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Beer wasn’t Arthur’s favorite drink, not by a long shot. Sure, it got him lightheaded just as well as any other drink did, but it didn’t soothe the itch in his throat well enough for him to truly enjoy it as anything more than a means to an end.
That being said, he still let the relatively mild flavor wash down his throat more often than not, ignoring the other available beverages for the six-packs that the Drifter brought back every couple days, mysteriously depositing them in the bar’s storage and never speaking of their original location. Probably to spare Arthur of the disgust, and for that he was grateful.
Tonight, though? Hoarding was out of the question - Arthur needed to break into his stash, cheap whiskey thrown chaotically inside of a lousy storage box but still thankfully intact and well, all kinds of brands and flavors harnessed in one place. In any other circumstance a surge of pride would subsume the protoexcalibur at the sight of his collection - most, if not all, were found by him; through the somewhat unethical rummaging - looting, even - of techrotted facilities in Höllvania.
A bottle of Mack Baniel’s in hand, Arthur doesn’t stop to reminisce about its origin. No, he only hits the cap a couple times before twisting it, pressing the opening to his mouth and immediately knocking his head back. No time for thinking, no space for pondering. All he needed tonight was to reach that comfortable haze of muddled emotions and dizzy thoughts as fast as he could.
Two and a half bottles in, Arthur finds himself still thinking . Stubbornly so, as if his mind was pushing back against his attempt by forcing memories into the forefront of it, reliving experiences best forgotten. When he first enlisted in the Britannic Army, head full of ideals. When he saved Quincy, watching the other man’s eyes widen as the implication of his debt sets in. When Lettie stitched him up, tibial artery bursting with blood for every rapid beat of his heart, the medic soothing him with alcohol and a rag in his mouth. When Aoi threw every paper crane onto the ground, watching them dissolve in the rain alongside her love. When Amir’s electricity crackled through every tendon, his cries drowned out by Arthur’s own pain, static looming in his ears. When Eleanor seeped into his mind, taking away the privacy of his own thoughts, autonomy long forgotten. When he drove the tip of his Skana into Anakin’s hand, slicing through flesh, watching his eyes narrow at him with distrust.
Shit.
Four bottles in, his mind blissfully slows down, clearly giving up on its resistance against the ethanol pouring down his throat repeatedly. Hell, he couldn’t care less about his body’s warnings and its heightened tolerance right now, only knew he was going to force it all away.
“Hey, A. Doing okay out here?” A hand knocked against the wood of the bar, the thud of contact softened by gloves, startling him out of his stupor. The fight against his mind pauses as he adjusts to the new presence beside him, turning his head lazily to his intruder.
Everyone in the Hex knew not to disturb Arthur when he trudged into the bar, sluggish movements and downcast eyes visible to all of them, the observant bunch that they were. For better or for worse, those bouts of common knowledge didn’t extend to Anakin.
Right now, Arthur knew it was for the better. A grunt leaves him as he leans down to the box beside him, hand waving a few times before finally wrapping around the neck of the bottle in a clumsy manner, fetching another drink wordlessly.
“Doin’ alright,” He mumbles, hesitating before holding out the bottle to the other man. “Fancy a drink? Knew I promis’d you one.”
“Why, thank you, doll.” Anakin gives him an easy smile as he takes the bottle in hand, attempting to twist the cap a few times before letting out a soft huff in frustration. His right hand goes up to his mouth, teeth digging into the soft material that made up the middle finger of his glove, pulling his hand away smoothly. A practiced movement. Arthur watches, wonders how many times Anakin’s done it before, wonders if he could replace the context of the action in his mind without developing a flush on his face.
Whatever enjoyment the show bestowed upon him quickly soured as he saw the uneven, marred flesh in the center of Anakin’s palm, the pulsating discoloration on his fingers, his wounds healing quicker than most but still clearly ragged as the Void works on reconstructing his body back to its original health. The Drifter pays no mind to the other man’s plight, twisting the cap successfully before wafting the drink under his nose, only pressing the tip to his mouth when he was satisfied with the scent.
It would make Arthur snort, any other day, the man’s technique when it comes to drinks. Right now he only wishes he could have the courage to mutter an apology for the pain he’s forced the other man through.
Anakin puts the glove back on within a second of settling his drink down, clearly uncomfortable with having it off, which Arthur couldn’t blame him for; even ignoring the fact that he was selfishly relieved he wouldn’t have to stare at the other man’s injuries. Inflicted by him.
On second thought, maybe he needed another bottle, too.
—
Five and a half bottles in - Anakin only two in yet similarly intoxicated - Arthur could barely hold his own drink without it slipping out of his loose grip, which the Tenno considered the signal to end tonight’s drinking spree. His hands carelessly lay on the protoexcalibur’s torso, pulling him up and off the stool without much effort, ignoring the complaints spilling out of Arthur’s lips mindlessly.
“Come on, An’kin, ‘m not that drunk, let me-” Arthur protests further, trying to reach for another bottle in his box. Anakin clicks his tongue in disapproval, slapping the other man’s hand away jokingly.
“Not tonight, A, you’ve had ‘nough. C’mon, let’s get you to bed.” Anakin soothes, the blatant whine leaving the protoexcalibur only further strengthening his resolve. Arthur stands on his own two feet for only a minute as Anakin puts the box away from prying eyes, the leader ending up leaning against his stool, right eye almost as hazy as his left one. Clearly wasted.
Anakin pushes an arm under the other man’s, letting Arthur lean his weight onto him with only a quiet huff of exertion. The protoexcalibur keeps his eyes down on the floor, watching the motion of his legs and counting each step to ensure he doesn’t fall over himself and provide more trouble to the already overworked Drifter. More pain to the man who flirts with him every five minutes even though Arthur’s been the harbinger of despair for everyone around him, something he knows Anakin has realized through their countless conversations with the other members of the Hex, the unmistakable curses coming from Quincy’s direction and the awkward glances Aoi sends his way.
“Drif’er,” Arthur mutters, knowing if he used the other man’s name instead of his title it would cause him to crumble like one of Aoi’s houses of cards. Anakin hums, his attention instantly snapping towards Arthur. Hands careful where they guide him, even though they shouldn’t be. Sol, this shouldn’t be so damn difficult.
“Stop bein’ so bloody nice .” The protoframe growls out, exactly the opposite of what he wanted to say. Instead of gratitude, there were accusations. That was the Arthur formula, something he was doomed to repeat over and over despite the utter amount of care he has for others. He wished he could brand it as the Nightingale formula, but he knows his sister is far more insightful than he ever could be; where he fought first and asked questions later, she knew how to ask questions to eliminate the very need to fight.
Anakin’s eyes narrow - paired with his horns, the action made for a very threatening sight. Arthur feels his stomach sink, though he wasn’t sure what emotion caused it to do so, discerning his feelings an unattainable goal with his current mindset.
“Would you rather me be rough?” The joke was tangible, voice steeped in that teasing tone that made it obvious that Anakin was presenting a piss-poor joke to break the tension created by the protoframe. But it only makes Arthur’s eyes droop, his mind racing to filter the words at surface-level, not taking into account any other factor but the literal meaning.
So he nods. And so Anakin stops in his tracks for a beat, two beats, and Arthur stops counting his steps, caught in the middle of the mall sometime in late night or early morning - with the only sounds accompanying them being the arcade’s ever-present beeps and jingles.
Anakin hums, restarts their movement with a faster pace that leaves the protoframe scrambling to follow, stumbling as he’s half-dragged up the stairs, the Drifter seemingly changing course. He’s sure this isn’t quite the way to his quarters, and it sure as hell isn’t his route to the security room, where Arthur spends most of his time.
It occurs to him, a little too late thanks to his mind’s decelerated activity, that Anakin was taking him to the backrooms. To his room. That he changed his mind about their destination after that comment.
“I hope you don’t mind this little detour,” Anakin starts, the Void-powered door that managed to hold persons uninvited at bay opening seamlessly for the Tenno. “But you did tell me to get you a few drinks first, before anything can happen. And I did just that.”
Arthur has to hold in the whine he wants to let out at the implication.
“That y’did.” Arthur slurs, finding his way onto the mattress placed diligently on the floor without much help once the two men were upstairs, laying down on it with his legs slightly strewn apart. Sighing as he melts onto the comfortable surface. The lights are dimmed, the hum of the foundry downstairs is muted, and Anakin looks down at him with a fire in his eyes that makes a flush decorate the protoframe’s cheeks, dark enough that he can’t blame it on the alcohol in his bloodstream.
“You’re irresistible, did you know that.” Anakin growls, his bland tone forcing the question into a statement as he unclips the buckle on the front of his shirt in order to slide it off himself, paying attention to the way Arthur follows each movement with hungry eyes and twitchy hands, thankful for every inch of skin he gets to see. He takes note of the numerous scars and bruises on the other man’s body, and wordlessly wonders if he could ask Lettie to take a little bit of a longer look when it comes to the Drifter’s monthly checkups.
“Never heard that one before, no.” Arthur fires back, arms raising instinctively when Anakin’s body covers his own carefully, ensuring that their position has no contact between them.
“Now you know.” Anakin whispers, and the protoframe’s eyes flicker as he inhales deeply, takes in the scent of the man above him. Tries not to let the mix of ethanol and something fruity on his breath send him into a dizzy haze. No, he wants to be present for the way the Drifter’s knees spread his own, forcing him to accommodate the intrusion, for the way his eyes skim over his body without shame. Anakin was forward, yes, but only when it was easy to back out. This… this was unmistakably an advance , so to speak. Something he couldn’t joke himself out of, or laugh off.
Arthur takes it in stride, accepts the proximity without much trouble. In fact, his hand reaches upwards to grip the back of the Tenno’s neck firmly, his long hair muting the warmth blooming from Arthur’s hand onto the skin.
“I…” Arthur hesitates, but the alcohol pushes him off the edge, his voice taking on a more provoking tone. “I think you’ll have to show me just how irresistible I am,” He pauses, then adds, “Anakin.”
Bold move. Very, very much so. Bold enough that Arthur finds lips pressed against his own, a knee pushing up against his inner thigh, and a hand squeezing the arm that rests against the mattress comfortably. The two men are locked in a struggle for ownership - Anakin manages to overpower the other man’s mouth by a sliver, relishing in his victory by tasting Arthur from the inside out, mapping out every tooth and every crevice. The thorough movements cause the protoframe to let out a muffled moan, his right foot sliding up the mattress, knee bent further until it touches the Drifter’s torso.
The kiss begins to lose steam only moments later, with Anakin pulling away to pant against the protoframe’s unharmed cheek, kissing at the skin, humming at the feeling of rough stubble against his own smooth face. It’s an odd texture, surely - and yet Arthur takes note of the way the other man rubs his face against it discreetly, seemingly enjoying it.
But Arthur wasn’t going to stand for such gentle treatment. No, not right now, not when he was aching with the desire for punishment , of any sort. Consequences, for the way he’s mucked it up over and over again with everyone around him. He digs his fingers into the back of Anakin’s neck, the hiss that leaves him a signifier of his displeasure.
Anakin doesn’t wait for an explanation behind the action - he simply acts, trailing his tongue up, up Arthur’s face until he reaches the man’s ear, sinking his teeth into the lobe and tugging at the flesh in warning. When Arthur only reinforces his hold on the other man, Anakin tugs harder, forcing a twitch from the protoframe’s cock as it stirs awake, clearly interested in being involved in the sequence of events leading up to an eventual finish.
The Drifter backs away to huff, the hand not holding Arthur’s arm sliding up to grip at the strap against his chest, pulling it back before letting go, enjoying the thwack sound as it hits against the armor plate protecting Arthur’s chest. He hums, finding no reaction from the man below him.
“Is that something you can rip off?” He’s clearly curious, hiding the question with a layer of nonchalance, tapping the metallic armor above Arthur’s chest. Arthur gulps the saliva building in his mouth, nods, his free hand moving to nimbly remove the hard exteriors protecting him one by one, fingers sliding underneath the lightweight metal. Anakin watches for several seconds, intrigued by the process, before moving his glove to his teeth again, sliding it off, repeating the treatment for his other hand.
Arthur watches the show of vulnerability until he can’t anymore, guilt dripping from Anakin’s right hand onto his body, seeping into his veins through his permeable skin. Eyes sliding shut as he moves to unbuckle the tactical harness, halted only by Anakin’s hand gripping his own.
“Keep that on,” Anakin grins, and the protoexcalibur is a little worried about what he has in mind before nodding. “Good.”
Arthur grunts at the word, making a sound akin to annoyance. Defiance in itself, the act of rejecting well-earned praise. Anakin doesn’t hesitate to insult the act, his tongue clicking in disapproval.
“No?” Anakin asks, and Arthur hesitates to shake his head. Does it anyway. “I guess you did ask me to be rough.”
Arthur takes in a heavy breath. Waits for Anakin to take action, to give him what he so desperately craved. Instead he feels a hand on his cheek, calmly stroking the scarred expanse. Marred skin against marred skin.
“But I need a word from you, before that. Something to stop… this. If it gets too out of hand, yeah?”
Sol’s wounds, this man was going to be the death of him. Arthur takes a few beats to be grateful, and then some to mull over what word to set in place.
Eventually, he settles.
“Crimson.”
Anakin nods. Doesn’t probe further on the why , only accepts the word as it is - a bright red stop to everything. Arthur doesn’t know what to expect, until Anakin’s hand migrates to his jaw, fingers squeezing his cheeks to keep him in place.
And so the Drifter captures his lips again, his approach completely different - where the first kiss was exploratory, this one was hungry, dominating in every aspect of the word. His mouth is rough where it slides against the protoframe’s, thirsty for any noise it can pull out, and Arthur distantly hears the click, click, click of belts coming loose, the ruffle of clothing being pushed off, feels thighs straddling his hips soon thereafter. His focus is too centered around the way Anakin’s teeth sink into his bottom lip for him to actually pay attention to any other sensation, other than the pain that shoots through his nerves; a direct line of communication through his spinal cord from his lips to his cock, with his brain completely thrown out of the equation.
Arthur’s chest burns with insufficient oxygen and yet Anakin doesn’t let up, giving him mere milliseconds to gasp for air every now and then before diving right back in, enjoying the way the protoframe’s hands scramble at his shoulders and arms, trying to push him away to breathe properly. Arthur is already dizzy from the copious amounts of alcohol he’d had tonight, so it’s no surprise that he feels his consciousness fading slightly when Anakin’s lips remain against his with no sign of exhaustion.
It’s right when he’s about to properly bite down that Anakin moves away, watches him heave and pant for air with a little smile playing on his lips, clearly enjoying the struggle. His right hand rubs at Arthur’s thigh, slides up to where he’s clearly hard and aching, cock fully unsheathed from its confines, dripping a glowing blue. The Tenno’s fingers circle around the base, likely fascinated by the way he’s leaking with barely any stimulation. Not quite what he’d expected, Arthur was sure, but then again Anakin definitely knew that he wouldn’t flaunt a normal anatomy, what with the Techrot, and all.
“ Hah- Anakin…” Arthur whines, shame stowed away as he focuses on the sensation around his cock, the Drifter’s fingers trailing up slowly. When he bucks up, he’s punished with a slap to the thigh that only serves to make him moan, makes him do it yet again. Anakin doesn’t relent, hits him on a different spot each time until he finally settles - on his inner thigh, on his right one, right next to his cock. Hand delivering something cathartic each time.
“Arthur.” He answers, not wasting a second as he straddles the protoframe’s hips again, holding his cock still. Aiming it right… oh. Oh. So that’s how it was going to be.
The protoexcalibur whimpers, remaining dutifully still as Anakin slides down his cock, the action subverting his expectations of tonight and yet arousing him impossibly further, enough for him to twitch inside the other man. The Drifter’s cunt is tight around him, sloppy enough that the intrusion doesn’t chafe or injure; a clear sign that Anakin was just as affected as he was by all of this, soothing a deep-seated worry somewhere inside him, somewhere he couldn’t access right now, that Anakin would find him and his mutated body unsatisfactory.
Clearly he didn’t have to worry, though, judging by the moan that leaves Anakin at the sensation, the way his eyes struggle to stay open and his mouth goes slack. It takes them a few seconds to adjust to the new connection - not any less intimate than the concept of transference, but infinitely more pleasurable for both parties. Anakin’s hand slides down to his chest, shamelessly groping at the muscle, using the broad expanse as leverage to push himself upwards.
Arthur’s hands dart out to the Tenno’s hips the moment he starts moving, the sight of his cock slowly being enveloped by the other man overwhelming him in the best way. Hell, he’s not even sure what his role is other than to lay down and take it, too drunk to even consider flipping their positions or to plant his feet on the mattress and thrust upwards. No, he remains against the soft sheets, melting with every calculated bounce, eyes trained on where their connection lies until it’s too much even for him to bear, to see himself being allowed , even welcomed inside of the other man when he’s been nothing but a pain in his arse ever since he came to Höllvania, to their time.
When his eyes close, Anakin growls, an animalistic noise that sends a thrill down his spine. Something he’s only heard directed at a particularly stubborn strain of techrot, or perhaps a tough Scaldra commander. The Drifter’s fingers dig into his cheeks again, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“Keep them open. I won’t say it again.” Anakin huffs out, his pace speeding up from the way Arthur looks up at him, with eyes blown wide and lips parted. Hell, Anakin doesn’t pass up the opportunity to lean down and press his mouth roughly against the other’s, hands migrating to the protoframe’s shoulders, squeezing the swordsteel flesh.
When Anakin pulls back, Arthur opens his eyes again - barely, gaze half-lidded as he tries to hold himself together, feeling dangerously close after only a short while of stimulation. He’s not usually this quick to unravel, but the mix of alcohol and guilt in his system makes for a dangerous cocktail, labelling him a quickshot.
“Anakin,” He slurs, hand sliding up to grip the other man’s arm weakly. The Drifter’s attention snaps to him instantly, a hum leaving him.
“Yeah, doll?”
“Close.” He grunts out, steady moans leaving him with every grind of Anakin’s hips. How was he ever supposed to last when the other man was using him like this? Like he was nothing more than a toy?
“Already?” Anakin’s tone is mean when he says it, mockery dripping from every syllable. He doesn’t coddle Arthur, doesn’t slow down to allow him to savor the feeling; he speeds up like there’s no tomorrow, the whiplash of the pace sending Arthur tumbling down a pleasure-filled hill, panicked moans leaving him as he realizes how close he teeters to the edge.
“Fuck, and I thought I’d have more fun with you before you go and ruin it,” Anakin huffs, nails digging into Arthur’s hardened flesh, the sensation muted but present. “What kind of whore are you?”
It’s experimental, the way he says it. A little hesitant. When Arthur lets out a loud whine, though? Anakin doesn’t take another second of contemplation, laying it on thick.
“Oh, there it is,” He lets out a breathy laugh, voice raspy. “Knew you’d love it like the pathetic slut you are, yeah?”
Arthur doesn’t even remember cumming. Doesn’t remember if he gasped out a warning before finishing inside of the other man, a glowing blue that bursts out of him. When he comes to, Anakin is slowing down, clearly revelling in the sensation of Arthur’s orgasm himself. Arthur notes the way he looks down, lets out a long grunt at the sight of cum dripping down from him onto the protoframe’s cock.
Arthur thinks that’s that. Finds himself catching his breath leisurely, wondering if he could return the favor with his mouth, apologise for being too excited about the entire ordeal. It’s only when Anakin lifts himself up again that Arthur lets out a confused noise, a mix of a question and a moan.
“‘m not done with you, A.” Anakin explains, a grin on his face. Something that sends arousal straight down to his gut, too fast and too much all at once. The Drifter’s pace resumes just as quick as before, causing him to let out a heady whine, dizzy with the feeling. Overstimulation settles in just as fast, and soon enough Arthur finds himself squirming back into the mattress, trying to get away from that maddening heat that takes him in without complaint.
After several attempts at squirming and a multitude of pleading noises, Anakin’s temper flares. Arthur only sees a blur of motion before his right hand meets his cheek, the slap resounding even with all the noise of their lovemaking. Sol, his processing is excruciatingly slow, and it only registers that he was slapped moments later, a gasp leaving him at the contact.
“ Stop moving away. I told you - I’m not done with you. Is that too hard for a dumb whore like you to understand?” Anakin grits out, watching as Arthur shrinks in on himself, a whine leaving him as he shakes his head.
Still, he persists, involuntarily pulling away again. And again, Anakin slaps him, the damage calculated but intense nonetheless for the drunken man under him. Eventually, after a few slaps of that caliber, Arthur finally pushes up into the Tenno’s cunt, having learnt his lesson. Anakin coos at the change in heart, pants whenever the protoframe meets him mid-thrust.
“Such a goooood boy,” Anakin huffs, sarcastic with his intonation. Not at all sincere even though Arthur clearly did as told. It makes the protoframe’s eyes roll back, closing from the onslaught of pleasure - both physical and psychological. Anakin doesn’t slap him for it, not this time, lets him settle and process.
Arthur feels his orgasm building again, and a sob leaves him at the feeling, so soon after the first. His hips are mindless, confused on whether to chase or pull away. Anakin looks like he’s not even fucking close.
“Please,” Arthur begs, his first proper word in a long while. “Pl-ease, need to pull out, need… it’s too much, toomuch , please.”
Anakin moans at the plea, surprised at the words. He shakes his head within an instant, dropping down roughly, grinding onto his cock with tilted motions.
“No, no, you’re gonna cum inside me, won’t you?” He encourages, his voice artificially sweetened. “Like a good whore, aren’t you? C’mon, Arthur. Say you will.”
Arthur keens, shaking his head. It prompts a groan from Anakin, and another slap to the face.
“ Speak! ”
“I’m sorry!” Arthur sounds out, voice uncharacteristically meek. “I’m sorry, Anakin, I can’t-”
“Yes you can , and you will . Tell me.” Anakin’s hand soothes the ache on his face, rubbing against the scarred tissue, reddened by the repeated contact. Arthur turns his face to kiss the skin, kisses the wound in apology, mouth lousy and sloppy and completely uncoordinated, barely even kissing - but the message is not lost on Anakin, whose voice catches in his throat at the display of affection. The removal of pride from the equation, the only thing left a guilty man in need of a reset.
“Come on, A.” He encourages yet again, other hand tangling in the protoframe’s hair. “Come on. Cum in me, yeah?”
He nods, and Anakin doesn’t slow down. Clamps down on him, forces Arthur to rut up into him, slick noises leaving with every thrust courtesy of his previous orgasm. Finds himself whining not long after, drooling against Anakin’s hand which rests on his face the whole time, cumming just as Anakin tightens around him sporadically, the man finally reaching his peak and forcing Arthur along with him.
If tears streamed down Arthur’s face as he came, neither of them spoke of it the next day.
—
“Easy on the alcohol next time, ¿si? Still don’t know if our livers are techrot yet or no.” Lettie scolds as she gives him a tiny, tiny bottle of painkillers, taking his grunt for understanding. She doesn’t give him another word, only sighs as she turns away to take care of more pressing patients, civvies with effervon poisoning and a myriad of other problems unique to the Höllvanian crisis.
He knocks back two pills at once, closes his eyes as if he can physically feel his neurons resetting when he knows damn well they aren’t. Something psychosomatic, he’s sure, but it soothes him nonetheless. The hangover is acceptable even if it hurts like a bitch - it's the fact that he can't remember last night very well that's bugging him, with only flashes of drinks and gloves and scars and blue to go off of.
All he knows is that he feels... lighter, somehow. Like something that's been weighing him down for loops upon loops has been lifted. He's not sure what happened last night, but he knows it did him good.
“Morning, A.” Anakin greets him, and Arthur is hit with a pang of affection. He gives the Drifter a small smile, clearly to hide his wince of pain from his head's insistent throbbing. Anakin laughs, putting his hand on the protoframe's shoulder, sitting down next to him.
“Mornin'.” Arthur grunts out, turning his face when Anakin leans in, allowing him to kiss his cheek. The protoframe won't say it, but he greatly enjoys the casual attention, something offered this freely.
The two men sit in silence, basking in the noises of the mall around them, the presence of the other. Anakin knows his head hurts too much for speech, so he keeps it to a minimum, hand moving to stroke his hair.
“Thanks,” Arthur surprisingly breaks the quiet, gruff voice resounding in the room. “For last night. I don't… remember everything. But I do know I feel better.”
Anakin only gives him a smile, kind at first but then mischevious.
“Not the last night you won't remember, that's for sure.”
“ Anakin. ”
“I mean it though.” The Drifter shrugs. “If you ever need something like that again, all you need to do is ask. No more drinking yourself dead, okay? Or Lettie'll have both our heads for it.” He chuckles at the words, and Arthur follows with his own snort.
“I'll…” He hums. “I'll think about it. Thanks again.”
And he does think about it. Enough that he decides he wants a repeat, another rerun of the man's rough streak - though this time, desires a taste he won't forget the next morning.