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Bobby’s boots crunch over broken glass as he exits a warehouse into a back alley. He wills his ice to sink back under his skin, his body shifting from full ice to flesh again. It leaves him shivering a second, every nerve raw from the fight.
Across the street, Daken doesn’t look raw at all. He looks like he’s stepping out of a goddamn photoshoot, lighting a cigarette with blood still drying on his extended claws. He licks a streak from the back of his hand before sheathing them with a lazy snickt, like the three men he opened up inside that warehouse were nothing more than practice dummies.
“Seriously?” Bobby calls after him, trying to keep his voice steady. “We just took down a mutant-trafficking ring, and you’re stopping for a smoke break?”
Daken exhales slow, a curl of smoke drifting toward the sodium streetlight. His grin cuts sideways, knife-sharp. “Relax, Frosty. Nobody died.” A beat, then he tilts his head, almost catlike. “Nobody that matters.”
Bobby hates that his pulse skips. It’s not attraction, it’s adrenaline, he tells himself. Obviously. “You’re unbelievable.” He has got to stop reading dark romance novels.
“I know it, baby.” Daken’s eyes gleam, feral in the half-light. He jerks his chin toward a neon glow at the corner, like he’s granting Bobby some kind of favor. “C’mon. Diner food. My treat.”
Bobby huffs, trying for sarcastic but landing on bitchy. “Your treat? What, like a date?”
Daken laughs dryly. “Come on, live a little, kid. ” Daken takes a drag, exhales smoke through a smirk “Nothing celebrates a job well done like curly fries.” He stalks off towards the welcoming glow of the diner at the end of the road as he shrugs his leather jacket on over his shoulders.
Bobby sighs and follows.
The diner’s the kind of place where time got stuck in the 80’s: sticky red booths, cracked Formica tables, a jukebox wheezing out Springsteen, fluorescent lights too bright for the late hour.
Daken slides into their booth, lighting a cigarette despite the NO SMOKING sign taped to the jukebox. A waitress in a faded pink uniform wanders over, hair pinned up in a messy bun, eyeliner smudged like she’s lived a thousand nights here and seen worse than the likes of them.
She pours their coffee without asking, sets down two menus, and rests a hand lightly on Bobby’s shoulder. “What’ll it be, sweetheart?”
Bobby blinks up at her, startled. “Uh. Coffee's fine for me. Maybe… curly fries?” Awkward, way too awkward.
She nods, jots it down, and turns to Daken, who simply shoos her away with a lazy grin. When she finally heads off toward the kitchen, Daken doesn’t take his eyes off Bobby.
“Sweetheart,” Daken drawls, lips curling slow. “I like that.” He leans in just a little, voice dipping lower. “You like that, sweetheart?”
Something sharp flips in Bobby’s stomach, heat rushing under his skin before he can tamp it down. His pulse stutters in his throat, betraying him completely. He scowls hard, sinking lower into the booth like he can fold himself into the vinyl. “Shut up.”
Daken just smirks wider, taking a drag off his cigarette no one seems to give a shit about, like he’s already won. He leans back, exhaling a lazy stream of smoke toward the ceiling fan, regarding Bobby with a long, appraising glance. “You’re so squirmy,” he says.
Bobby glances around before speaking, still buzzing from the fight. “I just watched you eviscerate three guys and then demand curly fries like a toddler. Forgive me for processing or whatever.”
“You’ll live.” Daken takes a slow drag, eyes glinting. Then, casually, like he’s noting the weather: “We should fuck.”
Bobby nearly chokes on his own spit. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Daken flicks ash into the napkin holder, utterly unbothered. “Good chemistry. Good teamwork. You want it. I can smell it.”
Bobby’s face goes volcanic. “That is…that’s not…”
“Cute,” Daken interrupts, grinning. “Really cute. Denial’s a terrible cologne, Bobby.”
Bobby gapes. “Do you ever not sound like a cheesy porno?”
“Not when I’m right.”
The waitress comes back with a basket of curly fries. Bobby thanks her too loudly, like volume might drown out the conversation. She raises an eyebrow at the tension, shrugs, and leaves.
Bobby gulps half his steaming mug of coffee without thinking. He has to use his powers to cool down his throat. His brain is a whirl: pheromones, pheromones, this is just what he does, it’s a trick, don’t be stupid. And yet. His thighs are buzzing. His stomach is tight. His skin feels like it’s waiting for something.
“This is… fuck, you’re manipulating me,” he blurts.
Daken tilts his head, smile wolfish. “Baby, if I were manipulating you, you’d be on your knees under the table by now.”
Bobby flushes so hot he’s surprised he doesn’t melt onto the Formica. He sets down the mug before he shatters it. “This is insane.”
“Mm,” Daken says, noncommittal, leaning back, casual as shit. “Motel across the street. Decide fast. I’m not begging.”
Bobby downs five way-too-hot curly fries before tossing way-too-much cash on the table and heads out the door before his higher brain functions kick in, leaving Daken to trail behind him as if picking up his scent.
Maybe he is.
–
The motel is one of those run down spots that all but rent by the hour. Daken paid in cash up front, barely exchanging a word with the blase man behind the front desk, hidden behind bullet proof glass. Classy. Now, Bobby’s pacing in front of the bed like a trapped raccoon, babbling. “Okay, so, um, ground rules. Don’t, like, Jedi mind-trick me with your pheromone deal. And no weird—” He waves vaguely at the bedspread. “—CSI motel murders. Of me. Please?”
Daken leans against the door, arms folded in a way that makes his muscles bulge, ugh, grin slow and hungry. He looks amazing, ugh ugh ugh. “Relax,” he says, plucking the last of his current cigarette from between his lips to grind out into the ancient looking ashtray. “I told you. No pheromones. Just me. Just you.”
Bobby laughs, too loud, not believing a word of it. “Oh yeah, that’s not terrifying at all.”
And then Daken’s on him, closing the space fast, kissing him like he’s claiming something. Bobby squeaks but then he’s kissing back, hands clutching at Daken’s shoulders like they’re the only stable thing in the room… which is probably bad, bad, bad.
Daken’s mouth is hot, demanding, but his hands are steady. Gentle, even, at Bobby’s waist and jaw, holding him there like he’s breakable but worth handling. It throws Bobby completely off balance. He expected rough. He expected claws and teeth. Instead, Daken coaxes, eases him toward the bed.
“You okay?” Daken murmurs, lips brushing Bobby’s throat.
“Y-yeah,” Bobby stammers, voice cracking. “Fine. Great. Totally normal.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m not shaking,” Bobby lies, trembling down to his toes.
Daken laughs, low and warm, and pushes him gently back onto the mattress. “Cute, Frosty,” he says. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”
Clothes come off in pieces, scattered across the grody carpet. Bobby’s skin prickles where Daken’s hands pass, nerves firing too fast. His brain won’t stop running commentary—this is insane, oh god, he’s really hot, what am I doing, don’t trip over your jeans you idiot.
By the time Daken’s down to nothing but ink and skin, Bobby forgets how to breathe. Daken’s body is packed muscle on muscle and wicked sharp edges, bronzed skin stretched over definition that feels like it was designed to make Bobby’s life and dick so much harder. And then there’s the ink, whooboy. The tattoo runs bold down his side, thick black patterning that snakes from shoulder blade to ribs to the sharp line of his hip and lower, lower, until it disappears right at the V of muscle leading to his groin.
Bobby stares. He knows he’s staring. He can’t stop. His throat works around a swallow he doesn’t manage to disguise.
Daken notices, astute asshole that he is, and his smirk deepens as he crawls back over Bobby, the tattoo flexing as his body shifts, making Bobby’s mouth go dry.
“Jesus Christ,” Bobby blurts, voice embarrassingly hoarse, “unfair much?”
“You’re not so bad yourself, sweetheart,” Daken purrs, bracing a hand by Bobby’s head and lowering until their mouths are a breath apart.
And then they’re kissing again, deep and messy and hungry. Bobby loses himself in it, clutching at Daken’s shoulders, tugging him closer, chasing the heat. Daken feels scorching under his hands, like he’s been burning from the inside out his whole life.
Bobby leans in too hard, too desperate, head swimming, and his powers spike—just a twitch, involuntary, the (surprisingly soft, oh my god) skin of Daken’s mouth frosting cool under his lips. Daken shudders, breaking the kiss only to exhale right back into Bobby’s mouth, a sharp breath of ice-cold air turned into heat between them.
“Hot,” Daken growls, eyes hooded, lips slick. “Do that again.”
Bobby’s brain short-circuits. His dick is hard, pressed awkwardly against his boxers, heat pulsing sharp with every movement. It’s panic and exhilaration all at once—holy shit, he’s actually turned on, by a real live guy, by this horrible guy. His internal monologue goes into freefall: This is insane, I’m straight, I’ve kissed girls my whole life, what the fuck am I doing, oh god, it feels so good, oh god I don’t want him to stop.
Daken kisses him harder, swallowing whatever noise escapes his throat. His hands are confident, tracing Bobby’s ribs, his stomach, mapping him like he’s something worth memorizing. Every time Bobby’s chest stutters with panic, Daken pauses long enough to murmur, “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
And somehow, despite the fact that he’s spiraling, despite the fire in his veins and the frost crackling across his skin, Bobby believes him.
Bobby’s head is spinning, heat pounding in his veins, when Daken finally breaks the kiss and leans back just far enough to rummage in his jacket tossed over the chair. He produces a small bottle of lube, flipping it in his palm.
Bobby stares. “Wow. That’s… subtle. What, you just carry that around? In case you run into some poor unsuspecting guy on the street who—”
“No baby,” Daken says flatly, unscrewing the cap. “This is for you.”
Bobby gapes. “Me—what?”
Daken smirks, kneeling back onto the bed, eyes narrowing. “You think I’m going to leave something this good up to chance?”
Heat scorches up Bobby’s chest. He makes a strangled noise, hiding behind sarcasm. “Oh, well, lucky me.”
“I had high hopes, sweetheart,” Daken murmurs, leaning down, “I knew where I wanted to end up and here we are.”
He peels Bobby’s boxers down slow, achingly slow, like he’s unwrapping something precious. The cool air makes Bobby shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of Daken’s hands sliding up his thighs, spreading him open.
Then Daken lowers himself, hair spilling dark across Bobby’s skin, and licks one long, wet stripe up his length. His tongue is hot, his mouth devastating, and when his eyes flick up to meet Bobby’s, half-lidded and smug, Bobby’s whole body jerks.
“Fuck,” Bobby gasps, hips stuttering upward before he can stop himself. His fingers claw helplessly at the sheets, knuckles white. He’s never been touched like this, never had anyone look at him like that—hungry and amused, like he’s both main course and dessert.
Daken doesn’t give him a second to catch his breath. He mouths at the head, tongue swirling in slow, obscene circles, then sinks down again, swallowing him deeper. The wet heat is almost unbearable, Bobby’s toes curling against the mattress, his throat working around ragged sounds he can’t contain.
“Oh god—oh god, that’s—” His words dissolve into a groan as Daken hums around him, the vibration shuddering through his whole body.
When Daken pulls back, it’s only to drag the edge of a sharp canine lightly against Bobby’s length, just enough pressure to make him arch up off the bed with a strangled cry.
“Shit!” Bobby yelps, eyes flying open, face scarlet. His whole body locks for a second, hips jerking like he’s trying to escape and chase it all tthe same.
Daken chuckles, low in his throat, and does it again, grazing carefully, deliberately, the sharp edge of fang a contrast to the hot slide of his tongue. “Sensitive,” he murmurs, lips brushing slick against Bobby’s skin. “I like that.”
Bobby whimpers, burying his face in his arm, torn between shame and the pulse of raw pleasure shooting through him. “You’re ah ah so unfair.”
“And baby, you’re delicious,” Daken says, voice muffled around him, before taking him deep again, teeth carefully tucked away this time, but the ghost of them still lingering in Bobby’s nerves.
Bobby arches helplessly, thighs trembling, heat coiling low in his stomach. He doesn’t know if he wants to cry, laugh, or beg—but his body answers for him, hips rolling up into Daken’s mouth like they’ve been waiting for this all along.
He risks a glance down and almost loses it; Daken’s dark hair is spilled across his thighs, plush lips wrapped tight around him, tattoo flexing as his shoulders move. He looks obscene and gorgeous, like something from a seedy gay porno magazine Bobby has definitely never looked at.
“Oh,” Bobby gasps, the word startled out of him, almost more moan than speech. Oh, he’s pretty.
It crashes into him all at once, the reality of it: Daken kneeling between his legs, mouth on him, dark hair brushing his thighs, tattooed body coiled like a spring. It’s beyond comprehension, and Bobby can’t decide if he wants to squirm away or beg for more.
Daken doesn’t give him time to think. He swallows him deeper, tongue working in slick, maddening motions, one hand stroking his hip like he’s keeping him steady. Bobby’s back arches, a broken moan ripping out of him before he can stop it.
“Oh god—oh fuck—”
Daken hums around him, wicked, eyes still locked on Bobby’s face. He pulls back just enough to smirk against the tip, then laves his tongue in slow, wet circles that make Bobby’s thighs quake.
By the time Daken lubes his fingers and presses the first one inside, Bobby’s already trembling, mind blank, body thrumming with sensation.
The first slick slide of fingers inside makes Bobby jolt. “Oh god, wait, wait—”
Daken stills instantly, his free hand steady on Bobby’s thigh. “Too much?”
Bobby shakes his head, panting, eyes wide. “No. Just—new. Really new.”
“Good.” Daken’s voice is steady, patient, almost gentle in a way Bobby didn’t know he had. He eases forward carefully, stretching him slow, murmuring, “Tell me if you want me to stop, cuz otherwise I won’t.”
“I—no. Don’t stop. Just… oh fuck—”
Bobby clutches the sheets, body adjusting around the intrusion, overwhelming and intimate in a way that knocks the breath from his lungs. Every move is foreign, too much, not enough, and somehow exactly what he wants in a way he absolutely does not want to look into further.
Daken takes his time, coaxing him open, working him loose, teasing out soft noises Bobby never thought he’d make. Every time Bobby squirms, Daken slows, presses a kiss to his thigh, whispers, “Good boy. Breathe.”
“You’re gorgeous like this,” Daken says, smug, kissing the corner of Bobby’s mouth.
“Don’t say shit like that” Bobby gasps, hips jerking when Daken curls his fingers just right.
“I absolutely will,” Daken says, grinning. “You’re too good not to sing your praises, baby.”
When Daken finally slicks himself and presses forward, Bobby is already trembling, nerves buzzing, his whole body begging. The blunt head nudges at him and Bobby whines, thighs tightening, overwhelmed before anything even happens.
Daken cups his jaw, eyes locked on his face, and leans in close until their foreheads touch. The weight of it grounds Bobby in a way that makes his chest ache. “Breathe,” Daken murmurs, voice low and steady. His lips brush Bobby’s cheek, his temple, like he’s keeping him tethered. It’s so much kinder than anything he expected and it shakes him more than even the messy blowjob had.
Then he pushes in, in, in, slow, steady, stretching him inch by devastating inch (how does one man have this much cock). Bobby arches, gasping, mouth falling open on a broken sound he doesn’t recognize as his own. It burns, it thrills, it’s scratching an itch deep inside of him he never knew was there.
Daken swallows hard, eyes closing briefly as he bottoms out. For a second, Bobby swears he’s about to say thank you, voice caught in his throat with something heavier than smugness. Bobby can’t take it—too intimate, what the fuck. So he kisses him instead, desperate, clumsy, trying to shut out the panicked voice in his head screaming I’m really doing this, I’m having sex with a guy, oh god oh god—
The kiss works. It drowns the noise, focuses everything down to the heat of Daken inside him, the taste of his mouth, the weight of his body pressing him into the mattress.
Daken groans into the kiss, finally seating himself fully, holding Bobby so tight it feels like the earth shifted around them. “Fuck,” he breathes against Bobby’s lips. “You feel unreal.”
Bobby clings, nails biting into Daken’s shoulders, every muscle taut. He wants to tell him to stop, to slow down, to never move again, to never leave. All that comes out is a strangled, “C’mon, don’t stop now.”
Daken chuckles darkly, kissing him again before drawing back to thrust shallowly, testing. “Not a chance.”
The rhythm builds slowly at first, Daken giving Bobby time to adjust. Each careful roll of his hips drags another ragged gasp from Bobby, sensation like fire and ice battling in his veins. His powers flare uncontrolled, frost crawling up Daken’s arm before Bobby can yank it back.
“Shit!” Bobby panics. “I—I didn’t mean—I could’ve—”
Daken just laughs, flexing until the ice shatters harmlessly, his healing factor knitting skin as fast as it splits with sharp frost. He kisses Bobby hard, feral and sweet. “It’s nothing, feels good,” he growls. “Guess you picked the right guy to fuck around with.”
Bobby makes a strangled noise, half-mortified, half-turned-on.
And then Daken really moves.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I give it as good as I get it,” Daken promises, grin wicked, hips snapping harder now.
Bobby cries out, his whole body rocked by the force of it. The air punches out of his lungs as Daken slams into him again, and again, each thrust deeper, rougher, dragging him higher. He’s clinging desperately but he’s not scared anymore—not even close. His body is screaming yes yes yes yes yes, every nerve alight, his cock hard and leaking between them.
“Yes—god, yes, don’t stop,” Bobby babbles, astonished at himself, at how good it feels. “Harder, Daken, please—”
Daken’s eyes go molten at that, his smirk turning sharp with triumph. “That’s it. That’s my good boy.” He snaps his hips with bruising force, one hand gripping Bobby’s thigh open, the other sliding down to fist him in time with every thrust.
Bobby sobs, overwhelmed, sweat slick on his skin, his voice cracking on every plea. He never imagined it could feel like this—rough, consuming, and so fucking right.
“You’re mine tonight,” Daken growls into his ear, pace relentless now, the bedframe creaking under them. His lips drag hot against Bobby’s skin, voice spilling straight into him like another kind of touch. “Every sound, every tear, every goddamn shiver—you’re giving it to me.”
Bobby whimpers, head thrown back, and Daken follows, mouth at his throat, at his ear, voice rough velvet. “You hear me? You’re not going anywhere. I’ve got you pinned, fucked open so good you don’t even know your own name. You think you’re too good for this—” His teeth graze Bobby’s earlobe, making him jolt. “—and now look at you. Spread out under me. Begging for my cock.”
Bobby sobs, a sound he didn’t mean to make, and Daken eats it up, hips snapping harder, relentless, fucking him in earnest.
“That’s it,” Daken murmurs, low and dirty, voice shaking with his own pleasure. “Cry for me. Moan for me. You sound so fucking sweet, baby, like you were made for this. Made for me. I can feel you clench every time I talk to you—fuck—you like it, don’t you? Being told what you are.”
“Daken—shut ah—” Bobby gasps, thighs trembling, his nails digging helplessly into Daken’s shoulders.
“Say it,” Daken orders, words a growl right against his ear, each syllable punctuated by another deep thrust. “Say you like it. Say you’re mine.”
Bobby shakes his head, incoherent, but his body betrays him, clenching down hard enough to make Daken groan.
“That’s what I thought,” Daken snarls, dragging his teeth lightly down Bobby’s neck. “But I want to hear you say it.”
“I—” Bobby stammers, voice cracking. “I like it.”
“Louder.” Another sharp thrust. “Say you want this.”
“I—” Bobby’s eyes squeeze shut, tears spilling down his temples. “I want this.”
Again. Daken’s voice like a whip. “Say it again.”
“I want this.”
Daken snaps his hips hard, dragging a broken cry out of him. “Again, Frosty.”
“I want this—I want this—I want this, come in me, fill me up, fill me up, please please,” Bobby sobs, body shaking apart under him, the words tumbling out between gasps and moans, hardly aware of where they’re coming from.
“That’s it,” Daken breathes against his ear, thrusting deep, his own voice ragged now. “That’s my good boy. Give it to me.”
And oh, fuck, Bobby does. He gives it all, writhing, begging, nails digging, his whole body surrendering to the rhythm. It builds and builds until he’s sobbing, pleasure tearing through him sharp and sweet. He comes undone with Daken’s hand wrapping around his length, every nerve screaming, vision going white.
Daken follows with a feral growl, hips driving in deep one last time. His teeth sink hard into the joint of Bobby’s neck and shoulder, not gentle at all, a claiming bite that makes Bobby cry out, shuddering against him. The pain folds into the heat, into the flood of release, searing him as Daken comes inside him, body shaking, clutching him like gravity itself.
The bite throbs, wet and raw, but Bobby can’t even think to care. All he can feel is Daken’s weight, his heat, his mark burning on his skin.
–
Bobby’s sprawled against the wreck of the sheets, body humming, skin slick with sweat that keeps icing and thawing no matter how many times he wills it to stop. His thighs ache in ways he’s never admitted he wanted. His chest feels cracked open, lungs greedy for every drag of air.
Daken sits on the edge of the bed like he owns it, cigarette dangling from his lips, the smoke curling slow and smug toward the ceiling. He looks unmarked, untouched, except for the lazy gleam in his eyes that says he knows exactly how ruined Bobby is. The bastard isn’t even sweaty. He presses a glass of water into Bobby’s hand.
Bobby shifts, winces, drains the glass in one go. His hand drifts up to his shoulder where it throbs, heat radiating out from the joint. When his fingers come back damp and just a little red, his eyes widen. “You bit me.”
Daken hums, unapologetic, and leans down. His tongue drags slow over the mark, licking at the raw edges like he’s savoring the taste. Bobby shudders, torn between flinching away and arching into it.
“Stop—shit, you’re—” Bobby groans, covering his face with his free hand. “Ugh you’re so gross. You actually drew blood.”
“Mm.” Daken pulls back just enough to grin down at him, sharp and satisfied. “Looks good on you. Being mine suits you.”
“You’re such a piece of shit,” Bobby mutters, touching the mark again with a hiss. It’s pulsing and tender, his skin singing with it. No one has ever bitten him before, let alone hard enough to bleed. He’s sure it’s going to bruise. “What am I supposed to tell people if they see this?”
“That you had the best night of your fucking life,” Daken says, smug as shit, flicking ash into the empty glass.
Bobby groans, dragging the pillow over his face. His voice is muffled but sharp. “Goddamn… fucking… pheromones. No wonder I—” He stops himself, because finishing the sentence would mean confessing.
Daken snorts, low and cruelly amused. He plucks the pillow off Bobby’s face with two fingers, kisses his forehead like it’s some fucked-up benediction. “Baby,” he says, voice sticky-sweet, venom wrapped in honey, “I didn’t manipulate your slutty ass one bit.”
Bobby’s eyes snap open, wide. “Wait—what?”
Daken grins, toothy and wide, tongue darting out to taste the bite mark again before straightening up. “That was all you. Every moan. Every time you begged to be filled. All natural.” He exhales smoke against Bobby’s hairline, making him shiver.
Heat rushes to Bobby’s face, mortification and arousal tangled tight. He wants to protest, deny, anything. But his throat locks, and all he can manage is a strangled, “...fuck.”
Daken leans back, satisfied, tapping more ash into the glass. “We sure did,” he says, and the smug bastard looks like he’s already replaying every second in his head just to savor Bobby squirming all over again.
He braces himself for Daken to just… leave. That seems like the kind of bastard move he’d pull.
But instead, Daken gets up, pads to the bathroom, and comes back with a damp towel. He doesn’t say anything, just nudges Bobby until he rolls halfway over and lets himself be cleaned up. The touch is shockingly careful, efficient in a way that makes Bobby squirm for a whole different reason.
“You’re—uh—thorough,” Bobby mutters, trying not to make eye contact.
“Mm,” Daken hums, unbothered, wiping the worst of the mess away before tossing the towel aside and crawling back into bed like he never left. He stretches out on his side, all lazy predator again, but the gleam in his eyes is softer now, less knife-edge.
Bobby stares up at the ceiling for a second, heart still skittering. Then, because his mouth is a traitor, he blurts, “How do you… y’know… um, identify?”
Daken snorts like it’s the dumbest question in the world. “Akihiro.”
Bobby blinks. Turns his head. “What?”
“My name,” Daken says, grinning sharp enough to cut. “It’s Akihiro. You can use it when I’ve had my dick all the way up to your lungs.”
Bobby makes a strangled sound, halfway between outrage and laughter. “You are so, fuck, you’re the worst.”
The tension in the room fractures, easier suddenly, even if Bobby’s still flushed to his ears. Daken rolls closer, slips an arm around him, and pulls him in like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He presses a kiss to the top of Bobby’s head, sighs, and murmurs, “You don’t gotta figure it all out in one night, kid.”
Bobby winces at the word kid, bristling on instinct, but he doesn’t pull away. He lets the warmth of Daken’s body seep into him, lets himself be held, even if he’ll never admit it out loud.
Bobby shifts, trying to bury his face deeper into the pillow so he doesn’t have to process… well, any of this. Of course, that’s when Daken decides to talk again, voice lazy and amused right against his ear.
“For the record,” Daken says, “I’m bi. Pan. Omni. Whatever you want to call it. I swing whichever direction will have me.”
Bobby snorts, muffled in the pillow. “That’s… honestly the least surprising thing you’ve ever said.”
“Mm.” Daken’s grin is audible. “I don’t do boxes. I do people. Men, women, the occasional neither. If they’re hot and I want ’em, I get ’em.”
Bobby groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You make it sound like ordering takeout.”
Daken chuckles, low and satisfied, tightening his arm around him until Bobby can feel the vibration of it in his chest. “Don’t worry, Frosty. You were worth the delivery fee.”
Bobby makes another strangled noise, this one closer to laughter than denial. Awful. That was awful. He should pull away, should put a whole lot of space between them before his brain fries completely. But instead he stays, warm and aching and exhausted, letting himself be held by the absolute worst person to ever make him feel this good. He lets himself drift a bit.
He lies there, staring at the water-stained ceiling, every muscle humming. He sighs into the pillow, long and low. Maybe this wasn’t so bad, he admits to himself. He can figure his shit out later. Tomorrow. Eventually.
For right now, he can just let himself breathe.
Or so he thinks… until he feels it. The slow, deliberate press of Daken’s rock hard cock rubbing against the small of his back, lazy and unmistakable.
Bobby stiffens. “Are you serious right now?”
Daken’s voice is all fake innocence, silk and sin. “What? You’re so hot.”
Bobby groans, exasperated, and twists to face him. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t give himself time, he just kisses him, hard, shutting him up the only way that works. His powers spark, a cold shock sliding over Daken’s lips, frosting the kiss until Bobby can almost believe he’s keeping his cool.
Daken laughs against his mouth, low and pleased, and kisses him back with a whole lot of tongue.