Archive of Our Own

"Easy does it, just a little further—perfect, now hold it steady." You slip under one fle%ed bicep to get to the center shaft of the waterwheel and fit it through the mount. The water churns at the bottom of the wheel, but with one Zahhak holding onto each side, a mere force of nature has little chance of getting this thing turning. You jam the tusk tenons through the holes on either side so the shaft can't slip free, and then—innuendo duty fully discharged—duck out from between them and wade toward the bank of the stream.

Horuss and Equius let go of the waterwheel perfectly in tandem, like they're communicating on some freaky genetic match level that requires no vocalizing whatsoever. The waterwheel creaks into motion, slowly at first, then easing up to a steady speed that turns the big gear at the end of the shaft. Victory.

You nod. "Nice job. We're going to civilize this settlement yet." The three of you stand there for a minute just watching your project succeed. You don't look at either of them; between the fact that Equius once shared a brain with one of your worst splinters and the way Horuss constantly smiles like he's expecting a punch in the mouth, attempting eye contact is just awkward.

This is good, though. You've accomplished something, it's concrete, and it's helpful. You're self-aware enough to know how important that is to your emotional well-being. You're less sure about the Zahhaks, but you think their deal is probably something along those lines too. So hey. Team-building exercise.

Team-building or no, that turns out to be sort of a turning point in workshop staffing—you've gotten the big immediate project done and that takes some of the pressure off. Equius continues to pitch in, but not full time. If he spends too long in the workshop you guys have bashed together, Nepeta—or occasionally Feferi—comes to drag him out again to help with something else. It's at least as much about getting him to socialize as needing his help, you're pretty sure. Jade comes in every once in a while, but she's also one of the team experts on both hunting and gardening, so she's in demand pretty much everywhere.

But you don't have a moirail to drag you out into the light of day, and you do have plenty to work on. So you spend your time immersed in technical problems that have nothing to do with your grand series of social failures, and Horuss (who theoretically has a moirail to do said dragging, but it doesn't seem to happen) spends his time there with you.

He's not bad, for a troll. Weird, but isn't everyone you know? He doesn't try to engage you in awkward conversations or make unsettling demands. He kinda wears his kinks on his sleeve, but without the please do something about this subtext that Equius does, so it's more comfortable to be around, at least for you. People being obviously a bundle of weird intense needs that aren't getting satisfied: something you're pretty familiar with. People just ignoring that fact no matter how obvious it is, and getting on with their shit anyway: something you totally understand.

And as long as you're listing his positive traits, Horuss is obviously smart; he's always tinkering with things, experimenting with the limited materials you have available to figure out what can be done with them. The first paper in the settlement was his invention, and once there's a decent supply of it he's constantly sketching designs or writing out long lines of the spiky trollish script that you never learned to actually read fluently. Writing a translator using existing online dictionaries seemed like a perfectly reasonable substitute when you lived in a universe that had an internet; that's still not the worst of Past Dirk's decisions but it's currently the most frustrating. From the shape of the lines on the page, you think he might be writing poetry.

You have, in your workshop, a brilliant submissive alien inventor warrior-poet. Fucking swoon.

Ugh, no. You've proven how bad you are at romance enough times already. You're going to just chill.

With the waterwheel up and running to provide a steady source of mechanical energy, you start turning your attention toward conversion. Everyone in the camp misses electricity, with the possible exception of Nepeta, but she is an outlier adn should not be counted. Hydroelectric power is definitely a thing, and if you could reinvent the (water)wheel then you can damn well keep reinventing useful shit.

That makes it sound so much like you're on top of things. The truth is, this is a looming monster of a problem and you know it. A lot of the things that were made from metal in the old universe(s) can be done with substitute materials if necessary—rock, bone, sufficiently dense hardwood—but channeling electricity isn't one of them. You need metals, and they need to be relatively pure, and you need magnets, which don't exactly grow on trees, unless you can somehow find a way to rig the waterwheel to pet a million cats backward and harvest the static that results.

Horuss is actually pretty determined to figure out the static option, which means you can't give up either, even though a guy who was dead for a zillion years probably does have you beat in the patience department. You sketch impractical designs, build little models of attachments for the wheel's gears, and carefully ration how often you take a break to stare at him.

You've been in this pattern for over a week when Horuss's zeroed-in focus finally gives out. He pushes back from the sketch he's been working on, rolls his neck so it cracks audibly, and sighs. You don't move, so it won't be obvious you're looking, but he definitely has your full attention. He's not smiling, for once. Without the uncomfortable rictus, his face has a lot going for it even under the blinder goggles. Good bone structure, appealing angles. If you were more serious about drawing, you think he'd make a good model.

Then he turns toward you and pastes the smile back on again. The change is so sudden and complete it's jarring. "Even if the theory is sound, we can't accumulate enough current to test it without a stable battery system of some kind," he says. "I hoof to admit this is a challenge."

"Back up a minute, bro," you say. His eyebrows rise and his lips thin slightly, turning "frustrated awkward smile" into "questioning awkward smile." You've spent enough time with him now to be able to read the variations. "Show me the not-smiling face again."

Questioning shades into confused. "Excuse me?"

"You're capable of turning it off. I just saw you."

Another beat of confused quiet. "Does happiness displease you?"

"You're clearly not happy, though. You're frustrated with the electricity project and confused at my weird human demands."

The smile melts, and for a second you let yourself admire the results. But Horuss says, "It isn't working, then," in such a disappointed tone that you think you'd have to be a dick to just let it go. You're trying to be less of a dick.

"What isn't working?"

"To make myself a better person, I have been training myself to experience only positive emotions," he explains. "Smiling when feeling unacceptable emotions is part of that process."

"That's pretty egregious levels of fucked up," you say. "Sorry about the language. But seriously, that's an expert opinion. Wrecking yourself in misguided attempts to transcend your mortal limits is kind of my specialty."

His shoulders stiffen and his eyebrows draw down. You think if he'd take the goggles off you'd be looking at an actual disapproving face right now. "Are you suggesting I should accept failure?"

Man, he just missed a perfect opportunity to go with foalure; he must be really annoyed. Well, you would be, too. "Not at all, dude. I just think a re-evaluation of tactics might be in order. I mean, you just said it wasn't working."

"If you have alternate methods to suggest, I would be glad to try them."

Jesus, he has asked the actual worst person for this.

Well, when in doubt, crib from Socrates. "Okay. What causes happiness?"

"Testing a theory and being correct. Creating a well-crafted piece of art. Beholding the majesty of a stallion galloping across the plains."

"All good examples. And they all have something in common, right? They're transitory states. They don't persist indefinitely." Listen to you, bluffing you way through this bullshit as if you totally know what you're doing. "Happiness isn't a continuous line. It's scattershot, points plotted on a graph, maybe clustered in some spots but not proceeding unbroken."

"Then what fills the gaps?"

"I—everything else," you say, because existential self-loathing is not something he needs any more of than he already has. "All the other feelings."

Horuss ratchets the smile back up. "Unacceptable," he says. "Not all the other feelings can be permitted, so I shall simply have to give them no opportunity."

Goddamn it. Why are you even invested in this? See under: needs, weird, resolutely ignoring. "Well, whatever. I'm not your diamond." You already miss his actual face, though. "Drop the smile when it's just you and me, though, okay?"

"Is that an order?"

"Would you take my orders?"

"That... would be acceptable," he says. "May I ask why?"

The line of his jaw is really nice when you're not distracted from it, and all that question needs is a "sir" at the end for this to be explicitly instead of implicitly about kink. "It looks uncomfortable. I'd rather see you relax on that front and put your energy into your projects." There, that sounds totally reasonable and not at all like you're coming on too strong. Coming on to him. Whatever.

Horuss nods slowly. Thoughtfully. "Thank you, Dirk. I will do so."

Of course, when he's looking somber and thoughtful all the time, it's a lot harder to avoid staring at him. You are so unimpressed with yourself. You were fine with nothing going on for most of your life. You didn't have to like it, but you accepted it as a fact, because it wasn't something you could meaningfully change. Then there was the game, and Jake, and once you were finished fucking that up you knew what you were missing. Now there are people around all the time, some of them succeeding where you failed. It's hard to do a lone ascetic routine in an environment like this.

So you might have some ulterior motives for what comes next. Which is that Horuss hits a dead end on the problem he's been trying to tackle, uses some charmingly mild language, and pounds his fist on the table hard enough that even with his damping gloves he splits the top straight down the grain.

"I'm so sorry," he says immediately, flinching—from the table? from you?—and mopping at the exposed bits of his face. "I'm so sorry. That was inexcusable. I—"

"Stress relief time." You pick up your katana and get up from your chair. "Outside, bro. Now."

"Excuse me?"

"You need a good strife. Let's get going." You walk out without giving him time to argue with you, which you're pretty certain he'll do.

Yup. "Dirk, as much as I appreciate the directness of your demands, I must protest," he's saying as he follows you out into the dappled shade of the afternoon. "This is a dangerous course of action."

"You mean horse of action," you say, rolling your shoulders as you turn to face him. "Getting out of bed in the morning is a dangerous course of action, but we keep doing it. And besides, the danger is pretty well mitigated here. You've got your gloves to keep from breaking my frail human bones, and I can't cut you unless you drop your guard. Right?"

His eyebrows furrow. "It's true that my skin is strong enough to resist a blade, but my attire is another matter. Cloth is, as yet, time-consuming and difficult to produce, so replacing a damaged article would be no small task."

"Oh, damn, you're right." You don't think you really want to incur the wrath of the Maryams over your cavalier (hah) destruction of a perfectly functional steampunk costume. "I guess I could...."

go hand-to-hand dies in your throat unspoken, as Horuss starts unbuttoning his jacket. "Would this be an acceptable compromise?"

You're gripping your katana so hard your fingers ache. Fuck your life. "Sure," you croak, and right now you would punt babies to have a poker face even as good as Dave's. Is Horuss coming on to you? You wouldn't have given him a lot of credit for subtlety.

Okay, if this actually is a come-on, it's not subtle. What it is, though, is passive, and that you could definitely believe of him. Buttons, belt, a zipper underneath the jacket's top flap, and once the jacket comes off—neatly hung over the branch of a tree—there's an undershirt to strip off, too, plain black and as unremarkable as he isn't. Your double negatives are not helping you to feel on top of things.

His skin is the color of slate, dark gray just a shade cooler than neutral. His grubscars dimple his sides about where you'd expect to see serratus definition if your muscular development were identical. It isn't, though, so there are shadows where you don't expect them and flat plains that aren't quite familiar and you wish you had a good excuse to make him take off the headgear.

You discover two things within your first minute of strifing Horuss. One: he has definitely studied some kind of troll martial art for facing off against armed opponents. Two: it's really distracting to fight with a boner. Not the random-attack-of-hormones, just-here-for-no-reason kind—you learned to cope with those well before the game—but the want-to-lick-sweat-off-this-dude's-abs kind, which is what you are sporting now. He's graceful in a way that nobody with that much muscle mass has any business being; he deflects your attacks in movements that flow smoothly into counterpunches you have to work to evade. You're off-balance just watching him move, nowhere near as fast as you should be, and he lands a couple of hits that leave you breathless for multiple reasons.

Which isn't to say that you're failing to hold your own. You're pretty sure you would have left a less preternaturally endowed opponent in ribbons, and the little grunts of surprise—or, you hope, effort—that he makes in response to a good strike are way too gratifying. You might even catch a hint of an actual smile on his face for once.

The moment of truth comes when you get past his block and score a solid hit, the kind that would flat-out skewer a lesser mortal. He growls, and the impact shock numbs both your hands. You take a quick step back and drop your sword, because you won't be able to hold onto it if he counterattacks now, and you'd rather meet him with a strong unarmed block than a weak armed one.

But he's not coming after you. "Goodness," he says, touching his Troll-Adonis abs.

There's a trickle of blood running down into the waistband of his pants.

"Holy shit," you breathe. All your extremities go cold. "Are you okay?"

Horuss beams at you. "Extraordinary. I hadn't realized how much pleasure there would be in such a release."

You let out a sharp breath of relief. "Good. Thought for a second things had really gone wrong there."

"Neigh," he says, like the big nerd he is. "It was exciting to find you could best me."

That ought to sound like a caliginous solicitation, something where he's promising to thrash you next time, but it doesn't. He just likes it. The fact that you can beat him. The idea of you winning. You like it too.

So you walk up to your sweat-slick half-naked alien sparring partner and kiss him on the mouth. He makes a surprised noise—so he wasn't coming on to you?—but then he kisses you back. As his hands come to rest carefully on your hips, something tense uncoils in your gut, and you let yourself savor it: victory.

Once you have crossed the kissing Rubicon there is no going back. You sit together at meals, thighs touching. You lean into each other at village meetings where everyone talks about their progress. When things get frustrating in the workshop, you either go outside and strife or stay right there, Horuss pulling you down into his lap and you twining your hand in his ponytail to keep him where you want him.

Roxy corners you in the mess hall one night when it's your shift to help wash up all the dishes. Being Roxy, she does this by volunteering to take somebody else's shift so she's standing at the sink next to you. She waits until you're wrist-deep in faintly sudsy water, scrubbing at some kind of dried-on sauce residue, and then says casually, "So tell me about him."

"I see this isn't selfless volunteering after all," you say. "You just want a chance to grill me on how well reality matches up to your feverish imagination."

"So? You gonna help me out on that front or not?" She elbows you in the ribs. "You know if you're cagey I'm just gonna make stuff up. Nepeta's soooo curious."

You rinse a plate and set it down. "I bet she is."

"See, I think you'd have a lot of ground for it if you went caliginous. I mean, look at all things you could compete on! But Nepeta's hoping for flushed, but I think that's just because she likes red better than black."

"Mmm. I admit I wasn't expecting you to care whether we got into an unnaturally limiting alien social contract."

Roxy sighs. "I'm trying to be polite and work up to it, but fine." She turns to face you straight on. "Are you having a rebound thing here? Because that would be totes understandable but the dude's a mess, and he's not gonna take it easy if that's what's going on."

You keep washing the plate in your hands, mechanically repeating the motion. "I'm pretty sure the line in the script here would be 'I don't know what you're talking about,' giving you the opening to bring up how terribly my relationship with Jake disintegrated and how worried you are about my emotional well-being in the aftermath, and then we move to the shouting and denials and eventually tearfully make up as I promise to consider Horuss's tender feelings and grudgingly agree to consider my own too. Can we just take the summary as adequate and move on from there?"

"You are a big stubborn dumbass," Roxy says. "But fine. We can summarize everything except the promise. I want to hear you actually do that part for reals."

"It'll be fine, Ro-Lal," You say. "I always pull through."

"Dirk." She reaches up and takes your glasses off. "Promise."

You make a half-hearted grab at them and she hides them behind her back. You glare at the floor. "I promise." She doesn't move. "I promise I'll be careful with everybody's feelings, to the best of my ability."

Roxy hands back your shades and pulls you into a hug with the other arm. "Do that, okay? And remember you can always talk to me if things get rough."

"Okay." You won't, but it's kind of nice that she offers. "Thanks."

You and Horuss are basically in a holding pattern anyway. You were right about him being passive—well, receptive. Reactive. He doesn't start things, though he's always willing to stop what he's doing for a makeout session, and he puts himself in your orbit more than he needs to. You think that's his way of asking if you're in the mood.

It's hard to admit it even to yourself, but you're grateful he's content to take it this slow. For all your theoretical prowess, your actual experience tops out at a couple of clumsy, still-clothed handjobs with a similarly prepared member of your own species. You're not sure how well that will translate to interspecies adventures with somebody who may or may not have gotten a lot further with his own awkward ex. Going slowly gives you time to strategize.

He's clearly pretty comfortable with you running the show, which is handy because that's your preference too. You debate starting with vanilla the first time or two, but really you're not sure you see the point. That's not downtown bonerville for either of you, so why go there?

You do wish you had the conveniences of the old modern universe(s) to help on the apparatus front, but if wishes were horses you'd have a great majestic herd galloping across the plains with hooves flashing and manes flying, the works. And really, given your boy's insane mutant powers, restraints would be more of a guideline than a rule even if you could make them out of titanium. In which case, might as well build fragility in as a feature.

Horuss notices you working on the equipment; you're not really making an effort to hide it from him. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he frowns thoughtfully, chews his lip, makes the face that you always figured Roxy was approximating with :? emoticons. It's cute. You wonder if he's going to overcome his persistent reactive tendencies and ask.

When wondering stops being entertaining, you say, "Go on. Ask about them."

"Pardon?" he says, very still. He starts to do the not-feeling-it smile and then stops himself. Deferring to your wishes already and yeah, that feels good.

"You're trying to figure out what I'm up to." You hold up your current project, which is a set of leather cuffs at either end of a short wooden dowel. The cuffs should be big enough to fit his arms above the elbows. "Ask."

He clears his throat. "If I may be so bold, what are you working on?"

You smile, looking at him over the rims of your shades. "Some things I'd like to see my handsome stallion wearing."

It takes a second before he really processes that, and then he blushes, a rich flush of blue underlining the edge of his headgear. "You would, ah..."

"If you're up for it," you say. "You don't want me to, you say so."

He shakes his head instantly. "I said nothing of the sort. I-If you would harness your stallion and break him to rein, then. I."

Jesus, that case of nerves looks good on him. "You what?"

"I would be happy to comply." That's still a passive statement, but it's not a passive tone. He sounds like he's longing for what you've got.

You nod slowly. This set of cuffs only needs a little more work, one more strap fitted into the wooden hardware. You take your time with it, letting Horuss sweat and wonder what comes next. When you're satisfied, you look up. "Okay. Take your clothes off."

The blush gets deeper. "Now?"

Your gut twists. Are you pushing too hard? Is it too sudden? What if you fuck this up? You set your mouth in a hard line. "You just said you'd be happy to comply. Were you bullshitting? No? Then get on with it. I don't want to hear you protest unless you mean it."

"Sir," Horuss breathes, his shoulders slumping as if he's relieved. You do your best not to let it show but you're pretty fucking relieved yourself. And then he starts following that order and wow, hey, all systems back online and functioning. You watch the jacket come off, then the undershirt, and then he bends down to unlace his boots and you realize you want to fucking own him.

"There we go," you say as he pushes his pants down. "What a handsome beast." He makes a noise that would make you squirm if you let yourself. "You've been looking for someone to tame you for a long time, huh, boy?"

Horuss shivers, and you think that's a nod. There's a dark wet spot on the front of his boxers. He hesitates there for just a second, his gloved hands hovering at waist level, then pushes them down too. His bulge is thick and blunt, and if he measures up at all to the porn you saw before the game, then he can't be more than half unsheathed. You can feel your heartbeat in your dick.

"How dangerous are you with the gloves off? Can you control yourself?"

"The odds of an accident are far lower when I wear them," he says. You arch an eyebrow, because that isn't an answer. "I... I can restrain myself without them if I muster all my self-discipline to the task."

That is just what you wanted to hear. "Take them off."

"Dirk," he says, pleading. "Sir."

"Do it," you demand. "You have the self-control, right? So use it."

He's trembling. You are so fucking turned on and you haven't even touched him yet.

Horuss takes off his gloves carefully, with the kind of precision you'd expect from a guy doing surgery, and lays them down on the table. He moves so slowly, so nervously, it almost looks like he's in pain.

You don't have a good enough plan. You aren't ready for this.

He's waiting for you. "Hands behind your back," you say, and if he notices that your voice isn't steady enough at least he doesn't say anything about it. He does what he's told, quietly and efficiently, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. He'd probably look really hot with a collar on. Wrong kind of animal play, but hot. You'll have to make him one.

You walk around behind him, just looking at first, steadying your own nerves. His ponytail sticks to his skin, damp with sweat. His wrists cross neatly at the small of his back. You wish you knew the proper names for the muscles you can see outlined. You put your hand on his shoulder and he shivers like a spooked horse.

"I'm going to put the cuffs on," you say. "Hold still while I do that."

"Yes, sir," he murmurs.

You fit the first cuff on, soft brown leather against smooth gray skin. You'd thought you'd be sorry not to have black leather—it's traditional, right?—but no, this is a good look. The warmth makes his inhumanness more intense by contrast. You have to adjust the angle of his arms slightly to make room for the dowel before you strap on the second cuff.

"So you can probably feel that this is intended to limit your range of motion," you say.

"Like a hobble."

"Just like."

"But my—" he starts, and you put a hand over his mouth. He goes silent instantly.

"But we both know you're strong enough to snap this motherfucker right in half if you even twitch hard," you say. The 'motherfucker' was a guess, and a good one; you can feel the tension in him as he tries not to flinch at your vulgarity. "As long as you don't break it, I'll keep touching you."

"I will do my best," he says when you release his mouth. It's barely more than a whisper.

"Good boy," you say, and you hope he thinks that's as hot as you do, because frankly it makes you want to cream your jeans.

You run your hands over his skin, tracing contours where you can see how muscular and skeletal systems fit together, feeling the hairless smoothness of it, leaving paths through the faintly blue film of sweat he's broken out into. You do linger a little on the curve of his ass, because it's a nice ass, and the way it fits your hand is really satisfying. But you're honestly pretty fascinated with the whole package. You murmur little stupid endearments to him, the kind of stuff besotted kids said to their beloved ponies in the books you used to deface for Jane. You kiss his shoulder, his nape, his throat, which definitely did not happen in the pony books.

When you make your way back around to his bulge, you have at least another handful to play with. You'd be daunted if you'd let yourself. You take him in hand and squeeze, pull, work the whole lubed length of it slowly. His lower lip is caught between his teeth, and his whole body thrums with a restrained, constant tremor. Your thumb circles the tip and he sobs.

"You doing okay?" you ask, totally casual as if you're not giving him every reason to get overwhelmed.

"If you do not—that is, if you continue, I am—very likely to fail in my control."

Pushing him until he has to break the restraints was kind of the plan, as much as you'd made one. It sounds sexy as fuck. But the fact that he says it like that, likely to fail, makes you pause.

"A little early in the game for that, yeah." You let go of his bulge and take hold of his headgear with your other hand, turning him until you have him positioned just right for a slow, deep kiss. He's carefully relaxed here, too, letting you kiss him and just barely moving in return. He could destroy you and he doesn't want to, and he's restraining himself the hard way because you told him to.

"You are so fucking beautiful," you breathe, and then you take a step back. From the way his mouth stays soft and open you think he's probably closed his eyes. "Now kneel for me."

Horuss makes a sound that might be a deliberate "Oh" and might just be the noise of somebody getting kicked in the libido. He sinks to his knees and licks his lips, opening his mouth wider. His bulge is trapped between his thighs and he squirms like he's trying to get himself more friction. You unbutton your jeans with hands that are totally not shaking, much, and when you pull your dick free of your boxers Horuss whines.

"I know you can be more eloquent than that," you say. "And you know I like hearing you ask." You stroke yourself slowly as you watch him struggle to get the words out.

"Sir," he says, "I," and then he stalls out. "Please," is the second attempt.

"You can do it," you say, gentler and more soothing than you really meant to. "That's my good boy."

"Please, sir," he tries again, "please may I taste you."

Fuck. It turns out you don't even need him to be raunchy if he's sincere enough. You step closer, he opens his mouth, and you feed it to him. His mouth is cool and wet and his lips are so soft. You wrap his ponytail around one hand to hold him in place, not that you need to, since you're pretty sure you both want him exactly where he is right now, but making that physical is a nice reminder all around.

He's not even moving, just letting you fuck his mouth as slowly as you can stand to. "Jesus, that feels good," you tell him, and you're not too upset about your voice shaking now. You're a little distracted. "You love it, don't you?"

He moans, and you can feel that, the vibration of it along the surface of his tongue. The tongue is a muscle. He doesn't dare actually lick. Your balls draw tight so hard it hurts.

"Again," you demand. "I want to hear you." He makes another wonderful, thrumming whine. Your hand tightens in his hair. "Show me how grateful you are to be brought to your knees."

Horuss whines desperately, not quite loud enough to cover the sound of wood cracking, and you're not ready but your body doesn't care and you're coming anyway, choking down your stunned noise. He's breathing fast and shallow like holding still is killing him, and as soon as you have your balance back you pull out so you can see his face. He's a mess, a slippery mix of spit and come dripping down his chin from not letting himself swallow while he had you in his mouth. Further down there are smears of blue between his thighs where his bulge is still trapped.

You didn't permit that, but you didn't really give him a chance to ask, either. "You close?"

"Y-yes," Horuss gasps.

You let go of him completely and step back enough that you shouldn't get hurt. "Then let me see you come."

It takes a matter of seconds after that, and he still tries to control himself even in the middle of orgasm, when it's shaking him right to his core. You are pretty much ungodly amounts of smitten. And this time, that might be all right.

Or not. The next breath he takes turns into a sob on the exhale, what was left of his composure crumbling. Shit.

You're over there in a second, unfastening the hobble cuffs with shaking hands (the wood is cracked but he didn't actually break it, this guy is fucking unreal). "It's okay," you say even though that's clearly bullshit. "It's okay, I'm sorry." He shakes his head and you feel queasy. It's not okay and you're not sorry enough and you suck so much.

You reach for the buckles of his headgear and for a second you hesitate, but fuck, if he's crying you think he'd probably be okay with it anyway. You can always take off your shades to make it fair.

He doesn't resist when you lift the thing off, and you catch your first actual glimpse of his eyes—absolutely unreal deep blue—before he squeezes them shut. If anything that just makes the tears spill over, in case you needed more of a reminder what an asshole you are.

"I'm s-sorry," he chokes out. "I don't know what I, why I'm..."

"Jesus, no, don't you be sorry." What are you supposed to do here? How do you fix it? "I'm the one who just went diving into things without stopping to ask if it was okay, I just..." You just what? I just thought it was obvious you wanted to be pushed around? Since when have you ever been right about what somebody wanted?

No, ugh, beat yourself up later. Right now you need to fix this. You put a hand on Horuss's shoulder gently. "Should I...go? Leave you alone or... get somebody else to come take care of you? Somebody who's less of an asshole."

He shakes his head. "Stay. Please, I—"

"Don't apologize again," you say. "Seriously." You take your shirt off and use it to wipe up some of the mess on his face, which gets you a little purrish noise, so that's something. Progress. You try hugging him next, awkward as it is.

He holds completely still, not hugging you back, and okay you're still shit at this, that's cool.

No, wait. You let go of him and snag his gloves off the table. You take each of his hands in turn, fitting the gloves back on for him, and as soon as you get the second one on he latches onto you like he never wants to let go. Thank fuck for his self-control, because your entire torso would have been pulp if he'd done that without thinking.

"Okay," you say, "okay," you need to ban that word from your vocabulary, "right." You untie his ponytail and run your fingers through his hair, and that...at least doesn't seem to make anything worse? It feels good from your end, anyway, the smooth strands falling through your fingers. You try to focus on the fact that he's holding on, not pushing you away, in the hope that you can get your internal monologue shifted off the endlessly fertile topic of your failure as a human being. His breathing evens out slowly and the knot of guilt constricting your windpipe eases a little.

Eventually you think it's safe to venture further investigation. "Don't start being sorry again, but can you tell me what just went down?"

Horuss takes a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know how to explain," he says quietly. You can feel his voice, a low thrum that resonates in your collarbone. "It was—it felt right to have you take such control. It caught me off guard, that feeling of...."

He trails off like the words escape him, and you kiss him at the base of one horn. You feel absurdly protective right now. He's brilliant and talented and dangerous and completely out of his depth trying to explain something you're pretty sure everyone knew he wanted. "Pleasure?" you suggest.

"Comfort," he says. He shifts in your arms, sitting up straighter to be able to look you in the eyes, and gives you the sweetest shy little smile this universe will ever know. "Happiness."

Your heart does a twee little flip-flop thing in your chest. "Good."

The smile fades, though, and he looks nervous. God, his eyes are so expressive when you can actually see them. "It's not appropriate, though. It doesn't behoove someone of my station."

"It's got nothing to do with your station." He's doing okay enough to pun again, and you know the answer to this one. You got this. "It doesn't have to change anything about how you deal with other people, or even how you deal with me most of the time, if you don't want it to. This dynamic can just come out at playtime, if that's how you want it."

"That sounds acceptable."

"Acceptable's a good start." You kiss him again because you just can't not. "We can go from there." He kisses you back, fucking meltingly sweet, this tender contrast with all his raw power. "You let me know if anything comes up that could make it better, too."

"Is that an order?" he asks, and god help you, you think he might be flirting.

You take a good tight grip on his hair. "Hell yes it is," you promise. You sink back into the kisses, relaxing into the cool solid welcome of his touch, and he purrs into your mouth. Yeah. Maybe it's time you both gave happiness a shot.