Lee

“Well, look on the bright side!” Adrian shrugs, teal-black suit squeaking quietly as he sits up straighter on the bench. “You’re already dead here, which obviously means you’re immortal in this dimension—”

“No, it doesn’t,” you deadpan.

“—So, I don’t know, maybe we should just stay here forever?”

“We are absolutely not doing that.”

“I mean, everything I like is here already! Eagly, Peacemaker, you guys, another me,” the boy rambles, talking wildly with his gloved hands. “So, if they have crows and manta rays here, honey, I’m basically set for life.”

“Yeah, I just checked, they definitely don’t have crows here.”

“What?” Adrian whines, drawing out the vowel for a second too long, as his bright smile ebbs into a more cartoonish pout. His light eyes dart across your profile when you refuse to meet his gaze. “Wait. How do you know that? …Holy shit— Does your computer track crows, too?”

He tries to shift closer to you. You adjust the laptop on your denim-clad thighs so it’s out of his view, and you never take your eyes off the screen. “Do you seriously think I possess the kind of technology that would allow me to keep track of every single crow on every single universe?” you monotone.

Adrian blinks like an owl, nudging his glasses up his nose with his knuckle. “Yeah?” he shrugs, completely missing your sarcasm.

You sigh. “Well, the faster I figure out how to re-activate this stupid tracker, the faster we can go back home to your stupid fucking crows, alright?”

Adrian tilts his head back to bellow a deep, dramatic groan at the stark blue sky. He’d hoped that, in travelling dimensions, he’d find another version of you that wasn’t so angry at him — or, at the very least, that all the subsequent chaos would make you forget why you were so angry in the first place. But now, all you are is still mad and visibly stressed. An absolutely horrid concoction.

“But what am I supposed to do?” he whines.

“I don’t care what you do— Go for a walk or something!”

“But where am I supposed to go?!”

“Anywhere!”

Adrian huffs with a deep frown creasing his brow. He glances around the near-empty park, which he’s walked with you a thousand times over back in your original dimension. The only difference now is that the fountain is square instead of circular, and the children’s playground is now a dog park.

His eyes catch a familiar treeline in the distance — a towering evergreen with two barren branches that curl into the shape of a wrinkled heart. The setting sun will sparkle right through them if you catch it at the right time of day. And if that’s still west, then his house should be a straight shot through that forest.

“Can I go that way?” Adrian murmurs, pointing vaguely out in front of him.

“Yes,” you huff, borderline pleading, and still not looking in his direction. A series of never-ending neon green code fills the black screen ahead of you — an encrypted file that would take a normal person days, if not weeks, to break. But you don’t have weeks. And, admittedly, you’re not a normal person.

“I don’t care where you go, honestly. I just want you to leave me alone for ten minutes.”

Adrian rises slowly. The wooden bench squeaks under his weight. He towers over your sitting form with his pretty face scrunched into a puppy-like pout. “Aren’t you gonna come with me?”

“Nope.”

“Well, why not?”

“What part of I’m busy do you not understand?” you snap and finally turn away from your laptop screen, which could very well be considered another appendage the way you’re constantly glued to it.

Your eyes meet Adrian’s for the first time in two days. They hold a sort of fire within them that he can feel in his chest just now. The acknowledgement that the past forty-eight hours have done little to erase your rage.

“You’re still mad at me…?” Adrian wonders softly, digging the toe of his boot into the bright green grass beneath him like a shy child.

“Yes,” you answer, with a bite in your words that makes him flinch.

“…Well, can I make it up to you?”

“Yes! You can make it up to me by helping me find Peacemaker.”

“Okay! Yeah. I can do that,” he says with a quick nod and a pair of hopeful eyes. “I can— I can take you, you know, somewhere safe!”

“Somewhere… safe?” you echo dubiously.

“Yeah! If you’re supposed to be dead and all, you probably shouldn’t be walking around, right?” he laughs. “I mean, what if they think you’re a zombie, and they go all Dick Grimes on your ass?”

“You mean Rick Grimes?”

Adrian grins slowly, tilting his cheek to his shoulder. “Nah, I’m pretty sure his name is Dick…”

“Okay. So, what? You’re gonna take me to your house?” you ask, then scoff when he nods rapidly in response. “Your obsession with finding your other self is getting really weird, you know that?”

“Well, jokes on you, honey,” he says with an unconvincing chuckle. “I never said anything about finding my other self, so… Egg on your face.”

“It has literally been all you have talked about since we got here,” you argue and close your laptop with a quiet thud before rising from the squeaking bench.

You try not to think too hard about the memorial you leave behind as you follow Adrian to his house. You try not to think about what happened to you here — what killed you, who killed you — or what the hell you could’ve done to deserve to be remembered so fondly. You’ve racked up an impressive amount of charges in your own dimension, to be fair. Cyberterrorism and the like. It’d probably take more hours than there are in a day to list them all.

So, instead, you try to focus on the quiet idiosyncrasies of this strange dimension — which is basically just like your own, only everything is shifted slightly to the left. The clouds are whiter and rounder and heavier than usual, like a couple of cotton balls wedged into the sky. The air feels weirdly thinner here, too — every breath you drag in feels foreign in your lungs. And the scent of the trees Adrian leads you through smells of a bitter sort of pine that is no longer familiar to you.

Everything is the same, but just a little bit off. Uncanny, almost. It’s still your home, but one that belongs to a different version of you — to people that look just like you, to people that wear your skin.

“Hey, remember when we talked about you being mad at me and stuff?” Adrian wonders suddenly, voice ringing through the quiet wood, as he lifts a low-hanging branch for you to duck under. “And, like, how you wanted me to make it up to you and everything?”

“Do I remember the conversation we had three minutes ago?” you scoff like it’s obvious, adjusting the brown leather jacket on your shoulder when it starts to slip. Adrian flashes you an expectant look over his broad shoulder, still waiting for your answer ‘cause your sarcasm doesn’t quite compute. “Yes, Adrian. I remember.”

“Well, then, do you remember what we talked about the other day?” he asks with a wide grin that you meet with a confused sort of scowl.

“The one about Chris?”

“No—”

“The one where you were crying in my arms because he left you?”

“I was not crying,” Adrian argues. “I was trying to comfort you, actually.”

He turns around to face you with a crazed sort of look dancing behind his thick lenses as he waves an accusatory arm in your direction. You stop in your tracks just a few short inches ahead of him, with your laptop cradled to your chest.

“Oh, so then you must be talking about the conversation we had after that,” you tell him with an innocent lilt that doesn’t match the fire in your eyes. “You know, after you flirted with that naked woman right in front of me—”

Your last few words are drowned out by Adrian’s dramatic groan. “For the last time, I was not flirting with her!”

“I saw you, Adrian!”

“I was trying to intel about Peacemaker—”

“By staring at her tits?!”

“How was I supposed to know we were stumbling into an orgy?” he argues with all the essence of a stubborn child that makes you roll your eyes.

You know it isn’t totally his fault. See, Peacemaker had a close friend named Zora, who you quickly realized was rather infamous for the elaborate sex parties she threw — many of which Chris had been in attendance. Zora invited both of you over to give you what little intel she had on his sudden disappearance. Zora was very serious about the information she gave you, despite the fact that she was standing stark naked on her back porch. It wasn’t Zora that bothered you, necessarily, but the fact that Adrian couldn’t seem to stop looking at her.

What he called active listening, you called being a total fucking creep. And you haven’t quite been able to get past the jealousy still simmering in the pit of your chest.

You walk past him, knocking into his shoulder as you go. Adrian stumbles over his feet as he tries to fall back in step with you. “Anyway, that’s not the point— I’m talking about the threesome.”

“Threesome?” you scoff. “What threesome?”

“Remember? At Harcourt’s party?” he lilts. “When you said you had a dream about it once and that you wanted to try it out? And I said that if another guy who wasn’t me even thought about touching you, I’d have to blow his fucking brains out?”

You smack your lips against your teeth in a silent recollection. “Right.”

“Well…” Adrian trails off, motioning his hand to the side of you. You follow his gaze through the thin treeline to find a quaint suburban neighborhood standing on the other side of it. His house looms at the edge of the block, sage green with an ornately decorated yard.

Your eyes flit from the home to his glittering gaze. “Yeah, I’m not following.”

“If there’s another me in there, that means we can both get what we want! You can have your threesome, and I don’t have to worry about killing some random motherfucker for touching you!” His crude language doesn’t match the pretty smile on his face, which squints the very edges of his eyes just now. “And then you don’t have to be mad at me anymore! It’s basically a win-win!”

“…You are so fucking perverted, Adrian,” you squint.

“What?” he laughs. “I’m doing this for you! It’s what you wanted, right?”

“Yeah! When all of our friends were missing—”

“Uh, newsflash, honey. Our friends aren’t missing,” he chuckles and motions to the empty woods surrounding you. “They’re here! All of us are somewhere in this dimension, which you’re not dead in anymore, so… We have nothing to worry about!”

His sunshine disposition still has a way of surprising you, even after all this time. You know there’s no point in arguing with him, so you just shake your head and keep on walking. “Oh, my god. Okay. Let’s just go,” you mumble under your breath.

You trek through the empty street and the half-dead yard. Browning grass and fallen leaves crunch under your boots as you go. Adrian giggles all giddy to himself as he shoves his mask back over his wild head, eyes squinting behind the red visor under the weight of his beaming.

He guides you past the threshold of his home, which is as warm and achingly familiar as always. Nothing is overtly out of place — save for the mislabeled Cheeri-ohs on the counter, and the clay dragon in the china cabinet that’s supposed to be a snake, and the fact that his dad isn’t gay anymore.

His secret room is still located down the steps and around the corner, and it still has the bright red “No Admittance” sign taped to the front of it.

You lead the rest of the way there while Adrian lags slightly behind, still musing over the misspelled cereal box that he cradles in his left arm. “Think the locks are still the same?” you wonder from the bottom of the staircase.

Adrian digs into the pocket of his suit with his free hand. “Let’s find out,” he says and tosses you the jingling key ring, which you catch against your chest.

He looms over your shoulder while you make careful work of each lock. The first key slides in with little effort. You twist your wrist to the right until you hear a dull click that makes Adrian giggle like a child just behind you. “No fuckin’ way!” he curses while you move onto the second lock. That one unlatches just as easily as the third, which opens with a heavier clack when the heavy door gives way.

“Unbelievable…” Adrian mumbles under his breath as you push the metal entrance the rest of the way open.

You venture slowly into the top-secret bunker and find very little out of place. It still smells of dust and blood and sweat. Bricks of cocaine are still stacked to the ceiling. Millions of dollars still go untouched on the metal shelves (you make a mental note to pocket a few stacks before you leave). But, further inside, another Adrian sits slouched at a desk against the wall, suited but unmasked.

He’s too distracted to notice the presence of the two strangers standing just behind him — or not strangers, perhaps.

“Knock, knock,” you monotone in lieu of any actual greeting, because you’re not exactly sure how to announce your arrival in this sort of situation.

“What the fuck?!” the other Adrian exclaims as he scrambles on the other side of the room. His metal chair scrapes hard against the floor when he rises, unholstering a gun from his side in a blink, and pointing it ahead of him in practiced motions.

“Who are you, and how are you here?” he interrogates in a stern sort of voice that makes your Adrian laugh loudly to himself.

There is nothing different about the Adrian standing in front of you than the one at your side. Your eyes dart wildly over his form, searching for any singularity that might set him apart, but you find only the man you love. Or, at the very least, a stranger wearing the skin of the man you love.

The other Adrian seems to do the same to you, with his eyes wide and panicked behind his glasses. His studies you carefully, face screwed in a mixture of panic and confusion. How are you here, he asks, because for him, you died a long time ago.

“Oh, dude. Hold on— hold on, dude,” your Adrian rambles, breathless from how hard he’s laughing. He sets the Cheeri-ohs on the table beside him and pulls off his mask with two hands, revealing his reddened face and wild curls. “It’s me!” he beams. “I’m you from another dimension— My keys worked to get in here!”

You lift your right hand to reveal the key ring jangling on your pointer finger, an exact copy of the set sitting safely in Other Adrian’s suit pocket. Somehow, that’s enough to convince him. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” he laughs, holstering his weapon and grinning wide.

“No!” your Adrian chuckles.

“Holy shit!”Other Adrian exclaims, eyes flitting between the two of you as he waves a gloved finger in your direction. “Wait, so you— You’re not from here, right? ‘Cause you’re, like, super dead in this dimension.”

“I heard,” you monotone and quickly change the subject. “Is it okay if I sit down? I have actually important shit to do.”

Other Adrian nods until the words catch up to him. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Go— Go ahead.”

He swallows hard when you walk by him, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Everything about you is exactly how he remembers — your hair, your style, your scowl. The way you look at him like you couldn’t care less if he lives or dies. You even smell the same, too, of a musky raspberry vanilla that hasn’t yet left his head.

You plop down on the beige couch on the opposite side of the room, which he had always dreamed of fucking you on, and it’s like you never died at all.

You open the lid of your laptop and force yourself to focus on the encrypted file before you, rather than the dopplegangers across the room. That’s what you’re here for, anyway — a safe place to hide while you try to locate a friend — no matter what Adrian has to say in the matter.

“So, she was your girlfriend in this dimension, too?!” Your Adrian beams, visibly elated at the thought of having you in every universe.

“Girlfriend?” Other Adrian scoffs. “No. No way— She fucking hated me, dude.”

Your Adrian frowns but is hardly deterred. “No, she didn’t,” he argues with a strange sort of conviction despite never even knowing this other version of you.

“How do you know?”

“‘Cause this one claims to hate me, too, and we’ve been together for four years.”

“No way!” Other Adrian chuckles.

“Yes way!”

They laugh together in the same melodic cadence and fall into step as they saunter towards the couch, long legs moving in sync. You don’t think to look up from your computer until they’re towering over you. By then, your Adrian has already shoved his glasses back on his face, making it impossible to tell which boy you came here with.

Their suits are practically identical — you can’t find a single stitch out of place. They wear their helmet hair the same way, too, chesnut curls sitting in matching wild halos on their heads.

You try hard to tell the difference in their smiles, ‘cause your Adrian’s is always a little skewed to the lopsided left, and his front two teeth are ever so slightly crooked. But so is Other Adrian’s smile, it seems, which leaves you at a rather dizzying loss.

“Wait, wait, wait—” you blurt suddenly, eyes flickering between the two of them. “Stay on one side, alright? So I know which one of you is which.”

You walked in with your Adrian on your left, so you cross your fingers and hope your Adrian is still standing on the left now.

“What do you mean?” Your Adrian questions, head tilted to the side like a confused puppy.

“Which one of you is mine, I mean.”

“Well, if the laws of the universe are right, honey—” Your Adrian lilts with a pink grin tugging slowly at his mouth.

“The laws of the universe?” you repeat in a monotone.

“—I think that technically means we’re both yours.”

Something about his words makes your stomach do a blackflip, though your scowl never wavers.

Having two Adrians is as much a dream as it is a total nightmare. You don’t know which one to focus on—

Peacemaker, a cynical voice in the back of your head reminds you. You need to focus on finding Peacemaker and Harcourt before something totally terrible happens and you end up dead in both dimensions.

So, you say nothing as you shake your head and turn back to the computer in your lap. Both Adrians take their spot on the couch on either side of you, effectively sandwiching you between their broad bodies.

You’re enveloped immediately in their innate warmth and their identical musky cologne. You struggle to type with their arms caging you on either side, and with their legs spread like both of them are determined to take up as much space as humanly possible.

You grit your teeth and struggle to focus while they talk over you.

“Wait, so, if we’re talking laws of the universe and everything—” Other Adrian, now seemingly on your right, wonders aloud. “—Does that mean we were technically supposed to be together in this dimension?”

Your Adrian thinks for a moment, light eyes flitted to the ceiling. “I think so,” he concludes with a lazy shrug, basing his answer on approximately zero information.

“Both of you are using the word technically very liberally,” you deadpan.

“I’m just saying! You know, maybe you died before you could tell me you loved me!”

“Oh, dude…” your Adrian grimaces. “That’s sad…”

“I always had a feeling, you know?” Other Adrian shrugs, slouching against the back of the sunken sofa and staring far off at something on the other side of the room. “We ran into each other on a mission once, and I thought she was gonna kill me, but instead she just broke my jaw! And I thought, hey, if that’s not a proclamation of law, then I don’t know what is—”

“No fucking way!” your Adrian chuckles and sits up straighter on the sunken sofa.

“What?”

“That’s how we met!” he exclaims, gesturing wildly between your bodies. “In our dimension!”

“Are you kidding me?!”

“No! That’s how I knew she liked me, too— She holstered her gun just so she could punch me in the face!” your Adrian giggles maniacally. “And I was like, jeez, you might as well just kiss me while you’re at it!”

Other Adrian’s face screws as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Did you actually say that?” he asks.

“Yes,” you answer for him, fingers flying across the keyboard. The neon green numbers start to blur as you fight to stay concentrated. “It was very, very strange.”

“…And did you?”

“Hell no.”

“No, she just kneed me in the balls and left,” your Adrian answers with a whimsical sort of sigh. “But she did leave me her number, though.”

Your head whips in his direction, eyes narrowed in a challenging squint. “I dropped my phone, that hardly counts!”

“Yeah,” your Adrian scoffs. “Because you wanted me to find it!”

“It fell out of my pocket!”

“Tomato, tom-ah-to,” he shrugs.

Other Adrian watches silently while the two of you bicker back and forth. He wonders if this is what he missed out on — a life of petty banter and heated arguments that always seem to lead to make-up sex. It’s like watching one of his wildest dreams play out right in front of him. A lost reality that he’ll spend the rest of his life mourning.

“I knew it…” he huffs.

“Knew what?”

“Every time I tried to talk to her after that, she just called me a stalker and told me to leave her alone— But I knew she was just playing hard to get.”

“No, yeah, you have to promise to leave her alone, and then conspicuously show up wherever she is until she finally decides to talk to you,” your Adrian explains like it’s obvious.

“Really?”

“Yeah, you can’t let up, that’s the important part,” he says, and then elaborates at the confused glance he gets. “‘Cause then you lose all the momentum.”

“Oh…” Other Adrian croons, nodding slowly to himself.

Your eyes widen at the chaotic computer screen ahead of you, now filled with blinking numbers and a blank map dotted with pinging coordinates that don’t match the ones you’re familiar with.

It was easier back home, you think, to hear Adrian say the most bizarre shit like it was all too normal to him — ‘cause you had a team of actually normal people to put him in his place. But now, all you have is an exact mirror version of him, who takes all of his horrible advice like it’s some kind of prophecy.

“I wish I had said something then…” Other Adrian mourns. “You know, before the incident…”

The intentionally vague language makes the Adrian on your left lean further in, taking up what little personal space you have left. “The incident?” he repeats, visibly intrigued.

“Yeah. The Task Force X mission,” Other Adrian nods, pointing to the bulletin board across the room where he’s pinned various documents and blurry photos to the wall. “I tried to find the files, but they’re, like, super redacted, so I guess no one actually knows what happened, but… My guess is something went horribly wrong, and they had to cover it up—”

You squint at the newspaper clippings, classified records, and botched polaroids — all entwined with the kind of red string you only see on true crime television. It’s like a map, almost. Adrian’s map to find you. Or to figure out what had happened to you, at the very least.

“—All I know is, I told her that I didn’t think it was a good idea for her to go, and she was like, How did you get in here? Did you climb in through my window?” Other Adrian rambles. “And I was like, doll, you really need to start locking your windows at night, ‘cause there are some real sickos creeping around.”

Your Adrian nudges you. “I tell her the exact same thing!”

Other Adrian swallows hard. “I just think… What if I had been there, you know? What if I had tried harder to stop her?”

Anger builds like bile in your throat. The grief does, too. The thought of your death is as nagging as the thought of this Adrian mourning you — of him blaming himself for your death, like you weren’t strong enough to die on your own. You fight to swallow it all down, but it comes spilling out anyway, as you groan and tilt your head back against the sofa.

“Oh, my god, can you cool it with the altruism?” you say with an exhausted huff. “I’m sure there was nothing you could’ve done to stop me, alright? I famously don’t listen to people— I’m known for it, actually, so…. I’m not surprised it probably got me killed in this dimension, ‘cause it’s almost killed me a thousand times back in mine. So stop acting like you could’ve been special enough to stop me, because you obviously weren’t.”

You ramble in one breath, then turn away again like it’s nothing, fingers click-clacking on the keyboard with an evident expertise.

Other Adrian finds it hard to look away from you, light eyes going suddenly glassy. He is not fazed by the ire in your words — he’d had ample time to grow used to that — he’s more so taken by the strange sort of comfort in them, ‘cause he’d dreamed of hearing them for so long.

Maybe he can actually get some sleep now, without being plagued by nagging thoughts that your death was his fault — knowing now that you aren’t angry at him for not saving you, for not being there when you took your last breath. His hands ache to reach out and touch you, but he balls them into fists instead.

“Don’t mind her,” your Adrian mutters like he’s telling some kind of secret, like he isn’t sitting right next to you. “She’s, like, totally pissed at me.”

“…What’d you do?”

“Well, to make a long story short,” he starts, which always means he’s about to ramble until his breath gives out. “We came here to look for a friend, my best friend, ‘cause he’s been missing for a few days now. And before we found out he was in another dimension, we were trying to figure out where he went, right? Well, then, I remembered that he has this other friend named Zora—”

Other Adrian notices the way you tense at the mention of the stranger’s name. His eyes flit back to the other version of him, who talks wildly with gloved hands.

“—Who isn’t his best friend, obviously, ‘cause I’m his best friend. But I thought, hey, maybe she knows where he is! Turns out, the place she asked us to meet her at was this crazy orgy, and I was trying to ask her about my friend— but I wasn’t looking at her tits, alright? I swear!” Adrian defends, palms splayed in surrender. “She just had this really cool nipple piercing that had something engraved on it, but the word was way too small to make out—”

“You idiot!” Other Adrian exclaims, rising suddenly from the sofa.

His hurried movements make your computer jolt faintly in your lap. You grip the edges of it and watch as your Adrian cowers when his doppelganger towers over him. Your eyes dart between the two of them, trying to make sense of their sudden argument.

“What?!”

“Why would you do that?!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“You committed the ultimate transgression someone can commit in a relationship that isn’t cheating!” Other Adrian insists with a deep scowl that pinches his narrow features. “Staring at another girl’s naked body obviously makes it seem like you’re interested in her!”

“Thank you!” you grumble. “Finally, some understanding here.”

Your Adrian stands with a dramatic huff. “That’s not what it was at all!” he exclaims, gesturing wildly with his gloved palms.

“Doesn’t matter,” Other Adrian says, crossing his strong arms over his chest. “You should’ve turned around. Like a gentleman.”

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll be sure to make a note of that for the next time I stumble into a random orgy!”

“I’m just saying, you know, be respectful. That’s all.”

“Hey. I’m respectful.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m you!” Your Adrian exclaims.

Other Adrian shrugs. “Then I guess that makes us both idiots, doesn’t it?”

Your Adrian whips his head to face you, waiting for a witty response that never comes. Your attention is now more focused on your laptop, which has just started to beep faintly in your lap. It makes you sit up straighter, eyes wide with a newfound intrigue.

“Okay. Look,” your Adrian starts. “I can appreciate that we’re supposedly the same person and all, but maybe don’t talk about my girlfriend like you know her, alright?”

Other Adrian scoffs in offense. “I know her just as well as you do!”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“I know she likes her eggs scrambled in the morning,” he answers.

“Yeah,” your Adrian nods. “Both literally and figuratively.”

“And I know she’s a morning person,” Other Adrian lists on his gloved fingers. “And I know she likes Martinis with extra olives, especially from her favorite bar—”

“Which is?”

“The Roadhouse.”

“Correct.”

“And I know her favorite stall to take suitors in.”

Your Adrian screws his face while the other version of him grins all smug. “Suitors?” he echoes.

“Oh, yeah— Her and Rick Flag used to get busy in the handicap stall, let me tell ya.”

“Gross,” he grimaces. “…Wait. How do you even know that?”

“The same way I know her greatest sexual fantasy— The walls left very little to the imagination, my friend—”

“A threesome, right?!” Your Adrian laughs.

“Yeah! …Holy shit, have we had one before?”

“No,” he answers instantly. “No way, dude, I can’t let someone else fuck her. I’d have to—”

“Blow his fucking brains out?” Other Adrian finishes for him, strangely solemn. “Yeah, I get it. I’m the same way…”

“But that’s why we came here!” Your Adrian tells him, suddenly aglow. “Well, we came here to find our friend first, but then I realized this is, like, the only opportunity we’ll have to have a threesome— If you’re down, obviously. I can’t just assume your consent ‘cause you’re me.”

“If I’m down?” Other Adrian repeats, like it isn’t even a question. “Of course, I’m down—”

“Fuck, yes!” you exclaim after several long moments of concentrated silence, rising suddenly from the squeaking sofa.

You wear a newfound smile on your face, eyes glowing at the computer screen in your hands — an encrypted code now deciphered, along with the tricky coordinates, which now track Peacemaker’s every move.

Your glimmering gaze turns back to the identical boys ahead of you, who wear matching looks of amused shock. You forgot that you were supposed to keep track of them, too. Now you’re not entirely sure which Adrian you came with and which Adrian you’re about to leave behind.

“Wait, really?” the Adrian on your left wonders. “You want to? I thought you said I was perverted for even thinking it—”

“What?” you interject, face screwed. “What are you talking about?”

He grows suddenly solemn. “What are you talking about?”

“Chris!” you answer and flip the screen around to show him the blinking dot on the neon map. You close the lid of it with a soft click. “I found him! So, we have to go— We have to tell Economos and Lee. Maybe Harcourt’s with him, too—”

Their faces twist in sync, pinching into a grieved pout. “But we just got here…” both Adrians chorus in identical inflections.

“Yeah,” you nod. “And now we’re leaving.”

You storm between the two of them. Or, rather, you try to. The Adrian on your right grabs the wrist of the hand not cradling your laptop. His hold is gentle but stern, and even through the gloves, you can feel the body heat radiating off of him. Adrian Chases are human heaters in every dimension, it seems. You falter immediately under his touch, face screwed as you turn to glare at him.

“Well, why?” Adrian protests like a pouting child. “I mean, it’s not like your friends are going anywhere. Let’s just— stay here for a while…”

His boots scuff the floor when he takes a slow step towards you. He towers over your body, swaddling you immediately in his innate warmth and familiar cologne.

You flinch away on instinct, practically stumbling over your feet as you wrench your wrist from his grip. You collide into the chest of the Adrian standing behind you as a result, head-spinning ‘cause you still don’t know if it’s your Adrian.

“No,” you announce with a stubborn shake of your head. “Nope. I’m not doing this— This is freaking me the hell out. I feel like I’m in the fucking Twilight Zone!”

“Why?” the Adrian looming before you scoffs, getting over the idea of infinite dimensions a lot faster than he probably should.

“Because I can’t tell which of you is mine!”

“It’s easy…” he answers with a lazy shrug, pink lips curling into that same lopsided smile you fell in love with so many years ago. He takes another step closer, until you have to crane your neck to keep his gaze. You forget to turn away when he takes your hand. “’Cause we’re both yours. Remember?”

There’s a fleeting moment of heavy silence after that, where you have to remind yourself to breathe. You only vaguely register the way he leans further into you. You’re much more focused on the wild look in his fiery gaze. His eyes are all squishy around the edges with adoration, but glinting with something much more crazed in comparison — a sort of hunger that only comes from losing someone.

It’s the Other Adrian that’s kissing you now.

You know this.

And you let him kiss you, anyway.

His broad nose squishes into the side of yours when he presses his lips to your mouth. There’s nothing unfamiliar about his touch or in the way he tastes, like spearmint and soda and boy. But there’s a foreign sort of gentleness that strikes you deep in the chest — a hesitance, a stillness, a longing.

Your Adrian hasn’t kissed you like this in a long time. He hasn’t ever needed to. Because he never lost you like this one did.

Your heavy sigh fans across his cupid’s bow. You’re moments away from melting into him when your laptop threatens to slip from the crook of your elbow. It jolts you awake again, like one of those dreams that feels suddenly like you’re falling. Your lips click softly when you jerk your head back.

“Okay!” you blurt with an emotionless laugh, eyes wide and a little crazed. “Okay, you had you’re fun. Now we’re leaving—”

“You can kiss him if you want,” your Adrian murmurs, pleads, from just behind you. “I don’t mind.”

Your head whips over your shoulder to look at him. Your face is screwed in a mixture of hesitation and confusion — you don’t know why Adrian wants this so bad; you don’t know why you want it so badly, either. “We’re on a mission!” you shout, voice fragile and breaking in an unconvincing protest.

“They’ll be okay!” Your Adrian assures. “They’re safe here. You’re safe here, so just… Relax.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how to do that,” you scoff.

“I can help you,” Other Adrian offers quickly, a little too quickly to be cool. He clears his throat, pushes his glasses up his nose, and tries again. “Relax, I mean...”

You open your mouth but struggle to find the words. “I—” is all you can manage out before your breath gets caught in your throat. Completely and utterly and totally pathetic.

Your Adrian grins, though you aren’t looking at him to see it. He knows you well enough to spot when you really want something. He can practically see the shroud of cynicism giving way to something much softer, quieter. “She likes it best when you kiss her—”

“Let me guess,” Other Adrian interjects, eyes darting wildly over your face beneath his glasses, like he’s studying you. He raises a gloved hand and presses two fingers just over your pulse point. The textured leather meets your delicate skin like fire. You have to remind yourself to breathe. “…Here?” he guesses, though a part of him already knows it’s the right answer.

He’s watched you a thousand times through that tiny, wretched glory hole in the Roadhouse bathroom. He’s watched other men who didn’t deserve you caress your body. He’s analyzed the way they touched you, learned everything you hated and everything that drove you wild.

The sight of Rick Flag fucking you against the dank, graffitied brick is still stained in the back of his head. He still remembers the way the man sank his teeth into your neck, and the face you made when you came a second later.

He already knows everything about you, he thinks. The very most intimate parts of you.

He’s just waiting for your acknowledgement, which comes now in the form of a slow nod, ‘cause you don’t trust your voice not to break.

A gasp catches in your throat when Other Adrian ducks down, parting his rosy mouth to press a wet kiss to your thrumming pulse.

He kisses you there like he’s done it a thousand times before — it feels like he has, anyway, after spending what feels like his whole life dreaming about it. He rakes his teeth over the delicate tendon there, like he already knows it makes your head swim, then runs his warm tongue over the sharp bite to soothe it.

Your heavy head tilts back as you exhale a whispered moan at the ceiling. Through your lidded gaze, you see Adrian grinning over your shoulder. “Told ya you’d like it,” he lilts.

“I fucking hate you…” you sigh in a honeyed moan.

“No, you don’t,” he says with a knowing smile, before ducking down to engulf your mouth with his own.

His kiss lacks all the diffidence of his counterpart. He’s terribly confident in the way he wastes little time licking into your mouth, in the way he kisses you like he’s trying to swallow you whole.

A pretty noise sounds in the back of your throat when you lift your right hand to fist the curls at the crown of his head. Your free one cradles the back of Other Adrian’s neck to keep him close as he leaves a trail of sloppy kisses up and down the length of your jaw.

As the world sways beneath your feet, you feel his hands working fast with the buttons of your jeans. The boy standing behind you slides the fabric of your heavy jacket down your arms in the meanwhile. The thick fabric pools at your feet with a quiet thud, leaving you in a form-fitting black tank top.

Adrian is on you and all over you, all two of him. A heavy, warm feeling sparkles in the very pit of your stomach accordingly.

Your lips smack in protest when you pull away from your Adrian to sigh. “I’m dreaming…” you conclude with bated breath, talking mostly to yourself. “That’s what this is, right? I’m just dreaming?”

Adrian smiles down at you, lips swollen and shining with your spit. “It’s very real, actually,” he answers, very giddy about the whole thing.

“Doesn’t this feel real to you?” Other Adrian wonders, dragging your hand away from his neck and down his lean body.

The tips of your trembling fingers brush the textured leather of his teal-blue suit until they rest finally over his crotch. His wide, calloused palm cradles the back of your knuckles and urges you to cup his clothed cock, growing harder and harder in the strict confines of his suit.

His free hand slips through the fabric of your unbuttoned jeans and rests over the soft cotton of your underwear. Your breath catches when his fingers brush the warm, wet spot forming slowly there.

“‘Cause it feels real to me…” he murmurs.

“Actually…” your Adrian croons as he wraps his hand around the doppelganger’s wrist. “She likes it best when you touch her… here.”

He brings the boy’s hand an inch or more upward, until his fingers are resting just slightly above your sensitive clit. Not enough to overstimulate you, but enough to make you keen.

Your head tips back to exhale a high-pitched moan at the dim ceiling. “Please fuck me,” you hear yourself say, in a distant voice that sounds nothing like your own.

“Who?” the boys chorus simultaneously.

“I don’t give a shit,” you sigh, hardly patient. “One of you. Both of you.”

There is no Adrian Chase, in any of the infinite dimensions, that has ever denied you of anything, it seems.

You forget to keep track of which boy is which when they unravel you on the ancient sofa across the room. You’re not so sure it matters now, anyway. They both belong to you in the same way you belong to both of them — laws of the universe and all that jazz. It’s all strangely fluid, accordingly, the way they maneuver you onto the couch like they share the same mind — like they know exactly how to take you.

One Adrian lies flat on the cushion below you. The shirt of his suit sits in a forgotten pile on the floor with the rest of your clothes, leaving him only in a white tank top and his unbelted bottoms. His boxers are tucked under his balls, allowing his cock to jut proudly from the leather, weeping and glowing a strawberry red at the tip.

One of his hands rests warmly along the curve of your hips as you straddle his thin waist. His fingertips threaten to dig bruises into the plush skin there. His free one slithers between your bodies to fist his heavy cock, slipping it between the folds of your drooling pussy. Your nails dig crescent shapes into his pale shoulders as you sigh a delicate moan.

You hear a soft click from behind you, then. Over your shoulder, the other Adrian pops the cap to the bottle of lube he always keeps in his desk drawer for special occasions. The translucent blue bottle you’re used to is now a deep purple in this dimension, you find, and it doesn’t look like it’s gotten much use.

He is as undressed as the Adrian beneath you, pants unbuckled and white tank top clinging to his torso. You’d protest about how naked you are compared to the two of them, completely bare save for the plain black bra cradling your breasts, if you could find the words to.

Your heavy eyes flutter shut as you turn away to hang your head. You grit your teeth and anticipate the cold jelly against your ass, yet still shiver when it comes. The Adrian below you rests a soothing palm over your burning jaw while the one behind you works his fingers slowly into you, preparing you for his cock. You sigh at the distant, full feeling.

“I’ll be gentle, doll,” Adrian tells you, trailing his free hand up your spine and over your shoulder. His touch his far too innocent compared to the sinful way he fingers your ass. “I promise…”

You realize, then, that the boy behind you must be the other Adrian. You can tell by his seemingly preferred nickname for you, doll, and in the way his voice tremors with the reassurance — like he’s just barely managing to hold himself together, like he’s never fucked you this way before, like he’s never fucked you at all.

Besides, your Adrian wouldn’t bother with such sympathies. You trust him enough to take care of you. And you hardly ever want him to be gentle.

You swallow down a sob when Other Adrian slips his fingers out of you to put something much thicker in their place. The bulbous head of his cock pushes slowly into your ass. He groans, pressing his face into your back and exhaling panted breaths against your bare skin.

His fingers dig into the plush of your hips as he fights to rein himself in, to ease his length slowly into you despite the hunger begging him to move faster than that — to take you the way he’s always dreamed of taking you.

You keep reminding yourself to relax, and to breathe through your nose, while Other Adrian bottoms out. With his lean hips flush to your ass, the soreness there ebbs slowly into a distant, fuller feeling that makes it hard to gain your breath. He fights to catch his own with his cheek pressed to your shoulder.

Your Adrian brushes his fingers along your warm cheek, pushing the hair out of your face. When your heavy eyes flutter finally open, you find him grinning all lopsided up at you — glasses fogged and sitting crooked on his nose.

“You know what I like most about you, honey?” he coos and doesn’t wait for you to answer. He knows they’ve already fucked you far too stupid for that — and they haven’t even started. “No matter how mean you are… You always get so sweet when I fuck you.”

A whimper sounds in your throat when Adrian shifts beneath you. He takes his stiff cock in his fist, which had been grinding sweetly over your clit, and slides it down to your suckling cunt. “Show him,” your Adrian tells you, half-distracted, as he lines himself up there. “Show him how sweet you get for me.”

He slides his thick length inside you with surprisingly little effort, considering the way your pussy drools for him. It’s a fleeting ache that blossoms into a warmer, more pleasurable, and achingly fuller feeling when he’s sheathed inside your pulsing cunt.

Caged between both their bodies, you quickly realize that there’s nowhere to go — nowhere to run from the overwhelming pleasure that seeks to suffocate you entirely. All you can do now is take it.

Your Adrian groans, dropping the crown of his wild head back against the arm of the couch. “Fuck…” he grumbles through gritted teeth. “God, you’re so fucking tight— Always so tight for me. Holy shit.”

The other Adrian moans between the sloppy kisses he presses between your shoulder blades. “I always dreamt about this, you know?” he pants into your blazing skin. “Watched a hundred guys fuck you, knowing they didn’t deserve you— Knowing that I could fuck you better… Do you have any idea how hard that is?”

You don’t notice the dirty confession in his words because he’s thrusting his lean hips further against your ass, pushing his twitching cock deeper into your suffocating confines.

A scream wells in your throat at the feeling. Your Adrian seems to sense it and lifts his hand to clamp his palm over your mouth before it can escape your mouth. His round eyes go wide, begging you to keep quiet, ‘cause his parents are still upstairs after all.

He doesn’t want to have to explain this impromptu threesome, or why you’re suddenly alive, or why there are suddenly two of their son.

Your whine rumbles against his palm instead.

Everything between your legs throbs and aches when the two of them begin to move in tandem. Your Adrian keeps a bruising grip on your waist while the other gropes sloppily at your chest, tugging down your bra until your breasts spill from the top of it.

His thumb smooths over your pebbled nipples. You tense, achingly sensitive under his touch. Your pussy clenches around your Adrian’s cock, which makes his hips jerk upwards — a foreign feeling the Other Adrian can feel between your thin walls. He buries his groan into your shoulder, grasping at you with all the stern tenderness of someone scared to let you go.

“O—Oh, f…uck,” he whimpers a broken moan against your skin. “It’s too much— It’s too…. shit… You’re gonna make me cum, doll— Fuck!”

His hips stutter. His cock jerks in your strangling hole. Heat fills your ass no more than a second later — a distant blooming in the deepest parts of you. Adrian digs his teeth into your shoulder while he forces himself to fuck you through the rest of his high, whining when his sensitivity grows.

“Thank you…” he murmurs, pressing tender kisses over the bite marks on your skin, as his strong arms slither around your stomach in a loose embrace. “Thank you, baby—”

You whimper when Other Adrian slips out of you, face screwed at the feeling of being so suddenly empty. The couch squeaks slightly when he slouches on the other side of it, still close enough to touch you. He never takes his hand off of your body as he smooths his palm over the plush of your ass, caressing and squeezing and tapping you there.

You feel his cum trickling out of you a moment later. Something warm and slick drools from your ass towards your pussy, where your Adrian continues to fuck you — with a lot less restraint than the other version of him.

He plants his feet, one on the sofa and the other on the floor, and digs his blunt fingernails into your ass as he punches up into you.

“Adrian…” you whimper, voice breaking under the weight of your pleasure. You fight to keep your heavy eyes open, ‘cause you want to memorize the way he looks just now — lying below you, curls wild, cheeks flushed pink, eyes closed tight beneath his crooked glasses.

“I know,” he gasps, sucking air through his teeth when his cock starts to jerk within your pulsing cunt. “I know, honey. C’mon. Cum for me.”

His hazel eyes, dark with lust, snap open to reveal a twisted and warped sort of love in his gaze that makes your stomach do a backflip. The coil tightening in the pit of your belly snaps in that instance. A bright white and distant heat that rushes out of you like honey.

A pained whine gets caught in your throat.

“Yeah… There you go…” he praises, chuckling breathlessly at the pitiful look on your face. Your nails dig crescent shapes into his shoulders as your orgasm racks through your body in merciless waves. He revels in the ache. “There you go, honey— Fuck.”

He tenses suddenly beneath you, cock jerking. He tries and fails to swallow down his groan. It escapes in a low rumble through his gritted teeth as he spits several ropes of warm cum inside of you. His hips jerk on their own accord every time your velvety cunt squeezes around him, milking him for everything he’s worth.

The pleasure ebbs slowly. The scent of sex hangs heavy in the air. Panted breaths fill the subsequent silence.

Adrian is slow to relax beneath you. He pushes his half-fogged glasses up his nose as his eyes dart wildly across your face. “Are you still mad at me?” he murmurs through labored breaths, blinking rapidly through the haze.

You try to laugh, but it sounds more like a scoff as you try to catch your breath. You smooth your palms over his jaw as you lean down over him, pressing a too-sweet kiss to his waiting mouth. The tip of your nose brushes the bridge of his with every word from your lips.

“Adrian… You brought me here, to a whole different dimension, so I can fuck another version of you— just because I told you once, when I was drunk, that I had a wet dream about a threesome one time,” you answer with a love drunk smile. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s way more than any guy has ever done for me, ever.”

Adrian struggles to read between the lines. “…So you’re not mad?” he presses.

You shake your head until the words catch up to you. “No, baby. I’m not mad.”

He’s left grinning all over again. “Cool,” he chuckles.

You’re slow to dismount from his cock. You try to anticipate the cold feeling of emptiness when you rise off of him, though the bitter numbness still finds you anyway. A little sore and full of bliss, you adjust your bra and slouch back against the couch, resting your body weight on the other Adrian’s shoulder.

It takes him very fleetingly by surprise, breath catching for a second, ‘cause he has to remind himself that he’s not dreaming. He raises a strong arm and wraps it around the front of you, pressing you further into his clothed chest. You rest your feet in your Adrian’s lap while he tucks his softening cock back into his pants.

He huffs quietly and sits up straighter on the arm of the sofa. A proud grin pulls slowly at his lips in sync with the Adrian sitting across from him. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“Up top,” he says and raises his arm for a high-five, to which the Other Adrian meets with a boyish enthusiasm.

“Dream work makes the teamwork,” the boy grins.

“It’s definitely teamwork makes the dream work, by the way,” you laugh breathlessly.

The Other Adrian thinks for a moment, then smacks his lips against his teeth. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s dream work makes the teamwork, doll,” he lilts, almost sympathetically so.

It reminds you all too much of the boy you fell in love with, who massages gently at your calves just now from the other side of the couch. You find it hard to believe that there could be another version of you that isn’t totally in love with every version of him. Maybe he’s right, you think. Maybe I died before I got the chance to spend a life with him here.

The notion pierces you somewhere deep in the chest.

You shift on the sofa and grimace at the way the cotton sticks uncomfortably to your ass, dampened by the mixture of cum seeping slowly out of you. You curl your hands around the muscular forearm on your chest and tilt your head to squint up at him.

“I’m sorry…” you hear yourself say.

You don’t know why you’re saying it. Only that you feel like you should.

“About the couch?” Adrian scoffs. “I already told you, I don’t care about the stupid couch— This shit’s older than I am.”

“I’m not talking about the couch…” you whisper and feel him tense behind you.

“Oh…” he sighs, like you’ve knocked the breath from his lungs.

“I’m sorry for wasting so much time acting like I hated you… Both of you.” You glance down your near-naked body at the Adrian on the other end — the Adrian you’ve spent four years with; the Adrian you get to spend the rest of your whole life with. “‘Cause I do kinda love you… Even if I don’t say it much.”

You scrunch your nose and kick gently at his clothed chest when he grins all smug back at you.

“Trust me, honey,” Adrian coos, squeezing gently at your leg. “I know… I always know. Even when you think I don't.”

At first, you don't really know what to do in a moment of crisis such as this. Because truly, you couldn't possibly embarrass yourself even more than what you already did today. You couldn't possibly reach a new low even if you tried, because it's already rock bottom at this point. It's like you were trying to see just how many bad decisions you were able to make in the least amount of time possible, until you just didn't know when to stop. And now you're here. Rock bottom.

So, finding absolutely nothing else to do, you start cleaning. Not a casual sweeping of the floors, but more of a ‘I’m cleaning absolutely every corner of this place’ type of deal. It's the only thing that could help to distract you so you don't try to look at your phone in hopes that someone (Adrian) is trying to reach out.

And it works for the most part. If you start thinking about how his breath felt on your neck when he had you trapped underneath the couch, you begin scrubbing the tile walls of your bathroom just a little harder. Whenever the sound of his laugh creeps into your mind, you find a new spot on the window you're cleaning that requires immediate attention. And if you catch yourself fantasizing about what the day would've looked like if you just dared to kiss him that morning in front of the others, you come up with a new idea to relocate your furniture.

By the time you're done, it's already fully night time and you're positively exhausted. But that’s a good thing, because it means you can go to bed earlier than usual and just hope that tomorrow everything feels a little more normal. 

Phone still forgotten somewhere (you can't quite remember where after moving it around along with your furniture all afternoon), you decide to make yourself a sandwich so you don't go to bed on an empty stomach. Whatever random show that you can find on the television is enough entertainment while you eat. 

It's one of those fictional criminal shows that you definitely don't know the name of, but it's entertaining to watch the detectives trying to catch the killer. You allow yourself two episodes before getting ready for bed. There's something incredibly rewarding about finally being able to be under the comfort of your sheets after such a shitty day. It's going to be twice as rewarding passing out for nine to ten hours, completely disconnected from the outside world, absolutely nothing or anyone being able to disturb you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

There's a noise outside your room, loud enough for you to wake up, immediately alerted. Without thinking twice about it, you roll out of bed as stealthy as possible, not wanting to alert the intruder that you're already fully aware of their presence.

As if your day could get any fucking worse, someone just had to ruin it a tiny bit more by breaking into your apartment. Great. Just perfect. Exactly what you need right now.

You grab a pocketknife that you keep in your nightstand, just in case you need extra protection against this creep. Some might think you're paranoid for sleeping with a knife right next to you– disturbing, even. But you know you can never be too careful. Especially in this wonderful line of work of yours. Or more like a side-job now, since Amanda Waller decided to be the butt-hurt bitch she always has been and black-list you.

Outside, the intruder is walking further inside your apartment. You can tell they're trying to be discreet, but you still hear the faint footsteps as they get closer and closer to your bedroom.

As soon as they dare to open the door, it's game over. It's a bit dark, but you can still make out their silhouette perfectly. Lunching forward, you grab their arm and twist it just enough, using all your strength to push them to the ground.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait! Relax, it's– ouch! It's me!”

The familiar voice startles you, finally allowing yourself to take a closer look at the intruder laying underneath you, completely immobilized. That's when you notice the full-body suit with a sprinkle of teal.

“Adrian?” you ask in disbelief, immediately letting him go. 

He takes a few rapid breaths, rolling around until he's fully on his back now, not standing up from the ground just yet. “Holy shit, I thought you were going to kill me!”

“What the fuck are you doing here?! And why did you break into my apartment?”

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were okay! I tried texting and calling you after you left but you weren't answering your phone. At first I thought maybe you were ignoring me so I didn't think much of it, but then I asked the others if they’d heard anything from you, but they couldn't reach you either.”

“And so you broke into my apartment,” you insist, still not finding any reasonable explanation as to why this would be his first instinct.

“Well…yeah. Just so I could make sure you weren't kidnapped. Or dead. I tracked your phone and it was here, so… if someone took you from your house, I'd be logical that I’d start here to gather some clues!”

“You keep track of my phone?”

“I keep track of all of your phones. But I’m not keeping track of what everyone is doing every second of the day, I’m not a creep! I just use it for emergencies like this one– well, turns out this isn't an emergency, but…if it was, I would already be rescuing you from a bad guy's secret layer.”

You let out a tired sigh, taking a seat at the edge of your bed almost at the same time as he's finally standing up from the ground, swinging his arm a few times in hopes that the discomfort from your attack will disappear faster if he does.

“You know, in my defense, I wasn't going to come here at first, but after I got out of work I decided to do a little late-night patrol in case there were some bad guys out there that needed to die– that's when I decided to stop by in case you needed help.”

“Well, I don't need help. I just wanted to log off for a while.”

“Right,” he mutters, standing awkwardly in the middle of your room. “I’m sorry.”

You really don't want to start any sort of unpleasant back and forth, so you decide not to lash out any further. “Don't worry about it,” you reply in a much calmer voice, shrugging. “I appreciate the concern, I guess.”

There's a brief silence before he speaks again. “I’m not just sorry about breaking in, you know.”

You don't dare to look at him, simply nodding your head. You don't even know if he can see you that well through his visor. “Yeah, I’m sorry too,” you offer, voice laced with a level of vulnerability that almost makes you want to find a way to escape this yet again. Like the fucking coward you are.

Another silence. You don't dare to look up and he doesn't dare to move. Even when you know you should probably feel at least some level of awkwardness due to the prolonged silence, the comfort of having him around is a lot stronger.

He is one of your best friends after all. No matter how blurred the lines get or the many instances of miscommunication, he's still someone you care for a lot. Of course you don't like feeling like there's something off between you. 

“Can I sit?” he asks eventually.

“Sure.”

He walks towards your bed like he fears you'd twist his arm and throw him to the ground again. It's only when you feel the mattress sinking with his weight that you finally look up at him, just in time to watch him take off his mask.

You keep looking at him as he tries his best to fix the messy curls at the top of his head, reaching for his glasses inside a compartment in his suit. Even now, in a darkened room and uncertain waters, you can't help but notice he's ridiculously gorgeous. It's almost annoying to feel this much towards him.

“I shouldn't have spied on you and Chris earlier,” he says out of nowhere, seemingly unaware that you were staring at him. “That was a bit creepy of me. I’ll admit it.”

“I appreciate that you're apologizing, but it's really not necessary,” you reply, offering him a tentative smile. “If anything, I should be the one saying sorry. Like, I don't know how many apologies I owe you at this point.”

“Not that many,” he replies in a much lighter voice. He almost sounds like he usually does, which brings an inexplicable sense of familiarity that you've been craving since you sang together in his car. “Besides, it's all forgiven on my part, so you don't really have to apologize either.”

The fact that he's so willing to forgive you when you clearly don't deserve it tugs at something within you. It makes you feel even worse somehow, but it also kinda reminds you why you’ve grown to like him so much. “No, but I do. Because I really am sorry for the way I’ve treated you.”

He looks a bit taken aback by the sheer honesty in your voice, not knowing how to answer at first. Perhaps he also didn’t expect to finally find some sort of bridge between the two of you to communicate about what the hell has been going on lately. 

“I forgive you,” he insists, shrugging. He looks a bit awkward, but you figured it’s because he also doesn’t have a clue of what he’s doing. “Maybe I should’ve acted differently? I don’t know. I actually have no fucking idea what’s been happening in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah, I get that,” you offer sympathetically, sighing softly. “There’s a lot that I would’ve done differently for sure. Turns out I’m an even bigger mess than I thought.”

“Hey, would you really be an 11th Street Kid if you weren’t fucked in the head?”

The comment manages to make you laugh. “I guess that’s kind of our thing.”

Another silence. Your eyes wander across the room until they focus on his profile again, noticing he’s also taking in every detail of your bedroom– or at least most of what he can make out in the dark. If you could take a look inside his head, you'd probably see the gear in his brain overworking itself in hopes of trying to come up with something to say to spare himself from the uncertainty of pure silence.

When he looks back at you, the only thing you can do at that moment is smile at him. He already caught you staring, so what’s really the point of trying to act like you weren’t. 

“What?” he asks, a soft laugh escaping him.

You shrug nonchalantly. “Nothing. I’m just looking at you.”

“That’s creepy too.”

“Yeah, I think it is. I’m sorry.”

Now he’s the one shrugging. “I never said it was a bad thing. Just creepy.”

“Oh, so you don’t mind that I look at you?”

“Of course not. I like when you look at me.”

It’s actually unfair how much his words manage to impact you. An overflowing warmth spreads through your body, stomach fluttering as you find it impossible to keep looking at him. Is he really making you this nervous just with that little comment? Does he really have this much power over you to leave you a complete mess with barely any efforts?

“I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” he says, immediately making you look back at him again. He looks troubled. It’s not like he’s the best at reading other people’s emotions, so he really can't tell if your silence is a good or a bad thing.

“No, no. It’s fine!” you reassure him quick enough. “I just…I wasn't expecting you to say that.” The little giggle that escapes you only helps to make you feel even more embarrassed, because at this point it’s painfully obvious what he’s doing to you. “This is a good reaction, actually.”

“Oh!” he says with obvious relief. “It’s– okay. Am I, like, making you nervous or something?”

You struggle to answer at first, because admitting shit like this is definitely not something you’re used to. “Yeah, and you’re kinda making it worse with that question.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn't really mean it. You can hear it in the way he apologizes. He looks way too happy with that information to feel sorry about it. “If it helps to make you feel any better, I get nervous around you all the time– wait, am I really making you nervous?”

The fact that he seems unable to process what you just admitted to him makes you chuckle. “Why is it so hard to believe?”

“I don't know, you're just not the type to get nervous. You're too much of a badass for that.”

“Well, I might not be too much of a badass when it comes to this,” you reply in an even softer voice, feeling like you're stepping way out of your comfort zone. But it's worth it– he is worth it, so you just roll with it. 

“This…” he trails off, looking like he wants a further explanation. 

“Us. Whatever that's going on between us, and that I’ve tried to run away from since last night– perhaps even longer than that.” As nerve-wracking as saying all of this is, it feels like a massive weight is being lifted off your shoulders. “I don't know. I’m not really good at…expressing myself, but– but I guess I can't keep trying to act like I don't feel some type of way about you.”

If he looked excited before, now he looks like he might actually begin cheering out loud. “Really?” he asks almost immediately, scooting closer to you. “Because I like you a lot. Like, a ridiculous amount. Sure, I said we could be just friends and all that, but…I like you in a so not-friend way! And how could I not be into you? I mean…look at you!”

His excited little ramble is probably one of the cutest things you've witnessed, immediately making you smile. “I actually don't understand how you even like me.”

“You want me to list everything out loud?” he offers it genuinely, like he’s fully capable of pointing out every single reason. You don't doubt that he can.

“Perhaps some other time,” you reply, voice trying to convey just how much you're craving his affection right now. He looks in complete awe when you move closer, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Now I just really want to kiss you.”

You don't need to say anything else. In a matter of seconds, he has an arm wrapped around your waist and he pulls you impossibly closer. A little gasp escapes you at the unexpected force practically dragging you to his lap, but you're soon enough comfortably straddling him, mouth crashing against his.

He holds you like he hasn't had the chance to in years, hands firmly pressed against your back as he keeps you glued to his body. The kiss, although undeniably passionate, is slow and intentional. Like it's okay to take your time and enjoy it, because there's absolutely nothing in this world that could be more important than being like this right now.

There's something special about this moment. It makes your head spin and your entire body ache for him as if you're not currently on his lap and in between his arms. Not like what already has happened between the two of you didn't mean anything, but there's this extra layer of fulfillment now that's it's already painfully clear that you like him and he likes you.

It feels like you might actually allow yourself to fully give in to this feeling that you’ve been trying to outrun. 

But you sense a bit of hesitation in him when he pulls away from the kiss, looking back at you. “Are you completely sure? Like…you’re not going to backtrack later? Because I don’t think I can–”

You quiet his worries with a short kiss, offering him a smile immediately after. “I’m completely sure.”

It’s like your words make all his restraint snap, immediately pulling you back into a seething kiss that confirms you’re making the right decision by finally choosing him. Not your fears, or pride, or weird need to try to control a situation that’s quite literally out of your control. How do you control the inevitable pull that forces you to be close to him whenever he’s around? How do you trick yourself into thinking his random animal facts don't make your heart melt because he’s just so cute when he gets all excited sharing them with you? How are you going to control yourself after knowing how good his mouth feels against yours?

There’s just no way you can run away from this. It was going to catch up to you sooner or later, so you might as well just let it happen.

Your brain is deprived of any trace of logical thinking when he groans into your mouth, holding you impossibly tight against the hard front of his suit. One of his hands trails down your spine, resting at the very end of your back, giving you the slightest of encouragements as another sound dies against your lips.

The first few rolls of your hips make him pull away from your mouth, eyes locking almost immediately. You’re not entirely sure if he can feel much in his suit, but the simple act of having you moving on top of him seems to be more than enough.

He presses kisses along your jaw, muttering a few things here and there. “You’re so pretty”. “Does it feel good?”. “I’m fucking crazy about you”. Each whisper against your skin makes you feel more and more lightheaded, the process of breathing just a little more difficult, and the urgency of your movements increases.

And then another whisper. One a lot more rushed. Desperate. “I want you to sit on my face.” It sends actual shivers down your spine. “Please.”

There’s no way you can refuse. Not when he asks you in that tone and you can notice the excitement exuding from him in anticipation if you were to agree.

He looks like he just won the fucking lottery or something when you stand up from his lap, seemingly agreeing with his request. You want to remove the joggers you’ve put on to sleep but he beats you to it, sitting at the very edge of your bed as he slowly slides them down your legs, eyes glued to yours as he does it. You can’t quite process just how hot he looks in his suit, looking up at you like that with the tiniest grin on his lips.

A little breathy sound erupts from your lips when he inches his face closer, pressing a kiss to your hipbone while his hands keep a strong grip on your thighs, squeezing your flesh in a way that immediately threatens to make your knees buckle.

Adrian only moves away from you when he’s hurriedly trying to get rid of as much gear as possible– gun holster, belt and the blade strapped to his back all joining his mask on the floor. You almost want to say something about the way he just casually throws his gun like it’s nothing, but you can’t bring yourself to say anything that would distract you from this moment.

Back fully pressed against the mattress now, he waits for you like you’re about to give him the most amazing present ever. Perhaps you are. He watches in awe as you climb in bed with him and, although there’s nothing that you want more than to feel his mouth on you, the situation still makes you feel a tiny bit embarrassed. The hesitation within you is probably evident in the way you press both knees at each side of his face, sinking your body almost tentatively.

If he detected some of that embarrassment, he doesn’t acknowledge it. And if he did, he doesn’t allow you to dwell too much on it because his gloved hands are quickly gripping your hips to bring you down to his face in one swift, urgent move. A low groan vibrates against you almost immediately, and you watch with delightful surprise how he quite literally buries his face in you.

It’s like he’s been waiting a long time to fulfill this particular fantasy of his, showing his gratitude to you and the entire universe for this opportunity in the form of eager swirls of his tongue and needy moans. Like a man starved, almost at the brick of death, he devours you like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. Like he can’t possibly get enough now.

The rapid movements of his tongue and the way his nose keeps sliding against your clit overwhelms you, and it's so incredibly intense that you have to hold onto the headboard of your bed, your entire body shuddering as the most painful moan rips from your throat. The grip on your hips only gets tighter when you try to rock your hips against his face because he wants to do all the work.

The light coming from the lamppost outside is enough to catch a glimpse of his face– the part that you can see, at least. His glasses are fogging and he barely allows himself a few moments to breathe before he dives right in. 

Your moans only increase in volume, hoping your poor neighbors aren't hearing any of this. Each sound is laced with desperation, his mouth doing wonders and driving you closer and closer to your sweet release. The obscene sounds and scenery before you aren't doing you any favors either. And the fact that his own groans of delight keep vibrating against the most sensitive parts of your body might just make this that much difficult for you.

So, really, the possibilities of holding back your orgasm were very slim. When you do surrender to the indescribable feeling his mouth is providing, it's intense and almost painful. Your hands grip the headboard so tight, you fear you might actually manage to break it somehow. Thighs tremble just enough, but his gloved hands provide enough support so you don't fully collapse on top of him.

He gladly accepts every last drop of his work’s efforts, his once merciless tongue just now slowing down to give you room to come down from your high. The tight grip on your hips only loosens when he notices your breathing has become steady enough.

Your mouth finds his own as soon as you reposition yourself on top of him, chest fully pressed to his and knees at each side of his body. A soft moan escapes you when you taste yourself on his tongue, fingers gently tugging at his curls as the kiss deepens.

“That was just…” he says as soon as you pull away from his lips, slightly out of breath. “It was…so much better than I anticipated. It's like you're a dream come true.”

“I think I should be the one saying all that,” you offer with a soft giggle, enjoying the way his hands run up and down your bare thighs. “And you know…you might be even more dangerous that I originally thought.”

“Dangerous?” he asks with the most nom-dangerous smile you've ever seen. “How am I dangerous?”

“You might be a little too good at this, and then I’ll want to fuck you every second of the day.”

His smile only widens at that, letting out a silly little chuckle. “You say that as if it's a bad thing.” And then, before you even have time to process what he's doing, he flips you over so he can be on top now. “I’d gladly stay like this with you forever.”

“Well, I’d prefer it if you have less clothes on.” You notice he looks down, almost as if he’s just now remembering that he's still fully dressed. “I mean, not like the suit isn't doing it for me, but…”

He leans down to give you a quick kiss on the lips. “You want me to fuck you with the suit on?”

The question stuns you at first. Then, you look away from him just for a few seconds, almost as if you're thinking about it. “I guess I wouldn't mind if you decide to do that.”

“Wait, are you serious? I didn't know you liked the suit.”

“Now you do,” you offer, shrugging innocently. He looks pleasantly surprised. “Do with that information what you will.”

He can't resist the urge to kiss you again, smiling against your lips. “You're fucking amazing.”

Despite wanting to keep making out with him, he stands up from the bed before you can do anything about it, extending his hands to you so he can help you stand up. You don't fully decipher what he's planning until you're on your feet again and Adrian is immediately pulling you close, guiding you towards your desk. It's right by the window and it barely has anything on the surface, so he wastes no time as he lifts you up just enough, helping you take a seat on top of it.

“I think you get a better look from here, right?” he asks, standing right in front of you. 

The lighting from outside cascades perfectly upon him. Your eyes trail down the black and teal suit, admiring how it looks on him, fingers mindlessly tracing patterns on the armor plate at his shoulder. Is there something about him breaking into your apartment in the middle of the night that's making it for you right now? Whatever it is, it’s turning you on more than you’d like to admit out loud.

Adrian hurriedly works on getting rid of his pants, sliding them down to about the middle of his thighs. You watch the sheer desperation in his eyes as he inches closer, trying to find enough self control to slide inside you as gently and slowly as possible.

His eyes close as he lets out a shuddering sigh of relief when the first few inches of him are finally inside you. “Fuck,” he mutters, a hand at your lower back to keep you in place at the very edge of the desk.

You moan in response, eyes glued to where your bodies merge and feeling like you might actually lose your mind if he pretends to move this slow the entire time. When he bottoms out, he allows himself some time to savor the feeling. Arms wrapped around you, lips placing soft kisses on your shoulder. It's only when he feels the way you wiggle your hips that his eyes find yours again.

“You're being a little impatient,” he comments playfully, allowing you one thrust of his hips that almost makes you gasp. “It looks like you really like the suit.”

“It's not just the suit,” you reply almost immediately, placing a hand at the back of his neck, trying to reach his lips. He complies, leaning down to kiss you. “Fuck me,” you half-demand, half-plead against his lips. “Please, Adrian, I need you…”

His mouth crashes against yours almost at the same time as his hips begging to move at a speed that would have you screaming if it wasn't for his tongue in your mouth. If you ask him to fuck you, then that's exactly what you're going to get. It's rough, intense and it has both of you moaning pathetically into each other's mouth. The desk underneath you squeaks just a little, and you fear it's going to break if Adrian decides to keep this up.

But he doesn't stop. He can't bring himself to slow down now. Not when you've asked one thing of him and he's just so eager to please you in any way that he can. You feel one of his hands playing with your breasts, sneaking underneath your tank top, and you immediately lean into the rough touch of his gloves. The other stays at your lower back, almost wanting to angle your hips so he's able to go as deep as he possibly can.

“Like– is this okay?” he asks against your mouth, completely out of breath, a throaty groan leaving his lips right after. “Doesn't hurt?”

You shake your head. “Feels so good…don't stop.”

“Okay…okay, okay. Just making sure. I won't stop…won't stop until– fuck! until I make a mess of you.”

And he keeps that promise, pounding into you like his life depended on it. You catch a glimpse of his little smirk before your eyes roll to the back of your head. It's like Adrian already knows what to look for to see if you're close or not, because as soon as you do that, his hand trails down in between your bodies, urgently rubbing your clit to help you reach your orgasm faster.

You have to kiss him again when you come, preventing you from potentially waking up every single person living in this building. Legs shudder at each side of him, walls squeezing him for dear life. It's like you're floating, completely lost in a haze of pleasure that you didn't even know was reachable until this point.

Who knew he could fuck like this?

Luckily enough, his movements slow down to let you regain some composure, but it's hard to fully recover when he's still thrusting in and out of you, making you tremble a little whenever his tip brushes against your sensitive spot.

You move back from his lips, leaning into his touch when his hand is holding the side of your face. “Are you okay?”

It's almost annoying that he dares to ask that after almost splitting you in half– almost, because your stomach flutters at his sudden gentleness so you can really be annoyed by it.

“Okay is an understatement,” you reply with a lazy grin, which makes him chuckle briefly.

His fingers are trailing your jaw now, eyes sparkling with just a pinch of mischief. “So you can give me one more?”

As if you didn't already know what he means by that, he rolls his hips more vigorously this time, scanning your reaction. It makes you whimper, still not entirely composed yet, but you nod regardless.

That characteristic grin of his appears on his face, gradually speeding his thrusts. “Yeah?”

You couldn't answer that even if you wanted to. Not verbally, at least, because almost as soon as he asks, two of his gloved fingers are sliding inside your mouth. He watches in awe how you take his fingers, sucking on them as he presses them against your tongue.

“That's so hot,” he mutters, the words coming out with difficulty as he keeps thrusting in and out of you. “I think you were– fuck, like you made for me.”

You don't know for sure what the answer to that might be, but there must be some truth to it because there's just no way this whole entire thing is some good-timed coincidence. There's nothing coincidental about the way you feel about him, or how much this affection you feel towards him just keeps growing the more you allow yourself to drown yourself in it.

You're not a sucker for destined soulmates and corny shit like that, but maybe there's something that was tying you to him long before you realized the two of you ever being anything more than friends was even a possibility.

He urges your hips up just a little more, letting out a shuddering moan when he feels the slightest shift in angle, keeping his eyes glued to the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. 

Still sucking on his fingers, you only realize he's probably close when his thrusts slow down just briefly, like he has to make sure he's not about to release his load inside you right at that very moment. The sight of him looking at the bridge of collapse makes you clench around him, which only works to make him crumble a little more.

He gives you his last series of thrusts, your orgasm and his almost in sync. You would've probably fallen backwards if he didn't immediately wrap both arms around you, resting his forehead on your shoulder as he tried to catch his breath.

“Is it me or does this get better each time?” he asks after a few seconds of complete silence. Still buried deep within you, not daring to move just yet. Before you can actually answer, he keeps talking. “Wait. I think I might need a third to test my theory– and a fourth, just for further research.”

“Oh, that was very smooth,” you tease, letting out a soft chuckle. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Next morning, your bed feels surprisingly empty, like Adrian didn’t sleep there beside you at all. Sure enough, you reach out with your arm, still a bit sleepy, finding nothing but the covers and the mattress. Before confusion and a weird sense of longing starts to creep in, you sit up on your bed and notice the suit is still on the chair he left it on last night, which means he has to be here.

You get up, using the bathroom to pee and wash your face before leaving your room in search of Adrian. It's not like your apartment is that big, so you quickly find him in the kitchen. “Good morning?” you greet him in a questioning voice, wondering what the hell he is doing. 

As soon as he turns around, you can tell he's disappointed. “Oh…good morning– sorry, I didn't mean it like that,” he replies, quickly realizing his lack of enthusiasm. “I really wanted to surprise you!” 

“I am surprised,” you reply, eyeing your surroundings with curiosity. He's wearing your kitchen apron on top of his white tank top and boxers. There's hot coffee on your coffee machine and a pile of pancakes on a plate next to the frying pan he's using. “Are you making breakfast?”

“Yes, that was the surprise. I wanted to wake you up with breakfast in bed, but…well, you're awake already.”

You're not sure if you're actually awake because this feels so surreal, you might as well be dreaming. Is he really standing in your kitchen making pancakes and coffee for you? Even when the whole thing feels incredibly weird, you can deny the domestic element of it all is almost…comforting. Like you enjoy the idea of waking up to this, and maybe you wouldn't be opposed to this becoming a somewhat recurring thing.

But you don't address any of it. Instead, you walk towards the coffee machine and grab two mugs from your cupboard. “I didn't picture you as a cooking type-of-guy.”

“Trust me, I have many hidden talents. I’m actually a decent cook, I just don't do it very often– oh, expect rice. I cannot for the life of me cook rice.”

You can't hold back your laughter, that comforting feeling inside you only growing with each second that you spend in his presence. At first you feared waking up together could be a little awkward, but it's proven to be the complete opposite.

“Do you want any sugar?”

“Yes, please. Five.”

“You drink your coffee with five tablespoons of sugar?” you ask, surprise evident as you turn to look at him. “Like…regularly?” 

“Well, yeah, but I’m not obsessed with coffee or anything, so I’m not drinking it every single day. And I need to have it that way because if it has less than five sugars, it’s going to taste like dirt.”

“I don't remember you asking for sugar at Em’s apartment.”

“I didn't want the others to give me shit for it– which you're kinda doing now, by the way.”

“I’m sorry, do you feel judged?” you tease, noticing how his grin widens when he turns to look at you.

“Very. That's why I didn't want to share my secret with the others. I thought this was a safe space, but maybe I was wrong.”

“Oh my god, you're so dramatic,” you laugh yet again, grabbing the sugar and pouring exactly the amount that Adrian requested. No wonder he's so hyperactive if a black coffee with five sugars is the thing he drinks to start his day.

He flips over the last pancake, cooking it for a few more seconds before placing it on the plate with the others. He makes his way to you, arms wrapping around you from behind. You feel him kiss the top of your head, but you don't react. In fact, you're actually stunned because this whole thing is completely new to you. Sure, you've had a few guys over at your place, but they usually leave that very same night or as soon as they wake up in the morning. It's never making you breakfast and hugging you from behind.

It's not like you don't want to react to all of these gestures, it's more like you don't know how.

So, the only thing that pops inside your head is to offer him his cup of coffee. Luckily, he doesn't seem to notice how much you're overthinking everything as he quickly accepts it, letting you go. “Thanks.” He took a sip to taste its sweetness, nodding in approval.

You take a sip of your own coffee too, turning around so your lower back is pressed against the counter. There's this silence between you, him looking at you while you keep the mug near your lips as if it could shield you from any potential display of physical affection.

“Should we eat?I kinda want to rank these pancakes.” It’s the first thing that you can come up with to distract you from your complicated feelings.

He laughs, silently agreeing as he walks towards your small dining table. There's enough space for two people to eat comfortably, so you move the large plate with the pancakes to it before looking for plates for the two of you.

“You want butter?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Can you grab it from the fridge, please? I think I have some syrup left in that cupboard up there, too.”

“Got it.”

Again, this sentiment of familiarity is becoming way too overwhelming, forcing you to rapidly grab everything to take a seat across from him, as if that could possibly provide any form of security– security from what? You don’t exactly know the answer to that.

He watches you take your first bite, grinning in anticipation as he leans forward. “So? Are they approved despite your unreachable standards?”

“Hey, I never said I had unreachable standards,” you argue back almost immediately once you've swallowed your food. “They're actually very good. Congratulations.”

He leans back on his chair, seemingly satisfied. In fact, that would be an understatement. He looks like you just made his entire day with that compliment. “Now I know what to make you for breakfast,” he replies, crossing his arms. You can't help but notice the way his muscles flex when he does that. Why doesn't he wear these tight, sleeveless tops more often? Or perhaps it's better if he doesn't. That way you’re the only one who gets to witness the mouthwatering sight that is sitting before you.

As hot as his muscles look, you get immediately distracted when he speaks again. “Hey, do you want to hear a new crow fact I learned recently?”

He looks far too excited to say no. Besides, you've grown to appreciate his animal facts. “Sure.”

“They can remember human faces! Which means, they’re nice or mean to you depending if they liked you or not. And if they don't like you, they can tell their crow friends to be mean to you as well.”

“And how do I know if a crow likes me or not?”

“Well, if they don't try to poke you in the eye, you're all good. I think they can even, like, bow if they think you're cool. That's sick, right?” he keeps grinning from ear-to-ear, getting way too carried away about the crows. “They're one of the coolest animals. I’d like to meet one someday– maybe I can get them to be my friend! It'd be just like Eagly.”

The rest of your breakfast consisted of hearing more animal facts (mostly about crows and spiders). You don't know exactly which of them are true and which he completely fabricated, but you don't care. He looks pretty rambling like that.

Adrian offers to wash the dishes and you can't help but find the entire dynamic absolutely diabolical. It's like he wants to give you a mental breakdown. And that fucking tank top just does this a trillion times worse. He probably has no idea how hot he looks right now, which makes him even more attractive.

You watch him in silence, thinking to yourself how did you even end up in this situation. Adrian stayed over last night (after fucking your brains out) and you're loving every second of his presence. Like you wouldn't mind if he decides to stop by your apartment a lot more often.

He catches you staring, offering you a smile before taking the latex gloves off. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Shit. 

“Okay.”

“When you were at Peacemaker's house– without me, by the way, which still hurts– you said you were talking about me, right? What exactly did you guys talk about?”

He's standing right in front of you, and you feel like you have no way to escape now. “Just…you know, what we talked about yesterday about– uh, about me feeling…things.”

“Right,” he nods, looking just a tiny bit impatient. “And just to make sure we’re on the same page here, how do you feel about me, exactly? I mean, I don't mean to be pushy or anything, it's just that…sometimes you're a bit undecipherable.”

You look up into his eyes, feeling like your lungs are running out of oxygen and your stomach is twisting into a series of complicated knots. “I like spending time with you. And it's…you know, I like being around you. I feel…safe.”

Your words make him smile, and you can actually see the slight flush in his cheeks. It's the cutest thing you've ever seen. “Well, I also like spending time with you. And I feel everything when you're around. All sunshine and rainbows and cute little animals singing and shit– that's how my head probably looks like right now.”

Despite the laughter that erupts from you after his words, you can't help but feel a heavy weight on your shoulders. He’s always been so vocal and honest about whatever that's on his mind, you don't doubt he'll be just as expressive when it comes to his feelings for you if you were to give each other a chance. That's just how he is.

But you can't help but feel a little guilty, because that's exactly the type of person you aren't. You struggle with that whole thing. Expressing your feelings in a healthy way and all that. You're the kind of person that freaks out when someone wants to do something nice for you. If they get too close, you inevitably create distance. Again, not because you want to, but because that's how you've always been. That is who you are.

“You're doing that again.”

Adrian's words make you snap out of it almost immediately. “What?”

“That thing you do…like you're putting up hard steel walls around your head so no one can know what's up there.” He lightly taps the side of your head, hoping that the conversation remains light and honest. You can tell he's starting to get a bit worried that you'd decide to push him away again.

And you do feel that need to run away, but for once, you try to ignore it. “It's just that I’m a very difficult person emotionally. And this whole thing is reaaally making me step out of my comfort zone and I don't think I can handle it. I don't want to hurt you just because I don't know how to handle my fucking feelings.”

He offers you a soft smile that you find instantly comforting. “Hey, I’m not the most stable person either. Peacemaker always says that I’m ‘too much’, and maybe I am. But you said you like spending time with me, right? Even when I'm too much.”

“Yeah, I kinda like that you're too much,” you nod, a bit uncertain on where this is going, but choosing to hear him out.

“I like that you're difficult emotionally! I mean, not like that's exclusively what I like– and, you know, maybe there's some room to improve there. Therapy and all that…” He notices he's starting to ramble a little, lightly shaking his head before continuing. “My point is, I don't care about that, because at the end of the day I still like you a lot. And if you give me a chance…you know, this might work. We make sense in a weird way– or maybe we don't make any fucking sense all at, I don't know. But we make sense to me, so…” he lets out an almost exhausted sigh, as if he's fearing he might not be able to quiet your worries. “If you could just give me a chance…”

You don't know how to answer at first. He looks so desperate for you to just give him the opportunity to prove to you just how much sense this all makes in his head. Again, he's looking at you like you hold his entire world in the palm of your hand and you don't really know what to do with that information. It's terrifying to have that responsibility, but it also fuels you with a sense of purpose– like you're willing to do everything to prove to him that he's putting his trust in the right hands.

Maybe he mistakes your prolonged silence as a bad sign, because he starts talking again almost immediately. “You know, we could go slow with the whole PDA thing. We don't have to be calling each other corny names all the time or holding hands– hell, I struggle with human contact from time to time so even I will need space sometimes. And– and, you know, it's not like I need words of affirmation every five seconds so we’re cool there too, and–”

“Adrian,” you cut him off, finding his rambling incredibly adorable but also a bit overwhelming.

“Sorry. I’m just– sorry. It's your turn to speak.”

“My thoughts are a lot more precise,” you offer with a smile, hoping that could ease some of his concerns. “I was just going to say that maybe we can give this a try and see how it goes.”

You swear you've never seen him this happy before. It's like right up there with the time Chris sent him that video of a squirrel jumping from one tree to the other with the “this reminds me of you” text. Or the time he saw an owl outside his window and he bombarded the group chat with pictures and then just wouldn't shut up about it for two weeks straight.

“Wait, really?” he asks, almost unable to hold back his excitement as he jumps up and down on his spot. “Do you absolutely mean it?”

“Yes, I mean it. If we can respect and adapt to each other's pace, then I think this can work.”

“Fuck yeah, it'll work!” he exclaims, making you laugh again. “We’re basically couple goals! We’re badass, we fight crime, you're super hot and I’m completely obsessed with you.”

Still laughing, you wrap your arms around his neck and he immediately responds by placing both hands on your hips, pulling you in. Your giggles are only stopping when he leans down to kiss you. Completely melting into his touch, you return the kiss with equal fervor and affection. 

It's passionate, but so incredibly sweet at the same time that you're almost unable to process it. From breakfast to this kiss, you haven't been able to process any of it. This guy is absolutely down bad, and it's actually mind-blowing how you were able to find this kind of affection that you never really thought to be deserving of. Maybe you do deserve it, and he might actually be able to help you believe that.

So, you know what? Fuck yeah. This will work.

previous part | next part

When Emilia got back late last night, when she told you that Adrian had been captured—time felt like it stopped, for a moment. A long, agonizing moment, during which all you could do was imagine the worst. Adrian locked up, Adrian beaten and tortured, Adrian killed.

Then Chris had said, “We’ll go get him.” Like it was simple. It is simple, in a lot of ways. Of course, you were going to get him. You would never leave him. But the obstacles you had to cross to get your Alpha safe in your arms again felt more impossible than ever to overcome, simply for how important it is to bring him home safely.

After that, everything was a blur—everyone rushing around to gather their things, scrambling to make a haphazard plan, and all you can remember thinking as you shoved your things into your duffle bag is Adrian, Adrian needs me, Adrian is in trouble, Adrian—

And now this. Now the hours-long van ride, where you have nothing to do but think, and time feels wonky again, stretched too long and thin. Every mile brings you closer to him, you remind yourself.

You wish someone would talk. You wish you could explode and all of this anxiety that’s making your chest so tight it hurts. You want to snap, you want to get out of the van and run, you want—

You want Adrian.

Everyone else is silent and staring, stewing in their own inner thoughts.

John stares at the road, knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel, frowning. Chris sits beside him, still as a statue, doing the same, eyes on the road, his jaw set. Ads and Emilia sit in the back, staring at their feet, at their hands. But not you.

The full force of your fiercest glare is turned on Emilia Harcourt.

She finally glances up at you and gives a long, tired sigh.

“Go ahead,” she says. “Let me have it.”

“How could you let him do this?” you ask. You’re so angry at her you’ve circled back around to calm.

“I didn’t let him do anythi—”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you continue, ignoring her entirely. “You are our pack Alpha. I trust you to take care of me. We trust you to take care of all of us.” Your voice trembles at the start as you try to keep your cool but—fuck, you are so fucking angry. It rises into a furious shout, like it’s out of your control. “Now my Alpha is in enemy hands and you left him there alone! They’re going to kill him!”

“They probably won’t kill him,” John disagrees. “They’ll torture him for information.”

“That is not helping, Economos,” Chris says.

“He’s been tortured before, he can take it,” Emilia says. “I’m not worried.”

“All of you, shut the FUCK up,” you shout. You round on Emilia again, fury burning in your eyes. “You should have called me. You should have waited, like we fucking decided as a team. If you had any respect for me, for any of us—but you and him, you’re both the fucking same, aren’t you? God, what a match made in hell. Was Adrian being an idiot already without you? Yes. But you should have stopped him. You should have called me. You could have made a thousand different choices besides the dumbass decision you actually made, because you let your anger and impatience get the better of you. You’re just as bad as he is, but you know what—he’s been an Alpha for less than a year. He’s still learning. You’ve had a lifetime to get your fucking shit together, Harcourt. If he—” Your voice cracks. “If he dies, Emilia, I will never, ever forgive you.”

“I know,” she says. It’s solemn. Resigned.

Despite everything, you wanted her to reassure you. To tell you that everything’s going to be okay.

No. You want Adrian. You want his reassurance, his comfort. His voice in your ear, his hands on your body, his scent enveloping you until it’s just the two of you and nothing else matters, you want everything to be okay. 

But as Emilia stares right back at you, you feel nothing but an empty chill.

“What if he’s—” you ask, your voice small and terrified, your throat tight, choked by the tears you can’t stop. “What if he’s already—”

You can’t say it. You can’t.

It’s Chris, who speaks, then, turning around from the passenger’s seat and reaching out a hand to rest on your shoulder.

“You’re mated, now,” he reminds you, nodding at the scarred tissue on your neck, the impression of Adrian’s teeth. “If he was gone, you would know. You would feel it.”

You take a shaky breath and wipe away your streaming tears, nodding. He’s right. You know he is. You feel this awful, terrible, gaping hole inside your chest right now, and you can’t stop spiralling, thinking about how much worse it could be if Adrian was actually—

No.

Adrian is okay. For now, that treacherous voice inside your head whispers. But if anything happens to him, if you can’t save him in time—you’re not sure anything will ever be okay again.

A few hours later, John parks the van around the corner from the dilapidated warehouse serving as Sullivan’s headquarters.

“You okay, kid?” Chris asks quietly. You’re watching the others shuffle around silently with careful eyes—Emilia loading a gun and handing it to Ads. John getting out of the driver’s seat and cracking open his laptop so he can hack into Sullivan’s security cameras.

“I’ll be okay once he is okay,” you say, matching Chris’s volume. You look up at him, biting your lip. “He is gonna be okay, right?”

“He’s a sturdy son of a bitch,” Chris reminds you, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Even if they’ve beat the shit out of him—he’ll sleep it off and be good as new tomorrow. And he can withstand a little torture. I told him when Goff tried to cut off his toe it was a self-improvement exercise. Looky here, I was right!”

The corner of your mouth quirks up despite the circumstances. “Yeah. He told me about that. He’s still bitter about it.”

“Trust me, I know,” Chris smiles. “Come on. Get armored up. You should grab a bulletproof vest—”

“Actually,” you interrupt. “I’ve got something already.”

You hold up a duffle bag that you’d hastily stuffed full of mission supplies in the middle of the frenzy before you left the office. You reach inside and pull out the project you’ve been quietly working on while everyone else has been bouncing around the west coast on their murder missions.

“Is that a…vigilante suit?” Ads asks when she sees the sturdy black fabric clutched in your hand. Everyone turns to look at you, some eyebrows raised, others furrowed.

“Um. Yeah.”

“How the fuck did you even know how to—”

“I watched Adrian rebuild his suit from scratch, after his old suit didn’t fit anymore,” you remind them all. “I took notes. And used all of the kevlar scraps. And recycled some of the armor from his old suit.”

The others gape at you, staring as you start stripping off your shirt and jeans to shuffle into your new uniform. You raise your eyebrows.

“I know that we as a pack have, like, no boundaries, but it’s weird that you’re all staring at me in my underwear like this,” you observe. They don’t respond. You roll your eyes and turn your back to Ads once you pull on the sleeves. “Zip me up?” She follows your instruction wordlessly. 

The fabric fits like a glove. You’d designed it based on your own measurements. It’s not as fancy as Adrian’s, with the decorative teal and white V on his chest plate, or a mask to cover your face, but it does the job. You’d designed for functionality and practicality, not vibes. Nevertheless it suits you quite well, contoured to every curve of your body, and—

“Adrian is gonna want to fuck you in that thing,” Chris says. Emilia snorts.

“Adrian wants to fuck her all the time anyway,” John says. “They are constantly fucking on Adrian’s workbench—”

“Has anyone heard from Judomaster and Bordeaux yet?” you ask, ignoring his comment even as your face flushes with heat. Ads had contacted the others and let them know to abandon their mission to high-tail it to Star City to meet the rest of you, while you left Fleury behind at the office, still recovering from his injury.

“They’ll be here in twenty,” Ads reports.

“Good,” you say. You don’t want to wait any longer. You glance at John’s laptop screen. “Any luck, John?”

“I’m in,” he reports. “Their security is bullshit. Dev Mason probably set it up, it’s as bad as his fucking disorganized laptop. There’s only like three cameras.”

Your heart skips a beat and you peer closer over John’s shoulder. “Do you see—”

“No sign of Adrian,” John says, almost apologetically. “I’m sure he’s in there somewhere, though.”

“Not necessarily,” Ads points out. She also looks a little apologetic as she says it, wincing as she looks at you.

“Everyone stop treating me like I’m fucking fragile,” you say after a moment of silence where everyone stares at you to gauge your reaction. “I’m not going to fall apart. Tell it like it is, and then we can fix it.”

Ads nods. “Sorry. You’re right. I just mean—they might have taken him to a secondary location to make it harder for us to find him. They know we’re coming, that we wouldn’t abandon him. But that doesn’t mean they kept him here. I know we’re all pissed as hell—” Ads looks pointedly at Emilia, “—but we should keep at least one person alive and subdued for information purposes, in case it’s needed. Preferably Leon Sullivan. He’s the man in charge, so he’ll know the most.”

“I can handle Sullivan,” Emilia says darkly. “I’ll take Judomaster and Ads with me.”

“Are you sure?” Chris says, and the tension in the van heightens as everyone pauses. “That you can keep a level head right now?” 

Chris doesn’t often question Emilia, at least not in front of everyone else, but—maybe, you think, he’s still pissed at her for the stunt she and Adrian pulled that led you to this situation. Emilia, to her credit, doesn’t bite back. She knows exactly what she did, and what she has to do now to fix it.

“I can,” she says. “Our goal right now is not killing them all. That’s a nice bonus, sure, and we absolutely should shoot to kill for everyone else that we run into. But we’re here to get Adrian out. That’s priority number one.”

That answer seems to satisfy Chris. He nods. “Okay. Run through the plan one more time. I want everyone on the same page.”

“Again, they know we’re coming. We are going in there expecting a hostile and prepared enemy,” Ads says. “Sullivan’s agents have been standing guard. They might even have set up traps. I don’t think they would rig explosives inside their own office building, but you never know.”

“The place is a piece of shit, they’re probably not too attached to it,” John mutters. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary on the cams though. There are three inside guarding the main doors. Four more scattered throughout the facility. I don’t see Sullivan. He might be with Adrian, wherever they’re keeping him.”

A knock on the van door startles you, and you cock your gun and point it at the back door. The others do the same, a chorus of safeties being clicked off, fingers resting on triggers. But then you hear the voice on the other side.

“Let us in, bitches,” Judomaster says. Five pairs of shoulders, taut with tension, slump as you all lower your weapons. Emilia reaches for the door and cracks it open enough for him and Bordeaux to slip inside. Judomaster eyes your new suit with appreciation.

“Nice outfit,” he says. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or if he means it. He always sounds sarcastic. It confuses Adrian constantly.

“Alright, what’s the plan?” Bordeaux asks. You sigh.

“One more time,” Ads says.

She quickly reviews the plan for the two newcomers who listen attentively. You start to get twitchy, trying to stamp down your impatience.

“It might be safer to wait until nightfall,” Bordeaux points out once Ads is done. “Some of them might go home for the night.”

“Absolutely fucking not,” you say through gritted teeth. “We are here. We are going in to get him. Now.” If you wait any longer, you really are going to explode. Every minute that passes without Adrian in your sight, in your grasp, ramps up your fear another notch.

“Okay.” Bordeaux assents, looking at you warily. You’re about ready to vibrate out of your skin, and the others can tell. “Let’s go get your Alpha, then.”

Adrian flinches out of a dead sleep. He tries, desperately, to blink away the haze of the drugs, tugging at his restraints, but—nothing. He’d had a modicum of hope, earlier, when his hands were slippery with blood, that they’d just…slip off. But now it’s dry and caked, flaking off onto the floor in coppery red dust. His uniform is drenched with it. So is his face, probably. They broke his nose, earlier, if he’s remembering correctly.

It was a distraction, at least, from the fact that he couldn’t even scent himself anymore. Can’t scent anything if he can’t even breathe through his nose that’s gushing blood. 

But as he breathes in now, the anxiety swells again, that uneasy feeling that has grown and grown as the hours pass. He swallows past a knot in his throat and takes a shaky breath, hoping. The Alpha scent he’s come to associate with himself is still absent. Nothing more than the faintest familiar wisp. But even that will be gone, soon.

“Morning, sleepy beauty.”

Adrian looks up with tired eyes at Nathaniel Wilde. The lab expert, apparently, on Sullivan’s team. If Leon Sullivan is the brawn of the operation, then Wilde is the brains.

“Do you have, like, a thing for me?” Adrian asks. “That’s like, the third time you’ve called me that. If you think I’m beautiful, you should just say so. I’m not great at reading social cues. It’s best to be blunt with me, really—”

Wilde backhands Adrian across the face, and takes the moment, while his face is turned to the side, to jab him in the neck with another fucking needle. Again.

Such has been their song and dance. Adrian has been so out of it he’s not even sure how long it’s been. As the drugs take hold, even that tiny whiff of his own scent dissipates, and the energy drains from his body. It’s been like clockwork, every hour, and whatever hope he feels when he starts to scent himself again disappears, buried beneath the metallic sharpness of dried blood and the stinging, nauseating chemicals. 

What if it never comes back all the way? What if all these drugs are doing permanent damage to his system? What if they took it away entirely, this part of him? Are they altering his biology with this shit? Is he even still an Alpha? Is he even still worthy of you?

He slumps to the floor again, exhausted, the bloody concrete cool against his cheek. It makes him shiver. 

He almost wishes he wouldn’t heal in his sleep. Wilde has had a field day with him, that’s for sure. Sullivan had really let his team go at it, just for funsies, when he realized that Adrian’s stab wounds and broken bones were fixing themselves.

He’s not in pain, now. Uncomfortable, sure. Deep-set, terrible dread, definitely. If he were still hurt, at least he’d still be unconscious, too. Instead, he’s left here, staring at a pool of his own dried blood on the floor, wondering what Wilde is going to do next.

He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to look at it. He sees blood all the time, it’s never made him queasy, but something about seeing so much of his own suddenly makes him uncomfortable. He can’t even turn onto his back to look away from it, with his hands tied behind him like this.

So he just lies there, eyes screwed shut, trying not to panic with every inhale. Wondering if you’re coming for him, swirling with guilt, panicking again that if you do come for him, he won’t be enough for you anymore, because they keep breaking him, over and over—

Then he catches it on the air. The scent. Your scent.

He forces his eyes open, heart thundering, trying to pick himself up into a sitting position. Panic and hope rush through him, a burst of adrenaline hitting him like a brick to the face. He gasps your name.

“Shut the fuck up,” says Wilde, his voice low and gravelly. He covers Adrian’s face with his large, rough hand, then quickly shoves a filthy rag in his mouth. Adrian tries to spit it out, but there’s too much. He can’t.

God, he thinks. How do people think gagging is sexy?

But he can still breathe, and as he inhales, he scents it again. You. You’re here, you’re close, you’re—

The muffled sound of gunshots rings through the air.

Your heart races with the sound of every deafening shot as Leon Sullivan’s team goes down in a spray of bullets. Beneath the high-pitched ringing rattling in your eardrums, there’s the low thump of bodies hitting the floor. The three people who were guarding the warehouse door.

“Go,” Emilia says to you, loud and firm, but calm. She, Ads, Judomaster, and Bordeaux have got things under control. “We’ll follow when we can. Be careful.”

You stay close behind Chris as he pushes forward, deeper into the warehouse, your own gun carefully drawn as you check for more targets behind pallets packed full of weapons and other supplies.

“John, we’re in,” you report, a finger pressed to your ear.

“The door on your left leads to a hallway,” John reports, the floor plan and camera footage brought up on his laptop back in the van. “There are six rooms down that hallway. Used to be offices, I think. Be on guard. I don’t have eyes inside the rooms, just the main hall. There’s only one in there now.”

“Be ready,” Chris tells you as he adjusts his stance, ready to kick in the door. “They know we’re coming. They will have heard the gunshots.”

You nod, your grip tightening on your gun, setting your jaw. “I am ready.”

“I know you are,” he grins. “But it makes me feel better to warn you anyway. Stay as close to me as you can. I’ve got a secret weapon.” He taps on his Peacemaker helmet. You smile.

Chris’s aim has always been deadly, and he uses it now to his full advantage as he kicks the door open and the lone mercenary in the hallway gets a bullet to the head before he even realizes what’s happening. Then Chris is moving, in full Peacemaker mode.

Some of the doors almost immediately crack open. None of the people inside the rooms are idiotic enough to poke their heads out to see what’s going on. They just stick their guns through the cracks. Someone yells, “Stop right where you are, or we’ll shoot!”

“Please do,” Chris mutters. He glances at you to make sure you’re standing close, like you promised. You put one hand on his back. Your eyes flit across the room, gauging the situation. Four armed enemies, that you can see, at least. There might be more inside.

“One room at a time,” you murmur to him. 

“Agreed,” he says. Then he refocuses, staring ahead, and says, “Activate forcefield.”

As he rushes forward, the bullets start flying. You run to keep up with him, eyes wide as every bullet hits the invisible shield projected from Chris’s helmet and ricochets. Someone yelps as a stray bullet catches them in the arm.

Room by room, Chris kicks in doors, and room by room, you keep watch in the hallway as he shoots everyone inside them, his years of sharpshooting experience serving him well, but you manage to get in a shot or two of your own, your heart swelling with pride and pumping hard with adrenaline. You’d been expecting more people, but it seems like there’s only a few people here. Some of the offices are empty entirely.

“Where the fuck is everybody?” you ask breathlessly as you approach the last room at the end of the hallway, still on guard. There are at least two more people here, you’re certain. You saw two arms sticking out of this doorway before they realized their gunfire was uselessly bouncing back at them. “Sullivan’s team is—”

“Slowly dying off,” Chris reminds you. “Because we’ve been strategically killing them one by one.”

“Oh. Right.”

Suddenly, you hear footsteps pound on the ground behind you, and you turn around in a flash, your gun raised, before you realize it’s the rest of your pack.

“Main room is clear,” Emilia reports. “Judomaster’s staying back to kill anyone else that might return from a mission. John will give him a heads up if anyone’s heading his way.”

“Where do you want us?” Ads asks. “We heard gunfire. Are either of you hit?”

“We’re good,” you say. “You?”

Chris sniffs the air, his eyes going dark as they land on Emilia. You can practically see the growl climbing up his throat. No matter how upset he may be with her, she’s still his mate, and she’s injured, blood soaking the sleeve of her jacket. He reaches out to touch it. “You’re bleeding.”

“A graze to the arm,” Emilia says, waving it off. “I’ll live. Focus. We need to find Adrian.”

“One more room,” you say, nodding at it. “Your forcefield is still activated, right Chris?” He nods.

Ads nods, looking to her best friend. “Break it down.”

“Stay behind me,” Chris tells all of you. Then he does as she asks.

Leon Sullivan and one of his cronies are standing on the other side of the door. Sullivan’s hands are held up in surrender. He looks sideways at his companion, who’s glowering at you all.

“Put your fucking hands up, Nicky,” he says through gritted teeth. “We’re outnumbered.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Nicky says. “You fucking pussy.” He starts to lift his gun, but before he can do a damn thing, Chris puts a bullet in his head.

“That’s what’s gonna happen to you if you don’t fucking cooperate, Leon,” Emilia says, cocking her gun and stepping forward. “Get on your fucking knees.” Smartly, the man obeys.

Everyone is silent for a moment, and then you realize—your pack is looking to you. They’re letting you take the lead on this, for the first time ever. If you weren’t so anxious to get your Alpha back, you’d be pleased. Proud. But right now, all you can think is—

“Where’s Adrian?” you demand, glaring down at Sullivan, trying desperately to keep your voice from shaking.

He looks at you and says nothing. Emilia backhands him in the face with a gun.

“Cooperate, asshole,” she hisses.

“And why should I?” he says. “You’ve been killing off my fucking team. I’m not exactly in a sharing mood.”

“You fucking started it, dickhead. And you should cooperate because I’ll shoot you in the fucking head if you don’t.”

“Good luck finding him then.” Sullivan says the words directly to you, smiling through bloody teeth, even as the barrel of Emilia’s gun presses against the side of his head. She kicks him in the side, and he crumples onto his side. Her foot lands on his chest, keeping him pinned to the floor. “Can’t scent the little asshole, I made sure of that.”

“What did you do to him?” you hiss.

Chris, who has been poking around to make sure the rest of the room is clear, picks up an empty syringe from the table across the room. He holds it up for you, looking grim. “Scent blocker, I’d guess.”

Your heart drops. “You’ve been drugging my Alpha?” you ask, dangerously quiet. You step closer to Sullivan, fists clenched. He doesn’t say another word. Just smirks up at you.

“We really won’t be able to scent him,” Chris says. “So let’s get some information out of this guy.” He gestures toward Emilia, who pistol-whips Sullivan a second time. He cries out in pain.

“You don’t need to scent him,” Ads says. “John—are you still looking at the floor plan?”

John says, his voice crackling through your earpiece. You hold a finger up to your ear and press down so you can hear him better. “Yeah, their shitty-ass warehouse is listed on Zillow.”

The others start chatting behind you, discussing possibilities, but something cold and angry and animalistic has settled inside you. Only Emilia notices, watching with an approving eye, as you draw a knife, kneel down, and stab Sullivan in the leg.

“Fuck,” he shouts. “Oh, you fucking bitch.”

The chatting behind you falls silent in an instant. Someone says, “Holy shit—”

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you. You don’t care.

It’s your turn to smirk down at Sullivan, but you can’t even bring yourself to do so. You’re too fucking mad. “Tell me where he is.” You yank the knife out and watch with satisfaction as blood soaks through his pants. Then you aim even higher, and careful to avoid any important arteries, jab him in the thigh.

“Agh!”

“Tell me where Adrian is,” you hiss. You stab him again, again, and a third time, until his leg is mangled and bloody. “Or the next thing I stab is going to be your fucking dick, you asshole.”

He’s already pale, blood leaking out of his leg at an alarming rate, but at your words, he turns bone-white.

“You wouldn’t,” he says, but he doesn’t sound as certain as he wants to. “You’re just a fucking Omega, you can’t—”

You let the knife dig into the fabric of his pants just above his crotch, and look at him with dead, dark eyes.

“Where is he?” you shout.

“Fuck! He’s in the basement! Fuck,” Sullivan gasps. “You crazy fucking bitch, what the fuck—”

You lift the knife away, and Sullivan lets out a long, harsh breath. His head falls back onto the floor, eyes closed. Thinking he’s been spared. He smiles.

“You can’t do it,” he mocks. “You can’t even kill me. You’re just a weak little—”

Then your arm stretches up, instead, and you bring the knife down one final time, into his heart.

Everyone is silent for a moment when Sullivan slumps over, dead. Then you pick yourself up, dust off your knees, and touch your earpiece with one bloody hand.

“John,” you ask calmly. “On the floor plan. How do I get to the fucking basement?”

Adrian tag list: @justalotoffanfiction @danversxwasabi @clowninavan @adoresami @a-young-g0d @bastardstevie @am-3-thyst @xoxocamis @morguegrl89 @somethin-sparklyy @secretjesterr @seeingdubs @lovenerdywhitemen2 @jeshomie @deamlucem @tlfg-adrianchase @brianna-merlim @amart-e @countvonklit @pieolsen @gingerjane15 @dosyrosyposy @rentaldarling @vigilcourt @hot-bean-juice @sepaaaaa @residentsuperhero

Gwayne gives you nothing in response.

For the first time since you met — late in your adolescence, when he needed something to prove and you needed coin to make; when everything between you was all warm cheeks and trembling hands — Gwayne is at a loss for a clever word, and unmoved by the slyness of your grin. He closes the distance between you instead, flinging the door shut behind him with a careless hand and staggering with each uneven step.

You meet him in the center of the expansive apartment — paid for, in part, by his Hightower coin alone. You hold him tentatively by the forearms, and feel the worn wool crack stiff with dried mud. “Gwayne…” you murmur gently to him, all the mockery long gone from your voice. You search his empty face with worried eyes. “Look at me— Are you hurt?”

He does not answer that either. Instead, his trembling hands lift to find your waist. The callouses along his palms snag briefly in the soft silk of your robe. He finds himself very suddenly overcome by the familiarity of having you in his arms again; a nostalgia that rises in his throat and strangles him. His dirty chin quivers as he leans further into you, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder and knotting his fists hard into your dress.

You feel the trembling start in his shoulders before you feel something warm and wet smear along your collarbone. The man weeps over you with great, shuddering snivels that he hides into your neck. It is the most vulnerable you’ve ever seen him, you think, even more so than the day you met — when all the other highborn boys teased him for his lack of experience, saying that he must not have the appetite for women, and sent him scrambling here to prove himself. 

He found you instead; a girl of his age, new to both Oldtown and the Honey Inn. A girl who saw right through him and refused to take his coin, or anything else he offered that night; but embellished enough stories that made all the taunting whispers about him finally stop. It was a small kindness, though one that threatened to undo him entirely. 

He’s warmed your bed ever since, both as client and something less easily named. You hold him now the same way you did that first night, asking nothing of him and expecting even less.

You draw him a bath once his breaths come more easily to him. You peel the ruined gambeson and sweat-stiff small clothes from his pale skin, and make no comment about how thin he’s grown as you lower him into the steaming water. The water runs brown, then dusty rose, and then finally clear as you work a soft cloth over his skin. Across his shoulders, down his spine, and over the frail skin of his hairless chest. 

“You needn’t—” Gwayne attempts to speak, his very first words since he crossed your threshold, though his voice comes out cracked and low with disuse. He feels half smothered beneath the foreign tenderness you offer him, but he does not flinch under your touch. He never has. “You needn’t do this for me, you know?”

“I know…” you nod and smooth the cloth along the milky-white column of his throat when he tips his chin to look at you, kneeling just outside the tub. “But I want to.”

When the warm water cools, you towel him dry and dress him in clothes a size too big for his frame — softly worn trousers and a loose linen tunic; souvenirs from previous patrons, washed by your own hands. Gwayne tries not to think about who might have shared your bed while he laid shivering in the mud. It was much easier to imagine you as his and only his, though he’s never quite found the courage to ask that of you.

“I’m sorry,” he says from where he lies within your silken sheets, wrapped in the sweet scent of your perfume and the particular stench of sweat that clings to the walls of the establishment. He doesn’t ask if you’ve taken clients today; he doesn’t want to know the answer — but the hour is early enough that he lets himself believe his body is the only one your hands have touched so far.

“For what?” you scoff, sliding beneath the cool sheets to join him. The feather mattress dips slightly under your weight until your legs tangle with his scruffy ones out of habit. “For tracking half the Kingsroad across my good Naathi rug? Because Mistress Aleena will absolutely dock you for it— whether you bought it or not.”

Gwayne exhales hard through his nose in place of a laugh, pink lips curling into a tired grin. “For all of it,” he says, pale eyes as dull and empty as his voice. “For… coming here like a beggar, for… crying on you like a child. For—” 

“Gwayne,” you sigh, splaying a free hand over the newfound hollow of his jaw. “You have nothing to apologize for. Not tonight, not ever if I have any say on the matter. Do you understand?”

Gwayne’s eyes soften around the edges as they flit back and forth between your steady gaze. His chapped lips part but cannot seem to summon an answer for you. Your soft grin widens into a more devilish thing as your hand trails down the curve of his jaw, past his sternum still flushed from the bath, and over the soft trail of auburn hair above the hem of his trousers. 

“I said…” Your fingers creep beneath the fabric to find the dense patch of coarse hair there. “Do you understand?”

The words of a response die on his tongue when your palm squeezes gently at his cock, soft like velvet and achingly sensitive under your touch. A broken sigh spills from his parted mouth as he tips his head back, damp auburn hair wild on the pillow. He twitches slowly stiff in your hand, dribbling pearls of pre-cum at the soft pink tip that you use to lubricate each slow stroke. 

He only vaguely feels the tip of your nose nudging the side of his, right before you press a tender kiss to his chapped mouth. He exhales hard through his nose as your lips slot effortlessly together, breath fanning warm along your cupid’s bow. His hips buck up into your hand with a sort of desperation you haven’t seen from him in quite some time, and your mouth curls into a smile pressed against his.

The distant creaking of the fourth step in the hall — an old plank that’s had a way of warning you of every approaching patron since you first took this room — shatters the moment entirely. Your head tilts upward against Gwayne’s when the heavy oak door swings open without a pretense of a knock, as if the man on the other side didn’t know that closed doors in a house like these only ever meant one thing.

Gwayne makes a weak, wounded sound in his throat when your hand slows around his cock. “Why’d you stop?” he mutters against your mouth, heavy eyes fluttering open to find you glancing off towards the door.

“It seems like we have company…” you croon with a smile.

Gwayne’s brows lower in confusion right before his head turns against the pillow. The screwed look drains into something far closer to dread when his eyes fall on his cousin looming in the doorway — standing a head taller and twice as broad through the shoulders. He reaches for the silver pomander chained perpetually to his scabbard and lifts it to his nose. His nostrils flare as he inhales the earthy incense, trying hopelessly to escape the stench of sex clinging to the walls of the Honey Inn.

You knew Ormund Hightower mostly by reputation rather than appearance. He’s handsome in the manner that most Hightower men were handsome, and chiseled cold in a manner that suggests all the unkind stories Gwayne’s told you about the man over the years were likely unembellished.

“So… This is where you’ve run off to,” Ormund says in a melodic voice as he strolls further inside. He scans the room with pale, attentive eyes — the tub running low by the window, the discarded clothes just beside it, and his cousin freshly home from war and spending his return in a whore’s bed. A thin smile curls at the corner of his mouth accordingly: “I confess, I do find myself surprised, cousin… I hadn’t realized you possessed the… appetite for this sort of thing…” 

Gwayne goes rigid underneath you while his cock softens once more in your fist. An age-old humiliation flickers behind his eyes — the same look you remember seeing on him all those years ago. 

“It’ll cost you extra if you mean to join us, my lord,” you call to the older man, with an ease about you that suggests you’re utterly unbothered by an audience. Your head tilts to your shoulder as you study the man, eyes raking slowly over his broad form. “Though I’d wager you have more than enough coin for it… And the face for it, too, no doubt…”

Ormund’s chest burns with a strange mixture of offense and pride. His strong, shaven chin lifts slightly upward as he drops the pomander back on its chain, giving you the whole of his attention now. “My faith does not permit such… indulgences,” he says in a smooth voice. “As I’m sure you very well know.”

“Mm… Well, if the Seven are half as kind as everyone insists, they wouldn’t begrudge a man for having a little fun now and then,” you answer without missing a beat. “Could do wonders for you, my lord— You look dreadfully tense.” 

Ormund’s pale eyes do not stray from your squinted stare. There’s something almost involuntary in it, in the way his gaze snags and catches with yours — even when your hand starts moving again under the blankets and Gwayne’s pale form tenses beneath your touch.

“Well…” Ormund hums, trying hard not to choke on his embarrassment. “You’re a bold thing, aren’t you? For a woman who sells herself by the hour.”

“And you’re a bold thing for walking into a lady’s room uninvited, my lord,” you quip and watch him falter at the volley. You turn back to Gwayne with a huff, and swing your leg to straddle his thigh as you call back to the older man, “You can watch if you like. Or wait your turn in the hall— Either way, I’m afraid I’m with a patron at present.”

Gwayne’s eyes you with a wide, worried gaze as you coax him hard again with your hand. You swipe your thumb over the bulbous tip and gather the pearly beads drooling there, before lining him at the entrance of your cunt. His pale hands settle on either side of your waist, clenching hard at the delicate fabric of your robe. Any words of protest that might’ve risen onto his tongue dissolve into a broken moan when you pierce yourself with him, slow and without concern for the man still standing across the room.

Ormund lingers there for a while longer than he’d like to admit. He tells himself that the sour feeling curling in his stomach is disgust — decent and godly disgust that any devout man ought to feel at such a display. He, admittedly, has always been good at telling himself things. 

But still, his feet do not move. And the longer he watches your hips move slowly on top of Gwayne’s — the sight of it only partially shielded by your robe and the sheets gathered at your thighs — the harder it becomes to name the thing coiled in his chest. A curiosity, perhaps, of what your hips would feel like in his hands; of what it would feel like to be nestled in your cunt— 

Ormund despises himself the moment the thought surfaces, for how long the dreadful image lingers in the back of his head before he can shake it away. 

He turns on his heel and storms towards the door with a mixture of jealousy and disgust and distant intrigue rising into his throat like bile. He pulls the heavy oak shut behind him with a resounding thud that fills the quiet room.

Gwayne shakes his head against the pillow when he’s finally gone. His pale eyes are still wide with alarm but glassy with a lingering pleasure too, as you continue grinding your hips over his lap. Your velvety cunt squeezes him with each pass, threatening to milk his orgasm from him entirely.

“You should not have done that,” he confesses breathlessly, and wears the warning etched across his pretty features.

“Done what?” you respond through panted breaths, bracing yourself on his soft chest. “Defended you? Dreadfully sorry, my lord— next time I’ll let him have the last word—”

“That’s not—” He inhales sharply and grabs hard at your waist to stop your movements, so that he might concentrate on something other than your warm, drooling cunt for more than a second. Gwayne peers up at you with a suddenly solemn look. “He’ll want it now. My cousin— What he saw now in this room. He’ll want it now simply because it’s mine.” 

You arch a brow in a playful look. “So I’m yours now, am I?” you joke.

Gwayne exhales hard through his nose when you fail to heed his warning with any real seriousness, chest deflating under your touch. Your smile only widens at the half-hearted glare he gives you then.

“You don’t know him the way I do,” he mutters.

“No. I don’t,” you agree, planting your palms on either side of his head as you lean down over him again. The plush of your breasts threatens to spill over the low neckline of your robe; you smile when you catch Gwayne’s unabashed staring. “And I’d very much like to keep it that way… Which is a pity because I might’ve made an exception for that face of his… A shame, really, that the Gods wasted such a pretty face on such an unpleasant man…” 

 Gwayne’s mouth lifts into a crooked smile despite himself. “You’re going to be the death of one of us, you know that?” he tells you, close enough now that your noses brush with every word. “Though I can’t be entirely sure which…”

“Mm…” you hum, and feel Gwayne’s chest rumble with a groan when you roll your hips over his again. “I do hope it’s the more tiresome cousin then.” 

You kiss him before Gwayne can argue the point. And this time, he does not pull away — and he does not for a long while after.

Gwayne makes himself at home in your bed the way he has since boyhood. He returns not quite a week later, when word of Criston Cole’s death reaches Oldtown — his handsome head struck from his shoulder and mounted on a pike by the Winter Wolves, no more than a three-day ride from the Reach now. He tells you this with his heavy head laid in your lap, staring distantly at the crackling hearth across the room, and blinking back burning tears before they can stain your pretty silk dress.  

His auburn hair slides like silk between your fingers as you run your hands through it, with the same unthinking tenderness you’ve shown him a thousand nights before this one, though he feels far less deserving of it now.

“You needn’t perform this for me, you know?” he mutters, rubbing his cheek along your covered thigh while his thumb smooths absently over your knee. “I know what I am to you…” 

“Oh, really?” you say with a smile evident in your voice, though he cannot see it from where he lies. “And who might that be?”

Gwayne turns his head to peer up at you. A weary half-smile hints at the very edges of his mouth as he answers, “A man who’s paid twice over for the privilege of your company over the years…”

You flinch at his words before you can properly catch yourself. It had been years since Gwayne last put coin in your palm for anything; longer since, perhaps, than he’s stopped truly needing to. He’s filled your larder more times than you could count, dressed you in silks finer than half the highborn ladies at court, and furnished this very room with the good Myrish looking glass and the featherbed you share now — all without once being asked. 

So it stings a little now, to hear him speak of you still in the language of ledger — as though even after everything, he still cannot quite let himself believe he might simply be loved and not owed.

“Yes…” you sigh, combing your fingers from his temple to the side of his neck. “You’ve paid me a great deal of coin to take care of you… But no one pays me extra to love you. And I find that I very much do.”

The words threaten to undo him completely. He has not grown any more accustomed to tenderness since the war ended than he was before it began. He was not raised to think himself particularly deserving of love; not with a family that whispered often of his peculiar appetite and a cousin who made a sport of his shame at every turn. And then you came along and never once made him feel like the freak everyone at court had long decided that he must be. You are, he thinks, the closest thing to a miracle he’s ever been given.

“Where will you go?” he wonders suddenly aloud, auburn brows pinching low in curiosity. “When Rhaenyra’s army arrives, I mean?”

You shrug, and the thin sleeve of your nightgown slips from your shoulder. “The crypts with everyone else, I expect—”

“What if we left?” he blurts before he can properly weigh the words in his head. His eyes dart wildly across your face, aglow now with a prophecy he can see so vividly in his head. “Daeron has Tessarion. And surely the three of us are not so heavy a burden for a dragon to bear. We could be gone from the city before anyone thought to look for us— and already leagues away before they could try.”

“And do what, exactly?” you wonder with a warm laugh. “Comb my hair by firelight and pray the open road pays half so well as Oldtown? I have a trade here, Gwayne, one that will long outlast this useless war. And one that does not travel well.”

“You wouldn’t need a trade,” Gwayne scoffs. The mattress dips under his weight as he sits up ahead of you, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his forearms across them. His face is very suddenly close to yours now, and very suddenly solemn. “I’d take care of you.”

“So I’d go around being your whore then? Is that it?”

His face screws in a pained sort of look. “You wouldn’t be my whore. You’d be my lady.” 

The promise steals the words of a clever response from your mouth. You’ve heard enough of them fall from enough men over the years to fill a maester’s ledger — vows made drunk with sex and unmade sober when it was done; declarations of earnest men who meant well but were misled by their own wanting. You’ve learned the sound of deceit well enough over the years to recognize that this was not one of them. 

Gwayne was, perhaps, the first man of any real means to offer you true courtesy that was not only spent with his coin; and you would like nothing more than to return the favor, to be his lady. But you learned long ago, the hard way a girl born into nothing usually learns such things, that some fates are simply not written for women like you.

A strange feeling settles heavy in your chest accordingly. It weighs down the edges of your tender smile as you reach to smooth a piece of silken auburn hair back from his temple, if only to buy yourself half a moment before you answer him.

“I cannot leave,” you mutter gently to him. “The road is not… gentle to women, whatever protection you mean to offer me… What if we were separated? What if you grew bored of me? What if I became a burden to you—?”

“Never,” Gwayne protests, words sharp with hurt.

You meet his frown with a much softer look in return. “Whatever’s coming for this city is no kinder than whatever’s waiting for me out there…”

Gwayne’s face falls. His taut look of offense softens slowly, through a thick swallow in his throat — the kindling hope of the fleeting moment folds in on itself like a flower at last light.

“But I do want you to go, Gwayne,” you whisper, bringing both hands to cradle his flushed cheeks. “You’ve never been happy in this city, not truly, not since I’ve known you. Take the boy and go somewhere it’s safe. You deserve that much, if nothing else."

He shakes his head between your palms, though not quite in protest. “Who will take care of you with me gone, hm?” he asks with a sad sort of grin.

“I take care of me," you answer with narrowed eyes. “I always have. Long before I found you, and long after I expect.”

Gwayne falls quiet for a moment thereafter. It takes him a while to find the words to speak again, and when he does, the words go as distant as his forlorn gaze. “I’m not certain I could manage it regardless… Ormund watches everything— every-one. He always has… He’d know I meant to slip away before I’d so much as breathed a word of it to Daeron…”

Your thumb stills on the warm apple of his cheek. “All you’d need as a distraction,” you shrug. “Something shiny enough… And perhaps close enough to his own doorstep that he’d have no choice but to look at that instead of you…”

Gwayne catches the change in your voice before he catches the true meaning underneath it. His brows lower in a dubious look. “…Do you have something in mind?”

You give him a slow, sly, and devilish smile in response. “Oh, I have a great many things in mind…” you coo to him. “Do try to keep up, my lord…”

The plan comes together slowly after that, whispered low against the pillows with the candles burning down to near nothing. You outline the basics of it, and Gwayne fills the gaps with everything he knows of his cousin — of his habits, his pride, his cruel nature. And though you find yourself almost fond of it, the surest way you can think of to buy Gwayne and his nephew their escape, the man cannot quite stomach the thought.

“Ormund is not the kind of man who plays fair,” he warns you in a whisper. “Even in games he thinks he’s winning, if he so much as suspects—”

“He won’t,” you assure him, tracing a slow finger along the tense edge of his jaw. “I’ve made a trade of reading men like him, Gwayne, and it’s only for one night. You find Daeron, ready the dragon, and leave your cousin to me. Trust me, I have handled far worse men for far less worthy causes.”

“The scouts say they’re a day’s ride out, maybe less,” Ormund says beneath the soft scraping of his boots along the dim passageway. His voice bounces off the walls, where the torches gutter low with the late hour. “Though… Rhaenyra’s army has proven rather slow as of yet, haven’t they? Dragged down by supply, no doubt, and by the unfamiliar country… Much to our advantage, just as I knew it would be.”

Gwayne tenses his jaw, struggling to stomach the older man’s hubris — a thing he has choked down often enough over the years that it should no longer taste of anything at all, though it still has a way of burning going down. There is a small satisfaction in it, though, Gwayne realizes; in knowing something that, for once, his cousin does not. A little victory in knowing that Daeron is saddling Tessarion in the dragon’s stable at this very moment, while Ormund waltzes through this castle, utterly unaware of it.

“Many men will die regardless,” Gwayne reminds him.

“Yes. We will lose men,” Ormund nods on an exhaled breath, then tilts his head to flash the man a feigned look of sincerity — a kind, tight-lipped smile with no warmth in it at all. “Which means you’ve got nothing to worry about, cousin. You were never counted among the men anyway, were you?”

He lifts a ringed hand to pat the younger man on the shoulder, a little harder than necessary, before wrenching open the door ahead of him. Gwayne stands in place and watches him, jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth. He clenches his hands into fists, exhales a slow breath through his nose, and lets the insult pass slowly over him. He watches, instead, as Ormund strolls into his solar and falters a half-step past the threshold.

Ormund’s nose catches it before his eyes do — a strikingly foreign scent hanging in the air, of warm oil and crushed petals, sorely out of place amid the leather and parchment and wet stone. His nostrils flare faintly as his eyes finish the work his nose began. His gaze scans the room until it lands finally on you, arranged on the couch by the hearth like a thing to be painted. The sleeves of your dress threaten to slip from your shoulders as the neckline dips low enough to reveal the canvas of your plush breasts, kissed by the flickering candlelight.

Something in his chest leaps before he can help it, a red-hot flare of gladness at the sight of you lounging so delicately in his own chamber, which was only ever possible in his dreams before now — vividly and more often than he’d like to admit, since the morning he found you at the Honey Inn. He told himself it was only the irritation of you that lingered, the bitter memory of a woman far too bold for her station, though the lie only stuck so much.

He swallows down the boyish excitement rising like bile in his throat, and disgust follows hard on its heels — first at himself and then at the reflexive worry of some guard or handmaiden or septa seeing someone like you waltz into his chambers looking like that. He has spent too long manufacturing his reputation for it to go to waste on some common whore.

“What… is she… doing here?” Ormund spits each word like venom.

“You said it yourself. Rhaenyra’s army will likely make Oldtown before break of day,” Gwayne says lowly as the door clicks shut behind him. “This could very well be the last night either of us has left… And I thought you might want one happy memory before you give yourself to the dust.”

Ormund’s ringed hands twitch into loose fists at his sides. He tilts his chin and swallows hard and finds that it’s near-impossible to break your stare, no matter how plainly he wears the mask of disgust across his face. It takes him a second too long to turn away from you, and to plaster a brittle smile on his mouth when he looks over his shoulder at Gwayne.

“So you’ve brought me your leftovers?” he says with a short, humorless laugh. “How generous of you, cousin.”

“Well, leftovers would imply that I was once his, my lord,” you call from your place on the couch, twisting your pointer finger around the golden tassel of the pillow just beside you. “And I don’t much recall belonging to anyone… It’s bad for business,” you punctuate your quip in a whisper and with a devilish grin.

Ormund gives you a realer smile this time, though it’s quickly swallowed by his usual narrow-eyed look of composure. “Well… You’ve certainly got a mouth on you, don’t you?”

“Hm…” you shrug, and let the sleeve of your gown slip from your shoulder. “So I’ve been told.”

Your glimmering look of amusement stays locked with his pale-eyed stare as he saunters slowly towards you, like a predator to prey — though you look rather pleased to be caught in comparison. So much so that Ormund struggles to tell which of you is the apex now, even as he towers over you lounging form.

“You’re very devout, I hear,” you tell him, tilting your head to your bare shoulder to study the breadth of his frame — his long legs, his ringed hands, his broad chest, his sharp jaw, his cold cold eyes. “The Faith frowns on this sort of thing, doesn’t it?”

Ormund scoffs out a laugh. “Whoring?”

“Idle hands.”

You shift on the plush cushions until you’re on your knees before him, eye level with his scabbard and the silver pomander glinting in the torchlight. You reach for his hands in a smooth, unabashed motion — palms soft against the rough skin of his knuckles as you splay his ringed fingers flat against your ribs, just beneath the swell of your breasts.

His hands go stiff beneath yours, forgetting how to move them for a moment. And though his breath catches at the foreign contact, he does not step back from you, not even when a faint red flush begins to climb up the column of his throat. His mouth parts softly as his pale eyes go lidded, and your smile sharpens at the sight of it.

“You can touch me if you like, my lord,” you tell him, smoothing your hands over his green-leather coat up towards his shoulders. “I promise I don’t bite… Unless you’d prefer that I did.”

Gwayne watches your arms curl around Ormund’s shoulders with his stomach in knots. He feels suddenly very nauseous, watching his brutish cousin rest his undeserving hands where Gwayne has lain his own a thousand times over. Even now, knowing exactly what game you’re playing and why, he wants so desperately to pull you away and take you back to the Honey Inn and drown in your silk sheets forever.

But the gods aren’t that kind, and you are far too stubborn to come with him, so he clears his throat and bids his final goodbye. “Well…” he calls into the quiet, forcing a lightness into his voice as he folds his hands behind his back and moves towards the door. “I guess I’ll leave you to it…”

“Stay,” Ormund commands in a flat voice, without once taking his eyes off yours.

Gwayne freezes mid-step. His eyes widen right before an awkward laugh sputters from his mouth. “What?” he chuckles, forced from a half-strangled throat. “You’ll surely not have much fun with me standing about, cousin—”

Ormund turns finally to face him. A hint of a pleasant smile sits on his mouth, though his eyes carry a much icier glare in comparison. “Stay,” he repeats. “It’s only fair, isn’t it? You’ve been keeping her to yourself all these years, I’ve heard. Now you’ll have your turn to watch. I find I rather like the idea of you learning what that feels like.”

A flicker of anger passes over Gwayne’s face.

Ormund’s smug grin widens. “Do sit, cousin. You’ll want a good view, I expect.”

Gwayne does not move from where he stands but does not close the scant distance between him and his escape either. He has seen what Ormund does to people who do not abide by his every command, and he is less inclined to witness it himself now — or, worst of all, have that cruelty brought upon you.

You watch the exchange with an unreadable expression and file the encounter in the back of your head for later use, should you need it. One hand drags from his shoulder to his neck, coaxing him to look your way again with gentle fingers splayed along his shaven jaw.

“Fond of an audience, are you, my lord?” you murmur to him. “I confess, I wouldn’t have guessed that about you before now.”

Ormund nods, almost pleased. “There’s a great deal about me that you couldn’t possibly guess,” he retorts in a low voice.

“Good thing I’m a quick learner then, isn’t it?”

You urge him further down and tilt your chin to meet him halfway, slotting your lips in a lingering kiss. He’s warm and firm pressed against you, though his tongue tastes of nothing more than mint leaves and well-water when you lick into his mouth; as clean and sterile as all the rest of him. So much so that you think he could probably get drunk on the Dornish wine stained on your tongue alone. And you figure that he must, the way he relaxes against you with a slow breath, planting one hand along the back of the couch to brace himself and urging you backward along with it.

Your lips part with a quiet click. You smile to yourself when Ormund attempts to chase your mouth, nudging the tip of your nose against his broader one. “Let the poor boy go,” you coo softly to him. “I don’t suspect you’ll want an audience for the things I have planned for you, my lord.”

Ormund’s broad chest warms at the promise in your words, but his stubborn will never wavers. “No… I don’t think I will.”

You try not to let your face fall completely as you scramble for another excuse that might set Gwayne free. The auburn-haired man scoffs a faint laugh from across the room. “Cousin, I—”

“You will stay,” Ormund commands. “And learn exactly how it feels to stand apart and watch.”

Something cold and heavy settles in the pit of your stomach at his words — at Gwayne’s previous warning come to life right before your eyes. “He’ll want it now,” he’d told you. “He’ll want it simply because it’s mine.” You hadn’t understood the true weight of his meaning until now, with both you and Gwayne trapped beneath the man’s easily irritable, if not dangerous temper; and watching the promise of freedom slip through your fists like grains of sand.

You replace the distant look of worry on your face with another small smile the moment Ormund turns back to you, and try hard to kiss him back without reservation when he presses his mouth to yours again. There is little restraint in him now — in the tongue he licks between your parted lips, or in the ringed hands that trace the neckline of your dress.

His fingers curl beneath the thin fabric, urging it down down down until your bare breasts are exposed to the firelight and your delicate nipples pebble in the cool air. They’re sensitive within his rough hands as he cups them in his palms. You sigh hard in place of a moan, and feel Ormund grin softly into his kiss at the sound of it. His wet mouth smears across your skin as he trails his kisses from your mouth, to your jaw, and down your neck, before planting them to your left breast.

You sit back on your haunches and cradle the back of his hand, whimpering quietly when his tongue flicks across the sensitive nipple. Your eyes fall to Gwayne’s on instinct, where he remains across the room with his jaw locked tight, his hands balled into fists, and his pale eyes flaming with a withheld rage. He feels every inch of the late hour slipping away from you both — Daeron is still waiting for him at the stables now, and soon it will be too late to flee. And somewhere beneath his fear is a simmering jealousy, as he’s forced to watch his cousin’s undeserving mouth caress your body.

Your eyes dart to the door just beside him; a silent plea for him to leave with Ormund now distracted, as his mouth trails to your right breast. Gwayne answers with a curt shake of his head, to the left and back again. He wouldn’t make it down the hall before Ormund would realize he’d gone, and the both of you would likely suffer far worse for it.

So he suffers the sight before him instead, watches Ormund’s swollen mouth pluck off your breast and kiss the breath from your lungs once more.

He pulls off of you with a rosier grin. “Alright,” he pants. “Undress me.”

And though you’ve undressed many men over the years, your fingers tremble around each clasp of his leather coat for a reason you can’t name. You struggle now to meet his gaze with as much confidence as you had moments ago, as you urge the heavy fabric from his shoulders. His tunic goes next — the lace unknotted and the hem pulled from his trousers. You tug it up and over his head until the golden canvas of his body is revealed to you, toned from years in the training yard and unblemished from years of hiding from battle.

You run your hands down his shaven chest to the sparse at his stomach, a line that leads down into his pants. You unbuckle his scabbard next and then loosen the knot at his trousers, urging the fabric down his scruffy, muscular thighs. He sighs through his nose when his cock meets the cool air of the solar. He’s a few inches shorter than Gwayne, but thicker where it counts, with veins that trail in jagged lines from the base of his cock to the soft pink tip.

“Go on…” Ormund coaxes with a nod. “Kiss it.”

He’s half-stiff and smoother than velvet when you take him in your fist. He twitches harder in your palm when you duck your head to press a languid kiss to the satin head of his cock, right before swirling your tongue under the ridge of it.

Ormund watches you from the bridge of his nose, laughing through a low moan in the back of his throat. “Look at that… She is a good whore,” he hums with a smug smile, as he cradles the crown of your head in his wide hands. “And I didn’t even have to pay her…”

His head swivels in Gwayne’s direction, where he finds the younger man still scowling by the door, mere inches away from his escape. Ormund’s grin only widens at the sight of it.

“Careful now, cousin, or I’ll start to think you’re jealous… She said it herself, didn’t she? She doesn’t belong to anyone. Bad for business… Right, dove?”

You nod with your lips still wrapped around him, suckling the sensitive tip of his cock and using the remnants of your spit to jerk the rest of him in a slow, firm fist. Ormund grumbles a moan in the back of his throat and tips his heavy head back. His toned stomach tightens as a pleasured feeling coils in the pit of it, wound tight by your expert mouth upon him.

He tries to even his wavering breaths in a feeble attempt to make the moment last — if only to make his cousin watch a little while longer — but the wet sounds of your mouth are enough to undo him. And when you reach a hand to squeeze softly at his heavy balls, he nearly bursts entirely.

“Enough—” he hears himself blurt, pulling you off by your hair. Your lips part from him with a smacking sound. The thin string of saliva connecting you to him pulls thin until it clings to your bottom lip. You peer up at him with wide, glassy eyes. His broad chest heaves with every panted breath as he fights to regain his slipping composure.

“Get out of that dress,” he commands breathlessly, lips quirking into a grin. “And get on your hands and knees.”

You feel your heart thrumming hard in your throat when you reach for the sleeves of your dress, having long slipped from your shoulders now. You slide your arms out and roll the remaining fabric down your torso. The silk pools like water at your feet when you rise to take it the rest of the way off. The air feels cool against your flaming skin, and leaves chills pebbling in its wake. When you turn to plant yourself on the couch, just as he commanded, you feel Ormund swat your ass with a less-than-kind hand.

“Facing him,” he scolds in a gentle voice. “Give him a show now, shall we?”

You settle on your hands and knees along the lush cushions, angling yourself to face the door — to face Gwayne. Your bare chest heaves at the sight of him, pretty face etched with an anger you haven’t quite seen from him before. The quiet wretchedness of a man watching a thing he loves be claimed by a hand that’s already taken so much from him, and knowing that he cannot save you from any of it.

You want so badly to tell him that this is only a means to an end — that you do still love him — but you cannot risk Ormund hearing the words aloud and cannot hide the slick of primal excitement going sticky between your thighs.

So for now, you can only hold Gwayne’s wet-eyed gaze, and hope he can read the apology written in yours.

Gwayne cannot seem to look away from it, not even when Ormund settles in just behind you, with one leg bent on the cushion and the other still planted on the floor. Not even when the man presses two long fingers at the entrance of your weeping cunt, and hums in satisfaction when they slide without friction within your sticky walls.

“Mm…” he laughs beneath your whimpering. “You are lovely, you know— wasted on this trade, if I’m honest…” He curls his fingers and feels you clench around them when he pulls them back out again. “Perhaps I’ll wash some of that sin off you tonight… Make you clean… Make you mine… Would you like that?”

He reaches around to press his pointer and middle finger to your bottom lip, still glimmering with your slick. Your mouth parts for him on instinct, and he presses them to the pad of your tongue. You nod wordlessly with his long fingers in your mouth, salty-sweet with your honey, and imagine their Gwayne’s instead.

“You’ll agree with anything I ask, won’t you?” He laughs when you nod and slides his fingers out of your mouth again. “Like I said… Good whore…”

He grabs himself in his fist and presses the head of his cock to your pulsing entrance. He pierces you slowly, and feels your eager cunt spread around him inch by inch. Your airy sigh mixes with his rumbled groan when he buries himself to the hilt, with his hips pressed flush to your ass.

“Are you watching, Gwayne?” he calls proudly to his cousin, smoothing his rough hands along the canvas of your back.

Gwayne’s fingers curl and loosen into fists at his sides as his features flicker with a choked-back rage. “I’d prefer to take my leave now, cousin,” he answers, half-strangled.

“No…” Ormund coos with a sympathetic shake of his head. “Not until she cums, anyway. So… best work quickly, dove.”

He fucks into you a second later with a sort of precision you’d expect from a man like him. His thrusts are shallow and rhythmic and methodical. His balls smack your leaking cunt with every pass, creating a lewd symphony of sex all around you — of skin clapping against skin, of panted breaths entwining. Gwayne figures the sounds of war must’ve been far less cruel than this.

Ormund braces one hand along the back of your neck, like you’re a hound to be forced into submission, while his other slithers around your hip. The pads of his fingers press hard to your clit and a cry falls from your mouth before you can help it, filling the otherwise quiet solar.

“Rather sensitive for a whore, aren’t you?” Ormund chuckles from behind you. “Because you’ve never been fucked by a man before, I’d wager. Isn’t that right, cousin?”

Gwayne’s eyes burn under the weight of his unshed tears. He has faced death a thousand times over in the past few weeks, yet none of it was quite as heart-aching as this. His rage simmers to a boil in his throat, and it feels like fire when he swallows it down again.

Ormund’s thrusts grow sloppy thereafter, led purely by the pursuit of his own pleasure. But his fingers remain merciless on your swollen clit, and a white-hot pleasure begins to swell in the pit of your stomach accordingly. You grit your teeth and clench your fingers hard around the gold arm of the lavish couch in a feeble attempt to fight it — for your own pride, and perhaps for Gwayne’s, too.

“You’re mine now,” you hear Ormund say from just behind you, choppy between his faltering thrusts. “You’ll answer to no one else’s bed but mine. From this night forward. Is that understood?”

You nod wordlessly in response, if only to appease him for the moment, and feel his hand tighten on the back of your neck.

“Say it.”

“…I understand,” you just barely manage to squeak out.

“Then cum for me.”

He presses harder on your clit. Your face twists with a pleasure you can no longer fight away. You squeeze your eyes shut when your gaze falls instinctively to Gwayne’s, and when his pained features make your chest sear with a burning feeling. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as your cunt gushes around Ormund’s twitching cock. He thrusts into you once, hard, and shudders just against you. His rough groan mixes with the sound of your quiet whimpering as he spits ropes of warm cum into your fluttering pussy, milking him for every drop of it.

“That’s it…” he spits through gritted teeth, fucking you sloppily through the rest of his high. “Take it all— There you go…”

He swats your ass once he’s finally spent himself inside you, gripping hard at the plush skin there and forcing you flush against his scruffy thighs. A satisfied grin sits crooked at his mouth when his lidded gaze falls once more to the man across the room.

“Oh, don’t sulk, cousin,” Ormund calls to him, flushed chest still heaving. “I’ll have another whore sent up for you, if you wish.”

Gwayne flinches instantly at the very thought of it, at being with anyone else but you — at some other woman’s hands being where only yours have been, at having some other stranger’s mouth on him instead of the only one he knows by heart. His features flicker with an involuntary disgust before he can hide it.

“Oh…” Ormund grins wider. “Did you… Did you think you could have this one?”

He punctuates his question by thrusting hard into you once more. You make a pained noise in the back of your throat at your growing sensitivity; head bowed and shoulders heaving as your weeping cunt clenches around his softening cock. Ormund chuckles through another moan at the sensation.

“No. No, no— See, this one’s mine now…” Ormund continues, pale eyes icing over into a glacial sort of look. “And you’d do well to remember it, cousin… Because I’d hate for anyone to come to harm over… so small a misunderstanding, wouldn’t you say?”

Gwayne’s blood runs cold at Ormund’s promise, because he knows his cousin far too well to mistake it for anything less. And he knows now, too, that whatever escape he, Daeron, and Tessarion might’ve made tonight has long since closed in on itself, and will surely not open again while you remain under Ormund’s dangerous, unforgiving hand.

So he will stay. And he will wait for Rhaenyra’s army to march through these gates. And he will make certain that his cousin does not live to see the end of it, so long as it means that Gwayne gets to have you to himself when the ashes finally settle over Oldtown.

He takes your hand and kisses it, first the back and then the palm, his own little tradition he's done since you first began dating. It's heartwarming every time, and you kiss his palm in return before picking up your fork. Just a light dinner, nothing heavy- you're going to be going through hopefully quite a lot before the night is over.

-

John helps you stagger to the bedroom. The drugs are good, you're already nodding off, eyes heavy and feet clumsy. He props you up for a quick comb through your hair, and you smile sleepily when he even brings in a cup and your toothbrush, holding your cheek as he gives you a fast scrub. You hate going to sleep with that sticky mouth feeling, and he knows you'd also want to be a little extra presentable for the boys. Just because you're asleep, doesn't mean you can't put in an effort, he can hear you teasing him, and lingers with a slow kiss as he lays you down on the pillows.

"I love you," he murmurs, and catches the end of your mumbled response as you slide into dreamland.

He waits a few minutes, stroking your hair, before lifting your arm up and dropping it. It smacks into the mattress with a thud, no catch or bracing, and he does the same to your other arm and both legs. You're soft and heavy, and there's only a gentle shift in your breathing when he rolls you to your back, that settles again easily.

Fully out. Good, John checks the clock, that gives him a bit of time before he can expect the others.

You're already naked, and John parts your thighs, lifting them up to put your hips in the cradle of his own lap. Soft soft soft, breasts and belly and thighs, the fat little curve of your mons and pussy. Extra soft in sleep, and John gropes across your body, reveling in being able to squeeze and caress so easily, without ticklish spots or your (ridiculous, he thinks) insecurities.

Your ass ripples when he smacks it, just lightly, and he groans, rubbing his fattening cock against your pussy. You sigh, and there's a lovely little dampness right in the middle, just a drop for now.

Well, even if you're out cold, at least one part of your body is awake.

John lays you back down, shuffling on the bed until he's got his shoulders between your thighs. Your labia beckon him in like a flower, inviting a kiss, and he obliges, his tongue slipping in with a dirty moan.

You're delicious, hot and soft on his tongue, and John loses himself in your cunt, suckling and licking as you get wetter, playing with your clit. No wriggling around, making him chase it, now he can just pop his lips around it and suck, stroking it with the tip of his tongue. You really gush for him then, thighs opening further as your pulse climbs.

He works a finger in and crooks it, lets your pussy squeeze it as he keeps working your clit, feeling the pattern of tightening and loosening. You're still so quiet and calm, hair splayed out like a halo, and John moans around your clit and grinds into the bed as your pussy clenches, milking his finger, orgasm pulsing through you even while your face is as serene as an angel.

He stops only reluctantly- he could spend hours just eating you out, making you all swollen and sensitive- but he does have company coming, so he kisses the inside of your thigh with sticky lips and leaves you to your rest, splayed out, one leg bent up to show off your pussy all wet and inviting.

When the doorbell rings, John is mostly composed- benefits of his age, he doesn't worry about going off like a bottle rocket.

Speaking of, Johnny is first through the door, nearly bouncing, eagerly clapping John on the shoulder. He barely sticks around for pleasantries, which is fair enough- Simon and Kyle are just as eager, even if they hide it better.

He takes them back, and feels a flush of pride at how all three are struck dumb by you. You're somewhere between a saint and a whore, peacefully sleeping, head laid out on your pillow and arms gently tucked against your body, thighs spread and pussy shining, perfectly arranged for a photo that John takes quickly, before you get ruined.

Johnny outright moans, and Simon grabs him by the back of the shirt when he would have dived right into you. "Hold it," he says, shaking Johnny a little, "seniority first," and leaves both the sergeants whining when John laughs and waves him forward.

Simon's a big man, and the bed creaks when he settles down, sitting right between your legs. You breathe on, steady and unbothered, while he shucks off his gloves and thumbs your folds apart. He grins. "Had a little fun before we got here, Price?" He pops his thumb into his mouth. "Tastes good," he mumbles, and works a finger in to get a little more, licking your slick up like candy.

You're sensitive from John's mouth, and it's easy for Simon to get two fingers in soon, playing and stretching out your hole. When a little gasp slips past your lips, he pauses, and then braces himself with a hand on your belly to start roughly fucking them into you, thumbing over your clit, soft curves bouncing.

You get the barest wrinkle between your eyebrows, your back arches, and Simon moans and bends to lick up the gush of slick in his palm, sucking your clit for a moment before he gets a third into you, slowly again, rubbing his cock through his jeans.

Kyle and Johnny are done waiting.

They all but leap into the bed, making the mattress bounce, and Kyle moves your arm to lift your breasts up, cradling them in both hands, taking a nipple into his mouth. The other isn't neglected, and it perks up under Kyle's fingers as he tugs it, gently teasing and flicking as he gropes your breasts.

Johnny slides in alongside you, laying down, and his arms come around your waist, dragging you back into his body. Simon and Kyle both grumble at him for upsetting their positions, but he just sighs happily, burying his face into the back of your neck. He seems content to hold you for a moment, grinding his cock against your soft flank, before the arm tucked under your body nudges Kyle out of the way to get your breast for himself, and his other hand snakes down and cups the top of Simon's head where he's burying his face in your pussy.

John can barely see you under them, just legs sticking out and a limp arm flung back over Johnny's shoulder, and he palms his cock as the three men feast on you. There's more little gasps and moans from your throat, and the slick, creamy apex of your thighs is all plump and flushed. You're as lovely as he's ever seen, and takes his own place at the head of the bed, stroking your cheek, and helping Johnny turn your face so he can lick into your mouth.

The other man shudders when your lips part, slack and unresisting, and there's another shuffling as the men coordinate with your body. Johnny and Kyle both strip out of their shirts, Kyle unzipping his pants to let his cock bulge out easier, and the two men coordinate to each take a breast for themselves.

Your tits are lovely, full and sloping down your chest, the nipples big and sensitive. Kyle goes back to the one he'd been using, grinding against your thigh as he sucks, nipping and grazing with his teeth. John strokes his cheek, grinning when the other man smiles around your nipple, biting it just hard enough to pull as he tilts his head back. That's another photo, nipple being used like a chew toy, before John puts the phone away for a bit.

You moan again as Kyle tugs, your nipple pulled obscenely tight and far, stretching until he takes mercy and releases you. Your breast bounces in his hand, nipple wet and fat, and John circles it with his fingertip as goosebumps prickle over your skin.

Johnny just plays with your other breast, groping it with full squeezes of his hand, like he's testing its firmness. His lips are on yours, nudging at your face to tilt it closer, sucking on your tongue when it slips past your teeth. There's a mess of spit on your chin, and you're drooling, eyelids flickering as Johnny gets his teeth into the fat of your cheek. John opens his own jeans, tugs his cock out, rubbing the wet tip against your lips; Johnny gives it kisses as well, trading your tongue for John's cock, licking the precome welling at the head and feeding it into your wet, pink mouth.

Simon's just in heaven, still hunched over your pussy, now with your thigh draped over his shoulder. There's a full-body shudder that rolls through you, and Simon lifts his head enough for John to see the way your clit stands up erect, hot and flushed, slick smeared around and over it like candy. Simon grins and his arm flexes- not another finger, surely, but you moan louder, higher pitched, and Simon lifts his other hand in a crude gesture- thumb and middle finger folded down together.

Well damn.

Kyle realizes what Simon's doing and groans, abandoning your tit to scoot down himself, folding your other leg up. His hand joins Simon's, and the two men languidly kiss as they play with both your holes, Kyle licking the creamy come off Simon's face, pumping your cunt with his fingers to encourage more slick to drip down to your hole. Simon grunts, and then whines himself, sounding not unlike you, as Kyle's free hand gets between their bodies and starts to stroke.

For a few minutes it's just the warm wet sounds of kissing and touching, Johnny taking his cock out to rub it over your belly as John helps him get more of his own inside the younger man's mouth, angling it so that your slack lips kiss the side where Johnny's stop. Simon and Kyle play with each other, fingering you and feeding the slippery mess to each other, licking and nipping at your thighs.

John finally makes them move it along when you come again, and there's a real flutter of your lashes. Time to pick up the pace.

Johnny looks up through his lashes with a confused hum when John stops him, holding his head in place halfway down his cock. The man's mouth is warm and wet, tonguing at the big vein, and John considers the options available.

"Johnny, think you can fuck her mouth without suffocating her?" He asks, and gets a loud moan and a shuddery grind, Johnny trying to nod frantically around his mouthful.

He bumps Johnny off, mourning the loss only briefly, and reaches down across your belly to get his hand in between Kyle and Simon. The two men break apart, breathing heavily, and Simon lurches over with a moan when John smacks his cheek. He does it again just for the fun of it, Kyle's eyes dark and hot as Simon rubs his face against your thigh, sticky and scratched from their stubble and teeth.

Your pussy is a fucking mess, slippery and throbbing, clit swollen and your labia fat and sore, almost raw. Simon still has two fingers in your hole, and he rubs them almost idly against your insides, crooking them to make you drip a little more. There's a wet patch under your ass where they've made more of a mess, and John lifts your limp body upright, head lolling, and gets his phone off the side table.

"Say cheese," he prompts, and gets a perfect shot:

Johnny kneeling up, his cock rubbing against your breasts, leaving a damp trail over your nipples, a drop of precome catching the light on one like jewelry. Simon has his head on your thigh, eyes blown out and cock straining against his belly, hair sticking up everywhere and his lips swollen and pink.

Kyle's the only one who poses, sitting up behind you to grin at the camera, hooking a finger in your mouth and tugging. The flash catches the wet shine of your tongue, drool hanging in a trail down to your chest, the thin sliver of white in your eyes as your body sags, still uncontrolled, beautifully used. Fuck, you're going to look amazing when they're all done with you.

Trying to fit all three of the boys around you is a puzzle. He gets Johnny in your mouth, carefully rubbing his cock over your tongue, prodding at your cheeks and the back of your throat. John watches him carefully, and satisfied he won't do too much damage, kneels up and gets the man's head down, craning his neck to watch as Johnny fucks your mouth in the same rhythm John sets for him.

On your side like this, Simon can get your legs bent up to your chest, squeezing your tits and making you gulp a little with the pressure- Johnny moans, dragging an answering one from John as the vibrations roll over his cock.

Simon looks down at the soft little shape of your pussy- the round curve of your belly, mons, clit and cunt just peeking out between your thighs- and lines up his cock, sinking in slowly. You moan around Johnny, and one of your hands flexes, grasping before it goes still again.

Kyle watches Simon get settled, fitting his cock all the way in, so his balls rest against your ass, and then spits down across your other hole. It probably doesn't need anything else, and John holds Johnny still with a grip on his hair as Kyle works his cock into your ass, inch by inch, moaning and panting as the squeeze clings to him. Simon whines, his head and shoulders bumping against Johnny's leg, and manages to pull one of your breasts to his mouth, sucking fiercely, as if to distract himself from how the hot wet pressure of your cunt grows incredibly more tight, flesh compressed and stretched between his and Kyle's cocks as the other man bottoms out.

John drags Johnny back off, lets him gasp, spit and precome on his chin to match yours, and then fucks back into his mouth hard.

The thrust ripples down, through Johnny and into your mouth as his cock rolls forward, catches your throat, a gagging gasp making your body jump. Simon moans around your nipple, clinging to your hips and belly, his cock buried deep in your cunt as your muscles flex, a ripple all the way to where Kyle draws out and then slams into you, ass bouncing, the wet squelch of holes melding together- and then back up again, to John, who takes the rhythm and keeps it going.

The air is full of moaning, muffled and clear. The wet smack of Kyle's cock into your ass as he fucks you open, the slick from your pussy bubbling out around the fat plug of Simon's cock. He holds still, letting John and Kyle move you for him, eyes closed where he buries his face into your tits, the plush curve of your arm.

The little wet sounds from your mouth are coming harder, faster, your body starting to flex with the fucking you're getting at both ends. You're still limp, just a big soft doll being played with, but John reaches down to thumb open one of your eyelids and sees a spark before it sags shut again.

Kyle's watching him, a hand trailing all over your flesh to squeeze and pinch. "She waking up?" He asks, biting your calf where he's got your leg up. Your toes curl.

"Mm, little bit," John grunts, and gives Johnny a break to jerk his cock, rubbing the leaking tip over his face. Johnny gropes at his ass, whining and licking sloppily over John's balls, face pressed into the warm, sweaty crease of thigh and groin. "Here, Johnny, been so good f'r me- how's her mouth feeling? Nice and wet?"

Johnny sucks the base of John's cock, like a sideways kiss. "Mm, fucking heaven. Droolin' so much, feels like another cunt." He rolls his hips, the shiny head of his cock prodding behind your tongue. There's a reflexive spasm every time he hits the back of your throat, just a little clench he can't get enough of, and your throat is so soft and wet around him he thinks with a little more time he could work it all the way inside. He shivers just thinking of it, the slippery grip around his cock, how your lips would stretch, a pretty little fleshlight drooling his come out as fast as he could pump it into you.

Simon moans around your tit, and releases your nipple at last. It's swollen so much John thinks it'll bruise, fat and throbbing. The man cranes his neck up to lick at the mess frothing out of your mouth, catching the tip of Johnny's cock with his tongue, and all three men moan and shudder as you're pressed further beneath them, what John thinks is another orgasm fluttering through you.

Kyle swears and shifts his grip, pulling your thigh over his side, opening you up wide. John can see where Simon is still plugging you up, his groin rubbing your poor clit, and your flesh bounces as Kyle fucks you forward, shoved into Simon and Johnny, before dragging you back again. John gets Johnny back on his cock, letting him suck at his own pace, growing sloppier as he keeps fucking your mouth. Simon backs away to avoid getting smacked in the face, and shuffles a little so he can look at where your pussy stretches wide around him.

There's a thick ring of creamy come on his cock, smeared down his balls, and your pussy squeezes in neverending waves, clit a hot little button. He touches it gently, teasing, and then works it harder as you moan, full throated, back arching.

John's the one who swears now, seeing your forehead crease, your head start to shift as Johnny holds your hair to keep you in place. Come and spit sticking your hair to your neck, sweat dripping down your back, across your belly, the thick hot pussy smell in his nose as you're worked open by his boys.

Johnny pulls off John's cock with a gasp, his own cock forced deep into your mouth, when you grunt, blinking, your eyes opening as Johnny's abs and thighs flex against you. His cock slips over your tongue twice, three times, before there's a choking groan and your eyes roll back, spasming around him, Johnny briefly milked into your throat as you come again, louder, squeezing the three cocks forced into you.

Johnny comes with a shout, pumping his come down your throat, holding you to his groin for it- more aware but still drugged, you groan, gagging, and a flood of spit and come follows Johnny's cock as he spurts the last over your face.

The dripping come forces your eyes closed again, and Johnny humps your cheek, the crease of your neck, panting as his thighs and arms shake with it. You make a bleary questioning noise, confused, and Kyle yelps as Simon drags you fully on top of him, the other man's cock sliding out as you're splayed across him, chest to chest.

Simon braces his feet and bends his knees, grabbing your ass, and fucks into you hard, all the motion he'd held back before released, slamming into your cunt like a machine. You squeal, weakly trying to push with your arms, body tumbling through pleasure. John bends to cup your cheek, wiping some of the come away, using his wet hand to pinch the nipple Simon had been sucking.

It's spongy and hot under his fingers, slippery with Johnny's come, and you wail as the shuddering orgasm blows you back into limp sensation, drooling onto Simon's chest as he fucks your cunt wide open, slick splattering, until he groans and squeezes your ass with both hands, red marks blooming, his cock throbbing and spurting into your belly.

Kyle pinches Simon's nipple as he rolls you off the bigger man, scowling, making him flinch and whine. Johnny curls up around him like a cat, and grins, pinching the other just for the fun of it.

"Fucking out of my way," Kyle scolds, and you're moved again, rolled to your back, thighs splayed and arms akimbo.

John snaps another picture, this time a close up of your pussy, at how red and swollen it is, leaking fluids, dripping with come. There's a wink of your asshole under it, puffy and wet, and Kyle bends your back into a curve as he lifts your hips, and drops you down onto his cock, asshole stretching again in a single full stroke.

Your back arches as you squeal for him, moaning and writhing, and Kyle takes it, setting a pace that's harder and faster than he's done while you were being used. He smacks your pussy, making the slick and come splurt out with each spasm of your inner muscles, fucking Simon's come into your ass drip by drip.

You're a shuddering, bouncing mess, a pretty little doll, John's precious wife, covered in come. Kyle moans, hips flexing, and makes you sob as he teases your clit again, working it between two fingers, hood pulled back and the soft round head of it straining up. There's a wail and a rush of tears from your squeezed-shut eyes, and John clasps your hand, heart brimming, as you come for Kyle, ass so tight and hot around his cock, dragging his own orgasm out to leave your hole gaping open, come spilling from it, a little helpless clench that doesn't even close up the relaxed ring of muscle.

Kyle sags to your other side, chest heaving and slick with sweat, an arm thrown over your head to clasp Johnny's hand. You pant and shiver, and don't even react when John spreads your cheeks apart with one hand to snap a photo of your gaping holes, the wet splatter and red, fucked-out flesh.

He climbs up onto you, cradled on either side by Kyle and Simon, Johnny now lounging on the pillows and tenderly unsticking your hair from your face. John kisses your lips, tastes the come still in your mouth, licks a little more out. You manage to crack an eye open, bleary, and whimper a little as John kisses his way down your throat.

He finds your breasts next, cradles them up to his face, breathes gently over your nipples. The raw bud of one gets a soft touch, a gentle lick that makes you moan, and the other he sucks fully into his mouth. Poor things been neglected, and he spends what feels like an age just playing with it, teasing and rolling it between his fingers, his teeth, until it's swollen up for him as well.

He gives it a friendly pinch, and works down your belly, licking the sweat up. You're so soft and hot, big warm handfuls of flesh he can grope and squeeze himself, finding the tender spots already red and sore from the others' hands.

You sob when he reaches your pussy.

You're so wet, so fucking wet, dripping with fluids he can't even seperate out which is come, slick, he wouldn't be surprised if you'd pissed yourself a little in the middle of everything. You're wet down your thighs, up your belly, and he shoves his face in, breathing in the smell of it all, and promptly scrapes the bristles of his beard across your fat, puffy, raw little cunt.

Your scream for him, thighs tensing up just briefly to clamp around his head before falling apart again. Your next sobbing, broken noise is muffled, and John looks up over your curves and heaving breasts to see Simon kissing you, sucking your tongue and swallowing your pleas.

When he scrapes his beard across you again, soaking it in the clinging strands of fucked open pussy, your whole body spasms, shaking, and John sits up and slots his cock into your pussy just in time to feel your orgasm tearing through you.

There's a wet splash across his belly, and Kyle leans over you to hold you down as your muscles seize, the full throated groan eaten by Simon's tongue and Johnny's fingers in your teeth. Kyle sucks your nipple again, biting down over a mouthful of tit, and John finally lets go and pumps his come into your womb, grinding the tip against your cervix, feeling every pulse and twitch of your body as it swallows him up. More liquid splashes as he grinds in harder, forcing his cock against that spongy barrier, and he presses a soft kiss to the center of your chest as your eyes roll back and you drop into unconsciousness again, as limp and malleable as you were when he first tucked you into bed.

Not a lovely angel anymore, instead you're his precious little toy, a woman spilling enough come from her holes it's still dripping out, tits and belly marked up, ass bearing the slowly purpling bruises of many fingertips. Your poor pussy will be so sore when you wake up, he can't wait to see you whine and wince, limping out of bed still sticky.

They get one last group photo of the night, this time all of them smiling over you, John's hand cupping your chin so your face is lifted up. He'll need to get a print of these made, maybe put a few in frames to be hung up when the boys come around again, get you all flustered before they even arrive.

The others go to their beds, giving you kisses on your cheeks and eyelids before they go. The bedrooms are already made up for them, and John knows they'll sleep well, Johnny probably hustling them all out of bed too early for a run before breakfast, Simon bitching about it and then getting too competitive anyway.

John tucks you in, kissing your ear, your lips, cradling you against his body as he turns down the lights, sets a towel and some aspirin on the side table, traces where Johnny's come left a dried streak down your neck. Oh, you'll be so sore and itchy in the morning, waking up to the pounding ache in your bruised cunt, your poor nipples- they're still puffed up, and John carefully avoids them when he tucks his arm across you, hand between your breasts to feel your heartbeat.

"Niger, Nigeria, Chad, and Liberia, Egypt, Benin, and Gabon, ah! Tan, Tanzani-aaa," You moan, hips jumping, and Gaz tightens his grip on your wrists, held to your lower back. Between your thighs Ghost is suckling at your clit, two thick fingers stretching into your pussy. The dildo smacks your lips again and you open for it, sucking as you try and keep track of the list while your pussy builds up to a third orgasm.

Silicone pops out, a string of saliva connecting it to your bottom lip, as your thighs start to shake. Pants around your ankles and spread apart, you can feel the muscles tensing. The dildo is handed down, and you moan, panting, as it replaces the fingers in your pussy, filling you more, and Ghost grins up at you with your slick on his chin as he starts pumping it in hard and fast. "Oh- Somalia, Kenya, and Mali, Sierra Leone, and Algiers- fuck- oh fuck, shit, gonna come," you whine, and Soap holds your hips steady where they try to rock down on the dildo.

"Nah love, you said you could get through it all, giving up already?" He teases. "What was that forfeit again? Hmm..." He taps his lips like he's thinking, when you know he's a rotten bastard who remembers damn well.

You grit your teeth, trying to hold back the bursting pleasure. "Dahomey, Namibia, Senegal, Libya, Cameroon, Congo, Zaire, Ethiopia, Guinea-Bissau, Madagascar, Rwanda- aah, oh, oh god," and you can't keep it up, "Maore, Cayman, Hong Kong, Abu Dhabi, Qatar," you spit out, faster than the melody, trying to shove through the words as they unravel. Two orgasms on Ghost's tongue, another coming fast with the dildo stroking in and out, thick and slippery and pushing in hard, rolling over your g-spot, damn him he knows what he's doing.

"Yougoslavia! Crete, Mauritania, then- then Transylvania-" Ghost pulls the dildo out and hands it back up, Soap shoving into your mouth, and you moan around the silicone, tasting your own slick come, as your hips buck forward, pussy seeking the pleasure so suddenly denied from it. Gaz is grinding against your ass, mouthing along your neck, and his tongue licks across your cheek to taste your slick for himself, kissing the dildo along with you before he gets your ear in his teeth and tugs.

Three fingers in your pussy now, curved, playing fucking dirty as your whole body shakes with the orgasm you're trying so hard to fight off. "Monaco, Liechtenstein, aah, fuck, Malta, and Palestine, Fiji, Australia-!" Your mind blanks. One more. One more word, you're so close, teeth on your throat and fingers in your cunt and Soap smirking and stroking his cock as he sucks you off the dildo, Ghost's tongue flicking hot over your clit, skin flushing with heat and lust, one word, one more fucking word- you can't remember- god you're going to come like this and still lose the fucking bet-

"Fuck fuck, coming, oh- oh! Sudan!" You blurt, and immediately the creating wave breaks, Gaz holding you up as you wail, coming, pussy gushing down Ghost's fingers and lips, every muscle locking in before releasing in a burst that floods you out to your fingertips. There's an answering moan from the three men around you, Gaz using your ass to rub himself off, Soap and Ghost both stroking their own cocks frantically.

You pant, and then grin, satisfaction almost better than coming. "Don't you fucking dare," you snap, and all three freeze. "I remember the fucking bet, Soap- congratulations, all three of you are on lockdown- no coming for the next week!"

They all whine, caught out, and you cackle gleefully. "Oh, and don't worry, I'll be fair- you'll only get as many handicaps as I did," and you bend to pull your pants up, grinding your soaked pussy back against Gaz, making him moan and jerk his hips forward- and then away, realizing every tease you give him will only make the next seven days worse.

The dildo is plucked from Soap's fingers, and you hold his gaze as you lick it, slurping off the slick, seeing his eyes widen and cheeks flush, before bending and spitting it all onto Ghost's open mouth.

He groans, clutching at his thighs as his cock jumps, precome spurting, before he gets a hand around the base and holds it back. "Playing dirty," he rumbles, approving, and you buckle your belt, shoving the dildo back into Soap's hands.

Your pussy clenches and Johnny moans, settled right at eye level with your clit, thumbing your folds apart to lick up your come with a flat, hot tongue. You squeal and reach for Gaz as Price and Simon climb into the front, needing someone to hold onto as Soap shoves his tongue into you with no warning.

He's enthusiastic with your pussy, teasing your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it hard enough to make you shout, Gaz groping your breasts as you squirm. Soap can't move, he's wedged into the footwell between Price's seat and yours, which means his broad shoulders have your thighs splayed and your body wedged back into your seat, no escape from his mouth. The vibrator is still in you as well, curved up against your g-spot, and you keep clamping down on it when Soap drags you close to coming. He won't let you get there though, the fucker, and you gasp for Price to have mercy on your poor swollen clit, just let you come, you behaved at the bar-

Price laughs and shakes his head. "Still not my decision love," he says, and you look at Simon who waves the remote at you cheekily.

"Not sure I like you looking to him first, you know I've got the control tonight," he says, and "Gaz, go ahead and get rough with her tits if she's having a hard time not coming."

You moan in despair as Soap wiggles his tongue along your hole where the vibrator sits, and Gaz drags your shirt up and off, bra coming with it in a tangle of elastic. Your skirt is just a belt around your waist now and you whine as Gaz kisses your neck, soft and sweet, before he gets your nipple in his hand and pinches. You yelp and then shout louder as he squeezes, your nipple crushed between his thumb and finger, unable to push him away enough for relief. When he finally lets go you gasp and shudder, sobbing as Soap pops his mouth off your clit.

"You act like you hate it, bonnie, but I'm fucking near drowning in your cunt," he says, and rubs his jaw through your pussy to prove it, letting the other men hear the wet sloppy sounds. Gaz groans, and you flinch as he pinches your other nipple, but he lets go before he can bruise it like the other- instead, oh fuck, he's slapping your tits instead, hard smacks of his hand that make you yelp, pinned down between both men. Each suck and lick at your cunt drags you closer to orgasm, each smack on your breasts startles you out of it, Gaz pinching ruthlessly when he thinks you're getting too close. Your breasts are soon marked with little red bruises, your nipples swollen and sore where he's twisted them and tugged until you sobbed at him to let go, and your clit is a solid hot throb between your legs.

Then Simon turns the vibrator on.

You scream loud enough Price's hands jerk at the wheel. "Fuck, fuck, Simon please I need to come I need it please- please, god, oh fuck oh god, Simon, Simon please please please!!" Soap's on your clit, sucking it so hard he's got nearly your whole pussy pulled into his mouth; Gaz has twisted himself around to get both hands on your tits and is pulling your nipples so tight you think they're going to come off, and through it all the vibrator buzzes, unstoppable, stronger and stronger until you don't have anything left in you but the hair-thin control of not allowed to come yet.

Under your screaming and Soap's moaning and Gaz's swearing you hear a command you'd die for right now.

"You can come, love."

You know you scream again, back arching as much as it can, and your eyes roll back as you come and come and come, a full body spasm that doesn't stop, because Simon hasn't turned the vibrator back off.

You sob and beg, weeping, Gaz releasing your nipples with a rush of blood back to the abused flesh that stings and burns, and when finally the damned thing falls quiet you collapse against Gaz, limp.

Soap lays his head against your thigh, panting, and through the come-drunk haze you hear him gasp "Fuck Si, I wasn't joking about drowning, she just squirted down my fucking throat," and you hear him groan and shudder between your legs- oh, he was jerking off to you coming, and there's a wet splatter on your pussy as his come streaks over you.

Gaz moans and thumbs your nipples, and you whine, too fucked to protest, as he drags you to lay across the seat. Your mouth falls open as he gets his cock out and works it between your lips, holding your head in both hands and fucking up into your mouth like a sex toy- you can't move, and just let him take you, drooling down his cock. You can't even muster up the energy to choke when his cock bumps into your throat, then deeper. Everything is too soft, too blissed out and fucked out, your body thrumming with phantom sensations as Gaz uses your throat. He comes fast, pushing you down all the way, and you manage to swallow some of his come before he lifts you up and the rest drools out down your chin.

The door opens- oh, you're home. Simon looks at you upside down from where your head hangs over Gaz's lap.

"sweet thing, you look rode hard and put away wet," he comments, and you giggle at him.

"Not rode an'thin yet Siiii," and he lifts you up and carries you in where Price has turned the lamps on in the bedroom. Soap and Gaz trail behind you, the two men stumbling up the steps, come drunk on their own.

Poly tf141 gangbang anywhere they want it. Home base? You're getting bent over Price's desk and fucked stupid before he lets the boys have their turns filling you up, leaving you so sloppy and wet with come there's no point putting your clothes back on, so why bother princess? Everyone knows what you got up to with all that screaming you just did. Go on, go shower, it's just down the hall- no, no clothes, we just told you. Now get cleaned up or we'll just hose you down outside- there you go, good girl.

You get parked in a safe house on a mission and when the squad comes back amped up, smelling like gunpowder and explosives, you don't even get a chance to ask if they're all okay- Soap throws you down on the bed and tears your panties off, throwing the scrap of broken elastic and cotton away, barely getting his cock out before slamming into you so hard you white out for a moment. He knows he's fucking you bloody like this, but you're clawing at his shoulders and moaning, and isn't this what you're here for anyhow? You belong to them, and however they want you, and when he finishes and Gaz steps into his place you moan and let Ghost tilt your head back, work his cock into your mouth, taking them both so well, so tight and wet, we know you missed us baby. Ghost holds his cock in your throat so you'll clench down on Gaz, milk the come out of him, let Price spread you open and play with the slippery mix of come and slick between your legs. He fucks you as Ghost comes down your throat, your choking a beautiful counterpoint to the wet slapping sounds.

On the transport home there's other soldiers, other men staring at you, their own cocks out in their fists, aiming stripes of come your way. You barely even register them, your squad a knot of muscle and skin around you, each moving in turn to fuck up into your ass and cunt, Ghost and Price sharing you with their foreheads pressed together, Ghost's mask lifted just enough to lick at each other's mouths. Soap and Gaz fuck you between them, rocking you back and forth as they rub their cocks together inside you, only a thin layer of flesh separating them. Hands pinching your nipples and stroking your tongue, whoever isn't inside you fitting their cocks into your hands like toys, moving you where they want to be teased. Gaz and Price, Soap and Ghost, each taking you until you lose track entirely, only the pleasure covering your mind in a haze, drooling openly as you're fucked and fucked and fucked, until your body is so ruined that when they're finally finished Price has to carry you into base, lay you down into a bed that smells like them, let you drift out of consciousness with their come still drying down your legs, across your belly, your pussy and ass stretched open and tender.

You're lifted off your feet by a blast that you feel more than hear, like a bully shoving you down a flight of stairs, and Soap catches you as you slam into the floor, ears ringing, all your nerves screaming as they're flipped around and sensation, sight, hearing go topsy-turvy.

You blink, and it's Soap carrying you over his shoulders; you blink, and you're laid flat, Soap kneeling over your head as he unbuckles your vest, Gaz and Ghost on either side, Price working with them to remove your gear in double time, and they're touching you.

Your skin burns. Every unintentional stroke of fingers goes straight through you like good liquor, making you gasp, squirming. Gaz puts his hands on your shoulders, holding you still, saying something you can't hear over the ringing in your ears, and you moan. It's too good. Ghost is lifting your shirt, sweeping gloved hands up and down, checking for injuries, and your belly flexes as he presses down.

He gropes your tits, full palming the flesh, and your nipples are so hard they ache, needing more than a cursory scrape of tac gloves over them, wanting to be flicked and tugged. One of his thumbs lingers, finds a small scratch that made it through your layers, and when he presses on it your bones all melt, thighs spreading, hips rolling up.

Price pauses where he's got his hands on your belt, open and ready to pull your pants down. He's staring down into your lap, at the vee of your open legs, and when he finally pulls the fabric away- belts and holsters all together, rubbing down your skin so deliciously- the cotton of your panties comes off your pussy with a little slick splotch on the center, a tiny string connecting to your entrance before it breaks.

You shudder, mortification and lust and adrenaline pumping through your veins. You feel high. You feel like the lowest scum, wriggling in the dirt while your friends were terrified for your life. Your pants are tangled at your knees, shirt lifted up, and your heart pounds in double time as Price says- something- it's muffled like you're underwater. You blink at him, and he says something else, sharper, before shaking his head and gesturing-

Ghost grips your nipple in his fingers and pinches, hard, and you slam back into your body with a shriek. The pain doesn't stop, growing as he twists, mean, not letting up until you shudder.

"...hear me? Come on, soldier," Price is coaxing, and when Gaz pinches your other nipple, digging in with his nails, the sound that comes out of you is some abomination of a moan and a sob. You want to flee and you still crave more, hips lifting, trying to turn your head between Soap's thighs. He halts you, the thick muscle squeezing, and your pussy clenches when both Soap's hands circle your throat, thumbs under your jaw.

"Easy love," he soothes, as you whine, staring up at him, "don't want to risk a spine injury," and his hands squeeze, just a little, just enough that your eyes roll.

Ghost and Gaz are still groping your chest and abdomen, moving your arms to stab rough fingers into your armpits, making you gasp. Gaz gets your tit in his hand, bouncing it, and your nipple throbs as he tugs and pinches it, flicking at the very tip.

Ghost is moving down your arm, pressing his fingers into the curve of your muscle, finding your palm and stripping away your gloves. You can't see what he's doing- your gaze is stuck on Johnny as he holds your head and neck- but the wavering cry that rolls out of you when a hot mouth sucks two of your fingers inside it is pure humiliation, a fresh gush of slick wetting your pussy, Price putting his weight on your open thighs as Soap clenches around your head, keeping you still.

Ghost licks and sucks with abandon, spit trailing down your wrist, the tip of his tongue flicking at the web between your fingers in a way that makes your clit throb. Your little finger aches, bruised, and he kisses the pad of it so gently you want to cry, before his teeth sink into your wrist, snapping on the thin, delicate veins.

You wail, chest heaving, still only hearing bits and pieces, their voices going in and out. Gaz sucks your nipple, smacking your other breast, and there's a hot, hard curve against your head that you know is Soap, you know it, you need him, so bad, moaning in the dirt like a whore. You hips jerk, and when Price gets a hand on your pussy, holding you open, clit framed between his fingers and begging for a suck, you kick wildly, the tangle of pants and belts all rattling together.

"-said hold still!" Price snaps, and his hands snakes over to smack the inside of your thigh. You moan and gush. "Going to be the fucking death of....high up ...brace," and you whine, confused and horny, as something is looped around your throat, thick and stiff, and you realize it's their belts- broad bands of leather layered over each other in an improvised neck brace- you can smell them, sweat and gunpowder and, oh, their cocks, heavy and warm and intoxicating, and you drool, your view rocking as the buckles are tightened, your chin forced up.

Johnny smiles at you, stroking your cheek, and you swear you hit the stratosphere when his cock is pulled out and dropped on your face, balls dragging across your forehead. Your tongue stretches out, needing a taste, and you awkwardly lick at Soap, trying to kiss and suck at his cock as he rubs it over you, skin silky-soft over the thick hard flesh of it.

Your pussy is leaking constantly now, a rhythmic clench and squeeze to match your racing heartbeat, as Ghost leaves your throbbing wrist alone and joins Gaz over your breasts again, their mouths alternating between sucking your nipples and kissing each other. Price's fingers are back around your clit, prodding and poking, teasing the little nerves and then pressing hard into the tendons around your thighs, making you shake from the dual stimulation. It's too much, and it's not enough, not for you, so slick and desperate just from being groped and stripped. Ready to burst because your squad was checking for injuries and then decided to have a little fun while you were helpless.

Soap's thighs flex around your head as he kneels up, and you feel his moan when his balls sink down over your mouth, full and fat, his pants scraping at your nose. You try to suck at them, the sac bouncing as he jerks his cock, gasping when he kneels up briefly and then sits back down again, the ache in your lungs adding to the heat in your belly.

Your hands flex, reaching, and find Ghost's cock still in his pants, thick curve down his thigh, cupping it awkwardly. Gaz's is out, blood hot, and he fits your hand around it and uses you to stroke off, keeping your hand in place with an iron grip. Moans and soft sighs waver in and out of your ears, your own muffled begging increasing as Price keeps teasing around your clit, not ever touching it, fingers wet with the slick you're pumping out. You feel the belts around your throat with every gasp, your nipples ache, you are so ready to come, but you can't get it, not yet.

You think he might give it to you, let you have it, the orgasm hovering just on the horizon, when he forces your clit to pop out, distended between the V of his middle and first fingers, and the other fingertip traces so gently over it, the little round head straining from the hood, oh fuck please- please can I come- Soap's balls and cock so heavy on your lips and Ghost's cock out and leaking, Gaz still fucking your fist-

You can't hear beyond Soap's thighs, and sob when the teasing touches vanish- all of them- no more fat cocks to stroke or heavy balls to suck or delicious, torturing fingers on your clit. Soap lifts off and away, and your belly twists as the world spins, horizon muddled, the ringing back in your ears as you're lifted and shaken about, a rat in a terrier's jaws, limp and unable to fight.

Your chest presses to the ground, arms pinned under you, and your eyes roll and you come with a shout as a cock shoves into your pussy, someone's hips slapping hard to your ass, neck held stiff with the belts and thighs shaking as you're pounded, pussy gushing, the fireworks behind your eyes bursting apart.

You don't know who is fucking you and you don't care, only greedy for cock, pussy squeezing and milking it eagerly. Hands roam over your back, pressing at other little scrapes and bruises, smacking your ass hard enough you wail into the dirt and dust. Your pussy is drooling, creamy and thick, as it's used to slake their adrenaline high, pumping relief and worry into your body.

The first cock comes fast, wet heat spilling into you, a new liquid warmth you can feel inside. Maybe it was Soap, already more worked up from humping your face, his balls damp with your spit. When it pulls away, you moan and wriggle, needing more; when the second cock slams inside, meaner, you wail for Ghost, thighs shaking as he grips your ponytail and hauls back on your head.

Your neck can't bend far inside the brace, and instead your shoulders are lifted up, hands scrambling to get under you and take some of the weight and pressure. It's a lost cause though, each snap and roll of his hips making you weak, drool slicking the corner of your mouth, babbling as your clit smacks against his balls, your breasts bounce.

His free hand cups your ass, and you clench down tight when he hits you- this is nothing so playful as a spank- pain flowing in a wave through your pussy and clit. Another hit, more back and forth until your ass is burning, each smack of his gloved palm and fingers winding you back up, until he bends to cover your body, tac vest digging into your skin, and hisses through the ringing in your ears, your pounding heartbeat, that this is what you get for scaring the fucking shit out of him, he thought you were dead, and you come when Ghost does, his teeth biting hard into your ear, blood spilling, your moans strangled and choked as he hauls on your hair and uses your slutty slick hole to punish you.

You sag limply down when he releases you, neck aching and pussy throbbing, and whimper when Gaz slips in, pussy still weakly clenching with the orgasm Ghost gave you. He's as tender as Ghost wasn't, his cock thick and heavy, filling you gently. He spends a few minutes just holding you, cradling you back to chest, before the world spins again and you're brought up kneeling, thighs open over his lap, and Gaz can fuck up into your sloppy wet hole with both hands free to play with your tits.

He croons half-heard nonsense into your ear as he palms your breasts, feeling them, learning the weight and shape. One nipple is flicked over with his thumb, unstopping, as you squirm and whine; the other is carefully pinched and pulled, only a little.

It's a different sort of torture, this easy teasing, your clit begging to be touched as well. This position means Gaz is just fucking your hole, no pressure on your clit, and you whine and try to bounce back down on him, getting a sharp twist to both nipples in admonishment. You yelp, chastised, and let him take his time. Your breasts are squeezed, cupped together in his palms to force cleavage up, nipples tugged and rolled, here and there a little pinch to make you clench up on him. By the time Gaz comes, your nipples are sore, breasts feeling full and hot and heavy from being played with, and you beg incoherently as he spills his come inside, so much already in you that it's all being fucked out, dripping down his cock and onto his balls; Gaz scoops up a little of the slick mess and rubs your clit, hard little circles, a teasing tug just like he did to your nipples, and you come with a syrupy wave of pleasure, soft and heavy and making your thighs shake, your mouth opening on a moan.

Hands gently lay you down, on your back again, and now Price is finally kneeling over you, thighs open for him, pussy so wet with slick and come it's obscene. He's looking down at you with a complex twist to his face, something like a father and something like a commander and something else like just a man, worried and needy and wanting the base animal instinct of rutting into another warm and living body.

His cock slams into you and you sob, tears rolling down your cheeks, reaching up with wobbly arms to cling to Price's shoulders. His moans filter into your ears, strong body bending to cover you, the tangled mess of your pants clattering as your legs are shifted up, letting him pull you close, nuzzle at your face until he can lick into your open mouth.

"Sorry, sorry," you blurt, the words forced out at each pound of his cock, "I'll be- better- faster- next time- oh, ah fuck, please, oh fuck it's so good-!" Your eyes roll, overstimulated and overcome, heart pounding. There's an ache in your lower back and down your legs, nipples still hard and sensitive, and your clit throbs as it's ground against Price on each slap of his hips. "Price- captain- gonna come again!"

He bites your lips, and you come with another shout and a shake, too much and too fast, hearing only your pounding heartbeat and the words he whispers to you, so scared we lost you, saw you fall, can't lose you, sweetheart, my sweetheart, so good, so strong- one more, take one more from me, so full and wet now- and Price comes with a groan, grinding his cock so deep you can feel it in your throat, panting and holding your gaze, forcing you to see all the emotion in his eyes while his cock spurts and throbs, a last load of come to fill your pussy.

You pant and whimper, still crying, clinging to Price, the others all pressed close around, soothing him as much as you. Your pussy aches deep inside, four cocks taken so fast, and you know you'll carry that ache with you for days.