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You're admittedly a bit of a lightweight.
At least compared to your partner, already downing a shot glass like it's nothing. Totally unfazed. You can't hold a candle to his resilience.
His eyes aren't any lower-lidded than they usually are, yet you already feel yourself slipping a bit, the hard edges of yourself blurring away to make room for mild recklessness, despite having only taken a few sips out of a wine glass. Your gaze drifts to inspect the bottle you poured from as it sits right next to your laiden arm, and suppose maybe that's why this one in particular was so pricey. Get you fucked up quick and easily, the only way you like it, though it's a very bad habit to have. You've tried to wane away from it when you can help it. There's just not much else out there that inhibits your ability to think and feel.
You put your glass down noiselessly, before you get too carried away, and just watch. Dismas runs a clawed hand through his hair – probably thinking about getting it cut again, he's always a bit picky about it – and stares to the wall opposite you. He doesn't know you're looking at him. Which is good, for one thing, because you're not really putting a lot of effort into hiding the red-tinted fondness in your eyes. But you also feel... guilty about it. You shouldn't, given you already have your eyes on him (and everyone else for that matter) at practically all times, and the fact that you are basically a married couple – yet the churning feeling persists.
You've almost forgotten why he came here in the first place. It's been a long while since the two of you first bonded, which means the chemistry needs to be somewhat routinely readjusted, physically. You think you've led it slide for too long, let it take an unnoticed toll on both you and Dismas. Which... isn't good , but it's not like you can really fault yourself for forgetting. You forget a lot of things, significant or not. Not like you choose to.
Even just seeing him in person is enough to make you feel a bit weak in the stomach, some effect of the hormones or whatever. If you were able to control it, you probably wouldn't be hopelessly harboring red feelings for the guy. It's just one of those things you can't get a vice grip on, no matter how much you want to. So you really, really shouldn't feel guilty about the way you're looking him over, or the things you think about when he's around, or...
He turns to look at you, eyes slightly dilated. Your own eyes dart around nervously for a moment.
"So," he begins, unpracticed and awkward, "did you have anything in particular planned?"
You shrug. "We fuck and hang out for a while?"
He sags his head expressively, sighing. "More specific than that."
You look up at the ceiling mindlessly, but contemplatively. When it comes to thinking of things to do casually in spare moments of time, you usually hit the ball right out of the park, but the mild intoxication has turned your home run into a strike. You go with your default suggestion rather than anything interesting.
"Dunno. Not sure which flicks I have 'n haven't shown you yet."
"I didn't mean about the 'afterparty.'" His face flushes and he looks away from you, speaking through slightly gritted teeth.
You process the information very slowly, until your brain 'dings' like a microwave. "...Ah! Nope, haven't been thinkin' about it."
"And here I thought this was something important enough to you that you would bother to think five minutes ahead of time. Proved me wrong once again."
"Since when is that my job, huh?" You ask accusingly.
He does that thing where his eyes are wide open at you, tone exaggerated, taking time to enunciate every word so that you know he expected better.
"Since I'm your houseguest and I at least expected the bare minimum of thought foregoing an event that literally balances our body chemistry?"
You wave him away. "Yeah, yeah. Blame it on the guy payin' the bills."
He scoffs bitterly. "As if you do any of the fucking work?"
Uh oh. You think you genuinely hit a nerve there. You've learned from experience that Dismas doesn't like thinking about those several occasions you made him go out and kill people for a share of your cash. Sensing the tension, you divert his train of thought somewhere else.
"Hey, at least it works out for you. I'm not even paying you to do anything. You're leechin' off my checks fuckin' rent-free."
"That's not what I-"
You press your index finger over where his mouth would be under his mask. "Hey. Buddy. Stop that cargo while it's traveling, capische? " A bit of threat lingers beneath your voice for a second there, like the way you spoke just a few sweeps ago. He gets the picture pretty quickly.
Dismas hums a note of acknowledgment, pushing off the barstool. The clack of boots against the tile floor is absent today, replaced by the silent padding of socks. He's never around long enough that he has to take any sort of equipment off of him – always accompanied by the jangling of chains and zippers and small satchels attached to belt straps. Obviously he didn't wear any of that tonight though, since it's largely only to keep emergency supplies and weaponry on hand for when he's out in the canyon. All he has on him are dark and somewhat loose-fitting garments, still cloaking almost all of his skin in black. And the titular bandana, of course. Who could forget.
You feel ill-prepared in comparison. He actually looks like he's expecting to relax, while you spent upwards of two hours beforehand feebly putting on makeup and debating with yourself whether you'd feel confident enough to wear a stupid dress or not. You didn't, in the end, because the last thing he needs tonight is to witness your borderline mental breakdowns over your own gender presentation. Whatever.
He looks at you expectantly, cocking a brow. “Are you going to... finish that?”
You peer down at your drink. The maroon liquid swirls in a nauseating fashion. Distasteful. “Probably not.”
“Then we should go and talk,” he gestures down the hall. "And. You know."
You drag a hand down one side of your face, forgetting that you had makeup on, even though you were literally thinking about it just now. That’s definitely smudged. Fuck . Oh well.
“Yeah. I’m comin’.”
You get off the barstool and follow him down the hall, to the exact same room you did this the first time in. Rearranged and redecorated a bit, of course, because you’re not that terrible of a host.
It has the same type of colorful string lighting the rest of your place has. Not as much clutter, though. Just a padded sleeping platform adorned with more of your abundant stock of tacky novelty blankets and throw pillows. Ugly-comfortable is the right combination of words to describe it.
You close the door behind you as Dismas sits on the edge of the bed, feeling it out. You join him, laying down, silently requesting that he does the same. Intimacy sounds like a fucking bong hit to you right now. Like, a really good one. You silently wonder if Dismas has ever gotten high before.
He looks a bit sleepy as he starts to reposition, lowering flat on his back with his hands clasped gently over his midsection. You prop yourself up on your elbow to look at him from your half of the bed.
“Hi,” you say unceremoniously.
“...Hello,” he replies, confused, yet equally entertained. The way he blinks, for some reason, is extremely cute. You're in deep .
"I get the feeling you're not gonna be the one starting any discussion.”
He exhales, clearly very anxious. “I’d need to warm up to it if that was something I wanted to do.”
“You wanna just lay here for a minute?” You slip up and sound a little too genuine. You hope he doesn't read too much into it.
Dismas nods, turning to his side to face you. You ease into holding him, as does he, until you’re both embracing, and he’s breathing into your chest. Slowly and practiced. You wonder just for a minute where and why he learned to be so precise about it, before remembering who he spends time with outside his quadrants. And that he is compressing his ribcage on a near-constant basis. You loosen your hold just a bit, to be mindful.
You lower your usual volume considerably when you breach the silence, just above the level of a whisper. You’re very close to him now, and you know well that he’s rather sensitive to noise. It’s only funny until it isn’t, and this is one of those times.
"Have you ever smoked anything?" You ask, because that's still on your mind for whatever reason.
"Just once. With Albion."
"How was that?"
He clicks his tongue. "Terrible. It just makes me ridiculously paranoid. I couldn't sleep for a few nights."
"Damn."
"Why do you ask?"
"Dunno... train of thought isn't very linear."
"I certainly understand what that's like."
Your hands rub circles into his back, massaging the frequently-sore muscles. He flinches, but only a bit, and settles back into you. You miss this kind of closeness. You've only really gotten to do this once or twice, after he'd been injured and needed help patching up.
The air in your closed space must be getting uncomfortable, seeing as he ditches his bandana and tosses it onto the floor. You nearly forgot what half his face even looked like.
“You got any new scars to show me?” You joke.
He groans. “No.”
“Good wice then, I assume.”
“I guess you could say that.”
You stroke through his hair, practically feeling him melt right there. He's probably feeling the same way you are. You sure hope he is, otherwise something is seriously wrong with your bonding chemistry.
...You're pretty sure that's not possible. There's no such thing as red or pitch bonding hormones. It's all gotta be the same. You're fine. He's fine. You haven't fucked it up yet. Just gotta get back on track.
"How 'bout you tell me what you're thinkin'?" You suggest.
"Uh," he stammers a bit. "I don't- I don't know. We've never really done... anything. Or talked about it. Hindsight isn't 20/20, I guess."
"I'd need to know what you wanted first. If we ever happen to stumble on this topic again, that is. Could make it a more regular thing, maybe."
Dismas starts talking quieter than usual, his heartbeat practically tangible. "I'll take a suggestion or two."
"You want me to get you off?" It sounds more like a joke than anything genuinely flirtatious. Way to go, dipshit.
"Well, obviously, moron . I don't know what else I came over for other than a shitty movie night I probably won't stay awake to see through."
Your thumb rubs against the back of his neck. "Really, though. I just wanna touch you. Do somethin' a little more special than last time."
"That sounds good. I'm good with that." He traces imaginary shapes on your back, mimicking you. "Anything else you want to add?"
"How do you feel about restraints?" You ask, being as forward as possible.
"I won't say I dislike the idea of them."
"Yes or no answers, King Gizzard."
He sighs in exasperation. "Sure." A beat of pause. "That's a stupid fucking nickname."
"Aw, c'mon, it's funny."
"It's not that funny, objectively speaking."
"You don't think anything is funny, buzzkill."
"Maybe you're just not cut out for improvisation."
"You think you could do better?"
"I don't find it to be a skillset worth developing. I think you could do better."
Fuck it. Last straw. You shove your knee up between his legs and he jolts , a soft gasp escaping him as he gets wide eyed. His grip on your shirt gets tight enough that you think it might tear, at least where his claws are. What were once steady, calculated breaths are replaced by tremors of air shallowly going in and out of his partly opened mouth. Still, he looks up at you like you aren't trying hard enough. You're not one to back down from a challenge.
He makes a distressed sound when you manhandle him onto his back, lying right on top of him with his wrists in your hands, thumbs idly rolling circles over his veins. Your lips travel from his mouth to his jaw to his neck, getting progressively rougher, and he struggles relentlessly beneath your weight. Lucky for him, you don't quite do anything that'll leave a nasty mark, instead just feeding him a brief taste of what you want to give him later.
"Okay, okay," he pants. "If you want to get the damn show on that quickly."
You rise off of him, stepping to the side of the bed. "Take your shirt off first."
He grunts angrily, but does what you said anyways, tossing his sweatshirt and tank top onto the floor. He lingers on the straps of his binder for a few seconds before that goes off, too. It looks like he's breathing a little easier now. Less robotic.
You shuffle across the room to the closet space, where you mostly stow away things for your own self indulgence, and pick up two pairs of cold metal handcuffs before returning. These were once used for less flattering activities. Still a little bloodstained. Maybe if you're lucky, he won't notice.
His arms are crossed, his back straightened. He pretends not to be nervous when he sees what you're holding.
"It's not gonna hurt. You have socks on." You assure him.
You can pinpoint the second he processes what you meant by that, subtly bringing his legs closer together. His face is so flushed you think his head might explode any second.
He lets you touch him though, not fighting for once when you spread his legs apart and fasten his ankles to opposite ends of the bed frame. Immediately, he tests the resistance as you step back, finding himself unable to move much more than an inch or two.
"Might not hurt but it's fucking uncomfortable . You really don't fucking bother beating around the bush, huh?"
"I'm gonna make amends to that," you say as you climb on top of him, straddling his hips. He lowers onto his back rather quickly, grabbing one of the throw pillows under one arm for comfort.
You go right back to where you left off, putting your mouth to his collarbone. He wraps his other arm around you, claws digging hard into your skin when you bite. It hurts – always does – but not enough to get you to react. You're used to worse injuries at this point.
"Fucking hell! " He groans through his clenched jaw.
You laugh, still against his skin. There's blood on your tongue that tastes like warm metal. "Aw, don't tell me that surprised you."
"It didn't, you're just a fucking asshole. "
You plant a kiss on one of his scars. "You love to hear it," you say to yourself.
" Urghh . Seriously. I hate that."
You sit up like he's a hot stove, kneeling off to the side. "Change of plans, then."
You gesture him to sit upright, and position yourself at his back. He leans into you steadily, resting his head on your shoulder, his eyes closed.
You kind of want to just sit here with him instead. Just relaxed. Your hand goes to the base of one of his horns, a blissful sigh leaving his mouth as you tenderly massage it. He looks happy, for once. If only he'd let his guard down like this more often – you'd like to hear that sigh again. Or even just to see the muscles in his face untensed.
It's kind of a miracle he hasn't started questioning you, even when your other hand rests at his hip and massages that, too. It's far too gentle and loving for what should be purely pitch.
...Or maybe not. He hasn't said anything, nor does he look like he wants to, and 90% of the time you're just being straight-up paranoid. This is okay. It's all fine. You can just... keep doing this, apparently. Letting your own cheek rest down on the top of his head, relaxed, there's butterflies in your stomach. Maybe even flowers, too.
When Dismas does say something, he sounds like he's just woken up from a nap, weary and raspy and surprisingly fond.
"When you said you wanted to touch me, I didn't think you meant 'couple's physical therapy night.'"
At least he doesn't sound mad that you initiated such a thing in the first place. Or he's just very good at masking. ...No, that can't be it.
"Not sure where to start, if I'm being real."
One of his eyes peeks open, looking downward. He has that pillow placed right between his legs, which means he's gonna have to toss it eventually, and he seems embarrassed about it. You can sort of gather what he isn't vocalizing, but decide to prod anyways.
"Be clear with me."
He presses his lips together – or as much as he can with his scars, anyways – and slumps down against your chest.
"I really hate looking like this."
Oh. You were wrong.
"Yeah? Wassup?"
His expression is one of discontent, and rapidly growing discomfort, arms folding tightly over his chest. "It's... I worry that I'm not being seen how I want to."
"Need to take a minute again?"
"God. I guess." He pinches the bridge of his nose in mild frustration. "It's fucking stupid. I don't know why I'm so up in arms about it when I know you don't care."
"Yeah, it is stupid. Get your head out of that gutter. However you want me to see you is how I see you."
"Oh, knock it off. You wouldn't get it."
I do. I understand, is what you almost say, before careening that train of thought immediately backwards and off a cliff. Not the best time for a gender crisis.
Instead, you say: "I don't have to. We've been down this road already. Had the same drinks."
A dejected exhale. "Sorry."
"Don't sweat it, D."
You wait a few seconds, watching him gather his confidence. His arms relax and fall to his sides. "I'm okay. You can... do something. If you want to."
"Anything?" You audibly smirk.
"Yes, you fucking idiot," he announces impatiently.
The hand fondling his horn drifts down to his shoulder, fingers brushing over the unbruised half of his collarbone, then to his chest, where you softly trace circles around his nipple. He erupts in a full-body shiver; though not intense, still sensitive and full of want. You cup your palm over it just to watch him sigh again.
"Well, that's a start, isn't it?" He says light-heartedly, trying not to act worked up.
"Mhm," you agree, continuing to tease tender flesh. He starts getting antsy, swallowing small noises down his throat and attempting fruitlessly to adjust his position while restrained. His arms move to arc over your bent knees that cling at his sides, readying to grip the sheets for dear life.
"This is nothing ." You twist his nipple and he whimpers, flinching at the sensation.
"Y-yeah? If you can do better, you should start fucking... getting to it." His voice is strained just slightly. He's not gonna last ten damn seconds.
The hand at his hip starts traveling downwards, rubbing over his inner thigh, getting perilously close to the more sensitive regions. Dismas has his brows furrowed as if he's challenging you again, like an idiot. If there's one thing you've both got in common, it's stubbornness. You're an unstoppable force and he's an immovable object, for better or for worse in any given situation.
"You think you can keep this up for longer than half a minute?" You whisper to him, sliding the waistband of his pants down to meet his knees. He trembles, but doesn't look any different otherwise.
"Yes," he says, with the barest hint of doubt. "...Are you gonna do anything if I can't?"
You think on it. You'd like for this to last; you'd like for him to feel like he got something worthwhile out of a visit, as tedious as it is to get between your living spaces. Your heart is pounding so loudly you're certain he can hear it as much as you can.
"You bet your stupid ass I will."
"Test me."
With a shrug, both audible and literal, you trace over his slit, his breath quickening rapidly. But he keeps his eyes angrily locked onto your hand, and his teeth grit so hard you worry he'll break something. You give no warning when you push those two fingers in, shallowly and slowly pumping them.
He nearly shrieks, but manages to hold back, if only barely. "You're not even trying ."
Everything feels hot and sticky. The air presses against you on all sides. Has it always been this humid in this room?
You "try harder," in his own words. He whines and squirms the whole time, apparently not caring that he's about to lose another bet in a long list of them, tallied up since day one of your meeting. You're starting to realize that alcohol tolerance is probably the only upper hand he has on you, discounting the things you're equally matched at. It's a good thing he hardly drinks, and it isn't one of those things either of you care about.
You speed up a bit again, knowing he's close, until he lets out a strangled cry as his body goes stiff and blissed-out. You only take your fingers out when he starts to catch his breath again, and untangle yourself from the mess of intertwining limbs to get something else out of your closet.
He looks wrecked, but more importantly, angry, slumped forward and supported by shaking arms. You can hear his laboured breathing from the door as you silently taunt him, a smirk on your face.
"...That didn't count."
You're appalled, to say the least. "Oh? Remind me again who agreed to bet on this?" You cock your head to the side.
He merely groans, letting his arms slide out as he falls on his back. "Just... get it. Over with." He declares weakly.
You're getting those rushed feelings in your gut again. Excitement. Like you're on a fucking rollercoaster. Brain moving a hundred miles a second, heart pumping even faster.
Dismas bends an arm over his eyes, mouth peeking into a slight smile. Post-bonding hormones are a fucking drug, cracking even the most stubborn assholes. The idea that you make him feel like that drives you crazy.
The smile turns almost instantly into a grimace the second you hold a vibrator to his clit. He jumps out of his relaxed position, trying to lunge at you with his claws, but you step out of his reach and fucking cackle .
"What's the matter? Can't handle losing another bet?" You tease.
"You didn't even give me a goddamn warning! "
"Not my fault you had your eyes shut."
"I wasn't fucking expecting that!"
You wait a few seconds for him to cool off.
"Well are you prepared now? "
"Ngh. Fuck."
"Doesn't sound like a yes or no to me."
He huffs. " Yes , but it's not my fault if you walk out of this with a handful of new scars."
"I could tie your hands down, too, shitlips."
"I'd fucking kill you."
"Would love to see you try!"
"That means no. Not now."
You shrug. "Then I guess it wouldn't hurt to add a few new marks to the collection."
You push a flat palm onto his collarbone and pin him down on his back, other hand wielding the object of interest right above where it left off. You start it at low this time.
He seizes up, holding onto your forearm with his claws digging into your skin again. Neither of you break eye contact, both faces expressing equal amounts of spite and blackened hatred. You almost want to get more into it. Make him earn his goal. Right now, though, you're too enraptured in the vocal reactions he's failing to hold back, and how his eyes seem to ask for mercy more with each passing second.
Feeling needed is certainly good , but feeling wanted surpasses it almost entirely. It's like... you're not just an obligation to be kept around. You're desired in another's personal space. Dismas is the only person who makes you feel that way. It doesn't matter in the end if your tongue still carries words left unsaid, nor does it matter if your feelings aren't unrequited after all. Because either way, he doesn't want to be without you. Such is the nature of soulmates.
You're not sure why your brain decides to muse about that right at this moment. It's a little distracting, honestly. More distracting than your raging hard-on. It's out of sight and mind for the most part, being so focused on making him feel good.
You do notice, however, when the strained noises he makes start to become fast and desperate, and he grips on your arm a little harder. He's close again.
"Hmm... Anything you wanna say?" You ask scandalously.
He pants. "I- I... nrgh- shit ,"
You apply pressure. "Words. Use 'em or I make you lose 'em."
"I ffffucking- hh- hate you." He grits his teeth.
You ramp up the vibration level to high as he cries out in climax. "That's what I like to hear."
You start to get tired of that after about 20 minutes. You can tell he is too, though he's done much more physical exertion by a landslide. All you've done is sat there next to him with your arm outstretched, trying not to come yourself. Would've killed the moment.
It's been enough, though; you unhook him and lazily toss your things onto the floor. He's starting to slow his breath down by the time you're settled next to him, laying down, eyeing the bulge in your shorts. That needs to be taken care of at some point.
Dismas opens his eyes and looks at you, scratched-up arm and all. It's bleeding a lot, actually. You're kind of jealous of your partner's healing ability now. You don't mind it too much, though. What's a few new scars?
His eyes follow your own. "Are you gonna... finish that?" He purposefully calls back to earlier.
It takes you a second to realize that he made a joke. A pretty good one, at that. At least to you. "Oh. Uh. Yeah."
He moves right up next to you, snug against your shoulder. Like he wants to watch or something. Maybe he feels like he owes you something. Which he does.
You groan and unzip your shorts. "You fuckin' do it since you're so eager."
His hand, trembling, grabs your bulge as rough as he's able. God, it hurts. You hadn't realized just how much you've been holding back. You make a sharp inhale through your teeth.
Luckily for you, he only has to stroke a few times before you're over and spilling onto yourself. Payoff was definitely worth every second waiting. You're thoroughly spent and filled with a new warmth, the kind that makes you dizzy just to think about. Like a direct shot of dopamine to your heart.
You take off your now-ruined shirt and throw it into the pile. You liked that one, too. Gonna suck to have to do your laundry for once.
"Those handcuffs had blood on them," Dismas points out nonchalantly.
The comment comes so out of left field that you do a double-take, almost stumbling over your words. "That they did, yes."
"Couldn't have gotten something more practical with that fucking sea of money you possess?"
"Coulda. Didn't have the forethought, though."
He wraps himself around you. "An idea for the next time, then."
If there even is a next time. There likely won't be, you think. The fine line between your rampant existentialism and the reality of what you both have to face in the near future gets fuzzier by the second.
You stare off at nothing, your body unmoving. It's so quiet you can hear a faint ringing in your ears. At some point not too many seconds ago you'd been too hot to think, but now you can't feel much at all. It's cold, even. Somehow. You suppose you're always cold by nature of your biological origins, and have just not really noticed until now.
"Is something wrong?" Dismas asks you.
You forgot he was there. Even though he's hugging you. Huh.
"Nah."
"Maybe it's just me, but I feel like you've been a little off tonight."
"Really?"
He nods, slowly. Like he's confused.
You don't think you want to admit to him that your alcohol tolerance is practically non-existent. You just let yourself sink down a bit more, hand drifting to his.
"So?"
"It's nothin'."
"I think it's something," he tries to assure you, as if he knows better.
"You're one paranoid son of a bitch, y'know that?"
"You're not much different."
That quiets you instantly. You don't like to think about it. Dismas takes the hint, judging by your sudden discomfort.
"Hey, it's fine. You can just tell me you can't hold a drink."
You scoff at him almost mockingly. "Excuse me?"
He laughs at you. "You thought I wouldn't notice?"
"You know nothing."
"I know that you talk a lot of shit you can't hold up to."
"Don't even fuckin' start with that shit. If anyone's talking big game and missing the mark by a mile it's the guy who can't even kill one dinosaur."
He looks the most offended you've ever seen him. Maybe. You've seen him make that face a lot of times, it's hard to tell. "That does NOT fucking count, okay?"
"I think you are just incapable of rightfully lowering your own expectations to the four vertical inches of space you take up."
"I'm 5'3!"
"Yeah, exactly what I just said. Learn to hear."
He punches you in the arm, much to your spiteful delight. It always feels good to get a one-up on someone so good they resort to physical violence.
" God , why do I hang out with you?"
"Because you're gay, idiot. Did you forget?"
He closes his eyes like he's about to start sleeping, nuzzling into your side. "You make it hard to remember."
"You want me so bad it's unreal."
"Don't go giving yourself too much credit."
"You came like six times. Don't get bold with me."
He looks embarrassed at that. "Fine. You win."
You fake a cheer of excitement. Two wins in one night.
"Are you passing out?" You ask after it's been a little too quiet for a minute or two.
"Mhm. Don't act like you're innocent."
You stroke through his hair again. "You're too easy."