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Chapter fourteen

Want

Rusty

Learning to swim on the hottest day on record while his coworkers watched had not been on Rusty’s birthday wish list. He would have been perfectly happy to sit on the shore and keep an eye on everyone’s belongings while they swam and laughed.

That would have been enough because it was already turning out to be a better birthday than he’d had in a long time.

Not that he put much stock in birthdays; it was just another day, after all. But he’d still been happy to spend it with his co-workers—his friends. And Gem, his gaiz.

Swim lessons had simply been an unforeseen bonus. Gem taught him to float, supporting his weight in the water until he was brave enough to try by himself. Oliver and Glyma helped him tread water. Even Toni offered advice on holding his breath.

He was embarrassed, because it was such a basic life skill that even children had.

But as Gem had predicted, no one had laughed at him, and once he’d mastered treading water, he’d been able to swim with the group out past the shallows—with one of Gem’s arms subtly holding him around his waist under the water. Just in case.

So yeah, it was a good birthday, even if no one else knew it but Rusty.

When he rode the tram back to Lust with Gem, he allowed the Araknis to braid the damp fur around his ears.

Giggling uncontrollably, Gem somehow created a braided crown that went all around his head.

In retaliation, Rusty took several elastics from Gem’s bag and covered Gem’s head with tiny, curly bun-puffs.

Unphased by the terrible hairstyle, Gem shrieked in delight, then proceeded to take numerous selfies of them both. He pressed their cheeks together, grin wide and beautiful. Rusty was too distracted by how close he was and how nice he smelled that he forgot to smile at the camera entirely.

Gem didn’t seem to mind. Nibbling on his bottom lip, he admired the pictures, each in turn before he took Rusty’s hand in one of his and twined their fingers snugly.

He sent the selfies to Rusty’s phone, but Rusty didn’t open the messages until he’d gotten home.

Lying in bed that night, he scrolled through them, tracing Gem’s smile with the tip of his thumb claw, the emotions building in his chest promising something he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

For years, Rusty had resigned himself to good enough, to happy enough, to just enough, and he’d been content with that. Asking for more was unrealistic and more than his lot in life allowed, and he’d accepted it.

But Gem signified more. He was excess and luxury, rich flavor and heart-wrenching beauty. He was joy and hope and belonging. He was everything Rusty thought he’d never get to have again, and by gods, it terrified him to his bones.

Yet, he still wanted like he’d never allowed himself to want before .

When Gem took his hand and twined their fingers while they watched anime, Rusty rubbed his thumb over his fuzzy knuckles and tightened his hold.

When Gem showed up at work wearing nets under his shorts and knee-high boots that made his legs go on for miles, Rusty drank it in.

When Gem fell asleep with his head in Rusty’s lap because the weed had gotten the best of him, Rusty traced the swirls of color on his arms with his fingers, marveling at the satin of his skin.

He wasn’t used to feeling like this, like his insides were all tangled and twisted, but he didn’t hate it as much as he thought he should. The unknown wasn’t safe, but Rusty wanted to plunge into the dark anyway.

Which was how he found himself buying a matching cow-themed earring and necklace set he spotted in a shop window on one of his nightly walks, because he knew Gem would love it.

And the funny, gay pins next to the register at the bodega where he bought his groceries, because he knew they’d make Gem laugh.

It was how he ended up on eBay, spending way too much money on a figurine of a cow cannonballing into a pool. He could have gotten cheaper ones, but they were all chipped or cracked. And Gem deserved the perfect Cowabunga figurine.

Rusty had yet to gather the courage to actually give Gem any of these gifts.

What if Gem thought he was weird for giving him random presents?

What if Gem hated the gifts and thought they were tacky?

More terrifying still, what if Gem liked the gifts?

What if, as implausible and improbable as it was, Gem actually wanted Rusty back?

The thought scared him, but then again, change always did. He liked routine and predictability. He liked to plan. But nothing could have prepared him for Gem or the way the Araknis made him want .

And deities, did Gem make him want .

Sure, he’d had sex with more people than he could count, but he’d never wanted any of them. It had been a job, a transaction, a weird, messy meeting of body parts that ended in an even messier explosion of bodily fluids.

Even when he’d fucked that Nyko at the club when he was twenty-one, that had been more curiosity than desire.

He’d wanted to know if he could enjoy sex outside the parameters in which he’d always experienced it.

And even though he’d come, pressed against the nameless guy’s back in the club bathroom stall, it had still left him feeling empty and confused.

Sex with Kera a year later had been a little better, but, even then, not enough to warrant a repeat.

They’d fucked once in the back room of the bar she worked at, and it had felt good.

But though he stopped in sometimes to catch up with her, they were nothing but friendly acquaintances, and they’d never slept together again.

So, no, want and desire were pretty alien concepts, which made the sudden rise in his libido annoying as fuck. He didn’t get horny, not really. Sure, he jerked off sometimes, but that was mostly to help him relax enough so he could fall asleep. Not because he was actually aroused.

Now, however? It was like something had awakened inside him, and it was hungry and horny and relentless.

He swore he’d masturbated more in the past few weeks alone than he had in the last year.

And that could only be blamed on Gem. Gem and his stupid, white bikini that turned see-through when it was wet.

Gem and his cloth booty shorts that showed off the swells of his asscheeks.

Gem and his crop tops and his pierced belly button and his smug smirk and—

“Fuck,” Rusty choked out as he spilled over his hand, toes flexing, claws fraying the sheet beneath him.

He stroked himself through the pleasure, second hand splayed around the base of his dick to stimulate the dull spines there.

His tail thumped against the bed, coiling and twisting as he slowly came down.

His head knocked against the wall behind him, and he panted up at the ceiling as the pleasure faded and his jizz cooled tacky on his fingers.

The guilt followed quickly, and he glared down at his softening cock like it was to blame.

He felt like a total creep, jerking it to thoughts of Gem.

He tried not to, he really did, but the ending was always the same, with Gem’s face in his mind’s eye and Gem’s name on his lips.

Self-loathing filled his chest as he grabbed a used shirt from the floor and wiped himself clean.

Not wanting anyone at work to potentially smell it on him, he took a shower, then spent nearly an hour blow-drying his fur.

He dreamed of the day he could afford his own place, and he’d buy an all-in-one washing and drying shower stall.

He’d probably never be able to afford it, but a Pyclon could dream, right?

After rubbing moisturizing oil into his roots, he dressed and checked the clock. Half past three. Late enough. Palming his keys, he headed out.

He walked to the station, the early morning sky dark, air still warm with summer. The trains to Purgatory ran twenty-four-seven, but at this hour, Rusty was the only passenger in his car. He made it to the cafe a little before four, but the back door was unlocked, the kitchen lights on.

Glyma and Willow were already baking, the cafe kitchen warm from the oven and smelling like sweet bread. Rusty hung his knapsack on the coat hooks next to Willow’s mossy cardigan and Glyma’s hot pink sweater. She’d been wearing it the night they’d met six years prior.

He’d been kicked out of a diner because, according to the manager, they didn’t serve the likes of him—a Pyclon or a sex worker, Rusty wasn’t sure. So he’d made a scene and stolen some bills from the manager’s apron pocket before fleeing into the night .

Glyma and Quin had been eating there, and for some reason, Glyma had followed him, bringing him the sandwich the diner worker had refused to sell him. She’d been so kind, and Rusty had thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

He still thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Thankfully, the hero worship had faded, and he no longer wanted to wear her thick thighs as earmuffs. It was a relief for them both and had done wonders in improving their working relationship.

“Good morning,” Glyma said as Rusty shuffled into the kitchen, her thousand-watt smile still having the ability to knock the wind out of him.

After all this time, it was easier to let her aura roll over and off him, without it actually affecting him. “Morning, Glym. Wil.”

“Morning, Rusty,” Willow said, her smile softer and sleepier as she sipped her coffee and measured out sugar.

“You’re here extra early,” Glyma commented, and though it wasn’t a question, Rusty treated it like one.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He jabbed his thumb toward the dish washing station. “Figured I’d mop the dining area and behind the counter.”

Wiping her hands on her apron, Glyma smiled gratefully. “That would be wonderful. The closers never get it as clean as you.”

The praise had his traitorous tail puffing up in pleasure, but he kept his expression neutral. “Okay, I’ll get to it.”

He never minded menial work like cleaning the floors or sorting and stocking the supply deliveries.

It made him feel useful, like he was contributing to the team and making Glyma’s—and everyone else’s—jobs easier.

Plus, he could do it all without taking off his clothes or getting on his knees, and he’d never complain about that .

Oliver arrived at five, and, together, they restocked behind the counter and readied the bakery case for the day. Oliver made himself a cappuccino, then set a bitter hot koca on the counter beside Rusty, a drizzle of thick cream on top, just the way he liked it.

“Thanks, Ollie,” he said, and Oliver smiled, giving him a quick scritch behind his ear.

The urge to mark Oliver rose within him; it was significantly easier to control than the bone-deep need he felt when Gem was around, but it was there all the same.

It was like something inside him had been unlocked, and he wanted to expand his gaiz.

He wouldn’t mark Oliver’s throat; that was too intimate. But something else, something small.

He reached out and knocked the back of his hand against the human’s, just a quick brush of knuckles, but it was enough to settle the marking instinct.

A bemused smile tipped the corner of Oliver’s mouth, and a subtle pink stole over his cheeks.

Embarrassed but unable to stop it, Rusty offered him a small, quiet purr, and Oliver’s smile widened.

At eight, Gem arrived. Rusty heard his cheery voice inside the kitchen, and his heart jumped into overdrive. The doors swung open, and it took everything in him not to turn toward them immediately, desperate to drink the Araknis in.

He smelled him first, cinnamon and coffee beans and that sweet shadowy scent Rusty had grown to depend on.

Then a hand drifted over the top of Rusty’s head, another playing through the fluffy end of his tail.

A purr built, but he swallowed this one down, choosing instead to offer Gem a small smile of greeting, one Gem returned tenfold.

That simple smile was enough to send a flurry of nerves fluttering through Rusty’s stomach.

He tried to quell them, tried to smother them, but then Gem winked playfully at him, and they took flight again.

There was nothing Rusty could do to stop them, but more worrisome still, a large part of him didn’t even want to try.