#trev

Every time Toman throws a party in the hideout, there are enough bodies wedged into the room to leave the windows wet with heat. It’s the kind of heat that makes your skin feel too tight, but you never mind—especially not when you’re tucked into the curve of Mikey’s side.

Beer has spilt and gone sticky on the low table, a pack of cigarettes lies split open beside a chipped ashtray, loose tobacco scattered over the wood. Someone has dragged in an extra speaker from somewhere, and the bass is way too loud for the size of the room, rattling the thin metal shelving near the wall, and every other voice has climbed to match it.

Laughter snaps across the room in bursts. A girl in a tiny black dress is perched on the arm of one of the sofas, shouting something at Peh-yan while he waves her off with both hands and keeps talking. Mitsuya is leaning against the kitchen counter with a drink, watching the noise with the same patient expression he wears when he is three seconds away from telling everyone to shut the fuck up. And in the middle of all of it, Mikey is slouched in the armchair he always ends up claiming without ever having to say a word.

He looks half asleep. He always does when he’s this deep into a crate of beers; funny to watch, and even worse to underestimate.

His head is tipped back against the cracked vinyl, blonde hair falling away from his face, one leg stretched out, the other hooked lazily over the armrest. A can hangs from two fingers near the arm of the chair. You’ve known him since middle school, and he’s grown into the sort of man nobody questions twice, but there’s still something boyish in the way he settles when he’s relaxed; loose and careless, like he’s too comfortable to spare a thought for anything outside his chair.

You are on his lap with one arm looped around his shoulders, skirt rucked higher than it was when you got here, the inside of one thigh warm where his hand has been for the last ten minutes.

He is rubbing his thumb back and forth under the hem without paying obvious attention to it, tracing the soft skin there in the same absent-minded way the others are tapping their feet to music. His eyes are heavy. His mouth has gone loose from drink. Every so often, he brings the can up for a sip, then puts it down again and slides his hand a little higher, as if that is the more interesting thing.

You glance down at him. "You’re drunk."

Mikey cracks one eye open. "M’not."

"Mm-huh. Then explain why more of that beer’s ending up on my skirt than in your mouth."

He grins. Just enough for one corner of his mouth to lift while he squeezes your thigh, hard enough to make you shift on top of him. He likes the movement. You can feel that too.

The room is full of people who know exactly what you are to him. None of them care anymore. Or rather, they care in the way Toman always cares about things that belong inside its walls: noticed, accepted, not worth staring at.

Draken walked past ten minutes ago, saw the way you were straddled over Mikey’s lap with his hand halfway under your skirt, and barely even rolled his eyes. Chifuyu, stretched out on the floor near the table, had only snorted into his drink and muttered something under his breath about getting a room. You had laughed. Mikey hadn’t even bothered answering. He just kissed the side of your jaw without looking up.

He is in that kind of mood tonight. Quiet. Touchy. Loose-limbed in a way that means the alcohol has stopped him from really giving a shit about anything.

Which is why you notice the problem before he does. Or, at least, you’re the only one out of the two of you who chooses to react.

Across the room, a cluster of the new guys—guys who drifted over from the Black Dragon merger—are getting louder by the minute. They are young enough to think volume is power and stupid enough to show off in a room where everyone important has already proved themselves. One of them has his feet up on the table. Another keeps shoving at him hard enough to make the empty bottles jump. They are laughing too loudly, swearing over the music, and knocking shoulders with anyone who tries to move past. It’s pretty loud in here anyway, but this is the kind of noise that carries through walls. The kind that gets neighbours twitching curtains and police cars crawling by with their lights off.

One of them lobs a bottle toward the far corner, trying to be funny, and it bursts across the floorboards in a spray of glass and stale beer.

Your mouth tightens.

Mikey notices it before you say anything. His hand presses flatter to your thigh. "Don’t."

You look back at him. "They’re being fucking idiots."

He closes his eyes again. "Mm."

"If somebody outside hears all this—"

"Babe." His voice is rough with drink, but the warning in it is still there. He opens his eyes and looks at you properly this time. "Just leave it. They’ll burn out."

You know that tone. You know it better than most people do. It’s not fear. It’s not concern that you cannot handle yourself. It is him deciding something is beneath your effort.

Usually, you let him. Tonight, you are already sliding off his lap before he can stop you.

His hand catches at your thigh, fingers digging in for a second. "Hey."

"I’m just telling them to shut up."

He watches you stand. There is the smallest crease between his brows, not from anger but annoyance, because you’ve just interrupted something that he was very much enjoying. His thumb strokes once over the spot he had been gripping. "Come back after."

You smile despite yourself. "If you haven’t passed out by then."

He snorts and leans back again, tipping his head to the chair. "Yeah, right."

You cross the room with your drink still in hand, stepping over bags and boots and a discarded jacket somebody has dropped by the table. The floorboards complain under your feet. One of the new boys notices you first and straightens with that quick, ugly kind of interest some men can’t hide.

He looks you over openly.

You are used to rooms like this. Used to smoke, sweat, bodies packed too close, men drunk enough to think they are clever. Used to being looked at because you are Mikey’s girl and because, even without that, men tend to look anyway. It doesn’t rattle you. It never has. Especially not here. Not in front of Toman.

You stop at the edge of their circle. "Can you keep it down a bit?"

The one who’s just thrown the bottle smirks. "Why?"

"Because you’re acting like you want the cops pulling up outside."

His friends laugh.

Another one leans sideways to get a better look at you. "Damn. Didn’t realise the boss’s girl was this cute up close."

You take a sip from your cup and smile at him over the rim. "That line ever worked for you before?"

A couple of people nearby hear that and laugh. The guy’s mouth twists.

The first one pushes off from the table. He is taller than you, drunk enough to sway a little when he gets close. He eyes you up and down with a slow, slimy deliberation that makes your skin crawl. "You know," he says, dragging the words out, "you’d be a lot less stressed if you were with a real man, not some scrawny kid."

You laugh in his face. It comes out before you can help it; bright, disbelieving, a quick burst that says more than any reply could.

He does not like that.

His expression turns mean in an instant. "What? I’m serious. Guy’s sitting over there half asleep while you come over to do his job for him."

You tilt your head. "As if you’re still talking right now."

The boys around him go loud again. One barks a laugh. One mutters, "Shit."

And then the one in front of you decides to make himself feel bigger.

His hand slides around you in an exaggerated arc, not even pretending to brush past by accident, and lands full on your arse with a hard squeeze, just to prove that he can.

For half a second, you just stare at him, almost impressed by how stupid he is.

Your body moves before your thoughts catch up. Your arm comes up, palm flat, already starting to swing for his face—

—and then someone is there at your side.

Not rushing or shoving in. Just suddenly present.

Mikey stands beside you with his can still in one hand.

You turn your head to look at him. He isn’t looking at you. He’s looking at the guy who touched you, face blank in the most insulting possible way. No anger. No raised voice. He looks exactly as he did in the chair: bored, unbothered, maybe mildly inconvenienced at most, like somebody has spilt a drink on his shoe.

The guy laughs, too loud, already trying to talk over what just happened. "Come on, man, it’s not—"

Mikey holds his can out toward you.

"Babe," he says, still staring at the guy in front of him. "Hold my beer."

You take it automatically.

The guy has time to grin. He doesn’t have time for anything else.

Mikey moves in one clean blur of motion; one step, pivot, hip turning, leg snapping up so fast it almost doesn’t register as human until the crack of impact cuts through the room.

His heel lands against the guy’s temple with a sound that makes half the room go silent.

He’s out before he hits the floor, his body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut. One second, he is upright. The next, he is face-down in a spill of beer, limbs folded under him badly, completely motionless.

The rest of the group freezes, the bravado evaporating instantly. Nobody speaks. Then one of them jerks back so fast he nearly trips over the table leg.

"Shit, Mikey, we didn’t—"

"We were just messing around—"

Mikey lowers his foot and glances once at the body on the floor. Then he looks at the other two.

"Get him out," he says.

He tilts his head; still calm, still not raising his voice. "And don’t come back. You’re done. All of you."

The nearest one nods too fast. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

His friend is already hauling the unconscious man up under the arms.

Only once they start dragging him toward the door does sound flood back into the room.

Peh-yan is the first to break. He slaps the table and starts laughing so hard he nearly folds over. "Shit, Mikey! Bastard didn’t know what hit him!"

Draken, leaning by the kitchen, snorts into his drink. "Fucking idiots."

Somebody whistles. Somebody else cheers. A few of the girls near the sofa start clapping just to be smartasses. The tension breaks, and the party rushes back in around it, louder than before because nobody in this room is surprised by what they just saw. If anything, they seem pleased that the problem sorted itself out so cleanly.

Mikey reaches for his beer again without looking.

You keep it just out of reach.

That gets his attention at last.

He turns his head and meets your eyes. The room is noise and heat and alcohol all around you, but for a second it feels strangely private, the two of you standing in the centre of it with his can still in your hand and your pulse beating hard in your throat.

You are turned on.

There is no use pretending otherwise. Not with the rush still alive in your chest. Not with that kick replaying in your head. Not with Mikey standing there looking bored after dropping a man a foot taller than him in one hit, just because that man put his hand on you.

His dark eyes flick over your face. Down your body. Back up again. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.

You catch his wrist. "Come here."

The cheering behind you swells as somebody starts retelling what just happened to the people who missed it. Mikey lets you pull him back across the room without protest, weaving between bodies until his chair comes back into view as though it’s been waiting for him.

You push him down into it.

He goes with it easily, one hand coming to your waist as you climb straight back onto his lap, skirt riding up around your hips. His can gets set somewhere on the side table. It doesn’t matter where; your hands are already in his hair, your mouth on his before he has properly settled back.

The kiss lands hard.

You’re shaking, that sudden, sharp spike of lust making your head light. Mikey makes a low sound into your mouth that goes straight through you. His grip on your waist tightens, then slides to your ass, hauling you down against him. It’s a messy, saliva-filled, drunk kiss; his tongue pushes in hot and lazy at first, then deeper when you kiss him back with enough force to make a point of it. You can feel the smirk in it, the approval.

You are only half-aware of the room around you. The bass still going. Takemichi’s laugh somewhere behind your shoulder. A bottle rolling under the table. Chifuyu groaning again, "Jesus Christ," to nobody in particular.

Mostly, you are aware of Mikey.

His hand at the back of your neck. The scrape of his knuckles against your jaw. The solid line of his thigh beneath you. The way his mouth goes rougher when you bite his lower lip, and he answers by dragging his teeth over yours.

You shift on his lap and feel how hard his cock is now through his trousers. That only makes you kiss him harder.

Mikey breaks away long enough to look at you. His eyes have gone even darker now; they’re not sleepy anymore. They’re focused. Bright in that dangerous, pleased way he gets when something has clicked into place in his head.

"You wet already?" He murmurs.

You lean in and say it against his mouth. "Your fault."

He grins against your lips. Then his hand disappears under your skirt, and you don’t stop him. The risk of being seen should make your stomach knot. Instead, it does something hotter.

Mikey’s fingers slide over the inside of your thigh, then higher, nudging your panties aside with a stroke so casual it makes your breath catch harder than if he had made a performance of it.

He looks at your face while he does it.

That is always the thing with him. Even when his hands are under your clothes, even when his mouth has bitten your lip pink, and your pulse is jumping under your skin, he watches your face as though the answer is right there.

You shift in his lap, trying to breathe normally.

His fingertips find you slick and give one slow drag through your folds.

Your mouth falls open.

He kisses you again immediately, swallowing the small sound that slips out, and then his thumb presses in the right place and keeps a firm rhythm there while his fingers gather more of you.

The room blurs at the edges.

Someone passes behind the chair. Someone else calls Mikey’s name and gets no answer. The room has shrunk to his hand under your skirt and the thick heat building low in your stomach.

When he pulls back this time, he is breathing a little harder.

"Want me to fuck you right here?"

You glance sideways. Across the room, people are laughing, pouring drinks, arguing over music, stepping into the spot where that idiot from five minutes ago went down. Nobody is paying attention now. Or if they are, they know better than to stare.

Pride rolls through you warm and heady. You look back at him and nod.

Mikey’s lashes lower just slightly. That is all the warning you get.

His hand leaves your underwear. There is the quick metal hiss of his fly. A shift of his hips. You can feel his hand guiding himself out between your bodies while his free arm tightens around your waist, keeping you tucked in close enough to hide the finer details from anyone looking.

Your heart jumps so hard it almost hurts.

You reach between you to help, fingers shaking more from excitement than nerves, and hook your panties aside properly. Mikey’s breath catches when your hand brushes the head of his cock. His forehead knocks once against yours, brief and grounding, then he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"Keep your eyes on me," he says quietly.

His hand settles at the small of your back as he lifts his hips in one short movement and pushes inside you.

The first stretch makes you grab at his shoulders.

You feel full too fast, hot and startling, the drag of him made sharper by the room around you and the fact you are sitting in his chair with your skirt bunched around your waist while music pounds through the floorboards.

Mikey’s eyes stay on yours the whole time.

He exhales through his nose when he is fully seated inside you, that composure of his slipping just enough for you to catch it. His fingers press into your lower back. His other hand slides up under your top to your ribs and spreads there, warm and possessive and steadying.

"You alright?"

You nod, then laugh under your breath because the question feels ridiculous when you are already shifting to take more of him.

That flicker of amusement crosses his face. "That’s my girl."

You plant one hand on the back of his chair and lift yourself a little.

Then you start to ride him.

Not too fast at first, because there is too much to feel; the drag of his cock every time you sink back down, the slight creak of the chair under both of you, the room around you, alive and oblivious and full of people who would die before interrupting this.

You steal one glance over Mikey’s shoulder and see Hakkai in the kitchen doorway, eyes widening before Mitsuya cuffs him lightly on the arm and drags him away with a muttered, "Don’t be fucking weird."

It only makes the thrill worse.

You look back down at Mikey, and he catches the tail end of your smile.

He knows exactly what kind of look it is.

"Having fun?" He asks, biting his lip.

You kiss him instead of answering. He meets it at once, mouth opening hot and drunk and filthy against yours. Nothing careful about it. He likes kissing when he’s had alcohol in him; likes it wet and deep and a bit rough, like he would rather swallow you whole than stop at your lips.

You roll your hips against him, and he groans into your mouth. Just enough to tell you he is feeling the thrill of this as strongly as you are.

His hand leaves your ribs and drops between you again. His thumb finds your clit, strokes a few times, then keeps a deliberate pressure there that turns your slow rhythm messy immediately. Your breath breaks. Your forehead falls to his. You can’t help but whine.

"You want everyone to know?" He asks, voice low enough not to carry past you.

You nod before the words even arrive. "They already do."

That does something to him.

You see it in the way his mouth parts, in the way his hand on your waist slides lower and grips hard enough to bruise. He bucks up into you once, harder than before, and you bite down on his shoulder to keep quiet.

Mikey’s eyes half close. "Fuck."

You keep moving. Up, down, circling when you can, taking what he gives back. The chair legs tap against the floorboards every time he thrusts up to meet you. His thumb does not let up. The heat in your stomach tightens, gathers, starts to burn.

It doesn’t take long. It was never going to.

Adrenaline is still in your blood. He is still warm from the fight. You are full of him in the middle of a room full of people who just watched him kick a man unconscious, for you.

The whole thing feels too sharp, too charged, too perfect for endurance.

Mikey sees it happening before you say a word. He always does. His gaze fixes on your face. His hand on your ass kneads. "That’s it. Good girl. Keep going."

You do.

Your mouth opens against his. Your fingers tangle in his hair. The room drops away in fragments: bass, voices, a burst of laughter near the kitchen, the clink of bottles, then none of it matters because your body closes around him and the orgasm hits fast and hard enough to wrench a loud sound out of you anyway.

Mikey kisses it off your mouth as best he can, though he is already losing his own rhythm with it.

You tremble through the aftershocks, still trying to move, and that does him in. His forehead drops to yours. His next thrust goes deep and stays there. His breath leaves him in a rough spill against your lips while his body locks under you, then shudders once, twice, coming inside you with his jaw set and his eyes half open on your face.

For a few seconds, neither of you does anything but breathe.

You are aware, faintly, of the music still going. A burst of cheering from the card game on the floor. The hideout is carrying on exactly as it was, because of course it is.

Mikey is the first one to move.

He tucks himself away with the efficiency of somebody who learned years ago not to make a fuss, then drags your underwear back into place with far more care than he showed his own clothes. His hand smooths your skirt down over your thighs. When he is done, he leaves his palm there.

You are still sitting on him, your chest rising and falling.

He looks up at you and brushes a strand of hair away from your face. The edge of his thumb catches your cheek. The expression he wears is softer now, something settled in him, something satisfied and watchful.

"You good?"

You nod. "Yeah."

A tiny pause.

Then he adds, with a glance toward the door the idiots got dragged out of, "Anybody else touches you tonight, I’ll break more than their face."

You laugh, because he says it so casually it almost sounds ridiculous, as if he’s talking about getting another drink instead of hurting somebody.

His mouth twitches.

You press one quick kiss to it and shift enough to settle properly back against his chest. His arm comes around your waist at once, locking you there. No more moving. No more getting up to sort anyone else out. His empty can appears again in his free hand from somewhere beside the chair, and he takes a sip like nothing unusual has happened.

Across the room, Draken catches your eye over the rim of his bottle and gives you the sort of long-suffering look that means he noticed everything and plans to say nothing. Mitsuya doesn’t even bother glancing over. Chifuyu and Takemichi are pretending very hard to be invested in their card game.

The rest of the room has absorbed the message. Nobody comes near you after that. Nobody forgets, not after tonight, exactly who you are and who they answer to if they get bold.

You stay where you are.

On Mikey’s lap. In his chair. One of his hands hooked over your thigh. The other raising his beer every so often while he listens to the room and says very little.