A.N.: Rare pair prompt on tumblr. Guys just imagine this tall ass loser with sweet Yachi.

The mirror doesn't lie.

The bed is unmade, she checks her phone every few seconds as she tries to stuff all the clothes on the floor into her hamper. She peels off her pajamas and takes a deep breath. She needs to shave, there are fine prickles on her legs, underneath her armpits, the creases of her inner thighs. She brushes her teeth and watches her own face, the pink splotches, the shadows under her eyes from sleepless nights, her tangled lashes and pale skin stretched at her cheeks when she opens her mouth wide. She spits, the clean air burns nicely coming in, and she sighs. She searches through the drawers in the bathroom for a fresh razor, coconut oil, lotion, that expensive perfume her mother bought her a while ago. At the bottom of her underwear drawer is this lacy pink piece, and it takes her nearly half an hour to find the matching bra. She hasn't worn something like this in months, she casts a cursory glance at her closet and between all the simple, cottony, breathable outfits there are, squished against the furthest wall, her more appealing ones; pretty skirts, form fitting jeans, tights, blouses that always smell so sweet and flowery, the kind that flutter gently against her skin and pull her fingers to the hem, unsure of herself.

The mirror doesn't lie. She spends too long in the shower bent over her own leg and when she is done she sits on the edge of the tub and works her skin to smoothness. She curls her toes and rolls her ankles and she looks pink, pudgy, not quite right. Her hips have curved the way she's always wanted, they accentuate her thighs and have marked her hips with pallid, webby lines. She fills her jeans or her skirts or her panties nicely but her breasts are still so small, she cups them in her hands, breathes in, and then slouches inward. Her shoulders are narrow, her silhouette a strange enigma. Not quite right.

She tugs her panties up and shimmies her hips, turns to trace the delicate waistband with her eyes and the longer she stares the more uncertain she becomes. She spends half an hour roaming her little apartment in nothing but her underwear, the air curling up and around her almost comfortably—if she stays in one place for too long she remembers herself; forgets how to breathe. She takes a sip of water, waits until her throat no longer hurts to glance at the mirror. At the wrong angle, she catches the roll of her skin, the pinch of her panties hugging at her hip bones, the curve of her back and the way her stomach folds. She snaps straight and swallows her nerves tightly.

She paints her eyes first, dusts powder over her blemishes and marks her lips. They are small and doll like, a rose petal, and she makes sure to color her cheeks pink. She dabs that perfume on her throat and catches her own eye in the mirror. How pretty—the mirror doesn't lie, and her cheekbones look defined.

This deodorant smells too sweet but it does not stain her clothes. She pulls a simple, cottony, breathable shirt on, these blue jeans, these pearl earrings, brushes her hair back and makes her bed. The can of air freshener is on her nightstand, she quickly sprays the entire apartment and hides it under her bathroom sink. She sets a few bottles of water in the fridge and eats a fresh peach.

Her cellphone chimes and she hasn't done this in so long, she reaches down to touch her ankle under the leg of her jeans, if the skin is still as smooth as she hopes. She pulls a face in the mirror above the key rack and presses her hand over her pounding heart.

.x.

He's taller than she expects, nearly hits the top of the doorframe when she invites him in. She remembers him different, oddly enough, this wiry shadow smiling smoothly down at her. She remembers the curl of his mouth, the whites of his eyes, the inky, feathery strands of his hair. He'd towered her then, but it's different now. He's taller but she is not scared of him, this time, not the way she used to be.

He greets her warmly and it does not take very long before she decides he is not who she thought he was. They sit on her couch a while and he does not move to touch her until the room grows too stuffy, until her eyes keep glancing at his hands, idly resting on his legs.

There are muscles on his body she's never seen in person. He pulls his shirt off and his skin is dark, creased, finely stretched over finely tuned marble. There is a birthmark on his right hip, black strands of hair trailing down his navel, and her mouth is watering. His tongue tastes hot, dipped in spice, he doesn't stop kissing her until she is breathless, chest heaving, thighs squeezing together—he tugs her blouse off carefully, thumbs at the button of her jeans and smiles; it curls like smoke, smooth and quiet and mesmerizing.

He lets them crumple on the ground at the end of the bed and his hands are on her sides, stroking. They are calloused and rough and big and draw excited sparks up and down her spine. His eyes drag appreciatively down her body, he sucks on the skin of her belly until it is red, throbbing in the shape of his mouth. He hooks his fingers around her panties and pulls them down her thighs, frees her ankles and drops them at the end of the bed. He stares for too long, eyes dark and sharp and intense. He licks his lips and she hasn't done this in so long, body trembling with the need for more. It is overwhelming, his breath wisps hot on her quivering flesh and she is whimpering, nails digging hard into his scalp as his tongue flickers out to taste her, glistening, soaked in honey.

He opens his mouth just above her clit and sucks, feathers around it, curls his hand around her knee and pushes her open until he can slide his tongue between her lips. She pulls hard on his hair and he hisses, eyes snapping up to hers—he looks so hungry, her juices smeared on his mouth and his chin and his tongue, swiping over his teeth, the pointed canine, the smoky smile he offers when she can't find her words.

"Aren't you something?"

She rolls her hips as he sinks into her, and he is so heavy. He presses down on her, her thighs straining open, eyes fluttering shut, this throaty moan rising up as she clenches hard around him. And it is all so much, every push and pull of their bodies a pulsing thing, hot on their spines and tongues and the very tips of their fingers—he presses her down into the mattress, and the roll of his hips, and the shuddering breath he gives, and the throb of his cock deep inside of her. It is all so much, so much, so much, so—

"Fuck—just," he grunts, supporting all of his weight on one hand and reaching back to grab her ankle. He rises over her, her hands grasping at the sheets or the pillow or his hips, rocking steady; quick, quick, quick. He's watching them, the shining length of him, the slick, wet sounds of their joining. He rolls his hips, steadies himself, and pulls out halfway. "Fuck."

Too much. His pace borders painful, but her eyes are rolling back and she can't breathe, her chest is tight and her toes are curling and her voice strings high, sharp and pleading. The rough pads of his fingers ghost over her skin, draw over her stomach and in between them. Flickering, tracing tiny figures over her clit until she's sobbing, muscles contracting, squeezing tight around him, and there.

There, he presses down on her with a hiss, brow furrowing tight and teeth snapping shut. He pushes and pushes until their skin is flush, her thighs trembling with strain. She arches and whines and digs her nails into the skin of his back. When she comes back down, he's watching her, his long, long lashes brushing his own cheekbones.

His licks his lips.

"That hurt."

She jolts, coming back to herself. She yanks her hands back to her chest and he straightens, leaning back to roll his shoulders. He carefully extracts himself, knots the condom at the end and tosses it out. When he stands from the bed, she notices the thin red marks on his back. "Oh, no, I'm so sorry!" she rushes out, pushing herself up and then second thinking herself. Her fluids are trickling back out of her, coating her inner thighs.

He nudges open her bathroom door, and then steps inside to search around for a towel. "It's cool," he assures, switching off the faucet. "I've had worse."

He hands her the towel, and after feeling around for his boxers he sits down at the edge of the bed and rakes his fingers through his hair. He tugs and frees the tangles, but gives up after a few seconds. She can't tell what time it is, these curtains soften light the way clouds do. Afternoon, sundown, it all looks pink and gentle against their skin. His fingers wrap around her ankle and she is still aching; she'll be sore between her thighs later, after he's gone.

And it does not take very much convincing, his eyes flicker over her smooth skin, her rounded hips and the freckles scattered on her belly. For a moment, she feels right. She feels desirable. His tongue swipes over his lower lip and she makes the mistake of shuddering, of showcasing her excitement. His gaze meets hers and it is filled with intent.

Reined in, all too quickly.

"I'm curious to know why you called me," he begins, and she tucks her fingers under her thighs. "I'm not complaining—at all—just. There are others, more capable."

She supposes this is true. It's been a long time since she has done this, and she has always kept in close contact with her friends. The boys from high school, the ones she met along the way. But of them, she couldn't think of any to ask this favor of. Too close, maybe. Too comfortable with the image of her, simple and sweet and pure.

He, however, knows only the surface. She took a chance, contacting him to meet up. And every minute that passed without him answering she'd been practically pulling at her own hair.

"I don't know about that," she sighs, folding her arms around her knees. "You seemed nice. So, I…decided maybe it would be okay."

His fingers move around her calf, and he leans down to kiss her arm. "Fair enough. I won't pry."

The day falls away like this. The room grows brighter, and then darker and darker. They spend a long time just touching, fingers dragging across spans of skin—pink and soft; dark and calloused—and mouths connected like that, tongue, teeth, lip, tongue. She opens up underneath him and the minutes rush past, or drag on. Her voice leaves her once or twice and when they're finished she's shaking and mumbling. He groans and buries his face in the pillows, hisses when she presses one hand on the small of his back. It's gray in this room, she can't make out the end of the bed and she can't really feel her own legs.

"That's it," he grunts, and it's different than it was before. This is defeat, this is exhaustion, this is acknowledging that they have reached their limit. "I think that's it."

"I've never gone that long," she confesses, and he nods lazily in agreement.

He's been kind enough to bring back those water bottles, to humor her needs until the next time. And now, he takes his time getting up, his silhouette strong and lean and sharp. His head bows as he looks down at himself, the hiss of sensitivity when he moves too quick. He disappears into the bathroom and when he returns he tiredly announces, "I'm fucking starving."

Her stomach snarls in agreement, and with that he yanks on his jeans and seeks out the kitchen once more. She uses the restroom, she wipes their residue from her thighs, she checks her face in the mirror. The makeup she has so meticulously applied has been almost completely rubbed off. Her cheeks are splotched and irritated, her lipstick smudged to pink, likely painted on his own skin. Her lashes are stuck together, thick and black, dotted around her cheekbones. She stares back at herself, and then decides to wash her face completely. She pulls on some comfortable underwear, her favorite pajamas, and strips the sheets right off her mattress. They are soaked through, and she wonders if maybe she has the energy to replace them now.

He's cooking up eggs, bacon, sausage—it is the middle of the night. He makes her toast and coffee, pours a full glass of orange juice and sits across from her at the table. The TV is on now, and they both quietly watch the news, as if an old married couple. She eats and eats until she is stuffed, breathing out sharply. He washes the dishes and wipes off the table and asks if maybe he can't stay the night, if maybe she wouldn't mind sleeping together—"Same bed," he says, and she can't stop looking at his mouth. "Just sleep."

And so he stays the night, he helps her pull fresh sheets on, and stretches out on the other side.

They do not wake until the afternoon, his arm draped over her hip. He tells her, sleepily, "I had a good time."

.x.

The mirror doesn't lie.

The bed is unmade, he's sitting on the edge drying his hair from their shower. His clothes are in the washer and his skin is spotted in red. It smells musky in here, and she screws her mouth shut tight at the soreness. They eat again when they find the energy to leave the bed, and again before they shower. She stares at herself in the mirror and her stomach is full, she's pudgy and soft and pink and her skin is glowing.

Her lashes flutter and she breathes in, more than sated.

"Thank you," she says, and he hums appreciatively. "I needed this."

"Any time," he says, and he is behind her, wrapping one arm around her middle and pulling her into him. "Anytime."

When he leaves, he cups her face and kisses her all too tenderly on the mouth. His eyes flicker over, lips curling like smoke, and his thumb rolls gently over her cheekbone.

She stands in the middle of her apartment, and then opens every single curtain to let the sunlight in.

.x.

A.N.: h eh