#x.writing

This isn’t something he’s used to. Warm bed, thick covers, pillows aplenty, your soft skin against his as you lay side by side.

He’s fucked enough girls, alright. He knows the look by heart, the moment he’s spotted, some bitch with the air that she’s been beat or touched by Daddy when she was little. There’s something about Jimmy that reads obvious to them, like they can see his poverty, his violent and impulsive tendencies, his complete fucking disdain for humanity, his history of addiction, his criminal record, all in the features of his face. The shape of his eyes and the dark bags below them, the profile of his nose, the way his hair hangs on his forehead, the curve of his lips, his unshaven face, his posture; it must spell out “broken” or “criminal,” and it’s his loathsome look in specific that makes them wet. That has them throwing themselves at him to spread their hybristophiliac legs before him. Choke me, slap me, pull my hair, fuck me hard while I say no. Then, there were the others who weren’t even worth mentioning. But he didn’t give a shit; pussy is pussy is pussy when it all comes down to it, and no matter how he gets it, it’s way better than his fucking hand, that’s for sure. One and done on his unwashed sheets, and sent off again.

He could no longer say that all pussy was the same with the certainty it was true, not since he met you. He could hardly even say he had fucked you, it felt too crass for what had just transpired. With the way you undressed each other, all tender caresses, shining eyes, open hearted vulnerability, you on your back sighing his name with every stroke, and your hands were in his hair, not pulling, but combing your fingers through in a way that made him shiver; no, he was more inclined to say he had made love to you, in all its nauseatingly saccharine connotations.

Jimmy had tried to kill himself when he was 15. ‘Yeah,’ he would scoff, ‘see how that worked out. Just as well as any other fucking thing I’ve done.’ But he still remembers the burn, hanging from that rope he had tied incorrectly, a deep fucking burn in his lungs and limbs and brain as his body flailed autonomously, his traitorous body trying to live even as he wanted to die. Every single cell in every organ, every tissue, every fiber was ablaze, shrieking in hungry panicked desperation for oxygen. Then as his vision was closing in black around him, the rope snapped, he collapsed on the floor gasping himself back to life.

Only the body felt the relief of taking those breaths. His mind was still burning, just as it had been since he was little, just as it had continued to burn for all the rest of his unfortunate existence after. Misery was his natural condition. Hunger was all he had known. Until he met you.

You, oh strange one, who didn’t turn away from his slimy nature in disgust, nor fling yourself at him because taking dirty felon cock was how you got your rocks off. He was as awful to you as everyone else. And you sure didn’t take it lying down, but neither did you leave him behind in the dust, like the rest of humanity. (Well, except for Curly.) You came back. Trying. Always trying, not always liking him, but never hating him. It confused the shit out of him more than anything. You had, for the most part, completely disarmed him.

And then you told him that he didn’t have to fight and claw so hard to prove himself. That he was valuable, that he was worthy just for existing.

It was like the rope hanging his psyche by the neck had finally snapped, and he was gasping cool sweet relief into his lungs, flooding through his limbs, relieving the desperate ache that had plagued him for all his conscious memory.

He knew then that you were made for him. You were different, you were nothing like the other fucking bitches - no, no, you weren’t a bitch at all. You, in your infinite shining compassion, understood him. You liked him. The worthless cunts would cringe, eyes all slick shiny and firm set on him with fear, edging away like they’d be contaminated by breathing the same air as him, but you would approach him with kindness and familiarity. You smiled and laughed with him. You listened to him talk about his struggles, his past, his fears, with an open heart. You were an angel sent down from heaven to save him, and he scrambled to claim you as his like a man scrambled against being buried alive, like a man with a ball and chain on his ankle scrambled against being thrown into the sea, like a man falsely condemned to the gallows scrambled against being dragged up the platform.

You were perfect. Infallible. Strong, that you could even stomach to be near him. You were golden, crystalline and glittering. You were so luminous, you graced him with your light, shining upon him, illuminating to his eyes that the gaping hole in his being was shaped just like you. You were his destiny. He would suffocate to death without you, and in that, he would rather die with you than without you.

But to his surprise, you had willingly walked to fill him. You came into his life with a smile and a kiss. You let him into your bed, where he lay now. The light of the setting sun casting a rose-coloured glaze about the room. All pillows and blankets and warmth and softness he hadn’t known in years, hadn’t known ever, with your supple skin pressed, melting into his. Your hand interlaced with his own. Held upright, that you both could gaze up at the beautiful perfection that was your connection.

Your other fingertip came up to stroke down from his wrist to his elbow, and he felt the warmth sour just a bit. Oh yeah, you hadn’t seen them before. If there was one thing Jimmy fucking despised about his body more than anything else, it was his arms, bearing all the marks, every bitter reminder of his disgusting and dramatic weakness. He’d long since grown out of that shit. He had more mature ways to hurt himself now. But your gentle fingertip tracked over every dip and elevation that marred his skin, every pearly white scar, thick and thin and every thing in-between, lined up horizontal (and sometimes vertical and diagonal) where long sleeves could hide them. He felt your profound, somber consideration flowing out from the pad of your index finger, heard it in the way your breath changed, and it filled him with discomfort, with a deep sense of wrongness. This tendency was one of his worst shortcomings before he dropped it, and certainly was not deserving of any pity.

He didn’t know what to say. He swallowed thickly. “Yeah, I used to cut myself. Then I figured out that that’s pussy shit, so I quit,” he said flatly, bluntly. He wanted you to drop it, to ignore it, to act like they didn’t exist and never had existed, ‘cause they only made him more pathetic.

Your slow tracing faltered. He heard you inhale, a sound loaded with meaning. You moved your head so that you were leaned up against his shoulder. “…I don’t think it’s pussy shit,” your voice finally came, soft and sad, and it worked up some awful cringe in his gut. He didn’t respond, tensing up against you.

After another couple beats of silence, you spoke again, so terribly, horribly delicate: “You must’ve been in a lot of pain. I’m really sorry, Jimmy.”

He felt a deep throb of anguish in his chest. It confused him, and it lingered painfully. But self-compassion is a feeling, a process entirely inaccessible to him. He’s not going to ruin this moment by trying. He’s perfectly content to leave all the compassion up to you, for whom it comes easy as breathing. He simply dropped his arm, hand still interlocked with yours, pulling it out of view, pulling you down with him.

Most of the time you weren’t even in the room with him, that’s how little consideration he was worth. Occasionally you would come in and unblind him, ungag him, all sickly sweet as you forced another glass of water down his gullet, and he would fight back, that’s just how the game went. Then you would fix him right back up again and leave him to wait yet again.

But it was a pure experience, wrapped in his cocoon of darkness. Time flowed thick like honey. In your bedroom he didn’t have to give one single fuck about the looming rent due date, the rising grocery bill making him wonder how he was gonna feed himself, his water getting shut off for the third time in four months, the cracks on the walls and the spots of mold, the sound of a car getting broken into down the street. It was just him, in singular communion with his predicament; bound, sightless, voiceless, thoughtless, worthless, powerless. And this was the one place he’d ever been where his worthlessness and powerlessness were something to be desired.

From somewhere to his left came the sound of the door opening, yet again, a signal for his brain to turn back on. He heard your soft footsteps crossing the floor to stand before him, the sound of the glass being set down on your dresser in front of him. Then came your hands, stroking his hair, scratching his scalp, a shiver went through his body. Your hands went around to the back of his head, untying the blindfold, and he squinted and blinked into the flood of light, found himself staring into your naked belly. He trailed his eyes up - the perfection of your tits cupped in that bra, up to your face, where you looked so very pleased to see him in as pathetic of a state as he was. You wore no latex, no leather harness, no signifier of your position above him. Here he was being dominated by someone in soft, lacy lingerie.

He’d never say it, but you were the prettiest fucking thing he had ever seen in his life. Sometimes, alone in his apartment, or staring up into the ceiling of his oppressive quarters on the Tulpar, he imagined making something real out of this. Dates and kisses and holding you in his arms at night and all that other stuff. But he wouldn’t dare sully your radiant perfection like that.

“Wakey wakey,” You beamed down at him, and the smile was real, he could tell by the way your eyes creased at the corners. In return, he only gave you unbroken eye contact. Not like he could say anything with this giant ball in his mouth.

“Awww, look at you,” your expression turned to one of theatrical pity, as you stroked your hand down the side of his face, trailed your thumb along his lower lip. “Are you full to bursting yet? I bet it's pretty uncomfortable now. But I think you’re a good, strong boy, I think you can drink another glass. Unless you need the washroom that bad, you know it’s no problem, baby. I won’t be mad. You’ve held out a long time. But you’ll have to beg for it.”

Truthfully, uncomfortable didn’t cut it, the urgency he felt was bordering on painful, but you had stripped him only of his shirt and left him cuffed here still in his pants and underwear. And Jimmy was determined not to piss his fucking pants. Your words, your tone, your eyes, stoked a fiery defiance in him. Your little monologue demanded an answer, he tried to speak but there was only a muffled, rounded sound coming from his open throat.

“Oh, silly me, I forgot to take this off, too,” you smiled, having forgotten absolutely nothing. You unbuckled the strap holding the gag in place, removing it from his mouth. “Now what was that, darling?”

Jimmy’s jaw hurt from being held open, he cringed and hissed, muscles inside his face twinging as his mouth closed for the first time in… god knows how long. But he met your eyes again, resolute. “I’m not fuckin’ begging for shit,” he spat.

You just shrugged. “Fair enough!” You sang as you turned around, picking up the glass with your delicate hand before facing him again. “You know the drill, baby. Open up!” And your soft fingers came up underneath his chin to tilt his head upwards.

Though there was steely defiance in his eyes, his lips parted to accept the rim of the glass as you tipped it, pouring water into his mouth. But frankly, he really, really didn’t want that glass of water in him, and in fact he felt his throat rejecting it, even as he choked down the first sip. He closed his lips, mouth full of water, and you pulled the glass away. He’d have to drink all of it, but at least you were so kind as not to force him to chug it all in one go.

He bowed his head, struggling with the water in his mouth. Quick as a flash, he had an idea. Wasn’t it time to escalate this game, anyways? Let the fun begin.

He raised his head and spit the water on you, that it coated your chest and trickled down your belly to your thighs. Then he spit again, a glob of saliva for good measure, as he looked directly into your eyes. Who the fuck were you to force water down his throat when he was damn near pissing himself, anyways? “How about that, you fucking bitch? You can’t make me do shit!”

A moment of shock flashed across your face. Then you tilted your head, all expression fell, dangerously blank, and it made Jimmy all the more excited as he stubbornly held his head high. Calmly, you placed the glass down on your dresser once more, stood before him, your gaze piercingly cold.

Your slap came like a white flash of light that whipped his head to the side, a moment of dazzling, brilliant pain, and Jimmy felt his cock jump in his pants. He felt the aftermath blooming its red-hot sting on his cheek, had to fight not to piss himself as he reeled from the impact.

You roughly fisted the hair at the top of his head, scalp aching as you forced him back upright, forced his head to tilt back while you leered over him, up close in his face. “Who. The fuck. Do you think you are?” Your face was livid, but there was a glint of delight in your eye.

“Now that’s more like it,” Jimmy thought. He began to laugh, head craned back as far as it would go, beginning as a low chuckle and rapidly picking up intensity.

“Oh, you think it’s funny, do you? Little scumbag.” Your voice was tinged with a cold rage. You released his hair but he didn’t even have a second to process the feeling of relief before you slapped him again. It caught him by surprise; he let out a high, pathetic grunt on impact, reeled over while his vision spun, while tears pricked at his eyes, while his dick throbbed and bladder spasmed painfully. The whole right side of his face burning electric buzzing on the surface.

He didn’t see you take the glass again, but he felt you roughly take him by the jaw, god those little fingers could be strong, nails digging in tiny points of agony on his face (10 times worse where they poked into his still stinging cheek) as you tilted his head upwards again. “What don’t you understand, you worthless fucking worm? You’re my bitch tonight. You don’t get a fucking choice! Now open up,” you shouted in his face, his eyes wide, a sick thrill in his gut. Your hand shifted so that you could squeeze, crush the sides of his face, and it hurt so fucking bad he opened his mouth wide on instinct to relieve the pressure. And you tipped the glass into his mouth. Now he had no option but to try and gulp the water down as fast as possible, quickly failing as water spilled out the sides of his mouth, water splashed up into his nose and stung his sinuses something fierce, as he choked and panicked feeling water go down his trachea -

He keeled over, coughing and choking out onto the plastic sheet below him, water and saliva dripping long trails out of his mouth, water dripping out of his nose while he gasped for air, intermittently coughing again as he tried to catch his breath. The glass wasn’t empty, but you just kept pouring it over his head when he doubled over.

Chest still heaving, water dripping down his face from his hair, he looked up, he met your eyes as you gazed at him from on high, smirking, with a look of victory on your face. Still, he had the strength to thrust his chin in the air and defy you. “Fuck. You.” His face hardened against your gaze. He felt his cock straining unpleasantly against the tightness of his jeans.

You pouted. “Fuck me?” You questioned sarcastically. You looked him up and down, ravishing him with your eyes relishing the sight of him glistening wet and kneeling before you. He almost felt it roll over his body, molestation without touch, in his reduced, humiliated state. “You sure I’m the one who needs to be fucked?”

“Oh, you’ll get yours. You’ve got me tied up now, but in the end, you’re just a cunt, a hole. One day the roles will be reversed on you. You’ll get what you fucking deserve,” he said slow, his voice tinged with venom, though he couldn’t say he really meant it.

Then came a gleam in your eye, a wry smile curled up your mouth. You lifted your foot; he gasped, hissing through his teeth, his steely expression breaking as you slowly stroked his erection through his pants with the ball of your foot. He tried not to let it show, but his eyebrows drew together, his heart quickened in his chest as he looked up at you.

“Look down. I want you to look at it,” you commanded, forceful but calm. And when he didn’t comply, you grabbed him by the hair again and forced his gaze downwards, to watch his bulge move under your foot while he seethed with every stroke. “You talk a big game. Big strong man, with your muscles, your filthy words. Jutting out your chin like you have even an ounce of dignity while you kneel on my floor. But here’s the truth, right under my foot here: you fucking love it. You’re a fucking slut for pain and humiliation.” You pressed your foot harder now, he couldn’t help but to moan at the pressure, the pleasure, and when his abs tightened they pressed on his bladder and the pleasure melded with agonizing desperation. He whimpered. “You defied me with that last glass, but you took all the others. Sure, you fought back a little, but you still opened your mouth like a good boy. You’re full to bursting and you held your piss on my command. And now that this cunt has slapped you around, you’re hard as a rock, getting off on me stroking your dick, with my foot, through your pants. That is who you are, Jimmy,” you explained. It was so matter-of-fact, it struck him right through his core. It was true. Despite it all being a make-believe game, everything laid out and discussed beforehand, it was a brilliant, crystal clear, pathetic, shameful truth right at the centre. Jimmy’s eyes screwed shut as he shuddered, drawing shaky breaths in and out through his open mouth while you rubbed against his cock.

You released his hair, and stroked his scalp gently now, easing the pain. Your foot ceased its motion against his cock, and the tension in his belly relaxed. “But I must say, Jimmy, I’m really impressed. You impressed me.” He raised his head just a fraction, that his head was still bowed before you, and looked up at you through his lashes. You really were beautiful, looking down at him so sweetly, and your praise felt almost as good as your humiliation. He didn’t have the will to be so defiant anymore, under your fingers so gently raking through his hair. “You did manage to hold it. Even through that monumental coughing fit, you still didn’t piss yourself. You might even still get your reward yet. But you’ll have to work for it now, for that little comment. Do you wanna really impress me, Jimmy?”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded, half-lidded eyes. “Yes… ‘wanna impress you…” He mumbled, heart thudding in his chest at your sweetness, though he knew, somewhere deep inside, that he was going to have to pay.

“Awww, you look so dreamy, Jim.” Your eyes - your smile - all morphed in an instant, and his stomach twisted up excited and sick and a little scared at the sheer sadistic glee on your face. That was when your foot came pressing on his lower belly, right on the button of his pants, sending a shock through him that had him jolt, back straight, his face distorted with pain and betrayal and pleasure as you pressed into his bladder.

“No, no! Gh- Aaah!!” He cried out, grit his teeth and trembled, eyes wide and mad, struggling against his cuffs now, but they just scraped a metallic sound up against your bed frame. You laughed in delight.

“C’mon Jimmy, baby, I know you can do it. You can hold it. You can be a good boy. You wanna be a good boy for me? You wanna impress me?” He just seethed through his teeth, heart racing, almost hyperventilating now, the excruciating urgency as he tightened his muscles in a desperate bid to hold his piss against your forceful touch. He tried to back away but just met his back to the bed frame, and your foot followed, pushing him harder. He whimpered with every breath.

Then quickly, something broke in him: “Nnngh-! Please, please! Stop it, I can’t! Please, I’m begging you, I can’t hold it!” He whined, and then whined some more when you pushed your foot harder into his bladder. God, the torturous desperation, his whole pelvis screamed out critical agony under your foot. He knew, he was so hard, this was going to be fucking painful if he was forced to piss himself like this. Now in his racing, panicking mind, the humiliation of pissing his pants before you was a real imminent danger, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to stomach it after the fact.

“Awww, what’s that, Jimmy? I thought you didn’t beg for shit?” You said teasingly and bit your bottom lip as you grinned, twisting his words back on him as you forced your foot deeper, even harder, if it was even possible. “If you really can’t take it, you know the magic word. I won’t be mad.” Jimmy’s eyes began to water as he looked up at you, as you enjoyed every single second that you tortured him.

And then his face dropped in terrible realization - the internal sensation came first, he looked so desperately up into your face. “No, no, no, no,” he stuttered, watched your eyes widen in similar recognition as it started, the pain, the warm and wet sensation now beginning to creep and spread through his pants, on the skin of his thighs. It was done. Your foot came away from his belly. He grimaced, there was hardly a sensation of relief as your pressure let up, as his bladder began to empty, everything was deeply uncomfortable as the stream was forced through his swollen prostate, his erect cock. He couldn’t meet your eyes anymore, just hung his head and watched it happen - now easier because he began to soften watching his piss pool and spread on the plastic sheet beneath him. And then it was over. Now empty, he finally felt the relief, and the shame hanging heavy on his head.

“Now look at the mess you’ve made,” you tsked at him in mock-disappointment. “All over my floor! I thought you wanted to impress me. Seems like I might have to punish you, Jimmy…”

He knew, your ambiguous suggestion, you were trying to give him an out, give him an option to steer things a different way. But he wanted the punishment. What he did, he was disgusting. It’s what he wanted, what he deserved. He raised his head, narrowed eyes looking at you. “Punishment? For what? How the fuck did you expect me to hold it when you were pushing your foot into my damn bladder like that?” He challenged you, edging a tone of bitterness into his voice.

Taking the green light and running with it, you cocked your head and shrugged. “I dunno. That was your task, it was for you to figure out, now wasn’t it?” You retorted, sickly sweet like it was so very obvious.

“Fuck you, you sadistic bitch,” he scowled and spit again, this time at your feet.

You threw your head back and laughed, laughed as you turned and took the keys to his handcuffs from the dresser. “Isn’t that what you come here for, love?” You inspected the keys, selecting one of the two that were on the little ring, and moved behind him. “We’re gonna make sure this never happens again. And I know just how. It’s a little old-fashioned, but… quite effective.” Jimmy was bound by two pairs of handcuffs: one pair around his wrists and one pair securing the other cuffs to the bed. He waited, but wasn’t surprised when you released only the pair that tethered him to the bed.

You held his wrists and bent down to his level. You looked him in the face, and pointed down to his piss puddle on the floor in front of him. He followed your hand, looked down at his mess. “You see this? Bad.” His heart thudded at your forceful condemnation, and he looked back up at you. Your eyebrows drew together, as if to question his audacity. “No, don’t look at me, look at what you did,” you commanded him sharply, and he obeyed, looking down at his piss and then -

Your hand went to grab his hair and you forcefully bent him over, bringing his face down to meet the floor. He screwed his eyes shut waiting for the impact, but just felt the wetness touch his nose, and it smelt like, well, piss down there. “Bad! Bad, Jimmy, do you see what you did?” You admonished him, scolding him and putting his nose in his mess like he was a fucking dog. He opened his eyes, saw the tips of his brown hair touch the puddle and- and- strangely, felt tears welling up. He breathed deeply, jaw clenched and hissing through his teeth, willing himself not to cry. He had never fucking embarrassed himself by crying during one of your sessions and wasn’t about to now.

Still holding his face firmly near the floor, Jimmy heard you from above him: “Now clean up your mess.” No, you couldn’t - he turned his head just enough so that he could see you, turning his bewildered, red-rimmed gaze up at you, but your expression was hard. “Don’t look at me like that. You know exactly what I mean, don’t you? Clean up your fucking mess.”

Sluggishly, Jimmy turned back to the floor. His vision blurred. There was a moment where he questioned - Am I really going to do this? Should I say the word? But finally, slowly, he opened his mouth, extended his tongue, and licked his own piss from the plastic sheet below him. It was bitter, battery acid sour on his tongue. He felt the first tears fall. Stuck out his tongue again, licked again, and that spasmodic cry-breathing started in his chest. But still, your hand fisting his hair and holding his head down, he kept going, licked again, and again, and once more, until he retched, thick saliva drooling from his mouth. He knew it in his heart: this was the lowest he had ever felt, ever been in his life, because he did it all willingly. Then, he couldn’t deny it any longer, he whimpered, started sniffling, whined out little weeping sobs into the floor.

“Okay, I think that’s quite enough…” Your voice came soft now, compassionate as you let go of his hair. He felt your hand on his shoulder guiding him to sit up again, and he turned his head to the side, met your eyes, kneeling next to him as you looked at him gently, wet tears streaking down his cheeks as he tried, failed to stop his crying. “It’s okay, baby, cry if you need to. Nobody’s gonna judge you. You did really good,” you cooed at him, and he shut his eyes, devolving into painful gasping little sobs at your words as you rubbed soothing circles on his back. The words hit him, leaving a burning bittersweet ache in his chest, as you let him cry and cry and cry, like he never had before.

“You did so good, you were so much better than I expected, Jimmy. So obedient taking your punishment,” he felt you press a kiss to the meat of his sagging shoulder while he sniffled. “You were so good, so well-behaved in fact, that I think you deserve an orgasm anyways. Does that sound okay to you? Do you want to cum?” He turned his weary, wet eyes to you, with that loving, praiseful expression on your face, thinking for a second before he nodded. He almost didn’t want it, didn’t think he deserved it, but…

You smiled at him. “Yes, baby, that’s good. I’m gonna make you feel so good, Jimmy.” You were quick to work, reaching your two hands in front of him to undo the button of his jeans, unzipping his fly. His sniffling and tears had stopped now, but his eyes and face still felt swollen as he watched you work. His pants and underwear were still wet, but if you gave a fuck about it, he couldn’t tell as you delved confidently under the waistband and pulled his now flaccid cock out. He watched you trail your index finger, feather-light up and down his length as you leaned in, chin on his shoulder. He looked at you when you made contact. You turned your eyes towards him and you looked so pleased, so adoring, it felt funny in his stomach, even funnier after what had just transpired. “I want to make you feel good. That’s all I want, Jimmy. I want to make you cum. How could I not, after you cried those big, beautiful tears for me?” His cock twitched.

Oh, so it was like that? “Did you enjoy it?” His voice was quiet, and a little mistrustful, bitter. You took your head off his shoulder for a brief moment just to spit in your hand, then take up his now hardening length in your palm. A tentative stroke, and he took a sharp breath in.

“Of course I did… I’ve never seen you cry before,” you started stroking him in earnest, gentle on his half hard dick, and he groaned. “Why do you think I like tying you up and giving you pain, huh? I like to see you vulnerable. I think crying might be the most vulnerable you’ve ever been in front of me.” Why did those words go straight to his cock? It jumped in your hand, and you giggled, giving a little attention to the head that made his mouth part, that made the blood rush readily to swell between his legs. His heart and breathing quickened. “I’m willing to bet it even feels good now, that it feels like a relief.”

“I don’t know about that…” He mumbled on the exhale of one heaving breath. And really, he wasn’t sure. Crying in front of you like that felt mostly like salt in the wound that was him licking his own urine off the floor. But given that you were the one currently jerking him off, he wasn’t going to challenge you more than that.

“Maybe you haven’t cried enough to know what that relief feels like yet,” you mused to him, now he was fully hard as you stroked your loose fist over the length of his shaft, building up a growing, burning tension that made him sigh. He felt the impulse to buck his hips into your grasp, but he knew better.

“But hey, Jimmy, at least now you know something,” your voice turned sly, as he watched a lopsided grin form on your face. “I’ve seen you in lots of different ways over the years, and now I’ve seen you lick your own piss, and I’ve seen you cry in front of me,” you tightened your grip around him ever so slightly, picked up your pace, your ministrations building a fire in his belly as you leaned into his ear, whispered like a secret: “…and I still really, really like you a lot.”

At that, Jimmy’s eyes rolled closed, and he grit his teeth, letting out a strangled little whimper, his cock throbbing in your hand. You took it as your cue to start a furious tempo, each little slap of his skin sounding out in time with the flicks of your wrist in the silence of your room. He felt you pull away from his shoulder but he kept his eyes closed, focusing fully on the sensation building in him, the way you knew his cock so well, the way the pleasure crackled like electricity in his nerves, the way your words bounced around in his head. Then you started up shallower fast strokes, focusing on the head, each motion of your hand a more intense sensation, your thumb stroking over the ridge, your fingers rubbing the underside with purpose, that he was consumed in whole by the feeling of you. He felt his hips twitch upwards, struggled against the desire to just let go and-

“‘S that good? If thrusting will make you feel good, then thrust, baby,” you cooed, your voice low in his ear, and with that permission he started bucking his hips wantonly into your fist. The added motion, his muscles contracting, only served to heighten the pleasure, even as you struggled to keep your rhythm, your technique, he didn’t care, it still felt so fucking good his mouth dropped open to let out these low, guttural moans in time with every motion of his hips. The tension inside was reaching its peak, he could feel it, and it was gonna snap…

“I can feel your cock pulsing, Jimmy, I know you’re close. Cum for me, I wanna see you cum, I wanna see your pretty o-face…” Now his rhythm faltered as his hips stuttered, as he teetered on the edge, and you picked up where he fell off, stroking him so rapidly, stroking him until finally! He positively whined, broke inside, the tension let up, and his cock spasmed with every pulse of his orgasm, every flick as you stroked him through his release. “That’s it, that’s it, there you go. Good, feels good, huh? You deserve it.” You praised him sweetly as he came.

There he was, gasping and exhausted in the aftermath, and finally he opened his eyes in front of him. And well, he didn’t really wanna look at his piss on the floor, so he turned to you, your breathtaking face, where you were looking at your hand, where his cum was dripped all down the back of your knuckles. Your eyes flicked from your hand, up to Jimmy’s eyes, back down to your hand. You brought your hand up to your mouth, and making direct eye contact, you licked at his cum, which made his heart leap and his stomach flip in some kinda way. You grinned. “Look at you. Your face and chest are all red,” you said, running your fingertips over the mound of his pectoral.

Beside him, you stood up. He heard the keys jingling as you retrieved them from the bed, and he presented his wrists as best as he could for you to uncuff him. He grunted as he brought his hands to his front - god, it had been hours, his shoulders were painful and stiff as he rubbed his wrists.

“Do you want some water?” You asked gently, standing above him. Jimmy just looked at you for a moment, thinking “are you serious?” and scoffed, opened his mouth to speak.

But you closed your eyes, held your hand out to stop him, and quickly backpedaled: “No, no. You’re totally right, maybe not. I guess the most important thing right now is to get you cleaned up.” Looking down at him, you offered your hand, and he took it while he struggled to get up off his knees, groaned in pain, staggered feeling dizzy while you steadied him on his feet.

He was finally towering over you, looking down at you. Still, your soft hand in his, he let you lead him out of your bedroom and towards the washroom, talking to him as you went: “We’ll get you a hot shower and then, yeah, I’ll get your pants in the washing machine. Maybe it would have made sense to bring extra clothes but, I guess you did just show up on my doorstep, didn’t know we would end up doing this tonight… Are you hungry? Maybe we can order some food after if you’ll be here for a while. Or maybe, maybe you could even stay the night, I don’t know… If you want,” you turned and looked up at him, lovely owlish eyes asking him to stay, without asking.

“Oh…” You intoned in mock insult, but softened. “Okay. I take full responsibility. But I’m here now to help. Go sit down.” You waved him over to the couch and he flopped down, slumped over on his side and curled up under the blanket, knees to his chest. You shed your outerwear, hanging your jacket on the hook and lining your boots up neatly on the tray. He groaned as you went to bring the bags closer to the couch.

“I’m freezing… I can’t get warm,” he mumbled. “And I’ve never ached so bad in my fuckin’ life…”

“I’ve got you some medicine, don’t worry.” You rifled through the bag, and placed a rattling bottle of Advil and the same bottle of NyQuil he had brought you, now half empty, side by side on the coffee table. “Advil will help with the aches, the NyQuil is for everything else. Let me go get you a glass of water.”

You got up and headed to his kitchen, bringing the crinkling brown paper bag with you, the savoury smell of fried food wafting about. “Are you hungry, Jimmy?”

“No… But I know I should eat. I haven’t really had anything today.”

“Okay, I’ll make you a little plate. You should have something if you’re taking ibuprofen anyways.” After placing the bag on the counter, you opened it, staples tearing strips out as you recalled his feeble voice over the phone: “…and could you go to the fried chicken place? With the good mac and cheese… And fries, and coleslaw.”

You smiled with warm affection, how cute he could be without even meaning it. This was definitely less nutritious than his soup he had so graciously made for you, but it was calorie dense, at least. You took a glass and a plate, and a fork from his cupboards and spooned out a small portion of everything, selecting a prime piece of chicken, and filled the glass with water from the tap. Then, brought both back to the living area, setting them down in front of him.

“Thanks,” Jimmy said. He was sat upright now, shivering under his blanket. He had poured himself a dose of the cough syrup and knocked it back with expert skill. Opened the Advil and shook out two little reddish brown pills, swallowed them down with a sip of water.

You went back to your bags, pulled out a big rolled up blanket, and unfurled it, the electric cord hanging from the corner falling to the ground with a plastic thud. “I went and dug my electric blanket out of storage, just for you,” you sang with a grin.

All folded in on himself, pale and clammy, with dark bags under his eyes, he looked so small sitting there, listlessly eating from his plate. It tugged at your heart. “Aww, you look terrible,” you kissed his messy hair as you wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, taking the cord and plugging it into the wall socket next to the couch.

“Thanks, babe. You looked fresh as a spring rose when you were all snotty, hacking your lungs out,” he muttered sarcastically through a mouthful of food, while he took the control for the blanket and clicked it up to high.

You just smiled, gently scratched his scalp with your fingers as you passed by on your way back to the kitchen. “I’m gonna make myself a plate. Hang in there, Jim.” He just hummed. You heard him flicking through channels on the TV behind you as you walked away. Coughed a little, though not as intense as he had when you came in.

When you came back, there was some documentary playing low, and Jimmy was laid down, curled and trembling under the heated blanket, eyes shut, shuddering breaths passing his lips. His plate was abandoned, half eaten on the coffee table, though he had drank the water down. The only free space was at the end of the couch by his feet, so that’s where you sat. Jimmy stretched his leg out, just enough to make contact with the sole of his foot to your thigh. You pulled the edge of the blanket over to cover him and keep his body heat in. Then you started eating, half-watching the documentary that you couldn’t really hear, time punctuated by the occasional cough or groan coming from him at the other end of the couch.

When you were finished, you got up, and Jimmy’s legs retreated back further under the blanket with a low whine. You took both plates and his glass and went to the kitchen, scraping the leftovers into the trash before leaving the plates in the sink. You refilled his glass and returned to the living area.

“…I’m really cold… and it hurts so bad…” Jimmy whimpered, eyes still closed, and you pouted, feeling so sorry for him as you looked down. You set the glass down, and pressed your palm to his forehead.

“Hopefully the meds kick in soon. You’re burning up.”

“Yeah I bet,” he murmured as your palm went from assessing his temperature to caressing his face. You moved to sit back down where you were before, but he stopped you. “Wait- c’mere,” he looked up at you with glassy, half-lidded eyes. “I want- I need your body warmth…” He pleaded. He sounded so sweet when he pleaded with you.

“You want me to cuddle with you?” You asked in clarification.

“…Yeah…”

“Alright, Jim. Let me in then,” you agreed. It wasn’t a hard choice. “Sheesh, and the way you fought against cuddling me…” You teased in false hurt.

“I hadn’t been sick with what you had yet. But you’ve already been sick with what I got now, so it doesn’t matter,” he lifted the blanket with his one arm and hissed through his teeth, shuddering with the other arm pressed close to his chest while you crawled underneath. You pressed your body face to face with his. He dropped the blanket over you and drew that arm in close to him, crossing them between your bodies for as much warmth as he could. You moved your own arm, prompting him to lift his head so you could slip it underneath and cradle him in your arms. You rubbed soothing circles into his back and he sighed, still trembling slightly in your embrace.

You bent your neck down to kiss him on the forehead, giving little scratches on his scalp through his hair. “You’re gonna get all sweaty and then I’ll get sweaty,” you complained, light and unserious.

“Worth it.”

“How do you know?”

“Cause I’m always worth it, aren’t I, darlin’?” He mumbled, voice heavy with exhaustion.

You sighed. “Can’t argue with that.” Certainly it was worth it, at least to be the one holding him in your arms instead of the other way around. Jimmy didn’t like to feel weak, or small like that. It was a precious, rare moment for him to let himself be held, cradled and comforted so softly while he curled up and pressed himself close to your warmth. “You are worth it, Jimmy.” You kissed his forehead again, and he only hummed in response.

It was nice. He rubbed his leg against yours, up and down, and gradually his shivering stopped, all while you caressed his back and his hair. His body relaxed against yours, his breathing gradually slowing until you could tell he was asleep.

of course if you hate this kinda treatment that much, he’ll stop. he won’t torment you. but if, say, you ask him to only touch you in ways and places that dont remind you of your fatness too much, he’ll have an intuition that its because of feelings of insecurity whether you say so or not. and it makes him so so sad because all he wants is to show you how wonderful your body is to him, how delightful it is to touch you in all your softness, how the very presence of you squished up next to him is such a comfort that its all he can do to grab at you and pull you closer and closer to him in crushing embrace- there is no part of you that is so disgusting that Laios wouldnt want to explore.

on the topic of insecurity. if youre feeling bad about the way you look, whether its just a bad image day, or if you find out that you gained some weight and have to get new clothes made from the tailor, he will reassure you. but it will not be a tactful and gentle kind of reassurance, he’s not going “noooo baby but youre still so beautiful tho 🥺.” boy is so so delighted to inform you of all the reasons why its GOOD that youre fat. he has like a whole presentation prepared and he’s talking a mile a minute about how he loves that youre not afraid to eat a full days worth of nutritious meals, and how its good to put on weight to crawl the dungeon, about the energy you expend doing all that walking and fighting and the calories it takes to get revived if you die, talking about how you can go longer in the cold before succumbing to hypothermia and longer without food before youre incapacitated by hunger, how having a thick layer of fat means your vital organs are better protected from slashing and stabbing and blunt force damage alike, getting more passionate as he goes on. and by the time your eyes are glassy and ears are fuzzy from all the knowledge he imparted upon you he grabs you by the shoulders, fingers digging into your deltoids, glowering down at you with a look of such intensity that you shrink away, he finishes his rant with a deathly seriousness: “and….. it makes you really sexy, too..!”

and he does think youre so so fucking sexy; congratulations because it genuinely doesnt happen often! ususally he's too busy thinking about monsters and dungeon ecology and how to make his next incursion below more successful.... if you're reading to this point still somehow thinking that by "fat" i mean "exclusively chubby" then don't worry... i mean, yes he will drool over your cute little tummy pooch and your thick thighs, and he daydreams about sucking your full, round boobs - but he also starts sweating the first time he sees the way your breasts sag under your shift, he wants to taste your skin, he wants to leave bite marks on your back rolls, and side rolls, and he wants to dive in the folds of your belly, and when he sees your luscious pubic mound he gets dizzy and lightheaded because all the blood is going to his cock-

he'd happily die suffocating between your thighs

don't feel anxious about the way you smell around him - you don't, at least no more than anyone else after a long day of walking, but if you did, Laios is a known freak and he's totally into that. you'll never forget the first time you found this out; you were enjoying a simple embrace with him before washing up at the end of the day, your arms thrown around his neck as he leaned down and pressed his forehead into your shoulder, inhaling deep a few relaxed breaths before something changed, his body tense underneath you. you almost pulled away to ask what's wrong but - he grabbed you at the elbow and outright manhandled your arm to stop you from pulling away or pinning your arm to your side, and it's then that you realized to your utter mortefaction that he'd stuck his nose in the crook of your arm and was sniffing your armpit. you almost made a fuss asking him what the hell is he doing?!?! except for the fact that chilchuck was over in the corner organizing his pack and marcille was facing the wall combing out her hair in the mirror and neither of them have seemed to notice anything and you would never, never, never live it down from either of them if you were to draw their attention. but ultimately you couldn't help the way your heart softened to your big weirdo man when he finally pulled his face out of your pit, flushed red to his ears, his irises a thin golden ring around his wide dilated pupils, as he breathed out "I dunno why, but it smells so good..."

when he eats you out, he's literally huffing your pussy scent. he takes his time smelling you as he kisses his way down your thighs. and when he's buried in your folds, sometimes it's almost concerning and you think there's something wrong. is he starved for air, can he breathe down there??? (i did say he'd be happy to die there....) no. thats just how into it he is. one time you ask him what it smells like to him, thinking maybe his perception is significantly different, perhaps because of his hormonal profile or something, and he pauses to think for a moment before elaborating: "it smells like, musky and animalic... a little sweet, and kind of funky, like a little sour and salty almost like sweat, it's so great!" maybe not what you expected, but he only sounded more and more giddy about it as he went on.

he can tell roughly where you are in your cycle based on your smell. this comes far enough into your relationship that nothing can surprise you anymore.

he just loves watching you as he fucks you. the way the shockwave of each thrust ripples throughout your whole body, your tits jiggling back and forth with each gasp of pleasure, and the way it sounds so obscene with your wetness spread out over your plush thighs clicking when his hips make contact and when he pulls away. theres no time or space in your head to be self conscious when you're making those sweet uh uh uh uh sounds every time his cock bottoms out inside you. he loves to pull back and watch it happen, the way his shaft glistens with your slick between your pillowy lips, savouring the stroke of delicious pleasure shooting through his nerves as he glides back in, watching as his pubic bone meets your cushiony mons and the way you shake under it all, your body so completely open to him, he could hardly imagine a more erotic sight or a more beautiful person to share this part of him with

“It makes me feel like you love me and trust me. That you trust me enough to be honest - that you trust me to comfort you, to do better by you, that you believe in me and my ability to meet your needs, that you believe I can be there for you in a way that makes you happy,” he elaborated, reaching his hands out and taking yours. “I feel valued.”

You flitted from golden eye to golden eye, searching his expression desperately for any inconsistency, any unfinished edge, any loose thread that would unravel his perfect honesty and found none. Your frail smile faltered. He was like the life-giving sun, but you felt as though you were in the desert being beat down by his radiance. You wanted to shrink away, and your shoulders hunched. Oh that sentiment was so nice, and certainly he meant it. But that just meant it would hurt exponentially more when he was done with you, when he finally realized-

“What’s going on? What are you thinking?” He stooped his head closer to yours, and tears welled up in your eyes, your lips parted in a wince as you shook your head. Laios’ brow furrowed. “No, something’s wrong. This is what I mean: I want to help you, you want me to help you, but I can’t unless you tell me what’s going on! So please just tell me what you’re thinking!” The urgency in his voice struck you like an arrow through the heart.

It wasn’t like you could be much more humiliated than you already were. It felt like it was already over, it was going to blow to pieces either way. Your thoughts felt slippery as you gathered them as best you could, your vision starting to blur. You turned your gaze downwards, you couldn’t even look Laios in the eye as you drew a shaky breath in.

“You say that, but,” your voice was quiet, “you don’t understand - we’ll both regret it when you realize…” The words caught, you couldn’t say it.

“When I realize what?” He insisted.

The few seconds of silence felt like an hour. Then, quiet as a whisper, you admitted, with much difficulty: “My needs… my feelings… I’m really hard to deal with… I'm too much... You’ll realize I’m a huge fucking burden, and then you won’t want me anymore!!” You sobbed, and before the tears could fall you covered your face with your hands and hung your head, feeling two inches tall, feeling so deeply embarrassed and ashamed to the core of your being. You wished you could just disappear.

"You think I don't already know you're a burden?"

The words shocked and pained you so deeply you stopped crying, eyes shot up in gape-mouthed, grief stricken disbelief as you recoiled. He was fast with it. All these years, nobody had ever affirmed your belief so directly, nobody had ever stated it so plainly. You'd heard many empty platitudes that were hard to believe, precisely because in the end they had always proved you right - whatever you needed the most, whenever you needed it the most, you were always left in the dust, alone and despairing, and feeling like the biggest idiot in the world for your blind hope.

You saw his face change - he cringed, looking extremely pained, and with panic started to explain: "D-Don't get me wrong! Agh..." For a moment he held his brow in his palm, then took a deep breath, composing himself before he continued. He grabbed you by the shoulders.

"Everyone's a burden, aren't they? Just thinking of my friends - Marcille is really picky and particular. Chilchuck is way too proud and secretive, and he drinks a lot. Falin is my little sister, so I have to be there for her, look out for her. And Senshi... Well, Senshi seems to have a lot figured out already." He paused, and broke eye contact for a moment to look at the floor. "And we all know how I am..." His tone was incredibly loaded, and your heart broke because he was the brightest and most vibrant being you had ever met, having faced a lifetime of hardship and betrayal and still coming out the other side so true to himself.

He leaned in closer to your face. "The point is, though, they all have needs - and they know how to ask for help when they need it! You only ask for help when it becomes an emergency. If even then." His expression softened. "I know you have lots of needs. I know because I've worked really hard to meet them, without embarrassing or scaring you by asking. And it meant a lot of thinking, constant planning, lying awake at night wondering, asking everyone for advice... It's tiring work." He went down the list and you broke his gaze, looking downwards. You felt low, ashamed at all the trouble you've caused him, all because you tried to be no trouble at all. What a right mess you've made.

"Hey, look at me," his hand came up, fingers resting so gently on your jaw, and your watery eyes obliged. "I did it because I wanted to! It makes me happy to see you happy, or fulfilled, or relieved, and to know that it's because of me! I did all of that because I love you! But I can’t keep up with all that hard work all the time. I don’t think it’s fair.” You had been fending off the tears as you listened but now the dam broke again, hot as they rolled down your face, and you sniffled as your nose clogged up. “So can you please help me help you easier? Would you please help me love you like that?” His eyes were glassy now as he looked down at you.

The cry came out of your throat as a whine as Laios took you in his arms, embracing you tight while you sobbed into his chest, clutching at the fabric of his shirt around his back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorryyy,” you repeated through the tears and he shushed you, holding you while you cried it out until your gasping, hiccuping breaths slowed and calmed.

It was hard to say what you needed to say next, because you had to admit you were wrong about something you had believed so deeply for most of your life. It wasn’t easy to fully give up the idea that had kept you safe for so long. “I’ll try to be more honest about my feelings… and to ask for help before it’s too late…” Still in his embrace you lifted your head to look up at him, and stared into his eyes with intensity. “It’s terrifying, I won’t lie. But… I trust you.” How couldn’t you trust someone who was so deeply genuine as he was?

He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead between your brows, and your eyes rolled closed. When he pulled away you turned your head and pressed your ear to his chest. “I want you to be happy. I want this to work. I love you so much,” he said, and you felt the words rumble against your cheek.

“That’s fair- I’ve had to escape the crowd quite a bit myself these past few days.”

The little hollow is small, just enough for two people to stand in intimate quarters. There’s dappled sunlight on your face, a warm green glow all around, and the sounds of the great feast, voices in revelry, are muffled. Only a scant few inches separate your bodies - though his heart still quickened, Laios would have been much more nervous in this situation only a matter of weeks ago. But after his experience in the dungeon, all that he went through with you and the rest of the party, he feels changed. He sees it in you, too - the way you meet his eyes with ease and a gleam of confidence that was not there before. Significant enough that even he could tell the difference. It made him happy to see you this way.

So why are you looking at him like that, now, with your eyebrow raised, head cocked to the side?

He looks down and finally notices you’re carrying something in your hand; a square of waxed paper with two pieces of meat on top, thin strips rolled up into bite sized spirals and pinned with wooden skewers, glistening with brown glaze. A third one is poised between your index finger and thumb, being held out in offering.

“Are you alright, Laios?” You question, and he blinks back into focus, rubbing his eyes.

“Yeah, just lost in thought…” He feels heat on his face. “I must be more spent than I thought.”

“Maybe this will help you feel better!” You beam at him, and your smile strikes him right in the heart. “I bet you haven’t tried it yet- actually I know you haven’t because I just watched it come out of the smoker… But I bet you’ll love it!”

He lifts his hand, but you’ve already started raising your own hand up towards his mouth to feed it directly to him. His fingers go back to his side to fidget with the leg of his pants as he leans in, mouth wide. You bump the corner of his mouth, leaving behind a spot of sauce.

“Oops,” you giggle. But he has no time to think about how vibrant you are, because his mouth explodes with rich flavour when he pulls it from the skewer with his teeth, sweet and tangy spiced glaze covering the savoury, fatty deliciousness of the meat. He expects to chew, but his tongue pushes into the meat easily and the fat and muscle disintegrate equally in his mouth as his eyes widen.

“What is this?” He asks incredulously around his mouthful.

You grin at him. “Dragon belly! Other than that, I don’t know.”

Laios swallows, sad that it’s over so soon, though he’s already eyeing the next two pieces in your hand. “It’s so rich! And the way it melts in your mouth! This is great!”

“Right?!” You say in enthusiastic agreement, and offer up the remaining two bites from the palm of your hand. He takes one and devours it, forgetting to even savour it for its deliciousness, and his desperation to get it into his belly. “Take the other one, it’s all for you. I’ve had a lot already, I just wanted you to try it.”

All for you. He takes it from your hand. You crumple the wax paper, shoving it in your pocket to dispose of later, and watch him, gleaming in the filtered sunlight. He eats this one with intentionality, looks down at you with warmth, his mouth full. “I love you,” he thinks. It startles him to hear the words, even in his own head, the weight of that realization gripping his heart in his chest. His expression drops, but you don’t seem to notice.

In fact, you lift your hand and swipe your thumb across the corner of his mouth, and Laios freezes before you draw it away. And then you look down, pondering the spot of glaze with pursed lips. “Hm.” Evidently you hadn’t considered how you were going to get it off your own hand. You settle to just lick it off, and his heart flips in his chest. He feels electrified, swallowing the delectable bite down thickly. So close, so close…

He grips your wrist, still staring at your thumb before he raises his eyes to meet yours. Only a half step forward and he can feel your bodies touching. He is overwhelmed by his want.

“Laios…?” You question softly, smile fading, though he cant quite read the expression it faded to. But you’re not nervous, by the way you haven’t broken eye contact - at least he hopes. His heart is pounding. But if there’s any time to be bold, to take action, it’s now, right?

He leans in, a crawling pace that belies his trepidation, giving you every chance to back away. But you don’t push him or jerk back, so he tilts his head, eyes slowly fluttering closed - this is how you do it, right? Yet something catches him, right as he feels the breath from your parted lips on his own. Your eyes - he realizes you were still staring at him wide-eyed as he drew near, as his own eyes closed. Why were you staring at him?

He pulls back, eyebrows drawn, and yours go to match as he searches your gaze, heart sickly thudding under his sternum as his stomach tightens. He feels out of control now, internally cursing his correction, agonizing in the span of a second over whether he should’ve just gone with it. His options now are to retreat, or to question:

“Is this… Is this okay? Can I…” But the words falter. He can’t make the words “kiss you” leave his throat. His face and ears are burning, and he is starting to sweat under his collar.

You sigh and tilt your head, though your face doesn’t relax. He feels a spike of sick, cringing panic in his gut, until you open your mouth: “Please, Laios,” you insist breathily, “please kiss me…”

He blinks; with a sigh he is flooded with cool, sweet relief. “Oh…” He lets go of your wrist and raises his hand, tucks a wayward strand of hair behind your ear, presses his calloused palm into your velvet soft jawline, fingers wrapped gently around the nape of your neck. Your eyes soften at his touch, your hand goes to rest on his bicep.

“It’s real now…” He thinks, feeling you gently squeeze his arm. “It’s actually happening…” But the look in your eyes feels wide open, he blinks into your warm gaze before finally shutting his lids and leaning in to press a stiff, chaste kiss to your lips, holding for a heart racing moment against your plush mouth, until he finally pulls away.

He can see you looking between each of his eyes, and suddenly you break into a smile and laugh. Both of your hands go to cradle the back of his head. He doesn’t have time to wonder why you’re laughing at him before you pull him towards you and meet his lips again, different now as you kiss him, this rolling and sucking motion that stokes up a fire in his chest. It’s an unfamiliar rhythm but he catches on, if a little sloppy and ungraceful, as he presses his face into yours with increasing fervour. The sensation of your fingers through his hair prompts him to cross his arms around your back and hug you close to his own body, a vain attempt to crush you into him and meld together.

He only pushes into you harder when he feels you retreat, chasing your mouth as you pat the back of his head. But finally you grip his hair and force him off, he whimpers in pain as you gasp for breath.

“What was that?” He questions, a little hurt and confused, though your bodies are still pressed together.

“Maybe you can breathe with that big nose between us,” your chest heaves, hungry for air, “but I sure can’t.” You smile, and your whole mouth glistens with your mixed saliva. You wipe it with the back of your hand. “Your mouth tastes like the dragon belly,” you muse, laughing breathily, and you lean into him. The feeling of you against him is nice.

“You just taste like saliva,” he remarks, and ponders for a moment because, it tasted almost like nothing and yet he only wanted more, more, more. “It’s very very subtle. Mostly tastes like nothing. Kind of like skin, kind of… mineral? Almost sweet, even,” he elaborates unprompted, fingers ghosting absentmindedly up and down your back. Almost sweet, because while it wasn’t necessarily sweet, there was a sensation of sweetness that exploded in his mind… who knew the taste of someone’s spit could be so addictive?

He finds you still looking at him, this time with a clear streak of amusement in your expression. He’s almost embarrassed, most people don’t exactly ask for the taste profile of their own saliva, but the feeling is dispelled when you trail your hand down his arm, to interlace your fingers in his.

“You make me want more of that dragon belly…” You sigh.

“Me too,” he nods, eyes closed to recall the flavour. and after a beat, he feels you pull him gently.

“Well, we ought to hurry, cause that stuff was going fast,” you say, already parting through the branches again and pulling him along, “but I’m sure they would spare whatever’s left for the King himself.” You turn your head and give him a sly smile.

Oh yeah, that’s why he was hiding. He cringes a little into the back of your head. Being king is cool and all, but he’s been feeling the weight of everyone’s lofty expectations.

Jimmy had been to every morgue in the city at this point, had viewed six Jane Does, colourless and laid all square as they were pulled out from refrigeration. None of them were you. It's a gruesome business that he didn't particularly enjoy, viewing these random dead women, but a necessary part of the process; your parents were far away in a different country and he was the only one who knew your face intimately enough to prove that you were in fact absent from the cold chamber.

He had something to thank those unidentified women for, at least: each of their corpses not being you strengthened his conviction that you were going to turn up. Fuck what the cops said, you were the only good thing that ever happened to him, the best thing he'd ever had and held and he didn't give a fuck about their opinion, especially not after they interrogated him like he was your killer. Clearly they had no fucking clue what they were talking about. You were going to turn up, probably not safe or sound, and you probably wouldn't be the same, but you would be alive, and if you had shown him anything it was that if someone was changed for the worse, they could always be changed for the better after. Hope is what you'd given him and it was alive and vigorous, pulsing defiantly in his chest. He was going to have and hold you again.

It’s why he holds his chin up and walks across the mortuary floor with an air of confidence, even boredom, as he’s led to the wall of morbid fridge doors by the attendant and detective. Sterile stainless steel surfaces gleam dully all around them. Curly, who’d insisted on coming with him for “support” every time, is less sure as he trails behind, his nice leather shoes clacking against the tile. Don’t they make a pair; Curly in a woolen pea coat and cashmere scarf and Jimmy in a cheapo parka all wearing out at the seams, as they stand side by side across from the attendant, who is warning them so very carefully about what they’re about to see. Jimmy resists rolling his eyes. “Just get on with it so I can go home already,” he’s thinking, just before the attendant pulls the handle and rolls the body out in its bag.

So cautious and gentle is the attendant as he unzips the bag.

Curly flinches away at the sight, his hand snapping up to cover his eyes as he groans and turns away.

Jimmy is frozen still as neurons fire.

Animal instinct, he runs. Runs like mortal peril itself is lying on that slab, like reality is dissolving just behind his heels. The detective moves to intercept him but there’s a shout as Jimmy pushes past, shoving him to the floor.

“That’s- that’s her. Fuck!” Curly curses, strained. He sneaks one last ill-advised glance and screws his eyes shut again - underneath the splotchy bruises and misaligned nose and jaw it’s unmistakable. Behind him Jimmy leans weak-kneed grasping at the exit door frame, doubles over and retches once before the vomit comes up and splatters on the floor. Then he disappears from the room, the door slamming behind him with jarring finality that leaves the morgue silent as death.

Adrenaline propels him up the stairs and through blurry hospital halls and out into the snow. And he runs. And he keeps running. “I’ll just run forever,” the voice says, small as a boy, from inside the eye of the storm. But the universe has other plans for him, a chunk of compacted snow has him crashing and rolling across the frigid ground. His aging ankle screams, there’s a terrible snap from somewhere in his wrist, freezing hard snow abrades his cheek and he tastes blood in his mouth. With the breath stolen from his lungs, he lies on his back struggling for air. And grinning like a wolf, caustic and violent, the world-destroying despair that pursued him catches up, descending upon him and piercing him right through.

When he leaves the hospital, Curly only has to follow the sound; somewhere, a man is screaming, wailing in anguish. He follows it out to a field, dotted with dormant trees. In the summertime, it’s a sprawling, blooming garden on the hospital grounds, but it’s bleak and barren in the cold grey light of this winter day, thick with overcast clouds. Jimmy is a silhouette in the distance, small and crumpled like a crushed insect. “This is bad. This is really bad,” Curly worries. There’s a tense, creeping feeling of horror in his gut as he approaches. The sight of Jimmy like this is so deeply unfamiliar it’s like an unsettling, uncanny valley sensation, as if something not quite human has crawled into his skin and taken over.

As he draws nearer, something becomes clear: as he’s curled up on his knees doubled over with his forehead almost kissing the ground, hands white knuckle tangled through his brown hair damn near tearing his own scalp off, he’s not just screaming, open mouthed and raw. After every ragged, heaving inhale is a word, “Why? Why?,” ripping from Jimmy’s throat. Curly’s heart breaks for his best friend. His mind is racing with every step trying to tease out the right thing to say, to soothe, to tame the man before him. He’s fixed a lot of things for Jimmy, and this was going to be his hardest task yet.

He begins softly as he approaches, and makes to kneel down next to him. “Jim. Jim. Listen, we-”

“SHUTTHEFUCKUP! SHUTTHEFUCKUP! DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME! DON’T FUCKING COME NEAR ME!!” Jim screams as he whips around, the words pressured and slurred as they bang into each other on the way out. His hazel eyes are crazed, like he’s not all there, pink-tinged spittle flying from his mouth. Curly backs away, heart palpitating in fear, as Jimmy begins to rise to his feet, rabid and rageful. “TOUCH ME AND I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL YOU AND I’LL KILL MYSELF I DON’T-” He cuts off with a cry of pain, almost to his feet, the weight on his ankle has sent him collapsing to the ground again. For a few tense seconds, he seethes into the snow, clenching his fists, attempting to rise once more, until finally he goes limp, and devolves into desperate sobs.

For once, Curly thinks better: there is nothing, nothing he can say, nothing he can do right now, that will save Jimmy. He lost a love, and Curly doesn’t understand that. Still, he wouldn’t dare leave. He kneels down before his friend, and cautiously reaches his hand out to rest it on his back. This time, there are no threats. Jimmy is inconsolable, but still, he crawls to close the remaining distance and clings to Curly like he’s the very last thing mooring him to the Earth. The tears well up in Curly’s own blue eyes and fall, as he encloses his arms around Jim.