He's getting used to it, to the way his hips smear with bruises overnight, how in the hours before those marks fall against his skin like scars, fur breathes against his front, familiar hands holding him up no matter the way his knees bend. And then they both collapse, the heat from each other melting into all the points where they touch, bone, skin, muscle, all of these empty when the orgasm rolls in.

'Glorious,' Rook murmurs once, when Ben is so soaked with sweat that rivers of the stuff run its way into his palms and then into the shoulders he has them clamped upon, forcing a swamp to form out the stripes he touches, turning them warm and dark, mussed with human pleasure.

Ben chokes out a laugh, too tired to speak.

And Rook lowers himself into him even more, eyes alert for any new pattern in the way Ben spasms against him.

'Beautiful,' he croons, and wow, Ben really want to hit him for that. But instead he whimpers and pulls Rook closer, wedging fur into fists which can't help but fall open every time Rook gives a new twist of his hips. And then his fingers tighten, become claws when Rook moans, long and hard and pours right through him, the sound carrying through his muscles and making him give an answering cry of his own.

It is in these moments that he feels like an echo, no vestige of Ben Tennyson left, just a shadow puppet that is pulled, left flinching, reacting to every scrap of skin Rook maps out with his tongue, his teeth, each determined motion of his hips. And it hurts when Rook smiles, when he cards fingers through his hair, asking him if he is alright, okay, speak to me Ben if you need to, we can just embrace for now.

And Ben lets his arms fall loose, his eyes raking through the fur above, knowing that no matter how much he searches, there will be no trace of blood to leak through the fur. For despite everything, beneath the shadows Rook's fingers press out against the line of his hips, there will remain very thin traces of red. And no answering mark on the body above.

He sets ground rules: no bites where anybody can see, no hand-holding or wrist-catching, not when Rook's too excited to draw the claws back. The end result, of course, is that Ben ends up with a scattering of half-moon punctures in his thighs, reaching to just above his knees, and a separate line of those same marks end up darting along the cusp of shoulder like a tattoo, centimetres away from where the collar of his t-shirt will fall lose during the day. Really, he's just glad he's not a girl; even in summer his shorts reach long enough to cover the marks and clothing companies never seem to design stuff that deliberately pulls attention to his flesh the way he's seen it forcibly unveiled on Gwen or Kai. Besides he' s never really been a tank-top kinda guy.

Rook, much to his surprise, is. Or at least he is when he's earnestly working out, in the comfort of his own quarters. Sometimes he'll even do it naked, if Ben's stayed over and he's worried about running late or messing up his 'training regime.'

But either way, it'll make Ben sit up, covers sloped over his knees like a tent and watch, hungry for the crunch of muscles he sees batting against the floor or a machine. And it's weird because that same desire doesn't stir his stomach when he sees other guys do it. Okay, maybe once or twice, it has. But it's always outlined by this wavering sort of anger because he'll trace the lines of Rook's body with his eyes and there won't be any evidence of their activities last night left there. No, not when Rook's push-ups make the mussed fur fall back into place, into shaky lines that drift free, unencumbered by his human fingers. And he can't help but compare this to cuts and nicks he's seen on human skin, hickeys girlfriends (or boyfriends, he doesn't know) have used to adorn the necks of other exercise-crazy guys.

He'll look down under the covers to see similar marks reflected on himself, but running harsher, sometimes even a little deeper. He's covered in them, Rook is everywhere, on every major muscle and thrumming in the capillaries his teeth have managed to burst, as though he's dug himself under Ben's heartbeat, which now speeds up erratically at the reminder.

And yet on Rook himself, under the tuffs of fur, nothing of Ben remains.

He can't ask to bite. It feels too weird, too un-Ben-like to do so. So the next time , in a spurt of the moment thing, retaliation for Rook sinking his fangs in too deep, he lunges forward. And Rook jolts as Ben's teeth clutch against his neck in a vicious grasp, angry and unafraid, before Ben rears back, furious at himself for the way fur has entered his mouth, to break between the gaps of his teeth.

'Urgh!' he spits. 'It's like eating an apple, when the skin always gets stuck in there. How does that always happen anyway?'

But Rook wrinkles his nose, too busy nestling the disturbed fur over with his fingers.

'That was quite a nip,' he says thoughtfully. 'But next time I would appreciate a warning.'

'You hurt me,' Ben says petulantly. 'Sorry man. I wasn't really thinking.'

But Rook is already softening, a faint apology in his eyes as he leans down to lick over the patch of skin he'd cut into with his mouth. The saliva meshes in with the faint welling of blood that appears and once Ben would have protested, proclaiming it as 'gross' and telling Rook, quite huffily, to get a plaster instead.

But now he watches Rook lap, his tongue a dancer under the broken line of flesh and feels numb to the thought that he ever wanted something different.

'I wanna go on top,' he tells Rook huffily the next time he is rolled down to the bed.

Rook's eyes widen at this, but he doesn't protest. 'Are you sure?' he asks, fingers wedged under Ben's chin, so that even if he wants to, Ben can't turn away. Not that he would, of course.

'Yeah,' says Ben. 'I'm a guy too, remember? I'm conditioned to like thrusting in and out of stuff the same way you are.'

Rook raises an eyebrow at Ben's less than eloquent description, but releases his chin so that he can draw himself away, rolling himself up onto his knees so that Ben can use his elbows to push himself off into the space above.

'As you wish.'

But he doesn't protest, doesn't so much as roll his eyes even as Ben starts fumbling his way above him, hands anxiously prying into places that Rook's fingers have confidently been stretching out on Ben for three weeks now. Honestly, Ben's not sure why he has waited this long to ask for a reversal, why the thought only now brushes against his consciousness. No; that's not quite true; he has wondered, quietly, what it may be like to grind Rook down into little pieces the way the guy has done to him, to make him fall apart with just a swivel of his hips. Not that he hasn't made Rook fall apart in other ways of course; he's seen the guy shake above him, crash down on him like some gigantic force, all as though Ben's insides have melted his bones with their warmth and tried to rob him of their structure.

But...but...it's not the same. Right?

It takes time. Ben pretends to project confidence, though it's hard with Rook watching him so keenly, and lets his fingers glisten with the bottle Rook's large hands press into his shaky grasp. Then it's all a matter of imitation, of nudging as gently as he felt Rook do to him three days ago, pressing and watching himself disappear into the clench of muscles that suck him in as greedily as a...well, he feels dirty just thinking it, but as a mouth.

Rook sighs, long and hard, and Ben tries not to panic. This shouldn't be so hard, Rook never seems nervous when he does it to him. Hell, he's used lube in previous relationships, because no matter what Cash and J.T. used to twitter about in hallways, girls don't always have magically lubricating vaginas whenever you're in the mood to stick something in. Now it's his turn to sigh, and he quickly banishes the thought of Julie, her shape long and lean against his imagination. Or, he guesses, memory now. It's probably not normal to have flashes of someone you once loved pop in when you're trying to have sex with someone else you care about in a similar fashion, but hey, who knows. Maybe Rook still thinks about Rayona, pictures her silhouettes in odd moments of nostalgia. Perhaps it happens to everybody when they least expect it.

'Ben, focus,' Rook murmurs. But he doesn't sound cross. Instead his mouth is drawn up into a tight slant, a slight curl at its end indicating patient fondness.

'Sorry,' Ben mutters and continues to exercise his fingers, to make them bend and flex inside a heat that makes his stomach flip at the thought of what it will like when another part of him is properly immersed. And it's only when Rook throws his head back, thrusts it straight down into the pillow and his hand shoots out to impale Ben's free wrist with his fingers, along with a low, hissed, 'now, Ben,' that Ben feels comfortable enough for the next stage.

'That your sweet spot?' he asks, and the darkness of the room, the low light that captures Rook's fur and makes it glisten with the pattern of sweat that echoes the shimmer of falling firework sparks, it all makes his breath catch, his voice coming out a lot more nervous that he wants it to. Rook writhes a little under his touch, even as he gives Ben a contemptuous glare and Ben is struck now, how perhaps 'beautiful' is indeed a necessary adjective for describing a lover who consents to lower themselves beneath you.

He swallows, pulls out his fingers, and uses his other hand to coat his dick with some more of that same lube. He breathes as he lines himself up, telling himself that Rook is not gonna hate him if he gets it wrong the first time, if he fucks up, and pushes himself in. And he's not reckless; he doesn't push in too hard or fast, because he's not a jerk, despite what some of the media outlets say and because he does actually want the chance to do this again.

Rook groans as Ben lets the heat flood him, lets it shudder out up his nerves, swirl down to vibrate in his stomach. It makes him want to push out his hips with a snap, to make Rook flinch with a shout, but he stops. Perhaps this is why he's never done this before. Rook must have the patience of a saint.

I am not a jerk, I am not a jerk, he chants to himself, holding him back, firm and a little afraid as he waits for Rook to look at him and nod. And then Ben begins the slow marathon build up of pushing and pulling, of asking is this okay, need a pillow beneath your hips, can I move your leg a little to the left-oh, you're already doing it, thanks man.

And Rook smirks at his negotiating technique, so Ben thrusts it a little harder and makes that mouth unfurl, makes it open into a wide, surprised hole. I got me some moves of my own, Ben thinks smugly and shoves himself out, so hard, that Rook lets out a pitiful mewl at its loss. And fuck, that's a little...no, it's definitely cute. A word that he would never have ascribed to Rook a year ago.

And Rook looks up at him, a little lost, looking very much as though he wants to pop that noise back down his throat, or maybe just free his hands of the sheets he has clutched within them to press them up over his jaw, perhaps to prevent any more cat-like stuff from escaping.

And Ben takes pity on him, leans down and hopes he doesn't sound gleeful when he says, 'hey no, don't even, ahh, think of it, it's hot, cute even, I like it, what, you really wanna, whoa, sound like me, when our positions are reversed?'

And Rook's eyes widen and he groans, before Ben finds that sweet spot again and like magic, back comes the mewl, but louder than before.

'That's it,' Ben coos, 'it's alright, just for me, no one else is, gah! Here to hear...'

It's a mark of how far Rook has let himself go that he doesn't narrow his eyes at Ben's unintentional rhyme and make some sly remark. And Ben is incredibly grateful to learn that he doesn't feel the need to bite down hard, or hear a scream that will echo in his brain for hours afterwards. No, he just needs this, the thud and soft crash of hips meeting fur and a mewl, pitched just right to favour itself above a human scream.

It's a noise he's convinced Rook will not share with anybody else.

'Maaaybee I'm a little possessive of you,' Ben admits afterwards, curling his fingers into Rook's chest.

'Just a little?' Rook teases. Away from the thrust of Ben's cock, he's slipped back into his usual, self-possession, all of him keen on wrapping as much of Ben up as he can in his arms.

Ben smiles and shakes his head. 'Oh, like you're not? I wouldn't resemble a pin-cushion so much sometimes, if you weren't.'

Rook has the grace to look a little embarrassed about that. 'I can always stop...' he trails off, looking slightly uncomfortable.

Ben reaches up to brush back a tuff of fur poking from Rook's neck, smoothing it out against the tough crease of the mattress that tries to force it out. 'I think we both know that you're not capable of doing that,' he says as he lets his palm glide up to softly rest on Rook's cheek. 'That would take a crazy amount of repression, yeah? Besides I'm more than capable of asking you to stop – and you do manage to tone it down when I ask.' Rook closes his eyes as Ben curls his thumb inwards, letting it drift out to poke beneath the black hollow that surrounds the left one in an effort to quietly stroke the fur there.

'I kinda love you, you know,' Ben says, his thumb hesitating as Rook's eyes snap open in shock. 'Maybe that's why I've been getting kinda annoyed. 'You were leaving all these marks on me, like I was yours, and I couldn't do the same to you. My teeth marks don't really tend to show up through that fur of yours, buddy.'

Rook's hand grabs his wrist and he brings it up between them to give it a quick fierce kiss. And Ben stops, surprised at its ferocity; he can feel the outline of Rook's teeth pressing up beneath his lips, the promise of gentle nip waiting there, just ready to be brought out to pierce his flesh. But it never does.

And Rook looks at him solidly, a heated weight in his eyes.

'The feeling is mutual,' he assures Ben. 'And I am sorry if...' he stops and sighs. 'We are different creatures you and I – and I am sorry if that brings distress to you occasionally.'

'I'm having sex with an alien,' Ben tells him blankly. ''Different' doesn't even begin to cover it.' Then he smirks. 'Still, at least you don't have to worry about me bursting into a flare of energy or accidently shooting mana at you when we're in the middle of...stuff. It seems you picked the right Tennyson.'

'Poor Kevin,' says Rook feelingly.

And Ben laughs, amused that Rook is a decent enough guy to actually experience sympathy for someone in a situation Ben finds more than a little amusing.

'He can take it,' Ben assures him, 'just like I can. Besides he'd better. Gwen deserves someone who can keep up with an Anodite.'

Rook raises his eyebrows. 'And you believe I can keep up with you?'

Ben looks at him. Neither of them are quite in love, not yet. There' s liking and some kinda weird physical attraction that Ben isn't sure he understands, given that Rook doesn't have breasts and has a hell of lot more hair than he's used to dealing with. Heck, just brushing off the excess fur from his sheets in the morning is a daily nightmare that makes him want to curl up and cry.

But...his stomach flips when Rook looks at him, warm and soft, and when he holds him at night like he's drawn to him, like he's the centre of Rook's world. And not many people have treated him like that, at least not unironically.

So it's not a lie, what he said before. He kinda is in love.

'Well,' Ben says finally. 'I'm sure you're more than willing to try, Mr-I-got-top-marks-from-the-academy.'

Rook grins, pleased. And Ben doesn't complain when he leans down to push one final gentle bite against his shoulder. If he thinks about it like a mark of honour and learns to wear it proudly like a medal, then he's pretty sure he can learn to live with it.

Notes: The title, the summary, it gives me pain.