You - my hunger, my ruin

You wake up on a Tuesday morning and something feels out of place. Your limbs are all still attached to your body, you don't feel the edges of sickness coming in or a tug of a migraine at your temples. Your room remains unchanged, bathed in a golden light of the early morning. You've tossed and turned in your sleep, but that's not it.

Your fight with Daeron is still fresh in your mind. A missed date that's become a common occurance. Not that it being common should make you less frustrated. You have started explaining the way it had made you feel calmly and ultimately broke out into yelling because he had nothing to offer but excuses and groveling. As if feeling guilty would change the way he had acted and make everything okay again.

The fight eats away at you, as all fights with Daeron do. Leaves you aching for the moments you've secretly titled 'the good times'. Because when it's good, it's really good.

You resting your head against his lap while his cold, slightly trembling hands ran through your hair and he read to you in that dry, calm voice with sunlight streaming in through the windows and tea steaming on the coffee table in mismatched mugs.

Slow-dancing in the living room after cooking dinner - when he puts on some niche, underground vinyl you can't even pronounce the name of 'taste, angel girl, this is just me having taste, i'll teach you-' - and spins you around before pressing your temple against his heart and laying soft kisses onto the crown of your head like he's worshipping.

Getting takeaway at 3am and driving around town, someplace far away until the city that never sleeps turns to industrial buildings who beget the tall greenery as factories slowly bleed into suburbs. Him singing loudly and very off-key to the radio, feeding you fries and laughing when he smears ketchup on your face.

Him bending you over the kitchen counter in a bout of rare passion and need; cold marble digging into the bones of your hips. Panting into your neck, the syllables of your name raw, the little 'i need you", "let me in, let me in, please, angel-" broken and needy, hips stuttering when you clench around him, pulling his cock deeper inside, and hands holding on tightly - like he can't hold enough of you in them.

You don't know when the next 'good times' will come. Sometimes it takes days, sometimes it drags into long, gnawing weeks. Mostly they follow after him getting sober enough to sit with his actions for a longer time. It's what makes you hold out on him. Because Daeron's not some bad habit you can quit with iron will or hypno therapy. Daeron is Daeron and he is as kind and loving as he is sharp and cruel. He's both those things and you've learned you can't have one without the other following. A body and its shadow.

You do know that it will get better, though. That's not what's different about you today. You know the routine, the little wash and dry cycle you both follow. This fight was far from the worst one. So what's different?

What's different?

The question, insistent and demanding, follows you through your morning routine. It tugs at you in the shower and lingers when you brush your teeth. It pokes while you cook your breakfast and yanks while you get dressed.

You check your phone while sipping your coffee and frown. The plane tickets you have booked for a city break with your friends have been cancelled and refunded without further explanation. You text the groupchat, contact the booking agent and grow increasingly weary throghout the day when they don't text back.

Your friends tell you not to worry over it, chalk it up to a simple misunderstanding. They've already taken days off of work, so the tickets get re-booked. Each time you try to buy one, you get a 'transaction failed' notice, even if you know your account balance is sufficient. You check again just to make sure.

When you try to purchase the ticket again, the site crashes completely and your browser gives a helpful pointer that the session has expired.

You're pacing around Daeron's apartment and he's watching you move around in just his shirt with half-lidded eyes and a lazy half-smile. The 'good times' have made their way to you earlier than expected, just a couple of days after the fact. Partly because Daeron took you out on a date that was much better than the one he had cancelled - some place you mentioned earlier and completely forgot, partly because you were frustrated and frustrations needed an outlet that wasn't you smashing things into the wall like a grumpy teenage boy.

The sex didn't help. It was great, as it always was during the 'good times', and it drew your mind away from your thoughts for a moment. Only for them to smack you right back in the head as soon as the high of the orgasm faded.

"I'm cursed. I disrespected some higher being by accident and now I'm paying the price." You tell him, rounding the corner of his living room table for the hundreth time.

"No such thing as being cursed. Have you walked under any ladders lately? Did a cat happen to cross your road and its fur just so happened to be black?" Daeron teases, all but melting into the couch.

"Haha." You respond dryly, "I'm being serious."

"For real?"

"For real."

Daeron frowns a little, works over his words. You watch him back tens of biting little comments that surface in his head. Then, he sits up and lifts his arm, offering a perfect spot to settle into.

"Come here." Daeron hums, "Come here, I can't focus with you pacing like a rabbit high on coke. Come, we'll brainstorm against the curse that plagues you so."

You hesitate only for a moment before sitting down on the couch, laying your head onto his chest, hands settling at his waist. He's warm for once, and his heartbeat thrums steady underneath your temple. His long, lithe arm wraps around your frame and his body relaxes into yours.

"Tell me from the start." Daeron urges softly.

"What's the start?"

"Whatever feels like the start."

You swallow and work over your words. Everything that's been heavy on your mind feels hard to voice, almost silly. But Daeron has never judged you for your fears - the little edges of anxiety that make you, you. Once you start, it all but pours out of you.

"You know the trip me and my friends had planned? The city break? Yeah. Yeah, all the tickets were okay and only mine got cancelled. I tried to re-book multiple times. Then Jenna tried to re-book for me and it didn't work. And I couldn't get in touch with the booking agent, nor the airline. And the trip came and went and I- I thought, okay, surely this was just a one time thing. There'll be other trips."

Daeron hums, careful hand running over your hair, pressing you closer to him, assuring that he's listening.

"I have been missing my trains and buses by moments. My car fucking broke down in the middle of the road while I was driving out for that job interview in the next city over, and I couldn't make it. The job I did have lined up just went and cancelled. Said they selected another candidate and would alert me if another opportunity came up." Your hands move while you speak, as if that would make your frustration more logical.

Daeron notes that you don't even sound annoyed, or angry. Just tired. It's understandable. He presses a kiss against the crown of your head. Waits a while until he's sure you're done speaking. Squeezes your shoulders in a way that always makes your body settle easier against his.

"It sounds to me like you're just having an awful streak of bad luck, angel." Another kiss, this one to your temple, "The buses and trains are always late or early, that feeling's just amplified by you already being down. But I'm sorry to hear about the other stuff. I know you were looking forward to your trip and the job."

Daeron watches the way your nose scrunches in the way it does when you're trying not to cry. Just the slightest movement of it, like you're a small animal sensing danger. He's seen it often enough on you to recognize it. You do it when the world feels too heavy and when you've had a long week. You do it most often when you come over and find him already high or drunk, his words having gained that slight garbled or too-fast quality depending on the damage he's chosen to deal to his body that day that you immediately clock. Daeron squeezes you tighter to him.

"I'm sure that it will pass soon, yeah? Just a no-good week."

You burrow into his shirt and inhale deeply. Your voice is barely audible when you speak.

"Yeah."

You and Daeron take a trip to the seaside town a few hours away from the city. The 'good times' have stretched into days, which turned into weeks which followed into the territory where you have stopped counting and just leaned into the feeling of brittle comfort.

He's trying. You know he's always trying but this time it seems sharper/ He's sharper and he only drinks as much as you do. You share an occasional joint and that's the extent of his drug use. Somewhere deep in the cement jungle of the city, his dealer is cursing his own streak of bad luck.

Perhaps it's because you've been down and the feeling of being needed this desperately made him cling for once, perhaps it's a whole another reason that Daeron refuses to name and you don't push him to.

All you know right now is the warm, white sand beneath your feet, the wind running over your hair and the sun warming your skin. You watch Daeron over the rim of your sunglasses when he comes back from the sea. His pale skin is glitsening with little crystalline droplets and his hair clings to his face, made wilder by the saltwater. You rarely get to admire his body being out in the open, so exposed. The wide line of his shoulders, the tapering of his slightly defined waist, the long line of his arms where there's clusters of fine, golden hair. The muscular, lithe quality of his legs that would make models quake in their heels.

Your eyes stay the longest on the place beneath his belly button where the hair is darker, coarser and the patch of it widens slightly where it disappears beneath his dark swimming trunks.

"My eyes are up here, you know." Daeron teases with an easy lilt, "I feel very objectified, angel girl."

"You'll live." You retort, pushing your sunglasses back up the bridge of your nose, "Re-apply your sunscreen or your pale ass will burn to a crisp."

Daeron snorts and makes the path to your blanket, plopping down. You end up putting the sunscreen on him yourself, hands wandering. The day stretches and seems frozen in-time. You watch the beach empty as the sun dips lower in the sky and watch the sunset, which Daeron regards as 'extremely corny, really' and end up fucking beneath the stars once the beach becomes empty. Your skin; sweaty, salty and still lingering with traces of sunscreen, sticks together and Daeron's laughs and quips are swallowed by your lips.

The day, with all the moments remains tucked close to your heart, somewhere deep beneath the ribs; safe. Something you'd like to keep, somewhere you'd like to stay if given the choice. Daeron complains of sand clinging to places it shouldn't cling when you make the drive home.

The streak of bad luck keeps following. Each time you have a trip planned, a job offer on a table, a brief moment where you're finally relieved about something, it comes back to bite you.

A friend suddenly falling ill with nobody there to take care of them. Natural disasters delaying departure until it gets cancelled. The new apartment you were excited about getting leased to somebody else. The company that had offered a nice, cushy job going bankrupt despite years of outstanding performance. You lose your passport somewhere and the making of the new one takes ages and in the midst of it all, you feel like what you're really losing is your fucking mind.

The 'good times' come to a halting end. Daeron doesn't deal well with sadness or any emotion that is beyond his range of comfort. He withdraws - slowly, but surely. Hugs looser, dates rarer, pills back in his scheduled programing. Perhaps he's afraid of being in the vicinity of the ground zero your life has become or perhaps he's leaving because that's all he knows to do when things become more complicated than he can try handling. He becomes the second man - the sharp and the cruel - that you know him to be and for once, you don't feel like forcing him to reconsider.

The breakup comes on a Friday that's no different than the many Fridays that have come before it. The sun is dipping below the horizon and he turns on the TV to replace the space where a conversation should be. You shift in his loose side-hug and tell him that you don't think that things are working anymore. He stays silent a while, then agrees. You gather what little traces of your existence you have at his apartment - a chipped mug, a stray pair of shorts, a book half-read - and leave the next morning. The final step that your relationship had been burning down into is mutual and neither of you calls after.

A fresh start will do you good. That's what all the self-help books and mental health podcasts preach. Perhaps the bad luck was fate telling you to break from the stagnation your life had become. Neat little shelves of the 'good times' and the 'bad times' and centering your whole orbit around it.

The new apartment is nice. Bigger than your last one - spacious and with an open floor plan. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of your new city bustling below and the bedroom is just small enough to not feel the abscence of another body that should occopy it.

Weeks pass and you settle. The new job is nice and the coworkers friendly. You make acquintances easily and grow comfortable with the routine of exploring the new space around you. You dip into coffee shops and order something that's completely different from what you usually have. You attend a jazz concert in some sensual, dimly-lit bar and allow a stranger to buy you a drink. You wander the park and finish the half-read book while stealing glances at the owner playing with his golden retriever.

There's comfort in being new to a place and nobody knowing your name or your past. Luggage is so much easier to carry when it's just the one you brought with you on the plane. Time passes slowly and then it seems to run away from you. Instead of the labeled times, you have days that are not inherintly good or inherintly bad - just regular human working through life with a few regular mishaps.

You start thinking that you really were being silly in the belief of some curse being cast on you. Grow cozy in the life you've carved out for yourself. Think about texting Daeron when the bedroom proves to be not small enough and ultimately decide against it.

There's no such things as curses and you are not cursed. You're a regular person with regular troubles and regular heartaches. You fail and you get up and you fail again.

And you watch the firemen extinguish the fire that had swallowed your apartment building until there's nothing but embers and ghosts of what could've been left on a completely regular Monday.

Daeron welcomess you back into his apartment. The scent of the airplane salon clings to your skin the same way sorrow clings to your face. You have not spoken in months and he does not know what to do with his hands.

The make-up sex is mediocre at best and embarassing on his end at worst. Too much tongue in his kisses, too little warmth at his fingertips. He's forgotten the ritual of loving your body and all the little places he had mapped out by heart.

He's glad you're back. He's missed you a little in the moments when he put on a vinyl he's been avoiding by accident and missed you a lot when he sat down at his kitchen table to eat dinner after work and there was no one there to chatter away about their day and drown out the thoughts plaguing his mind.

He's also sad. He loved you, of course he did - more than anything else in this god forsaken world, more than drugs, more than alcohol, more than self-pity. But he was hoping that you'd find something better. It brought him no pleasure to imagine you in somebody else's arms, but each night before bed he'd wish to some higher power above that that someone would be kind. That they'd listen, really listen, that they'd know how to hold you and what books you liked, how you took your coffee and how you needed to go to some large body of water - any would do - when you were feeling down. Mostly he hoped that they'd know how to read the little scrunch of your nose and would do anything to prevent it from happening at all.

But you're back in his bed, back to him and he's never claimed to not be a selfish man. If it's a curse you claim brought you back, then he must thank that curse for being his blessing.

Daeron watches the rise and fall of your chest, the way your face draws into relaxation when sleep pulls you under. His fingers play with yours reverently, still not believing that you're real; that you're back to him. He spends hours trying to read all the little changes your time apart had bid you and finds none on the surface.

Daeron sighs and climbs out of the bed, wanting to grab a glass of water. Something digs into his foot and he bites back an undignified yelp. A low curse follows and he bends down to pick up the offending object. The wishing willow branch glistens a dark brown under the low light streaming in through the curtains.

I wish she could never leave.

Daeron stands frozen in place. His blood seems to grow cold in his veins and the sound of your soft breathing gets drowned out by the ringing in his ears.

"And you've grown sharp." Daeron doesn't miss a beat, "It suits you, really. Like watching a baby chick take flight. I almost wish Valarr did not take you away."

Your eyebrows furrow, fingers twitching just the slightest at your side.

"What are you talking about? You requested the change."

"It's sweet," Daeron muses, reaching around you to grab his mug. You notice the tiny dragons drawn on it by a kid's hand, "You try so hard to fit into this world, but some things you have not yet become corrupt enough to understand." the cup lifts to his lips, but he doesn't take a sip, "For your own sake and for very selfish reasons that are my own, I hope you never do."

Daeron turns away from you and walks towards the exit of your floor. Like he hadn't just become ground zero for the explosion overtaking your mind. Like complicated pieces that were hidden before have not just slid into place to form a puzzle you had no wish to build. You hear the gavel thud against wood.

"Daeron." You call out, just as he's turning the handle. He stops, looks over his shoulder. "You never told me what you were doing on this floor."

"I simply wished to see you. Is that not reason enough?" He flashes you an easy grin that means so much more than his words offer. Daeron doesn't linger long enough for you to ask him to elaborate. His tall, slouched silhouette disappears behind the door and you're left on Valarr's floor alone.

“You bought me out like a prize horse. Like cattle. Like a beautiful, intricate armchair you put into a corner of the room for guests to see." You state, calmly. Your words are already sharp, your tone has no need to match them. Valarr would read that as weakness, Valarr would dig deep into that point like a dog burying its teeth into the nape of prey.

To his credit, Valarr doesn't flinch when it's the first thing he hears from you after coming into his office and setting his things down. Desktop, documents, travel mug full of coffee, carefully arranged pens. Everything in its own place.

What you're not aware of is the fact that Valarr knew that you would pick a fight as soon as he stepped into the room. Could feel it in the air, see it in the way your back was coiled much too tightly and your shoulders squared. Usually, your work days consist of barely conversation; work above all. Perhaps the talk about emotions and mourning you had yesterday had left some nerves ra and exposed. For that, he could take the blame.

"it wasn’t like that." Valarr dismisses. All of your thoughts diminished into one sentence of his belief. Because in his eyes, what he believes is the universal truth.

It’s not strange, nor unexpected - the world has always kneeled for him - constructed in a way that would spin its axis around his orbit.

"What was it like, then?" You challenge, knowing that it would be better to back down, that it's too early for an argument, that it's no use. But you feel teeth in your nape, a leash on your neck; and you tug.

"You flatter yourself if you think it was something more than a business arrangement. I had a need for an assistant and your field of work was much more fitting in my sector." Valarr’s eyes, one blue, one hazel, dance with something you’ve never once witnessed before. It presents itself as disdain, but the glint is far too sharp to be just that.

"And what of my wishes? I had settled there, my office was my own, I- I had a mug, okay? It was chipped and it was mine and I knew which way to smack the espresso machine for it to work. And I knew that the demands your cousin made for me were always backed by actual reason." You gesture, as if that would make your point more valid.

You don’t know if you hate the emotion you’ve allowed to bleed into your voice more or the way the corner of his lips twitches just barely when he catches it. The signs of you still being human, the performance you don't know all the steps to; not like he does.

"You have plenty of mugs here. We could chip them if that would make you more… Comfortable."

"That’s not the point. You know that’s not the point."

"You could’ve rejected the offer." Valarr continues brazingly when you don’t rise to challenge, "Don’t speak as if you weren’t given a choice."

"You know I couldn’t." You argue, refusing to elaborate. Painfully aware that he already knows why even if you don’t explain. "You knew before making the deal."

"I made a calculated guess that your… Needs, let’s call it that," Valarr speaks after a short pause, "Would win out over your pride."

You stay silent. Because, for better or for worse, Valarr is as right as he always is. You see the tug at the corner of his perfectly symmetrical lips, an expression he can’t quite school.

"There are certain benefits and comforts that come with being my assistant." He finally adds, his voice gains that quality that it does when he's trying hard to suppress a laugh, "And I am not asking you to thank me, I simply mean to inquire if being Daeron’s assistant was better for you? Not more fun - I’m sure my cousin has been blessed with that certain quality that I do not possess. Better. Was it better?"

"You’re asking me to compare things that are incomparable. Like asking if a kilogram of feathers or a kilogram of steel is heavier."

"That question actually has an answer-" Valarr starts. Stops himself, reconsiders. Then waves the thought away with the flick of his wrist, "I can answer for you. It was not better, in every way that truly matters, it wasn’t."

"Being Daeron’s assistant meant being able to breathe once in a while." You respond and immediately cringe at how childish it sounds coming out of your mouth.

"And do I not offer you the room to breathe?" Valarr asks, his head tilts to the side. A curiosity that’s rare to see on him, "Or is ‘breathing’ something you consider doing every drug under the sun with my cousin and showing up to work still coked up?"

Valarr feels restless. His mind is running at a hundred miles per second and he can’t seem to slow it down. I can give you that, he thinks, I can be fun, and charming and talk in that bitter way Daeron does. I am better in every way that should matter. In every way that does matter.

"That’s not-"

"There were pictures." Valarr cuts in. His jaw ticks. Works over his next words, "Pictures I made disappear. Or did you just think that the paparazzi have suddenly gained a sense of consciousness?" He asks, merely rhetorical, "You’re not that naive."

It sounds like he's disappointed you'd even consider being that foolish. Your mind is running in circles and you know that you can only ask one proper question until he loses interest in this conversation entirely.

"Why?"

"Because I know you’re good at your job. Because I felt that it was a waste to see you blacklisted before you even got an opportunity to warm up to this."

"Should I be thanking you, then?"

"I already told you that I do not require your attitude. Don't get me wrong, it would be a pleasant thing to hear, but-" Valarr reaches for the documents he didn't finish reading over yesterday. The conversation is as good as over, "that's besides the point. We have a conference tomorrow. I trust you didn't forget. I'd like all the material prepared and details finalized by evening."

Valarr watches the way you back down. First, your shoulders slump, then your face clouds over with a practiced indifference and your jaw releases from the sharp lock you had on it. He knows that you still have a lot of questions, but you'd have to wait. Patience is a language he knows and knows well. You can learn to speak it, too, in due time.

There’s some mix up with the hotel - befitting of an establishment of this level, befitting of Valarr’s standards (that much he voices clearly and calmly towards the receptionist before tipping him) - only one room booked. A double bed.

That’s a thought that comes back to haunt you while you network, speak with industry giants who could crush you like a bug if every word leaving your mouth wasn’t said under careful consideration. It gnaws, it claws. The uncertainty of it, yet another blurring of the line of professionalism that you try so hard to draw only for fate to wash it away like waves do sand.

Valarr watches you while he talks to potential investors, to other directors - all dreadfully boring and stiff as boards, all speaking of the same self-important topics that no one cares about yet nod and engage because that is what’s expected of them.

He wonders if you feel the way his eyes constantly find you in a room full of people despite himself. There’s a certain pleasure to watching you move and navigate, perform with such grace. The way you pick through your words and smile so politely, the way you try so hard not to look out of place despite not belonging. The way the act is almost perfect but something is not yet fully polished. A masterpiece almost ready for exhibit, if not for the final strokes of the brush.

He feels sanguine, knowing that your sharpness belongs to him. That it’s dulled and filled away from others, that he gets to see at least one more layer peeled away from you than others do.

Valarr didn’t arrange for the room mishap. He’s not some malevolent cartoon villain. He didn’t mind waiting, didn’t mind your conversations being few and far in-between. He didn’t need to seek your proximity forcefully. Things merely fell into place. Perhaps a divine stroke of luck, perhaps fortune favored those patient. Of that he was not sure yet.

You tire of socializing easily. Wearing a mask that does not perfectly fit yet is like doing a play without memorizing all the lines. It leaves you weary and slightly undone by the end of the day; a sweater fraying away at the sleeves.

The room is grand and smells faintly of sandalwood. Large enough for two people to share, quiet in its luxury. Black floors made from real, polished wood and dark walls. Double pane floor to ceiling windows without a speck of dust, the heavy cloud covered sky covering the city sprawling below. Dim layered lightning that you can’t find all the sources to immediately. The mattress of the bed is soft enough to melt into and fits precisely into the frame made of a matte, richly textured fibre that you do not have the word to name. The only accents of color are the dull silver pots that house tall, meticulously trimmed majesty palms.

Valarr doesn’t talk much and you’re grateful to return the same behavior to him. He heads into the shower and you busy yourself with scrolling through your phone. A few messages from friends and emails from work you respond to with a furrow woven into your eyebrows.

He comes back half an hour later and even his pajamas are as perfectly-tailored as he is. Dark, perfectly ironed material that you read as a linen blend. His hair falls into his eyes from where it’s still wet, the water making the strands darker, the tiny stroke of white drawing attention more now. Even his skin glistens like a skincare brand commercial, good genetics be damned.

Valarr catches you staring. You watch him catching you and briskly brush past him, shutting the door of the bathroom behind you and groaning when you find it to be a soft-close one because of course it is.

When you re-emerge, the sky has broke into pieces. The rain falls heavy and booming against the windows that now seem too large instead of grand. Thunder rolls somewhere far away, a roar in your ears. The dim lights meant to accentuate the luxury of the room now seem lacking as the room grows darker to mirror the sky. A sharp, jagged jolt of lightning splits it into two and you don’t even notice Valarr regarding the Hello Kitty’s face decorating your sleep pants like it had personally offended him.

"I am afraid of storms." You admit, not fully having a reason to, regretting the words as soon as they leave your mouth. You’re tired, your act has worn thin and it’s suddenly dark and heavy.

"Why?" Valarr asks, his perfect face just slightly skewed by curiosity, one ankle crossed across the opposite where he’s settled into a plush, dark armchair matching the material of the bed frame.

"I don’t have a sad, tragic backstory tied to storms.” You shake your head. Pace the room like a cornered animal, “It’s not like something happened, for me to fear it."

"They’re loud, for one. And the light cast by lightning is unusual and unnatural, twisting shadows into something sharper. It’s quite a common fear, from what I know."

"They make me feel alone." You work over the words in your mouth and the admission tastes bitter. It’s that sharp, desperate need to validate your feelings. To put them into logical little shelves - the sort of language Valarr understands, "Or, remind me that I am alone."

"You’re not alone right now. You’re here, with me, at our hotel room. And the storm will calm soon. I checked the forecast. Half an hour, tops.”

"It’s not about that." You shake your head slightly, "It’s a feeling. A sense of being proved right even if I hoped that I wouldn’t. I- I don’t know how it correlates to storms. That I cannot explain.”

You’ve come to realize, at some point in your life, that there was no one coming to save you. Not the late night cramming at the library until you couldn’t tell left from right anymore, not the Sundays when life felt heavier than it usually did and nothing but laying down on the floor helped, and definitely not when you just needed someone to press you into their chest and squeeze you tight until you forgot about the storm raging just behind your window.

People like you couldn’t stay in the hole. Because there was no security network there, no fallback, no plan B that didn’t involve you and you alone. Valarr stays quiet for a while. Works over the words in his mind before speaking them into being.

He stands and walks over to the mini fridge that’s installed into the cabinets seamlessly. Leans down and re-emerges with a bottle of whiskey so expensive you’re not even familiar with the label. The sound of the amber liquid pouring is drowned out by the rain still wreaking havoc to the stupidly large windows.

He touches your shoulder just the slightest to cease your pacing and hands you the glass before sitting back against the armchair. The glass is heavy and sturdy, condensation dancing at the edges of it. There’s no burn as you sip, just a rich sweetness that turns into deep spice and ends as warmth. Something to ground you.

"I know that feeling. Anticipating the worst and feeling no relief when you’re right. The ‘I told you so’ moment is often… Unsatisfactory." Valarr continues the conversation without a hitch. Watches the way you sit down on the bed with an air of comfort he’d be unable to read as fake if he wasn’t so perceptive.

"Do you think optimists are happier? Always hoping for the best and then brushing themselves off and trying again and again when things get tough?" You ask.

"I think optimists are foolish and their belief system unsubstantiated."

"I didn’t ask you if you thought they were foolish.” You barely contain yourself from cutting in, “I asked you if you think they are happier."

"If I had to guess, I’d say that they are. There’s no such feeling as light as hope." Valarr re-evaluates. Doesn’t call you out on the sharpness of your tone. Lightning strikes again and something in his eyes matches when he watches you bite back a flinch.

"So why don’t we hope? How is it that we forbid ourselves from making life feel lighter?" Your voice is just the slightest bit less put-together when thunder rumbles over his voice.

"Because this world is a hard place for dreamers we don’t want it to be harder than it already is." Valarr shrugs and it’s one of the only times you notice his real thoughts bleeding through. Not Valarr Targaryen, not Valarr the heir. Just the young man carrying weight too heavy for him, "Because we understand the natural order of things."

"And optimists don’t?"

"And optimists lie to themselves when they say that they don’t." Valarr shrugs the thought away, like he’s irritated you’d ask something so obvious.

“I don’t think that’s the way it works.” You argue, “You like to oversimplify things. Put them into neat little shelves.”

“I just have my opinions and the fact that they turn out to be correct most of the time to back said opinions up.”

“This conversation is going in circles.” You groan, running a hand over your face. Valarr stays silent. You find that you like this quality of him; the way he doesn’t feel the need to fill the space with words. “Valarr?”

“Hm?”

“Do you have any fears?”

You don’t know what compels you to ask such a personal question. It would be foolish to blame the storm, even if it makes you wish to draw your knees up to your chest and hide underneath a blanket with earbuds in until it ceases and the sun breaks pale and blurry through the sky again.

Valarr’s sure that it’s the storm forcing you out of your shell, allowing him the glimpse of a girl beyond the assistant. If there is a god up there - a fact he, as a man who’s always prided himself on his logic and thinly-veiled cynicism, highly doubts - he’s very kind towards Valarr tonight. If he were a superstitious man, he’d read it as a sign of things unfolding in the way he wishes them to.

“Of course I do. Everyone does.” He responds eventually.

“Thought you were a robot.”

That bite. Your maw slack and teeth bared as soon as vulnerability hangs in the air, heavy and stiffing. It’s almost intoxicating, being a witness to how quickly a prey animal can surge as soon as it’s threatened by things unseen. Just pure animal instinct.

“Haha.”

“What are they?” You ask, knowing that it’s the need to hear him reveal something just as raw as you did moments ago. For the scale to tip towards equality once more.

“I don’t like things that look human but there’s something just slightly wrong about them. Uncanny valley, maybe. Like, you know, urban legends? There was this story, a- a creepypasta titled ‘The Rake’, I believe. Stupid, really,” Valarr scoffs, as if fear is beneath him, “I was twelve when one of my cousins showed it to me. And I guess the image of it stuck enough to stay until now.”

‘Creepypasta’ is such a foreign word on his lips, as out of place as polyester would be in his closet. A little reminder you seldom get to witness of him being your age, participating in niche internet culture before learning to rule the empire.

“That’s silly.”

“Yeah? As silly as storms or more silly?” He smiles. Unpolished for once, baring the slightly crooked left canine of his teeth that glistens when lightning strikes again.

“Perhaps the same amount.” You shrug, sipping the whiskey again. Your eyes dart to the glass in his left hand and find it already empty. The conversation and the slight tinge of alcohol seems to have drawn you under.

“Give me one real fear and I will match your offer.” Valarr speaks and you know that it is the only way he can provide something even slightly real.

You stay quiet for a long while. Debate what you can admit, what you should admit. Finish your whiskey and put it down on the side table with a dull thud. He doesn’t rush you. The paparazzi pictures that he played a disappearing game with flash in your mind and you’re sure that he already knows your words before you speak them.

“Wasting my potential.”

“Turning out like my mother.” Valarr doesn’t bail out on his promise, matching your offer as soon as you lay yours down.

“What was she like?” You inquire softly, “Your mother.”

“She was… More wild than my dad. Not chained down by duty. She had this- this really nice laugh that would ring out like a silver bell. She made friends easily and was a real social butterfly. I used to be jealous, you know? That it wouldn’t come as easily to me. Felt entitled to it because we shared the same blood.” Valarr stops for a moment, swallows. “You know how in those documentaries when they say ‘her smile lit up the room’ even when it didn’t? Hers did.”

“It sounds like it wouldn’t be a terrible thing. To turn out like her.” Your gaze softens just the slightest. You don’t call out the way his voice had acquired just a tinge of fondness.

“What I’m telling you right now is what I like remembering her as. What I tell people when they ask how she was before… You know.” Valarr’s mismatched eyes jump towards the ceiling briefly, “But she was also bitter. And I get that, I do. She was married to a man who was already married to his job.”

Valarr wants to stop himself from talking. He’s already told you too much during your last conversation, already exposed all the raw nerve endings that you could pull and tug if you wished. He’d like to blame the whiskey for the way his tongue doesn’t stop moving, but that’s not quite it, is it?

It’s a perverse need to reveal the deepest, darkest parts of yourself to a person who can’t leave you. For a person who is tied to you through a job, through you providing them their livelihood, can’t stand up and walk away.

He watches the way your face and body stay still even as another rumble of thunder reigns sharp across the room. The way your eyes follow his lips.

“She had lovers. Younger than my dad, more handsome, easier. Ones who fawned over her beauty and wit and were always present. She knew that my dad couldn’t handle the scandal of divorcing a woman he’s been married to for so many years.” Valarr continues, voice low and bitter, more man than boy, “By the fifth year of her doing it, she didn’t even hide it from me or Matarys anymore. I’d just see a new man making coffee in the kitchen of our home. Like he belonged there. Like a practiced ritual.”

You seem frozen in place. There’s something heavy about someone opening up to you so freely, a weight on your shoulders that isn’t your own, a sharp tug in your heart that you have not asked for. Because emotional vulnerability is already a lot to handle when it comes from your friends; people you care about. And it’s almost impossible when it comes pouring out of your boss.

“I’m sorry.” You manage, “That must’ve been hard.”

“I think she started resenting us by the end of it, as much as she started resenting my dad. Like me and Matarys were obstacles preventing her from living her new, exciting life. A reminder of her age, reminder of her duty.” Valarr muses. If he feels how uncomfortable you are, he doesn’t care for it.

“Is that why,” you gesture. Let your hands settle, “you don’t want to turn out like her?”

“It’s a large part of it.” Valarr leans back into the armchair, lets his shoulders relax and his body slump into it just the slightest, “It’s quite late, though. Perhaps I tell you some other time. When it’s morning and you’ve told me something true, too.”

Something true. You’ve already told him two true things today, two things you’ve hoarded close enough for no one to see - a great hand of cards - like water spilling from your lips. You’re not sure if you’re able to match him where he’s standing.

Valarr doesn’t move towards the bed. Not when you settle against the pillow, nor when you turn the lights off. The last whisper of thunder rolls over the city and the rain ceases into a light fall. The emotional proximity is enough to not sharpen it by a physical one as well.

“Goodnight, Valarr.” Your eyes squeeze shut, one knee drawn up to your chest - need to pull back in, to feel far away again manifested through the unconscious movement of your body.

“Goodnight.” Your name sounds almost soft on his lips, but you don’t give it too much thought. Sleep drags you under soon enough. You sleep without a blanket in solidarity to Valarr’s uncomfortableness.

He also remembers it being the first moment he'd registered how much disdain you have truly held for people like that investor. Rich pricks who thought themselves to rule the world just because of a few off-shore accounts. People who never had to worry over anything, because the whole world went out of its way to make their existance more comfortable. The kind of person you thought him to be.

The investor had regarded you for a long while. It felt like the short hand of the clock had ran its course around it multiple times. Then, the investor had cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair.

"You are a very brave girl to say such things." The investor had pondered. A girl. Not professional, not 'miss'. Even if the investor hadn't been angry, he found a way to diminish you with his words as men of his position often did, "But I do have a certain appreciation for it, because you may very well be right."

Valarr had felt the whole room breathe out a collective sigh of relief. Like the walls themselves had stopped trying to close in. The investor nodded once, then twice. Smoothed over the lapels of his suit that surely cost more than what you earned in a year. He turned towards Valarr. Not towards you. A gaze Valarr understood as a command. A command to make a command. To not allow the leash to slip out of his grasp.

"See to it that it does not happen again." The investor had cleared his throat. A subconscious thing. "Let us continue."

It's another late night at the office. The fluorescent lights are dimmed and the light pollution reflected from below the top floor slips in through the large windows hugging the walls of the room. His father had went home a while ago. Valarr had stayed precisely because of that. You had stayed because Valarr had asked you to stay and paid overtime when the territory of am and pm eventually blended together,.

He's looking over the documents for the next merger and his fingers are caressing paper in a way you're not even sure he's aware of. You're typing away on your laptop, scheduling meetings and emails in his name. Valarr sighs, looks over the words on the page again like they owe him a clear answer. Then, you feel his eyes on you and pull your own gaze away from the screen to meet his. An animal instinct, a response to being watched.

"Do you think that there is right way and a wrong way to feel things?" He asks, calm and just a little too sharp where you're sure he's trying to go for nonchalant.

And it's so sudden after hours spent in the quiet, that you have to clear your throat to make sure your voice still works.

"I don't... I'm not sure that feelings can be sorted into right and wrong. They just are. As many things in life just are."

"People used to say I was supposed to mourn my mother when she died." Valarr’s jaw works over the syllables like biting through something particularly sharp, "And I didn’t. And the guilt of not doing so ate away at me for a long time."

"I don’t think you can command people to mourn." You answer after a long pause. Because his dual-toned eyes are looking at you and his mouth is moving slightly like he’s already preparing to speak for you. Like you’re supposed to follow a script he’s written out and that it pisses him off when you don’t.

"Elaborate, please."

"Grief has teeth. Grief bites, it drags you under like a tide and refuses to let go. It’s… I wouldn’t classify it as a feeling. More so a state. Because there’s sadness in it, of course there is. But there’s also anger, there’s guilt. There’s this whole complicated mess of emotions that can’t be sorted into little shelves to be dusted off when it’s deemed an appropriate time for them to surface."

"So you think that when I’ve been asked to mourn, I managed to somehow mess that up, too." His voice hitches slightly on the word ‘too’, like a scratch on a record. Something heavy rests beneath it, like there’s parentheses he refuses to elaborate on.

You're not sure why he's chosen you to talk to about this. You're not good with mourning. There's no time for it - for the complicated, tangled mess that it usually is. Easier to push down. Easier to squeeze it into some jagged shape and cut yourself on it each time you remember.

"I’m saying that it’s not grief if you can make it flat and categorize it only into sadness. It’s simply not how grief works."

"I think I was sad." Valarr says, pausing, "When my mom died."

The word 'mother' is replaced by its diminutive in a way you're sure is purposeful. He hangs onto the least important words in your answer, missing your point in the way that has to be deliberate. Because Valarr doesn’t do accidental. It’s not in his programming, it’s not part of the manual he has for the neat, perfect heir.

"I remember being sad, but I also remember that sadness being dull." Valarr continues after you fail to answer his last revalation, "I’ve watched my mom waste away in that hospital bed for months before she died. Perhaps that’s why my mourning wasn’t deemed appropriate."

You look at him, then. Drag your eyes away from the urgent emails pinging and demanding your attention. Valarr’s face is calm, not sullied by any ounce of emotion - negative or positive. His heterochromatic eyes zero in on yours in a way that’s supposed to imitate openness but only serves to make it look like he’s counting the seconds of your silence and deeming it unsatisfactory.

"Was it sadness," You choose your words carefully, "or did you put on another mask because it was expected of you to be sad in the face of a great tragedy?"

You watch something flicker beneath Valarr’s expression. A predator getting ready to pounce only for him to tug on the leash. The mask of delicate softness slips for just a moment, obvious in the way the corner of his lips tugs. It’s not soft like when he’s talking to you over the documents late in the evening, nor is it surprised like when he catches himself finding one of your sharp, sarcastic quips funny despite himself.

"You’d actually believe that I wasn’t sad watching my mom die?"

"I don’t know you that well, Valarr." You answer, drawing an invisible line between you, "I’m merely engaging in conversation."

Valarr stands and then stills for a moment. After just a blink, he steps closer, just the tiniest breath of space closing between you. Then, his arms shift and he clasps his hands behind his back, posture straightening out. The mask slips and then it’s back with renowned perfection.

"I want you to explain." Valarr speaks, voice falling to a register that’s softer than you’ve ever heard before. A blade wrapped in the finest of silks, "Because that is quite an accusation to make when you have no grounds to do so."

"Did you hold your mother’s hand. Before. Before she died? While she was dying?" You side-step the conversation instead, just like he did moments ago.

"I did. So did my father. So did my brother."

"Then was the action truly your own or were you merely mimicking?" The silence between you rings out, sharp and final. You lay your head under the executioner’s blade when your mouth opens again, "Because the way you speak of grief, the way you speak of even sadness, is calculated."

"It’s expected of me to calculate emotions. They have no place in my field of work." Valarr’s answer is clipped and his eyes narrow despite the way he tries to keep them trusting and open. My field of work. Not ours.

"It’s not sadness if you can calculate it, Valarr."

You watch him swallow. Watch the way his Adam’s apple presses to the pale, freckled skin of his throat razor-sharp. Watch the thoughts dancing beneath his eyes and the way he bites down every answer that’s instinct and not strategy.

"I cried. I actually cried despite trying not to when her grip on my hand went slack." His voice gains a certain note of rawness, but you see the threads of the tale he’s spinning around you. You wonder if he’s trying to convince you or himself.

"Why?" You don’t offer him more. Because offering more would mean he’d have something to hang onto, something to leverage, something else to answer to.

"Because I was sad-" Valarr starts. Swallows again. Then, a short, sharp laugh bubbles past his lips, "That’s not it, is it? You’re not buying it. I can see it. Like when you see an investor actively pulling back from the deal right in front of you."

"What was it that you were feeling? Not as Valarr Targaryen. Not as Valarr the heir. Just Valarr. What were you feeling, then?"

"Relief."

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. You can only manage to hold his gaze for a moment before it trails down to his perfectly polished designer loafers. You bite back one answer, then swallow another. Your hands run over your hair, then fixate on your dress shirt. Anxiety, sharp and biting and cloying, thrums in your pores, presses deeper, settles into the very bones.

Valarr's hand, cold and certain, catches yours in a way that breaks every personal and professional boundary the two of you have built. His thumb brushes over your knuckles.

"It seems that I have made you worry. I can assure you that nothing you have said for the duration of this conversation will be held against you." Valarr lets go as abruptly as he had grabbed. He turns his back to you and walks back to his own desk, "You can go, now. We've done enough for one day."

You're quick to gather your things; uncaring on wether he sees your anxiety for what it is. You bid Valarr goodbye without looking over your shoulder. You can feel his gaze still on you as the door of his office shuts behind you.

Valarr doesn't even pretend to look over the documents. They're just words on a page he can't be bothered to actually understand. He yearns. For the very first time in his life, Valarr Targaryen actually yearns. It’s laughable, it’s absolutely and utterly pathetic and he can’t even put this feeling into words. His well-versed vocabulary, honed by years of studies, of listening to his father dismantle people with a carefully chosen sentence alone, fails him. So Valarr yearns, because there is nothing else to do. As many things in life just are, you had said. He yearns and he waits.

“It’s about Clark.” You start, knowing that this is the only way he’ll lose interest in your conversation. Also, partly because you really do have concerns about Clark, “He’s been drinking more, I think. Coming into work even when he has a day off, constantly arguing with his wife over the phone. He gets like…”

“Intense.” Bobby finishes for you, tilting his head to the side again. That’s the word you were looking for, right. You expected Bobby to say ‘snappy’, maybe ‘annoying’. He’s particularly sharp when sober. Quick with his words.

“Yeah.” You finish lamely, gesturing around like it’d explain your thought.

“Shit, yeah. It’s not even that he’s angry, or short with us. He gets like… This look in his eyes that’s sorta like… You know Kubrick yeah? Yeah, yeah, the Kubrick stare. He gets that same look in his eyes. Dark. Like he’s not quite there. Half of him somewhere else.” Bobby rambles, shrugging like he hadn’t just put the feeling you’ve had for months into an actually comprehensible explanation.

"Yeah." You agree lamely, shrugging off the feeling of being so deeply understood that's dug its way underneath your skin.

Bobby trails over to behind the register and stops your chair from spinning. His hands, calloused from camera gear and warm from the summer heat, land on your shoulders and squeeze. Once, twice, three times. He’s told you once that it’s what his mom used to do when he got stressed. Despite yourself, it makes your body uncoil - shoulders slumping forward, back freed from sitting straight as an arrow and hands unclenching. You breathe out a sigh.

“It’s none of your business, babe. Like, none. Not your trouble to solve, not your worry to get yourself stressed out about.” Bobby lands a soft kiss to your temple while still holding onto your shoulders and you have to fight back an urge to melt into your chair, “It’s just a job. And you’ll leave eventually, fuck off to some place that’s better than this.”

“And you?” You inquire, throwing your head back and meeting his blue puppy-dog eyes. Open, trusting. “How soon are you ‘fucking off’, then?”

You catch the way his jaw clenches just a little, the way the blue in his eyes dims and something guarded crosses over them in real time. Then, he puts on a mask. The one you know well, the one that everyone else thinks is the real him. Cocky, suave and sure of himself. Bobby shrugs.

“I live in the moment, baby. Don’t see a point in worrying beyond that.” Bobby squeezes your shoulders once more; for good measure, before spinning your chair around to face him, “It’s fucking boring here today. Wanna make out in the break room? Maybe some under the pants action if we’re quick?”

Bobby’s hands land on your thighs and slide up slightly, the ring on his pinky catching the flourescent light in a silver glint. If it were anyone else, you’d smack them for even suggesting it. You know Bobby well enough - despite convincing yourself that you don’t want to - to understand that sex is how he solves most of life’s issues. A fight? An angry fuck session bent over the kitchen counter? Feeling like shit? Slow and sensual sex while spooning on his bed. Not wanting to talk about something? Distract by suggesting sex so no one thinks to look beneath.

“I don’t wanna fuck in the break room again. That place gives me the heebie jeebies.” You wince, nose scrunching up.

“Babe, the break room has ambiance.” Bobby presses an exaggerated mwah onto your scrunched up nose. “Old mysterious stains, a creaky couch, that weird lingering smell that you can’t help but keep smelling despite knowing that it’s bad? It’s a setting for top-notch soft-core porn. Very niche, very 80s.”

"I don't know." You mumble, "What if there's customers? What if Clark decides to come check in?"

"It's the middle of the week." Bobby leans in, warm, chapped lips pressing against your jaw, against your neck, against the dip where it meets your shoulder, "I promise that no one has a sudden need for a couch or a lamp on a Tuesday."

Despite yourself, you lean your head back to allow him easier access, your hands twitching against your thighs where his continued their trail higher and higher. You know that if you gave Bobby a firm 'no' he'd immediately back down and apologize for pushing. He's not the type of guy who get's hungover on crap like that. And you have been pent up. Bobby has an infuriating tendency to drive your libido to the levels you didn't think were possible before.

Disappearing for ten minutes or so won't hurt. Bobby's right about there not being any customers there mid-week. It'll help you blow off some steam, maybe finally stop your mind from getting stuck like a particular note on a scratched record. Your hands land on top of his, clammy and sure, and your decision is made. You feel Bobby smile into the kiss he lands to your exposed shoulder, the promise of sharp canines against skin.

He drags you out of your chair faster than you can react and the stumble towards the break room is a blur of messy blonde hair, warm wandering hands and barely contained smiles. The door shuts like an executioner's blade swinging down; quiet and final. Only, there's no fear. Desire clouds over your mind - thick and all-consuming, cloying every thought.

Bobby presses you against the door, seemingly careless if not for the hand he puts behind your head to soften it. His lips find yours instantly, pressing closed kisses until you get brave enough to part your lips open. He immediatelly follows, matching your pace, his tongue licking the seam of your lips, seeking entrance. His hands wander everywhere - your thighs, the plushness of your hips, the dip of your waist and the slight jut of your ribs, then your shoulders, your neck, the nape and the fine hairs tangled there. Each time you make out it feels like he can't get enough of you to hold, to consume.

You barely part for breath, panting into each other's mouths instead as your tongues clash together, tasting and exploring. Bobby tastes like the niche vanilla gum you're sure only he buys. It's a taste you've grown to know, grown to crave. Your hands follow instinct, burying into his short, blonde hair. You tug harder than neccessary while biting at his lower lip, pouring everything you refuse to say - can't say - into touch.

"Fuck." Bobby breathes into your mouth, his voice barely audible, more groan than it is speech. Your eyes open and so do his, and for a moment, you just stare into each other, panting like you're more animal than human. His pupils are blown, almost swallowing the bluebell of his eyes. You're sure your own match his like a mirror.

"Fuck, babe." Bobby repeats, as if once wasn't enough, as if he wants to tell you so much more and suddenly his vocabulary has failed him. He dips his head down, kissing you again, mumbling his next words into your mouth and making them tingle in your jaw. "So pretty. So so fucking pretty. I can't believe you. Can't believe you're real."

Bobby drags you away from the door, never once breaking the kiss as he walks you to the couch. He tugs at your clothes, at your hair, holds onto your jaw until the feeling dances just at the edge of hurting. It feels like he's trying to carve out a space within you and crawl inside. He pushes until your knees hit the edge of the sad, yellowing fabric and buckle, making you fall down onto the couch. Bobby follows without pause, a slight barely there whine rumbling somewhere deep in his throat as if being even an inch away from you physically hurts him.

"How do you want me?" You ask, breathless from the kiss, your eyes meeting again like steel clashing against steel. His don't wander. Not to the way your clothes have shifted, nor the places your skin has grown warm. He's hyper-focused on your face, seemingly afraid to miss even the slightest micro-expression.

Any other guy you've been with before would've fingered you and asked you to get on all fours. Perhaps leaned your body over the table or indulged in a rare session of missionary if your face was particulary done-up that day. Bobby swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing razor-edged against his throat, lips opening and closing as he tries to work out the words that are seemingly stuck there. As if he's still surprised that you've decided to give all of you to him instead of ending it there. As if it's the most precious thing he's ever had in his entire life.

"On top. On top of me, fuck- Sit on my face, baby, please-"

Your hands make quick work of your shorts, but it's still seemingly not fast enough for Bobby, who tugs them down with almost predatory precision, your panties joining the pile on the floor. He doesn't even give you a moment to adjust yourself before he's dragging you up, up and onto his awaiting mouth. His eyes glimmer with barely contained delight when your pussy ends up right in his face.

"Fuck, look at you. So soaked already, huh?"

"Bobby- Jesus, slow down-"

"You said you wanted it quick. Some bullshit about customers." His warm breath hits the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, before he bites softly, immediately soothing it with a kiss, repeating the motion over and over again, "Said you wanted it quick, baby. I'm giving you quick, yeah? Yeah, yeah-"

His last words are lost between him inhaling the scent of you. Deep and unashamed, nosing along the hair at your pubic bone with a shuddering breath. He doesn't tease you like he usually does when he's feeling lazy or particularly mean; just dives right in. His tongue is warm and wet as it drags a long stripe from your dripping opening to your clit. He circles around it, pointing his tongue to draw perfect figure eights that make the edges of your vision blur.

Your head tosses back without your permission, teeth coming down to bite at your lips to muffle the sounds that threaten to spill out unprompted. Your back arches like a cat's, hands coming down to hold onto his hair again, relishing in the feeling of soft strands giving into the pressure of your grip.

Bobby groans into the wet heat of you, face lowering as his tongue slips into your hole, nose nudging your clit. He licks at you like he's a man who's been lost in a desert for days and just found the first source of water.

"You taste so good. Do you know that?" Bobby's voice dips into a lower tone, words stretched out and slow, so different from the usual register he speaks in, "Of course you do. Of course you fucking do. You know what you do to me, baby."

"Bobby, fuck- Like that, like that, please-"

It scares you sometimes. This deep, dark intensity that lingers just beneath his skin, that threatens to break free each time his emotions get too intense, too big to fit into his body without spilling out. You've never had undivided devotion, sharp as a knife. You've never expected it of Bobby of all people. It also makes your skin tingle and your brain slow in a way you're sure is unhealthy.

Bobby's hands that have been content to rest on your hips tighten on them, five perfect pressure points on each leg. He drags you forward and you catch the way his biceps tense, muscle shifting beneath skin, veins jutting out in a delicious way that you'd like to commit to memory if you were more coherent. His repeated motions urge you to match his rhythm, hips shifting and moving, grinding down onto the sharp bridge of his nose.

You feel his own body shifting beneath yours, the old coach creaking as his hips tilt upwards, chasing a motion, a relief that's not there. You know that if you turned back, you'd see his cock straining painfully against the stiff material of his faded black jorts; seeking friction, seeking contact.

Bobby drinks every drop of you in, not allowing a single one a chance of escaping. His hands struggle to keep up with his decisions - dragging you forward, forcing you down, pressing your thighs onto his ears until there's nothing but you - contact, smell, taste - surrounding him, until you become the only thing in his orbit.

It's embarassing, how fast you feel the sharp heat pooling low in your stomach, the sweat gathering at the nape of your neck, the desperate, shaky squeeze of your fingers in his hair, the sounds that are barely muffled even though you're sure you've bitten your lips to the point of blood.

"Gonna come- Bobby, gonna come-" You try to whisper, only for your voice to come out high-pitched and pressing.

"Come. Come for me." Bobby pleads, muffled into the heat of your cunt, never once ceasing his motions, "Need you to come for me, baby. Give it to me. Now. Now."

His voice becomes something raw and sharp like live-wire at the last word and the dam breaks. Your body shakes, fine tremors tingling throghout the entirety of it, your vision swims with the colors of the kaleidoscope, your hands smooth over his hair only to hold tighter and your mouth opens into a fluttering 'o'. Bobby keeps moving your hips when your own body fails you, soothing you through your orgasm in a way that's painstakingly patient.

Your chest heaves as you breathe through the aftermatch, and Bobby litters your thighs in a constellation of wet, warm kisses. It takes a moment for you to regain your bearings, shifting off of his sharp, angled face. You fall half on top of him, the break room couch too small to fit two people comfortably.

"C'mere." Bobby mumbles, voice soft with breathlessness. As if you're not already there, already half on top of him. His lips press against yours, soft and careful as he feeds you the taste of yourself still dancing on his tongue.

His arm wraps around you when you break apart, lithe fingers smoothing over your hair in a way that's so careful and tender it makes your heart stutter on its usual beat. Bobby presses a kiss to your temple, your forehead, your ear and the crown of your head. Your hand comes up to settle against his forearm, fingers shifting to caress the fine hair peppering the skin there. Beneath them, there's a small pale scar you've known he's gotten from falling from his skateboard when he was sixteen.

Your eyes shift downward, towards his crotch, the fabric there tented. Bobby's eyes follow the line of your gaze, shifting just the slightest bit. Your hand begins a trail over his cropped shirt, coming down, down-

Bobby's hand, warm and clammy, wraps around your wrist softly, reverantly and stops you in your tracks. Your eyes catch his, confused.

"You don't want to?.."

"Nah. I'm good, baby." Another kiss to your temple. It doesn't feel like claiming, more like he's trying to write himself into the very being of you, "This was about you, not me."

"I thought you wanted a quickie."

"I wanted you to relax." For a moment, he sounds oddly vulnerable. You see him working over the knot in his throat as he swallows, before something on his face shifts and he's back to being guarded, "Couldn't even think with your mind running in circles. Gets me stressed as fuck."

"I wasn't even that stressed." You argue, an instinct to bite before being bitten.

"Your shoulders were drawn up to your ears, baby. Seemed pretty stressed to me." Bobby shrugs, smoothing over the skin of your arm one last time before shifting and letting you out of his grasp.

He stretches and his hand comes down to adjust himself in his jorts. He doesn't sigh, doesn't say 'yes, i've actually changed my mind and would like to cash in that quickie now', doesn't groan about blue balls. Just falls back into his usual self and smooths over his hair that's now sticking up everywhere where you had tugged and pulled.

"You good to lay down a little? Come off of it?" He asks, not even taking one step towards the door.

Your hands fish blindly for your panties and shorts, pulling them on. You sigh and all but melt into the couch. Your body feels boneless, cunt still tingling from the intensiveness of your orgasm, inner thighs just slightly damp with it.

"Yeah. I'm good. Give me like- Five minutes?"

"Yeah? Come back when you're ready. Gonna go see if there's any stragglers. Sell a lamp or two." Bobby shrugs, shifting the door handle down.

There's a rhythm to him falling back into his usual persona. First, his appearance gets smoothed over, then his expression is allowed to fall back into its usual carelessness, and then his speech regains that easy, teasing lilt. Bobby gives you one last look over his shoulder that collides with the version that's overwritten the one that's been there just moments before and then shuts the door. You're left with your thoughts again.