Vagrant Story, Sydney/Hardin, vulnerability
He stares at his hands--at what used to be his hands--and laughs a little, soft and disbelieving. The Dark has given him metal in place of flesh, given him claws and filled him up with magic until he thrums with it. It isn't what he expected, and he can't tell at first whether the Dark is angry with him for wanting too much or--
Hardin catches him when his legs give out, carries him from the summoning circle in the Great Cathedral and holds his tongue as Sydney shivers for hours, so full of power he shines. Snowflies seep from his skin, wink off the tips of his claws and float away to cling to the walls of the abandoned house Hardin takes him to. It feels a little like dying, but the Dark tells him he's only changing, to relax, give in.
He's not particularly good at giving in, to anything. He isn't mad enough to think having claws will change that a bit.
"Hardin," he breathes when he can't stand it anymore, the Dark winding its way through his veins and his own innate magic pushing back, being pushed aside and brought to heel. He will be the Dark by the time it's through with him, but he doesn't want to feel it happen. "Hardin...."
He shouldn't ask. He's too full already. But Hardin nods, eyes fixed only on Sydney's as if blind to the nimbus that lights Sydney up like he holds an Ifreet inside his chest.
The hands that pick apart the laces of his pants are both competent and shy, as diffident as Hardin's bent head as the man opens his mouth and takes him in. It's hard not to thrust as he feels Hardin's tongue curl around his shaft, but it's harder still not to reach down and card his fingers--what used to be his fingers--through Hardin's hair. He can't--his claws are too sharp--and the realization makes him suddenly want to struggle against the hands that slide up his legs to settle at his hips. They tighten and relax, tugging him closer to the edge of the bed--oh-so-politely even now--but he can't touch back, can't push unless he wants to risk flaying Hardin by mistake.
Discomfort, anger, and a thin sliver of panic are a hard ball inside his chest as he stiffens, claws punching through the dusty mattress as his finger curl helplessly. He knows it isn't Hardin's fault, so when the man freezes and looks up at him in sudden dismay, lips still stretched around Sydney's cock, he manages something closer to a smile than a grimace.
"Don't stop," he says, and though Hardin hesitates, hardly daring to breathe, he continues after a moment, slower and more careful than before. And he leaves Sydney's pants on, strokes himself off discreetly, and doesn't complain when Sydney finishes first.
Hardin stays kneeling between his legs afterwards, dark head resting on Sydney's thigh, the muscles in his arm working slow and steady until he comes with a shuddering sigh. Staring down at the exposed line of Hardin's neck, Sydney wants to trace it with his tongue, wants to wrap his arms around the man and doesn't dare. Some of his snowflies have attached themselves to Hardin, and they melt into the man's skin one by one, leaving smears of brightness behind.
Already he feels stronger, strangely more alive, but he wonders what it's worth. He will have to be so careful. It could control him, that care, if he let it.
Reaching out gingerly, he flexes his fingers back from his palm, holding the claws well away as his hand slides over Hardin's hair, down to the trusting line of his nape, and settles there.