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likerofgonstandothers

rainghoulgf

Jun 28

bloodfin

Vampire!Dew and transmasc Rain on their period.... Uh forget I said anything

full service vampire

Rain/Dewdrop

Summary - Vampire!Dew and transmasc Rain on his period... In which Rain spends three days assuming his vampire boyfriend will be weird about it, and Dew spends three days quietly buying him snacks.

AO3

Warnings - vampire character; trans male character; trans rain; menstruation; menstrual sex; blood kink; blood drinking; blood as lube; vampire bites; oral sex; praise kink; penis in vagina sex; boy cunt; aftercare; established relationship; gender dysphoria (period related); porn with feelings; dew is trying his best; he's a gentleman, actually (mostly)

a/n: while we start with period related dysphoria, we do end firmly in euphoria. they are in love your honor. I shall not forget you said anything, in fact I will write 7.5k words explaining why I love it. Also -- how have I never written period fic considering all the blood I write. First time for everything, hope you enjoy <3

· · · — ⸸ · ⛧ · ⸸ — · · ·

It's day three, and Dew is being an absolute fucking gentleman about it.

This is the part nobody warns you about, when they tell you about being a vampire. They tell you about the teeth and the speed and the sun, and they leave out the part where you spend most of your existence aware of every living thing in a thirty-foot radius and you have to choose, constantly, second by second, to not be a problem about it.

Dew has gotten good at it over the years. He can sit in the ministry kitchen at eight in the morning with a cup of coffee he doesn't need, and he can let Aether's heartbeat just be a thing happening across the room. He can let Cumulus pad past him in socked feet without doing anything weird about the warm soft animal of her, and he can be normal. Dew is so normal.

Dew is, on the spectrum of vampires existing in close quarters with food, an absolute goddamn saint.

Rain walks into the kitchen and Dew puts the coffee down because his hand has gone unsteady.

"Morning," Rain says, not looking at him.

"Morning," Dew says, which is an acceptable thing to say.

Rain crosses to the kettle. He's wearing the big hoodie, the gray one with the thumb holes that he stole off Mountain a year ago and has refused to give back.

The hood is up.

Dew watches him fill the kettle and set it on the burner and stand there with his back to the room, both hands braced on the counter, head down. Watches him take a slow breath like he's counting through something. Watches him roll his shoulders once, carefully, the way you do when your whole body is a low-grade complaint.

Dew looks down at his coffee.

It's been three days. Dew noticed it on day one — sensed it before Rain did, probably, the way the scent of him had shifted by about half a degree on Monday afternoon, gone from the wet stone and watercress thing Rain usually is to something a little richer underneath, copper sitting under the rain, the unmistakable announcement of a body doing what bodies do.

Dew had nearly dropped a plate.

He'd spent the rest of Monday white-knuckling through it, not because he was going to do anything about it — he wasn't, he wouldn't, he's a gentleman — but because his entire nervous system had lit up like a switchboard and refused to dim back down.

By Tuesday he had himself in hand. He was managing.

By Wednesday, today, day three, he had noticed the other thing.

Rain won't look at him.

Not in a dramatic way. Rain isn't avoiding him to make a point. Rain is avoiding him the way you avoid a sore tooth — not even consciously, just routing around it. Slipping out of rooms when Dew comes in, going to bed early, eating dinner at the counter instead of at the table.

They haven't slept in the same bed since Sunday night. On Monday Rain had said I think I'm gonna crash in my own room, I'm restless, don't wanna kick you, and on Tuesday he'd said I'm just gonna read for a bit, don't wait up, and last night he hadn't said anything at all, just hadn't come.

Dew isn't going to make a thing about it.

Dew is going to drink his coffee, and he's going to let Rain have his kettle and his hoodie and his three feet of counter space, and he's going to be normal about it until Rain decides to be normal about it, and that's the plan. That is the entire plan.

Dew has been a vampire for a long time and he has gotten very good at waiting.

Rain pours the hot water into his mug. The teabag goes in. The spoon. Three slow stirs. He stands there with both hands wrapped around the ceramic, and Dew watches the line of his shoulders, the way his head is still tipped down, the way the hood casts a shadow across his jaw, and Dew thinks, very clearly: he is miserable, and he is hiding from me, and I don't know how to ask him why without making it worse.

"Hey," Dew says, before he can stop himself. "You okay?"

Rain's shoulders go up half an inch.

"Yeah," he says, to the mug. "Just tired."

"Okay," Dew says.

Rain takes the mug and leaves the kitchen, doesn't look at Dew on the way out.

Dew sits at the table with his now cold coffee and listens to Rain's footsteps go down the hall and stop. The door opens, closes, the quiet click of a lock.

Right, Dew thinks.

He drinks the coffee. It tastes like nothing. He sits there for another ten minutes, just to prove to himself that he can, just to prove that he is not going to follow, and then he gets up and rinses his mug and goes to find something to do with his hands.

⸸

He finds Rain on the couch at one in the morning.

Dew has been trying to read for three hours. The book is a perfectly good book — Cumulus pressed it on him last week, said it would gut him, and on a normal night Dew would have been gutted by now, but tonight every sentence has been sliding off his eyes like rain off a windshield. He's been on the same page for forty minutes.

The Abbey is quiet. The fire in the den has burned down to coals. He'd gone looking for a glass of water and walked through the living room and stopped.

Rain is asleep on the couch.

The hoodie is still on.

The hood is down now, and his hair is a mess, falling across his forehead the way it does when he hasn't bothered with it. He's curled on his side facing the back of the couch, knees drawn up, one hand tucked under his cheek and the other clutching at the front of the hoodie like he was holding his own stomach when he went under. There's a half-empty mug of tea on the coffee table — different tea than the morning, this one with the lemon-and-ginger smell Rain reaches for when he's hurting. A heating pad has slid off his hip and is making a faint warm noise on the cushion behind him.

Dew stands in the doorway and doesn't move.

It would be a kindness, he thinks, to leave. It would be a kindness to back out of the room and let Rain sleep and pretend tomorrow that he never saw this. Never saw the heating pad or the second mug or the small defensive curl of Rain's body around itself.

It would be a gentleman's kindness.

But the scent is impossible at this distance.

Dew's mouth floods. He keeps his teeth where they belong with an effort that feels almost physical, like holding a door shut against a strong wind. He stays in the doorway and he doesn't move. Just watches Rain breathe, slow and shallow, the rise and fall of the hoodie under his chin, and he thinks —

Oh. Oh, baby. You've been carrying this alone.

He doesn't realize he's crossed the room until he's at the couch.

He kneels down next to it. Slow. Quiet. He's not going to touch — he's just going to pick up the heating pad and put it back where it goes, settle the blanket over Rain's shoulders, leave him be. He's just doing a small kind thing in the dark and then he's leaving. That's the plan.

That's the entire —

Rain's eyes open.

They go wide for one half-second of unprocessed sleep, and then they focus, and land on Dew's face. Dew watches it happen in real time — the recognition and the immediate hot flash of caught, the way Rain's whole face shutters down into something defensive before he's even all the way awake.

"Hey," Dew says, very softly. "Hi. It's just me."

"What time is it," Rain says. His voice is rough.

"Late. One-ish. I was getting water."

"Oh." Rain pushes himself up onto one elbow. The hoodie has ridden up at his hip; he tugs it down with the hand that isn't holding his weight. He won't quite look at Dew. "Sorry. I fell asleep."

"It's okay."

"I should go to bed."

"Yeah."

Neither of them moves.

Dew is still kneeling next to the couch. He can see Rain's pulse in his throat — a small steady visible thing, faster than it should be, his body giving away what his face is trying to hide. He can smell the heating pad and the ginger tea and Rain himself, the watercress and the copper and underneath it the faint sour-sweet tang of three nights of bad sleep.

Rain's eyes are tired. There are shadows under them that weren't there on Sunday.

"Rain," Dew says.

"Don't."

"Okay."

"I just —" Rain swallows. His jaw works. He still isn't looking at Dew. "I'm fine. I'm just gonna go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," Dew says again. And then, because he can't help it, because three days of being a gentleman has worn through him in one specific place: "You don't have to hide from me."

Rain goes very still.

"I'm not," he says, to the back of the couch.

"Baby."

"I'm not."

"Rain. Look at me."

Rain doesn't.

Rain stares at the back of the couch for a long moment.

Dew watches his throat work, watches his free hand curl tighter into the hem of the hoodie, watches him try to assemble a face that will get him out of this room without having this conversation.

Watches the assembly fail.

Rain's eyes close. His mouth twists.

"I didn't want you to know," he says.

"I know."

Rain's eyes open. He looks at Dew, finally, properly, and his face is doing something complicated — embarrassment and exhaustion and something else under both of those, something Dew has been watching him carry around for three days without a name.

"You know?"

"Sweetheart. I'm a vampire."

"Lucifer's taint."

"I knew on Monday."

"Are you fucking kidding me."

"I wasn't gonna say anything —"

"You knew on Monday —"

"I wasn't gonna make it a thing! I just — you were ducking me, and I didn't want to push, and I —"

"Lucifer's taint," Rain says again, and he puts his free hand over his face. He laughs once, a small wrecked sound that isn't quite a laugh, and Dew watches his shoulders shake and cannot tell for one terrible second whether Rain is laughing or crying or both. When Rain drops his hand and his eyes are wet but he is, in fact, laughing, in the awful way you laugh when something has been sitting on your chest for three days and somebody has finally, gently, lifted it off.

"Come here," Dew says.

Rain comes. He sits up properly and swings his legs down and Dew settles on the couch next to him, close but not touching, giving him the half-inch of space to decide. Rain takes about two seconds and then he tips sideways into Dew's shoulder and stays there. Dew puts an arm around him.

Rain is warm. Rain is never this warm — the water ghoul of him, the crisp cool sea under his skin — but tonight he's warmer, the low banked heat of a body working hard at something.

Dew lets himself, finally, breathe him in.

"I thought you'd be weird about it," Rain says, into his shoulder.

"Why?"

"Because — I don't know. Because it's gross. Because it's — I don't know. I didn't want you looking at me different."

"Different how?"

"Different like —" Rain's voice is muffled. "Different like you were thinking about it. Different like you were remembering. I don't want — when you look at me I want you to just look at me, I don't want you to —"

"Rain."

"— I don't want it to be a thing —"

"Rainy. Baby. Hey. Look at me."

Rain looks up.

Dew puts his hand on Rain's jaw. Very gentle. Very deliberate. He turns Rain's face up toward his own and he holds Rain's eyes. He speaks slowly, because he wants Rain to hear every word.

"I have been looking at you all week. I have been looking at you, and at nothing else, and I have been losing my mind."

Rain's breath catches.

"I have been," Dew says, "a paragon of restraint. I have been a monk. I haven't said anything because you weren't saying anything and I thought you wanted space and I was trying to give it to you. And I will keep giving it to you. If you tell me right now that you want to go to bed and sleep this off and never talk about it again, I will walk you to your door and I will kiss you on the forehead and I will not say a word."

"Okay," Rain whispers.

"But baby. If you are hiding from me because you think I don't want you right now."

Rain's eyes go wet again.

"I want you," Dew says, "so bad I have been chewing through the inside of my own mouth for three days."

"Dew."

"I want you more like this," Dew says. "Not despite. More. Because your body is doing the most magnificent fucking thing it does and you are walking around in it and I'm supposed to act normal and I'm — I'm not normal, sweetheart, I'm not, I'm —"

"Fucking hell, shut up," Rain says, and kisses him.

Rain kisses him hard. Rain kisses him like he's been holding it in his teeth for three days, which — yeah, probably, Dew can taste it, can taste the ginger and the want and the small wrecked relief of being everything he needed to hear.

Dew kisses him back and tries very hard not to bite, not yet, not until they have talked about it like grown men, and Rain is making a small sound into his mouth that is going to make talking about it like grown men extremely difficult.

Dew pulls back half an inch.

"Hey," he says.

"What."

"I need to ask you something."

"Fucking — what."

Dew puts his forehead against Rain's. He can feel Rain's pulse under his palm where his hand is still on Rain's jaw. He can feel his own teeth, aching, lower than they should be in his mouth.

"Can I have you," he says, "all the way. Tonight. The whole thing. Mouth on you, mouth in you, drink from you — all of it. Can I?"

Rain doesn't answer for a second. Just breathes.

"You want —" His voice has gone small. "You want — that. Like. With."

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Rain."

"I just want you to be sure —"

"I have been sure since Monday, my love, I have been sure for seventy-two hours, please —"

"Okay," Rain says. "Okay. Yeah. Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Take me to bed."

⸸

Dew gets him there carefully — one arm under Rain's knees and one behind his shoulders, which Rain protests on principle for about four seconds and then gives up on, going boneless against Dew's chest with a small surprised exhale. Rain is heavier than he looks and Dew doesn't care. He would carry him through hell if he had to.

For now he carries him down the hall to his own room because his bed is bigger and the sheets are darker and he is not, all things considered, planning to be precious about the laundry.

He sets Rain down on the bed and Rain looks up at him. The hoodie has ridden up again and Dew can see the strip of his stomach above the waistband of his sweats, the soft pale blue line of him, the faint shadow of hair below his navel, and Dew thinks: I am going to be so fucking good to you. I am going to be so unbelievably good to you.

"Hoodie off," he says.

Rain hesitates.

"Or not," Dew says immediately. "Hoodie on. Hoodie stays! Whatever you —"

"No, I —" Rain sits up. Pulls the hoodie off over his head in one motion, the way he does, and his hair goes everywhere. He doesn't bother fixing it.

He's not wearing anything under it. His chest is bare and his scars are silver-pink in the lamplight and Dew has seen them a hundred times and every time it's the same — the gratitude of being allowed to look.

Rain meets his eyes, a little defiant.

"There's my boy," Dew says, soft, and watches Rain's whole face do something.

"Don't be weird about it."

"I'm not being weird about it. I'm being normal. Look at me being normal."

"You're being so weird about it."

"I'm being so normal." Dew climbs onto the bed and settles over him. Rain's hands come up to his sides, find the hem of his t-shirt and push it up. Dew helps, gets it off, throws it somewhere. "I'm being aggressively normal. Look at me. Normal is what I am."

"Your fangs are out."

"That's normal for me."

"Dew —"

"Sweats off, baby."

Rain goes quiet.

Dew watches him. Doesn't push. Just hovers there, his hands on either side of Rain's ribs, his weight on his knees, and lets Rain get there on his own. Rain's throat works. His eyes flicker down and then back up to Dew's face.

"It's gonna be messy," Rain says.

"Yeah."

"Like. Really messy."

"Rainy. Baby. Please."

"Okay."

Rain lifts his hips and pushes the sweats and the underwear down together. Dew helps him get them off, and then there's nothing left between them and Rain is looking at the ceiling instead of at Dew and Dew is, for one long moment, just looking.

Rain is flushed. The blood in him is close to the surface tonight — at his cheeks, his throat, the tops of his shoulders, the flat plane of his chest going navy down the sternum — and the scent of him at this distance is so much that Dew has to close his eyes for a second and just exist through it. The wet stone. The copper.

Dew has been alive for a long time and he has wanted a lot of things and he is not sure, in this moment, that he has ever wanted anything the way he wants the boy under him right now.

"Hey," he says.

Rain doesn't look.

"Hey. Look at me. Look at me, sweetheart, c'mon."

Rain looks.

"You are," Dew says, "the most beautiful fucking thing I have ever seen. I want you to know that. I want you to hear me say it. I want you to remember it tomorrow when you are being mean to yourself about whatever you are going to be mean to yourself about. Okay?"

"Okay," Rain whispers.

"Good." Dew bends down. Puts his mouth on Rain's throat — not biting, just mouthing, just feeling the pulse against his lips. "Now I'm gonna eat."

"Unholy fucking shit, Dew."

"Sorry. Was that too much?"

"That was so much —"

"I'll be normal."

"You will not —"

Dew laughs into his throat. Rain laughs too, a startled, wrecked little thing, the kind that's half-relief.

Dew kisses him under the jaw, and then lower, mouth working down the line of his throat, the dip of his collarbone, the slope of his sternum. He goes slow. He has time. He's going to take his time.

Rain's hands have come up into his hair and his fingers are trembling and Dew kisses every inch of him on the way down, every silver-pink line, every soft place, every freckle. He spends a long time at Rain's chest because he wants to and because Rain makes a noise when he does that he hasn't heard before, a small unguarded sound that goes straight through Dew's spine.

"You taste so good," Dew says, into his sternum.

"Don't say shit like that —"

"You taste so good, baby —"

"I'm eating nothing but garlic for the next year —"

"You smell so good I've been insane for days, I've been —"

"Dew, please —"

"Please what."

Rain's hands tighten in his hair.

"Please down," Rain says, voice gone thin. "Please, please go down, please —"

"Yeah," Dew says. "Yeah, okay. Okay, sweetheart. I've got you."

He settles between Rain's thighs and he takes a second, just a second, to put his hands on the soft insides of them. He pushes them gently apart and lets himself look. Rain has thrown one arm over his eyes. The flush has gone all the way down his chest, his stomach, his thighs — and the mess of him is right there, dark and slick and red.

Dew's mouth is watering so badly he has to swallow before he can speak.

"Hey," he says.

"Don't describe it —"

"I wasn't going to."

"You were absolutely gonna describe it —"

"Only a little bit of it."

"Dew."

"Just a little."

"I hate you."

"I love you," Dew says.

Rain's arm comes off his eyes.

"You're a fucking menace," he says. His voice cracks in the middle. "You're an absolute fucking — I love you too, would love you more if you'd fucking get down there —"

Dew doesn't wait another second.

He puts his mouth on him and the taste is — Lucifer, the taste is —

Dew makes a sound he is not proud of, a low broken thing right into the heat of him. Rain's whole body jerks once and then goes pliant, thighs falling further open, hands flying back to Dew's hair, and Dew settles in.

He's wanted this for three days and now he has it and he is not going to rush.

He works Rain open with his tongue, slow and thorough, tasting every part of him. The slick of him, the copper of him, the small frantic pulse of him — and Rain is making noises Dew has never heard him make, small broken syllables that aren't words yet. His hips cant up to chase Dew's mouth and Dew lets him, hands on Rain's thighs holding them open, thumbs rubbing slow circles into the soft skin.

"Look at you," Dew says into him. "Look at you, fuck, you're — you're making this for me, you're —"

"Dew —"

"You're making it for me, baby, you're making it —"

"Dew —"

He gets his mouth on Rain's cock, the small flushed perfect thing of it, hard against his tongue, and Rain shouts.

Rain shouts and his hips come off the bed and Dew laughs, low and ragged, and pins him back down with a forearm across his hips and keeps going. Sucks him. Works him with his tongue. Goes back down lower and licks into him properly, sloppy and wet and unhurried.

Rain is crying. Dew can hear it, the wet hitching of his breath, the small sobs catching in his throat. He comes up off him just long enough to say, "good?"

"Yes," Rain sobs.

"You want me to keep going?"

"Yes —"

"You want me to make you come on my mouth, sweetheart?"

"Yes, please, please, please —"

"Yeah," Dew says. "Yeah, baby. C'mere. Come on, c'mere —"

He goes back down. Mouth and fingers both this time, two fingers slid into him slow, curling up, his mouth on Rain's cock, and Rain breaks. Rain breaks beautifully — back arching off the bed, one hand fisted in Dew's hair so hard it hurts, the other clutching at the sheet.

The sound he makes is a high wrecked thing that Dew is going to remember for the rest of his unnatural life.

He comes against Dew's tongue and Dew works him through it, slow and gentle now, sucking him soft until Rain's hand in his hair tugs once, weak, too much, and Dew comes up.

His mouth is red.

He can feel it. He can taste it. He licks his lips and Rain is looking at him, eyes wet, chest heaving, mouth open — and the look on Rain's face is something Dew does not have a word for.

"Come here," Rain whispers.

Dew crawls up him. Settles his weight along Rain's body, careful of the mess, and Rain pulls him down and kisses him — kisses him on a mouth that tastes like his own blood and slick and come — and Rain doesn't flinch, doesn't pull back, just licks into Dew's mouth like he wants to know what he tastes like through Dew's tongue, and Dew —

Dew might be the one crying now. He's not sure. There's wet on his face and he doesn't know whose it is.

"I'm not done," he says, against Rain's mouth.

"Oh fuck."

"I'm not, baby, I told you, I told you the whole thing —"

"You're gonna kill me —"

"Just one more. Just a little one. Will you let me —"

"Yes, fuck, yes, do it —"

Dew kisses down his body again. Slower this time. He's not in a hurry — Rain has come once and Rain will come again. He kisses Rain's stomach and his hip and the soft place at the crease of his thigh where the pulse runs close to the skin. He nuzzles in. Breathes him in.

Rain's hand is back in his hair, gentler now, fingers stroking.

"Here?" Dew murmurs, against the femoral.

"Yes."

"Gonna feel good. Promise."

"I know. I know it does. Do it."

Dew puts his teeth in slow — careful, careful, he has practiced this on Rain enough times to know exactly how — and Rain's whole body goes loose under him at the first pull, the way it always does, the bite-high that Rain falls into like falling into warm water.

Dew drinks slow.

The taste of him is thunderous tonight, richer than Dew has ever had him, the iron-bright shock of him doubled by what his body is already doing, and Dew has to hold himself back from taking too much, from taking and taking and taking, because what he wants is to drain Rain dry and curl up inside his ribcage and never come out, and what he can have is a careful measured mouthful, the way you sip something precious.

He takes what he needs and pulls off. Licks the punctures closed.

Rain is gone. Staring at the ceiling with his mouth half-open and his pupils blown out and his hand limp in Dew's hair and there's a small dreamy smile on his face that Dew has only ever put there with his teeth.

Dew kisses the bite mark. Kisses up his thigh. Kisses his hip and his stomach and his chest and his throat and his mouth, slow and thorough. Rain kisses him back lazily, lips parting under his, tongue meeting tongue, and Dew can taste him in his own mouth — copper and watercress and the impossible sweetness underneath — and he thinks, again, the way he has been thinking all night: I love you. I love you.

I love you.

He says it out loud. He can't help it.

"I know," Rain murmurs. His eyes are closed. "Me too. I love you. Fuck."

"You good?"

"Mmhm."

"Words, baby."

"M'good. M'so good. M'a puddle."

"Yeah you are," Dew huffs.

"Don't be smug —"

"I'm not being smug."

"You're being so smug —"

"I'm being normal."

Rain laughs. It's small and breathless, hardly anything at all, and Dew kisses him again — slower this time, lazier, because Rain is soft beneath him and getting softer and they have all the time in the world.

He would do this for the rest of the night.

He would do this for the rest of his unnatural life.

He kisses Rain's mouth and the corner of his jaw and he settles a little of his weight down onto Rain's body, just a little, just so Rain can feel him —

Rain shifts under him.

It's a small movement. A subtle one. Rain's hips canting up half an inch into the press of Dew's body, the kind of motion he probably doesn't know he's making, the body asking while the mind drifts.

Dew freezes.

He pulls back just enough to look at Rain's face.

Rain's eyes are still closed. The dreamy smile is still there. But there's a small line of want between his eyebrows now and his mouth has gone slightly open and his hips are still pressed up against Dew's, soft and insistent, and Dew thinks: oh.

"Baby."

"Mm."

"Hey. Rainy. Look at me."

Rain cracks his eyes open. Pupils still huge, the bite-high riding him soft and slow.

"You want more, sweetheart?"

Rain blinks at him.

"...mhm."

"Words, baby. Use your words. You want me to keep going?"

"Yeah," Rain says. His voice is drugged-small. Bite-soft. "Yeah, please. I'm — I'm still — I want —"

"You want me to fuck you?"

A small wrecked sound bubbles out of the deepest part of Rain. His hand finds Dew's hip and curls.

"Yeah."

"Yeah," Dew says, soft, and kisses the corner of his mouth. "Okay, baby. Yeah."

He pushes himself up enough to get his sweats off. He hasn't bothered with them all evening — they've been hanging low and forgotten on his hips since Rain pulled his t-shirt off — and now he shoves them down and kicks them somewhere. His cock is hard, has been hard, and Rain is looking at it now, eyes half-open, with a soft pleased look that goes through Dew like a hand around his throat.

"There you are," Rain chirps happily.

"Yeah, baby."

"C'mere."

Dew settles down between Rain's thighs again — different this time, higher up, his cock against the heat of Rain's body, the slick of him meeting Dew. Rain makes a sound under him that is almost a sob, and Dew kisses him through it, kisses him slow and careful, lining himself up with one hand while the other braces on the mattress next to Rain's head.

"You okay?"

"Mhm."

"You sure? We don't have to —"

"Dew. Please."

"Okay. Okay, sweetheart."

He pushes in.

Slow. Slow as anything. Rain is so wet that there's no resistance — just the long slow give of his body opening, hot and slick and welcoming. Dew has to close his eyes for a second because it's almost too much — the mess of him slipping warm between them, the smell of him filling the whole room, the way Rain's hands come up to grip Dew's shoulders and hold on. Almost too much.

Almost.

Dew bottoms out and stops.

Holds there.

Rain's breath is shaking. Dew is shaking. He puts his forehead against Rain's and breathes.

"Good?" he asks, ragged.

"So good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Dew, please, please —"

"Yeah, baby. Yeah."

He starts to move.

Deep and slow, finding the angle, watching Rain's face — and Rain's face is doing something Dew is going to think about forever. The bite-high softness mixed with the new sharp want of it, mouth open, eyes wet, no defenses anywhere on him. Just open. Just here.

Three days ago Rain wouldn't look at him in the kitchen and now Rain is staring up at him like Dew is the only thing in the universe and Dew is —

Dew is going to come embarrassingly fast if he doesn't slow down.

He slows down. He gets his rhythm. Long slow drags of his cock through the slick of Rain, the wet sound of it shameless between them, Rain making small breathy noises with every push in and Dew is —

"Closer," Rain whispers.

"What, baby?"

"Closer, Dew. Please. Closer."

Dew lowers himself all the way down. Chest to chest, mouth to mouth, his weight settling fully onto Rain. Rain moans and Dew kisses it right out of his mouth. Keeps moving, slower now because he has to, shorter strokes because there's no room for long ones, just the deep grind of him into Rain over and over and over.

"Legs around me, sweetheart. C'mon. Up. Wrap 'em up."

Rain's legs come up around his waist. Lock at the ankles. Pull him in closer.

"Good boy."

Rain whimpers.

Dew kisses him through it — kisses his open mouth, kisses the corner of his jaw, kisses the bite mark on the side of his throat from three months ago that scarred soft. Dew can feel Rain's heels pressing into the small of his back, pulling him deeper with every thrust, and Dew thinks: yes. Yes. There you go. There's my boy.

"Look at you," he murmurs, into Rain's ear. "Look at you, sweetheart. So good. So good for me. You feel so good, baby, you feel — fuck, you feel —"

"Dew —"

"You're being so good. So good for me. Taking it so well —"

"Dew —"

"You like that, baby? You like when I tell you?"

"Yes —"

"Yeah you do. Yeah. Good boy. Good boy, Rain, look at you, look at how good you're being —"

Rain breaks differently this time.

Not the high wrecked shout of the first one — this is softer, lower, a long shuddering wave of it that just keeps going, his whole body going tight around Dew's cock and then loose and then tight again, his face turned into Dew's neck, his teeth catching on Dew's shoulder.

Dew fucks him through it slow and steady and keeps talking, keeps murmuring good boy and so good and that's it, baby, that's it, that's my good boy. Rain is gasping and shaking and clutching at him and saying Dew's name over and over against his throat.

It pulls Dew with him. He couldn't stop it if he tried.

He buries himself deep and comes with his face pressed into Rain's hair, hips stuttering, the long low sound of it punched out of him. Rain holds him through it — arms around his back, legs still locked at the ankles, mouth pressed to Dew's temple.

For a long time neither of them moves.

Dew is breathing into Rain's hair. Rain is breathing into Dew's. The mess between them is thorough and Dew doesn't care and apparently neither does Rain because Rain's hand has come up to the back of Dew's neck and is just stroking, slow, fingers in the short hair at his nape.

"You okay?" Rain whispers, after a while.

Dew laughs. It comes out wet.

"Am I okay?"

"Yeah."

"Sweetheart."

"Are you?"

"Yes. Yes, baby, I'm — fuck, I'm —"

"Good."

Rain kisses his temple. His legs uncurl from around Dew's waist but stay tangled with Dew's, calf to calf, ankle to ankle, and Dew shifts his weight just enough to roll them slightly to the side so he isn't crushing him, his cock still inside, still half-hard, neither of them in any hurry to separate.

"Dew?"

"Yeah."

"That was —"

"Yeah."

"I haven't — in this body — I haven't —"

"I know, baby."

"Not like that."

"I know."

Rain's voice is very small.

"Such a good boy," Dew murmurs again, into his hair. Just to say it. Just because Rain made a sound when he said it before and Dew wants to put that sound in him again, gentle, no urgency, just a small confirmation. "My good boy."

Rain shivers against him.

"You can't just say that —"

"I'm gonna keep saying it."

"Dew."

"I'm gonna say it every day."

"I'm gonna die —"

"No you're not."

Dew slips out of him slow, careful, and Rain makes an unhappy sound at the loss that Dew kisses out of his mouth, and then Dew kisses him on the corner of the jaw and starts to roll away.

Rain makes another sound.

It's a small sound. Barely anything. It's the kind of sound Rain would deny making if Dew brought it up at breakfast tomorrow — a thin little hum of protest, half-formed, the back-of-the-throat thing you do when something warm leaves you and you're too tired to use real words about it.

Dew stops moving and looks down at Rain.

His eyes are closed. His mouth is open a little. There is a small frown of complaint between his eyebrows that he probably doesn't know he's making, and one of his hands is reaching, vague and uncoordinated, in the direction Dew is moving.

Dew lets himself, for one long second, just look again.

Rain is wrecked.

Hair everywhere. Mouth pink. The bite at his femoral has closed but the skin around it is still flushed dusky-blue. He is bare and bitten and fucked-out and he is making a small unconscious sound because Dew is six inches further away than he was four seconds ago, and Dew thinks that maybe, maybe, those human movies were on to something.

I have crossed oceans of time to find you.

"I'm coming back," he says, soft. "Baby. I'm coming right back. I just need to get something. Thirty seconds."

"Mm."

"Thirty seconds, sweetheart, I promise."

"Hurry," Rain mumbles, into the pillow.

"Promise."

Dew's quick. He's been planning this since Monday — has had the small private list assembling itself in the back of his head for three days, item by item, in between the white-knuckling and the gentleman-ing and the chewing through the inside of his own mouth — and now he gets to actually do it, and there is a particular satisfaction to that which Dew does not have the bandwidth to examine right now.

The en-suite first. Warm cloth, wrung out, not too wet.

He looks at himself in the mirror while he does it.

Mouth still pink at the corners, eyes a little wild, the smug evidence of the last hour written all over his face — and he allows himself one private second of I get to do this. I get to be the one who does this for him. Then he kills the light and goes.

The mini-fridge in the corner of his room next — the one he installed last spring under the loose pretext of needing to keep blood bags cold, which is true, it's just not the only thing he keeps in there.

He gets a bottle of water (the fancy glass kind, Rain pretends not to care about brands but he absolutely does), and the small tupperware (the dark chocolate-covered almonds with the sea salt, which Rain eats by the handful when he's hurting and which Dew bought on Tuesday from the place across town that does them right), and, from the bottom drawer of the dresser, which Rain doesn't know about, a fresh pair of the soft cotton boxer-briefs Rain wears on his period, the gray ones with the wide waistband, plus a clean pad already folded inside them.

He gets the t-shirt last — his own, the soft gray one, the one Rain has stolen before. Tucks it under his arm with everything else.

Twenty-eight seconds.

Rain hasn't moved.

"Hey," Dew says, climbing back onto the bed. "Hey. I'm back."

Rain makes the small sound again, but happier this time — the back-of-the-throat hum reversed. His hand finds Dew's hip without his eyes opening and curls into Dew's waistband and stays there.

Dew sets everything on the nightstand. Settles in next to him.

"Look at me, baby. Look. I brought you some stuff."

Rain cracks one eye open.

Closes it again.

"Mmhg."

"No, c'mon, look — water first. Sit up just a little."

"M'tired."

"I know, sweetheart. Two sips. C'mon."

He gets an arm under Rain's shoulders and props him up against his own chest. Rain goes pliant against him without protest, head heavy on Dew's collarbone.

Dew unscrews the water bottle one-handed and holds it to Rain's mouth. Rain takes two slow sips and then a third, and Dew watches his throat work and feels — absurdly, embarrassingly — like he might cry again.

"Good?"

"Mhm."

"Okay. Lie back down. I'm gonna clean you up, okay? Warm cloth. Then I have a surprise for you."

"What surprise."

"You'll see."

"Tell me the surprise."

"No."

"Dew."

"Lie back, sweetheart."

Rain lies back with a quiet huff.

Dew gets the warm cloth and works between Rain's thighs slow and careful, the way you wash something precious, the way you wash something you're grateful to be allowed to touch. Rain's eyes are closed again. His hand finds Dew's wrist while Dew works and stays there, loose, fingers curled around the bone.

"There," Dew murmurs, when he's done. "Almost. Hang on."

He gets up just enough to grab the boxer-briefs from the nightstand. Sits back down. Rain cracks both eyes open this time.

"What's that?"

"Surprise."

"Dew, what's —"

"They're yours."

"Those are — those are mine."

"Yes."

"Those are my period underwear."

"Yes."

"Why do you have my period underwear."

"Because I bought you some. Last cycle. They're in the bottom drawer. There's three pairs."

Rain stares at him.

"Why," Rain says.

"Because." Dew is suddenly, mortifyingly, a little shy. He looks down at the boxer-briefs in his hand. "Because I noticed you didn't have any in here last time. And I didn't — I wanted you to. I wanted you to not have to ask. I wanted you to be able to just — be here. Whenever. I —"

He stops. He has a pad already folded inside them and he is suddenly intensely aware that this is also a thing Rain is going to notice in about four seconds.

Rain notices in two.

"There's a pad —"

"Yes."

"You bought me pads —"

"Yes."

"Dew."

"I got the brand you use. I checked your bathroom."

"You checked my bathroom —"

"Once! I checked your bathroom once. Like a normal person. Like a person who loves you. I wasn't going to —"

"Come here," Rain says.

His voice has gone wet again.

Dew sets the briefs down and crawls up the bed and Rain pulls him close and kisses him. Slow, this time, no urgency. Just mouth on mouth, the salt of new tears on Rain's face going into the corner of Dew's mouth and Dew letting it until Rain pulls back just enough to put his forehead against Dew's and breathe.

"You're insane," Rain whispers.

"Yeah."

"You're actually fucking insane."

"Yeah, baby."

"I love you so much I can't stand it."

"I know."

"I don't deserve — don't. Don't say it. I know what you're gonna say. I know."

"Okay."

Rain breathes against him for another second. Then he pulls back and wipes his face with the heel of his hand, businesslike, and says — voice still wet but going for normal — "okay. Underwear. Pad. Hand 'em over, vampire."

"Of course."

Dew helps him into them like it's the easiest thing in the world. The boxer-briefs go on; the pad is already where it needs to be; the t-shirt goes over Rain's head and Rain makes a small contented sound when it settles around him because it smells like Dew.

Then he sees the almonds.

"Are those —"

"Chocolate almonds. The good ones. From the place in town."

"You went all the way into town —"

"On Tuesday. While you were ducking me."

"Dew."

"Eat one."

Rain puts one in his mouth and chews slowly. His eyes close. His face does the thing it does when he eats something he loves, the half-second of pure undisguised pleasure that he never lets anyone see in public.

"These are the right ones," he says.

"Yeah."

"How did you —"

"I pay attention."

Rain doesn't say anything for a second. He eats another almond. Then he looks at Dew with his eyes wet again and says, very small: "you really have been planning this."

"Since Monday."

"I told you, sweetheart. I told you I've been losing my mind."

"I thought you meant — I thought you meant the sex part."

"That too."

"Dew."

"Both. Sex and snacks. I'm a full-service vampire."

Rain laughs. It's a real laugh this time — small still, but real, the kind that means the tears aren't going to keep coming. He shakes his head, eats another almond.

He shifts against Dew until he's tucked back into the curve of Dew's arm and his head is on Dew's chest. Dew pulls the duvet up over both of them and settles in, hand splayed warm over his stomach where the cramps live. Rain makes a small contented sound and presses closer into him.

"Okay," he says, around the almond.

"Okay."

"I'm keeping you."

"Yeah, baby."

"Just so we're clear. I'm keeping you. You don't get to — you can't just — you can't do shit like this and then think I'm gonna —"

"I know."

"Okay."

Rain falls quiet again. Dew can feel him breathing. Can feel the slow steady thump of his pulse under the palm Dew has spread across his stomach. Can feel, somewhere under all of that, the small ongoing miracle of him — the body doing what it does, the blood replenishing, the boy of him warm and tired and finally, finally not hiding.

"I love you," Rain mumbles, drifting into sleep.

Dew stays awake a while longer, just to feel it — the slow tide of Rain breathing, the warmth of him, the scent of him that has stopped being unbearable and has become, instead, the only thing in the room Dew wants to be smelling.

He closes his eyes and presses his mouth to the back of Rain's neck, and lets himself, finally, rest.

Even though he doesn't need it.

"I love you, too."

likerofgonstandothers

I know i shouldn't but im reblogging this because this is beautiful. Ignore the reblog, followers. Please

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