyalty and playfulness, they now only spoke of authority. He used his thumb to rub your clit whilst his fingers were still inside of you, making you feel like floating. You were his favorite sight, by far. Above all times he watched you, from waking up in the morning to falling asleep in his arms at night, right now was the most mesmerizing. Your parted lips were the entrance to heaven and the glow in your teary, desperate eyes was putting the evening sun to shame.

“I’m so close,” you moaned. Your chest was alternating between short puffs and not breathing at all. Maybe your brain was too focused on the bliss you were chasing to care about breathing for now. You couldn’t blame yourself.

“Don’t make a mess, baby,” he said.

“No, I won’t,” you said. “Can I touch you when I come, please?”

You gave him your most entreating eyes, knowing that even though he liked telling you what to do in the bedroom, not even the strictest boyfriend was immune to your puppy eyes. You suspected that if he had declined, you might have held on to him anyways. Too overpowering was the clamor inside your head that was telling you to be close to him.

“Only when you’re coming,” he said. “Not a second earlier.”

You nodded obediently as your eyes shut again. Good thing you were mere moments away from just that. His fingers moved quickly, now that he knew how close you were to your high. It robbed your breath all at once. And it did the job, after a short while. You whined and arched your back, your hands flinging around his shoulders. Your little noises came out muffled against his skin as you closed your legs around his hand. He barely moved his fingers anymore, but kept the pressure on your most sensitive spots, making sure you could relish in every last second of your orgasm. Only after a while your grip on him loosened, and you realized how your nails had been digging into his skin.

“Sorry,” you said, rubbing over the moon-shaped marks on his shoulder. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, baby,” he said. When he removed his hand, you shuddered one last time, but missed his touch already. His magic was always working on you. Even when he had just made you come, the mere sight of the bulge in his pants, ready to spring free, made you want to pull him right into your body again.

“You came so fast today,” he said. Softly, he kissed you, but you noticed the hint of hunger that he must had been feeling as you were coming down from your high.

“That’s what you do to me,” you admitted. “Do you think you’re the only one who felt tortured all day long? It was driving me crazy, too.”

“You seemed to have a lot of fun, messing with my head,” he said, smirking.

“You’ll find that it was worth it, after this,” you said. He raised his eyebrows in question. You were already stepping forward, dropping to your knees in front of him. Like a child on Christmas morning, his eyes lit up at the sight of you.

“Aren’t you the prettiest maid?” he asked, the question obviously rhetorical. To him, you were the prettiest person in the whole universe. You tugged on his pants and pulled them down, along with his underwear. Your mouth watered at the sight of his member, hard and red from all the waiting he’d had to endure. The way he looked at you from above made you feel small, but he stroked your hair out of your face gently and you knew this was exactly where you wanted to be right now, and any other day.

“Hands behind your back,” he said. You smiled and did as he said, holding your right wrist with your left hand on your back. He caught on to your reaction right away.

“You don’t even mind, right?” he said. You were already sitting straight, mouth open, your tongue protruding slightly. “You like it when I make it more difficult for you, don’t you?”

You only nodded and hummed a small yes, then he placed the tip of his dick on your tongue. At first, you only closed your mouth around it, not taking more of him. Your tongue licked over the swollen tip almost shyly. He groaned as he watched you test the waters. After all, he was the one who could control what you did to him. For now, however, he seemed to leave you your freedom to do what you felt like. You pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, licking over the tip ever so slowly. Then, you sunk your mouth further onto his length, taking as much as you could. It was so quiet you only noticed his uneven breathing as he eyed you from above.

“Shit, you’re so good for me,” he said. “Now stop with the teasing, will you? You know what happens if you don’t.”

You knew exactly. And so you shifted from your slow movements to quicker ones. You made sure to keep your tongue on him, especially when you moved your head away, swirling it around the tip now and then. His moans were music to your ears and only motivated you further. You had always loved his voice, when you sang to the song on the car radio or hummed his latest favorite song under the shower. But nothing compared to the way his voice sounded when you sucked him off. He seemed to be the most unrestrained then, not caring who heard him because he was way to obsessed with you sitting by his feet. The way he looked at you then made your stomach turn in pleasure. He didn’t even need to say anything or touch you. His overseeing eyes alone made you want him more than anything else.

His fingers in your hair curled, pushing your head further down on him. You focused on not gagging, your eyes closing. Tears brimmed behind your eyelids, but you were determined not to let them fall. Instead, you opened your lips a little wider and stuck your tongue out to make it easier for him to use your mouth however he desired.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, sighing in relief. You were awaiting treatment a lot rougher than the one he gave you, though. He thrusted into your mouth rather slowly, giving you enough of a break to remember to breathe. When you looked up at him with your sweetest eyes possible, his expression was a mix of strain and pleasure. You suspected he was trying not to overdo it just yet.

“Baby…can I fuck you or is that too much for you?” he asked. You perked up at his request. When you started humming around his length, he pulled away to let you speak.

“Please,” you said. “Fuck me. On the table.”

“Alright, my baby’s making the rules now, is she?” he said. “Come here.”

“I thought that’s where you wanted me to remember you, wasn’t it?” you asked, getting up.

“You’re right,” he said. You sat down on the edge of the office table with your legs parted for him to stand between them. Just once he kissed you. You wanted him to hurry, so you linked your heels behind his back, pulling him closer.

“Take me like a good girl.” He ran his cock over your slick folds, and he groaned when he felt your warmth on him. In response you nodded willingly, unable to wait a second more for him. Luckily, he didn’t plan on dragging out the anticipation any longer. With ease he slid into you, finding a familiar rhythm right away. As if you hadn’t just come ten minutes ago, you whimpered pathetically at the satisfaction. You leaned your weight onto your hands behind you, watching his cock enter you over and over. There was no limit to how many times you could have him inside of you. Every time it felt the same. Like he was completing you, all whilst simultaneously ruining you. His thrusts were sharp and as you raised your legs and changed the angle slightly, your eyes rolled back for a moment.

“Harder,” you asked, even though you were already overwhelmed.

“You want more?” he asked. You hummed a yes and nodded quickly. His grip on your waist tightened as he pulled you closer to the edge of the table. He didn’t disappoint. He never did. Swiftly, he pushed your legs further open and pounded into you, making your body shake every time his hips slapped against yours. It drove you borderline mad. A part of your brain urged you to praise him, to let him know what he was doing to you. But then, those unspoken words between you were inconsequential. You didn’t need to tell him how good he was. He could read it in every part of your body. He saw it in the arch of your back, in your curled toes and in your lip that was captured between your teeth. He heard it in the way you moaned and said his name like he was your savior.

Plus, you would tell him all about it afterward. But that wasn’t what your mind was focused on momentarily. It was the way he hit your sweet spot every time and you could barely breathe normally amidst your whimpers. You hadn’t even introduced yourself to all your neighbors yet, but they most certainly had taken notice of your arrival in the new apartment.

“Can you use your hands for me?” he asked. “Show me touching yourself, baby.”

His words and the look of dominance in his eyes was all it took, and without second thought your hands went to your center. You sucked in a breath at the added pleasure. It was almost too much at first, but then you let it all in. Like a wave was crashing over you, your eyes closed, and you hummed from the intensity.

“That’s it. Make yourself come again,” he said. “You can do it again.”

“Yes,” you said, almost breathed with the weakest voice. Your body had other things to focus on at that moment, letting your vocal chords do whatever they felt like. You clenched your walls around him and the knot in your stomach tightened with every little circle you drew on your clit. His usually tender eyes were everything but that as he watched you revel in the pleasure.

“So fucking hot,” he groaned. You tried hard to uphold eye-contact through fluttering eyelids and furrowed brows. “Good girl, keep going. Tell me when you’re coming.”

You hummed a yes as one of his hands cupped the side of your neck, the other remaining on your hips so he could push your body against his own with every thrust. After all this time of being with him you knew what it meant when his moans became higher pitched and he seemed to not realize his mean grip on your skin – not that you minded. You loved seeing the marks he left on you, especially when you had nowhere to be the next days. It always made him hungry, when he saw the dark spots on your skin, like a fading memory of what you had done.

A curse fell from his perfect lips and his thrusts turned sloppy as he came inside of you. His face, all twisted in bliss and from exhaustion, was all you needed.

“Stay inside of me. Just for a little while, please,” you plead, fingers on your clit rubbing at the quickest speed you could muster. “I’ll come if you stay.”

“I’m right here,” he said, slowing his actions until he was just filling you up, but now moving anymore. “It’s okay. Come for me.”

Just having him there, stretching out your walls and making you feel so close to him was all you really needed. And his words of affirmation sent you over the edge in no time. It was a toe-curling, mind-bending surge that overcame you at your release. Stars danced delightfully behind your closed eyelids while you tried to process all of it. He gripped your hand that was touching your clit and pressed it down, urging you to go on for a little while longer. You whined in sensitivity, feeling like your legs would give in, even though you were already sitting down. For just another while, he dragged out your orgasm as you struggled to control your overwhelmed senses. He distracted you by bending forward and letting his lips graze yours.

“You did so good,” he said. “My pretty maid.”

You whimpered and then sighed when he finally lifted your hand away from between your legs. Only then you could scrape together some words.

“We both did good today,” you grinned. “And I mean not only the last half hour.”

“Agreed,” he said. “Tomorrow we could tackle those last boxes in the kitchen. What do you think?”

“Can the maid outfit make another appearance?” you asked.

“I was hoping it might,” he said, kissing you softly. Your tired limbs and mind welcomed his gentleness as your hands went to his hair. You could already guess how the next day would go, then. But truth be told, you didn’t mind it one bit.

[nugnthopkns]

dance me to the end of love (ii)

word count: 3.3k

warnings: fem!oc, alcohol consumption, cursing

series masterpost: here

a/n: part two baby! thanks for all the love on part one, it means the absolute world. i have so much love for this story and i hope people are enjoying it :))

Life is settling into a comfortable rhythm.

After spending a good chunk of her young adult life being incredibly studious, Magdalene can finally have the social life of someone in their mid-twenties. Though she’s still spending a fair amount of time by herself in the basements of the University of Denver’s library, Bette convinces her to go out more. Magdalene tries to fight, citing extra work or a good book as an excuse to stay home, but it doesn’t work very often. The pleas of her friend are how Magdalene finds herself currently lounging poolside at Erik Johnson’s house on a Sunday afternoon.

“How’s the new career treating you?” Tyson asks. “I feel like we haven’t seen you in a while.”

Magdalene laughs. “I’ve seen Bette plenty,” she says, “She thinks I won’t take a lunch break unless she shows up.”

“Would you?” the blonde girl questions with a quirked brow.

“Probably not.”

“I rest my case.”

A small crowd gathers around as Magdalene begins to detail the specifics of her job, but she doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as she once would have. In the month or so since graduating school she’s found herself slowly being incorporated into the Avalanche family. It’s almost certainly because Bette and Tyson championed her case, explaining that she doesn’t have much of a support system beyond the two of them, but she doesn’t mind. A few of the guys ask her questions about her work, curious as to why someone would want to spend their life combing through piles of old things. Everyone stays engaged in the conversation until there’s a shout from the kitchen that dinner is ready.

Magdalene shuffles in line behind André, filling her plate with various pasta salads and a hamburger. Once situated with enough food for two meals she returns to the pool deck, sitting on the edge and dipping her toes into the cool water. Bette comes and finds her a minute later and the two of them begin to eat.

She’s still relatively new to the group’s dynamic, but Magdalene can’t help but notice that Ryan is never around. In fact, Magdalene hasn’t seen him since her graduation party. Taking a casual sip of her wine cooler, she asks her friend about the man’s absence.

“Why is Ryan never at these sorts of things?”

Bette shrugs. “Isn’t a huge one for parties. He was supposed to come today, but I guess something came up.”

“I’m not huge on parties,” Magdalene huffs, “But that doesn’t stop you from dragging me to every single one.”

“Unlike you, Gravy gets enough regular social interaction that his absence is permissible. If Tyson and I didn’t take you out you’d talk to your cat more than normal.”

She wants to fight back, but knows it’s pointless. Bette has a point – if it weren’t for her the only people Magdalene would interact with are her boss and her cat. Instead, she grumbles under her breath and changes the subject to the trip Bette is in the middle of planning. It’s coming up in a few weeks, and Magdalene wants to hear a bit more about it before she commits. Despite what she thought about taking time off so close to starting work, it was encouraged by June, but she's refraining from telling Bette that. If it doesn’t sound like she'll enjoy it, Magdalene is banking on being able to use the excuse.

Bette explains that she’s renting a large lake house that is perfect for a relaxing week away from adult responsibilities. The property has kayaks and a hot tub, which pretty much ensures that Magdalene will want to be in attendance. She’ll hold onto that information for a little while longer though, if for no other reason to make Bette squirm a little. At some point Tyson comes to sweep his girlfriend away and leaves Magdalene at the party alone. She makes polite conversation with some other players for a while before heading home herself. Ryan never shows up, despite how much Magdalene hopes he will. At the very least she wants to properly thank him for doing her a favour, though her hoping to see him is much more selfish. He intrigues her and she wants to know more about the tall man with the dazzling smile and a proclivity for wearing all black.

☼☼☼☼

Barn Owl Book Company is filled to the brim when Magdalene approaches the store from the side street it annexes. She should’ve expected it – it’s the first of the month and their newest books are hitting the shelves. However, Magdalene doesn’t exactly have time to wait in line. June gave her only fifteen minutes to run and grab them coffee before they continue the massive task of digitizing a private collection that has just been donated to the university. She estimates it will take almost a month of extended hours to get everything done, and Magdalene believes it. There’s so much to wade through but she knows the end result will be satisfying.

Luckily the café line is fairly short, and Magdalene reaches the counter in a timely manner. “Hey,” she greets the barista warmly, “Could I just grab two medium iced cappuccinos?”

“Anything else?”

“No, that's everything. It’ll be on debit,” she smiles. Magdalene reaches into her backpack to grab her wallet only to find that it’s missing. Shit. The barista has already left to make the drinks, completely unaware that her customer is unable to pay.

Magdalene hears a voice from behind her say, “I’ve got it, don’t worry.” She turns around to find Ryan Graves standing there with a book tucked under his right arm.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she mumbles appreciatively. “I don’t know how my boss would take it if I showed up empty handed.”

Ryan laughs shyly as he pulls his card away from the machine. “I get it, everyone needs a little caffeine this time of year.” The barista comes back with Magdalene’s drinks, which she takes with a smile and a wish for a good day. The two of them head towards the exit, and Ryan pauses once they’re on the sidewalk. “Which way are you headed?”

“Back to work,” Magdalene says, nodding her head in the direction of campus. “I’ve got approximately five minutes to get there before June rips me a new one.”

“June?”

“She’s my boss,” she explains.

Ryan nods in understanding. “I’ll see you around Magdalene,” he smiles, turning on his heel and heading the opposite direction.

In a moment of bravery, Magdalene yells at his retreating figure. “Will you? We never seem to cross paths.”

“I’ll be at Bette and Tyson’s this weekend, and I’m counting on your company.”

Magdalene finds it incredibly hard to focus the rest of the afternoon. She keeps thinking about what Ryan said, which makes her a rather lousy archivist. June sends her home just after seven even though they had plans to stay until ten, citing the fact that she’s scanned the same photo three times before noticing. Caligula’s meowing for pets when she gets home isn’t even enough to distract her from the comment. The absentmindedness continues for another day or so, and it’s becoming so bad Magdalene is worried that June is going to fire her for incompetence.

It’s only when Bette calls to invite her over for dinner and drinks that her mind levels out. “I was wondering when I was going to get the call,” she chuckles absentmindedly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” is the response Magdalene receives.

“Well,” she explains, “I ran into Ryan at Barn Owl the other day and he paid for my drinks because I left my wallet on the table at work, and he said he expected to see me at your place this weekend. So if you never invited me I was just going to show up.”

Bette is smiling, that much Magdalene can infer by the lull in conversation. “I haven’t got the time to call you yet,” she concedes, “But consider this the official invitation to our house for a small party.”

“Anything we’re celebrating?”

“Nope. Have you ever needed a reason to party?”

Magdalene laughs. “Yes. Need one almost every time actually.”

The rest of the week passes fairly quickly. To make up for her blundering earlier in the week Magdalene offers to work a full day on Saturday, by herself, to get the project back on track. June accepts the proposition eagerly, and Magdalene lets Bette know she’ll be coming directly from work. Saturday rolls around and she spends most of her time getting lost in the past lives of the artefacts she’s dealing with. If someone were to ask Magdalene what her favourite part of archiving is, that’s the answer she’d give. There’s nothing more satisfying to her than holding a piece of history in her hands and imagining all the stories it would be able to tell if it could speak.

By the time she’s put in a full work day and finishes locking up the basement floor her department occupies, Magdalene is pretty sure they’re ahead of schedule on the project. She genuinely feels terrible about her misperformance and hopes June will be able to forgive her. On the way to Bette and Tyson’s Magdalene listens to the Leonard Cohen greatest hits cd that came with her car. The previous owner was presumably a big fan, and over the years Magdalene has come to appreciate the folk singer. She never got to see him in concert before his death but turns to his music when she needs to relax. Right now is the perfect time to listen to ‘Hallelujah’ on repeat because she’s seriously freaking out about the idea of spending the night talking to Ryan. Though she still wants to properly thank him and possibly become friends, something about him makes Magdalene nervous.

There’s no way for her to tell if Ryan is there when she parks in front of the house. She doesn’t know what kind of car he drives, or if he caught a ride with someone. Magdalene debates texting Bette to see if he’s there already but decides against it, knowing she’s an adult who is more than capable of pushing down nerves.

She doesn’t bother knocking and just steps into the respectably sized home. The music is loud enough that no one would have heard her anyways. It’s much more of a party than Magdalene was expecting – Bette invited her for dinner and drinks, not a gathering that could pass as a frat party. There are bodies everywhere, and she isn’t sure if she’ll ever catch a glimpse of her friend.

“You seem to be dressed for the wrong kind of party,” a voice chuckles from behind her.

Magdalene turns to see Ryan leaning against the wall, eyeing her business casual attire. “I came from work,” she explains, “And didn’t know it was this kind of party to begin with. I would’ve at least brought a change of clothes.”

“You look terribly out of place,” he agrees. “Can I grab you a drink? The hosts are too busy playing beer pong to, you know, be hosts.”

A giggle escapes Magdalene’s lips at the comment. Ryan seems to have a similar sense of humor to her, which will be beneficial for passing the time if Bette is already on her way to being wasted. “A glass of red wine would be nice.”

Ryan pushes off from his perch and heads towards the kitchen. The crowd parts for the six-foot-five hockey player, and Magdalene follows in his wake quite easily. Knowing the space as well as her, Ryan grabs a wine glass from the cupboard Bette keeps them in and pours the dark red liquid into it. He waits until Magdalene has situated herself on the island before handing her the cup. She takes it with an appreciative hum and waits until he’s grabbed a beer for himself before raising her glass in toast. Ryan does the same, and their glasses clink before each of them take a sip.

“What exactly is it that you do? I bet it’s something super cool and studious, but I seriously don’t know what the hell being an archivist means.”

Magdalene explains her job to Ryan, who is extremely interested. He asks nearly a hundred follow-up questions that she answers sincerely, throwing in a few jokes that luckily crack him up. Conversation moves to his career and then life. Magdalene learns that he’s from Nova Scotia, though he stays around Denver these days, and that if he wasn’t playing professional hockey he’d like to have a career in publishing. Ryan doesn’t press too hard when Magdalene refuses to open up about her family, which she appreciates. It’s a delicate subject that she keeps guarded close to her chest, and a friend’s kitchen in the middle of a party isn’t the place for her to divulge her deepest secrets.

The two of them get refills before exiting the room. Even more people seemed to arrive since Magdalene walked through the door, and the kitchen is no longer an empty safe haven. The music is so loud she can feel the bass thumping in her chest, giving the living room a club-like atmosphere, and it’s too much. Magdalene tugs at the hem of Ryan’s sweater to catch his attention. “Want to go somewhere quiet?”

“I doubt there is such a place,” he yells over the crowd going crazy over some early 2000s hip-hop track.

“Follow me,” she says with a smile, pointing over her shoulder in the direction of the staircase to the second floor.

It takes a minute for them to wade through the throngs of people, but it goes much faster once Ryan takes Magdalene’s hand and splits the crowd. A few boys, who don’t look older than twenty-one and almost certainly snuck into the party, notice where the pair are going and shout congratulations. Ryan shoots them a glare so sharp it could cut stone but doesn’t drop Magdalene’s hand. Once safely on the much quieter second floor, Magdalene makes a beeline for the bathroom.

“Are you coming or what?” she asks when there doesn’t seem to be footsteps following her.

Ryan hesitates. “I, uh, can just wait out here while you’re in there,” he stammers.

Magdalene’s laugh rings out through the empty hallway. “I’m not going to the bathroom. We’re going out the window.”

He isn’t sure how that’s any better, but Ryan follows the brown-haired girl into the room. It takes considerably more work for him to fit through the frame, but after some directions from Magdalene he makes it onto the roof. She sits down and pats the space beside her, encouraging Ryan to do the same. They stay out there, discussing anything that comes to their heads, until the party’s numbers dwindle drastically. Magdalene makes sure to properly thank him for both attending her graduation and spotting her coffee money, and she thinks Ryan might blush a little when she offers to get the next round. He asks about her love of The West Wing, and they launch into a long conversation about the show and cast. The sun fades to black and the cold sets in, and Magdalene finds herself wrapped in Ryan’s sweater without asking. It’s only when she notices it’s approaching midnight that Magdalene clues into how tired she is.

“I think I’m going to head out,” she yawns. Ryan nods in agreement and holds the window open for her to slip in through. Once downstairs, Magdalene goes to lift the sweater from her frame but Ryan stops her.

“Keep it for drive home. I’ll get it back next time we see each other.”

Still feeling bold from the alcohol that left her system hours ago, she reaches out to poke him in the chest. “And when will that be, hm? You seem to enjoy leaving our meetings up to chance.”

It’s Ryan’s turn to laugh. “Think you can swing an extended lunch break on Wednesday? I’ll be at Barn Owl all afternoon. Maybe you can join me for a coffee.”

Magdalene likes the sound of that and agrees. She leaves without seeing Bette or Tyson once, but she doesn’t mind. They’d be happy for her blooming friendship – or at least she’s pretty sure they will be once she calls to fill them in on the details.

☼☼☼☼

Wednesday rolls around without incident, and Magdalene is given a full hour to eat instead of thirty minutes. Walking time has to be accounted for, of course, but she should have nearly forty-five minutes to spend with Ryan if she plays her cards right. There’s no crowd this time, and it’s incredibly easy to spot Ryan sitting in the window she loves to claim as her own.

“Hey,” Magdalene greets, “Did Bette tell you to sit here?”

He shakes his head, perplexed at the question. “No, why?”

“It’s just my favourite seat in the store, that’s all. I thought she told you how to gain some extra brownie points.”

“Should I be concerned about the amount of points I have?” Ryan teases, sliding a cup and pastry bag across the table and into her hands.

Magdalene shakes her head, smiling widely. “You’re doing alright so far. Keep up the good work.”

They eat at a comfortable pace, taking breaks to engage in interesting topics of conversation or take sips of their drinks. Ryan insists his life is boring, but Magdalene is enthralled by the stories he tells. It’s completely different from hers and she feels as though she can live vicariously through the tales of walking through the historic downs of the east coast and swimming in the Pacific Ocean on days off in California. After squeezing every story possible from the man Magdalene shifts gears slightly.

“So, are you going on the trip in a couple of weeks?”

“It’s looking that way,” Ryan shrugs with relative indifference, “Nate doesn’t think he’ll be able to come back, something about a development camp he’s running having the dates switched. He’s asked me to take his spot.”

His neutral mood confuses her. When Bette mentioned his probable attendance months ago, it sounded like he was enthusiastic about spending a week with friends doing nothing to swimming and drinking. “You don’t want to go?” Magdalene probes.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, but sometimes the group parties a little harder than I like to,” he sighs, raising a hand and running it through his hair. That’s something she understands completely, having spent a few too many nights being the sober one out.

“I’ll be there.” It’s Magdalene’s turn to shrug, but the comment holds an incredible amount of hope.

“Well then, that changes everything.”

Was Ryan flirting with her? She spends the rest of lunch thinking about the possibility, and truthfully, it occupies her brain for the rest of the day. However, she keeps her focus and June is none the wiser to the butterflies in her stomach. Work finishes without much fanfare, and her dinner is silent save for the few meows of conversation Caligula offers. It’s late by the time Magdalene falls into bed, cat snuggled into the pillow beside her. On a whim she decides to check Instagram and sees a message request from none other than the man who’s smile has been replaying in her mind. A follow request accompanies it.

Thought that maybe we could quit leaving our meetings to chance and plan something next time :)

He has to be flirting. There’s no other explanation for the witty banter they’ve shared this week, or why he’s reaching out to her on social media. The butterflies in her stomach multiply tenfold as Magdalene types out a reply.

I don’t know, it’s kind of fun being shrouded in mystery. However, I now have the opportunity to stalk your profile ;)

Before she can overthink her use of the emoji, Magdalene shoves her phone in the drawer of her nightstand and rolls over. A slight smile can’t help but appear on her features as she falls asleep, already curious about what his reply will be.

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @scrunchmakar @marcoscandellas @toplinetommy @samsteel @lovethepreds (add yourself to the taglist!)

[tigerdrop]

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

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

anyway, here it is: Gordon Gets A Xen Bath

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> Food? Nap? Bath?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> Benrey blinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> "Huh?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> "Cool."

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

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

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

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

> Click.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> Lower back.

> His ass.

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

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

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

> "Cute."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, God.

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

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

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

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

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

> "Wha?"

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

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

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

> Wait.

> "Privacy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> And...

> "Cute."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> The words come out before he can stop them.

> Goddammit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cute. Fun size.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> He is not a fan.

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

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

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

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

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

> Oh. Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> "Uh."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why did he stop himself?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> Bathing Gordon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> So he doubles down. His voice grows louder.

> "Holy shit."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> Wait. Was that...?

> Was that admission?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> A pause.

> "Laugh, please."

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

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

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

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

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

> Their own secret language of want.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And--

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

"You know," he finishes weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because he wants to be wrangled into submission.

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

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

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

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

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

> Yeah. He feels wanted.

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

> Their game.

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

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

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

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

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

> His mouth snaps shut.

> Awkward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

> He sounds unconvincing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can't--

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

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

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

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

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

> Benrey likes to play with his food.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

He's hard.

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

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

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

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

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

> "Huh?"

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

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

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

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

> A pause, a laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

[spxllcxstxr]

The Seven Potters Plan Part 1 • R.L

(Gif not mine)

Request: Nope, just wanted to torture myself with this idea :)

Summary: Harry Potter needs to be relocated from his house in Surrey to the Burrow, however, because he’s not quite seventeen yet, he still has the Trace. Your father, Mad-Eye Moody, comes up with a Plan B. Here’s how it goes.

Warnings: canon character death, canon Deathly Hallows, cursing, death, grieving, mention of injury and blood, death eaters, Voldemort, just a lot of hurt/angst

Word Count: 2.6k

A.N: So the first like 1k words are taken straight from the book. Why? Because I’m a sucker for that kind of stuff. Implied that you’re Remus’ age, the two of you are married, why do I think of these things? I’m like 99% sure I made this gender neutral? But if I didn’t like let me know. I know this is angsty, but I hope you all enjoy. Love you all ❤️

EDIT: So the full fic exceeded 250 word blocks, which is shit because this is not meant to be split up. Meaning, the ending is abrupt because I had to split the whole thing. This is fucking stupid, but whatever. Please don’t forget to read Part 2 for the whole story

****

“All right, all right, we’ll have time for a cozy catch up later!” Your father roars from beside you, cutting off Harry’s conversation with Tonks.

A silence falls over the kitchen, everyone staring uneasily in his direction. You tinker with the zipper on your jacket, nervous about the next few hours.

“As Dedulus probably told you,” He continues, one eye glaring at Harry, the other rolling around in its restraint. “we had to abandon Plan A. Pius Thicknesse has gone over, which gives us a big problem. He’s made it an imprisonable offense to connect this house to the Floo Network, place a Portkey here, or Apparate in or out.” You watch his knuckles turn white, the grip on his staff tightening in anger. “All done in the name of your protection, to prevent You-Know-Who getting in at you. Absolutely pointless, seeing as your mother’s charm does that already. What he’s really done is to stop you from getting out of here safely.”

Harry’s lips tug into a frown.

“Second problem: you’re underage, which means you’ve still got the Trace on you.”

Harry glances around the room, dark eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I don’t—“

“The Trace, the Trace!” Mad-Eye continues impatiently. “The charm that detects magical activity around under-seventeens, the way the Ministry finds out about underage magic! If you, or anyone around you, casts a spell to get you out of here, Thicknesse is going to know about it, and so will the Death Eaters.”

You swallow roughly at the mere thought of being swarmed by Death Eaters unprepared.

A calloused hand grabs yours, and just by the feel you recognize it at Remus’. His hand is warm and comforting in your grasp.

“We can’t wait for the Trace to break, because the moment you turn seventeen you’ll lose all the protection your mother gave you. In short: Pius Thicknesse thinks he’s got you cornered good and proper.”

“So what are we going to do?” Harry questions, his determined tone hiding fragility behind his words.

“We’re going to use the only means of transport left to us, the only ones the Trace can’t detect, because we don’t need to cast spells to use them: brooms, thestrals, and Hagrid’s motorbike.” You father answers gruffly.

You squeeze your husband’s hand hard as you shift around. You hated this plan. It left you all open and vulnerable, and the pit in your stomach was screaming at you that something bad was going to happen. But it was, in reality, the only way to safely get Harry away from his house.

A skeptical look flashes across Harry’s face as well, though he doesn’t say anything.

“Now, your mother’s charm will only break under two conditions: when you come of age, or“—Mad-Eye makes a head gesture around the kitchen, his pockets jingling.—“you no longer call this place home. You and your aunt and uncle are going your separate ways tonight. In the full understanding that you’re never going to live together again, correct?”

He nods.

“So this time, when you leave, there’ll be no going back, and the charm will break the moment you’re outside it’s range. We’re choosing to break it early, because the alternative is waiting for You-Know-Who to come and grab you the moment you turn seventeen.”

The cool metal zipper is still between your fingers, a distraction from all of the grim looks around the room.

“The one thing we’ve got on our side is that You-Know-Who doesn’t know we’re moving you tonight.” Mad-Eye informs him. “We’ve leaked a fake trail to the Ministry: they think you’re not leaving until the thirtieth. However, this is You-Know-Who we’re dealing with, so we can’t just rely on him getting the date wrong; he’s bound to have a couple of Death Eaters patrolling the skies in this general area, just in case.”

You swallow roughly at the thought.

“So, we’ve given a dozen different houses every protection we can throw at them. They all look like they could be the place we’re going to hide you, they’ve all got some connection with the Order: my house, Kingley’s place, (Y/n) and Lupin’s, Molly’s Auntie Murial’s—you get the idea.”

“Yeah.” Harry responds, nodding once again.

“You’ll be going to Tonk’s parents.” You father goes on to explain. “Once you’re within the boundaries of the protective enchantments we’ve put on their house, you’ll be able to use a Portkey to the Burrow. Any questions?”

“Er—yes.” Harry stutters. “Maybe they won’t know which of the twelve safe houses I’m heading for at first, but won’t it be sort of obvious once”—he starts counting the heads around him—“fifteen of you fly off toward Tonk’s parents’?”

“Ah,” You scoff. “And here’s the kicker.”

Harry looks at you with a frown. Your father lightly jabs you with his staff.

“I forgot to mention the key point.” Mad-Eye scowls. “Fifteen of us won’t be flying to Tonk’s parents’s. There will be seven Harry Potters moving through the skies tonight, each of them with a companion, each pair heading for a different safe house.” He takes out his old flask from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“I hate this plan.” You mutter under your breath. Remus’ fingers trace figure eights between your knuckles.

“No!” Harry loudly protests. “No way!” His hands are balled into fists as he frantically looks at all of you surrounding him.

“I told you he’d take it like this.” Hermione lightly points out.

“If you think I’m going to let six people risk their lives—!“

“—because it’s the first time for all of us.” Ron rolls his eyes at his friend.

“This is different, pretending to be me—“

“Well, none of us really fancy it, Harry.” One of the twins jokes. “Imagine if something went wrong and we were stuck as specky, scrawny, gits forever.”

Harry doesn’t smile but the other twin lets out a snort.

“You can’t do it if I don’t cooperate, you need me to give you some hair.” Harry stubbornly tells you all.

“Well, that’s the plan scuppered.” One twin dramatically sighs. “Obviously there’s no chance at all of us getting a bit of your hair unless you cooperate.”

“Yeah, fourteen of us against one bloke who’s not allowed to use magic; we’ve got no chance!” The other teases.

“Funny.” Harry sarcastically remarks. “Very funny.”

“If it has to come to force, then it will.” Mad-Eye growls.

“Dad!” You yelp, the idea of piling on top of this kid just to get a strand of hair repulsive to you.

Your father glances at you, face softening, though only slightly. You’re probably the only one who notices. The perks of growing up with him, you guess.

“Everyone here’s overage, Potter, and they’re all prepared to take the risk.”

Taking a deep breath, you focus back on your anchor. Remus’ hand is honestly the only thing keeping you from succumbing to a total breakdown.

“Let’s have no more arguments! Time’s wearing on. I want a few of your hairs, boy, now.”

“But this is mad!” Harry laughs humorlessly. “There’s no need—“

“No need!” You dad snarls. “With You-Know-Who out there and half the Ministry on his side? Potter, if we’re lucky, he’ll have swallowed the fake bait and he’ll be planning to ambush you on the thirtieth, but he’d be mad not to have a Death Eater or two keeping an eye out, it’s what I’d do. They might not be able to get at you or this house while your mother’s charm holds, but it’s about to break and they know the rough position of this place. Our only chance is to use decoys. Even You-Know-Who can’t split himself into seven.”

You let out a sigh, watching as he quickly glances at his friends.

“So, Potter—some of your hair, if you please.”

Still, he’s hesitant.

“Now!” Your dad barks, causing Harry to jump ever so slightly.

Silently, Harry brings a hand up to the top of his head and yanks at his hair as hard as he can, effectively pulling tufts of hair out. He barely even winces.

“Good.” Mad-Eye limps over to him, his prosthetic clanging against the white tiles. He waves the flask in front of him. “Straight in here, if you please.”

He drops them in and as the potion bubbles and sizzles, Ron and Hermione take a glance over his shoulders.

“Right then, all the fake Potters line up over here, then.” Mad-Eye grunts.

Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Fleur casually line up in the kitchen like they aren’t participating in something that might just kill them.

You also notice someone missing.

“We’re one short.” Remus observes.

“Here.” Hagrid grunts, shoving his way through, practically dragging Mundungus by the collar of his brown and dirty robes. He’s placed next to Fleur, who promptly shifts to stand between the twins. You don’t blame her.

“I told you,” Mundungus complains. “I’d sooner be a protector.”

“Shut it.” Mad-Eye growls. “As I’ve already told you, you spineless worm, any Death Eater we run into will be aiming to capture Potter, not kill him. Dumbledore always said You-Know-Who would want to finish Potter in person. It’ll be the protectors who have got the most to worry about, the Death Eaters’ll want to kill them.”

A cold chill runs down your spine. You were to be paired with another protector, mostly because your dad wanted you to be protected as well as the Potter you were guarding. In any other situation you would’ve argued against it, that you were more than capable of handling it all on your own, but this was different. You were absolutely terrified of being on your own.

It’s quiet as Mad-Eye pours the Polyjuice Potion into separate glasses. When the six of them drink the space is filled with gags and gasps as they morph into Harry Potter.

The Harry’s being to change, but you’re too caught up in your own thoughts to pay attention to any witty remarks. Anxiety courses through your veins and your foot taps against the floor.

When all of them are done, Mad-Eye starts announcing the pairs.

“The pairs will be as follows.” He declares, one eyes trained in the parchment in front of him, the other gazing at everyone. “Mundungus will be traveling with me by broom—“

“Why am I with you?” Demands a Harry in the back.

“Because you’re the one that needs watching!” You shout, glaring at the form that now backs away.

“Arthur and Fred—“

“I’m George!” Laughs one of the Harry’s. “Can’t even tell us apart when we’re Harry!”

“Sorry, George—“

“I’m only yanking your wand, I’m Fred really—“

“Enough messing around!” Mad-Eye growls. “The other one—Fred or George or whoever you are—you’re with Remus.”

You bump shoulders with the man next to you.

“Miss Delacour—“

“I’m taking Fleur on a thestral.” Bill interjects. “She’s not that fond of brooms.”

“Miss Granger with Kingsley and (Y/n), again on a thestral—“

Hermione smiles warmly at you and Kingsley, though it’s actually Harry’s crooked grin.

You aren’t surprised with who your father’s paired you with, Kingsley was honestly the only person he trusted with his life. He felt safest with the two of you together. And Hermione was resourceful as well, making the three of you probably the best team.

“Which leaves you and me, Ron!” Tonk’s cheers, hair fluctuating between pink and orange.

Ron, however, doesn’t look too pleased with the setup.

Harry and Hagrid are of course paired up together on his motorbike.

“I make it three minutes until we’re supposed to leave.” Your father grunts, glancing at his pocket watch. “No point locking the back door, it won’t keep the Death Eaters out when they come looking...come on...”

You turn to Remus, eyes suddenly brimming with tears. The lump in your throat makes it hard to breathe.

“You stay safe, alright?” You whisper, voice cracking.

“Hey, look at me, love.” He utters softly. A finger rests on the bottom of your chin, faces close together. Reluctantly you bring your gaze up to his own honey brown ones, shining with unshed tears. “We’ll be alright, yeah? We’ll be fine.” He tried his best to be convincing, he really does, but it falls flat.

Whatever movement is happening around you fades away.

“I love you, Remus.” You force out almost breathlessly. You might tell him this everyday but he needs to know. He needs to understand it.

“I love you, (Y/n).” He kisses you, lips chapped against your own, but it doesn’t even matter. “I’ll see you soon.”

Hesitantly, the two of you part, him to one of the twins and you to your father.

While everyone else is preparing and saying possibly their final words, your father stands alone, surveying the space.

“Let me have a look at you, yeah?” He grunts, eyes raking over your figure as you approach. “Just like your mother.”

“Mum probably would’ve thought this was a stupid idea too.” You attempt to joke.

You father rests his heavy hands on your shoulders, the weight oddly comforting.

“Yeah well, she thought all my plans were stupid.” He mutters. “She’d be proud, y’know? Fighting for what’s right.”

Your lip trembles which your father notices immediately.

“Oh, c’mere.” He wraps his arms around you, engulfing you in a rare hug.

Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody was the best Auror out there with a tough exterior that frightened most to death, but he was always a soft and caring father when it came to you.

“Don’t cry, (Y/n), hm?” His scruffy chin rests on top of your head. “I love ya, I know I don’t say it too often, but I do. I’m so proud...” His own gruff voice catches at the end.

“I love you too, dad.” You sniff, pulling away and wiping your eyes with your sleeves. “You’ll be alright with Mundungus?”

“Eh, the little bastard’s harmless.” He shrugs, trying to wipe his own eye quickly. “If you don’t come back in one piece, Kingsley’ll never see the light of day, though.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” You chuckle.

Mad-Eye glances at his watch. “Damnit.” He mutters. “We’ve got to go. Stay safe, (Y/n).”

“You too, dad.” You reply, making your way to Hermione and Kingsley at your ride.

Your thestral is dark and practically skin and bone like usual. Being in two iterations of the Order of the Phoenix has unfortunately granted you to see threstrals in all their hauntingly beautiful glory.

“Good luck, everyone!” Mad-Eye shouts. “See you all in about an hour at the Burrow! On the count of three. One...two...THREE!”

You hang on tightly to the Harry in front of you, Kingsley guiding the animal to soar into the night sky, the wind almost taking your breath away. You have your wand at the ready, pointing into the void.

Hands shake both from the cold atmosphere and the nerves running through you.

All you do is blink, and five hooded figures have you surrounded, deathly close to you.

“We’ve got company!” You shout over the roaring wind.

You and Hermione fire off spells, Kingsley trying to multitask, but getting away from the cloaked figures was a bit more important.

The two of you try to dodge the best you can, but it’s hard when you’re sitting on the back of a horse.

You don’t know what you cast in the moment, but your body seizes and suddenly one drops like an anvil to the ground below.

The bone chilling feeling of death overtakes you and You-Know-Who, shrouded in a black cloak, quickly rushes past the three of you.

The battle seems like it lasts forever, the back and forth of spells almost unbearable, but eventually you make it to your meeting point, completely exhausted.

•

All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20 @amourtentiaa @cherie-draco @mullthingsoverinthehotwater

[footballxwrites]

Scott where maybe she does admin or something at club. She keeps herself to herself so he thinks she hates him. The other players don’t get it cause they get on with her. She’s working late and her ex shows up and is being a total douche and Scott is the only other one about and helps her get him away and they kinda bond from that?

“Yeah yeah working overtime tonight, got a pile of paperwork to sort out” you tiredly smiled with a roll of the eyes as the lads sighed with a pout, “you know I’d come out for a drink if I could” you giggled, gazing around at the saddened looks. “The girls were looking forward to seeing you as well” Marcus said as you nodded, “I know me too...next time Rashford” you promised, crossing your heart as you said your goodbyes to the quite excited boys, loud as ever as they sang their celebrations from the victory they gotten today in a nice 4-3 against the rivals. “Oh and don’t forgot to have a drink for me” you shouted down the corridor as they just laughed, “don’t worry we won’t” a roar of replies came flooding back, “hey don’t stay too late mind” Dean winked, giving you a hug on the way out of the building, being the last to leave as per usual.

———————

About an hour later and you were deep in thought, the concentration levels at an all time high as you raced through the ton of sheets, wanting to get home soon as seeing as it was a Saturday night and there was a Hawaiian pizza with your name on it defrosting on the kitchen counter. You being the paranoid, self conscious person you are shot up out your seat when you heard the slightest clattering come from the main door, and although you needed a key card to actually open the door, you count help but take a quick look, you know, just to ease your mind.

“Oh you have to be having a laugh” your eyes widened as you found your recent ex stood outside the main entrance of Old Trafford, trying his hardest to get the door to open so he can ‘win you back’ as he put it, “look that door ain’t budging so got gone alright” you laughed, standing with crossed arms. “Come on, just give me 5 mins I need to talk to you” he pleaded, not giving in easy, “Y/E/N there’s nothing to say, you cheated on me with some randomer from the club and then I ended things...simple” you stated, staying true to your words. “It was ONE mistake and it meant nothing...is it really worth throwing a relationship of three years away for some stupid shag” he sighed, rambling on about a load of pointless shit as you were trying to figure out a way to get him away from your place of work...to which he attempted to break into by the way.

“Just go...NOW before I get security” you shouted through the glass door, absolutely shitting yourself as there was in fact no one else in the building apart from you which meant no one around to help deal with the man who was ok the verge of sobbing his heart out. “You heard her mate, get gone before I call the police” you heard a half familiar voice creep up behind you, his breath warm and minty on your neck and the scent of his sweet cologne drifting your way, “fine but I’ll not give up Y/N...I’ll win you back” your mad ex called before stumbling off.

“Oh, thank you...what are you doing here Scott?” you asked surprised, making your way back to your office as he followed, “wanted to get in some more drills in peace, sometimes it like being with a bunch of teens with them lot” he laughed, referring to his teammates to which you couldn’t defend, they were the loudest group of men you’ve ever known. “Yeah I know what you mean, why do you think I’m on overtime, it’s impossible to concentrate with them down the hallway shouting about whatever they can” you giggled back, falling into your chair with a sigh as Scott parked himself on to your desk.

“I never really see you about, where’ve you been hiding McTominay” you said with furrowed eyebrows as he set him gaze to the floor, “you never seem to talk to me, thought you hated me if I’m honest” he shrugged, heartily trying to seem bothered which made you feel awful. “Oh god no I don’t hate you Scott...I just prefer to keep myself to myself, you know? And as for the other lads, I’ve known them for years and it’s hard to keep to you when they’re so outgoing” you grinned, placing a hand on his as he raised his view, staring deep into your eyes as his face lit up. “I mean as long as you don’t have anything against me, how about we start again...it’s nice to meet you Y/N” he smirked as you giggled at his remark, “oh so you know my name do you” as you shook his head, “well...only because that strange fella outside kept saying it every second, he was a dick by the way, no offence”

“None taken, just a crazy ex who can’t seem to get over me...it’s hard to forget a beautiful face like this though” you joked, flicking your hair back as he nodded in agreement, which made things tiny bit awkward. “So...not fancy going out with the boys then?” you broke the silence as he yawned, “I’m shattered to be truthful, will probably just have a drink at home. Fancy joining me?” he asked hopeful as you eagerly nodded, “got nothing else planned tonight expect having a pizza that’s been sat in the freezer for about a month so” you laughed, releasing just how sad your life is at times. “I’m in need of a large vodka and coke after today” you sighed, shoving on your coat and flicking the lights off, “you’re not the only one...better not be a lightweight mind” he joked back with a wink as you playfully nudged him, “oh don’t worry I ain’t McTominay, I could out drink you easy as day” as yous made your way out the building into the cold night in Manchester, the rain pouring down as always 🤍

[gtdanganronpa]

3,5 Kirumi x Kiyo

Prompt: Kirumi and Ryoma switch heights. That's it. Kirumis 3'5.

Beauty, elegance, grace, determination. The ability to be able to complete any request that anyone asked of her. Her face looked smooth, and she had beautiful pastel green orbs for eyes. Her lips weren't too plump, but weren't thin either. A nice shade of pink that matched her skin. She seemed to almost always wear a smile on her face when around others.

The determination the woman had, combined with the beauty and elegance in all of her movements, all compressed into... 3'5.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't just as judgmental as everyone else about the female's height at first. But- he quickly changed that. He knew first hand that you couldn't judge someone by how they look. The female was surprisingly motherly, and often seemed to intimidate the others as well. It was admirable.

"You want me to do what?" Kirumi frowned. It felt wrong. Very wrong.

"...look, we don't like it anymore than you do. But someone's gotta do it. He's admitted to slipping food poisoning into both Shuichi and Himiko's drink." Rantaro crossed his arms, speaking seriously.

"Awe, come on Kirumi." Kaede knelt down, giving her a reassuring smile. By God she hated that. 'Awe, come on Kirumi.' Kneeling down, talking to her as if she were some child. A child that needed to go to school and didn't wanna leave her mommy and daddy. She hated that. So much.

"Don't talk to me that way." Her anger and frustration wasn't visible in her words. It was just plain and simple. She hated it.

"...any one of us could kill." Ryoma mumbled, kicking his feet up on the table. "I don't think some food poisoning is enough to send someone into their room to spy on them." He huffed, seeming incredibly calm. "I'm a murdered. But there's no suspicion on me."

"But you don't have any murderous intent. At least here, right now." Kaede sighed, standing up straight. Insensitive. "Kiyo... has brought up many times about how he himself seems like a killer. And he's brought up many different murder methods he knows. Even if that is how he is at times, we don't know what could happen next. Please- just..." Kaede looked down at Kirumi.

While the taller male was (probably) peacefully asleep in his dorm, everyone had gathered at the dining hall. They wanted Kirumi to spy on him. Sneak into his room. She was picked because of her size no doubt. Either way, she didn't like it. Not one bit.

But... she felt she really had no choice. It was a request, in a way. And she always fulfilled almost every request of her.

It was very simple. The next morning, the tiny female stood beside Kiyo's door, to where when he opened it, he wouldn't see her since she was on the other side of it. It wasn't that hard to sneak into his room. He opened the door, and walked out, clueless to the fact she was there. Before he closed the door, she slipped into his room unnoticed.

"..." the male's room seemed identical to hers, though less tightly and more books, papers, and pencils laying around everywhere. She had the sudden urge to tidy everything up. But, she knew she couldn't.

She sighed. What was she supposed to look for in here, anyways? After glancing in some of the books, a lot of them seemed to be diaries of his travels. Interesting. She didn't read through all of them. She needed something from the here and now.

By now, the others and him should be in the dining hall, just saying that Kirumi wasn't feeling well so wasn't attending. She should have a solid 15 minutes before she'd have to hide again and slip out. A lot of food poison, blunt objects, but overall nothing that was actually lethal to anyone. Huh.

What did the male even do in here all the time? If he spent all his time writing down his experiences, he should have it in a journal somewhere. But there was no pattern to the dates of the journals. They were just scattered everywhere, disorganized. It was driving her crazy. She suddenly heard the door knob turn. What-? How was he back? There's no way it could've been more than 5 minutes.

Kirumi did the first thing that came to her mind and dived under the anthropologist's bed. She fit fine enough. Being small had its benefits, though she'd never imagined she'd have to worry about this. The door opened, then closed. Footsteps. She could see him walking over to his desk, seeming to move them aside. He simply took one out of the seemingly chaotic pile.

How did he just- know where it was? Unknown to Kirumi, there actually was a subtle system and pattern. She'd assumed that they were all chaotically and randomly placed, even though she should've realized Kiyo wasn't the sort to just toss stuff about.

Because of this, Kirumi misplaced certain things when she put journals back. They looked untouched, but once the dates were checked it was obvious they had been moved.

"...hm." The anthropologist let out a light hum. This wasn't his present day journal. This was something from the two years prior November. "....." he frowned. No, he most certainly wouldn't mix up anything like that. He liked to think he had a system and stuck to it. "That's odd..." he murmured.

What was odd? Did she mess up something? Crap...

He sighed. Perhaps... he just misplaced them. Sure, yeah. He quickly realized simply checking the spots where the books would be switched wouldn't work. Oh, wonderful! Now he'd have to reorganize all of them again. How frustrating.

"..." he murmured to himself as he sighed, deciding he should probably start by reorganizing everything. He gathered his books which were obviously weren't in order anymore. The neat chaos Kirumi thought she'd not have to worry about wasn't so chaotic after all. She'd messed it all up.

After realizing just how many were mixed up, though. He seemed to start to get suspicious. He let out a slight chuckle as she saw him lean down taking a bottle of food poisoning in his hands. "..." Kirumi froze. She was holding her breath. There's no possible way he'd know she was there, right? Maybe he thought someone snuck in and out and that was it. Why would he assume anyone was hiding under his bed?

What if he did find out it was her? That she messed up everything and snuck in his room? She knew she spoke of not assuming he'd kill someone because of food poisoning, but she couldn't help but worry herself.

His feet were turned in her direction. No, he didn't know. There's no way. Just calm down. If she didn't, she'd give herself away for sure.

He took a few steps towards the bed, before kneeling down. She watched as he just picked up some journals. Ah... ah... ok... she was safe. She wished she could sigh in relief, but him being right there, she couldn't. She just kept quiet, and kept still. She completely froze up once she saw his bandaged hand reach under the bed. She didn't even notice that some journals had been pushed under with her. He took out one or two, without coming into contact with her.

That was until she was practically poked in the eyes. Even if she didn't help, the fact he seemed to just poke something even though his hand wasn't even on the floor, so it couldn't be a journal, screwed her over entirely. On top of that, she'd jolted, hitting her head. W o w . Very nice.

Kiyo blinked a few times, kneeling down and peeking his head to look under his bed. "...." The small, tiny maid, rubbing her eyes which were watery from being poked. Once her vision cleared, she could see his surprised face staring back at her. Before it seemed his eyes curved in a smile. She couldn't tell what type of smile it was, or what the male was thinking.

"..." he let out a soft chuckle. She wasn't sure how to feel about that. He carefully wrapped his slender fingers around her small arm, pulling her out from under the bed. "..." awe, look at her. He just- he couldn't even be mad at her.

Oh, it was so obvious but so obscure at the same time that the male truly adored the smaller female. He admired every bit of her being. So what if she'd literally snuck into his room to invade his privacy? Lmao who cares lol?

"...may I inquire as to why you're here, exactly?" Well, of course he actually did care about the fact she'd snuck into his room. She messed up his stuff, after all. He wasn't as upset with her, though, as he would be if it were any other human being hiding under there.

  "..." Kirumi couldn't come up with any excuse. She wanted to, she was trying to. She didn't want him to think she would spy on him, and it wasn't out of fear.

  "Let me guess. The others asked you to spy on me, didn't they?" He turned to her. She still wasn't able to read his expression.

  "...yes." She nodded, knowing it was pointless to lie.

  "Well, I suppose the deed is done and there's no point in my getting angry with you about it." He stood up. 2 feet taller than her. "You will help me reorganize all of my journals." It wasn't a question, and it wasn't something Kirumi had a problem with. She messed them up, she'd fix them.

  There were quite a lot, and the male wanted to go through some of them a little, and such. It ended up taking most of the day. Once they finally finished, Kiyo checked all around his room for extra journals. "Well, it seems that's all. Hm?"

  He blinked in surprise. He'd merely turned his back to the female for maybe a minute, and she seemed passed out on the floor. Unknown to him, the female hadn't really been sleeping well, and had been overworking herself for everyone else's sake. So, naturally, she'd pass out. Someone at such a small size shouldn't be overwhelming themselves so much anyways.

  He didn't have her key to her room, and no idea where it would even be. He simply lifted the female up in his arms, and laid her down in his own bed, pulling the blanket over it. She seemed quite comfortable. It was nice to see the female relaxed and asleep. Ah, he probably shouldn't watch. That's weird. He simply went and got ready for bed himself. He normally didn't sleep with a mask on but given the fact there was another person not only in his room but in his bed, he put on a more comfortable cloth mask.

  He sighed as he laid down in the bed, his soft golden eyes resting on the peaceful female. He admired her, greatly. Such elegance, patience, capability, determination, beauty. Perfection. All in a singular being. She really was perfect. "..." he knew his sister was angry with him about how much he truly did care for Kirumi. But he didn't care.

  He frowned her out, closing his eyes, and slowly falling asleep.

[cxmetery-gates]

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS - DARK!TOM HIDDLESTON

CHAPTER ONE: FAKING IT

SUMMARY: Lynn Moore dreads the beginning of her greatest fear: the first day of senior year. WORD COUNT: 2.3k NOTE: Get ready for typical teenager angst. Let’s all bully Lynn. WARNINGS: dark!tom hiddleston, teacher!tom hiddleston

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS MASTERLIST

JUST LIKE EVERY YEAR AROUND the middle of August, my mom tells me the same advice; have a good first day. Of course, most mothers, fathers, or whoever tell their child this, but it's as pointless as a circle. Whoever has a fantastic first day of school? There are new teachers to impress, you're stuck with the same bunch of losers you sit with at lunch, and there are more jerks and morons to pick on you, despite the status quo you fall under. High school is frankly really awful all the way around and there's no way someone can deny or even try to argue that. These are the four years of utter hell and we're all dying to get out. I've stepped through those heavy doors, resembling the gates of hell, on a first day three times now. My anger and hatred have only been fueled rather than dying down. I'm sure nothing will ever change.

"Don't forget--" Mom tries to tell me from the porch in sweats and a maroon t-shirt. Her unnatural dirty blonde hair piled on the top of her head with an old red clip. There are tears welling in her eyes, seeing her only child almost grown up. I have one last year of school and mere months until I'm an adult. For me, it may pass by far too slow, but I bet it's a whole different story for her. In all honesty, it's ridiculous that the woman is so upset and not to mention annoying. I have done this routine twelve times now, for Christ sake, she should get a grip on herself by now. I don't mean to belittle my mother but one of her greatest achievements is being able to replicate every single stereotype women have, including having no control over her emotions. An outsider looking in may say I'm a bit to harsh. All I can say to that is no one has loved with her for almost eighteen years like I have.

"I got it!" I yell against the wind as it smacks my face while I walk across the grass. "Christ on a bike," I curse tossing my messy light brown hair from my field of vision.

The bus would take another five minutes to get the corner, but I'd like to not look stupid on my first day by running to catch up with the metal rectangle of devilry Peter Parker style. Well, maybe it would turn into an interesting story at the least. Spiderman is my favorite superhero of all time after all. Despite this, I only allow an angry face to part my path. It's totally fake but faking it is the only way to survive.

Down at the intersection, there are already kids waiting. I think it's safe to assume that all of the puberty-sicken teenagers are freshmen or sophomores since most junior and seniors are still asleep at this early hour, knowing the good majority are able to drive. I take a good look at all of them. The fact that they find throwing bits of gravel at squirrels or birds makes me want to go over and smack them upside the head. That thought crosses my mind a lot. The world is so full of morons; it's hard to pick out which ones are actually tolerable. They're almost as bad as kids in letterman jackets with expensive sports cars. Those fuckers are the worst. All they care about is their ego and how much money they can wave around coming right from mommy and daddy's wallet.

Take the kid in the striped shirt tucked into his hand-me-down jeans. He looks like a nice kid; after all, he's got nothing to brag about. His parents are probably office workers or maybe nothing too difficult. Nothing too important. That's all we are, right? I mean, once we're dead and gone. No one is gonna care what car you drove or what brand your plain white shirt is. People who think they're hotshots or something special are the real morons.

Besides, who thinks it's cool to spend thirty bucks on a t-shirt?

An old car passes, a teenage girl in my grade sits in the driver's seat. I sort of duck out of the way. Not James Bond-like, but I move my already shitty hair in front of my face as if it's going to help hide my identity. The chick probably didn't even see me. I watch the car drive on, kinda imagining what sort of car I would drive once I get one. I suppose I would have to learn first. I personally am not a fan of getting behind the wheel. Hell, I can't even ride a bike without falling over. I'd rather move to a large city and order cabs to get me places. They seem more convenient and, if you get in a wreck, it's not your fault and it's not your money coming out of pocket. No car equals more money. Then again, no car also is equivalent to no freedom and taxis and Uber's can get expensive. It seems like each idea is flawed these days.

Upon scanning the area again— this time ignoring the idiots— I notice only one person who seems excited out of the group. Her dark brown hair and dark skin contrast to the majority of our town, including those waiting nearby. Her curled hair bounces with each stride she takes, happier than the step prior.

Some say it's strange that the girl and I are such good friends. You don't see God and Satan going out and having coffee every weekend or anything.

"What's got you in a good mood?" I question as I readjust my dark blue shirt underneath the flannel. Flannels are my favorite personal quirk. I own at least fifty, most being cool or dark colors. I don't have an obsession; just an interest that I care way too much about. Flannels are to Lynn Moore as controversy is to famous influencers. Looking back up, my eyebrow is still raised. I'm shocked to see her here, assuming her parents would have given her a lift. After a second, it dawned on me that this, riding the bus to school, was her punishment for getting into an accident she won't take responsibility for.

Posting memes and vines references are fun and all, but doing it while going 60 down a highway isn't the smartest. Forgive me for not following the strict millennial handbook but I don't actually want to die nor do I want my friends to.

My best friend, Ellie Graves, gives a small glare. "Why does it always seem like you're on your period?" I shrug my shoulders, and played with the wire choker I always wore. As my fingers slip underneath the necklace, it is evident how to lose it has gotten since I bought it a few months ago. I make a mental note to take a quick trip to the shopping side of the internet sometime soon.

I click my tongue before answering. "Probably because I'm closer to hell than you are," I say, referring to my obvious lack of height. I'm only five feet and just barely three inches off the ground while Ellie is at least five feet and seven inches. Personally I think we would make a cute couple given our attitudes and the extremities of our heights, except for the fact that dearest Ellie is not interested in people other than men. What a party pooper. For me, anyway. "But lets do our best to not reinforce stereotypes," I say referring to her comment.

She nods her head. "Yes, mother." I snort at her sass, leaning my body weight onto my right leg. "But hey! We have one year left! That's something to be excited about, am I right?"

Yes, I would say she is right. Freshmen, sophomore, and the dragged out junior year have come and passed, full of useless information and embarrassing memories with it. It's mostly embarrassing if I have to be honest. School isn't my thing, however falling up and down the main set of stairs apparently is. Who knew?

"Yeah, I suppose so. At least we're considered adults now," I reply trying to find some positive about the situation.

Ellie begins to lightly laugh, "True. That's kinda a scary thought, though." Her body shudders, either because a breeze just blew passed or out of what she just said.

The age of freedom is so close, I can nearly touch it. Despite my longing to finally buy a lottery ticket and spray paint, the fear of adulthood gnaws at the back of my mind. With eighteen comes responsibility, something I lack to a high degree. I muse the idea of getting a degree of irresponsibility. However, I don't think such diploma could help me get into a creative writing career.

I make a thinking face and bring my shoulders to my ears preparing for an exaggerated response. "Well, you aren't wrong," I reply in a forced high pitch noise, catching the attention of the guys. Now I notice they are all matching in basketball shorts and a jacket. Men's fashion, ladies and gents. Ellie chuckles at my utter dorkiness while I continue to make some weird face I'm sure she will get a picture of sometime within the next few seconds.

It's crazy how time is able to fly. Just last week, so it seems, the outgoing, beaming chick I have as a best friend and I were in third grade, the year I moved to a new house, a different school, and a very different town. Although my eight-year-old-self hated it at the time, I'm glad I left the northern state of Maine, all the way across to the midwest. That is if you consider southern Missouri part of the midwest. If I hadn't, who would have the privilege of being my first smack in the face? Or first sleepover (with an actual girl)? Who knows, and I honestly wouldn't like to. Ellie's my best friend; I would be dead if she didn't have my back. And I'm honestly positive she would say the same about her tiny best pal.

Little time passes after the picture was indeed taken and posted on Elle's Snapchat before an ugly shade of yellowish-orange appears entering the neighborhood. Ellie is practically fidgeting, fighting the urge to run up the bus even if it is some distance away. My eyes roll trying to not say anything to kill her spirit but I do let out an accidental groan as its loud hum draws nearer. The bus came to a screeching halt and I already want to turn on my heel and head home. When I step on, I notice there is a new driver this year. After Ellie got her license and could legally drive me around, I never bothered with the bus unless I needed space or she was busy, which was hardly ever. Ellie and I mostly spend our time together with our group of friends. Despite this, I still easily took notice of a different person in the seat. Instead of a balding old man with a face like alligator skin, a woman sat in the brown leather seat and looks roughly in her forties. She, like all of us except for Ellie, looks tired but fakes a smile anyways. The same rules apply; middle school and junior high in the front and high school in the back. It seems as if sitting in the back always made you cool of some sort. Every time a kid got away with it in middle school, he or she was automatically the bad kid, the cool kid, or the king of the bus. God, how stupid is that theory? These thoughts remind me how annoying and stupid we all were at ten and eleven years old. I'm sure if I had a duplicate of myself at that age, I'd shoot either one of us to cease me from the utter pain.

Instead of going all the way to the back, I turn to sit in the seat half way down the aisle while plunging in an earbud, leaving one open to listen to Ellie. I instantly scroll through an select a playlist that mixes rock, punk, and even some emo. Given today being my last first day, I figured early morning jams would be appropriate to get me pumped up even though I tend to listen to this genre quite often as of lately. I enjoy the heavy guitar and double bass pedal and lyrics I can either relate to or wonder who hurt the singer so bad. Needless to say, I'm definitely more of a rock person however there's still a lot of other types of music on my device, including orchestra and folk or indie. I don't like to limit what I listen to; whatever makes me feel good ends up on my phone. Simple as that.

"So, Lynn," Ellie says sliding in right next to me. I look in her direction, which was to my right, waiting for her to respond. She looks at me, but nothing came out of her mouth. Slowly, I arch a brow. Still, there was nothing. "I had nothing to say, I just wanted your attention." Ellie gave a stupid grin while I glare kindly at her if there is such a thing.

My head shakes and I reach out to pat her cheek, "You, my darling, are an absolute dumbass."

I feel her grin grow against my hand since I haven't moved it yet. "Not as big as you, though." I can't argue; she has a point.

As the bus lunches forwards, I look out the window and watch the world go by. Something settles in my gut about then, the feeling both familiar and foreign. I can't tell what it is, but as I watch the clouds roll in over the sun and birds flying through the sky, I only hope my last year of high school will be memorable.

[beware-of-you-98]

JENNIFER👏JAREAU👏DESERVED👏BETTER👏

✨it’s rant time✨

buckle up lads bc it’s gonna be a doozy 

tw// suicide mention, tw// canon typical cm violence, tw// je— 🤢 jei—🤢🤢 i can’t even fucking say it 🤢🤢🤢 je*d

so yesterday i was watching criminal minds again (wow shocker) again for the first time in like,,,, 3 months??? [that’s not important] on weTV (which was just so happening to air reruns from season 3) and there was one thing that really stuck out to me that i didn’t necessarily think about much until i went into work today

season 3, episode 15 “a higher power” shows the team going up to pittsburgh to investigate a spike in suicides rates in the community under the suspicion that it’s the work of a serial killer (okay, cool, normal fucked up every day BAU life, nothing really sus there)

but what really kinda just hit me out of the blue today was just.... how unaffected jj was by the whole case in general

the team is maybe at most, a few hours away from her hometown, with the main topic of the case being surrounded by multiple suicides and taking her past into consideration (she’s literally a stone’s throw away from her hometown where she lost her sister to suicide) and yet she just.... remains unbothered... she never toys with the necklace around her neck or ever seems uncomfortable despite this case hitting way too close to home

i guess just rewatching this episode really just... opened my eyes into how underdeveloped jj was character wise for a really long time (i mean really we know more about gideon and elle in season 4 than we do jj and they had been gone for at least a season and a half at this point)

i mean.... i guess in in heat we get... something??? when we find out that she’s been seeing will for nearly a year?? cool i guess??? and we do get an episode named after her but really it doesn’t tell us much about her background or dive more into her story other than “oh strauss is forcing me to leave that sucks” but it doesn’t really go much into detail about anything beyond that

oh hotch handpicked her to join the unit but i don’t think it ever gets any deeper than that (when it should have!!!!??!!) [correct me if i’m wrong]]

by season 5 we have a detailed idea about every other character on the team (with the only exception possibly being garcia but i digress)

we know hotch has a younger brother that looks absolutely nothing like him and said brother wants to be a chef

we know rossi came back to the bau because of a cold case that’s gone unsolved for twenty years

we know every year, morgan goes home for his birthday and visits the grave of the john doe he found when he was a teenager

we know way too much about reid and his issues jesus christ

fucking hell we even know about emily’s dark past, how much it still haunts her even before we get the ian doyle arc

even ashley seaver has a deeper storyline than jj at this point like ffs

jj.... well..... she has that boyfriend down in louisiana ig?????

and that’s what becomes annoying

jj’s character really isn’t developed past more than i have a boyfriend and i’m pregnant up until maybe, and that’s a really generous maybe, the episode will gets held hostage at a bank and damn near gets himself killed (we see her with henry.... again, i’m being very generous here)

really, we don’t see jj get any sort of deep development the rest of the team has been getting until 200

i loved seeing her finally get some depth, for her character to finally be treated as if she’s an important asset rather than a pretty face that deals with media

she becomes a character we can sympathize with!!! she has issues and fears and traumas!!! finally!!!

and then they keep expanding on her as the seasons continue!!! like yes!!! this is what i wanted from the beginning!!! jj deserved this!!!

and then

it all comes crashing and burning into a pile of shit with five words

five

words

you know the words so i really don’t have to type them out and become unnecessarily angry

but wtf

all that character development they had spent building up over the years, after finally starting to get the ball rolling to making jj a solid character the writers decided “,,,,,,let’s just boil her down romantic feelings she kept hidden for....reid.” (of all people????? confusion)

the biggest sigh i just let out

first of all, that’s such an overdone trope in hollywood and in modern times we’re sick of it we need way more flavor than that

second of all it just..... ruins jj’s character right there on the spot

a majority (maybe i’m just generalizing) but most people in the fandom are reid stans and of COURSE they’re going to be absolutely livid at that bitch jennifer jareau pulling that card on their favorite little twink

it makes her look like a bitch

and it literally makes no sense whatsoever

they went on one “date” once in season 1 and it’s never mentioned again until jj confides to emily in the bathroom in the first episode of season 14

they have about as much romantic chemistry as two planks of wood

what was so wrong with jj and reid being best friends/having a sibling like relationship (which would have been a big deal for jj!!! to let someone that close again!!!! but no!!!!!!! jj is woman!!!!!! reid is man!!!! they must have romantic chemistry!!!!!! gross)

why did jj have to have hidden romantic feelings for reid

please tell me why that was a thing

and then the writers (probably sensing that they in fact fucked up big time) just kinda.... brush it off in 15

“u were my first love” reid: “oh okay (is sad for the duration of the season)”

it doesn’t fix what happened

it doesn’t change what happened

jj still looks like a huge bitch to a majority of the fandom

and it was overall a completely useless and pointless arc that just set out to completely ruin jj and it’s so infuriating

what was the reason

what was the reason

why u gotta do it to her like that writers

i’m sad jj deserved so much better than what those stinky writers did to her

tldr: jj deserved better

[innitmarvellous]

Uh...I mentioned before that I was writing sort of a little Mystrade fanfic. I guess it's not really good, so I don't know about posting it on AO3 or elsewhere. But I would still like to know what others think, so...dear people of Tumblr, I would be really happy if you could tell me your opinion of my writing 😊 (Please note that English isn't my first language, hence the probably quite wonky grammar)

And now...well, let's just start 🤔

-

DI Greg Lestrade sat at his desk in his Scotland Yard office. It was just another one of these dreary days at work. Lots of files and papers were piling up on his desk, but he didn’t look at any of them. Instead of working he just stared out of the window, deeply lost in thoughts. A few weeks had passed since the incident at Sherrinford. And even though life followed its normal course again - well, more or less - he just couldn’t help but think of the events. And more specifically, he couldn’t stop thinking of what happened to Mycroft Holmes back there. Well, to be entirely honest, it had started way before the incident: he often caught himself thinking of Sherlock’s older brother. The two of them had met quite a few times over the last years - mostly because of Sherlock or some work-related things, so he knew Mycroft quite well by now. But still...Greg had sometimes wondered why Mycroft took up a really big part of his thoughts. And it just seemed to get worse every day. But it wasn’t until shortly before the Sherrinford incident that Greg finally realized something and the realization hit him like a ton of bricks: he had developed feelings for the other man. He wasn’t sure how or when that happened - but then again, he rather wondered by then why he didn’t notice his feelings earlier because everything seemed quite natural to him after he realized it. But even after this, he kept his feelings to himself. He had no idea how to bring up the subject in one of their few conversations. And he didn’t expect Mycroft to reciprocate his feelings anyway.

But then Sherrinford happened and Sherlock had asked Greg to take care of his brother. Of course he hadn’t hesitated a moment when asked and he and Mycroft had talked quite a few times right after the incident. Greg noticed quickly that even though Sherlock didn’t seem to care that much about his brother, he was right about one thing: Mycroft really wasn’t as strong as he thought he was. He rarely ever showed many emotions and even less weaknesses. But he was clearly shaken up after the past events. Greg was glad he could be there for Mycroft and they had even gotten relatively close, but at the same time he still couldn’t help but wish for more. Sometimes Mycroft looked really sad and weary, but only when he thought Greg wouldn’t notice anything. At such occasions Greg just really wanted to hug and comfort him, but he never found the courage to do so. Instead he just tried to enjoy their shared time and the knowledge that he was now one of the people closest to Mycroft. Whatever much that would mean with someone who was so distant as the older Holmes brother. Anyway, over the course of the last weeks their meetings became less frequent and everything slowly went back to how it was before. And Greg wasn’t sure whether he should be happy about that.

The phone rang and Greg snapped back into reality. The call was just something related to a case which he recently managed to solve, and so he continued his train of thought. They last met two weeks ago, which felt like an eternity to him. He could give Mycroft a call again, but when they last met the other man had made it quite clear that he felt alright again and didn’t need Greg’s help anymore. Of course he hadn’t worded it like exactly that, but Greg had got the message. And of course Mycroft was lying - after everything what he had to endure in the past and what happened to him just recently there was just no way that he was alright or even fine. Talking about it was painful though and so Mycroft always preferred to keep his thoughts about the matter to himself, a thought Greg could understand really well. Still...he decided that he would probably hate himself forever if the didn’t take one more chance. And so he grabbed his phone and called Mycroft.

Just two hours later Greg heard a knock on his office door and Mycroft Holmes entered the room. He gave a short greeting and came straight to the point. “Gregory, I think I made myself quite clear at our last meeting. I’m thankful for your support on this matter, but I’m really quite fine - and I always was. And you don’t need to feel obliged to meet up with me just because Sherlock told you so.” Greg missed the opportunity to say that he genuinely wanted to help, not because he felt obliged to do so. And he wasn't surprised that Mycroft knew that Sherlock had asked Greg to look after him, even though he never told him. After all this time, he got kind of used to Mycroft just knowing things.

"Be that as it may, you are here now though." Greg knew that Mycroft still tensed up at the mention of Sherrinford or especially the name of his sister Eurus. And it wasn't entirely fair, but Greg has used this knowledge to his benefit. He just knew that Mycroft would come to his office if he casually dropped this words, but he felt more that a bit of guilt over that. He suspected that - despite whatever else he might claim - Mycroft still felt uneasy about having to rewrite Sherlock's memories and lying to their parents about what happened to Eurus. The events had strained the relationship between Mycroft and his parents even more than it already was before. And once more Greg wished that he could actually do something to help the man he fell in love with.

"Yes, I obviously am, though I really shouldn't have come here and I can't stay long. I shouldn't even have left the office with the things currently going on in the world... Oh, please don't ask me for more details or you might get a visit from...let's just say, some people which are very good at their job." Greg flinched a bit at this threat which kind of sounded like an ironic remark, but could prove only too true.

"I know, I know. And I know you're doing a really important job for our country. But, you know...your own matters are important too. Look at it this way: you wouldn't want your private problems to have a negative influence on your ability to do your job, don't you?"

That was apparently a quite amusing notion to Mycroft, as he smiled sardonically. "Please Gregory, even you should know that I would never allow that to happen. And honestly, you can't compare a single person's matters to the security of an entire nation." As if Greg didn't know that. 'But to me, your problems might just be more important than the country...,' he thought.

"So...talking about Sherlock, did you meet him recently?"

Mycroft sighed. "Did you really want me to meet you here just to ask me about Sherlock? No, I didn't. I'll contact him once I've got a case for him."

"So you are avoiding him. Are you worried that he might be angry at you? I mean, the events must have taken a toll on him too. But don't you think that he'll understand why you had to alter his memories and all that?"

"I am not avoiding him, there was just no need for us to meet. But you can be assured that I am still keeping an eye on him, in case he might do something...stupid yet again, if that's your concern. ... Gregory, I'm honestly starting to think that our conversation right now is pretty pointless."

"Oh, I don't think it's pointless. But you know...you’re always looking after your brother, but I wonder... Has anyone ever looked after you?”

And with that, Greg must have hit a nerve. Even though he said those last two sentences more to himself it was obvious that Mycroft must have heard him just fine. Greg was really sure that the other man just flinched for a bit, but he wasn’t entirely sure. It was quite difficult to tell with Mycroft - he was called the ‘Iceman’ for a reason after all. He was quite relieved that at least he didn't seem angry. He wouldn't honestly want to imagine an angry Mycroft. (Or rather, the image wasn't that bad, he thought...just not in this serious situation.) And he would have definitely regretted his words if they would mean that Mycroft wouldn't want to talk to him anymore.

After a few moments of almost eerie silence, Mycroft rose from the chair and apparently wanted to leave. So he decided to deliberately ignore the remark, after all. "Well, if that was all you wanted to talk about...I told you I don't have much time."

‘Yeah, mostly because you prefer to bury yourself in your work so you don’t need to think about certain things,' was what Greg thought, but he swallowed down the response. Instead, he got up too. “Oh yeah, right. Just let me show you out.”

As the two of them had just entered the lift of the office building, Greg cleared his throat. “Uh...well, even though you say you don’t need my help with this anymore...would it be alright if we meet up from time to time anyway? We don't need to talk about...this issue, but we could just, uh, hang out together?” He kinda felt like a coward because it took him a surprising amount of courage just to say these words and he feared he might have sounded really dumb. And he didn’t even know why, but one thing he knew for sure: that he just didn’t want to miss this chance. But to be honest, he didn't expect a positive answer.

Mycroft looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a weird look in his eyes. Once again Greg was wondering if he was right, but...he could have sworn that Mycroft’s expression almost seemed like he was happy about Greg’s question for a moment. “My schedule is quite packed as usual, but I think I could spare some time in the evenings. You could accompany me to a restaurant, if that is fine with you?”

“Oh yes, yes, that’s totally fine! Just give me a call and we figure out something, alright?”

“I will, Gregory. And now please excuse me, I really have to leave. Goodbye.”

Greg looked after Mycroft as he got into the car which waited in front of the building. He couldn’t help but grin because of what just happened. 'I guess that means he must have sort of enjoyed my company after all. He never meets up with people who annoy him outside of work. And that means there's still a chance for me to tell him one day.'

And so they would meet up at a restaurant - and he was sure Mycroft would choose a quite classy, expensive restaurant, of course. “I should start saving up some money, or else I won’t be able to order anything," he said to himself with a smirk as he started going back upstairs to his office. And he thought: maybe that day wasn’t so bad after all.