In your bedroom. In your bed. The low rasp of his voice, a little dull, a little echoing through the vent.
For someone who didn’t like to be seen, he had a lot he liked to say.
Details. About his hands. Where he’d put them, if he could. On your shoulders, maybe. The tops, though. His fingertips skimming down, down, over your arms, swirling around the soft skin on the inside of your elbow, down to your hands. He’d lock his fingers with yours, then. Pull you in closer.
Or maybe your thighs. Inside, up close to where they’d meet your hips. Up close to where you could feel a pulsing as he spoke. He’d tell you how he’d press his fingertips in, how he wanted to see what it looked like when the soft flesh there gave way to the force of his hands.
“Would you like it if I moved my hands higher?” he’d ask, all casual like he was asking if you’d like the temperature up a bit.
Silly of him to ask when he already knew the answer.
Of course it wasn’t his hands but yours sliding up as he spoke. Your hands moved as he guided, slow slow slow. You both liked it that way, liked to take your time. You’d work yourself softly, or harder if he described it. It didn’t matter, really - everything he told you felt good. Everything he said was just what you wanted, somehow, like he could read your body, your movements, your tone or voice better than you could understand your own mind.
You’d come, and the vents would clank.
After, cool air on your skin. A caress. A promise of more. It was almost as good as it would be to see him, to touch him for real.
Hector had always seemed entranced by your softness. You figured it probably had something to do with how different you were from him. He was all hard angles, metal and engineering. You were just, well, you - all impressionable and pliable and imperfect.
“You look… so soft. He’d said it from the vent, his voice going more hoarse than usual on the final word. It was flattering but a little inscrutable. But then he’d told you how it made him want to touch you (slowly, very slowly, hands spread wide and firm, pressing into the flesh of your stomach, your rear, your upper thighs) and… yeah, okay. It was a little more than just flattering, wasn’t it?
He’d followed through when you were finally able to touch, explored you with slow, reverent hands. But then his mouth followed. Lips loose as they skimmed over your neck. A deep inhale that quickened your pulse. “You smell so good here,” he said. “You’re so different everywhere.”
Or your chest. He’d run his mouth and cheeks there, making a small, contented sound. “I can feel your heart beating,” he said. He didn’t seem to know what to say when you reached for him and said that you could feel his too.
And then between your legs. His curious mouth, which had filled your head with so many promises, so many ideas, now where you were softest. He was groaning before he even touched you. Once he did he shook, closed his eyes, gently rested a hand on either thigh and pulled them in. You could see the way your softness molded around him, pressing into his cheeks, securing him and steadying him as he settled in where he most wanted to be. It was where he could be the most service to you, and where you could be the most comfort to him. The opposite of alone, of watching, of wanting. The opposite of hard. The opposite of him, and he made it clear that he would never be able to get enough.
- Some objects in your home were touched regularly. Hector was not among them. Yes, you changed the settings on your thermostat, but does that really count as touch? To him, no. At least, he doesn’t feel it that way.
- So it was a big deal when you started to interact with him more directly. Something as simple as meeting your eyes could feel very intense at first, even with the grate between the two of you.
- Once, you convinced him to let you touch his fingers. You stood on a chair, closed your eyes, and brushed the pads of your fingers over his knuckles. You could feel them trembling beneath you, and there was a clanging sound up in the attic.
- After that you’d start to feel random brushes of air as you went about your day. A cool breeze on your cheek. A bit of warmth playing against your wrist. You didn’t acknowledge them (you didn’t want to make Hector feel self-conscious), but they made you smile.
- When Hector finally revealed himself to you, you wanted to run into his arms. You held yourself back, though. You could tell by the way he was holding himself that it might be too much.
- After a while, though, he grew more comfortable. That’s when you took his face in your hands. Your palms, his cheeks. His skin was surprisingly soft, and it was hard not to be charmed by the way he melted. Eyes closed, lips parted, hands coming up to clasp together in front of him: the picture of bliss.
- It was hard to stay away after that. You lives for seeing how he’d react to your touch. Sometimes he’d reach for your hand, then stop himself, as if he didn’t have permission. You’d smile and interlace your fingers with his and he’d shiver all happy.
- His bulky clothing made it hard to hold him sometimes, but you’d manage, pulling him in close and nestling your lips against his neck. Despite his bold words in the vents, he’d grow shy when you were so close, stiffening up as though any movement might make you run away. It felt like too much to lose, and he wasn’t gonna take that risk.
NSFW stuff blow the cut
- Hector adored your body. It was part of you, after all, and it was his job to ensure it was comfortable and well cared for. So when he was finally able to touch it… for a while it seemed too good to be true.
- Gentle, gentle fingertips at first. Hardly more sensation than a puff of air against your skin. Always with a bit of a shake, as though he were holding himself back from a firmer caress.
- Over time he’d grow more comfortable. He liked to set the air conditioning to low, then pull you in close to warm you up. He’d sigh as he’d feel the goosebumps relax on your skin.
- He liked to see your face, to watch your expressions as he touched you. So anxious about it at first - the slightest flicker in your eyes or twist of your mouth would have him backing up and apologizing.
- Eventually you had to remind him that you were in control. If his hands were on you, it was because you wanted them there. If his teeth were scraping against your inner thigh, it’s because you wanted them too. If he was inside of you, it’s because you wanted him to be. You’d hook your leg around his backside, pull him in with a heel, encourage him to move, to enjoy. The sound he’d make when you did that was nothing sort of desperate.
- He liked to stay inside you after. He’d find a position where you were comfortable and wrap you up in his arms. This was an important time, you realized very quickly. When you’d lay there, staring into each others eyes, your chests pressed together, your breathing aligned: that’s when you could make up for all those years you hadn’t touched. It was a type of nourishment, and it was incredible to watch Hector start to thrive.
