Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and situations are the property of Stephanie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended.

Summary: Leah talks Paul into a wax and consoles him after.

A/N: Thanks to my husband for beta'ing on this one. All mistakes are mine and mine alone. I've never witnessed a male waxing session, so I may have taken some liberties with the order of operations. I feel like I should apologize for what's to come...I'll make it up to him in the future, promise.

The Twilight Twenty-Five

Prompt: 16. Mind over matter.
Pen Name: kerigocrazy
Pairing/Character(s): Leah/Paul
Rating: M

Rated for language, smut, and crotch trauma.

"Let it Rip"

It started innocently enough. Leah had gone to a pack meeting post-wax and the delicate way she was walking, in an effort to spare her tender lady bits further torture, didn't go unnoticed by the pack's resident Lothario.

He watched her...and wondered.

After they were dismissed, he followed her silently, until she had enough and turned around to snap his head off. "What the fuck do you want, Lahote?"

Paul tilted his head to the side, in a startlingly canine gesture, and asked, "Why are you walking like that?"

It was the first time he could remember Leah Clearwater blushing. Now he had to know.

"C'mon, Leah. You can tell me." He attempted to bat his lashes, realized that was completely ridiculous, and did what he did best—he invaded her personal space. Unfortunately, she was aware of his modus operandi.

"Really? Are you really trying to dazzle me with your sex pheromones? You forget that I've spent way too much time inside your head?"

There was no time for this; Paul got more and more frustrated as his admittedly limited patience was tested. "Please?"

"Ugh. You're such a nosey fucker. I just got waxed."

Paul's ears perked right up at that tasty little tidbit. "What, exactly, did you get waxed?"

Right. Like she was really gonna answer that.

"It still doesn't explain why you're walking like that. Is it like getting your clit pierced? Are you attempting to stave off a spontaneous orgasm?"

"Um, no. Sorry to shoot down your dreams there, Don Juan, but having your pubic hairs ripped out by the roots kinda fucking hurts. And my vagina is a little sore at the moment. Any other questions?"

Why she thought sarcasm would shame him into stopping his line of questioning, she had no idea. Paul Lahote didn't understand the meaning of embarrassment. Or propriety.

"I could kiss it better?"

"In your dreams," she snorted.

He husked a laugh and moved in closer, subtly (but not subtly enough for her not to notice) rubbing against her. "C'mon, Leah. You're a werewolf. It can't be that bad."

"Oh, yeah? You think you could handle it, stud?"

"Yeah. I know I can handle it." He'd never admit it, but he may have puffed his chest out a little to punctuate that statement. He was all man, baby.

An unholy grin overtook her face, one that managed to shake even Paul's rock-solid confidence.

"Game. On."

That's how, just an hour later, Paul found himself wearing a pastel pink paper gown, sitting on a table with intimidating metal stirrups on the bottom, and inhaling the scent of warm vanilla cookies while he waited for a stranger to come and rip the hair off his balls. His little soldiers were scouting for higher ground, but Leah stood behind him with a hand clamped down on his shoulder and a smug grin splashed across her face.

There was no escape.

A small, innocuous woman came into the room, pulling on a bright purple, latex glove with a resounding snap. That sound seemed to shrivel his dick right up.

You can do this Lahote. Just think about the ladies; they'll spend so much time sucking you off after this, you won't have time to line up the next date. You. Are. Not. A. Pussy.

"Alright sir, if you'd just lay down and place your feet in the stirrups, we'll get started." She lifted the lid off of a pot of molten goo, and he decided he just couldn't watch anymore.

"This will be warm," she warned, sounding way too cheerful for the gravity of the situation.

And then his nuts were on fire. Holymotherofgod, it burned. Which made absolutely no sense, considering his internal temperature ran higher than they'd make the wax; he refused to consider it could be psychosomatic.

The heat didn't matter for long of course. For a split second, as small hands patted and smoothed a wax strip, he thought that this wasn't so bad. He was getting a free grope by a not unattractive woman. Then she let it rip.

The high-pitched, wailing scream that tore it's way out of his throat was a sound he never thought himself capable of making. But when the sadistic bitch between his legs pulled back the cloth, he was pretty sure she kept on pulling till his boys were hanging completely separate from his body.

At that point, shock set in and the rest of the torture session was silent except for the pathetic whimpers and pained moans at each pull. Well, that and the evil snickering Leah couldn't seem to control. There would be words.

When that sensitive spot just below his beloved jewels and right before the place he'd firmly marked as "exit only" met the hot wax, that Paul realized things could be worse. He found himself attempting to crawl backward up the table, away from the pain. But the tiny woman was deceptively strong; she pinned him to the table with one hand on his thigh, while she worked a giant popscicle stick across his quickly shriveling flesh.

"Maybe we should rethink this," he began, his voice quavering.

She never even acknowledged him, just pressed the cloth down and pulled, tearing the fine hairs straight out of his taint. Oh. God. He saw white then; sure he'd crossed over to the other side, Paul was convinced this was hell. What did he ever do to deserve this?

On the walk out to the car, he leaned heavily on the evil bitch who'd enticed him here. He could definitely understand the walking funny now. It seemed imperative to walk in a way that kept each tender piece of flesh separate from the other.

He refused to acknowledge her.

Her smug amusement rankled, but there was nothing he could say to make this disappear. Leah was starting to feel just a little bit bad on the ride back to La Push. Sex-on-a-stick was huddled into a pathetic heap in the passenger seat of her Camry, apparently flashing back on his recent trauma.

"Hey, you gonna be okay?"

"Is this what PTSD feels like?"

Poor baby. Gah, since when did Leah Clearwater have a conscience? She couldn't leave him like this though. It seemed, somehow, inhumane.

In a split second decision, that she hoped she wouldn't come to regret, she turned off onto a mostly unused side road and drove to a pretty much vacant portion of the Rez. He was so lost in his horror, she parked the car, got out, and had his door open before he realized what was going on.

"Leah?"

"Shut up."

And then his dick, the poor, abused appendage, was sucked into the inferno of her mouth. The pain didn't matter any more. Nothing did, but her tongue swirling across his sensitive head and the soft hands wrapped tight around what she couldn't swallow down.

"Ah, fuck."

He'd never come so fast in his life. Yeah, she was good, but it was a combination of pain relief and Christ, Leah fucking Clearwater was sucking his dick.

When it was over, he lay limp in the passenger seat. "What...?"

"I kissed it better."

Yeah she did.