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Bo is black-and-blue from head to foot, limping and crosshatched with cuts from the bramblefaes' vicious little claws. Kenzi herself is not a whole lot better, but then, she had the good sense to huddle down and make a smaller target, not lunge in and start hacking like a certain succubus. Her fingers leave little red smears on the phone's keyboard as she texts. Bo's hurt. Come, pls? Someone has to save Bo from herself.

“You're not calling Dyson.”

“Nope. Texting him.”

“I don't want him to--”

“I know he hurt your widdle feelings, but you need some good old-fashioned sexual healing. And since you didn't want to pick up that cute hitchhiker, looks like our favorite broody beast is your best bet.”

Bo eyerolls and is clearly about to argue further, and Kenzi cuts her off by flattening a hand over her friend's mouth. Bo's lips are ridiculously soft, and she ignores the irrational tummy-flutter the slight pressure inspires. “No arguments. Get sexed up. Feel better. You will suck as a private detective if you're limping around and wincing."

“What about you?”

“I don't need rescuing. I have comfy yoga pants, chocolate, and half a bottle of wine. Just as good as Dyson. I am fine camping out on the couch, and you know it.” Someone pounds on the door (was he lurking around the corner?), and she lets her fingers fall away from Bo's mouth. “Try not to break anything, mmmkay? Including yourself.”

She drags herself toward the kitchen, feeling every spot a thorny little Fae ricocheted off her, and deliberately does not pay attention as Bo drags Dyson inside, pins him against the entryway wall, and has his shirt off and her legs around his waist before they even start staggering up the stairs.

Okay, so maybe she pays some attention. One does not simply ignore hipbones like that.

She finds the chocolate and the wine. She peels off her ripped and sap-sticky clothes and digs up her most comforting outfit, pink yoga pants and the black tank top that's been washed into soft and clingy submission. She sits on the couch, sipping and nibbling, and trying her best to ignore the growls and moans coming from upstairs. At least plaster dust isn't sifting down into her drink this time.

At some point, wine and exhaustion put her to sleep, and she wakes up curled in an achy ball on the couch. All's quiet on the upstairs front, it seems, and the light that filters into the apartment is muted with dusk. Maybe they're done. Maybe Wolf-Man let himself out—no, his shirt's still lying forgotten by the door. Well, maybe they're both asleep and she can tiptoe up and get a heating pad or something for her poor muscles.

She tries to be as quiet as she can, but the floorboards creak, and Bo's drowsy voice says “Kenzi?” in a wistful tone that draws her in. Dyson sleeps like the dead, and she'd prefer to see for herself that Bo's all healed up...

...oh.

They're not asleep, either of them, just curled together in a lazy, sated tangle of limbs. Bo's got a little blood here and there, but the bruises are gone, and she's really rocking the bedhair, sleek and tousled against her clear skin. Dyson's skin is warmer, golden, with the dark etchings of his tattoos shifting as he fits himself along the curve of Bo's back. His voice is raspy with sex and sleep. “You didn't mention you got beat up too, Kenz.”

“This? Oh, it's nothing--” The last word goes up in an awkward squeak as Bo brushes fingertips over her thorn-scratched wrist, and the contact sparks along nerves that aren't usually attuned to that. “I was more worried for her.”

“Silly girl.” Bo tugs, and Kenzi's too befuddled and tired to resist, stumbling forward into an unexpected hug. It feels good, warm and soft and Bo smells like sweat and skin and some kind of spice, and it's not weakness to get hugged by your best friend, even if she is naked. “I'm a big bad Fae—shut up, Dyson--and you're a fragile human. I should be the one worrying about and rescuing you.”

There hasn't been anyone except Kenzi worrying about Kenzi for a really long time. That's probably why she lets herself sag into Bo's embrace, and why she wraps her arms tight around her and just holds on. She's safe here (with the succubus and the werewolf, that would be funny if it weren't true) and she doesn't want to leave this and go back to the stupid couch. Alone.

Bo takes a slow breath, and Kenzi is suddenly very aware of the heat of her body, of the way her friend's fingers are cautiously stroking through her hair and drawing little tingly circles on her nape. It's clearly time to make a joke and back away gracefully, and not taunt happy fun succubus anymore. She opens her mouth...and what comes out is a very small and nervous “Room for one more?”

There isn't even a beat of hesitation, Bo just pulls her down, laughing, and there's about thirty seconds of flailing and sheets and one accidental grab of Dyson's ass (which is just as perfect as it looks, wow) before she's sandwiched between the two of them on the big bed, and staring up into Bo's avid dark eyes. She looks to Dyson for a little help—and oh, that's not helpful at all, because he's grinning at her, and that's very definitely a wolfish expression if she's ever seen one.

“Fragile human!” she says hastily, feeling for a sheet to grab and pull over her. “Not up for any wildly acrobatic threesomes, thanks!”

There's a chuckle right by her ear, and maybe she's never been close enough to appreciate how dirty Bo can sound. “None of that, promise. How about you just let us take care of you?” Lips and tonguetip slide delicately along the line of her cheekbone, and a warm, knowing hand slips under her tank top and glides up her stomach, fingers teasing the curve of a breast and making Kenzi whimper involuntarily.

She kind of expects Dyson to have at least some kind of qualm about this, cop and all, but he's wriggled his way down near the foot of the bed, his curly head resting familiarly on her knee, and taking deep breaths. When he sees her looking, he grins that predatory grin again. "You smell good," he breathes, low and rough, and it's erotic and embarrassing how wet she suddenly is.

It's also profoundly unfair to have both a succubus and a werewolf determined to render her a quivering mass of nerve endings. Bo kisses her once, that little hint of spice on her skin a flavor on her lips as well, then proceeds to strip Kenzi with lazy thoroughness, those clever hands gliding heated and gentle over her body. It's not glamour, not Bo's special patented succubus whammy, Kenzi doesn't feel any urges to obey Bo's every whim. Just to be touched, to relax and not feel anything but good. Dyson growls once, when Bo tugs her pants down, then licks slow and deliberate up her thigh until she can feel his heat of his breath and she's lifting her hips and biting her tongue in a really valiant effort not to beg—or worse, make any sort of comment about big bad wolves who eat girls...

“What big eyes you have.” When he says it, he laps her folds, and Bo pinches a nipple simultaneously, and she nearly comes off the bed.

This does not, of course, stop her from attempting a comeback. “Little Red Riding Hood mentioned you were all talk and no bite.”

She sees a flash of gold in his eyes, then his head dips down and his tongue licks deep and hot and wet and she can't even think. Has to close her eyes, and there's delicious heat between her legs and Bo's hands stroking, flickering, teasing, and Bo's soft mouth on her skin, tasting one nipple, curling her tongue lasciviously around the other, lapping the desperate pulse at her neck, whispering “Love you, Kenzi, love you, let go for me sweetheart, let me see you...”

She comes so damn hard she sees stars on the inside of her eyelids, and wonders disjointedly if this is a Fae thing. She can't quite open her eyes, and doubts she could focus if she did. Still, she's aware of Bo stretching out beside her and gently pulling her head down so she can use the succubus as a pillow. Aware of Dyson making a low, pleased sound in his throat as he drags himself back up the bed, and reaching across her to tangle his fingers with Bo's.

“Love you, too.” She may regret saying so, but she'll worry about that later. “You're much, much better than the couch.”

Bo's sleepy chuckle is the last thing she hears.