The Best Laid Plans (freemind/barmey)

a fic trade with the author of the catmaid fic, taking place in said catmaid fics setting. tl;dr: its dogboys and catboys up in here. barmey puts on freeminds maid dress, tries to shave himself, fails miserably, and gets shown how its really done. also he gets jerked off

this fic contains bad jokes, gender bullshit, and internalized homophobia as displayed by the guys from fucking freemans mind and barneys mind. if youve gotten this far you gotta know what youre getting into here

[← back]

The first time Barmey sneaks into Gordon’s room (his Gordon’s, mind you, not the other, less cool ones), it’s an accident. Kind of.

See, the thing is, it really wasn’t part of the gameplan. Not two fucking days after catching Feetman’s stupid dogboy disease or whatever, the news had gone from Benrey to Barney to the whole world, apparently, because neither of them can keep their big fat mouths shut. And so that’s how he gets the weirdest phone call of his life from Feetman, through Benrey’s phone and on behalf of the third - and hopefully last - Gordon Freeman.

TL;DR: He’s got the stupid dog ears and the stupid fluffy tail and an invitation to get examined. For science. Heh. As if Barmey hasn’t seen this kind of hentai before. He loudly announces this upon his arrival, but it doesn’t seem like Barney’s Gordon hears it, so he repeats it again, but even louder. Just to make sure. And, you know, while he’s here… may as well do some recon, right? He starts by trying to look for Gordon himself, mentally rehearsing what he’s gonna say when they meet again at last, like he’s been doing all y—

Month. All month.

Anyway, the point is, the guy’s not even here. Feetman grumbles something about him being a little scaredy-cat, which just sounds like jealousy, if you ask Barmey. Gordon’s probably out, like, joyriding, or shooting at the range, or something just as badass. But Barmey can’t help being kinda nosy. Literally. There’s a weird smell coming from somewhere in their house, tickling that strange new spot in his brain that he associates with "dog". It makes everything smell… intense. Like they’re trying to cram a whole book into a smell, instead of the individual words that Barmey’s used to, like “sweet” or “gross”.

While he waits for the quiet Gordon to get all his science shit together, he sneaks away from the living room with the plastic-covered grandma couches to sniff out the source. His new nose leads him to a hallway, then a door, both of them unassuming and ordinary. Except for the industrial-strength padlock keeping it shut.

Clearly, this must be his Gordon’s room, he thinks with a swell of pride. He would be smart enough to keep his room tightly locked up, since he’s probably doing all kinds of badass mad scientist crap in there. Unlike some other Gordons he could name. And he’s put some thought into the quality of the lock, too. Man, he’s so smart. It’s just what Barmey would’ve picked if it were him.

And, a few minutes later, it quite literally is what Barmey has picked. You’d be surprised what you can do with a few bobby pins tucked into your wallet. For a brief moment, guilt flashes over him, but it’s not like curiosity killed the dog, right? And he’s so fucking curious about his Gordon that he could shit himself.

So, you know. It was an accident.

And that’s how he ‘accidentally’ finds himself standing in the middle of Gordon’s room. The most glaring feature is a man-sized cat bed, round and cute and lined with the plushest cushion Barmey’s ever seen. That’s how it looks to him, anyway. There's a massive flat screen TV mounted on the wall; it hangs at a slight angle. Next to it - and dotted intermittently along the other walls - are ninja stars, their points buried in the wall as if hurled with force. Shitty mall swords, science-y posters, and tacticlol gear on cluttered shelves cover nearly all the remaining space. That’s what Barmey would think of it if he were standing in anybody else's room, anyway. As it stands, the sight of all this shit just screams ‘cool’ to him. And also ‘disposable income’. Man, those science bitch gigs must pay pretty nicely.

None of that stuff is nearly as interesting to Barmey as the dresser drawers, however. Or rather, whatever the hell that is peeking out of them, a corner of something… lacy. Girly.

Barmey stares at it like it’ll have some kind of answer for him. Of course Gordon would have girls over, he thinks. He’s probably drowning in pussy. Cool guys get all the chicks, and if there’s one thing Barmey knows about Gordon, it’s that he’s the coolest. But the thought doesn’t fill him with as much joy as it used to. There’s something weird nestling in his chest. A weird, ugly feeling that he’s not familiar with.

He glances over his shoulders before bending closer to get a better look. As if there would be somebody there watching. Then he chances a peek inside, revealing…

A dress. A maid dress, specifically. Barmey lifts it all the way out, arms extended to look at it in full. It's black and white and frilly, complete with the apron and the little ribbons and shit. Not the kind of thing you’d just order off a sketchy Halloween costume site - it’s cute more than it is sexy, although a connoisseur of meidos such as himself knows that cuteness is a core part of the sex appeal. And underneath it lies a drawer lined with nothing but rows and rows of carefully-folded panties and stockings. Way too many. Enough that Barmey’s starting to get kind of a serial killer vibe from the whole thing, honestly.

Is that cool? Would that be cool? He’s really not sure about that one, but he guesses that if Gordon’s into it, it must be pretty cool. Even if that hinky feeling’s swelling unpleasantly in his chest at the idea.

But then he pulls out some of the stockings and unfolds them and realizes that whoever this belongs to, they must have really fucking long legs. And… same thing with the dress itself. It hangs way too low on Barmey when he holds it up to himself.

Oh, shit.

Oh, shit.

Barmey drops the dress like he’s been burned. No way. His Gordon wouldn’t— he wouldn’t do something this— this freaky, man! He’s so masculine, what with the goatee and the loud voice and the super awesome eyepatch. It doesn’t make any sense!

When Gordon himself doesn’t leap out of the fucking closet, and he does not, in fact, get caught in the act, Barmey lets out a massive breath that he wasn’t aware he was holding. And then he picks the dress back up again. Well… if Gordon liked this kind of thing, maybe there was something to it after all. He’s the most manly guy Barmey’s ever met. There’s no way something as inconsequential as a dress would make him any less of a dude’s dude. In fact, he probably wears all this stuff just to show off how masculine he really is. Like all those guys on /a/ dressed up as Astolfo.

Another Gordon yells his name from the living room. Barmey flinches and nearly fumbles the dress, but catches it just in time to haphazardly jam it back into the drawer and bolt out of the room. Barney’s Gordon gives him a strange, impassive look when he scrambles back.

And soon, he forgets about it. He’s got more important things to worry about. Like whatever the hell this Gordon’s telling him is gonna happen to his dick now that he’s been forcibly Nintendogged. Gross.

He doesn’t forget about it forever, though. He’ll just be doing his own thing, minding his own business, and it’ll sneak up on him out of nowhere. He really wears that stuff? And then he’ll zone out for awhile coming up with a dozen counter-arguments and then shit ends up burning or Barney ends up yelling at him for something stupid or whatever. It’s driving Barmey nuts. And it sticks with him even through cold showers and late-night sessions with Old Familiar, and Barmey finds himself intensely researching the different cuts of dress when he really should be getting back to the latest episode of the dragon maid anime. Just to see if a dress like that would really fit a guy like Gordon.

Well, Barmey calls it research, anyway. Most of his theorizing and experimentation ends up splattered uselessly on his notes.

There’s only so much of this that a guy can take before he’s gotta take things out of the lab and do some field research. That is to say, he’s gotta get a look at that dress again. Get some measurements. Or, uh, get a look at Gordon. Either one. It’s kind of exciting. Barmey’s always wanted an excuse to perform a little… what do you call it? Espionage. Like James Bond, or something.

Getting into Gordon’s room was easy. Getting into Gordon’s house is a different story. He doesn’t have a reason that doesn’t sound fucking cringe, okay? “Hi, Dr. Freeman, I got that weird growth you were talking about and it’s freaking me out”? Ugh! The only reasonable solution, he figures, is to stake out the place for a heist. In and out. Like a shadow. He just needs those measurements!

Somehow, not a single person catches on that anything is amiss when Barmey retreats to his room for a few days to set up his master plan. (They’re used to all the marathon anime-watching/jerk off sessions by now.) And he emerges from his cocoon one-hundred percent confident that he can pull this off.

The thing about Gordon is, he’s smart. Like, super fucking brainiac-level smart. And naturally, he’s got a line of defenses in and around the outside of the house to prevent exactly this: an unwanted visitor making their way inside. For totally normal reasons. But Barmey’s nothing if not determined when he sinks his teeth into a stupid idea. And, you know, just because he’s not into all that fucking stuck-up particle shit doesn’t mean he’s a dumbass. You don’t get security clearance at a top-secret research facility without being some level of competent.

Improvised explosives rigged up at strategic entry points to the property? Well, good thing Barmey knows his way around a batch of C4. And that new doggy nose of his is really coming in handy - he can pick up the distinct smell of motor oil from a mile away, and he can even smell the taggant on the air, a wretched thing that’s both musty and metallic. He gags a little, but soldiers on. The tripwires stretching across the trees in the thickest part of the bordering forest are no match for his enhanced night vision, either, eyes wide and vacantly reflecting the moonlight. And the signs reading “Beware of Dog” hammered into the fence don’t scare him a lick. Barmey’s got liver treats in the front-left pocket of his tactical cargo pants, in case of emergency. Feetman’s kind of a little slut for these bad boys.

If he ends up snacking on half of them before he gets to his destination, well, starvation is an emergency, too.

So far, so good, Barmey thinks as he eyes the outside of the house. Scaling the thing to get to Gordon’s window is a different story. Jesus, he’s sweating like a pig out here - he wasn’t made for this shit! Why’s he gotta be all the way up on the second floor, anyway?

He inches along the siding, sweat pebbling on his arms and face as he carefully peeks into a window that he’s pretty sure is Gordon’s. It’s dark. A good sign. And the tripwire on the window latch doesn’t prove to be much of a deterrent. Barmey’s spent enough time with his older, lamer self to pick up a few tricks of the spy trade, after all. (Mostly in the form of ‘sneaking into his room’. Barney’s lost his edge, he thinks with a haughty sniff.)

Inside, it looks much the same as before. Cat bed. Excessive weaponry. Et cetera. However, there on the bed lies the exception: that frilly fucking maid dress. It’s freshly pressed and laid out delicately like he’s preparing to wear it in the morning. Alongside it, there’s a pair of white stockings, folded into a neat rectangle, and an equally-white pair of cotton panties. Unfolded. Contrasting violently with the black fabric of the dress. Barmey stares.

So it’s… it’s not a girl thing, then. It can’t be. Gordon would have, like, ripped the bodice open or something, if it was a girl thing. Something dramatic. The idea’s had a while to percolate through his mind, so that ‘fight or flight’ instinct he’d let scare him off before - like a pussy - gets marshaled back down into submission with an ease that should be worrying. It doesn’t worry him, though. Barmey doesn’t worry about anything. Like the red lights hovering in the corners of the room, or the intermittent glint that shines from inside Gordon’s closet, where it’s open just a crack. He’s not paying attention to any of those things, because he’s hit the jackpot and his mind’s whirring at a thousand RPM.

Barmey’s hand hovers uncertainly over the stockings. He could just… feel them, maybe. Make sure they’re real. These must have touched Gordon in some weird fucking places, so if he touches them, it’s kind of like he’s getting to cop a feel by association. Right?

The justification’s barely made its way out of his brain before his hand’s acting on it.

The fabric’s sheer and downright buttery, he realizes, rubbing it thoughtfully between his fingertips. There’s a little black satin ribbon woven into the hem and tied into a bow at the front of each stocking. It’s kinda cute. Really cute, actually. He’s seen cute girls hitching their skirts up over stockings just like these dozens of times. But these are broad and long enough to accommodate a man’s legs, instead. Much the same with the panties. It’s not immediately obvious, but once Barney picks them up and turns them over in his hands, he spots the unusual amount of give in the front. An accommodation. Other than that, they’re completely ordinary cotton panties. Clean and white and trimmed with little lacy bits. It’s vaguely disappointing, for some insane reason.

Then Barmey shakes himself. He’s in here touching Gordon Freeman’s fucking panties. This reeks so much of a wet dream that he can’t help but give himself a pinch. And, yeah, he’s still standing here, holding them outstretched as if keeping them as far from himself as possible will somehow make this less gay.

The dress itself almost pales in comparison, but he gives it a cursory inspection anyway. It’s heavier than he expects when he lifts it off the bed. Denser. This must be the real deal, Barmey realizes. The collar’s starched and bleached to a crisp white, although, when Barmey squints and looks closer, he spots a dusting of… fur? Is that dog hair? Jesus, Feetman really does shed that shit everywhere. At least he only had to deal with the guy for a couple of weeks before being banished back from whence he came. He can’t imagine having to deal with that kind of mess long-term. (Hell, he can’t even really imagine it in the short term, either. Cleaning is bitch work. Barney work.)

He’s not sure how long he stands there examining the whole deal before the lingering question in the back of his mind rears its ugly head:


Why would Gordon own something like this? A maid dress alone would be bad enough, but the quality of all this stuff elevates it to, like, weapons-grade pervert material. Metaphorically and literally. Heh. God, he should start writing this stuff down, it’s comedy gold. (Metaphorically.)

Barmey drops the dress and lifts the stockings back up to eye level. Well, maybe Gordon’s onto something. It can’t be cringe if Gordon’s doing it. He’s the most based guy Barmey knows!

And so, he finds himself making one of the stupidest decisions he could possibly make. He shucks off his shorts and plops his ass down on Gordon’s bed and starts trying to wiggle his toes into the fucking things himself. For science. Unfortunately, a flaw in his plan crops up almost immediately: stockings don’t play very nice with copious amounts of leg hair. At first it’s just uncomfortable, a weird and unpleasant tug on his skin, but then something gets all tangled and knotted in there and it hurts and he yanks them right back off again, smoothing out his hairs with a hiss through his teeth.

Okay. This shit sucks. Rewind to Step 0. No wonder girls shave their legs! So clearly, if he wants to figure out what all the fuss is about, he oughta start there. And no better time like the present. Gordon’s not supposed to be back for a couple hours anyway, according to his intel (also known as ‘Feetman’s Twitter feed’). And the guy’s got his own bathroom, anyway. How hard could it be?

As it turns out, very. An hour later, he’s got a dozen nicks and scratches to show for his work, along with one mangled disposable razor and a bathtub drain clogged with hair. Do girls really do this every fucking day? He’d rather kill himself, thanks. But when all’s said and done, and Barmey runs his hands over his smooth, dry legs at last, goosebumps crawl up his arms.

Whoa. When he tactically avoids the rough patches where he’d missed a spot or two, it feels… good. Soft. The way a girl’s legs would feel. (At least in theory. He’s yet to put it into practice.) His blood pumps a little faster through his veins.

The stockings slide up his legs much easier than the last time, and those goosebumps feather out across every inch of skin they can reach. They reach just above his knees before they start to get too tight. But that leaves them with way too much slack, and they hang loosely around his calves. That’s not sexy at all! Barmey tugs harder, and he winces when he hears fibers straining and popping, but eventually he gets them up to his thighs. They dig into his skin at the top, squeezing his poor, abused flesh like a rubber band around a sausage. But man, do they ever feel nice everywhere else.

He rubs his knees together just to feel the fabric slide against itself. Heat prickles on his face. Sure, he’s still clad in his Destiny t-shirt and Rick and Morty-themed boxers, but he’s already starting to feel kind of, you know. Good. Sexy. Pretty. It’s a real heady kind of feeling, intoxicating in its complete and utter unfamiliarity. Barmey’s heart thuds all the harder in his chest.

Is that— is he scared? What the fuck is he scared for? Gordon does this shit all the time, apparently, and he’s the furthest thing from a soy boy. Barmey steels his resolve. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thinks, even though it’s the dumbest metaphor he’s ever heard. A pound of what? Nobody’s ever told him. Anyway, the point is, if he wants to be a real badass like Gordon Freeman, he’s gonna have to put on those panties.

His boxers fly off faster than he’s ever shucked them before in his life.

If the stockings were a tight fit, the panties are worse, he discovers. Jesus, Gordon’s skinny! But he’s already standing here with his goddamn dick and balls out, okay, so the only reasonable solution is to plow forward and yank them up over the soft hills of his thighs and resolutely ignore the now-familiar ‘pop’ of elastic stretching past its breaking point. They fit more easily when they’re snug in the creases where his thighs meet the rest of him. And there’s enough give in the front, where the fabric’s been sewn in a sort of pocket, for said dick and balls to rest without being squeezed uncomfortably.

Barmey tries to crane his neck around himself to get a better look. If he were being uncharitable, he feels a little vacuum-sealed. But his ass has never looked so fucking good, he thinks, even with the elastic digging into it. He’s not in the habit of wearing gay shit like this, okay? He’s not like Barney with his ass-hugging queerbait jeans, or Feetman, who got into the really annoying habit of wearing shorter and shorter shorts every time he went out back for a jog. Who knows what that was about. But he thinks he’s starting to understand the appeal.

Once all’s said and done, all that’s left is the dress. Frilly petticoat and all. Or whatever all those white skirts are called, he doesn’t care. Figuring out how to put it on, exactly, is more of a struggle than he expects. Barmey’s never considered how girls get these things strapped on in the first place, given that he’s never had to sweat getting one out of them before. First, he tries to slide the whole thing over his head, crawling into it from the bottom, but he gets lost in a sea of puffy white fabric and his shoulders get stuck somewhere around the waist and he nearly tears the fucking thing off of himself in a desperate panic. It’s only after hurling the maid dress back onto the bed, chest heaving and sweat beading on his skin, that Barmey notices the bright and shiny zipper on the back.

That would help, wouldn’t it. Attempt number two goes a little more smoothly as a result. With the dress unzipped, he can step into it from the collar end, and it’s a lot easier to tug the whole deal up and over his relatively-narrow hips. It still takes some wiggling to get it into place, though, and Barmey can feel the seams straining at his sides, his arms. Makes him feel weirdly exposed, despite the fact that the maid dress covers every inch of him from his neck down to his wrists and knees. Past them, even.

Nothing fits quite like it should, and if Barmey were a more observant person, he’d notice that this is primarily because it's been custom-tailored to somebody who is very much not him. It's the kind of thing that costs a lot of fucking money that Barmey doesn't have, not a "one size fits all" deal from Spencer's. But he isn’t, and the poor fit doesn’t strike him as anything important. It’s not like his regular clothes fit him much better.

He gives it an experimental twirl. On a whim. A batshit one, to be honest, but Barmey’s kind of past the point of caring. The skirt flares around him in a neat spiral, and a strange giddiness bubbles up in his chest. It’s— it’s nice. It’s transformative. Like a magical girl kind of thing. If this is how Gordon feels when he puts this thing on… well, okay, maybe he’s got a point.

Unfortunately for him, the subjects of “Gordon Freeman” and “Barmey’s poor observational awareness” collide suddenly and with great violence, like trains diverted into a headlong collision. Or rather, like Barmey hitting the massive cat bed, all the wind knocked out of him, face down and arms wrested painfully behind his back and a heavy weight pinning him flat.

“Sheesh,” he hears, a harsh rasp uncomfortably close to his ear. “I knew you were incompetent, but this really takes the cake.”

Barmey struggles to crane his neck backwards to look at his attacker. “What the fuck—”

A hand at his wrist jams his arm further up his back, and he hisses in pain. “That’s exactly what I’ve been wondering. You know, like, ‘what the fuck is this numbskull doing, walking right into my trap?’ After you went to all the trouble of getting past my security system!” There’s a sharp burst of laughter. Then Barmey feels hot, cloying breath near his face again. “I was almost impressed.”

Something ugly and white-hot jerks in the pit of his stomach. As if somebody’s just hooked him up to jumper cables. “Wh— Gordon?! Is that you?”

“Uh, duh? Hello? Whose room do you think this is?”

“You— You weren’t supposed to be here!” Barmey whines. He struggles under Gordon’s weight, but it’s a futile (and kind of pathetic) effort. “Feetman said!”

Above him, Gordon scoffs. “Yeah? And who do you think told him that, smart guy?”

Fuck! This is so sucks! He’s been practicing his whole “Dr. Freeman, I presume” speech for ages, and for what?! Now he doesn’t even have a chance to use it, because he decided that the smart thing to do would be to dress in drag in the guy’s fucking bedroom! He could kick himself right now.

Barmey sucks in a rattling breath, and winces when his ribs pinch him the wrong way. Then he says, “Ugh, get off me! What’s your problem?”

“My problem? My problem?” Some of that weight eases up on him, but Gordon’s still got a firm grip on his wrists, and shows no sign of letting go. “You defused a dozen explosive charges just to steal my goddamn underwear, you— you little degenerate!” There’s an undercurrent to his voice, something Barmey can’t quite identify. Something a little breathless. “Jeez, I can’t believe this is supposed to be my Barney. Yeah, sure, Doctor-Freaking-Sociopath gets the competent one, and Lassie over here gets some kind of unholy abomination - which is so unfair, in my humble opinion, but I guess his timeline’s gotta make up for just how pathetic its Freeman is. Hey! Maybe that explains you, huh?”

That should hurt. But the thing is, even though Gordon’s settling into the groove of a really good rant, Barmey’s not paying attention all that much. He’s more focused on Gordon’s voice in and of itself. There’s a fierce heat to it, and each impassioned outburst ruffles the tiny hairs on his ears and neck and spawns goosebumps along its path. It makes him squirm for reasons entirely unrelated to his being pressed like a panini.

“Hey… Hey! Are you even listening to me?” Gordon impatiently snaps his fingers in front of Barmey’s face.

The answer to that is ‘absolutely not’. But the motion gets Gordon’s weight to shift. Barmey could slip a hand free now, if he wanted. Maybe sock the guy right in the balls for going completely fucking psycho on his ass. Instead, however, he’s gripped by the sudden urge to remain limp. It’s— it’s not beta shit, he tells himself furiously. It’s, fucking, psychological mindgames, okay?

And, judging by the way Gordon snaps a few more times, his “hey”s getting less indignant on each pass, he thinks it’s working.

“Oh, shit,” Barmey hears above him. “Oh, shit.”

He rears back on his knees and fumbles around Barmey’s neck. Feeling for a pulse, Barmey realizes.

“C’mon, quit messing with me, jackass, I know you’re just screwing with me,” Gordon continues, trying his best to project confidence. Then he starts to mutter to himself, “Jesus, Freeman’s gonna love this, isn’t he. Where the hell am I supposed to dump a body around here? I haven’t done that kind of thing since the nineties. And those homeowner’s association nutjobs will never let me live it down if they catch me dragging this thing down the freakin' cul-de-sac. Guess it’s a good thing you had your fingerprints burned off after that whole thing in Colombia, huh, Gordon?”

Gordon backs off of him almost entirely. Yes! It’s working! Barmey thinks, pleased beyond all reason. And he finally takes the opportunity to rear back, headbutting Gordon right in the face before hurling him off of his back for good.

The ninja stars embedded in the walls rattle when Gordon lands on his ass, hard. He hisses. “Ow! What the—”

“How the turn tables,” Barmey sniffs, getting to his feet.

He places his hands on his hips and cants his chin up. Like a real ojou-sama. The dress is filling him with an unwarranted sense of confidence, and it even seems to flare around him indignantly. He very nearly puts his hand to his lips and laughs, high and loud, just like the hot chick from Utena, but that’s going a little far, even for him.

Underneath him, Gordon brings the heel of his hand to his face, and wipes away a smear of blood. From his nose. The irony makes Barmey snort.

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs. His eyes roll so hard Barmey swears he’s gonna pull something. “Don’t try to pull this anime girl crap on me. Do you even know who you’re dealing with?”

“Huh? What would you even know about anime, normie?” Barmey snaps back before his brain has a chance to step in and say, ‘hey, bro, this is so not how your meeting with the Chuck Norris of Black Mesa was supposed to go’. He flushes with embarrassment as soon as the words leave his mouth.

In response, Gordon gestures to himself. Then to the room around him. And then at the dress Barmey’s currently wearing.

“Who do you think the dress belongs to? Jesus! Black Mesa really just hires anybody to scratch their ass and look tough, don’t they?”

That smarts. There’s a witty retort on the tip of his tongue, but it dies there like a slug on salt when he looks at Gordon properly, and not just down the bridge of his nose. Then he blurts out, “Are those cat ears?”

Yes, they very much are, judging by the way they swivel further backwards. There’s… a tail, too. Swaying slowly and vibrating a little and poking out from the hem of the maid dress that Gordon’s also wearing, apparently. (He has two of them?!) He’s even got a bell tied to the end, dangling from a neat little bow.

“Yes, they’re freakin' cat ears, now can we put a kibosh on all the exposition and get to what really matters, here?” he says.

So, Barmey does. He shelves all those questions of "why are we all turning into animal people" and "how long have you been a cat for" and "wait, is that why Feetman said you were pissing on all his stuff" and gives Gordon a halting, awkward rundown of how he got from point A to point B. He feels stupider and stupider with each word that comes out of his mouth, but for some reason, he can't actually make himself shut up. There's something about the way Gordon goads him. Tells him to fess up. Grabs his chin and makes him look directly into that single, piercing eye while he does.

“All that just to put on Gordon Freeman’s lacy underthings? Man oh man, you’re a weapons-grade pervert, aren’t you,” Gordon breathes, after all's said and done. Did he know Barmey was thinking that?! “Did you think I wasn’t gonna notice?”

“Huh? No. I was gonna be all fuckin’ stealthy about it!”

“Yeah? What about this, huh?” He lurches forward onto his knees and starts tugging the hem of Barmey’s dress upward.

Barmey flinches away. His heels catch the edge of the cat bed, and he topples backward onto it, caught off-guard. “Hey, who’s the pervert, here?!”

“Oh, please. You wish I was trying to make a move on you right now. What I’m getting at,” Gordon says, snide and disdainful, shuffling forward to yank the skirts up just enough to reveal the stockings underneath, “is my goddamn stockings! They’re ruined! See all these runs?”

He jabs at a few of them with a sharp-clawed finger. He’s— okay, maybe they were a little small, but he didn’t think the damage was that bad. But now he’s watching the way his thighs give under the pinprick pressure, and the way they’re spilling out of the tops of these things, and Barmey’s breath starts to come heavier despite himself.

Suddenly, Gordon squints. Then he peers closer. A single, delicate claw slides under the elastic band of the stocking and tugs down, just a little. His eyebrows are knotted in confusion (and maybe disgust) when he looks up at Barmey and asks, “Did you shave?”


“Did. You. Shave?” He says it real slow, like he thinks Barmey’s stupid.

Ordinarily, that should rankle. But for whatever reason, the condescension drips right down his spine and into his belly. His thighs twitch apart the tiniest bit on reflex. “Wh… What do you care? It got all itchy, okay? Bite me!”

Gordon barks out a harsh laugh. This time, Barmey can see sharp, sharp canines flash when he does, and suddenly wishes he had picked any other way to phrase it.

“Sheesh! You’re real frickin’ mouthy for a guy who got caught sniffing my panties. Why don’t you save all that indignation for the jury, huh?”

A cold chill comes over Barmey with a swiftness. “Hey… hey, hang on. You’re not gonna— You’re joking, right?” He laughs, high and nervous, but there’s no humor to it. “Right? Seriously, man, you can’t call the cops on me! What do you think they do to guys like me in the slammer?!”

“Wooow,” Gordon draws out, clearly unimpressed. “See, I was thinking it, but I wasn’t gonna say it, you know? I’m better than that. Anyway, no, idiot, I’m not gonna call the cops. That’d be way worse for me than it is for you, capiche?” Semtex isn’t exactly intended for civilian use, so, uh, yeah, Barmey would say he gets it. His thundering heart starts to settle back down. And then it immediately ratchets back up again when Gordon continues, “No, see, I’m gonna show you how it’s done. Properly. Now get up. Chop chop!”

Barmey makes a confused noise. Then an indignant one when Gordon claps his thigh like he’s a fucking jockey and Barmey’s the horse.

“You’re insane,” complains Barmey, as he stands up and follows Gordon to the bathroom anyway.

He doesn’t know what he expects when Gordon commands him to sit on the toilet, and then further commands him to stop freakin’ fidgeting, Jesus. He can’t help it! He’s, like, eighty percent sure this is just a really weird set-up for a blowjob, which isn’t something he’s about to complain about, but the prospect’s sending all kinds of disjointed signals to his nerves. The “involuntary leg jiggling” kinds. So, that said, Barmey’s heart does sink a little when Gordon holds out a can of shaving cream in one hand and a straightrazor in the other.

He almost says, “So no blowjob?”, but thinks better of it. That thing looks way too sharp for him to be running his mouth.

“Okay, so, first of all, those disposables weren’t for that,” Gordon says, gesturing at Barmey’s legs with disgust.

“Hahah, what? Were they, like, decorative?”

He regards Barmey like a bug crawling on his lunch. “No, moron, they’re for my eyebrows. I’m already spending way too much time on all this shit, you think I’ve got time to wax?”

Wait, he shaves his eyebrows, too? Barmey presses his fingertips to the gap between them, suddenly aware of the short, prickly hairs coming in there. He can’t decide whether to feel self-conscious or, like… Well, he doesn’t have a good word for it. Connected? Like Gordon’s still just some guy with gross, lazy habits, too. A little less out-of-reach.

“Don’t say whatever stupid thing you’re about to say. And don’t argue with me! I can see it in those beady little eyes of yours. Just get my stockings off already so we can get this over with.”

“Uh, okay,” Barmey says.

He doesn’t even think before he speaks. The agreement just slips out of him. When Gordon gets all bossy like that, some basal instinct jumps to the forefront. Barmey tugs on each stocking with care, trying not to screw them up any worse than he already did, but Gordon makes an impatient noise in the back of his throat.

“Come on, you don’t have to be all precious about it.”

“You just yelled at me for messing them up!”

Gordon rolls his eye. “Yeah, and they’re not getting any better with age,” he says. “I’ve already written them off as a lost cause. You’re lucky that’s not my only pair, or else I’d be really pissed off.”

Barmey grumbles, but does as he’s told anyway, hurriedly yanking them the rest of the way off. If this is what it looks like when Gordon’s at, like, a seven out of ten, he almost wonders what Gordon would do if he was really pissed off. In his own words. Would he yell at him a little more? Get up in his face? Haul him up by the front of his dress, toes clearing the ground, and shove him up against a wall to—

“Okay. Let the expert show you how it’s really done,” Gordon says, interrupting that particular train of thought. And, instead of shoving him against the bathroom wall, or anything of that nature, really, Gordon drops to his knees. Again. Right between Barmey’s parted legs.

His breath catches in his throat.

“It’s not like it’s difficult.” A cold palm full of shaving cream slaps down on Barmey’s shin, and he yelps. Quietly and dignified… ly. Gordon narrows his eye. “Don’t be such a baby,” he admonishes. “If preteen girls can handle this, I’m sure you’ll manage, princess.”

Barmey’s ears prickle with heat as he whines, “I’m not a baby! It was— It just caught me by surprise, okay? My senses are suuuper sensitive. Like, um, empathy or whatever. It’s why I’m so good at sneaking around.”

“And that’s why I caught you with your dick out.”

Barmey, wisely, doesn’t respond.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, James Bond. Anyway,” Gordon scoffs, “I’m only gonna show you once, so pay attention.” The straightrazor flicks to attention in his hand. It’s got a frightening sheen to it. “You wanna hold it real close to the blade. Better control. Using one of these babies is all about control.”

Barmey nods quickly. “Uh-huh. Control.”

Gordon’s other hand finds its way to his ankle, and wraps around it, holding his leg in place. “Don’t jerk away, or you’re gonna regret it,” he warns. “Doesn’t matter what kind of razor you’re using. If you’re stupid with ‘em, you’ll cut yourself. Case in point.”

He gestures to the myriad shallow cuts on Barmey’s legs with the razor. Barmey freezes, blood running cold for one terrifying moment. It gets Gordon to pause, but it’s not long before a vicious grin snaps into place on his face. Man, his teeth are awfully sharp, aren’t they? Almost like fangs…

“Then you’re gonna pull the skin nice and taut,” he says. And he does. It doesn’t take much. Gordon presses the blade delicately against his skin, held at a downward angle. “And you just… go with the grain. If you try and do it the other way, it’s gonna itch like a bad night in Cancun. Or sever an artery. It’s a real Russian Roulette kinda thing.”

He very much wants to ask what Gordon means by that, but then Gordon starts to drag the razor down his leg in short, firm, confident strokes, and he has to tamp down the most embarrassing noise of his life. It’s very nearly a squeak, but gets wrangled into more of a soft honk. Gordon’s tongue peeks out just the littlest bit. Concentrating. Barmey’s breath catches in his chest, and he doesn’t dare release it, convinced that if he moves even a fraction of an inch, Gordon’s gonna slip and, well, he’s heard what happens when you nick one of those arteries. And he’s not keen in dying in a fucking maid dress.

“Rinse, and… repeat.”

Gordon runs the blade under the faucet, then returns. Before Barmey knows it, he’s finished with what hair remained on his shin, and a warm, wet washcloth wipes away any remnants of shaving cream, leaving his skin soft and bare. He runs his fingers up the side of Barmey’s leg, admiring his handiwork.

Barmey shivers. When Gordon’s hand drifts away, his own takes its place, hesitantly touching his own skin.

“Whoa. That’s so smooth,” he says stupidly.

“Told you.” Gordon’s voice comes out supremely self-satisfied. “Haven’t you ever wondered how my beard looks so sharp? It’s all in the wrist.”

Barmey leans forward, examining it as closely as he dares to get. Huh. Those lines really are clean, aren’t they. He’s never noticed before. Impresses him so much that he whistles. “Wow. That’s crazy. You’re really good at this, Gordon.”

Gordon preens.

“I, uh,” Barmey continues, talking faster than his brain can keep up, “I dunno if you want me to use your fancy razor, though. You’re a lot better at it than I am. So maybe you should, uhhh… keep going?”

Gordon’s eye cracks open again to stare at him. It flickers back and forth in its socket, as if studying him, but he doesn’t say anything. Sweat beads on Barmey’s forehead.

“If you don’t want to, that’s cool. Super cool. I bet I’m, like, super good at it, actually—”

A hand clamps down on Barmey’s thigh, pinning him in place. “Did I say you could go?”

His face flares up in an instant, leaving his mouth hauntingly dry. Under the skirts, his tail starts to thump. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, before he stammers out, halfway convinced he’s gonna get the answer wrong, “N… no?”

“There’s a smart guy,” Gordon says, almost cooing.

It makes Barmey feel strange and small. Embarrassed. But not enough to make him clamp his legs shut and leave. Instead, it sparks kind of the opposite reaction: he shifts on the seat, thighs parting wider to give Gordon better access. Gordon kneels back down between them.

The skirts bunched up at the front threaten to part where they’ve been shoved up, now barely concealing the skimpy cotton underwear underneath. Well, Barmey supposes they didn’t seem that skimpy when he was wiggling into them, but now? There’s too much of his whole leg situation on display, too much of his dick straining against the front. And he’s not too fucking crazy about that last part. If Gordon sees that he’s rocking half a chub right now, he’s gonna think Barmey’s so lame. This is supposed to be, like, the ultimate male bonding experience, Barmey thinks desperately. Teaching another guy how to shave with one of those old-timey razors. It’d be like popping a boner in a fistfight. And he’ll never think Barmey’s cool enough to hang out with again.

Barmey flinches when Gordon hits the other leg with a handful of shaving cream, too, lost in his thoughts. Then he hears, “Sheesh, I even warmed it up for you.”

Gordon proceeds in much the same way as with the first. The blade drags against Barmey’s skin with little resistance, the barest kiss of sharp, sharp metal. It’s a far cry from Barmey’s first try, hacking away at a forest of untamed hair with nothing but a dry disposable and a prayer. This time around, it’s more like watching somebody drag a squeegee across a wet windshield, leaving the surface below squeaky-clean.

He watches, transfixed, until his left shin is just as smooth as the right.

“You’d better be taking notes,” Gordon tells him.

“Oh, uh, yeah, big time,” says Barmey, a little delirious. He rubs his ankles together out of curiosity. A shiver worms its way up his back at the feeling of soft, smooth skin against more of the same. “Cool. Awesomesauce. So… um, are you done? Do I just, like—”

Gordon gives him a funny look and heads him off. “Not even close, genius,” he snaps. “Your thighs are a friggin’ travesty.” To demonstrate his point, he palms Barmey’s thigh with a firm but clinical hand, thumbs rubbing over rough, hairy patches as if they’re blemishes he’s trying to buff out.

“Hey! I was trying, okay? I’ve never done this girly shit before, and, and, and I didn’t think I was gonna be graded on it!”

“Oh my God, do you ever stop talking?” Gordon lets out an exasperated groan. “I’m not letting you out of here looking like this. That’s just gonna reflect badly on me, and I’ve got Employee of the Month status on the line. I know a slacker like you might not understand that—”

And he definitely doesn’t, but not for whatever reason Gordon’s implying.

“—but if you’ll stop being all delicate about it, we can get this over with. And then I’ll, uh, decide what to do with you. Yeah.” He nods to himself.

“You’re still not gonna call the cops, right?” Barmey’s voice goes all nasally and whiny. “Barney’s gonna be so pissed if he has to bail me out of jail. He’s gonna make me do all the bitch work for like, a whole year!”

Gordon considers this like it's a totally reasonable punishment. “Well, you’re already dressed for the part…”

Barmey squirms. “C’mooon!”

Gordon leans back on his heels, eye narrowed and mouth a flat line. “Okay, fine, I’m not gonna rat you out,” he says, sighing as if even saying so is an imposition. “The last thing I’d do is call those bumbling buffoons on you, anyway. If I wanted somebody to scratch their balls and look stupid for a couple hours, I’d just sic Feetman on you.” He shakes his head and mutters, “Freakin’ incompetents.”

A wave of relief crashes over Barmey's head, and he visibly relaxes.

“Now hike up those skirts, Kathy.”

“Huh?!” He tenses right back up again.

“I’m not getting shaving cream on that dress, smart guy. And I know you couldn’t afford it.” He gestures impatiently at the mass of black and white fabric gathered around Barmey’s waist. “Up!”

Oh, geez. He’s so screwed, he thinks, hopeless. Gordon’s gonna know that he’s some kind of gaywad the moment he tugs those skirts up. Or— or maybe he could pretend that he’s more of a shower than a grower, right? It’s not like Gordon’s ever seen his dick before. (A little thrill still crackles in the pit of his stomach, though. He kind of wants Gordon to see it. Wonders what he’ll think. How does it compare? Is it bigger? Thicker? Did Gordon have anything freaky going on down there, now that he’s got catboy disease? The mind reels.)

That buzz of electricity runs down to his fingertips, crackling in the air between them as he makes the decision to curl his fingers in the fabric and lift it. The crisp white petticoat drags tantalizingly against his skin. Gordon’s eye suddenly fixes itself on the motion, pupil dilating like a cat’s.

Then Barmey yelps. “Ow! Hey! Claws!”

Gordon blinks slowly, like he’s dazed. It takes a solid couple of seconds for him to come back down to earth and retract his claws. They’ve left the tiniest pinpricks of blood welling up slowly on Barmey’s thighs. He daubs them away with his thumb, looking for all the world as if he’s just as bewildered as Barmey is.

“Right. Yeah. So,” Gordon starts, but doesn’t finish the statement. Instead, he lathers up Barmey’s thighs, pushing them where he wants them with an odd, clinical detachment. And Barmey lets him.

His hands are rough, too, dusted with calluses on the edges of his long fingers. Where tools or guns might have rested. They skim the insides of Barmey’s thighs, where they touch, and Barmey clenches his hands in the fabric on reflex, heat pulsing in his lower belly. Then he lets out a shaky sigh.

Finally, Gordon wipes his hands clean and picks up the razor again. “Stay still,” he says, quiet and low.

It’s not so easy, though, when Gordon brings the blade to the tender flesh of his inner thigh. Barmey flinches, then swears - that single abrupt motion caught the edge, nicking him. Fuckin’ stings, too.

“What did I tell you?” Gordon makes a scathing sound in the back of his throat. “Sit the fuck still so I can work.”

“Yeah, I got the picture,” Barmey bitches. But he pipes down real quick. He becomes conscious of his breathing, of the way each inhale pushes his chest against the stitching as if it’ll burst, and makes a concerted effort to keep it shallow. Controlled. Whatever keeps him as still as possible.

Gordon pulls his skin taut between thumb and forefinger on each pass, his motions careful but quick. He really has done this shit before, huh. Those ugly blemishes on his skin come away clean and smooth when Gordon’s finished with them. Paradoxically, the closer the blade creeps up toward the crease of his thighs, the more that heat swells, a throb that’s getting harder and harder to ignore. A drop of sweat trickles down his forehead, into his eyes. Barmey tries his best to blink it away without jerking around too much.

Drag, rinse, dry. Repeat. The cycle repeats itself, over and over, torturous, until one leg’s been stripped clean and the other nearly so. “Almost done,” Gordon mutters, more to himself than to Barmey directly.

And then… it’s over. Gordon rises from between Barmey’s legs and dusts his hands on his own skirt.

“You’re gonna have to stand up for this next bit,” he says. He doesn’t meet Barmey’s eyes, instead busying himself at the sink.

“Wh-What? Why?”

“Jeez Louise,” groans Gordon. He turns to face Barmey, swinging the straightrazor around in his hand while he talks for emphasis. Barmey can’t help but stare. “They really don’t breed ‘em for smarts where you’re from, do they? Oh, Christ, don’t tell me they bussed you in from Scottsdale.” He gets himself geared up for another one of those really good rants. “I kept telling Breen, ‘You gotta stop getting the help from Scottsdale. All they’re good for is siphoning gas and smoking meth, ‘cause if they had anything going for them, they wouldn’t be in fucking Scottsdale!’ But nooo, he never listened to me. Never listened to me about a damn thing.” Gordon throws his hands up in the air, flinging a bit of shaving cream off the end of the razor. “Like mandatory heavy arms training for the Science Team would’ve been a bad idea. You know how I got out of Black Mesa? By being the only egghead competent enough to wield a rocket launcher!”

Barmey’s eyes sparkle, rapt with admiration. “Whoa… badass,” he whispers. Then he says, “Do your Gordons let you go out for target practice? You should show me! It would be so fucking cool…”

“Do they let me out? What kind of fucked-up relationship do you think we have?” Gordon’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“Uh… well… They— They don’t let me out, either. The Barneys, I mean. I do whatever I want,” Barmey says quickly.

The suspicious look on Gordon’s face doesn’t falter.

“Anyway,” he says, “you, uh— Are you gonna get the back?” He gets to his feet, skirts still fisted in his hands.

Something flickers in Gordon’s expression, something Barmey can’t parse. But he just lowers his hands and gets into position. Barmey can’t see him like this, kneeling behind him, but he sure can feel the sudden clap of a hand on the outside of his leg.

“Higher,” Gordon tells him. “I can’t see shit.”

“What? Oh.”

He swallows and gathers the dress in the back, hiking it high enough that his whole ass must be hanging out. But, you know, if he doesn’t, Gordon’s gonna end up making a mess of his dress and then he’s gonna be really pissed off. Pissed off and wielding a terrifying spit of metal too close for comfort. Orrr, maybe he’d just get to his feet. Stare Barmey down. Step closer and closer… backing Barmey up to the wall, hands jerking at his collar until Gordon’s hoisted him up to his tiptoes… shove him, shove a leg between Barmey’s trembling (but oh-so-smooth) thighs—

Barmey jerks back to the present, head swimming. His pulse throbs in his stupid fucking dick.

The gentle scrape of steel on skin is all the more agonizing when he’s trying to will down the most cringe boner of his fail life, and he swears the seconds are passing slower on purpose just to drive him nuts. He can’t move, can’t even breathe, because he can’t see where Gordon’s gonna strike next - or when - and even Gordon’s gotta be messing with Barmey on purpose, too. Sometimes he’ll jump from one leg to the other for no apparent reason. Sometimes he’ll pause, as if considering his next move. Making Barmey impatient and squirmy.

But he can’t squirm, or Gordon’s hand might slip. And Gordon’s skirting close to some very intimate territory. Barmey’s toes curl as those careful, precise strokes edge higher and higher, and he nearly yelps when Gordon tugs the hem of his underwear up so he can shave all the way up to the swell of his ass. Somehow, he manages to stifle it into more of an aborted whimper.

“Attaboy,” Gordon says at long last. His thumbs swipe over his handiwork, just under that little elastic band. “Clean as a whistle.”

All the tension wound up in Barmey’s body relaxes itself in one fell swoop, and he slouches with a great, winded sigh, dropping his skirts unceremoniously. “Thank fuck,” he groans. “That sucked! How am I supposed to do that myself, huh?”

“Start doing pilates.”


“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. It gets you real limber. Flexible. Downright catlike reflexes. White women were onto something when they came up with this crap,” Gordon says.

Barmey nods, folding this into his worldview of Gordon Freeman. Okay. Pilates could be cool, too.

He takes the opportunity to give his legs an investigatory pat-down. Somehow, the close shave has left them almost buttery smooth, flesh soft and pliant under his touch for the first time in his entire life. Barmey wordlessly mouths a “whoa”. This is… seriously addictive, he thinks. It’s like touching a girl’s legs, but they’re his legs, right at his fingertips, and he doesn’t have to waste a bunch of time chatting up some annoying normie chick to cop a feel. Man, if he closed his eyes and fantasized a little, he bets he could nut to this alone.

Awkwardness balloons between them as the silence grows longer. Barmey’s not really sure what he should do at this point. Does he just… leave? Should he change first? What just fucking happened? He’s got no template for dealing with a situation like this, so the beta cuck in him leaps out: he’s just going to wait for Gordon to boss him around again.

At long last, Gordon clears his throat. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he demands. “You gonna put the stockings back on or not?”

“IIII thought you didn’t want me to wear your stuff,” says Barmey, cautious.

“You’ve already ruined my lacy underthings. What am I gonna do with them now? Just, y’know,” Gordon gestures, at a loss for words, before irritation wins out, “Stop asking so many questions and put on the stockings! Sheesh!”

“Jesus, okay! You don’t have to yell at me!”

The stockings in question look sad and floppy where they’ve been discarded on the floor. The damage is more obvious when they’re held out in front of him: unflattering runs, limp elastic. But maybe they’ll look better once he actually gets them on. To be honest, a part of him is excited, nearly vibrating with an electric thrill. They felt really good on his legs even before Gordon cleaned him up, and now he feels, like, extra-pretty. Are they gonna look better, too? Is he gonna look pretty?

Is Gordon gonna think he looks pretty?

Barmey stops with a stocking halfway up his leg, taken aback. Then he huffs and yanks it all the way up.

What does he care? Gordon’s been mean to him all night. This is probably just some kind of prank on his part. Barmey’s beyond the point of giving a shit, though. His dick’s rock-hard, he’s got fap material for weeks, and Gordon’s just letting him keep all this girly shit for him to beat off with later. However this shakes out, he’s the clear winner. (It’s hard to be humiliated for girl shit in front of a guy who’s also wearing a frilly, cutesy maid outfit.) Once he’s done, he smooths out the skirts, and he stretches out his legs to examine them from all angles. And then he looks back up at Gordon.

His eye’s flown open wide. An ugly sheen of sweat’s broken out on his forehead.

“Hold on,” Gordon says suddenly. “I think I missed a spot.”

Barmey whines. “C’mon, Gordon, you—

“Yeah, I know, it’s a real shocker coming from me. Gordon Freeman’s the most thorough scientist that MIT’s ever shit out, yadda yadda, save it.” The words tumble out of him like somebody’s knocked over a tower of blocks. “Just lemme have a look.”

“Uh.” Perplexed, Barmey doesn’t move. “Do you want me to take these off again, or—”

“No! Jesus, just—” Gordon rounds on him and pushes his shoulders, backing him up against the wall. “Just lift up the skirt and let me do a spot check and stop asking so many stupid, asinine—”

Barmey doesn’t react to that the way a normal guy should. Instead, his face turns beet-red. His tail starts to wag furiously. And he giggles. Being this horny for this long is making him so fucking stupid. It only gets worse when Gordon drops to his knees in front of him one last time, framing Barmey’s thighs with large, dexterous hands. His head swims from how frighteningly turned on he is, and he doesn’t hesitate to do what Gordon tells him, hitching up the hem of the dress until it clears the tops of the stockings.

Gordon licks his lips reflexively. Barmey keeps lifting. Those white cotton panties peek out from underneath, and then his dick does, too, rigid against their sheer elastic front.

“I knew you were getting off to this, you little pervert,” Gordon breathes. He traces the outline of it with a finger, and his grin turns razor-sharp when it twitches. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I-I dunno,” Barmey says, honest. He truly doesn’t. The hand on his boner isn’t helping the gears turn in his head, either.

“Everybody’s got something. You know, Prime’s got that whole ‘psychopathic doctor’ thing going on, Feetman’s leaning way too hard into the dog thing, and Barney… ohhh, man. I’m not even gonna get into that.” He shakes his head. “But you? Is this some kind of gender shit? Oh, Christ, tell me it’s not a gender thing. I don’t wanna deal with the blue hair and the pronouns—”

Barmey groans. “I’m not a frickin’ SJW, okay?! You’re the one who owns all this girly stuff! What’s your problem?”

“It’s— It’s a condition,” Gordon insists hotly. And, in a devious ploy to get Barmey to drop it, he presses the flat of his palm against Barmey’s hard-on and rubs. Firmly.

A loud moan punches its way out of him, surprising even himself. “Gordon—”

Gordon quickly shushes him. “Do you want Feetman to hear you? He’s crazy territorial, you know. Might bite your dick right off.”

“Don’t say that,” squeaks Barmey.

Somehow, his boner doesn’t flag, and he has to bite his lip on a whimper when Gordon keeps moving. A little wet spot bleeds through the front of the panties, where his dick’s leaking like a goddamn fountain, because of course he’s turning into the world’s biggest, most obvious slut for Gordon Freeman. He’s fantasized about this kind of thing more often than he likes. Had weird, weird dreams about it. But this time, instead of himself on his knees, slobbering on Gordon’s weird dog dick (which there’s no way he has, actually, now that Barmey thinks about it), it’s Gordon. Curling his fingers around Barmey’s dick. Crooning demeaning things about what a little bitch he is.

His breath comes harder. Faster. He parts his lips on a shaky sigh.

“Gordon,” he whines again, “please—”

“Please what?” The smirk on Gordon’s face is downright punchable. If Barmey was the punching type.

“F-Fucking, touch me, c’mon, quit teasing!”

“I am touching you.”

Barmey’s head knocks back against the wall. “You know what I mean!” Gordon just grins up at him, all sharp teeth, his hand not moving any faster on Barmey’s bulge. Patiently waiting. “Oh my God, okay, I— Please touch my dick? Like the actual dick part? I’m so fuckin’ hard, man, I’m gonna come in like two seconds and you’ve been jerking me around this whole time and I just want you to jerk me off for real—”

“Okay, jeez, calm down,” Gordon says, cutting him off. “Since you asked sooo nicely…”

Finally - finally - Gordon hooks his fingers under Barmey’s waistband and starts to pull it down. It’s an agonizingly slow process, and Barmey can’t help but groan with relief when the tip of his dick springs out at last. It’s flushed a bright red, and it stands at attention once the panties slide down his legs, twitching in invitation. Gordon’s fingers wrap around it, almost dwarfing it, and that— that shouldn’t be hot. That should be humiliating. And, well, it is, but he thinks that’s what’s getting him so hot about it, and all the introspection is starting to give him a headache, so he firmly tells his brain to shut the fuck up and enjoy the handjob.

And he does. Oh, God, does he. Gordon licks his hand, slicking his fingers with spit, and begins to work Barmey in earnest. He’s got a firm grip, but not the death grip that Barmey’s used to, but that’s okay, too, because it’s Gordon’s hand on him and something about that overrides his senses. He pants openly into the air. His tail thumps audibly against the wall. His knees tremble, threatening to give out.

“Gordon,” he gasps, a reflex when Gordon’s hand speeds up.

“Yeah? You like that?”

“It’s so good!” It comes out practically a sob. “Oh God, Oh God—”

“Easy there, princess.” His dick throbs, hard. Another bead of precum leaks from the tip. “Oh, you really like that, huh. Is this what you were hoping for when you broke in here? Getting me to fuck you? Bold move, I’ll give you that.”

“N-No, I— I just wanted to know if it was yours!”

Gordon falters, confusion evident on his face. “If what was?”

“The dress! You’re so cool, Gordon, I didn’t think cool guys wore dresses, but— but I thought maybe it would be cool if I did it, too…” He sucks in a rattling breath. It’s taking all of his willpower not to end up the two-pump chump he always feared he would be, when push came to shove. “And then I started feeling all pretty, and I got stupid, and… I don’t know!”

Beneath him, Gordon maintains that same slow pace, eyebrows furrowing like he’s considering something. And then, whatever it is, it clicks. “You like being pretty? Well, lucky you. I’ve got great taste, this stuff could make anybody look pretty. Even you,” he says.

Oh, fuck. His defenses are crumbling. “You think I’m…?”

“So pretty for me,” he says, low and rough, almost a growl. “C’mon, show me how pretty you can be, pal. Come for Gordon.”

That’s it. That’s all it takes. It hits Barmey like a truck, a full-body impact that drives him over the edge, and he jams a hand into his mouth to stifle a yell that wants so badly to burst out, spilling into Gordon’s fingers. And Gordon— Gordon milks him through it, only stopping when Barmey whines at him.

His knees give up the ghost after an admirable effort, and he slides slowly down to the floor, legs splaying out around Gordon. He blinks at Gordon like he’s never seen him before. Gordon, for his part, just gazes curiously at the cum on his hand. Rubs some of it between his fingers.

“Messy. You gonna clean this up?”


Gordon extends his hand toward Barmey’s face, the implication becoming clearer. Barmey flushes, all the blood in his body surging away from his dick for once. Weird. But it’s not any weirder than anything else they’ve gotten up to just now, and it’s not like it’s the first time he’s tried it, either. So he does as Gordon suggests and takes those sticky fingers into his mouth, curling his tongue around them to suck them clean. He does a very thorough job of it, too.

Saliva pools at the corner of his mouth. Gordon’s eyelid shutters. “Attaboy,” he says quietly. Then, when he’s judged that Barmey’s finished, he pulls his fingers back out to examine them.


“Yeah. Jesus.” Gordon glances back at him. “So, here’s the gameplan,” he starts, tone shifting to something less shaken. “Clean yourself up. Pull those panties back up like a big boy. And then you’re gonna thank me real nicely, got it?”

“Oh. Uh… Thank you?”

Gordon pinches his nose. “No, idiot, with your mouth.” When Barmey shows no sign of understanding - his brain’s mostly star bursts and cotton balls right now, okay - Gordon sighs, long-suffering. “Like a goddamn blowjob, okay? You’re gonna suck my dick. And if you do a good job, you can go home and we can just forget this ever happened. Capiche?”

“Oh!” Barmey scrambles onto his knees, tugging all his undergarments back into their rightful place. “Yeah, okay, I get it now. Cool. Yeah. Awesome.”

It really is his lucky day, huh. Just like his animes.

In a dark room, on the west wing of the house, with pillows jammed fruitlessly against his ears, Feetman lies flat as a board on his bed and stares at the ceiling, cursing his stupid fucking dog ears and the stupid thin fucking walls. He’s going to kill Freemind. And not a jury on Earth would convict him.

[← back]