AllIDoIsWrite

Percy didn't break his stride. He gave Mrs. Gable a polite, vaguely apologetic nod, eyes still dancing with mischief. "Evening, Mrs. Gable," he chirped, smug satisfaction warming his voice. He landed one final, devastating dig into Vax's thigh — triggering one last, loud yelp from the man draped over his shoulder — and reached his door.

"Young man, this is absolutely intolerable!" Mrs. Gable's voice cracked like a whip through the hallway. She stepped forward, her watering can still dripping onto the beige carpet. "To carry a woman in such a manner — it is completely inappropriate! Practically medieval! Put that poor girl down this instant!"

Percy stopped dead, chest heaving with a suppressed laugh. "Mrs. Gable," he managed, voice trembling with mirth, "he is not a woman. He's a... twink! Yes. He's a twink."

Mrs. Gable blinked, her gaze sliding to the figure hanging upside down — the thick smudge of dark eyeliner ringing his eyes, the glint of piercings catching the hallway light, the ink sprawling down his wrist. To Mrs. Gable's eye, none of it explained anything at all.

She recoiled, hand flying to her throat. "Good heavens. Who is this — this "twink", Percy?"

Vax tipped his head back, looking at her from an inverted perspective, amber eyes flashing with wicked inspiration. He leaned into it without missing a beat. "That's right, Mrs. Gable. A twink, born and raised. Percy has finally seen the light — he's joining my cult, and this is the mandatory initiation ritual. I am merely the sacrificial lamb."

Percy jolted, nearly losing his grip as the audacity of the lie hit him.

Instead of pulling away, Mrs. Gable leaned in, curiosity overriding horror. "A ritual? And what, precisely, gives you the right to haul him about like a sack of grain? In this building?"

"Oh, it's very specific," Vax hummed, dropping his voice into something conspiratorial. "A specialized ceremony, where a man of Percy's particular strength performs a series of necessary, intimate rites upon a twink such as myself. Very traditional. Very precise."

Mrs. Gable's horror shifted from moral outrage to sincere, existential dread. "Is it dangerous? A condition requiring medical intervention? A spiritual affliction?"

"Oh, Mrs. Gable, it is a great honor," Vax crooned, mock-solemnity dripping like a velvet trap. "A calling, really. And the danger is entirely survivable. One hundred percent." A beat, his expression turning conspiratorial. "Though there's occasional skin discoloration. A bit of soreness here and there. Simply the price of the ritual."

Mrs. Gable pressed a hand to her chest, gentler now. "Is there... a support group? For people in your position?"

"Oh, several, actually," Vax said, perfectly solemn. "Very active ones. I run mine myself, three nights a week — it's on a subscription platform, Only—" He caught himself, clearing his throat. "—officially sanctioned, I mean. Very supportive community. Extremely hands-on."

"Oh," Mrs. Gable murmured, visibly relieved. "Well. I'm glad you have... resources."

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