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Hakka is breaking in for the stupidest reason known to man.
He is going to steal Bettel’s goose.
Yes, that’s right, that poor squishy adorable bird is his target tonight. His prize. His treasure. The one and only, the amazing wonderful cutie-patootie of a plushie known as Bettelgoose — the dearest, darling stuffed animal that lives on Bettel’s bed and sleeps in his arms every night, insert wistful sigh here — and Hakka is going to steal it because he’s a man with a plan.
See, here in Hakka’s fucked up little reality, he does this thing called “making jokes”. One such joke, he is about to pull on the resident guild jester because Bettel won’t see it coming. Not to worry, no geese or Bettelgeese will be harmed in the past, present or future, but Hakka needs that bird on vacation leave while he puts the rest of his plan in action.
The basic rundown is this: Hakka found a bigger goose.
Cool, right? See where he’s going with this yet?
Let him just quickly explain it for the people in the back.
One beautiful divine morning, he found a larger version of Bettelgoose on the market. Then he found out that they come in at least five other even larger and adorably chonky sizes, and that’s where this all began.
In short, he wants to replace the existing goose with progressively bigger geese to see if Bettel notices the bird getting bigger and bigger over time. Why? Because it would be funny.
The last one is so colossally huge that it’s comical, and Hakka wants to see Bettel lose his mind over the biggest goose plushie he may ever see in his entire life.
He’s aware that this is a lot of effort for a shitty prank.
He’s also aware of the fact that if he can pull this off, it would be fucking hilarious, and it would justify the fact that he spent money on all these big ass stuffed geese — of which he would eventually give to Bettel so that it can be that guy’s problem to deal with, anyway.
Hakka’s a real mastermind, if he does say so himself. He’s got it all plotted in his head.
Step number one:
Just walk in, grab the bird, walk out.
However, he quickly realizes that the beautiful and amazing Bettelgoose isn’t tucked into bed, where it normally sits.
So step number one is now on hold until the special goose can be located. Dammit.
He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
Hakka is now standing in the middle of Bettel’s room and scanning the premises, but the stuffed bird is nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t want to go rummaging through Bettel’s closet or drawers — for privacy reasons, of course — but he does start peeking around the furniture to see where the hell the bird could have gone.
It’s not in any common places like the desk or chair or snack boxes under the table. Which is weird because Hakka knows Bettel usually keeps his beloved goose in a visible spot so the plush bird doesn’t get scared. Or something. Hakka doesn’t know how Bettel’s clown brain works, but he knows that the goose is well-loved.
This is strange. Hakka swivels, taking in shelves of memorabilia from all Bettel’s traveling shows. Bettelgoose is too big to fit on a shelf, but other stuffed animals sit proudly amongst colorful props and water bottles and more boxes of cookies, giving the air of an open-air colosseum if the audience was all fluffy toys.
So the goose isn’t here, but the room is still the proudly owned cave of the creature known as Gavis Bettel and Hakka is suddenly entranced by just how much.
His eyes roam over the gaudy decorations, gaze softening as he recognizes some of the weird little drawings he had given Bettel, now pinned to a corkboard. He hadn’t been aware that Bettel had kept them. Sometimes, Hakka just doodles shit for fun.
The thought that any of his silly gifts had been kept makes him super happy, though, and he starts rethinking his plan because the only thing better than pulling a funny joke on the funny man would be surprising him with a gift so ridiculous that he wouldn’t know what to do with himself. Five huge fucking geese seemed to fit that bill perfectly.
He’s midway through thinking about the logistics of how he’d get all those birds into Bettel’s room undetected when the door down the hallway slams open.
Hakka jumps.
Surely, that’s just a false alarm and it could be anyone, really, it’s not like he’s so unlucky that he’s going to be walked in on by the man himself, come on, that would just be embarrassing, like, honestly, what are the odds—
“I’ll catch you later, dude!” Bettel’s voice echoes just beyond the bedroom walls, addressing someone too distant for Hakka to make out. The jester sighs loudly. “I gotta go collapse for the next century. I’m beat.”
—and oh, shit. That’s definitely him. Man of the hour. Gavis Bettel himself. Panic shoots through Hakka’s veins. He’s suddenly very aware that he’s going to be caught being a suspicious little fucker if he doesn’t think quick. Uh oh.
Bettel’s footsteps are sharp on the wooden floor outside, his heels clacking with every step. He’s not in any hurry but the hallway isn’t exactly that long either, and Hakka had not expected him back for at least another hour.
What a predicament.
He had not come up with an excuse to be here. He could risk being seen as a weirdo that scurries into people’s rooms uninvited, but truth be told, he’s been in Bettel’s good books for a while now, and he doesn’t want anything to get in the way of that.
Hakka needs a place to hide.
He could try the window, but the sill is covered in all these trinkets, and he’s not about to knock shit over and make a mess out of a room he’s not even supposed to be in.
Bed is too low to crawl under and Hakka’s not keen on rolling in dust today. Getting into Bettel’s bed is an even worse idea, but he does consider it, if only because the longing in his dumbass heart won’t shut the fuck up about it.
Bettel’s scent would be all over the pillows and blankets, and Hakka could let it lull him to sleep, imagining for a moment that it’s Bettel that is holding him.
Would it be so bad? Hakka wonders. If he found me sleeping in his bed?
He dreads thinking of the answer.
The bed is off-limits and that is final.
So that rules out pretty much everything he’s checked so far. He either has to dig deeper or come up with an excuse fast, and he doesn’t trust his stupid mouth if Bettel catches him now, half-forgetting his stupid prank already because the weight of his yearning has made a home in his chest.
It’s so strong that if Bettel walked in right this second, Hakka might just blurt his heart out then and there.
That’s a thought he doesn’t want to deal with. If he has to make a declaration of love, it should be way smoother than that. Bettel deserves better than a panicked, last minute I love you, don’t kill me, I can explain, also have I mentioned that I love you? I love you. I cherish you. So much I could fucking cry. I came in here to do something stupid and I just see things that remind me of you and there goes my heart, my heart, my heart—
His eyes scan the room again.
There is still one place he hasn’t looked.
The closet is cracked open a sliver, with a pink-patterned coat bursting from the seams, as if the wardrobe is overfilled to the point of not being able to close properly — but Hakka is a fairly small dude that can fit into fairly small spaces so it’s not completely off the table.
Bettel’s footsteps come to a halt.
The floorboards creak just outside, the blur of a silhouette beneath the door stopping right at the bedroom's entrance.
Oh, fuck it. Hakka dives into the closet, getting a face full of colorful tulle before he situates himself in an awkward ball of limbs beneath stage props and puffs of patterned fabric. It’s a tight squeeze, but he fits. Barely.
He almost squawks when he realizes that Bettelgoose is perched right beside him, and this whole operation would have been a lot easier if he had just checked the closet to begin with. Goddammit.
Bettel walks in.
The pink coat is still wedged in the closet door, enough to let some light enter, which Hakka thinks is pretty lucky. It gives him a nice vantage point, which is great because he doesn’t want to be stuck sitting in this closet forever, and he now just has to keep an eye out for an opportunity to escape.
He can see well enough into the bedroom. The cluttered windowsill, the overflowing desk, the cushy bed. He watches Bettel move around the space with a particular fondness. The jester is in his element. His home base. Though usually a tense and tight-postured man, all his muscles seem to relax now that he’s in his own room, and Hakka feels glad just to see it. He removes his long gloves with a sigh, and stretches, muttering “Fuckin’ finally,” like he’s been waiting to come back here the entire day.
It’s cute. Bettel is cute. He can act like a hissy cat as much as he wants but he’s not immune to the irresistible powers of a nice comfy bed. He’s probably going to tuck in with a sleeping cap and a night mask like a cartoon character and as funny as the image is, Hakka is mostly just endeared — the way he is with almost everything Bettel does, if he’s honest.
Hakka’s a big fan of this guy, he simply cannot lie.
Even if Bettel is a sopping wet clown of a man that Hakka gets the urge to strangle daily, he does genuinely adore him.
To the point where he probably likes him a little too much and the sight of his catty, mischievous smile could ruin Hakka’s day completely because then he won’t be able to think of anything else.
That’s without even mentioning his confident grins that follow bouts of maniacal cackling, and the way he’s so intent on making sure he brightens every room he enters. A man of the spotlight, he never goes anywhere without a little bit of showboating, and sometimes all people need is a good laugh to keep going, which Bettel is more than happy to provide.
Not that staring at him like a lovesick puppy helps anyone. Hakka already knows he’s in too deep. Knew it when he brought home five stuffed geese for a stupid prank. Knew it because these big ol’ birds were just an excuse to get Bettel some absurd gift he couldn’t refuse.
Hakka’s a big giver. A big carer, and Bettel hates being doted over and cared about because he doesn’t understand it, which makes Hakka want to care about him more. His usual ways of caring don’t involve him being stuffed in Bettel’s closet, true, but realistically, if Bettel does choose to take a little nap right now, Hakka can still get out of this unscathed.
Funnily enough, Bettel is still full of strut and pomp even when he’s alone. He throws his hat onto a rack like he’s playing ring toss, not caring that it misses and falls to the floor. His scarf slides off next, revealing the ring of diamonds marking his pretty neck as he throws that aside, too, letting it flutter dramatically onto his desk. It folds like a silk white river, forming a waterfall of fabric which drapes half-scribbled notebook pages and boxes of cookies. It’s quickly joined by a belt, and then the smooth coil of Bettel’s whip.
Hakka casts a tentative glance at the mounting pile of clothes on the desk, and tries not to think about it too hard when Bettel’s coat joins them. He’s just getting ready for a nice lovely nap, which is what a nice lovely jester man deserves, and Hakka is going to wait until he falls asleep before he makes a run for it. Easy done. No problem. No sweat.
If only it was that easy.
Hakka should really learn that assuming everything will go according to plan is a fool’s mindset, and brother, he is in the running for biggest fool of the week.
The chandelier dims, but the room doesn’t stay dark. Shadows dance as Bettel shuffles around, reaching for a water bottle and taking a swig. He then turns on his fancy wall lamps, and the light illuminates him softly but spectacularly.
After he’s quenched, Bettel proceeds to go through the arduous process of peeling off his thigh-high boots before collapsing face-first into his bed.
Hakka tries very hard not to move.
The only thing harder to explain than why he’s in Bettel’s room uninvited would be why he’s in Bettel’s closet. Which he would only have access to if he entered his room uninvited.
Unfortunately, this is a very bad time to be in someone’s closet with a window into the rest of the room, because it means he really can’t do anything when Bettel starts taking the rest of his clothes off. Inner gloves, then middle-piece. Loosening the ties on his sleeves and then his shirt.
Credit where credit is due, Hakka does not gawk like an idiot, but he does shift uncomfortably from his place in the closet, feeling suddenly very interested in examining his own nails.
He’s not about to treat himself to such a private moment without permission, but it gets progressively harder to ignore — as does something else, though he squeezes his legs together and bites his lip to will the pressure down — because Bettel starts making these noises, god forbid, and Hakka is not stupid enough not to know exactly what’s going on outside these closet doors.
It starts off soft. Small grunts and groans. Hakka thinks about covering his burning ears but he’s still too scared to move. Knowing he’s nestled up against props with literal bells and whistles means that if he shifts in any direction, he could give himself away in an instant.
He’s mortified to have gotten stuck in this situation. All because he wanted to pull a funny one on Bettel, the joke is now on him, and Hakka finds himself curled up in a closet while Bettel is doing certain things to himself in the bed right outside it. Hakka’s heart is practically pounding to be let out of his chest.
What’s even worse is that Hakka has very keen ears. Even if he’s adamantly not looking, he can hear the way Bettel’s breath catches in his throat, and the kind of moan that escapes his mouth is unmistakable. His breathing is quick and shallow, and there’s really no denying the fact that he’s definitely masturbating, which is all fine and good to do in the privacy of his bedroom all alone — except for the fact that he’s not alone.
Which Bettel doesn’t know, of course, and it’s making Hakka feel hideously guilty.
What’s even, even worse is that Hakka is very much enjoying it. The mixture of white-hot shame and embarrassment entwined with voyeuristic appreciation sends tingles up his spine. He likes it and he hates liking it, but he’s a weak man and there is a hot freaking guy right there that’s getting off without knowing he’s here. He is using all of his willpower not to look, but he doesn’t know how much longer he will last.
“Mmh.. Hakka…” Bettel murmurs and Hakka goes rigid at the sound of his name.
His senses flare, connecting the dots immediately, and it has him impossibly, horrifically turned on.
Is he— no way— Hakka doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but he knows what he heard. He can't even pretend that he hadn't. That was a direct attack on his person. He feels like he's on fire.
Bettel whimpers softly, not even trying to keep quiet as he fumbled over Hakka’s name again, prettying it between an oh god and a please. Hakka’s ears flame and his stomach burns intensely despite all his efforts, striking him with a jolt of pure, unadulterated arousal.
He makes the mistake of glancing up.
Bettel is leaning against the headboard, his shorts and underwear halfway down his gorgeous legs like he couldn’t even wait to get them off the whole way. His thumb is swirling around the tip of his cock, fingers wrapped around his length and dragging down, pumping steadily as his head falls back in pleasure.
His other hand is in the wide open collar of his shirt, teasing his own nipple as his hips jerk into his fist below.
Hakka’s face blazes fiercely with mortification, the heel of his palm plunging between his legs as his teeth sink into the knuckles of his other hand. He tries desperately to stay silent, but it’s a tough challenge because Hakka is so ordinarily loud by nature. He tries very hard. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Oh, but being crumpled in a closet with a hard-on is agony. If he’s going to watch this, knowing there’s no turning his eyes away now that he’s seen, then he might as well try and relieve some of his own pressure. At least if he dies when Bettel eventually finds out, he’ll die the way he lived — busting out nuts for free.
He releases the bite on his hand to run his fingers down his chest, using Bettel’s movements as a guide to his own, pinching and twisting his nipple piercing through his shirt, practically gnawing on the inside of his cheek to keep the noises down.
Bettel kicks the rest of his lower garments off agonizingly slowly, but Hakka notices that he keeps the thigh choker locked around the flesh of his thigh, which is not helping Hakka’s situation, as he imagines grabbing him by the scant scrap of leather and pulling that dick straight into his mouth.
He’s too lost to deny himself these thoughts anymore, especially because on top of all this, Bettel looks so unrestrained and happy. He’s working on his own pleasure, treating himself with an obscene exploration of his gorgeous body, and then his legs are spreading wider and he’s grabbing a pillow from the head of his bed.
God, he looks so happy. It’s everything Hakka wants to see, ignoring the circumstances in which he is seeing it. Just the beacon of his affections flushed and content and enjoying himself without a care in the world. Fuck yeah. Seriously. He could not dream of anything better.
But Bettel, as always, proves him wrong.
Hakka’s mouth is dry, and he swallows hard as he watches Bettel slip the pillow between his thighs, folding himself over it. From this angle, he’s bent with his ass in the air and Hakka doesn’t know if he wants to be the pillow or wants to be behind him, tracing the back curve of his legs, grabbing him by the leather garter and making him whimper just like that.
This is torture, that’s what this is. Psychological torture. Innocent Hakka with an innocent plan being put in a wonderful, horrible situation all because he panicked and jumped into a closet, and oh god— oh, god—
“Fuck, Hakka…” Bettel mutters again, breathless as he ruts against the pillow, and Hakka wants to be on him so badly but he’s stuck in this fucking closet screaming silently instead, and he’s starting to regret ever trying to outwit a man that can make him an absolute mess without even touching him.
But holy fucking shit, the view. Thighs, ass, nothing but a flimsy shirt and a thigh choker. Bettel is grinding down into a pillow with Hakka’s name on his tongue. Shit. This feels so wrong, but he can’t look away.
Hakka is for sure going to die in this fucking closet and it’ll all be this guy’s fault.
He’s so turned on he doesn’t even know what to do. He might just come in his pants, what the fuck. He’d never live it down, but the only other alternative is learn how to self-combust and he doesn’t think he can learn that while he’s half-buried in Bettel’s belongings, desperately trying to stay quiet.
It’s over when Bettel comes. His spine arches and his head tilts, a frenzied moan pouring from his throat with Hakka’s name again — once, twice, then in a trembling, shaky cry.
It hits Hakka just as hard. Remarkably, still, he doesn’t make a sound. At least not with his voice. Instead, he jerks backwards as he covers his mouth with both hands, forgetting for a moment that he’s surrounded by items that can and will make noise.
There’s a clatter of props knocking against each other as he hits the back of the closet. He freezes, stock still, not even daring to breathe.
“What the fuck was that?” Bettel whispers.
That’s about all the warning he gets before Bettel cautiously stalks over to the closet and yanks the doors open.
The first thought Hakka has is oh sweet Jesus Lord, and not because he thinks he’s going to heaven.
Bettel has made no attempt to put his pants back on, and his shirt is slipping from his shoulders in complete disarray, face still flushed from jerking it. If Hakka wasn’t already on another plane of existence with how goddamn hard he’s ascending, the warm light from his fancy lamps make Bettel look like a sexy, godsent angel.
Without his boots or shorts, his legs are a whole fucking ordeal — gorgeous, beautiful, perfect — and Hakka’s not gonna lie and say he’s not soaking that sight up with his entire soul before he dies, because death feels pretty imminent right about now.
Bettel’s pretty eyes narrow in scrutiny. His voice takes on a dangerous edge, which is many shades hotter than it’s supposed to be.
“Hakka. What the fuck are you doing in my closet?”
Shit, shit, shit, Hakka thinks, because somehow being caught and then glared at by this beautiful bastard has shot a fresh wave of arousal into his dumb fucking body and now he’s afraid of speaking in case the next thing that comes out of his mouth is a moan. What a way to go.
“I said,” Bettel grabs him by the collar and Hakka feels turned on as shit, flushing a terrible shade of red as Bettel drags him out into the open with a hard yank. “What the actual fuck are you doing in my closet?”
Hakka swallows thickly. Forces the words out with small, frantic stammering. “Listen, it’s— I wasn’t doing anything bad, I swear to god—”
“Oh, yeah?”
He nods, hurried, wide-eyed and panicked and determined not to glance down. “Yeah! Yeah, look, uh, I can explain! I can! If you just give me—”
“Take off your pants.” Bettel orders. The command slices right through Hakka’s fumble of words.
“Wha—” Hakka laughs nervously. “Sorry, what?”
“Take off your pants.” He says again, lips pulling into a frown. “If you really weren’t doing anything bad, you’d have no problem with proving it, right? Take them off. Go on.”
“Um.” Hakka knows he should just do it, get it over with, rip it off like a bandaid, but he’s frozen in place.
Bettel raises a critical eyebrow. “Take them off, or I’m going to take them off for you.”
That sets Hakka into motion immediately.
He loosens his belt with shaky hands, and feels himself blush so very horribly to the tips of his ears as he drops his pants, knowing already that he can’t hide the erection straining against his boxers.
“Well, well,” Bettel says, clicking his tongue, unimpressed. “Look who’s a fucking liar. Not doing anything my ass.”
Hakka bites his lip. His gaze falls to the floor.
Embarrassingly enough, the humiliation hasn’t made him any less hard, and he can barely hold back his gasp as Bettel’s fingers slip beneath his waistband to expose him completely. Hakka squirms, and for a moment he tries to stammer his way through another excuse but Bettel hushes him with a finger to his mouth.
“You sick fuck.” Bettel snarls at him. The way he looms over Hakka with that glare in his eyes is such a fucking turn on, and the danger in his voice is just another thing that’s hellbent on making Hakka want to spill right then and there. “What do you think you were doing in there, huh? Twisted bastard. Were you getting off to this? Did you enjoy the fucking show?”
“No! I— I didn’t mean to— you have to listen to me, I swear. I swear, this is a misunderstanding.”
“You’re gonna keep lying to me, too?”
“Bettel, wait, come on, it’s not like that at all,” Hakka starts to plea. He tries to ignore the way Bettel’s gaze trails down his body, knowing that trying to hide his boner is a battle he’s already lost, so all he can do is let it happen. “Let me talk. I can explain. I promise.”
Bettel pulls away, and for a moment, Hakka thinks he’s being given the grace of defending himself.
So, Hakka blurts, “Okay, alright, I didn’t actually know you were gonna start jerking it. Believe me. I know I should have stopped you, and just come out of the damn closet, but you were having such a good time, and you’re always so stressed, like, I think you really just deserved to have some time to yourself, y’know? I genuinely didn’t know. I swear. On my life, I swear.”
Bettel doesn’t reply as he strides across the room. He swipes his whip from his desk, fingers curled around the handle, and Hakka gulps. He doesn’t dare get any closer. He doesn’t need to. Bettel makes his way right back to him, expressionless with his whip in his hand, and Hakka tries not to buckle over how hot he thinks that is.
Focus, Hakka! He screams at himself. Holy shit!
“Bettel, wait, wait, wait, hear me out before you kill me? Please?”
Unconvinced, Bettel wastes no time in coiling the whip around him and tugging him close. Hakka is so fucking horny it hurts.
Had he feared for his life any less, he might have just started begging to be used until he cried — stepstool, ladder, chair, he’d do it all. Anything to get those legs on him. He loves being in control, but losing it makes him feel a different kind of way. Like he can finally put himself in the care of somebody else, and not have to think about anything but having them make good use of him. And Hakka loves being useful. But then again, he is also fearing for his life.
“Don’t bother with those flimsy fucking excuses.” Bettel snaps, and his spit sprays in his face. How degrading. “You do the crime, you do the time. You hear me? You disgusting little fucker. You should be ashamed of yourself. Absolutely ashamed.” He leans in, his breath hot against Hakka’s ear. “You come into my room, my territory, and think you can just kick back and do whatever the fuck you want? I think not. You violate my privacy and I’ll show you what happens to people who don’t pay for a show. You got that?”
“Y— yes,” Hakka says, eyes wide and pulse racing. “Sorry.” He squeaks. “Bettel, I’m really sorry, okay?”
The whip tightens and Hakka honest-to-god can’t stop himself from moaning this time, a shiver racking his body from head to toe.
“Just to make sure you don’t misbehave again,” Bettel whispers. “You miserable, rotten piece of shit.”
“Okay,” Hakka replies weakly.
“Okay?” Bettel asks, voice dropping momentarily into something lower and kinder. Breaks character, to quickly confirm, “Babe, scene check. Continue? Not too mean?”
“More than okay. Please continue.” Hakka smirks up at him, winking. “Be meaner.”
Bettel obeys without hesitation, slipping back into the scene by yanking Hakka forward by the whip, turning him so his back is pressed flush against Bettel’s chest.
“You think you can get away with anything,” Bettel hisses into his ear. “But you’re just another sick bastard who needs to be punished. The fuck is your problem, Hakka? Is the sweet feelings guy actually just another dirty, depraved little fucker that gets off on being a freak?”
“No, I’m sweet,” Hakka insists, panting as Bettel’s leg slips between his. “I just— I like seeing you happy.”
He can’t resist grinding down on that leg, so bare and pretty beneath him. Forget longing, forget yearning and dreams and memories of Bettel bent over — right now, all he cares about is being touched by this beautiful man. For Bettel to even think this is punishing is a laugh. Hakka has never felt so blessed.
“You know what would make me happy?” Bettel asks, right up against his ear again, and Hakka twitches, toes curling. “You got to watch me touch myself. Why don’t you let me watch you beg to be touched, knowing there’s nothing you can do if I don’t listen?”
“Please, god, anything,” Hakka can’t stop his voice from shaking, tone dark with desire. “Anything you want.”
He pulls his leg away and Hakka regrets speaking. The ache is severe now, his mind clouding with how badly he wants to feel Bettel’s hands on him, but he’s keeping it together. Or so he thinks.
Bettel slides back slowly, doing the opposite of what he wants. Even the heat from his body leaves, and the space between them misses it immediately, but it doesn’t miss it as much as Hakka does, tied up and hungry for a hit — any hit — of his skin against his own again.
“Baby,” Hakka moans out, “Touch me. Please.”
“Who said you could call me baby?”
Right. Shit. They’re in a scene. Hakka calls him sweet things like it’s second nature, but that’s a line he’s not supposed to be crossing here.
“Oh, I’ll touch you, alright,” Bettel sneers. “But it’s not going to be enough. It’ll drive you crazy.”
I’m already crazy, Hakka shudders, gasping when Bettel’s hands slip across his chest, light as a feather, painfully gentle. Just absolutely batshit crazy for you.
“Oh, fuck,” Hakka inhales, the anticipation on a one-way track to killing him. “Come on.”
Hakka trembles at the feeling of his fingers toying with his nipples through his shirt, the roll of his thumb against his piercings making him gasp out loud. The sensation is dulled by the fabric, and he realizes now the predicament that Bettel has left him in — yes, unable to touch himself but also able to be touched in places where he can’t get what he wants. More friction, for one, is impossible, and though his dick is neglected and leaking, he knows asking for it to be taken care of is going to be sharply denied. That turns him on even more.
“Take the shirt off, at least,” he whines at Bettel, wriggling against his restraints.
“Why don’t you take the shirt off?”
“I can’t,” he gasps again as Bettel tugs at the nipple piercings, hard. “You know I can’t— ah — take it off, goddammit. My hands are tied. Literally.”
“Weak excuse. Do better.”
He lets out a frustrated groan. “Let me go and I’ll do it myself. It’ll only take a second.”
“And give you the chance to fight back? In your dreams.”
Bettel twists the piercings and Hakka bites back a moan. It's not enough.
“Shit, come on, Bettel, please,” he begs.
“Why should I give you what you want?”
“I’m cute.” Hakka says, bumping back into him and whimpering when Bettel shoves him forward, keeping him at a distance. “Please? I’m so cute. I’m adorable. What if I cry? You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“Sure,” Bettel mutters. “Go ahead and cry. I bet you’d get off on that, too.”
Hakka doesn’t do it on command. He’s already halfway to tears, his eyes stinging from the desperation of needing to be touched properly, but the careless way Bettel responded makes them fall.
He panics for a second, wondering if this is what he really wants out of this. Being degraded is fun in concept, definitely, and he’s very much into it, but he would also really really like for Bettel to wipe his tears and hold him now.
His mouth trembles, round droplets of tears streaming down his face as he tries to stay calm and in the moment, and Bettel, who is watching his expression closely, asks in a soft voice, “Hakka, baby, scene break. Stop, slow down, or keep going?”
Hakka inhales shakily, feeling his love grow tenfold. Bettel is doing this for him and he’s never going to get over how lucky he is to have him. “Take the shirt off. Then keep going. But don’t tell me to cry again.”
“Of course, of course, I got you. Don’t cry, babe. You’re okay. I got you,” Bettel says, reaching up with his sleeve to soak up the tears and Hakka sniffles, leaning into his embrace as Bettel turns him back around to get him out of his shirt. “Te quieros muchos, mi… uhh, shit, corazón? Please tell me I’m not calling you something weird.”
“Mi corazón is fine. It means 'my heart',” Hakka breathes out a laugh. “Your Spanish is still as bad as ever, though. Just hit me with a te amo, bastard. That’s easier to say than whatever the hell you just tried to butcher.”
“Te amo, mi fussy little bird. Don’t say I didn’t fucking try.” He mumbles, sounding relieved that Hakka is joking back with him, loosening the hold of his whip. Bettel kisses his forehead before dragging Hakka’s shirt over his head. “I’m going to keep going now,” he tells him. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
Hakka nods, whispering back, “Yes, baby, anything you want. I love you.”
He gives Hakka’s nipple piercings a quick tug before he leans in to run his teeth over one of them, pinching the other before rolling it between his fingers.
Hakka shivers in delight. He’s alarmingly sensitive to the touch. After having been fondled through his shirt, it’s all tender and his body is screaming for attention. He feels the relief of stimulation hard and raw and amazing, and when Bettel drags his tongue over his nipple, Hakka’s eyes flutter shut with the pleasure of it, all his senses tingling.
Not one to keep quiet, Hakka lets out a choked moan, and a breathless, watery, “Thank you, god, thank you so much.”
“Of course.” Bettel smiles gently as he tightens the whip back around him and pushes him down onto the bed. “Fucking bastard. Figures you'd be into that.”
Hands are all he needs. Hakka is already turned on beyond belief. Bettel’s a pleaser and gives him more anyway, switching sides to bite and suck against his other nipple piercing, rubbing circles around the one he had teased with his mouth earlier. His other hand rakes light fingernails down Hakka’s navel, then slowly, finally, wrapping its fingers around his cock.
Tears escape Hakka’s eyes again, but good ones, happy ones, and he’s quick to babble, “Yes, yes, sí sí sí, keep going,” so that Bettel takes it as a sign to do just that.
Hakka bucks his hips, jerking into the touch, and Bettel drags him through his orgasm, the delicious shot of ecstasy spiking through his body as he cries out. He’s surprised he could have even held out for so long, but it’s so fucking worth it, feeling his release rip out of him in droves.
Fuck the scene, fuck the pretend, he gives it all up just to blurt out that last-minute love declaration he’d never hold back anyway, “I love you, I cherish you, mi amor, so much I fucking cry about it, have my heart, my heart, my heart—” and he rides it out in bliss as Bettel tugs him through it, all the way.
“Whoa, babe, look at you go,” Bettel says, and Hakka flushes when he realizes that he’s now taking off his own shirt because Hakka had spilled onto it. The rest of his cum drips off his bare chest, and Hakka definitely does not think about licking it off for him.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Bettel tells him, noticing his embarrassed stare. “I was gonna wash this shirt anyway. And if you just hold for a sec, I have towels. One moment.”
Hakka catches his breath and Bettel peels away, quick on his feet, grabbing the towels he had prepared earlier and the warm tub of water he had left steaming in the far corner.
Bettel is often very well-prepared when it comes to scenes, limiting the time he spends away from Hakka just in case Hakka needs him, and Hakka honestly isn’t that needy anyway but he appreciates it all the same. It's nice. It's sweet. It's caring.
They both like being clean almost as much as they like making a mess out of each other, anyway. The towels fall at the foot of the bed and Hakka is still recovering, so he doesn't move. Just watches Bettel in action, and stifles a grin as he notes that Bettel has somehow forgotten that he's still wearing the thigh choker because he glances at it and goes what the fuck? like he doesn't know how it got there. He unclasps it and it joins the rest of his clothes on the table.
Hakka sits up. Without Bettel's hand on the whip, it comes loose with ease and puddles at his lap. He pulls it into its usual coil and sets it gently on the bedside table. Takes a breath. He wants to be clean because he feels dirty in ways that aren't just physical, but Bettel's directs a warm smile at him and he thinks that he might be alright, after all.
“You good, honey?” Bettel asks.
“Mm.” He says. “I just like you a lot.”
“You better. I don't just do this for anybody.” Bettel replies, pointed as ever. He cleans up fast, though Hakka suspects he’s deliberately speeding through the motions so he can help Hakka in any way he can. He’s so cute like that, so eager to please.
This theory is proven when Hakka tries to grab the clean towel, and Bettel swats his hand away.
“I got it, I got it.” Bettel mumbles, looking frazzled but resolute in his determination. “Just stay still.”
“You’re taking care of me even more?” Hakka teases, making a distinct purring sound with his throat. “Oh, Betsy. You’re too kind.”
Bettel slaps him lightly with the towel. “I take care of you, sometimes. Don’t act so surprised.”
“I’m not acting surprised. I’m showing you my gratitude. I appreciate everything you do for me and I need you to know.”
Swiftly running the warm towel down his torso, Bettel changes the topic. “Do you want snacks or just water? I have those little marshmallows you like if you don’t want anything crumbly.”
“Water is fine.” Hakka says. He waggles his eyebrows. “I’ll eat the marshmallows off of you, though, if you want. Anytime, baby.”
“Enough, damn it.” Bettel says back, shaking his head but smiling anyway. His cheeks are rosy and warm, like a pink summer peach. He dunks the towel back into the tub and reaches for a bottle of water. “I actually want to survive the night, you goof. I've had my fun for today.”
“You don’t want me to eat off of you? I could make it feel nice.”
Rolling his eyes, Bettel raises the bottle to Hakka’s lips. “Drink.”
Feeling mischievous, Hakka sticks his tongue out and licks the rim of the bottle. “Can’t reach, mi Betsy. You’re gonna have to feed it to me.”
“I’m not going to be responsible if you choke.” Bettel warns, but carefully tilts Hakka’s chin with his fingers and tips the water down his throat anyway.
Any shameless remark Hakka had dissipates as the cool sensation hits his tongue, and he reaches up to gently pluck the bottle out of Bettel’s grasp so he can hydrate at his own pace. Really, he had only been trying to get a reaction out of his sweet darling, but the fact that Bettel had so easily gone along with what he had asked — no matter how dumb Hakka was being about it — made him feel all gooey and fuzzy and soft inside.
Clean and warm and settled, Hakka opens his arms when Bettel sinks back into the mattress, and Bettel is more than happy to slink into his embrace and cozy up there.
When Hakka giggles in joyful delight, Bettel throws a casual arm around him, and Hakka smooches the corner of his mouth.
“I love you, babe. Love you so much. Okay. Now, let me just say this.” Hakka launches immediately into conversation, buzzing in his happiness. “The way you just left your shirt open the whole time, holy fucking moly. Chef’s kiss. Mwah. Beautiful. Amazing.”
“I know what you like.” Bettel grins. He pulls one of the thick, fluffy blankets over them, tucking them both in as he watches Hakka babble excitedly.
“And all that leg action! Sheesh,” Hakka exclaims. His gestures are wild and cheerful, like he’s just gotten off an amusement park ride. “I was about to get down and start sucking the moment you opened the damn closet! Swear to god, I would have done it.”
“Oh— oh, geez.” Bettel laughs, a sweet red flush spreading adorably to his ears. “Well, if you want a rerun of that scenario, we can change a few things and have that be your punishment instead.”
“Hell yeah,” Hakka says with a whistle. “Woo, mama. Next time just grab my hair and start facefucking me until I can’t breathe.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Bettel huffs through his nose, sounding amused. Sheepishly, he admits, “I don’t know if I can do that to you.”
Undeterred, Hakka asks, “What if I say please?”
“You’d like that? Really?”
“I like anything with you.”
“Okay. Okay, I’ll think about it.” Bettel says, before angling a stern look at him when he whoops. “Not making any promises. But I’ll think about it.”
Hakka beams right back at him. “Okay! Just know that it would be an honor.”
“Stop— Christ, Hakka,” he laughs, all rosy again. “I need at least a month to prepare for things like this.”
Hakka falters slightly, eyes wide with concern.
“Does it feel bad? Do you feel bad, baby?”
“Oh no, no,” Bettel reassures him. “I don’t feel bad. I’m actually happy that you trust me so much. I’ve just never— you know. I perform and act and shit for the colosseum. But doing scenes in the bedroom is new to me. It’s interesting. It’s hot. It’s fun.”
“You’re doing amazing,” Hakka gushes immediately. “That solo performance? Call me a dog the way I’d start barking. You’re good at scolding me, too. That’s so fucking hot.”
“Sh— shut up,” Bettel flushes, unable to take the compliment. “I was straight up gonna start crying if you started crying any harder so I’m glad that’s not where we ended up.”
“Oh, you silly thing. Cuddle me,” Hakka says, squeezing into him. “C’mon, sweetheart, bring it in.”
“We’re already cuddling.”
“Cuddle me harder, coward.”
Bettel gently runs his hand along Hakka’s back, pulling him in. He’s warm and wonderful and marvelous in every way, and Hakka wants to be right here and close to him for a long freaking time.
Not because he’s sexy and not because he’s willing to indulge Hakka in his kinks, though he’d be lying if he said that didn’t add to the appeal. What’s more is that Bettel gets just as much out of it — he gets to perform, he gets to badmouth, he gets to see Hakka’s melt under his ministrations. It’s a package fucking deal.
The day Hakka stopped pretending he was joking about wanting to do scenes in the bedroom was the best decision in his goddamn life. Sure, Bettel is still getting used to the idea, but the fact that he’s so willing to try and get into playing roles is already incredible, especially considering the fact that he was having all kinds of awakenings that somehow worked in both of their favors.
“You liked being watched, didn’t you?” Hakka continues idly, still thinking about it. “The pillow-fucking was a surprise. I was wondering why you had so many extra pillows.”
“Gotta keep you on your toes.” Bettel mumbles, not denying the accusation.
“Poor Bettelgoose got put in the closet to make room for fuck pillows.”
“Bettelgoose doesn’t need to see this.”
“That’s true.” Hakka giggles, finger tracing a heart over Bettel's chest. “Well, either way. You’re gonna need a bigger bed to fit all these geese I’m about to give you so you better start saving up.”
Bettel pauses. Blinks once. Twice. “Wait. You actually bought them? That wasn’t just for the— weren’t you just making that up to set the scene?”
“I’m Banzoin Hakka, do you think I do things halfway?”
“How many fucking geese did you buy?”
“Five, but they’re extremely large.”
“Babe, what the fuck?”
Hakka glances innocently up at him. “Well, I mean, your birthday’s coming up and all…”
“That still doesn’t mean you can just…! Argh!” He makes a garbled sound, like he’s in pain— the dramatic bastard — but Hakka can hear the edge of laughter in his voice. The unmistakable twinge of startled wonderment Bettel can never seem to hide, even if he tries very hard to pretend he doesn’t care. “You’re just gonna dump them on me, aren’t you?”
“Mmhmm!” Hakka nods enthusiastically. “Feliz cumpleaños, Betsy, my beloved!”
“I’m just gonna have a room full of geese.”
“All yours, baby.”
Bettel tries to cover his grin, but it seeps into his entire expression, and even his fake little grimace can’t dampen the way the laugh lines reach his eyes.
“Oh my fucking god. You’re unbelievable. You’re actually unbelievable.”
“And I’m yours.” Hakka says.
“And you’re mine.” Bettel smiles, and lands a sweet little kiss to his temple. “You’re a star, baby. An absolute star.”
“I’m a bird, actually.”
“Oh, shut the fuck up. The one time I try to be romantic! See if I ever thank you for anything again!”
“That’s right, show your true colors, you ungrateful bastard!” Hakka chortles right through his retort, shrieking when Bettel rolls on top of him and starts kissing the sides of his face. “Oh my— hello, mi amor,” he giggles. “Don’t treat me too nice or your geese population is going to skyrocket, by the way. I will not be held responsible for the things I do for you.”
“Thanks, babe,” Bettel murmurs against his jaw, sounding like he’s not even listening anymore, too busy trying to cover every inch of Hakka’s skin with his lips. “Really. God knows I don’t say it enough, but I really do appreciate you. Te amo, and all that shit.”
So much for see if I ever thank you again. It’s barely been five minutes. This man is ridiculous.
“I fucking love you too, you awkward loser, c'mere,” Hakka replies, endeared and charmed and all of the above, then grabs him by both cheeks and kisses him.
They'll deal with the geese later. The real challenge is going to be maintaining his top spot as Bettel's most cuddled bird.
But it's cool. Easy done. No problem. No sweat.
After all, he's got a plan for that, too.