#order up!

You blinked. Looked down.

Oh.

You were.

Your fingers were laced together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"So?" Steve said, squeezing your hand like he was proving a point. "Friends hold hands."

"No, they do not," Mike said from the floor.

"They can," you added, a little defensive, though your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

Max raised an eyebrow. "Do you also sit in each other’s laps as friends? Or is that, like, a special edition thing?"

Steve did not even hesitate. "Sometimes there is not enough space."

"There is literally an entire empty chair right there," Lucas pointed out.

You opened your mouth to argue, then paused.

Because

Because you were sitting halfway in Steve’s lap.

And his hand was resting on your thigh like it had every right to be there.

And suddenly, with everyone staring at you, it did not feel invisible anymore.

It felt noticeable.

Warm.

Too warm.

"You think we are weird?"

You asked it later, when it was just the two of you again.

Steve was driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting comfortably over yours in the center console like it always did.

He glanced at you. "No."

"Dustin thinks we are weird."

"Dustin also thought he could build a radio tower in a junkyard," Steve said. "I am not exactly taking his word as law."

You smiled a little, but it did not quite settle the strange flutter in your chest.

Your eyes dropped to your hands again.

Still intertwined.

Still easy.

Still different, now that you were thinking about it.

"Do you think," you started slowly, "that we are, I do not know, more affectionate than other friends?"

Steve shrugged, thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly. "Maybe. But that is just us."

Just us.

The words should have been comforting.

They were comforting.

So why did your stomach flip at them?

You tried not to think about it.

You really did.

But once someone pointed something out, it was hard to unsee it.

Every touch started to feel louder.

Every casual lean, every brush of fingers, every time Steve pulled you closer like it was instinct

It all had this new weight to it.

And worst of all?

You started noticing how it made you feel.

The warmth.

The little sparks.

The way your heart skipped when he smiled at you a certain way.

The way your chest tightened when he was not touching you.

Butterflies.

Actual, ridiculous, cliché butterflies.

And you did not know what to do with them.

At the arcade, you leaned against Steve while he played, your arms loosely around his middle.

"Supportive girlfriend energy," Max said, walking by.

You did not even look away. "I am just emotionally invested."

Steve smirked. "She is my good luck charm."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Uh huh."

At the diner, your foot hooked around his under the table, absentminded, familiar.

Robin kicked both of you. "Separate."

You blinked. "We are separate."

"You are literally tangled."

Steve glanced down. "Oh."

Neither of you moved.

In his car, your head rested on his shoulder at a red light.

A guy in the next car honked and gave Steve a thumbs up.

Steve just nodded back.

You did not even question it.

It never felt weird.

Not to you.

Not to him.

That was the strangest part.

No matter how many times someone pointed it out, no matter how many looks you got, it never shifted into something awkward or wrong.

It just was.

Like gravity.

Like habit.

Like something you stopped noticing a long time ago.

It was quiet.

No one else was around.

Just you and Steve in his room, late afternoon sunlight spilling through the window. You were lying on your stomach across his bed, flipping through a magazine you were not really reading.

Steve was sitting beside you, one hand resting lazily on your ankle, thumb brushing back and forth without thinking.

It was the kind of touch he did all the time.

The kind you had never questioned.

But that day

You felt it.

Really felt it.

The slow, absent motion.

The warmth of his hand.

The way your stomach did a small, strange flip.

You paused.

"Hey," you said.

"Yeah?" he answered, not looking up from whatever he was fiddling with.

You hesitated.

Not because it felt wrong.

But because it suddenly felt important.

"Why do we do this?"

That got his attention.

He looked up. "Do what?"

You gestured vaguely between you. "This. The touching. All the time."

He blinked, like the question did not quite land at first.

Then he glanced down at his hand on your leg.

"Oh."

A beat.

"I do not know," he said honestly. "We always have."

"Yeah, but why?"

He shrugged a little. "Because I like it?"

The answer was so simple it caught you off guard.

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up so you could see him properly.

"You do?"

"Yeah," he said, like it was obvious. "Do not you?"

You opened your mouth.

Paused.

Because the answer was immediate.

"Yeah," you admitted softly. "I do."

There was a quiet moment.

Not awkward.

Just thoughtful.

Steve’s hand was still on your leg.

He had not moved it.

Neither had you.

"Everyone keeps saying it is weird," you added.

"Everyone says a lot of things," he replied.

You huffed a small laugh. "That is not helpful."

He smiled a little. "Okay. Then does it feel weird to you?"

You thought about it.

Really thought.

All those moments.

All that closeness.

All that ease.

You shook your head. "No."

"Me neither."

Another pause.

The sunlight shifted slightly across the bed.

Your fingers drifted toward his without you fully deciding to do it.

They brushed.

Then settled.

Natural.

Familiar.

But

There was that feeling again.

That small, fluttery something.

You glanced down at your hands.

Then back up at him.

"Do you think it means something?" you asked.

Steve tilted his head. "Like what?"

You shrugged, suddenly a little shy. "I do not know. Just something more than what we thought."

He did not answer right away.

He just watched you.

Really watched you.

And there was something new in his expression.

Not unfamiliar.

Just deeper.

"Do you want it to mean something?" he asked.

Your heart skipped.

You had not thought about it like that.

Or maybe you had.

Just not out loud.

"Maybe," you said.

It came out softer than you expected.

Honest.

Steve nodded slowly.

"Okay."

Okay.

That was it.

Not dramatic.

Not overwhelming.

Just okay.

Neither of you pulled away.

If anything

You drifted a little closer.

Like you always did.

Only now you were aware of it.

Aware of the space closing.

Aware of the way your breath slowed slightly.

Aware of the way his thumb traced lightly over your knuckles.

"Do you, well, I do not know, you want to test it out?" he asked quietly, almost a whisper.

"Test what out?" you tilted your head hesitantly.

He shrugged. "If you, if we could be something more?"

You gaped for a brief moment, mouth slightly open as the air in the room went thick. You blinked.

"What would we, how?"

His eyes drifted from yours to fall to your lips, staying there for a moment before he licked his own, his gaze flicking back up to search your face.

"I think there is one way to see, really."

Oh.

You nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Yeah?"

You nodded again. "Yeah."

He paused, shifting just a little closer before bringing his free hand up to cup your cheek.

His palm was warm, soft against your skin, fitting perfectly with his thumb resting on the apple of your cheek.

Then he leaned in slowly.

Not dramatic.

Not like in the movies.

Just careful.

Like he was giving you every chance to change your mind.

You did not.

You did not even think about it.

You just stayed there, watching him get closer, your breath catching a little as the space between you disappeared.

There was a split second right before

Where everything went very, very quiet.

And in that quiet, your brain did one last, strange thing.

This was Steve.

Not a stranger.

Not some mystery.

Just Steve.

Your Steve.

The one who held your hand without thinking.

The one who let you steal his fries.

The one who looked at you like you were the easiest thing in the world to understand.

And somehow that made it feel less scary.

Not more.

Then his lips touched yours.

And

Oh.

Oh.

That was

You did not even have the word for it right away.

Because it was not overwhelming.

It was not fireworks exploding or anything dramatic like that.

It was soft.

Warm.

Familiar in a way that did not make sense, like your body recognized it before your brain caught up.

His lips were gentle, a little tentative at first, like he was still checking if this was okay even though you were already leaning into it.

And you did lean in.

Without thinking.

Like it was the most natural response in the world.

Your hand tightened in his, grounding you, but also pulling you closer at the same time.

You noticed little things.

Small, specific things.

The way his bottom lip was softer than you expected.

The faint taste of something sweet, probably the candy he grabbed earlier, mixed with something that was just him. Warm and clean and familiar in a way you could not quite explain.

His breath brushed your cheek.

His thumb shifted slightly against your hand.

And that feeling

That fluttery, low, spreading warmth

It was not just in your stomach anymore.

It was everywhere.

Your brain tried to keep up.

We are kissing.

I am kissing Steve.

Why did this feel like you had done this a hundred times?

Because it did.

That was the strangest part.

It did not feel like stepping into something new.

It felt like crossing a line that was already there.

Like all those touches, holding hands, leaning into him, the way he always pulled you closer

They had been leading here the whole time.

You just did not realize it.

He shifted slightly, barely, but enough to deepen the kiss just a little.

Still soft.

Still careful.

But less unsure.

And your heart did that stupid, swooping thing in your chest.

You responded without thinking, your free hand coming up to his shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt just to hold onto something.

Because suddenly you wanted to be closer.

Closer than you already were.

Which was saying something.

When you finally pulled back, it was not abrupt.

It was slow.

Like neither of you was in a rush to end it.

Your lips brushed once more before you separated, and even that tiny movement sent another wave of warmth through you.

You stayed close.

Foreheads almost touching.

Breathing the same air.

And for a second, you just looked at him.

Really looked at him.

Like you were seeing him and recognizing him at the same time.

"Oh," you whispered.

It was the only word that fit.

Steve let out a quiet, slightly breathless laugh.

"Yeah," he murmured.

His thumb was still tracing slow circles against your hand.

Like nothing had changed.

Except now

When you looked at his lips again

You knew what they felt like.

Soft.

Warm.

Familiar.

Yours.

And the butterflies did not settle.

They just shifted.

Deeper.

Steadier.

Like they had found a place to stay.

"Okay," he smiled, his head tilting in a way that told you he had made up his mind.

You matched his grin.

"Alright."

Not your normal aesthetic, but you figured you'd been dead long enough and it was time to try something new. The classmates whose opinions you used to take to heart couldn't see you anymore, and you knew your fellow ghosts couldn't care less if you decided to attend the dance in the buff.

Well, except one ghost who, since that night, hasn't stopped giving you those fucking eyes. Jesus. Your heart is about to burst out of your chest, the heat in your belly coiled tight enough to make you squirm in your seat as Wally watches you. Bold. Open. Unconcerned about who might catch him staring while everyone argues over what to watch for Movie Night.

The Wally you know, the one who helped you transition from living-breathing-person to haunting the hallways of your high school, is goofy, charmingly awkward; a real puppy of a person with enough buoyant energy to light a continent for years. Always checking to make sure you saw his sick moves on the field whenever he strongarms the ghostly guys (and Bernie) into a game of Shirts and Skins. Puffing his chest out, lopsided grin wide, proud when you send him a thumbs-up from the bleachers.

A boy with an obvious crush that neither you nor he addresses because you and he don't want to disrupt the status quo.

Yeah, sure, Yuri and Charley are an item, and Rhonda and Quinn send each other heart eyes regularly. Ghosts couple up from time to time, it's normal, everyone has needs, etcetera etcetera. But you haven't been in the metaphysical world as long as they have (2024, RIP), and you don't want to risk the uncomfortable after if things between you and Wally go south.

Or so you've been telling yourself since joining him in the afterlife.

Only now...

Fuck. Now you can't stop thinking about what it might feel like to have his big hands on your waist, your hips, your ass. Fantasies fueled by those intense looks you catch him giving you every time you waltz into his radius.

He'd be sweet, you think. As silly and unserious as he is outside of the bedroom. Maybe—probably—careful and curious and frequently checking in, does that feel good, baby? Big, cow eyes gazing up at you to gauge your reactions as he explores your body with soft, reverent touches.

Those eyes tell a different story, though, but you can't reconcile that Wally would be any other way than how he always is, regardless of the situation.

Right? Right.

...

...

...

...right?

"You're thinking awfully loud," You feel more than hear Wally whisper, his breath tickling the sensitive skin of your neck, lips brushing your pulse point, and, holy hell, when did he get so close?

You don't realize you stopped searching for a movie, stopped moving altogether, your fingers poised on one of the DVDs—Friday Night Lights—until Wally's front presses against your back. Then you seem to come to, blinking away the fog that descended when you started imagining how good he might make you feel away from the others, behind closed doors.

His hands rest on your hips, thumbs stroking bare skin beneath the hem of your top, dry lips grazing the slope of your neck.

"What're you thinking about?" He asks and his fingers dig into your flesh a little harder, pulling your ass into the cradle of his hips. "You can tell me, baby, I won't say anything."

You would tell him if you could find your voice, but it's stuck at the back of your throat, replaced with a little keen you've never heard yourself make. A soft, kitteny sound that makes Wally's breath audibly catch.

No one can see you, hidden between the aisles in the library, Charley and Rhonda arguing on the couch while Yuri and Ajay insert passive commentary here and there. Quinn and Dawn and Janet left awhile ago to put together the snack table.

So, it's just you and Wally and his big hands on your hips, and his breath on your neck and his widening smirk—so unlike the boyish smile he always sports—gently teasing across your skin.

"You finally ready to admit there's something between us?" He says, somewhat playful, entirely dark. And, fuck, his rich as sin voice sends shockwaves of heat through your veins.

It's all you can do to stay upright, unconsciously leaning back into his chest, your head tilting to the side to give him more access.

"...is there?" You breathe, eyes falling closed as he presses hot kisses up your neck to that sensitive spot behind your ear. "Something between us, I mean." And you definitely didn't need to clarify, but what he's doing with his lips and teeth is making you a little bit stupid.

Wally chuckles, delivers a light nip, then a soft kiss, and murmurs, "You know there is, baby." His hands grip you harder and suddenly you feel him, his cock hard against your ass, "If you tell me there isn't, I'll stop..." He promises and, God no, that's the last thing you want.

...

Right!?

"Don't you fucking dare," You hiss, choking back a moan when his hands glide up up up, under your top to fondle your tits, thumbs rubbing circles over your nipples.

"Fuuuck," Wally breathes out hot against your skin, rocks his hips forward, pressing his cock into your ass, "I've wanted to touch you like this for months, baby. Thought about it every day." A bite to your pulse point, one big hand teasing down your stomach to slip into the waistband of your shorts, fingertips barely brushing over your clit. "You feel that?" He grinds his cock against you over and over in little, insistent motions, "You feel what you do to me, baby? How much you make me fucking want you?"

This isn't the Wally you know. At all. This Wally is so far removed from That Wally, you're sure you're dealing with some kind of mirror dimension version of him. Because who is this!? Hot and in control, his words filthy and laced with deep, dark desire. His touch deliberate, making your pussy ache for him before he's even really done anything.

"Wally," You gasp, arching your back and pressing your hips forward, desperate for his fingers. The world around you starts to slip away until you hear Charley bark a comment about sports movies being the worst, come on, guys. And then it hits you, where you are, how exposed, how anyone could hear you and Wally and know exactly what's happening. "Wait," You murmur, stilling his hand, "Wait, we can't do this he—"

"Shh, it's okay, baby," Wally insists, teeth against the join of your neck and shoulder, "You just have to be good for me, can you do that?" Oh fuck. Oh God. Who is this!? The hand he doesn't have in your shorts grips your hip, drags your ass against his cock as he humps against you. "Just be quiet for me, baby, let me make you feel good." And then, a whisper in your ear, "Please."

Like he's asking. Like he isn't going to do what he wants anyway, his long fingers already stroking through your pussy lips and teasing into you to the first knuckle.

You shiver, swallow a moan, eyes clenched shut, trying desperately not to make a sound, but, fuck, you want to. Can barely hold it in. The way he sinks his fingers deeper, licks and bites your neck, all while muttering filth and praise into your skin.

"God, you're so wet, baby. You need me so bad, don't you?"

Another little keen, wrenched from your throat, and suddenly you're dizzy, incapable of thinking beyond how he touches you.

"I wanna taste you, pretty girl. I need it, been craving it for so long, fuck."

Wally pulls his hand out of your shorts and deftly undoes the fly. Expert, quick, like he's practiced a thousand times. You don't let yourself think about how he got so good at this—you kind of can't care because, Jesus, he's dropped to his knees, dragged your shorts and panties down your legs. With a hand at the middle of your back, he guides you to bend forward.

"Wally—" You start to protest again when Yuri laughs at something Ajay says, the sound striking through the muggy heat fogging your brain.

But it's too late, his mouth on your pussy from behind, tongue probing with a shallow lick that turns into a full, deep, hungry kiss. Your legs almost buckle right then, your forehead hitting the tightly packed collection of DVDs in front of you, hands clenched on the shelf to keep you upright.

"Christ, baby, you're so sweet." Wally moans, low and quiet. "You taste so good." And he surges back in, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you back against his face, his tongue swirling inside you.

He slowly moves one hand forward, fingertips grazing your clit, your mind exploding in a haze of white light as he begins to press in heady little circles.

"Tell me how I make you feel, baby." He commands in a whisper, lips forming the words against your pussy. "I wanna hear you." And then he moves in again, making out with your pussy like a man starved. Feasting, sucking and licking and slurping your juices, and you're so fucking wet, pussy pulsing, breathing ragged, you can't speak, can't fathom having to put your thoughts to words.

You manage, "Don't stop."

A smouldering, smug chuckle, and a stinging nip to your ass cheek, "Never, baby girl."

He eats you out until your thighs start to shake and you can't hold yourself up anymore. Then he's on his feet, you hear the rustle of fabric, feel his blunt cockhead prodding your entrance. You see stars when he tugs you upright by the hair—gentle, considerate, but demanding—and confesses, "I've wanted to fuck you like this since I met you."

One hard stroke and he stuffs you full, his cock splitting you in two. Your eyes roll back, lips parting on a tight sigh, but Wally doesn't give you a chance to savor the feeling. Fingernails branding crescents into your flesh, he pulls out halfway and then slams back in, the sound wet and lewd and so fucking loud there's no way nobody heard it. That telltale squelch that makes Wally moan.

"God, you're so fucking tight, baby," He groans, pulling out, slamming back in, grinding to get deeper, cockhead nudging your sweet spot over and over before he repeats the motion. He switches between slow drags and rough thrusts, draping himself over your back and placing one of his hands over yours, lacing his fingers with yours. "You're all I've ever wanted," He says like he's wanted to tell you for a long time but never allowed himself. "You're so perfect, baby, fuck, you take me so good—"

And he doesn't let you respond, fucking into you with abandon, huffing into your neck, hand leaving yours to smooth up your chest, rest on your throat and tilt your head back.

"Wanna feel you come around me, baby. Wanna feel you fucking gush all over me."

A desperate—way too fucking loud—mewl is pulled out of you by his words, his voice, his fucking cock beating into you over and over, hitting your g-spot with the force of a fucking train, the right kind of dull hurt that makes you weak for more. Your legs shake, your belly gets tight, tingling white-hot heat ready to snap inside you.

"Wally, oh fuck, don't stop, please—"

He growls low against your pulse point and promises, "I'm not gonna stop, baby. Let me feel it, come on," and moves his hips faster, fat cock rubbing every hot, sensitive nerve inside you, again and again and again, until, finally, fucking yes, God, yes, Wally—

You tense, go still, and he pounds your g-spot so perfectly, gets you to that insidious edge, and then over it. With a weak, wet moan, you come around him, pussy clenching, gripping him tight, making him curse.

"That's it, fuck." He chokes out. His cock twitches inside you and you know, you can feel it, he's going to come. "Oh, fuck, baby, tell me you want it." He commands, holding himself right at the edge. He repeats, "Tell me."

"Please, Wally," You breathe, pussy still throbbing, so fucking sensitive, and you don't know how much more you can take, the line between pleasure and overstimulation way too thin. "Please~"

You can practically hear his smirk, "Yeah. That's my girl. Gonna give you everything, baby." He snatches your hips back as he thrusts forward, the snap of skin-on-skin piercing the air, punctuated by hard pants and, finally, one long, satisfied groan when Wally holds you still, cock pulsing inside you as he comes, humping into you in tiny motions.

He collapses against your back, his smirk melting into a smile, and stamps sweet, tender kisses across your shoulder, hands smoothing up and down your thighs, hips, waist.

"You're amazing, baby," He whispers, mouth following the shape of your jaw to your ear, "So fucking perfect for me, aren't you?"

It takes you a moment to answer, head spinning, legs like rubber, but eventually you find the energy to speak, "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"I didn't wanna push you away," He says, carefully extricating himself from you, and, God, you hate how empty you suddenly feel.

The mix of his spend and yours leaks down the inside of your thighs, and you feel his fingers smear through it, sure that if you looked, he'd be staring at the mess he made of you with the same pride he shows when he scores a touchdown.

"And this wasn't pushing?" You don't mean it, tone light and playful, finally glancing over your shoulder to look at him. You were right, he's got that familiar expression on his face, self-satisfied and pleased.

He snaps his eyes to yours, gives you a slow, easy grin, and asks, "Are you complaining?"

"No. I'm not complaining," You snort and roll your eyes, shaking your head, "but why now?"

Wally steps back as you turn around, stripping out of his shirt and, without any concern whatsoever, mops up the mess on your thighs as he responds, "Honestly? I was going crazy." He drops his now soiled shirt and pulls you into him, hands on your ass. His eyes are all soft and warm and affectionate, cheeks still a little flushed. Fucking gorgeous, you can't deny it. "Being around you every day..." One hand rises, the backs of his fingers grazing your cheek, "Wanting you so bad like that... I thought I was going to explode, baby, you have no idea."

You can't help the way you melt at the admission and offer him a smile, "Yeah? I was driving you to the brink?"

"If I had to wait any longer, you would've needed to lock me up in a padded room." He jokes back, all boyish and goofy. And this? This is the Wally you recognize. The one you've known since your death.

Before you can stop yourself, you blurt, "Who the hell was that before?"

Wally's brows knit, a confused puppy of a look, "Huh?"

"My guy, you went from being silly and arguing with everyone about Rollerball to fucking me in a library with our friends on the other side of this shelf." You point out, arching a brow, still unable to sort out in your mind how this adorable, sugary-sweet puppyboy mighty-morphed into Who's Your Daddy in the blink of an eye.

Grin returning, though this one a lot more smug, Wally leans in and nips your bottom lip, pulls back slightly, and then presses in, harder, deeper, stealing the breath from your lungs, only answering the question when your vision goes spotty.

"A guy can't be more than one thing?" He asks as he brushes the tip of his nose against yours, so innocently affectionate that you're not entirely sure this isn't some split personality business.

"Of course you can be more than one thing, it's just... I have never seen you be that thing."

He shrugs a shoulder, "Because you never let me show you before."

And. Fair enough.

After he helps you put yourself back together. After you and he emerge from behind the shelf and find everyone missing, a note on the table claiming you and Wally suck and need to get a room next time—we feel violated, fuck you both, you're uninvited from Movie Night. After you groan in shame and he cackles in delight.

After all that, sat on the stainless steel counter in the school kitchen, nibbling on a stale cookie that Wally hands you to snack on while he throws together sloppy joes, you wonder aloud:

"How many versions of you are there?"

Wally pauses what he's doing to pin you with a sharp, simmering look, his smile dangerous and sexy and, oh fuck, girl, what did you let yourself get into?

"There's a lot you don't know about me, baby," He practically purrs, strutting into your space like he owns the world and fitting himself between your legs; yanks you forward so your hips are pressed firmly against his. Lips grazing along the shell of your ear, he murmurs, "You really wanna find out?"

With a resounding fuck yes, Wally lets the food burn and spends the next hour reintroducing you to that primal, hungry side of him that he revealed in the library. A total stranger who makes you beg for more, harder, faster—coaxes reactions out of you that you never thought you were capable of.

And, damn, if you're not entirely committed to getting to know this new side of Wally until he's as familiar as that goofy, awkwardly charming, puppy of a person you thought you had figured out.

🔵___________fin.____________

also on AO3!

Order Up! MASTERLIST

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Hot For You.

Things he needs to do, deadlines he has to meet, kids he has to watch… On the norm, his head is as loud as a packed mall and doesn't allow him a single second of peace. 

Not right now though. Right now, his head is warm and soft and mushy as he's softly rocked back and forth on the sheets, his face smushes halfway in his pillow so only one eye can keep staring at the light barely filtering through the bedroom window. 

He doesn't really care about it though. He feels too soft and heavy for that. 

Last time he'd checked, it was around 7 a.m on a nice Saturday morning. No school to get to, no papers to grade. Not that he'd really care right now. 

Hizashi is taking his time with him. He doesn't go fast, just gentle grinds against his ass and the occasional hump here and there when he does get impatient. 

They're spooning, just like they had been the entire night. Shōta doesn't remember how it happened but he does know he'd complained about not turning off his alarm and after that.. just fuzziness. Fuzziness and warmth. 

Hizashi is hugging him from behind, one hand gripping his pec and the other soothingly stroking over his stomach while he slowly grinds his cock deep, massaging his prostate in a way that makes Shōta's vision white out periodically. 

It feels nice. Very nice, actually. 

He feels the tension in his muscles melt and is actually surprised by just how tight they had been. How could he ever have lived with his entire body like this? 

"Fuck, Shō-", Hizashi murmurs and presses a soft, open mouthed kiss behind his ear. 

His voice is rough from sleep and the strain his radio show had put on it the previous evening. Shōta doesn't manage a coherent answer but he does let out a soft mewl, aiding his husband by pushing back against him and lifting one thick thigh. The next thrust hits deeper and he doesn't know if his brain shuts off for a moment or if his eyes roll back. It doesn't matter. 

He feels good. For the first time in… well, it's been a while since they managed to have each other like this. He can faintly hear Hizashi murmuring affirmations and praise into his ear, brushing his lips over his neck, shoulder, cheek, arm… everywhere he can reach without moving either of them too much. 

They're soft. Not chapped and dry like Shōta's are. In any sense, Hizashi is very much not like Shōta. He's long and lanky and his hair is straight. Shōta is square and buff and his hair is an ugly mutt of curly and unkempt. He'd given hair care up long ago, it had made everything only worse. 

Hizashi was stylish and loud and always found something to laugh about, even if the situation was dire. Shōta looked like a homeless guy most of the time and despite calling himself a realist, he really couldn't say he saw much positive in most things. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd actually laughed. 

They shouldn't work together as well as they did. It wasn't rational. 

Another soft grind into his prostate makes his thoughts melt away and his shoulders relax again as he lets out a shuddering sigh. It's more of a subdued moan, really. 

"Where'd you go just now, baby?", Hizashi asks, voice still low and gentle as he brushes his hand over Shōta's abdomen and into his happy trail. 

Long, bony fingers trace his loins and Shōta feels himself shudder and almost buck into the touch. But he doesn't. For one, he doesn't want to do anything right now. And also he's not allowed to. He's pretty sure he isn't. Hizashi was mean like that sometimes. 

"N'where", he slurs, blinking slowly, trying to keep his eyes open. "M're." 

Hizashi chuckles and presses a soft kiss into his cheek, brushing his hair out of his face. Shōta manages a soft noise of protest but it dies in his throat at another deep roll of hips against his ass. 

He can't remember the last time he's felt this good. 

Maybe that's something to think about. How come lazy morning sex with his husband, without any form of effort or even foreplay is the best to happen to him the entire year? Maybe he's just that pathetic or he just doesn't need any more than that. If he's being honest, most of the time he doesn't even have the energy for some big roleplay or whatever normal couples did. Neither did Hizashi, if he thinks about it. 

Hizashi starts groaning softly into the shell of his ear, his hips speeding up ever so slightly and Shōta feels his mind go blissfully blank again. He doesn't manage to restrain himself this time, humping into the sheets and Hizashi's hand, cupping his steadily leaking cock with firm, long fingers. 

"Fuck… fuck 'Zashi…", his voice sounds deep and wonky, like he's speaking through a mouth full of cotton. Is he drooling? Maybe a little. "Zashi…" 

"Shh", Hizashi is nice enough to kiss his neck and soothingly rub his pec while he speeds up. "I know, baby. It's okay. I'm here. Just let go, it's fine." 

Shōta's vision whites out once more as he shudders through his orgasm, his head craning back to press against Hizashi's shoulder, taking in his scent. He smells of leather and dusty studio equipment. Maybe he hadn't showered after coming home the pervious night. Shōta hopes he hadn't. He wants to smell the work and effort Hizashi put into his life. 

He pants softly as he comes back to himself, shivering once, twice before he goes lax again. He can feel warmth filling him, where Hizashi had pumped lazy, slow spurts of cum into him. 

It feels good. He feels good. 

"Did so good for me, baby", Hizashi murmurs in English, brushing his hand through his hair and tucking some sweaty strands behind his ear. "See? Feels so much better, doesn't it?" 

Shōta manages a weak scoff and lets his eyes close. 

"Shut up…", he murmurs. His head feels like it's stuffed with cotton. His body like it's floating. 

Looking back, this might've been the best orgasm of his life so far. How strange. 

His inner furnace is flickering weakly, sending spurts of heat through his body in irregular intervals. It's common for a ghoul his age to get weaker during seasons that don't fit well with his element. Usually, he'd need more vaccines during the winter, but with Copia up to the neck in paperwork and most Siblings too scared of going anywhere near the den, he's been neglected for the better part of a month, leading to him developing a cold. 

Which is not an issue at all, for the most part. It won't kill him. But he'll be damned if he isn't gonna bitch about it. 

His tail flicks, the tassel sticking out from the heap of blankets the others have stacked on top of him to keep him warm and cozy, surrounded by his Swarm's scent. 

He feels his nose clogging up and snorts, trying to free his nostrils. He manages the left one, the right burning and itching now. He wants to rip his skin off. 

If there's something Alpha cannot stand in this world, it's when he's itchy. It drives him up the wall, especially when it's one of those itches that just doesn't go away, no matter how much he scratches. 

His ears flick but he doesn't look up as he hears footsteps approach, fancy dress shoes padding over the carpet in the den's main hall. 

"You look awful", Ifrit says as he sits down cross legged next to his mate. 

Alpha gives a tired chuff in response. His throat feels scratchy and dry. 

He's aware of how shitty he must look. His scales and skin are ashy, not as vibrant anymore and his smoke comes in slow, lazy swirls, barely enough to create a smell at all. 

He cracks his eyes open when he feels the pads of Ifrit's fingers in his hair, scratching the base of his horns. His vision is a little blurry and he goes to close his eyes again, kicking up a rusty, strained purr. 

They remain silent like this for a while until Ifrit gets up with a quiet groan. He's getting old too, Alpha muses. Although 'getting old' is relative for an immortal ghoul. 

"C'me on, ember. You gotta warm up." 

Alpha squints up at him. His mustache tickles his lip uncomfortably and he's close to impulsively trimming it with his claws. 

"I am", he nods to the fireplace. "'S the warmest place here." 

Ifrit shakes his head, his hands on his hips. 

"No. This kinda fire ain't doing shit. Come here." 

He bends down, grabs his mate by the waist and gently lifts him out of the heap of blankets and pillows. Alpha hisses in protest but doesn't do anything else. If he thinks about it, he doesn't really care. He just wants to feel better.

He gets to his feet and Ifrit helps him towards the bathrooms, sitting him down on a toilet like a child, while he fills the bathtub with water. 

Alpha watches him with weary, feverish eyes, blinking sluggishly. 

"How's water gon' help me with anythin'?", he asks, his voice scratching against his vocal chords harshly. 

Maybe he should just shut up. 

Ifrit hums, bending down and dipping his hand into the water, which starts to bubble and steam softly. 

"You needa warm up from the inside out. Heat all around you", he straightens up again and shakes a few droplets off his claws before holding his hand out towards him. "Come on." 

Alpha blinks and groans as he lifts himself to his feet heavily. Ifrit snakes an arm around his waist and helps him get out of his clothes. He's not even in his uniform, as he hadn't had the energy to put it on in the morning when he'd woken up to a splitting headache. Just an old AC/DC shirt and some sweatpants he's pretty sure once belonged to Primo or Secondo. 

He hisses as cool air hits his skin and the scales on his shoulders flare defensively. 

"Woah, calm down. Get in, I'll be with you in a moment," Ifrit licks his forehead soothingly and helps him climb into the tub.

The water is almost boiling as he slides in, steam rising from the surface. Alpha sighs in relief as he feels the heat seep into his bones and muscles, his head leaning back against the edge of the tub. He feels the smoke escape his cheek holes with a satisfied hiss, his furnace flaring up contentedly. 

His brain feels sluggish as he finally manages to fully relax and calm his frayed nerves. He only cracks an eye open when he feels the water shift and Ifrit slide into the tub next to him, the younger ghoul's body sizzling quietly. 

"Ah. Feel better?" 

Alpha nods with heavy eyes and reaches out to tug his mate closer by the horns, snuggling into his neck glands and pressing his nose over the bumps possessively. 

"Thank you", he rasps and Ifrit answers with an amused snort. 

"No need for that. You think I wanna see you suffer all day?" 

Their tails tangle underwater and Alpha feels the way Ifrit's more intact furnace is keeping the tub warm and cozy. 

His joints still ache, especially the arthritis in his fingers, but he thinks his head is clearing slightly, the water vapor slowly dissolving the mucus in his sinuses.

"I hate being sick." 

Ifrit snorts. 

"I know, ember. I'm here", he licks his temple softly, rough tongue scraping over the ashy skin. 

Alpha manages a low purr, eyes drifting shut again as he lets himself relax and his body heal, his core sending thankful pulses of heat through his body. 

"'S warm." 

Medicine Pocket

They haven’t kissed many people. In fact, you may be the first person they’ve ever kissed. They aren’t too experienced when it comes to romantic affection, though they often pretend like they know their shit. However, when it comes down to your first shared kiss, it’s incredibly obvious that they’re inexperienced. I’m talking, eyes squeezed shut, lips incredibly puckered, a quick peck on the lips. 

They often pick at their lips, and so the skin on their lips is often hard or uneven. It’s not too noticeable when you kiss them, unless it’s an especially bad day.

Medi, surprisingly, gets really flustered when kissing. They’re fine when it comes to casual physical affection, but something like a kiss is new to them. They’re still getting used to it. Every time you kiss them, their face gets incredibly red, and their hands get clammy. 

Sorry I cannot see Medi as suave in the slightest. They’re a little gremlin who deeply craves physical contact, but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

Tennant

Oh she’s a GOOD kisser. Like, you’ll be seeing sparks good. She’s had a lot of practice!

Tennant is 100% the type for dramatics. Whispering romantic nothings into your ear before pressing a kiss to your lips, or dipping you before leaning over for a kiss. She loves showing affection in grand ways, making you feel like you’re in a movie. The more star struck you are with her, the better.

Tennant is used to leading when it comes to kissing. She’s usually the one to initiate a kiss, or ask for it. If you end up trying to take the lead, she’ll be a bit lost. She’s not used to letting other people take charge. She won’t hate it, quite the contrary, but it’ll end up as a battle for dominance. 

Tennat likes to tease you before a kiss. She’ll get close to your face, her breath hot on your cheek, before whispering something and walking away. When you try to stop her, she’ll turn to you with a smirk. “Expecting something, love? You know, you only have to ask.” She likes making you flustered.

Getian

He’s not the type for physical affection usually. He won’t initiate it, unless you ask for it. Being physical with people is something he hasn’t done for a very, very long time. He’s gotten quite clueless when it comes to it. If you want a kiss from him, you have to be very blunt.

He’s the type to whisper poetry to you before a kiss. He’ll look at you with stars in his eyes, and whisper every beautiful thing he thinks about you. Every kiss with him is incredibly intimate, and he makes sure of that. Casual affection just isn’t something he does.

Even though he won’t ask for a kiss, he does enjoy them. When you pull away, he’s breathless, his face red and his eyes wide. Every kiss sparks something new inside him, he finds himself longing for them, though he’ll never tell you that. He believes you’re the most amazing person in the world, and kissing you is a blessing.