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The first time he'd seen her in a year and eight months, he'd thought she was as beautiful as ever. That was a given. The first time they'd gone on a proper date, he'd gone home missing her eyes already. The first time they'd kissed since reconciling, he'd jacked off in the shower the moment he'd made it home.
The first time she was spending the night at his place since the last time she'd spent the night at his place (before The Crashout), he noticed how thin she was.
Weird, that it'd slipped his notice all this time. Maybe because they hadn't spent extended time together yet? Maybe because he hadn't truly had the opportunity to feel her against him until tonight? Whatever it was, she was tucked against him on the couch, her head on his shoulder, his arm slung over her, and he realized suddenly that she felt… more fragile. More delicate, if he wanted to be connotationally considerate.
Without thinking, he said, "You've lost a lot of weight." Except he posed it like a question? For some reason? So it sounded more like, "You've lost a lot of weight?"
Yor sat up slowly and ogled him. "I guess, yeah. Why?"
"No reason. Just… noticed, is all."
Conveniently face to face now, Loid studied her, and it became more apparent. She wasn't gaunt or sunken in, but her jawline looked sharper, her cheekbones less like soft hills and more like mountain peaks.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
She looked puzzled. "Yeah. Why?"
"Nothing." He paused. Then, concern getting the better of him, asked, "What do you eat all day?"
"You're really invested in this, huh? What're you trying to say?"
He flushed, considering his words carefully, because if he straight up said what he was thinking—"I liked when I had something to grab onto when I was railing you three different ways to sunday two years ago"—he had a feeling it'd scare her off.
They'd been taking things slow. Very slow. Veerrrryyyyyyyyyy slow. Which he was fine with! It just meant that he had to check his shower drain regularly to make sure it didn't clog, because the first time he'd clogged his shower drain with the buildup of hair, shampoo-conditioner, and uh, cum from fucking jerking it to her non-stop because she was still nervous about sleeping with him—which, again, was fine, consequences of his past actions and all—it was housekeeping that had left a note for him about it. So now he checked religiously to make sure they did not find any more signs of his absolute and total lack of virtue and morality that resulted from being blueballed by his girlfriend.
He loved Yor. He really did. He was content to live a life of abstinence as long as it meant being by her side (he had two hands and a bathroom, after all). But if he did get the chance to dick her down again, he was really, really, maybe unhealthily, attached to the memory of the impressions his fingers made against her.
Fuck. He was hard.
"Just a little worried," he said instead.
Yor hummed, bringing her knees to her chest, but falling back against him, which, thank god. She felt so good, and best when it was on him. "I don't have a lot of time to eat. I drink a lot of coffee, probably too much, honestly. Keeps me going and I don't get hungry. It's not on purpose! I just… there's so much to do."
"You should get a PA."
She pursed her lips and eyed him coyly—that new look on her, the one she'd never made before they'd separated. He figured she must have picked it up from modeling, which he had mixed feelings about. On one hand, it made him sad to know he hadn't been there for her during a major turning point in her life. On the other hand, the look made it very, very hard to commit to the idea of never getting to fuck her.
"And risk falling in love with them?" she teased.
"Fuck PAs, they're the fucking worst, don't ever get one. I only had one I ever liked. Good ones are hard to come by. Really can't recommend it, it's a fucking crapshoot."
She laughed, and tipped deeper into him. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, noticing again that she was smaller in his arms than she used to be. She kissed him, and they settled back into the couch.
He didn't bring it up for the rest of the night, even as they spooned—no midnight olympics, thank you very much—and he felt that difference again. But he definitely fell asleep scheming.
—
He figured in the time it took her to warm up to the idea of, uh, fornicating with him, he'd be able to get her back to a healthy BMI. Which, for the record, he didn't discover through illicit means. He'd asked her one day, and she'd answered nonchalantly.
"It's like, 17.5. I'm barely underweight." She shot him a measured look, clearly aware of what was on his mind. "The photographer's seem to like it. My doctor doesn't, but it's not like I have time to eat. Even when they have crafty on set, I'm being herded between makeup and hair and costume. I barely get five seconds to breathe."
"Hmm," Loid hummed. He understood it all too well. So he leaned onto his hand, propped up no the counter, and said, "Sounds like you're working too much. Sounds like you're a workaholic. Sounds like I should stop by for lunch and help you maintain work-life balance, then do it again for dinner."
She flushed, roping her little smile in by biting her lip. "That would be kinda nice."
He grinned. "Kinda?"
"It would make me happy," she said shyly.
His heart flipped. "Then it's a date." Every day. For the rest of my life.
She grinned back.
—
It didn't take long for him to abandon his goal completely. He found with each day that he didn't care so much how she looked or what she weighed, as long as she was eating a minimmum of two square meals a day (three ideally, but that was hard to swing even for him. He still chugged his disgusting smoothies every morning in lieu of actual food. Still only been sick two times in the last seven years).
Regardless, it came to a head one month after he'd implemented his plan.
They sat on his couch watching a movie, she curled into him, knees up, feet tucked under her, and he with an arm draped loosely around her waist, forearm crushed against the couch, but he didn't have pins and needles, so what did he care, and even if he did have pins and needles, what did he care. They were 20 minutes into the film when she made an odd noise—a hot one, but still odd—and swung herself over him so that she straddled him.
All the blood rushed immediately out of his brain. He could not stress enough how fucking fast it poured out his head, Einstein's Theory of Relativity be damned. "You okay?" he croaked.
"I need you to fuck me," she pleaded, pressed up against him, moving, panting. Holy crap. His hard-on was so instantaneous, he could've keeled over from blood loss.
She hadn't even finished her sentence, he was already working his pants and all other unnecessary necessities down his thighs. "Sure, yeah, can I know, for science, what triggered this?"
She plucked at his shirt, too, and he reached obediently behind him to wrench it off. At the same time, she slipped her shorts down her legs and worked her own top over her head. Loid bit down and groaned through his teeth, trying to keep the sound tame. He hadn't seen her naked since the last time they'd slept together—two years, one month, and three days ago now—and fuck, she was still as gorgeous as he'd dreamed, more, even. His hands came immediately to her hips, and fuuuuck yes, his fingertips pillowed into her. Christ, he was going to fucking lose it the moment he was warm inside her.
"You do this thing"—she pulled her underwear—which was lacy (had she been planning for this?!) and practically transparent, holy shit—to the side, didn't even bother taking it off, and yeah, he was an absolute goner, 100% done for, lord please do not have mercy on any bit of him whatsoever, please let his dearly beloved girlfriend utterly demolish him—"whenever you touch me"—she didn't take him into her yet, instead rocking herself—drenched, fuck—over the length of him, and Loid made an unholy—or holy, depending on what angle you were taking—sound—"your thumb"—she whimpered, unable to explain, like just the thought got to her, and he felt her twitch against his cock, holy hell she was definitely going to have bruises tomorrow—"and it's been driving me nuts for the past six months—"
"Six months?!" Loid exclaimed, incredulous.
"I was scared!"
He pulled her into him, kissing her hard, startling her and stopping all motion. "I'm so fucking sorry," he murmured. "I love you."
"It's okay," she whispered, breathless. "I love you too."
They took a breath together. Then both their eyes strayed down for a second before darting to meet again.
"If you still need me to fuck you—"
"I really, really need you inside me—"
"Great, 'cause I'm so fucking down—"
"Please fucking hurry—"
She sunk onto him as soon as he notched the tip of his dick against her, and they both made the same genus of sound at the same time.
"Oh my god," Yor breathed, already riding him, taking it slow, siphoning all sense from his soul. "I forgot how good you feel."
He could only whine, kneading her hip with one hand, the other gripping her ass like it was the last thing tethering him to earth as he watched himself slide in and out of her. The tight clutch of her cunt around him, like it was desperate to keep him inside her, had him seeing stars. He moaned.
"Oh my god," she whimpered, "I'm gonna cum, m'sorry—"
"Shit," he ground out through his teeth, "it's fine, I'm not gonna last either—"
"Oh god oh god oh god I'm gonna cum—"
"Fuck," he groaned, rutting up into her helplessly. She cried out, seized up, and oop. There he went. Fucking rocketing out of this plane of dimension while her body milked him for all he was worth. "Yor—"
She made a butterfly winged sound in reply as she shook against him. "Loid," she mewled.
The comedown was what he imagined waking out of a 15 year coma must feel like. God, it was better than he remembered, better than he'd dreamed. Jesus, he was going to be an addict all over again. Holy shit, he still hadn't had her all over his home like he'd meant to all those years ago.
She pulled away at the same time his lids finally managed to pry apart, and her sleepy gaze met his. A slow smile split over her face.
"That was nice," she said, practically slurring. It did fantastic things for his ego.
"If you give me ten minutes, we can go again." He stroked absent-minded circles into her hip with his thumb as he stared into her eyes. She giggled, and he grinned back, lazy, lopsided.
"That," she sighed, draping herself over him. "That's the thing you do. Your thumb."
Loid raised his brows. He ran a deliberate circle against her skin, and she made a tiny, needy noise, nails clipping into him just enough to feel. She shifted in his lap. His blood stirred.
Suddenly, she gasped, and he moaned because it made her clench. And also because of that sound. Thank god he had that little sound back.
"We forgot a condom," she said somewhat frantically.
His dick twitched. She stilled and looked at him like he'd just told her he was going to fly to the moon with nothing but a fishbowl over his head. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I like cumming in you raw. I swear I didn't forget on purpose, though."
She relaxed, then giggled again. "I'm still on the pill, so technically it's okay."
He twitched again and started stiffening up allegro con brio.
Yor sat up, spine straight, alarmed. "I thought you said ten minutes!"
"That's if you're not talking to me about being on the pill and implying that we can keep doing this au naturel!"
She jabbed a finger against his chest, blushing across her cheeks. "You're a perv!"
"100%, absolutely, I'm a complete fucking perv when it comes to you." He sighed contentedly, digits digging into her and relishing the plush give of her, every cell in his body lost in this specific sauce. There was very little in the universe that was more fundamentally correct than having any part of himself inside any part of herself.
"I'm gonna fucking creampie you for the rest of my life," he said dreamily, more to himself than anything.
She frowned at him, perplexed. "'Creampie?'"
"You'll figure it out," he answered, rolling them so he was on top.
—
Two hours and six rounds later—What? They had a lot of lost time to make up for—they fell onto his bed together, sweaty, chests heaving. They'd somehow, some way, made it up the stairs (having to stop halfway to, uh, reach "the top" in a more corporal manner) to his room in the middle of being fucking animals. Literally. Fucking-animals.
He'd admittedly meant for their second first-time to be more romantic than this. Candles, rose petals, maybe a fucking bubble bath, the whole nine yards. Unforunately, those sorts of things went out the window when your very hot girlfriend begged you to get inside her.
Next time, he thought. In their panting silence, Yor sniffed and cuddled against him, skin feverish. "I'm so sore."
His dick jumped. "You can starfish next round. I'll do everything."
"Thank you," she said, batting her lashes at him. He grinned.
—
The next day, he made breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They ate every meal in bed. Three square meals—
and a fuck ton of dessert, if you caught his drift.