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Listless.Drifter decides, as he pares an apple with an old dagger, if he could describe your mood as you crouch low and examine the forge sabeteurs’ marks on one of the precious onyx containers, you might be listless. And yet you claim to be wholly distracted by your Vanguard duties and personal obligations. He trails after you into the empty, war-ridden City zone. He makes the occasional comment (I used to trawl through these roads before they were paved) but for the most part, simply observes.You finish preparing the transmat beacon for the forge containers, and then slump against the railings, running tired fingers over your scalp. Exhaustion is easy to read on one’s face. He sees it every day. The Drifter slowly meanders over to your side, keeping his eyes down on the half-peeled apple. “You should take a break,” he says casually.“I’m fine.”“Really?” He jabs the knife towards the stockpile of weapons. “Because you forgot to turn on the beacon. Seriously. You’re not usually this stupid.”“Rude.”“You know what I mean.” He bumps his shoulder against yours. “Somethin’ on your mind?” Drifter watches as you fold your arms across your chest and dig your nails into your skin. As if you’re strangling the stress out of your body. But he senses another truth when he spies hints of guilt in your dull eyes. Listless, he thinks again, and not without a reason.You struggle to piece words together coherently. Worrying about the endless responsibilities as a Guardian. Losing interest in what used to be your favorite activities. Feeling more and more empty with the passing days. Textbook description of classic burnout, you say dryly. He doesn’t say anything and lets you continue. Silence stretches between your sporadic confessions until the two of you finally confront what you call the worst, shameful-- and your nails claw deeper and deeper into your frame-- is the only relief comes in physical pain.His hands pause in their smooth rhythm. “Are you safe?”You laugh; it is hollow and lifeless. “Really? You throw Guardians headfirst into fights against ancient giants--”“Guardian. Are you safe?” His gaze is cold, not out of malice but necessity. You nod slowly. Drifter exhales. “Okay. Look, darlin’, you know that I care for you. A little too much for my own good. Can I help you? Distract you, or offer some sort of alternative?”You stand up, switch on the beacon, and then summon your Ghost with a burst of opulent light. “I’m done with working and talking. Can we go get drunk?”“Sure.”A talking film plays quietly in the background as the two of you drink and gamble. Drifter had fixed one of Spider’s old tele in an effort to drown the silence aboard his lonesome ship. It also draws attention away from him; as the moving pictures coax your attention, he takes the time to study every inexplicable detail about your face, your hands, your clothes. You laze on the ground like the feral cats spotted occasionally in the alleyways or more recently, roaming the vast Dreaming City.You offer to grab a deck of cards from your vault but he instead rifles through his shelve and procures a large pot of his trademark coins. “Drinkin’ game,” he declares. “First, we guess the symbol. Second, the traditional heads or tail. You miss on either, you take a drink and…”“Strip,” you suggest.His eyebrows arch in surprise. “I like the way you think,” he says, and then pushes the coins in your direction. “Me first.”You dip your fingers in the pool of jade and stir them around, momentarily distracted by the melodic clink until you finally close upon a coin. “’Kay. Fallen or Cabal?”“Cabal.”“Nope.”Drifter shrugs and downs the shot of Whirlwind vodka-ether. Then he slips out of his dark green robes. He tosses them on the bed and stretches his arms over his head. He might be out of the action, but he’s retained his limber physique. Broad, muscled, and all too aware of how your eyes rove over his tight-fitting shirt. Not to mention that dumb smile on your face. “All right, all right, I’m not your eye candy,” he grumbles good-naturedly, and grabs a coin. “Who’re you fightin’ today? Scorn or Vex?”“Vex.”He takes out a coin. “Vex. Good.” Drifter makes the coin sing, catches, and cups it from view. “Heads or tails?”“Heads.”“Nope. Take a drink and strip,” he purrs the last word. You pour yourself a drink as you toe off your boots and kick them across the room. Drifter’s gloves and shoes follow while he relieves you of your stockings. His warm, callused palms skim across your thighs as the two of you continue the game. He’s never found anyone willing to sit through his bawdy jokes, nor has he ever tolerated the sort of barbs which spill from your lips.
Hey, Drifter, when’s that last time you ate a Hive worm?
Maybe two cycles ago. Do pupa count?
Gross.
All right. Fuck, marry, or kill your Vanguard?
Easy. I’d fuck-- Wait. Promise not to be jealous?
Cross my heart.
Out of all the combinations of fuck, marry, kill, your decision seems to incense him (rather than make him jealous) and he tackles you on the ground. The container of jade coins and empty bottles spill across the floor. He ignores the mess as he yanks your shirt and binder over your head. Drifter groans as you bite his lower lip, and he grabs you by the throat, forcing your head to tilt back. “Forget about the Vanguard,” he grumbles. “Too busy fightin’ each other to give a proper fuck.”You brace your knee against his groin before he can lean down and kiss you again, relishing in the way his eyes flutter and how he ruts against your hard, firm touch. The look in his eyes is akin to feral.“You’re really not gonna like what I think of Shaxx,” you pant. “Lord Shaxx, I mean. I’ve never see him without his helmet, but his voice is practically sin--" Then your jibes dissolve into a long-drawn keen as Drifter sinks his teeth into the sensitive curve of your neck, and you arch into his sharp bite, grabbing fistfuls of his curly hair. “Fuck, Drifter, Drifter--"He hikes your leg close to his hip as he grinds haphazardly in the tipsy haze and stirs the arousal in both of your bodies. You are set aflame and he drinks in every whimper and gasp from your wet, wet mouth----and he dumps you on his bed with too many hands fumbling at his belt. Drifter stretches over your frame to grab lube from the nighstand and suddenly swears when you wrap your hands around his length, impatience broiling under your skin. You stroke, you stoke the warmth-- But he instead swats your hands away and pins them above your head. “Keep ‘em there,” he orders, “’til I say otherwise.”Your fingers twist desperately in the sheets but you nod.Drifter yanks you forward until your legs hang limply over the side of the bed. “Mmm. Bet this is why the Vanguard likes you,” he drawls as he slips his lubed fingers into your underwear. “Good at followin’ orders, right? Eager to impress. C’mon, Chosen One, you’d fuck anyone who complimented you.”“No--” you protest, words and thoughts lost in the haze.“And you should know by now, I’m not good at sharin’,” he adds as he works his fingers inside you, crooking them at slight angles, scissoring you open with more gentleness than his ire suggests. He siphons pleasure from your sex and keeps you riding the high for as long as he decides. You watch how he shoves down his trousers and stroke himself to fullness, sighing into his own touch. His face is flushed deep red.Drifter slowly pulls your underwear down and he grins. “Drippin’ wet,” he rasps. “Just for me?”An electric bolt of need surges through you. “Please, please--” you manage.“Use your words, Guardian,” he encourages, still smiling. Still all teeth. “I didn’t get you too drunk.”“Just fuck me already--”Drifter likes the way your knuckles whiten and strangle the sheets. “Mmm. Is that all?” The buzzing in his head heightens everything to the point of pure, unaltered delirium because there’s no way that this is real, because you are perfect in every moment and memory, and he at last sinks inside of you, mumbling something like praise to your body. He fucks you slowly, chasing all the sensations as he pulls you towards his cock.He ducks his head and runs his lips along your curves and angles and contours, though he’s already memorized it in the dark. He tastes Darkness (always lingering, always hovering) in the back of his throat, and it greedily drinks in every flash of Light in the dip and swell of your hips. Drunk on something other than alcohol-- power, he calls it sometimes-- and he fucks you harder until you cum, whimpering and begging for mercy (as if that’s real, he thinks) when he feels your touch in his hair.He grabs your wrist before you can snatch it away, quick as an adder, and you stare at him with wide eyes. “I’m-- I’m sorry--” you stammer breathlessly, pleasure quickly fading when he pulls out and roughly turns you over.A heavy palm pins the plane between your shoulder blades as the other grabs your ass. You breathe in the smell of his blankets, of gun polish, of charcoal, of him. Drifter steadies his quick breathing and presses his knuckles deep in your swollen, aching entrance. Too much, too much. He watches you buck against the sheets-- his sheets and he stifles a groan. “Where’s your fire, Chosen One?” he drawls. “Lookin’ for some punishment?”You cry out as his touch withdraws. Not enough, not enough. It could be his name, mangled and twisted beyond recognition.“Tell me. Tell me if I’m right.”“Yes,” you sob.“Thought so. This makes you feel somethin’ other than empty. This--” Drifter says as he hooks an arm around your waist and scrapes his sharp nails down your naked thighs-- “is better than feelin’ empty.”He fills you with a swift thrust and-- and-- gods, he fucks you perfectly, in the way the parts of you could never admit. The Drifter braces against his forearm and his breath is hot and wild against your neck-- and he praises you for your honesty, for your warmth-- and his hands claw ragged welts wherever they can reach-- and you choke on the fire set alight under your skin-- and he wants you to remember the ache in the morning----because you deserve it.Drifter holds you tightly when he cums, only faintly aware of your walls clenching around him and prolonging the white-hot fire in his veins; and when the ringing in his ears stops, he inhales deep and slow, the air stinking of alcohol, sweat, and ozone. He feels your muscles slowly relax, then give way as he gently lies at your side, careful to give you space.But where he goes, you follow.You reach for him, you seek his Light-- and Drifter collects you against his chest.“We should talk,” he says softly.“I know. Later.”“Darlin’--”“Trust me, Drifter,” you say, moving closer to his touch. “I know.”