Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They spend five days waiting for their submersible to grow.

Maxwell allows himself five days of as much selfishness as he can stomach. While everyone else enjoys the wonders of Oda, he spends his time with Torse, learning how to manipulate delicate clockwork machinery with hands that were never made to do delicate things. He knows how to touch Torse’s human body to make him moan; he wants to learn how to touch Torse’s automaton body to make him whir with pleasure.

Days are for them, for fun, and Maxwell might even be tempted to call their activities frivolous except for the way he feels like something inside him might snap apart if he goes too long without being able to hear the steady click-tick of Torse's escapement. Nights are for them, too – the only difference is that instead of touching each other desperately, they’ll do it gently. Torse will drape as much of his cast iron frame over Maxwell as he dares, and Maxwell will sleep better than he ever did back on Gath, the pressure making his whole body go pleasantly relaxed.

Unfortunately, that's not all they have to contend with over those few days. Monty and Marya are mostly entranced by the city, occupied by exploration and experimentation, but Monty hasn't forgotten about Torse's newly-acquired condition. He recruits Marya, ostensibly so they can "tackle the problem from both sides" – and to their credit, Maxwell supposes, when they want to steal Torse away for different tests and measurements, they make sure he knows he's doing them the favor. Satisfying their curiosity. They're looking for a fix, of course, but it's a complex process. They can't make any promises.

Torse still never tells them no. So Maxwell takes to accompanying him and sitting in the corner of the workshop, silently (brooding, Marya calls it), until he notices Torse's escapement ticking a little faster, or his hands curling into fists at his sides, or his eye-lights darkening from orange to red – then he steps in to be the one to say enough, when Torse is too desperate to come across as polite and amicable to say it himself.

The crew already thinks Maxwell has tone issues. Let them think this is a deficit of his as well.

He almost, almost asks Torse to stay back on the Zephyr while they take the submersible down to the temple. Days of having his hands all over Torse's more delicate clockwork has made him painfully aware of how breakable some of those systems are – and days of listening to Marya and Monty argue over hypotheses and data has left him feeling unsure of their ability to actually help, should anything go wrong.

But he never voices the concern. There's a part of him that knows that Torse would stay, if Maxwell asked, and that's why he can't ask.

By the time the fight is over, though, he wishes he had.

"Langostrum Gargantanex!" Monty calls over the radio, and Maxwell has to grit his teeth against yelling something truly ungentlemanly back. Because either Monty is digging into his memory to remember a name he heard while they were in Oda, or he's taking this time to invent a taxonomy, and neither of those things, in Maxwell's opinion, are a priority. They have more important things to worry about – like the giant fucking crab that’s trying to kill them.

Things don't get better after that.

Maxwell’s memory functions strangely when he’s digging deep, focused entirely on avoiding as much damage as he can. Sometimes things register out of order. Sometimes he can only focus on the unimportant details in his periphery, while the important details pass him by entirely.

He’s aware of very little except the crab before Olethra's mech disappears into a swirling cloud of grease, and then it’s like some sort of seal is broken. There are cultists fucking with the beacons, and he’s paralyzed, and then suddenly next to him, Torse goes unnaturally still as well, and the only reason Maxwell doesn’t descend into a true and complete panic is because he can still see the orange-red glow of Torse’s eye lights.

Still – the knowledge that whatever they’re up against can paralyze Torse is not a comforting one.

The first beacon goes out, and the seafloor becomes darker. At some point, Maxwell crashes the submersible – or maybe that was Monty? He’s not sure. He does know that Marya cries out over the radio as her goggles shatter, and Van curses loudly as she’s dragged closer to the portal that, maybe, they won’t have any other option but to go through.

Very clearly, he hears Marya and Van discussing the engine in the submersible, and Torse’s golden heart, and wants to weigh in, to tell them there’s nothing to even consider there – except then Daisuke is drowning and the panic is real again, clawing at Maxwell’s chest, and he feels like he doesn’t get a chance to breathe again until he’s clutching the ritual knife in one hand and Kensington is drifting to the seafloor, dead.

His first instinct is to look at Torse to share in the moment of victory, however brief, and he's just in time to see Torse pull the golden heart out of his chest and place it into the submersible's engine.

Torse disanimates, frozen on the seafloor, and it's different than seeing him paralyzed. This time, there's no comforting glow coming from his faceplate, assuring Maxwell that the lack of movement is temporary. He’s the same as he was at Ramansu – lifeless, utterly still – and something inside Maxwell’s chest tightens to the point of shattering.

He hears some kind of broken sound, and it takes him a moment to realize that it came from him. Grief is not an unfamiliar feeling, but he wasn’t expecting it here, not from two different fronts.

“Oh, shit!”

Olethra’s voice is sharp and high in his ear, jarring him out of the temporary haze that’s descended over him. He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he forcibly turns his body away from Torse, from the submersible. They have other goals, other things they need to do, and he needs to focus on those.

“Maxwell!” Olethra’s voice comes over the radio again. “I’ve got Daisuke, go!”

Maxwell hesitates, confusion and exhaustion making everything so much harder. He doesn’t understand Olethra’s urgency, where she’s pointing him. But she’s looking at the submersible, so he turns back, and–

And he sees a human form clinging to the side of the submersible, twisting and kicking, completely unprotected in the crushing pressure.

Torse.

Maxwell is moving before he even makes the conscious decision to, straight for Torse. He’s painfully aware of the seconds passing, of the pressure of the water around them that he is unaffected by, but is slowly killing Daisuke and now Torse.

Torse is still flailing as Maxwell makes it to his side. He reaches, and a bare foot catches him on the wrist – not the wrist of the hand he has outstretched, intending to grab Torse and drag him into the submersible – but the other one, the one still holding the ritual knife. The blow drives the knife down, through the suit and through Maxwell’s thigh.

Water immediately pours into the suit as it begins to crumple around him, but Maxwell has a very clear goal, now. He releases the knife, now embedded in his thigh, and loops his arm around Torse’s waist, pulling his body close against his own.

By the time he makes it into the compartment at the back of the submersible, Torse is almost limp in his arms, and the water in his suit is up to his waist. But the leaves seal shut behind them and the water automatically drains, and both of them drop to the ground in a messy heap, Maxwell wincing as the knife is jostled.

It takes him two tries to pull off his helmet, and the water in his suit rushes up past his neck to pool on the floor beneath them.

Torse, he can see, is breathing, but his eyes are closed – and Maxwell only knows that the man half-draped over him is Torse at all because of the clockwork tattoo that covers one well-muscled arm. He looks almost nothing like he did the first time he transformed – the hair plastered to his head and face is dark, but there are no streaks of silver in it. There’s a faint dusting of hair on his upper lip, and he’s smaller, too, noticeably shorter than Maxwell, even lying down. His skin is a few shades darker than Maxwell’s own, and with the way his head is tipped back, there’s a mole right on the cut of his jaw that Maxwell can see clearly.

Maxwell clears his throat as the submersible lurches into motion. “Monty,” he calls, his voice weaker than he thought it would be. He glances down, surprised to see a fair amount of blood in the water pooling underneath them. Fuck. “Monty, I need–”

Monty appears in the archway that leads to the piloting room, and Maxwell slumps back to the floor, relieved.

A moment later, the world goes black.

Chapter Text

Maxwell comes to abruptly.

The first thing he becomes aware of is the pain in his thigh, low and throbbing, the feeling muted under the somewhat familiar sensation of a potent painkiller. Then he notices Monty, half-bent over him with a needle in his hand, and he realizes he’s not in the back of the submersible anymore.

The Zephyr’s “medical bay” is rather small, but there’s enough space for Maxwell to be laid out on a repurposed workbench, and for Monty to stand over him, and for Torse to be pacing behind him, his hair damp and tangled. He’s wearing a shirt and a pair of pants that are both a little too big on him, and Maxwell feels something catch in his chest when he recognizes the items as his.

“Ah,” Monty says. “You’re awake.”

Torse stops pacing, his gaze finding Maxwell immediately. His eyebrows are drawn together, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Some emotion flits across his face, there and gone again, and Maxwell's not sure he'll ever get used to seeing Torse's facial expressions, instead of deducing them via the sounds of his machinery.

“Maxwell!”

Torse’s voice is heavy with relief. He takes a half-step forward, and then hesitates, his gaze flicking to Monty, then to the needle he’s holding, and then down to Maxwell’s body before resolutely looking away. Monty makes a soft, sympathetic sound. “I think the blood is turning his stomach a little,” he says gently, and that is what makes Maxwell look down.

His legs are bare, and one thigh is covered in dark red blood that’s slowly oozing out of a three-inch long gash. The edges are clean, and there are already a number of small, neat stitches holding half of the wound together, the loose end of the thread connected to the needle that Monty is holding.

Maxwell braces for the influx of pain that always comes after a moment like this – shock can prevent pain to an extent, but seeing the damage is always enough to break that little spell. But aside from the dull, throbbing ache increasing a little, Maxwell doesn’t feel much of anything.

“I need to finish these stitches, Gotch. You all right?”

Maxwell nods absently, macabre curiosity keeping his gaze fixed on his own leg as Monty returns to stitching. He knows it should hurt more than it does. He’s needed stitches before, and they always hurt. Whatever he’s got in his system, it’s something powerful.

“Why can’t I feel that?” he asks, grimacing at the thick, cottony taste in his mouth.

“You’re all right,” Monty assures him – which isn’t what he had asked. But Monty ducks his head a little, almost like he’s avoiding Maxwell’s gaze, and it takes Maxwell a moment to realize that Monty looks abashed. “You lost a little bit of blood, but we got you taken care of. I… I might owe you a bit of an apology, though.”

Maxwell blinks at him. He can’t imagine what Monty feels the need to apologize for. Maxwell’s alive. Torse is alive. Daisuke is… shit.

“Daisuke?”

“Daisuke’s just fine,” Monty says, and Maxwell lets out a breath. But then, what could Monty be apologizing for?

“‘s okay if my pants got ruined,” he says, as the thought occurs to him. “I figured they wouldn’t make it.”

Monty laughs softly, shaking his head as he places another stitch. “Your pants didn’t make it, unfortunately. But no. I’m talking about the painkiller I gave you. It’s safe,” he hurries to say, and Maxwell can only imagine the look on his own face that prompted that. “Incredibly safe. But it seems something in your unique biology, or perhaps in Zood, is causing it to have a stronger effect on you than it should.”

Reaching up, Maxwell scrubs his hands over his face. “But it’s… safe?”

“Incredibly safe,” Monty reiterates. He ties off the thread, and snips it with a nearby pair of scissors. “You may just feel disoriented for the next few hours while they wear off. You should stay in bed anyway while this nice little gash on your thigh heals, but if you need to get up, have someone help you. Otherwise, just take it easy.”

“I can help,” Torse says. He’s looking between Maxwell and Monty, but Maxwell notices the way his gaze is very purposefully not straying anywhere else. He’s moving restlessly, too, shifting his weight from foot to foot, and Maxwell aches to drag him in close, to curl around him and close his eyes and let the warmth granted by Monty’s magical painkillers carry him off to sleep.

Monty nods. “That will be perfect. From what I’ve seen, injuries heal at a vastly accelerated rate here in Zood, so you may be all right by as early as this evening. I’ll come check on you then and see how everything’s doing. Just be careful with your stitches, all right?”

Monty gently prods the edges of the wound, and the pain flares, but it’s barely an annoyance at the edge of the haze, easy to ignore. Maxwell’s attention drifts away from the wound and towards Torse, as is his habit.

Torse’s wide eyes are fixed on the wound on Maxwell’s thigh, his gaze unblinking. His hands are clasped in front of him, and his lips are slightly parted, though Maxwell is too far away to hear the breaths that are making his chest rise and fall a little too rapidly.

Maxwell cocks his head, curious and confused. He knows Torse – his Torse, the one who telegraphs his emotions with whirs and clicks of his escapements – but he’s not familiar with this one, and the haze of the drugs is making it hard for him to focus.

He knows what the look isn’t, though. It’s not horror. It’s not disgust. It’s not disinterest.

Monty straightens. “Zood,” he says, shaking his head and smiling. “Marvelous place. Let me know if you have any concerns between now and this evening, all right?”

“Thanks, Monty,” Maxwell says. “Torse’ll take care of me.”

Torse startles at the sound of his name, looking up with an expression that Maxwell immediately recognizes as guilt. The confusion he’s feeling grows, but if Monty notices, he doesn’t say anything. He just squeezes Maxwell’s shoulder, reminds him to rest, and then heads out of the room, leaving Torse and Maxwell alone.

“Torse,” Maxwell says, and Torse jumps again. Maxwell was just going to ask for help to their room, to sleep, but now the curiosity is a burning thing. “What’s wrong?”

White teeth peek out as Torse bites his bottom lip. “I–” he begins, and then squirms, shifting uncomfortably. “Perhaps we should wait to discuss this until you are well.”

Maxwell waves the concern away. “I’m just a little gone. It’s all right. I trust you enough to talk to you.” He pauses. “I trust you a lot more than that. You know that, right?”

Torse wrings his hands. “Of course,” he says. “Of course.” His gaze returns to the wound on Maxwell’s thigh, like a moth to a flame and the realization hits Maxwell like a godsdamned bolt of lightning.

It’s not horror or disgust or disinterest. It’s not even close.

“Torse,” Maxwell says slowly. “Are you aroused?”

Torse freezes, his body going entirely still, and that is a look Maxwell recognizes, if only because he’s been on the other end of it. He knows what it feels like, to have that implication lobbed at him, the one that says he’s wrong for what he likes or how he’s reacting to a situation. It’s never pleasant.

“Maxwell, I–”

Maxwell has a series of thoughts in very, very quick succession. First, the thought that he’s absolutely right: there’s something about the wound on his thigh that has Torse worked up. Second, that thought doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it probably should – maybe because blood is something he’s accustomed to, or maybe because it’s just Torse, and he’s always going to be one kind of exception or another in Maxwell’s mind.

And third, Maxwell very suddenly, very desperately, wants to run headfirst down this path.

“Help me to our room,” he says. “Now, Torse. Please.”

Chapter Text

It takes far longer than it should to make it back to their room. Maxwell, even with Torse at his side supporting him, moves slowly. It seems that putting weight on his leg hurts him enough to make him wince, and by the time they're in the hall outside their room, he’s trembling like his leg is going to give out underneath him at any moment.

They don't speak, but Torse is under no illusion that he is hiding the tension in his body. He knows very little about Gathian reproduction, but he’s overheard the crew teasing and gossiping enough times to know that there are certain things that are considered acceptable, and certain things that are not.

He knows Maxwell enjoys pain, that he will sometimes lean into the blows Torse sends his way when they are sparring as a way to get himself torqued up. But he also knows the difference between a bruise given in a sparring match and a wound like the one Maxwell received, regardless of Monty’s optimism.

Gathies. They make everything far too difficult, in Torse’s opinion.

Torse helps Maxwell lay down on the bed, and when Maxwell reaches for him, habitually and instinctively, Torse deftly moves away to close and lock the door. But instead of returning, he lingers there for a moment, pressing his back to it and looking back at Maxwell. "Monty said you should rest," he says, doing his best to make his voice even. It’s much harder to modulate the sound in this form. His gaze flicks to where the wound is covered by the borrowed shorts, and he has to remind himself to look away, that it’s obvious when he stares at something, now. "I could leave while you–”

“Torse." Maxwell's voice comes out low and rough, needy in a way that Torse has become accustomed to responding to. "Come here."

Torse’s teeth sink into his bottom lip; anxious habits, it seems, can be learned. "I do not think that would be the wisest idea."

Maxwell swallows, and Torse’s vision is so much worse in this form, but he still catches the way Maxwell’s eyes darken. "I wasn't asking because I thought it was wise," he says. "Come here."

As if compelled, Torse moves away from the door, taking a few steps closer to the bed. "You are injured," he says, but his voice is soft, even to his own ears. Longing. He looks away, making an attempt to hide whatever expression is painted on his face. "I have always found you especially beautiful when you are covered in blood. I did– I did not know there was more to that desire."

Maxwell makes a soft, breathy little sound. "More?"

Torse puts one knee on the mattress, and Maxwell reflexively spreads his legs a little, making room for him. Torse waits for him to reconsider, but he just looks expectant, like he wants almost as much as Torse does, so Torse slowly settles himself on his knees between Maxwell's spread thighs. One hand comes up, hesitantly hovering over the hem of the shorts. "May I look?"

"You can do more than look," Maxwell murmurs, and Torse sucks in a sharp breath, his gaze flying up to Maxwell's face.

"You need not–"

"Torse." Maxwell's voice comes out strained and desperate. "Please fucking touch me."

Torse's hand shakes ever so slightly when he finally reaches for the shorts, lips parted around a soft, breathless sigh. Gently, carefully, he pushes the fabric up, revealing the wound on Maxwell's thigh. The blood is still wet and tacky, so when he brushes his thumb against the very edge of the wound, the digit comes away red.

Torse shudders, and beneath him, Maxwell squirms, one hand reaching down to cup himself through the shorts. He whines, frustrated. “Fuck,” he says as his hand drops away, and Torse sees that he’s still soft – which sends its own, inexplicable thrill racing down Torse’s spine. “Just– yes. Keep going.”

Keep going.

Torse swallows and looks up at him. "Confounding desires," he says, voice soft, and Maxwell’s fingers curl in the sheets underneath him. "But I am now familiar enough with Gathian biology to know that acting on them will hurt you."

Maxwell grins up at him. "Monty's drugs are really good," he says. "You may have to try a little harder than normal."

Almost of its own accord, Torse's thumb presses against the wound, and Maxwell gasps in response, his back arching. A bead of blood wells up under his thumb, and Torse feels dizzy with the want, the need. He makes a sound he barely recognizes, something raw and wanting. “Oh,” he says. “Maxwell…”

This time, when the word spills from Maxwell’s lips, it’s not a question. “More.”

"The stitches," Torse says. His thumb brushes over the thread, and Maxwell’s leg flexes and tenses underneath his touch. "I cannot–"

"There's a knife in the dresser," Maxwell says urgently, the same way he’ll sometimes say I want to practice getting out of grapples, and Torse scrambles off the bed, a noticeable bulge in the front of his loose trousers. He can feel Maxwell watching him as he moves aside carefully folded shirts in the dresser, until he finds a leather sheath at the back of the drawer and takes it out, holding it up for approval.

Maxwell nods, and Torse returns to the bed, kneeling once again between Maxwell's legs. The knife glints in his hand – a poor replacement for his own gleaming knuckle knives, but it will have to do.

Carefully, he slides the tip of the knife under the first stitch, feeling the way Maxwell goes still and stiff underneath him, the only movement the metered rise and fall of his chest. Torse doesn’t fully understand the shape of his own desire, but he can see it reflected back at him in Maxwell’s eyes, and that’s enough to have him quickly flicking the tip of the knife through each small stitch.

For the first one or two, Maxwell is still. His breaths come fast and shallow, and his gaze is focused on the knife in Torse’s hand, but he doesn’t move a muscle. Then whatever spell was cast on him breaks, and he shudders, squirming just a little.

Torse draws the knife away. “Are you all right? Did–”

“Don’t stop,” Maxwell interrupts. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip, wetting it. “Please don’t stop.”

“You need to be still.”

Maxwell smiles crookedly and settles, and it’s not any kind of promise, but Torse returns to cutting the stitches. He gets through a bare handful more, the black threads parting easily under the sharp knife, before Maxwell is moving restlessly again, almost as if he’s trying to press up into Torse’s hand, into the knife.

Torse’s free hand, the one not holding the knife, settles on Maxwell’s knee and squeezes. “If you do not stop moving,” he says, voice low, “I will be forced to make you.”

Maxwell sucks in a sharp breath, and under his palm, Torse can feel the way Maxwell’s pulse speeds up. “Then make me,” he says, and his eyes have gone so dark that there is only a sliver of blue around blown pupils.

Torse’s fingers curl around Maxwell’s knee, and carefully (but firmly) he presses out and down, pinning the knee to the mattress and leaving Maxwell’s soft inner thigh – along with the wound – easily accessible. He feels the way Maxwell’s muscles tense to try to resist, but the medication Monty put him on, combined with the after-effects of the blood loss, seem to have affected him considerably.

It only takes a moment for Torse to finish cutting the rest of the stitches, now that Maxwell can’t move. When he’s done, he sets the knife aside, off the bed, and when he looks back, Maxwell is already pulling the cut threads out of his own wound, his hands trembling minutely as blood wells up every time he tugs one free.

Oh.

Physical arousal is a painfully new sensation, still. It has been simmering, low in the back of Torse’s awareness, more or less overwhelmed by a vague sense of guilt and a less vague sense of curiosity. Now, seeing Maxwell’s fingers stained with his own blood, it hits him full-force, and he finds himself pressing a palm between his legs in an attempt to stave off the sudden surge of need.

Maxwell sees him and falters, lips parting slightly. “You should,” he begins, and then swallows, his gaze roving over Torse’s frame haphazardly. “Clothes. You should take them off.”

Torse’s first instinct is to clutch at the cloth covering his body. Monty had suggested something similar, with different intentions, perhaps – he’d offered to find Torse clothes that fit a little better than Maxwell’s did, and Torse had been categorically unwilling to part with them, even if they were a little too big. But that, he realizes, isn’t why Maxwell is telling him to take them off.

Slowly, he reaches up, undoing the buttons on the shirt. Maxwell watches greedily, his gaze moving over the clockwork tattoo that covers one arm as the fabric falls away. Torse catches himself smiling as he begins to work his pants off. “Do you have an interest in tattoos?”

Maxwell’s gaze flicks up, meeting his. “No,” he says. “But yours lets me know it’s you. So I have a bit of a special fondness for it.”

Something twists inside Torse’s chest, and for a moment, he wonders if humans can experience equipment malfunctions the same way automata can. It’s not pain, exactly, but it’s not not pain, either. Confounding, all of it.

Torse kicks the borrowed pants away and settles back, one hand keeping Maxwell’s leg splayed open – and, finally, he allows his attention to turn entirely to the wound. It’s bleeding sluggishly again, aggravated from Torse cutting the stitches and Maxwell pulling them out, but Torse has seen Maxwell bleed worse than this after friendly bouts of sparring. He is not worried - not at the moment, at least.

Tentatively, he reaches out with his free hand. And when he hesitates, thinking about those overheard conversations and what Maxwell may or may not find acceptable, Maxwell reaches out and takes his wrist, guiding his hand closer to the wound. “Please?”

And who is Torse to deny him?

He drags two fingers down the length of the cut, and Maxwell shudders beautifully, throwing his head back. Torse’s mouth goes dry, and then almost immediately floods with saliva when he sees the blood covering his fingers. His own cock aches between his legs, but he cannot touch himself and hold Maxwell down and dip his fingers between the parted edges of flesh, just a little, just to hear the lovely little whimper that falls from Maxwell’s lips.

Torse swallows. “What does it feel like?”

Maxwell lets out an unsteady whoosh of air. “Oh,” he says. “It– it hurts. But it’s all muted. Distorted. Like… like radio static.” He laughs, inexplicably, but the sound is delightful. “It’s good. Feels good.”

As he speaks, he reaches down to palm himself through his shorts again, and this time he hisses through his teeth. “Keep going.”

Something clenches low in Torse’s abdomen as he pushes his fingers a little deeper, watching blood well up around his fingers. Maxwell is hot and wet and… and tight around him, the clutch of muscle firm and slick, and for a moment all he can think about is what it would feel like to push the sensitive head of his cock into that space, to feel muscle tense and clench around him – and he becomes almost painfully aware that this, perhaps, is the closest he can get to getting his fingers on Maxwell’s heart.

“Torse.”

Maxwell is panting, grinding up into his own hand. After a moment, he shoves the waistband down far enough so that he can put his bare hand on his cock. He’s still mostly soft, but his eyes flutter shut when he wraps his fingers around himself, and the sight is lovely. Torse feels himself pulse, arousal building that much higher.

Torse pushes his fingers just a little deeper, as if he were truly fucking the slit in Maxwell’s thigh, and Maxwell trembles bodily, his mouth falling open around a groan. His wide eyes meet Torse’s, and it’s obvious that they’re both thinking the same thing – that Torse could, if he wanted to. That Maxwell wouldn’t stop him.

The hand on Maxwell’s knee moves to brace against the mattress, and Torse shifts forward to loom over him, leaning down to brush a kiss over his mouth. As Maxwell arches up into him, chasing the kiss, Torse takes his bloody fingers and wraps them around them both, Maxwell’s now half-hard cock against his own. Maxwell whimpers against his mouth, hands coming up to clutch at his back, and Torse loses himself in the taste of him, in how it feels in all the places where they’re touching.

Maxwell presses up into him, and Torse feels the slick slide of blood against his hip, smearing against his skin, marking him. He gasps against Maxwell’s mouth, tightening his grip, and he feels the way Maxwell’s whole body goes tense and taut against him as he comes without spilling a drop between them, entirely dry.

Torse’s breath hitches, and he follows a moment later, making a mess on Maxwell’s stomach as he comes. The pleasure rolls through him in waves, making his stomach clench and his thighs quake. It’s so different from the pleasure he feels when Maxwell manipulates his clockwork – that satisfaction feels like a reset, like a recharge. This…

He slumps on top of Maxwell, careful to angle himself so that he lands far from the re-opened wound. Maxwell’s arms immediately tighten around him, holding him close, and a heart made of flesh aches in Torse’s chest at the thought that Maxwell, instinctively, wants to make sure he doesn’t leave.

Tilting his head up, Torse nudges a kiss against Maxwell’s jaw, and he feels the way Maxwell shudders underneath him, almost with the intensity of an aftershock. He smiles, the motion pulling strangely at his mouth. “That was–”

Maxwell chuckles, the sound bright and lovely. “Fantastic,” he says, and when Torse looks up, the color is high on his cheeks. Maxwell glances down, meeting his gaze, and then his eyes flick across to the wound on his thigh, and he visibly winces. “Ah,” he says. “Well. I may need to go back and see Monty.”

Torse looks over and finds himself wincing as well. The wound is not any bigger than it was originally, but it is oozing blood again, a little more steadily than Torse feels entirely comfortable with. He sits up, already reaching for the clothes he discarded.

“Let’s go get you stitched back up.”

“I don’t know how you managed it,” Monty says, bent over the wound on Maxwell’s thigh once more. “I’ve never had my stitches come loose before.”

“Zood,” Maxwell says, clearing his throat as he makes eye contact with Torse over Monty’s head. He’s flushed a very fetching shade of red that Torse is trying very, very hard not to focus on. Because if he does, even the too-baggy pants and the very recent orgasm won’t be able to keep him decent. “Wilder and wilder every day.”