Archive of Our Own

It comes as no shock that once the embarrassment has dulled, one of the first things Abrams wants to know is why Lash. 

“I told you. I needed a place to stay,” Arin says between bites of their sandwich. 

“Well, yeah, but you’ve made it this far without him specifically,” Abrams says. “If you say he’s less of an asshole in private, I’m not gonna believe you.”

“He’s not. You just sort of… get used to him.”

“People get used to all kinds of pains.” Arin would laugh, but there’s a cup of soup in front of them that needs addressing. “But you didn’t have to. You could have left.” Abrams looks like he’s going to hate himself for asking, but he lowers his voice and does it anyway: “Was it that good?”

“Trying to solve the case of my taste in men, Detective?” It occurs only belatedly that it maybe sounds like they’re flirting ⁠— while sitting here freshly fucked by someone else, which Abrams knows. They’ve never been so shameless, and now it’s happening by accident. It’s probably Lash’s influence. 

Abrams doesn’t take the bait anyhow. “Trying to figure out how someone as smart as you could get involved with a guy like that.”

Their soup is gone now, and the sandwich. They must be too obvious, because Abrams pushes over what remains of his pile of potato wedges.

Mostly out of gratitude that Abrams is, in fact, feeding them like the lost pet Lash suggested they were, Arin takes the sincere approach. With a quick glance around the mostly-empty diner, they lean in farther and keep their voice low. “You of all people know how complicated things are for me. Maybe I wanted something simple. He’s, you know, an asshole, but he wasn’t out to hurt me. I knew exactly what I was getting into.”

“Did you now?”

“It’s all right there on the label. No surprises, no hidden agendas, nothing lurking under the surface.”

“Everybody has something under the surface.” Abrams sighs, then concedes, “Even if some hidden depths are shallower than others.”

Arin smiles, picking at crumbs. Emboldened by the warm diner and the belly full of food and the decent company, they add, “And since you’re so curious, I certainly didn’t go back because it was bad.”

“Huh. Always thought that personality was compensating for something.”

“That’s what I thought! But no.” Arin hides their embarrassed cough with a drink of water, but nothing can suppress the warmth in their cheeks. “At least not anything in that department.”

Abrams looks torn, but he must decide they’ve come too far now to back down. “I know I’m gonna regret asking, but how big are we talking?”

Flushing deeper, Arin holds their hands apart at a distance that approximates the length of Lash’s cock. They study it for a second, then spread their hands another inch and a half or so. They can only hold it so long before the shame grows too powerful. 

Abrams tilts his head and shrugs uncomfortably. “Impressive enough, I guess,” he says in a voice that suggests he is entirely unimpressed. 

It’s an insane thing to say, unless— Arin stops the thought before it can fully form, slamming back the rest of their water. 

They resolve not to think about it at all. They’re almost successful. 

Abrams pays, as promised, then guides them another few blocks to his apartment. On the way, Arin stumbles on a cracked sidewalk, and Abrams catches them, crushing them against his big body. His arm nearly engulfs them, and when he helps them stabilize, his hand spans so much of their waist.

“Thank you,” Arin says belatedly.

Abrams looks up from his hands with an almost guilty expression, as if he had anything to do with them falling. “No problem.”

They make it to Abrams’ apartment without further incident. This one has rooms distinct from one another, which almost feels luxurious after Lash’s studio, even though it’s not much bigger. 

Abrams points toward each door off the main room. “Bedroom, toilet, kitchen. You can have the bed. I’ll take the sofa.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I’ve slept on that couch more times than I can count. I’ll be alright. You need anything before I wash up?”

“No, thank you.” The floor is cold under their socked feet, but from the ankles up, the apartment is warm enough. Abrams calls out for them to make themself at home, and they try to take it to heart. 

The bed takes up most of the bedroom, which makes sense for a man the size of Abrams. There’s barely room between it and the door for the lamp. Otherwise, a tiny writing desk sits in the corner, with a chair that blocks the open closet and nearly brushes the mattress. 

It feels strange to shove the suitcase under the bed, and stranger that they intend to move more than three feet away from it. They eventually stopped strapping it to themself at night at Lash’s place, but they never left a room without it. 

A whole bed to themself — and more than that, an entire room — is an unbelievable luxury these days. They climb into the bed and flop facedown. 

It’s creaky but comfortable, and it smells like the detective’s pomade and soap and sweetly stale cigarette smoke, which is more pleasant than they would have guessed. Full and warm as they are, it should be easy to sleep, but they’re restless and can only stand to lie there for so long. 

Back on their feet, they change into proper sleepwear then poke around the living room. The couch looks equal parts threadbare and comfortable, with a pillow and blanket already there. There’s a big leather chair too, worn enough to have a pale indent in the seat. There are a few file boxes strewn about, a rug that’s seen better days, and a radio on a small table. In the center of it all sits a coffee table covered in more of those files, an overflowing ashtray, and a small collection of glasses and mugs. 

There aren’t many ways to repay Abrams for letting them stay, but that one seems easy enough. They carry an armful of dishes through the curtain that hangs across the kitchen doorway. 

“Wait, wait!” Abrams says, but it’s too late. 

He’s standing naked and dripping wet in the bathtub. He snaps a towel in front of himself, but not before Arin catches an eyeful. No wonder he was unfazed by their estimate of Lash’s cock. Abrams is larger than life everywhere, it seems.

Arin doesn’t realize they’re staring until Abrams belatedly adjusts the towel over his groin. “I am so sorry. I thought this was the kitchen. I’m⁠—” Glancing around to look at anything but Abrams’ huge, naked body, other information finally pierces their brain. There’s the refrigerator, stove, and sink. They weren’t wrong. “Why is there a bathtub in your kitchen?” 

“I don’t know. Something to do with building codes. I should have warned you.”

Abrams has managed to wrangle the towel around his waist. It doesn’t hide much, but it lets them both pretend that his enormous dick is not currently airing out beneath it. At least Arin tries to pretend, but the towel is kind of thin, and it’s not as if it’s retreated inside his body, so there’s a sort of outline and⁠—

The only safe thing to do is put the dishes in the sink. It means walking past Abrams, but at least their back is to him once it’s done. The glasses probably do not need to be scrubbed that vigorously, but if they squint hard enough they can imagine spots that still need several rounds of cleaning, probably.

“I’m decent,” Abrams calls from the living room, and Arin’s shoulders can finally creep away from their ears.

The only real comfort is that Abrams is still blushing at least as much as they are. Now he’s in faded red and white-striped pajamas, which their mind helpfully labels adorable before they can suppress it. 

“I am still so sorry,” Arin says. 

Abrams is looking at their chest, or more likely the top of the scar there, just visible before the buttons of their shirt begin. Then he blinks and waves a hand as if to banish Arin’s worries. “It’s fine. You didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, et cetera. Let’s just forget it ever happened.”

Easy enough to agree in the moment, but it comes back to haunt them once they’re in bed, surrounded by the smell of him. Now when they close their eyes, they can still see it with crystal clarity: the expanse of blue skin, shoulders as broad as two of Arin, pecs bigger than their head, waist clipped in, muscle under a layer of fat like padded steel, and between the thick columns of his thighs, the biggest cock Arin has ever seen. 

God, what would that even be like? Lash’s already reached a point where pleasure blurred with discomfort and even pain, and this is bigger, noticeably so even at a glance. Surely it would be too much. 

Pressure tugs at their belly, heat between their thighs. 

They lie there, staring at the stained ceiling and listening to Abrams’ heavy breathing and the sounds of the city below. Their skin feels tight, too cold and too hot at once, tingling with every imagined pass of air.

Worst of all is the strange sense of emptiness, like an itch they can’t reach. It’s maddening. Not for the first time, they wonder if Lash has cursed them somehow, if all his nasty talk about molding Arin into the shape of his cock was more than just mindless filth. 

They clench down, imagining anything at all inside them, and it feels so good, but it won’t ever be enough. Their cock pounds between their thighs, but they can’t touch, not with Abrams right there, not about him, not while they’re still aching as a result of another man only a few hours ago. But the ache sits as a reminder of what it could feel like, and a tremor races through them.

That Abrams is right there makes it worse somehow. They can smell him in the sheets, can still picture his enormous cock. Abrams could fill that emptiness, and he’d be so nice about it.

They press their hands flat on the mattress, every muscle in their body locking to keep them from squirming, and they try to think about anything else at all. Sleep is a long time coming.

In the morning they avoid watching Abrams get dressed, and they hope he chalks it up to them not being a morning person. Abrams does not make coffee ⁠— “I usually pick some up on my way to work” ⁠— but he does show Arin where the dusty coffee pot is. 

Before he leaves, Abram sets a key down on the coffee table. “Don’t lose that,” he says. “You go anywhere without me, lock up. Once you’re inside, lock up. Don’t open the door for anybody but me. This neighborhood’s going to shit.”

Arin nods along, and then Abrams disappears off to work, that strange book still in tow. They’ve spent a lot of time alone in their life, but it feels strange to do so inside someone else’s home. As soon as they’ve washed up and made themself presentable, they grab the suitcase and leave too.

They develop a routine quickly enough, mostly around Abrams’ work schedule and whatever he is doing after hours with that book. Arin doesn’t ask, any more than they volunteer anything about the suitcase. 

In the evenings Abrams brings back takeout, they might chat for a time, and then both retire to their respective beds, where Abrams promptly begins snoring and Arin stares at the ceiling for a while. 

A week in, Abrams tells them, “Gonna be out late. Don’t wait up.” 

The only thing weirder than being in Abrams’ apartment alone is being in it alone for hours after nightfall. When they get bored enough, they drag the suitcase out from under the bed, intending to study it further. It catches on something this time, and there’s a drag. A thin blanket comes out with it. That’s not all that interesting, but what the blanket was covering certainly is.

It’s a small stack of nudie mags. On the cover of the first is a lavender-skinned Ixian looking coyly at the camera, ample breasts threatening to tumble out of a tight dress. She’s not nude on the front here, but flipping through the pages, they find other photos of her wearing nothing but her skin or the occasional artfully draped bedsheet.

Amused, they keep flipping past beautiful, busty Ixians, some horned, some with tails, some with both or neither, in a variety of poses. Halfway through the magazine, Arin finds a different body: another demon with dark blue skin, but this one is flat chested and broad shouldered, soft dick lying against one thigh. 

The entire back half of the magazine is full of these, as if Ixian pornography doesn’t bother to make separate publications for these things. The next one they pick up is more jumbled together, with the models grouped by theme rather than the sex or gender. 

The last magazine is the most graphic, no longer even pretending at tasteful nude photography of individual models. This one has humans too, posing with Ixians. Most are pretty standard fare, but every now and then there’s one that surprises them, like the one of a gray Ixian taking two human dicks at the same time. 

One dog-eared page features a single human trapped between two massive Ixians, pierced from both ends. The human looks so tiny between them, like either Ixian could break him in half, and he’s somehow managing two. The cock in his throat creates a visible bulge, straining against the leather collar he’s wearing. A huge hand is fisted into his black hair. The one behind him has one black-gloved hand at his waist, and the other hooking a finger into a metal loop on the back of his leather harness. 

Arin closes the magazine in a flutter of pages. They shouldn’t have gone snooping. They shove the magazines back under the bed and toss the spare blanket back over the stack. 

The back of their neck is sweaty. Their upper lip too. Flipping through the earlier pictures felt like more of a scholastic endeavor, mere curiosity, especially with the women’s bodies. But that last magazine, that last picture—

Is that what Abrams likes? The leather, the human trapped between two giant bodies? It was folded at the corner as if he wanted to remember its location. 

Now that they’ve asked themself the question, they can’t get the image out of their head. It’s so easy to see where they fit in the picture, with Abrams starring as either of the Ixians. At first the other Ixian is nameless, faceless, but they still have clear memories of what Lash’s cock feels like, how heavy it sits on their tongue. 

Instead of sitting there shocked on the floor, they climb into bed. Guilt still spikes through them over this invasion of Abrams’ privacy, the defilement of his bed, but he’s not here right now, and it’s been too long as it is. They grew accustomed to getting off nightly with Lash, and now it’s been a week.

They shove their pajama pants down and take their cock in hand. 

It’s blood hot in their fist, and the first touch is already intense. Slick spills from the head, and they smear it down the length, grip loose and lazy. It won’t take long, but they don’t have to rush it either. 

They picture it again, the tableau of them with Lash and Abrams. They know what Lash feels like in their mouth, know what he tastes like, how their jaw stretches wide around it, how deep it pushes into their throat, how hard they have to focus not to gag ⁠— how easy it is to gag anyway, throat seizing around him while he fucks in shameless and unapologetic. 

What they don’t know is how Abrams would feel, but they can extrapolate. He’d be kinder in comparison, warm hands smoothing over ass and thighs while he works his way in, stretching them impossibly wide and pushing impossibly deep. Maybe that would finally scratch the itch, leave them feeling full enough for long enough, or maybe they’d only crave it more, again and again and again until they’re useless for anything else.

In their mind, Abrams and Lash both build up a rhythm, and all Arin has to do is hold themself up. Here and now, they clench again, mouth going dry as they fuck into their fist. It isn’t enough though, and maybe won’t ever be, because all they really want is something inside. 

They roll onto their side, curling in on themself and shoving two fingers into their mouth. It’s awkward, but they manage to twist that hand  to rub spit-damp fingers over their hole, one leg sliding up to make more room. 

Something about it feels pathetic ⁠— imagining what they had and left behind, and what they can’t have now, projecting them both into this fantasy where they get to be exactly as greedy as they feel, where they only have to be some sort of vessel for their use. 

They imagine Lash grabbing them first by the hair, like he’s done before, then by the ears, like he hasn’t, in order to thrust as deep down their throat as he can go, forcing his way down right past any resistance until they can only drool and take it. They imagine Abrams doing the same, shoving hard into them until they rock forward, choking on Lash’s cock.

Their fingers can barely push in and can only move slowly, because the spit isn’t enough. Two slender fingers aren’t enough either, not at the strange angle, not without any real leverage. It helps the fantasy though, and they fuck into their fist in short, sharp thrusts, shoving their face into the pillow to muffle the sounds they’re making, ashamed even in private by their own wantonness.

This is Lash’s fault somehow, like he unlocked something inside them. They’ve felt desire before, but never like this, never this aching, empty, desperate thing that leaves them humping their own fist, halfway into the mattress trying to do anything at all that might remotely approximate an enormous cock stuffed deep inside them. They squeeze around their fingers, hips moving without any rhythm, and they whine into the pillow.

They’re so, so close, lightheaded and body overheating. It will only take a little bit more, one last twist of a wrist, one last nudge of fingers inside them, and ⁠—

“I am so sorry,” Abrams says, and there’s a crashing sound.

Arin yelps, yanking their fingers out ⁠far too quickly and pulling the blanket over themself. Their face was already hot, but now their ears are too, burning and burning with sheer humiliation.

“Sorry, sorry,” Abrams is still saying. He’s knocked over the chair in the corner. When Arin dares to look, he’s got his hand over his eyes, and he’s trying to back blindly out of the room. “I heard…” He coughs. “I thought there might be trouble. Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Arin mumbles, ears ringing so hard they can barely hear their own voice. They don’t know what causes them to look ⁠— maybe more shame or some way to punish themself for having dared to do this in Abrams’ own bed ⁠— but they do, and there, straining against trousers that are valiantly trying to hold it back, is Abrams’ dick.

Abrams’ hand comes down from his face, and helplessly they lock eyes. Arin doesn’t think it’s possible to be any more embarrassed than they are right at this moment, but the sight of Abrams’ half-hard cock is flattering, at least. 

It could be purely physiological. There’s a naked person in Abrams’ bed, and Arin doesn’t think they’re bad-looking, and the room probably smells like sex, but maybe there’s more to it than that. It’s a struggle to make any words come out. “Detective,” they say quietly, plaintively. 

The look on Abrams’ face is dumbstruck with open desire, and maybe guilt too, the same sort of guilt Arin feels, wanting something they were sure they couldn’t have. If they’re wrong it’s going to be miserable, but it can’t get much worse than it already is. 

“You could help me,” they say, almost without their permission.

Abrams swallows hard, but he’s definitely still staring. “You’re too young for me,” he protests weakly. It sounds rote, like he’s said it before, maybe to himself, maybe thinking of Arin, and that makes the blood rush in their ears.

“I’m twenty-three.”

“Still, I⁠— I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”

They laugh, feeling possessed by some kind of deranged, horny spirit. “You still can.” It strikes them that he hasn’t said no, merely laid out his excuses for why he shouldn’t. But Arin knows perfectly well that shouldn’t and won’t are two different things. “Please.”

“I don’t want some sort of payment,” Abrams says.

“That’s not what I’m offering. I just want you.”

Abrams makes a noise, strained, then he’s dropping to his knees at the bedside, mumbling, “I tried,” against Arin’s mouth, and then they’re kissing. Abrams holds their face in two giant hands to kiss them as thoroughly as he wants. His lips are soft and generous, his tongue demanding and hungry. It’s all Arin can do to hold on for dear life.

Eventually one of those huge hands shoves aside the blanket to grip their cock, which leaps from half-mast to painfully hard so fast that it’s dizzying. They groan directly into his mouth, or maybe it’s a sob, and they have no control over the way their hips move, stuttering into his grip.

Maybe it’s because they were so close already, or maybe because it’s Abrams, their entire body feels electrified, desire flooding them from head to toe and pooling in their core, and they should warn him, but Abrams hasn’t stopped kissing them like he’s trying to suck their soul out, and they moan around his tongue and come all over his hand.

Abrams kisses them through the aftermath, one hand resting gently on their waist, bared where their shirt has been rucked up, and the other strokes sweetly through their hair, and they might be swooning.

He pulls at their shirt to help them out of it. When he finally retreats, he licks the mess they left off of one broad palm.

“Lift,” he says firmly, and Arin’s hips follow his instruction without conscious thought. Abrams pulls their underwear and pajama bottoms off in one smooth motion, then he’s sliding a gentle hand up their bare calf and along their thigh. 

It’s all so sweet, which they mostly expected, but which feels so strange after Lash. There’s no grabbing or roughness, only the soft skimming fingers over their skin like they’re something precious.

It takes a moment to recover from their daze, but then they’re pushing at Abrams’ clothing. He’s still in his coat even, and that seems very wrong. Once Arin has begun the task, Abrams helps, shrugging out of his coat and then his shirt and tie, undershirt, until his bare chest is exposed. Arin hasn’t been able to get that huge, muscular chest out of their head any more than they’ve been able to forget his cock, but somehow it’s better than their memory allowed, covered in a dusting of dark hair.

Abrams has to stand to get his trousers off, but then he’s sliding his underwear off, and there it is again, that gigantic cock, even more impressive now that it’s filling out ⁠— and it’s doing so for Arin.

They lean in, more than ready to see how much of it they can fit in their mouth, but Abrams stops them with a hand on their shoulder. He sounds amused when he says, “You’re young, but I’m not. If you do that, we’re all done. But I bet we can get another one out of you first.” 

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, I know I don’t. I’d like to though.” Arin blinks up at him dumbly, then Abrams says, “Roll over.” Maybe they should be embarrassed by how fast they comply.

Abrams strokes one hand down Arin’s back. Every muscle seems to shiver under it, and they can’t help but tip their ass upward toward him like some kind of animal presenting. 

Those big hands land on their ass, thumbs slipping into the divots to either side of their tailbone. Then one slips down to stroke dry over their hole. Before they can process it, the weight of the bed shifts, and his tongue replaces his thumb. It’s wet and so careful that Arin melts into the bed.

Everything with Lash was always so immediate and frenetic. Abrams works slowly, like he could do this all night. It’s hard to distinguish any one movement from another, but it’s all soft and slick, slipping over and around and in. At some point they think Abrams’ lips get involved, like the filthiest kiss they’ve ever experienced. At first he’s peeling them open with his thumbs, but as Arin becomes increasingly boneless and opens up just for his tongue, his hands move, hooking into the crease between hip and thigh to hold them up in exactly the position he wants.

There’s no telling how long it lasts. It’s nothing but soft, dirty sensation that makes their skin buzz and their head swim, makes it feel like every nerve in their body has rerouted to their hole and the wet tongue working it over.

They’re lightheaded and halfway to insane by the time Abrams eases slippery fingers in. Two at once, and there’s no resistance, no need to adapt, because every muscle in Arin’s body has gone lax except the ones keeping their cock stiff and leaking. They whine into the pillow.

Abrams chuckles, smug sounding, and eases a third finger in. Even if it’s not yet what they need, it’s better than their own fingers by a hundredfold. They squirm on wobbly legs to press into it, trying to egg him on. 

“Patience,” Abrams says, and one hand slides warm up Arin’s lower back. 

“Please, I’m ready.”

Abrams hums to himself, and he keeps on doing it at his own pace. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

They’re trembling all over by the time he decides he’s done. With those same terribly gentle hands, he helps them get their knees back under them, and then he’s massaging their ass, digging fingers into their hips, running hands experimentally up to their waist, and oh, they’re sure it would only take the lightest squeeze for his fingertips to touch.

Arin’s not a giant by any means, and maybe they’re on the lankier side for their height, but they’ve never felt particularly small either. Now they’re forced to come to terms with their own relative fragility, right as Abrams’ hard cock nudges behind their balls. 

One of those hands disappears, and then the crown is kissing their hole, sweet as anything else about him. They breathe, relax, stretch around the intrusion. 

He pets mindlessly at Arin’s back, his hand so warm, and he rocks so carefully in. The head pops in. It’s already so wide, and he’s barely even begun.

Arin pants, trying to stay relaxed as the widest thing they’ve ever had up their ass slowly works its way in. If it were Lash, he would be merciless ⁠— or maybe it was more merciful than Arin gave him credit for, because this is torture, waiting an eternity for each consecutive centimeter like this.

“You’re doing so well,” Abrams coos, petting their spine, and Arin melts enough that he slides deeper, the longest so far. “There you go. Perfect,” he says, and slips in farther.

There are still several inches to go, and Arin’s nearly ready to cry. It’s stretching them so wide that Abrams has to rub more slick around their rim with his thumb.

It’s hard to get enough air, at least until Abrams commands, “Breathe.” 

He rocks out carefully, more than before, then slides back in a little farther, a little more smoothly, while Arin groans. He’s already hit that point where it’s so deep it’s uncomfortable, that point that they’ve learned to crave, and his hips still haven’t settled against Arin’s ass. 

“So good for me,” Abrams says, and Arin practically whimpers in response. 

“Please,” they mumble into the pillow. “Please, I need⁠—” Abrams goes deeper, and they cut off with a full body shudder, squeezing all around him involuntarily. 

They feel like they have a fever, too hot and too cold, sweating and skin tingling, ears ringing, and they can’t move at all, thighs locked so they’ll stop shaking, even with Abrams petting along the backs of them.

“Relax,” he says. “I’ve got you.” He moves like he thinks they might break, and maybe he’s right. They’re stretched impossibly wide, and he’s pushed impossibly deep and still going. It feels like he’s going to bump into their diaphragm any minute now, knock the breath out of them for real. 

It feels like it takes hours with them tightening around him and groaning because it feels good and it hurts and it’s strange and it’s overwhelming. Finally, his hips come to rest against their ass, and they could cry. He stops there while they adjust, and no matter how many soothing words he’s murmuring or how gently his hands stroke Arin’s sides and flank, it’s so fucking much ⁠— too much.

That’s before he begins to move again in careful, tiny motions that just keep him lodged up in there. They want to escape and they want him to never pull out, and it’s hard to even remember to breathe. He rocks them gently, tenderly, colossal dick barely moving, and one of their thighs is shaking now, muscle twitching.

“Feels so good,” Abrams says almost mindlessly, while Arin’s body tries to wring the life out of his cock. It gets easier, but only by increments, and even then, it never becomes less overwhelming. Once he seems convinced Arin won’t snap in half, Abrams moves more, pulling out farther then stuffing his cock back in so deep they can feel it between their teeth, and they’re going to go insane. Tears cling to the corners of their eyes and their insides cling to Abrams’ cock, and when he moves it feels like he’s going to turn them inside out.

The sheet is wet beneath them already, but it only gets wetter as that massive cock coaxes more precome out of them. They try their best to grind back onto it, but they’re barely able to move at all. It lasts a thousand years, lasts until their body finally relents and Abrams can fuck them properly, and even then he’s so careful, so sweet they can hardly stand it. Heat builds in their limbs, in their belly, and electricity crackles down their spine, and they could cry or scream but the only sound coming out by now is a broken, shaky panting, and then they come untouched, just from getting spread out on Abrams’ heavy cock.

They shudder, body trying so hard to keep squeezing around him, but it can’t anymore, and Arin can’t move. Abrams starts to pull back, and they manage to mumble, “Please.” Face hot and feeling half insane, they say, “Leave it in.” 

It’s too much, especially now, rubbing them raw and overstimulating them, but Abrams does as they ask, fucking just as leisurely as he did before, like he wants to enjoy their body as long as he can. 

They shove their face harder into the pillow, swaying with every rock of his hips, still shivering along his length occasionally. It’s almost hypnotic at this point, being nothing but a hole to fuck. Finally, Abrams shoves in deeper, fingers clenching hard on Arin’s hips, as he comes so deep in their body they might never get him out.

After, he pulls out as carefully as he went in, and it’s a relief, but they also regret the loss. “Do you want me to stay?” Abrams asks, stroking fingertips down their spine. 

“Uh-huh,” they manage, which makes him chuckle. 

The bed, which felt so huge when Arin was in it alone, feels suddenly tiny with Abrams in it. He doesn’t seem to mind though. He budges them aside to make room for himself, then pulls them in, back to his chest, knees tucked behind theirs. The hand that’s free pets down their side, their thigh, their belly, anywhere he can reach, soothing. 

“We’re talking about this in the morning,” he says, but they’re already halfway to sleep.