Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Shout-out to the Cat King for rocking skirts so well, man x

This drabble contains: groping, suggestive themes

The Cat King is in his own little world, swaying, humming as he makes his solo breakfast. Edwin takes a long moment, watches him. There’s a familiar fluttering in his chest, still, watching his arrogant, infuriating, wonderful, adorable lover who somehow changed Edwin’s after-life without him even noticing. 

The skirts, admittedly, have taken him a bit of time to get used to.  

Sitting on a worn, comfy armchair in a smart pair of trousers, button-up shirt and loose suspenders, Edwin watches the Cat King swish about and around what makes for a kitchen in their dock-side abode, in his knee-length tartan skirt. He’s cutting up fresh fruit expertly with a sharp knife, steam wafting from the hot pan on the stove. Edwin hasn’t a clue what he’s making. He’s sure the Cat King told him, at some point, but. Well. 

He's not even aware, damn him, he just looks so comfortable. Edwin's gaze is drawn and locked on the sliver of thigh visible at the edge of the Cat King’s skirt, blinking in and out of sight while he moves. 

Done with the fruit, the Cat King turns back to the stove. Edwin, silent on shoe-less socked feet, follows.  

His lover is searching through the cupboards for a bowl to place the fruit in, Edwin knows he has 2 more doors to open before he’ll find it, so he stays still, in the doorway. Stares as the Cat King stays bent over a precious few minutes more, soaks up the sight of so much tanned skin on display. This would be much easier for Edwin to cope with if the Cat King was aware he was teasing him so, the fact that he isn’t making it so much worse/better more. 

Successful in his hunt, the Cat King straightens with fitting bowl in his hands. He turns back fully to the stove, and Edwin moves in for his own kill. Steps in close, presses his lover up against the counter, revels in the short gasp the Cat King lets out, quick and surprised, then a chuckle. 

“What’s all this then, ghostie? Can’t keep your hands off me?” He teases, tips his head to the side, giving Edwin’s searching lips easier access. 

“You do this on purpose.” A nip, followed by a bruising suck. Edwin’s hands dive down the Cat King’s body, slide under then up that damned skirt, squeeze handfuls of toned thigh. A breathy sigh, the click of the stove turned off. 

“Not really, hah, but I love the way you think, ghostie.” 

“Right now I’m thinking kitchen table?” 

“I’m thinking I need to wear more skirts.” 

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"Why do you pick these stupid scents?" The Cat King's nose wrinkles, he glances at Edwin from beneath his lashes, nose pressed to Edwin’s inner wrist. There’s the soft scrape of a tongue, Edwin sighs, rolls his eyes.  

"Because I like to smell nice?"  

The Cat King slides his head slowly up, up, up Edwin’s arm, from wrist to neck, without breaking the soft nuzzling contact of nose, tongue and skin. It takes till the end of the climb for Edwin to realize The Cat King’s not just nuzzling, tasting. He’s marking .  

"You already do."  

“Do you know,” The Cat King starts, pulls his head back as if it takes effort , just to bring his face closer to Edwin’s neck, pressing his nose to the hollow dip where shoulder meets neck, pausing in his sentence to breath in obscenely deeply . (Edwin is positive the Cat King deepens his voice on purpose, laces it with a throaty growl, because the immature twat just knows what it does to him) “Do you know how good you smell, right here?” His lover purrs, leans down, licks a hot, hot line up Edwin’s throat. The skin is still tender from earlier love bites, nips made by biting down just enough, it works to draw out a moan from deep inside Edwin’s chest. Before the air gets a chance to cool the spit-wet path of the Cat King’s tongue, that warm nose is pressed again to skin, following the trail made. Soft, warm breath gets puffed onto Edwin’s neck with every exhale, shooting tingles down sensitive skin. It’s the Cat King who looks like he enjoys it most, eyes closed, small smile on his lips. When his nose nuzzles up, up up and it reaches Edwin’s ear, he can’t help the little shiver, can’t deny his own puzzled enjoyment, and the Cat King’s eyes snap open.  

“Do you know how good you smell?” His lover continues once their eyes lock, blown out golden orbs meeting half-lidded grey, voice low, underlined with a smooth rolling purr. “Do you even know?”  

“Tell me.” Edwin demands, not knowing exactly why his own voice has hushed down to a whisper.  

There’s warm calloused hands, reaching for him, one set of fingers weaving through his hair before grasping, tipping back his head, exposing his neck even more. His shoulder is held in a clenching, kneading grip by his lover’s other hand, reeling him in, no space between their bodies now as The Cat King growls and says, “You smell like mine. ”  

Edwin makes a note to invest in more natural scents, and then, decides to ignore that note.  

“Tell me,” he mutters, in between the gasps, hitched breaths and sighs getting pulled out of him with every nip, lick, sniff his lover gives every inch of exposed skin he can find,  

“How do I taste?”  

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Once, just once, the Cat King got Edwin to snort and he has since made it his multi-life's purpose to do so again. Repeatedly.  

All his attempts at humor fall flat. He still hoards the chuckles, grins and smiles close to his chest, of course.  

In the end the second, treasured, snort is awarded in a moment of situational, natural amusement, and the Cat King isn't even one bit mad that it is at his expense (cause lbr the first one was, also)  

The Cat King, after a mild inconvenience, drapes himself over the nearest piece of furniture around that can feasibly hold his weight, acting like gravity itself is collapsing upon him, forcing out a heavy sigh as if unwillingly ripped from his lungs. He doesn't even notice his audience of one, its a solo show, which admittedly endears it all the more to Edwin.  

When Edwin gives him a little chuckle for his unwitting efforts, the Cat King lifts his arm the slightest bit, enough to show a glimpse of golden slitted eyes, a raised eyebrow, before the arm flops back down.  

"Oh, leave me to my ennui, will you?"  

Snort  

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It takes a bit of maneuvering, it always does, bodies pressed together, limbs tangled. But Edwin’s ever determined, the rewards worth the struggle of slipping his hand out of the other’s warm grip. The Cat King’s trembling by the time Edwin’s hand sinks into his hair, the back of his head. But that might also be the result of their hips snapping together, faster, faster. Edwin takes action with haste, he can tell from the increasing kneading pressure of the Cat King’s hands on his hips that he’s getting close, close, close. Edwin’s fingers clench down around a handful of sweaty strands, and he pulls. The Cat King’s hips stutter, rhythm faltering with a gutted gasp against Edwin’s skin. It’s not good enough, Edwin wants, needs to hear him. So he pulls, tug, tugs till the Cat King’s heaving chest is supported by shaking arms on each side of Edwin, hands clenched so tightly in the sheets his knuckles show  white . Snaking his free hand down to claim a possessive grip on his lover’s hip, he starts his own rhythm, and the Cat King is putty in his hands. While their hips slap together again with obscenely slick wet sounds, Edwin tilts his head, his lips, to the line of throat exposed to him by his solid grip on the Cat King’s hair. He switches up between tugs, shakes, clenches and leads his lover’s head into different positions to his whim. And the Cat King lets him, the knowledge that the other could break free with ease but chooses not to is a heavy warmth sinking into his chest, every time. Edwin presses his lips to that long expanse of skin, licks following the motion of the Cat King’s throat every time he swallows. Open-mouthed sucks to his Adam’s apple, a nip of teeth right below his jawline, where the skin is so so soft. He’s so near, like he can taste the vibrations, the sounds, the little “ah, aah, fuck, nnh!”  

He’s sure the Cat King’s hips will be sporting bruises, the force behind his thrusts increasing with every pull of his hair. He’s close, they’re close. Edwin tugs him down, claims his lips in a deep kiss just to relish the wet smack, the string of saliva that breaks off when he rips them apart again. He tilts the Cat King’s head to the side, the warm puffs of breath on his right nipple a lovely bonus of extra stimulation he doesn’t really need. His own head lifts off the bed, legs coming up in tandem to swing his heels down over the Cat King’s back, caging him in, knowing there’s nowhere his lover would rather be. His lips trace the shell of his lover’s ear, nips retracing the path after. He hums into the Cat King’s ear, while delivering a hard tug to the hair in his firm grip, the noise he’s awarded the best one yet.  

“Good boy.” He whispers.  

After that, Edwin reconsiders, that was the best noise yet.  

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Edwin and the Cat King have an arrangement.  

When Edwin has case files to study or other kind of Detective work to do, he and the Cat King engage in what is quite normally described as 'quiet time', together. Co-existing in the same room, each doing their own thing, yet enjoying their proximity. A nice, calm kind of intimacy, that they both enjoy.  

Unfortunately, at times, close proximity isn't enough to sate his king. Thus.  

Edwin and the Cat King have an arrangement .  

Edwin's currently browsing, going through his studies and graphs, looking over and adding to his notes, leafing through his many volumes. Two stacks of books on the desk, one shrinking, one growing. He’s over halfway there, making good progress, he smiles to himself, hums a little ditty he can’t recall the exact words to.  

The Cat King is currently rubbing his cheek on Edwin's trousers, pausing now and then, to instead push his forehead into the soft thigh beneath the clothing. He's mouthing at the fabric with a sigh, a whimper, a soft murmur, whenever Edwin's socked foot nudges just so . Kneeling at Edwin's feet, under the desk, his legs tremble with the effort of keeping still, keeping them open for Edwin's foot to move in between. His hands, holding onto his elbows behind his back, knead into the skin of his lower arms, curled like claws.  

Edwin studiously ignores the little sounds, the expanse of shivering naked flesh in his lower peripheral. His toes brush up and down the hot length pressed against them, once, a quick little motion, the resulting throb of the Cat King’s erection seems to travel up his own leg. Edwin bites his lower lip, absently. Shifts into a more comfortable position on the chair, trousers becoming uncomfortably tight. Not long now, he figures, he has just a few more notes to review and organize. His king is doing so good, being so obedient. Not long now, and he'll get his reward. They both will.  

He doesn't say any of that out loud, of course.  

Edwin and the Cat King have an arrangement.  

This is their 'quiet time'.  

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There was a bit of a learning curve when meeting and enjoying each other’s company, especially outside .  

Whenever the Cat King finds or thinks there’s something interesting for Edwin to see, he gently squeezes Edwin’s hand. Each time, Edwin’s eyes fly first to their joined hands, startled once more at the contact, before tearing away and focusing on what his companion is pointing to, gesturing at, etc.  

Edwin is fully aware that the Cat King is making sure their shoulders don’t touch, pointedly, nary the slightest brush of their clothed arms even as he leans in from time to time. His head tilts closer to Edwin, as he explains the history behind a plaque on a bench, as he ponders out loud, how long ago that bird must’ve landed there, on that particular branch, to build a nest that big, hm.  

The Cat King had held out his hand, before they entered the park. A suggestion, offered silently, save for a speaking raise of those eyebrows, above those expressive slitted eyes. His hand fell back down, after a mere second , a blink and you’ll miss it kind of motion, always giving Edwin an out before he’s even formed a coherent thought of whether he’d like to be in .  

Their feet travel slowly, leisurely, on the well-worn mix of gravel and dirt that makes up the third main walking path in the local park. They’re on the third most popular route, because the first was too crowded, the second path too narrow. The Cat King holds his left arm in a slight arch away from his own side, takes care not to swing their joined hands more than the natural cadence of their bodies in motion procures, and keeps his feet in a straight line. The Cat King doesn’t touch Edwin , nary the slightest brush, even as his head leans closer, loudly commenting on whatever he thinks might be worth Edwin’s attention. Just that warm palm in his, gentle squeezes.  

Edwin spots the little statue as they turn the corner and the trees clear, an eternal capture of a cat posing gracefully, the bronze plaque underneath displaying the history, inspiration, and the like.  

He gently squeezes the warm palm in his fingers. The Cat King’s eyes fly to their joined hands, a stutter in his step. A mere second later, as they walk slowly over to the little cat statue, Edwin lets the Cat King’s words wash over him, more focused on the pleased smile on the other’s face. He nods at the appropriate moment, reminds himself inwardly to ask the Cat King to explain it again, later, possibly.  

Their joined hands swing just a bit, as they turn back to the path.  

Warm palm in warm palm, gentle squeezes.  

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The Cat King is always so enthusiastic, when giving head. He’s messy, intense, eager, and by sheer luck or a rather misfortunate happenstance as one could name it, Edwin’s learned that he loves when Edwin fucks his throat. Edwin’s still a bit hesitant about that part, but he compromises for the moment, tangling his fingers in his lover’s hair, guiding, barely holding him still. The Cat King’s groan punches out of him, slick mix of spit and salty pre-cum escaping his widened lips around Edwin’s cock. Edwin’s lap feels soaked, drool and other fluids mixing into an obscenely big pool underneath his ass, cheeks dipping down into the wet sheets every time he clenches around two fingers. Those golden eyes glint up at him, but Edwin’s not going to give in, not yet  

“Oh, hells.” he breathes, hips jerking up without his consent, as the Cat King’s lips slide down his erection as low as he can, nose meeting Edwin’s trembling skin, swallowing, sucking so hard around Edwin's cock that his cheeks hollow, eyes fluttering.  

“I'm close, love, I’m going to,” Edwin warns around a dry throat, voice tight, the Cat King hums in answer. Hums deeply , purr traveling, sending vibrations up through his chest, throat, mouth around Edwin’s cock. Flicks his tongue underneath the head of Edwin’s cock, then up, dips it into the weeping slit.  

That does it for Edwin. He comes with a yell that is entirely too loud, too violent, toes curling, legs shaking in the air as pleasure floods him, little bursts of heat traveling to each of his extremities. The Cat King doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, continues to suck and lick up Edwin’s softening length, only pulling back, fluids coating the entirety of his lower face, when Edwin starts to flinch with oversensitivity. With a last, lingering kiss to the head of Edwin's soft cock, his lover collapses back onto the bed, a smug smirk on wet, puffy lips.  

“Gods, fuck you.” Edwin breathes, trying in vain to bring some air back to his heaving lungs.  

“Next time.” the Cat King smirks, voice sounding hoarse , laughs under his breath when Edwin’s too weak from his orgasm to smack him, attempts anyway.  

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The feline form of the Cat King tries to lie down across Edwin’s paperwork once, exactly the once, and quickly learns his lesson. However, the Cat King is a swift pupil, and learns that going in for a handhold works far better, for the both of them. When he feels Edwin has spent enough time eyeing his work and not his lover, he makes his move. Slowly fingers walk over the desk, papers and the like, and the moment Edwin finally looks up from his book, meets the Cat King's eyes over their entwined hands, warm thumb rubbing circles on the back of Edwin's hand, the Cat King knows he's won when all he gets is a sigh laced with fondness instead of frustration.  

Other times, desperate times, the Cat King has to resort back to more animalistic measures. That slow-mo lean that cats do when they, for reasons unknown to man, just feel like they've deserved some senseless violence?  

The bite doesn't ever even hurt, merely a gentle form of intrusive thoughts winning. That.  

The Cat King just strolls up behind Edwin, takes a deep breath like he's going to dive into a pool, but opens his mouth instead of keeping it closed, leans down and just. Wide jaw, full spread, clamps his teeth down onto Edwin's clothed shoulder. There is no pain, not even the slightest pressure, just the barest indent of teeth like he's just reminding Edwin that he has them. Edwin still jerks as if he was indeed just bitten by his lover out of nowhere what the actual "Hells! What. Is. Wrong. With. You??"  

The Cat King just stands there, blinking at Edwin, still slightly bent down even , tilts his head like Edwin's behavior is the sudden out of character thing happening here, ‘huh what do you mean, me?’ written in those golden eyes. Edwin just keeps staring at him for 5 seconds, then realizes that's 5 seconds, and more, that he's lost productivity for, and sighs. Again, fondly. Because his lover is the Cat King, and truly, was it all that out of character, for him? He's made his bed, might as well lay in it. The book closes, work can wait.  

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There’s a slight breeze, coming through the high grated windows, ghosting across bare skin, the Cat King's chest. It spreads over and away from his form on the bed, flutters the little flames of the candles on the bedside table, in his lover’s hands. The Cat King curls his toes, breathes in the smell of blue bells, sweet briar in his nose, inhales deeper, a bid to reach the scent of Edwin lingering underneath. Edwin’s solid weight settles down on him, straddles his thighs, bare save for the garter belt holding soft stockings in place. His lover holds his gaze, they exchange a nod, the barest of movement that speaks volumes in the silence between them. Edwin’s thighs squeeze his own, once, twice. A soft length of cloth covers his slitted eyes. Unseen, his lover’s hand tilts.  

The first drop of wax against his bare skin, exquisite, a shocking little burst of pain for all that he was ready for it. The Cat King hisses, hips jerk, hands twitch into fists in his bonds as wax sears hot and then immediately freezes cold on his chest. Dual burning sensations. No respite. A second follows, a third, wax drips, drip, drips down from the candle's wick as regularly as the ticking of a clock.  

The thrill of not knowing where the next drop was going to land. Being at his lover’s mercy, the trust bared, trust accepted, carried. The heightening of his senses, the scents alone . The Cat King’s chest heaves with deep breaths, noises fall from his lips with every drop. Edwin paints the Cat King’s portrait. Sometimes he lets them fall in the same spot, drip after drip, forms a pool of slowly hardening wax in the dip of his collarbone, close to his sensitive neck. The Cat King’s head swings wildly, torn between the urge to move closer, away. Sometimes the next drop falls far away from the last, somewhere the Cat King couldn't have possibly anticipated. He’s kept on edge, muscles tense, trembling, adrenaline and serotonin form a wild mix coursing through his veins in equal measure, an onslaught of sensations that keeps him on high alert, his focus so narrowly on the present, here, with his merciful lover. He sags in his bonds, attempts weakly to swallow down whatever spit hasn’t yet escaped his open lips, focuses on the gentle touch of a hand sweeping over his shivering thigh, giving him a short break. Head tips back on a long moan, fingers tease underneath the now sweat-slick fabric of the garter belt. Soothing circles of a thumb, soft squeeze by the other fingers. The Cat King swallows, nods once, twice.  

A droplet kisses the sensitive skin near his right nipple, the Cat King swears as it burns his skin. Fingers follow the path to his chest, fingertips smear out the wax, make it cool and harden faster. Warm breath teases the Cat King’s nape, his ear. "Too much?" His lover whispers.  

"I can take it."  

A hum. “Do you want to?”  

“Yes, if it’s you.”  

“Okay. Do you want more, right now?”  

Wax cools and hardens, stiff, foreign. The heady mix of scents feels sticky, cloying in his nose. The skin beneath the wax prickles, sensitive, red raw hot in a way that begged soothing. Edwin's weight on his legs was comforting, but not enough. His head shakes once, twice.  

The drips stop. Instead, hands slide through his hair, tug loose the knot of his blindfold, and  there's the sight of Edwin’s slender fingers against his skin, delicately peeling up the edge of a puddle of hardened wax, teasing it free of his skin. Skin tender, he sighs as Edwin peels the wax away, as much care if not more, in the slow process of removing the tools with which he marked the Cat King. The Cat King groans under a long exhale.  

Air floods right back into his lungs on a stuttering gasp. Without any warning a palm grinds down on his erection through the fabric of his panties. The soft satin material, cool and silky despite its current wet state, rubs and teases against his cock as fingers move the fabric in a slide up, down. That palm presses down against the clothed form of his cock, fingertips rubbing at the head, rubbing at the fabric. Under the focus, intent attention, it’s not long before the head of his cock pushes up past the top of the panties. The Cat King glances down, bites back a moan. It’s obscene, the head of his wet cock peaks out from the lacy hem, leaks pre-cum onto his stomach. He growls low at the sight, louder as fingers circle the slit of his twitching erection, slide up to sweep through the slick. At a particularly hard clench of those fingers on the length of his cock, he looks up at his lover and finds Edwin watching him, grin spreading slowly over his lips as if he was waiting for him to lock their gaze. The Cat King’s heart throbs in time with his cock, eyes flitting down in a flash to where Edwin bites his lower lip, flying back up and locking in place as his lover blinks at him, once, twice, three times.  

Heat, hotter than the wax, splashes over his stomach as the Cat King comes hard, hips jerking against his lover’s palm in desperate thrusts.  

After a final check, finally fully released from his bonds, divested of his now less than comfortable soaked lingerie, the Cat King stretches unabashedly underneath his lover. He pulls taut every bit of his frame, winks in a proud display of tanned muscles, preens as his lover’s gaze is drawn to his skin littered with the evidence of hot passion. He feels somewhat delicate in that gaze, raw and vulnerable, carnal desire to sink his teeth into something rising up, to mask, to hide. His lips press softly to Edwin’s neck, instead, when he leans down, curls into his open arms. He’s raw, vulnerable. But in his lover’s hands, above all, he’s cared for, he’s safe.  

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Oh, Edwin has to concede, it does quite add to the rush. 

The admittance falls from his lips in a soft sigh, swallowed by the Cat King. It’s easy, after that, to give in, walk slowly backwards, guided, until his back collides with the wall behind his desk. A warm hand gently slides up his neck, into his hair, cradles the back of his head. A protective buffer between Edwin and the wall, head pushing back into warm skin instead of hard plaster each time the Cat King claims his lips in a biting, passionate kiss. They only break apart when Edwin wrenches his head with a gasp, those hungry lips diving in nonetheless, nips on his jaw, wet heat trailing down his neck in bruising, sucking marks. He can’t help but glance at the door, the mirror. Edwin tips his head back against the wall with a heartfelt groan, an invitation he knows the Cat King won’t ignore. He’s asking, yes, he wants this. Another cursory peek around the office. Yes, quite a rush. Edwin reaches for his lover. 

The Cat King ducks forward, showering him in kisses, from the corner of Edwin’s jaw to where his shirt meets his throat. It’s far too risky to undress, truly. Fingers slide over his shoulders, shift under his suspenders. Slowly, his shoulders hike up, as twin strips of fabric slide down. This suffices, for now. 

Edwin outright moans when the Cat King sinks his teeth into the hollow of his neck, one hand flies up to grab at the other’s hair, other fingers scrabble at the wall for any purchase. The Cat King grins, hungry, pleased, licks over the bite in gentle scrapes of his tongue, soothes. Edwin wonders, not for the first time, what it’d look like if he could actually leave a mark. He shoves a thigh between the Cat King’s and arches back up into that mouth. No time for theory, instead, practice. Edwin knows that he can leave marks. 

Ever the consummate scholar, Edwin's made note of everything that makes his lover moan or shudder against him. He sets to task, sliding his fingers into that soft mane of hair, clench, tug, tug. He nips those lips when they fall open on a groan, flicks his tongue just behind his teeth. Rolling his hips forward, riding their cocks up and down together in a wave, knocks an almost desperate noise out of the Cat King, and Edwin thinks that maybe a quick, clothed romp won’t be nearly enough for either of them. 

As if on cue, from the direction of the door, Crystal shouts from down the stairs, “ETA 3 minutes boys! You had better be wearing clothes, and I mean more than just a skirt ‘ your Majesty ’!”  

Edwin pulls back from their kiss with a laugh, a little less heated this time. The Cat King pants, grins at him with a sly smirk. 

“You hear something?” he asks, teasing, Edwin jerks his leg up, just enough for the pressure to border on painful, a reprimand as much as a promise. Those slitted eyes flutter, a weak moan falls from kiss-bruised lips, hips jerk into the touch, oh. Edwin will have to add that to his notes, then. 

“Come on,” he says, reaching for the Cat King’s wrist as he turns, heading towards the mirror. “I don’t want to be wearing anything, in 3 minutes.” 

His lover grins, follows the pull without a single tug. 

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The day had dissolved into a glorious summer evening. Thin layers of clouds marched out from the horizon, all of Port Townsend bathed in a dusky, warm glow from the fading sun. A blessedly cool wind chased through the air now and again, slipping through the high grated windows,  ruffling the corners of the papers Edwin was trying to sort through.  

The Cat King sat on a veritable nest of soft cushioning material, on the floor, a little way away, directly in the bright beams of sunlight streaking through the windows. In his lap, five small kittens, still in the early stages of life. Under the watchful gaze of their mother, he was brushing warm, calloused fingers over the litter, both pairs of slitted eyes brimming with affection. The cat, named Mabel, purred softly at the gentle touches being lavished upon her babies. It'd been a long and trying day, for Edwin, full of slogging through a long case, continuously feeling one step behind, moving through one clue to find two more, contradicting the first, around the next corner. The rest of the agency had descended into an evening of much needed distraction, Edwin had quietly exited the room, eager to sequester himself in his own version of sanctuary.  

Reconsidering his priorities, Edwin quietly shuffled the last of the papers into a neat pile, set them aside. Reaching instead for a comic book, a sort of hazy warmth settled over the two of them as Edwin found himself switching glances between his comic and the Cat King, humming under his breath along to the music filtering through the air, from the old record player propped on a crate near the wall.  

Really, quite distracting. The Cat King had long been in the habit of spending his free time shirtless. The golden sunlight shimmered on his tanned skin. As his lover twisted slightly, leaning over to comb his fingers delicately through Mabel's fur, the muscles in his back rippled and moved. Edwin knew intimately, the sensation of running his own fingers over the miles of skin on display, the hardness beneath.  

The softness, that had taken Edwin more time to get used to. It snuck up on both of them. The Cat King showed his affections with little smiles and half cast looks, an idle need to always touch him, fill his nose with Edwin’s scent, however fleetingly. Edwin returned the favor with his hand always reaching out to hold his lover’s first, reading his favourite comics aloud, allowing the Cat King entrance into his most private of spaces, thoughts.   

Mabel began to purr a little louder, moving from her position next to the Cat King’s lap to drape herself over his leg, nearer to her litter, nearer to those warm hands. As though fearing she would fall, his lover’s hands instantly went up to support her. With half-hearted murmurs of protest, Mabel tried to worm closer still, shoving herself head-first into the Cat King’s lap, who, with a laugh, rose to his feet instead. Kittens secured in the warm cradle of his arms, Mabel chose to brave the climb to her king’s shoulders. The sudden change in elevation at the end of her venture made her pause, ears swivelling as she had a better idea of where the music was coming from. As though soothing a child, the Cat King slowly began to rock to and fro on his feet, moving to the sound of the music. Like a lullaby, he began to sing from somewhere deep in his chest, to the kittens, to the feline draped over his shoulders like a shrug.  

"If happiness was a tangible thing, it would be you..."   

Edwin's attention had by now entirely slipped from the comic he held loosely in his hands. The wind tickled at the back of his neck, ruffled the papers on the desk, attention never straying from the Cat King, unfairly graceful in combining a slow dance, soft singing and a warm safe hold on a litter of kittens, drape of a hitch-hiking cat, all at the same time.  

Offering a small peek into his lover’s own little version of sanctuary.  

"If you’d have told me the feeling you’d bring, I’d think it untrue..."  

The light of the sunset did beautiful things to the Cat King's lithe muscles, swaying, singing softly. Gradually, Mabel shifted, his lover bent at the silent command, letting her jump down to the floor, trot back to the middle of the nest, where she commenced washing herself as though nothing had happened. Her kittens were gently placed beside her, and encouraged to feed by warm fingers guiding them to where they needed to go.  

The Cat King continued to hum lyrics under his breath, stopping midway through standing up, when he finally noticed Edwin's eyes on him. He turned with a sheepish smile on his face, winking to nervously cover for himself, running a hand through his hair.  

"Sorry bout the noise, ghostie."  

Edwin blinked, slowly. "There's no need to apologise," he replied, adding with a smile, "in fact, you may continue, louder, maybe?"  

He fully expected the flirtatious energy that settled over the Cat King's frame, the spark that came into those slitted golden eyes. His lover resumed swaying gently to the music, persuading the sunbeams to curve and drape over his bare chest. A hand held out in invitation, that he did not expect. A blush brewing unseen underneath his cheeks, Edwin haltingly took that warm hand, let it lift him from his seat.  

“If you’re ever feeling like you’re lost, I’ll come find you...”  

The Cat King's hands, calloused and capable, guided Edwin, gently, to place one hand on his bare hip and the other on his shoulder. Edwin could feel the sun warming his back through his shirt. His lover radiated warmth at his front all the more. He felt like a sunbeam, looked twice as nice. Somehow, their feet moved without clashing, Edwin basking in the focus of the Cat King's golden gaze, letting himself be led without thought. The warmth in his cheeks doubled, the Cat King's only reply a raised eyebrow, gentle smile.  

Papers fluttered delicately to the floor as Edwin found himself being led in slow, endless circles. Their shadows danced and played upon the pale floorboards. With playful nimbleness, Mabel batted and played with their silhouettes cast on the floor whenever they edged close to her nest. For forever and a moment more, the world was perfect; made up only of one room, one endless summer, one sanctuary, for the both of them.  

“Keep you safe, here in my arms... At all cost.”  

Chapter Text

The thrumming hum of the motorcycle’s engine is driving Edwin absolutely crazy. Not to mention, it’s distracting his students. The boys who sit near the windows are attempting to subtly glance over their shoulders, get a peek at who drove a motorcycle into their school’s parking lot, the ones sitting too far to get a glimpse are glancing at each other instead, whispering.   

It wouldn’t have been such an annoyance if the damn thing would just leave, but whoever stalled it has been sitting, engine running, for five straight minutes. During study hall, five whole minutes feel like an eternity.   

Edwin knows if he doesn’t get his class under control, they’ll be jittery, distracted for the rest of the period. He has to put a stop to this. He stalks to the window, pretends not to notice the hurried scrambling of students pretending to be fascinated by their coursework, peers down at the parking lot. The man in the distance, leaning on his motorcycle, is studying a road map. Not a care in the world for anyone else’s peace and quiet.   

"Return to your studies," he tuts at the boy, leaning near comically out of his chair to sneak another peek. Not like Edwin blames the children, a motorcycle was not something you saw every day in this town.  Scooters, maybe. The occasional Vespa. Not real motorcycles.   

"Stay seated, class." Edwin orders as he leaves the classroom, fully aware that they won’t.   

He thinks of all the things he’s going to say to this rude man, all the curt phrases and serious demands he can make of a complete stranger.  He’s no shrinking violet, he’s not intimidated by confrontation (some would venture to call him  very confrontational), but the inherent danger in approaching a stranger with a complaint, does make his heart beat just a little faster.   

It’s a beautiful mellow spring day, perfect day for a ride on a motorcycle, Edwin has to admit to himself. The temperature is perfect, trees beautiful to look at, air smelling crisp, cool, clean. It does absolutely nothing for his current mood. By the time he closes in on his target, he’s got a good snippy energy built up, and this inconsiderate ass will feel the brunt of it. 

The man, still seated, inspecting the road map like it will lead to buried treasure, doesn’t hear Edwin approaching from behind him.   

"Pardon me," he begins, wincing in annoyance at the deafening putter of the bike’s engine. "Excuse m- -” Edwin falls silent with a sigh. It’s clear that a polite introduction will not suffice. Desperate times, and all that follows. 

He reaches out, taps the man rather hard on the back, feeling the hard muscle of the man’s shoulder, even through the thick black leather motorcycle jacket.   

The stranger jumps a mile, letting out a short, sharp exclamation of surprise, although it’s barely audible over the engine. He gives Edwin a glare that could freeze over a hot spring, grips his chest with one hand while he turns off the engine with the other.   

The horrific noise abates, only to be replaced by the man’s low voice. 

"Good grief, sweetheart, you nearly gave me a heart attack, appearing out of nowhere like that. Anyone ever tell you that you can’t just sneak up on a man like that, what are you, some kind of ghost?"   

Edwin quietly mouths ‘sweetheart .. ghost?’ to himself, then shakes his head with a little frown, rids himself of the distraction from both the other’s man’s lilting voice, and the reason he came out here in the first place. 

"Well, that brings me to why I came out here. Your motorcycle was disturbing my students. I would ask that you keep it turned off, until you’re ready to leave." 

The stranger tilts his head. "Your what?" 

"My students. This is a school you’ve parked in front of." Edwin gestures behind him, speaks slowly, as if to an infant.   

"School?  I thought this was the Allcott estate…" The man looks back at his map.   

"No, that would be about 5 miles away. You haven’t gotten there yet, though if you continue on the main road, you should get there in just a few minutes." Edwin rolls his eyes. This is all taking far longer than he thought it would. 

"What sort of accent is that, ghostie? You’re not from here." The man folds his map, seemingly content to believe Edwin’s directions.   

"I could say the same thing about you." Edwin snips, ignoring the ridiculous nickname. Immediately reprimands himself internally, feeling like he’s just taken bait.  

"From America myself. Taking a little road-trip," The other man beams, pats the motorcycle’s seat. "Crossing the pond for the first time. Seeing the sites, meeting the people, sort of an adventure, you know."  He looks absurdly proud of himself, Edwin can’t help but notice the meager possessions the man has rolled up and secured to the back of the bike. 

"Hm, fascinating. Yes, well. I must get back to my students—" 

"Where’d you say you were from?" 

Edwin sighs, choosing pointedly to not halt in his turning, ending halfway with a sideways gaze at the stranger. “I didn’t. London. I am from London, if you absolutely must know. I teach in this school,” he gestures again, “and I truly must get back to my students, if you don’t mind. I only came out to ask that you turn your engine off.” 

"What do you teach?" 

My god, the man could absolutely not read social cues. “English literature. Now, Mr…” 

"Thomas. But my friends call me The Cat King." He holds out a gloved hand and Edwin shakes it, with no small amount of reluctance.   

"I’m sure they don’t call you that," he tuts. "My name is Edwin, and I must be going.  Goodbye." He turns on his heel, stalks back towards the school. 

"So long, ghostie." He hears Thomas call after him. He nearly whirls around, ready to ask just what was meant by that nickname, but the other man is already kickstarting the engine back up.   

He roars out of the parking lot with a wholly unnecessary flourish, speeding down the road at an alarming speed until he’s gone from sight, leaving only a small rubber burn on the pavement. 

"Fool is going to kill himself, driving like that on these roads." Edwin grumbles. He glances up, sees all 14 of his students bolt from view from where they had previously stood, peering out the window to eavesdrop on the exchange. 

Chapter Text

Edwin sighs as he looks over the latest batch of exam scores from his class.  High grades from his studious pupils as usual, lower grades from the boys who were almost equally as bright, but didn't put forth the effort. A long-standing issue, one the school board doesn’t seem half as concerned with as he is. Now alone in his classroom, Edwin hears the final bell, the ensuing floor-shaking exodus of students to the open air. He leans back in his seat, vowing to try to come up with some sort of solution to this problem later.    

He packs some essays to read, homework that still need to be graded, into his briefcase, retrieves his coat from the rack in the corner on the way to the door.  He very much needs a nice cup of coffee.  

"Hey, Mister Edwin!" A loud shout echoes from the end of the hallway, and Edwin frowns, to himself, turning to face the student that the other teachers have affectionately likened to a bird.    

"Mr. Finch, I have repeatedly told you to call me Mr. Payne. Not to refer to me by my first name, and especially not within the school grounds."  

The teen has the grace to look apologetic, yet in pure young-spirited fashion, physically shrugs off the comment just a moment later. “I’m sorry Mr. Payne. But I have good news for you!  Check it out!"  The young man pulls a thick book out of his shoulder bag, flips it open to a page, bookmarked with a grey and blue checkered bit of laminated paper, thrusts the turned book and open page at Edwin, near bouncing with anticipation.  Edwin bends his head and glances, inspects the writing, charts and scribbles. It's a large astrology analysis.  On the top of the page, written in bold letters is 'Capricorn'. Below, Edwin skims through a far too large amount of text, even for an avid reader, and regrettably still unwillingly picks up phrases such as ‘ You’re in the market for a partnership, and you might be pleasantly surprised, Capricorn.’, ‘Any existing relationship can deepen through dialogue.’  or ‘Saturn favours staying power, so look for a plus-one who’s in it for the long haul.’ Edwin skims faster, rereading the same few sentences to stall, making an estimate of a more natural seeming amount of time to read a prediction of his love life, from an astrology tome held up by a fifteen year old.  

Next to all of this utter tripe, is a note stating 'check star alignment! '    

Edwin can't help but smile, still, at the student’s obvious enthusiasm for the subject.      

"Isn't that great news?" Monty Finch asks him with an answering smile, "Not only does your horoscope predict it, but I did in fact check, of course, and the star alignment today is also very favourable.  Know what that means?" He adds in a conspiring, whispering tone.  

"You have a bit too much free time and need to be assigned more homework?" Edwin asks, with a hint of a smile still on his cheeks and a tilt of his head to accompany his teasing intention.    

The teen starts up his own analysis of the analysis , and Edwin knows if he doesn't put a stop to this conversation, Monty will keep talking, undeterred, for the next 20 minutes.  "Alright, well Mr. Finch, thank you for sharing your inspiring passion for astrology. Enjoy your weekend."  He pats the boy semi-affectionately on the shoulder, and brushes past him with long strides, beating a hasty retreat.  

"Trust in the stars, Mr. Payne!"  

Edwin tosses his brown leather shoulderbag into the passenger's seat of his car, pulls out of the school's parking lot, sighs deeply, rolls the windows down and lets the crisp air fill the car, rustle his hair.    

He passes the Allcott estate on his way into town, glances out the window at it as he passes, though he doesn't know what he expects to find. The outer gates are closed, locked, he can't really see past them, so he shrugs to himself, refocuses on the road.    

Port Townsend is one of the most affluent in the state. The people who live here have money, and they like to show it off. The school Edwin works for is a private, all-boys school that prides itself on how many of its students move on to acclaimed universities and careers pre-planned by either doting or detached parents. The houses are beautiful and scenic, most of the people are shallow and nosy.     

Edwin pulls to a stop when he finds a good parking space, a few blocks away from his favourite coffee shop. It's small, locally owned, and one of Edwin's favourite things to do is order one of their dark roasts, with a scone, that is decidedly nothing at all like a bisquit, and settle in one of the overstuffed chairs by the window while he grades papers.    

When the little bell above the door softly chimes as he walks in, he's happy to see that his favourite barista is behind the counter, studiously arranging the pastries.  "Hi Edwin!"  She chirps, and immediately sets to the task of hand-grinding the beans for his coffee.    

“Hello, Niko, good afternoon.” Edwin smiles at her and looks for a seat, settling in with a cursory glance through the window. The smile falls from his face.    

He's utterly confused, instead, looks around to see if anyone has noticed that this is happening, or if he's just imagining it. A little shake of his head doesn’t clear the vision; the sleek black and brown motorcycle parked next to the curb across from the café. The man sitting on the bench near it in the lightest definition of the word ‘sitting’, limbs spread akimbo across the furniture, head lolled back against the backrest.  

"Quite weird, right?  I gave him a cup of coffee to go, and then he didn’t actually go. He pretty much fell right asleep on that bench. I don’t think that’s a good position to sleep in, actually. But, he looked so tired I don't have the heart to disturb him. And nobody has passed that bench, the bike is turned off and parked legally, so I don't think anyone minds. Have you ever seen a bike like that? I like his jacket, so cool!" Niko smiles, retrieves his scone and reaches for a mug just as the coffee finishes brewing. Edwin thanks her, but holds up a hand, silently asking her to wait as he chooses another corner of the coffee shop, making sure he can keep the bench and its occupant in his line of vision, though he can't pin down exactly why.  

Probably just the novelty of it all. Port Townsend was a town steeped in tradition, both in values and a clockwork year-round schedule. The town council kept everything pretty, decent, and calm. If Edwin was completely honest with himself, it was the reason he settled here.    

He's interrupted from his wandering thoughts, when the sound of several high-pitched voices, barely audible over the loud clacking chorus of stiletto heels on well-maintained concrete reaches his ears.  

Oh no. This is going to go really bad, really fast.  

Edwin is out of his seat, ignoring Niko’s questioning little “Edwin?”, and heading for the door before he’s even consciously considered the decision. As soon as he’s greeted by the warm air outside, he’s also greeted by the sight of one Esther Finch, and several members of the Homeowner’s Association. When that calculating gaze locks on Edwin, and stays so, Edwin spares a thought, a quick mental note, that Monty must have been wrong about the star alignment. He does not feel particularly pleasantly surprised, at all.  

Chapter Text

Edwin only has a whole amount of three seconds to properly steel himself, swallow a deep sigh, and force the most pleasant smile he can muster onto his face.  

"Madam Finch. How are you this fine afternoon?"  

Esther Finch lives on the nicest street, in the nicest neighbourhood, in a perfectly nice house, fit for an entire family of the nicest people in Port Townsend. There is nothing nice about Esther Finch. As the sole reigning heiress of the town’s long-lasting elite, she has more money than the mayor, owns enough land to constitute a national park, and is truly one of the worst people Edwin has ever met. Edwin reasons either her life didn’t quite turn out the way she imagined, or she simply decided her life reached its peak during her college years, and she’s not quite willing to give that up, even decades later. Obsessed with holding on to (at the very least the idea of) eternal youth, nostalgia perhaps for the control and power of years long, long past, Esther Finch both shoves and turns her nose up at everyone and anyone’s business in equal amounts, and takes extra personal interest in any males below the age of 20.  

So according to the laws of the universe, one of her personal goals in life was to get Edwin into her bed, and under her thumb.    

There’s something sickening about a woman twice his age sizing him up like a treat, giving him a saccharine-sweet smile instead of the disgusted curl of red-painted lips Edwin saw on her face just moments before. "Oh, Edwin, sweet thing." She struts closer with a clack of stilettos, kisses the air next to each of his cheeks, takes his hand, clinging to it like some sort of schoolgirl. She really is terribly obvious, and after over a year of this game, Edwin wonders how long he will have to make it clear he's not interested before she gives up. Or switches targets. Over the shoulder of her expensive-looking beige blazer, Edwin can see her cronies sizing the man occupying the bench up, the latter almost comically still asleep, dead to the world, utterly unaware of the danger he’s in. Like a cat taking a nap next to a pack of dogs. Edwin would laugh, but as it is, he fears his little slip of eye-contact might already be playing with fire.  

"I wanted to invite you to my church's public picnic tomorrow. The whole congregation will be there, of course, and I just wanted to make sure you knew you had a special invitation to my table." She idly strokes his hand with one thumb, and Edwin feels extremely uncomfortable.    

His mind races, trying to come up with some sort of excuse that she'll accept. Reflexively, his eyes are drawn back to the motorcycle, the man on the bench near it. "As it happens, I'm entertaining a friend this weekend, and I'm not sure I'll have the time."  

"Well, invite him along! Everyone's welcome at the church, hmm, unless he's one of those , of course." She crinkles her nose and narrows her keen eyes, the most her face can manage anything approaching a true expression of laughter, not even aware that Edwin is not sharing her amusement at her joke.  

In fact, this whole exchange is making him feel like he's 8 years old. A child, back home, listening to older family members talk about what is right, and more importantly, what is wrong with the world.  

"Do consider it, Edwin, sweet thing. I'll be so sad if you don't come. You really should get out more, you know how people talk."  

The people talking tend to mostly consist of Esther and her cronies. Edwin does not much care for their gossip. Does not much care for confrontation either, truly. That is how he reasons to himself, his reaction, staying silent in the end, wringing his hands as Esther Finch turns around, dismissing his existence entirely, and struts right up to her new target. The gaggle of middle-aged women part for her like lower ranked predators, giving their pack leader the first choice of prime cut flesh. They close the circle with poorly concealed excitement behind faux concerned frowns. One slender hand reaches out, a manicured finger taps, taps, taps the shoulder of that black leather jacket. Edwin quiets his own breathing, in order to hear the exchange he knows is coming.     

The man, Thomas, Edwin’s mind supplies, stirs awake with an ease that belies the tension rapidly filling the air, and almost seems to take in the sight of a group of older women looming over him as a regularity. He raises his hands, gives a finger waggle that Edwin theorizes might be found charming by someone, somewhere , and makes no further move to get up, or even rearrange his limbs in a semblance of proper posture. "Now what can I do for you, ladies?" His voice is a low, rough sleepy sound, and has a wildly different effect on Edwin than it does the people he’s actually addressing.  

"Oh, I do hate to be the bearer of bad news, but, as a long-standing member of the Homeowner’s association, and of course, you see, simply being involved in the protection of our community, I must tell you about some, hmm, concerns .” There’s the curl of red-painted lips, as cold eyes flick between the man on the bench, and the motorcycle parked perfectly legally nearby. “I assume you’re just passing through, of course, but I simply must ask, you understand. Do you have a license for that thing ?” Thomas smiles good-naturedly, charmingly, but Edwin knows restrained anger when he sees it. “I must ask you to keep that noisy machine out of residential streets, our children, you understand.” Esther’s gaze tracks over Thomas in barely concealed disgust, then flit to the cup of coffee, sitting innocently on the bench. “Littering, likewise, is not tolerated here.” One of the women of the group, perhaps sensing the opportunity to score peer approval, walks over briskly, snatching the coffee cup with a flourish. While Thomas, charming smile still on his face, but rage building in his eyes, offers a quick “That’s not even empty, honey,” the woman is already marching to the trash can and depositing it with unnecessary drama, “alright then.” is all that leaves Thomas’ mouth, tilting his head back to Esther as she is clearly not done just yet. “Furthermore, there’s been complaints of vagrants sleeping in a public area, I've come to tell you to move along."  She motions sharply, waving her hand through the air in the direction of the bench and Thomas on it, like shooing an unwanted animal.  

"Wasn't asleep, really. Just resting my eyes. And I'm not dangerous, just dangerously good-looking." Thomas smirks, but it fades when he sees it has no effect. He holds up one of his hands, starts ticking off fingers. "One: I have a license, of course. Two: I’m also parked perfectly legally. Three: littering implies something left behind, and I’m still right here aren’t I? And I'm not a vagrant, either. Just passing through, like you said."  

"You really want get into semantics with me ? I have both the mayor and the police chief on speed dial, darling. This is private property, and you are not welcome here." Another shooing wave of her hand.  

"Look honey," Thomas begins again, clearly exasperated. “Was I sleeping in a public area , or on private property now?”  

"Darling, you call me honey one more time and we will have a problem."  

Thomas takes a deep breath. Edwin wonders where he finds the strength to keep calm, attempting to keep a charming front. " Ma’am , I’m really just passing through. I got a coffee, paid for it , drank about half of it, and relaxed a bit on this public bench . I may have dozed off, but I'm not bothering anyone, not littering-"    

He's cut off, when Esther turns sharply, and struts over to the motorcycle. Bending down to inspect every inch of its surface, her manicured, sharp nails sweeping ever closer over its glinting finish. Edwin can see her calculate how much it’d cost Thomas, if she were to call the town’s towing service, demand a full check-up at the most exclusive garage, under the guise of proper concern of the safety of the vehicle, around the children , of course. Edwin knows she has pretty much all the town’s official services on speed dial, considers it her civic duty to spring them on anyone and everyone that she deems threatens her world view. As it was, he can see Thomas coming to the same conclusion, tension lining every bit of his frame as he stands up from the bench, slowly. Approaches the woman circling his motorcycle, slowly.  

If you asked him later, Edwin would not be able to say why he did it.    

He finally stalks over, putting on the most pleasant expression he can muster. "Ah, Thomas! My friend, I do apologize for taking so long, I quite honestly forgot whether we agreed to meet inside or out, and I frankly hadn’t spotted you yet through this..crowd. Oh, Esther, I see you've met my friend!" He puts an awkward hand on Thomas's shoulder, clamping down hard as a warning.  

"Your friend ?" Esther glances skeptically between them, taking a delicate step back.  

Edwin feels Thomas shaking, still, with pent-up anger, but to his credit, he says nothing against the false claim. Edwin can feel his warm gaze on the side of his face, sees that charming smile widen in his peripheral.  

"Why yes, you couldn't tell by the accent?" Thomas smiles broadly, swinging his own arm around Edwin’s shoulders in a much more natural, convincing display of camaraderie.  

"Hm," Esther’s narrow gaze burns into them for a long while, the gaggle of women behind her far less subtle in their tittering. Finally, she sneers, "Edwin, darling, do tell your friend to get a haircut and some decent clothes." She turns on her heel, marching away like the palpable tension hadn’t reached a smothering point, offering a last “And do educate him on the community guidelines!” over her shoulder, as she leads her minions further down the street.    

"Bitch," Thomas hisses under his breath, leaving Edwin’s side the moment the blonde is out of sight. When he looks back, his expression softens ever so slightly. "Real neat trick, that appearing out of nowhere, again, Ghostie."  

"Edwin Payne." He holds out his hand, and Thomas shakes it with a real smile.  

"Thomas King. But my friends call me--"  

"The Cat King, yes I remember. You make quite an impression wherever you go, I must say."    

Thomas smiles just a little wider, stretching out his arms above his head, shaking loose some more of the tension any confrontation with Esther naturally brings. "Figures, after the day I've had. Came all this way, just to find out that the entire Allcott family is vacationing overseas. That's what I get for dropping in unannounced, I suppose."    

"Does that mean you're moving on?"  

Thomas hesitates, looking up at the sky as if it might answer an unspoken question, looking like whatever it’s telling him makes him unhappy, but recovers quickly. "Well, I guess I'll have to. Better not tempt fate, get moving before someone calls in the presidential army to remove my bike." He laughs and moves to shake Edwin’s hand again. "Thanks for keeping me from getting into trouble. And sorry if I caused you any, I owe you one."  

“You owe me nothing.”  

Edwin watches, silently, as the other man turns. Bends over his motorcycle as if inspecting possible damage to it, caused by one Esther Finch’s sheer proximity, nodding to himself at the end of his inspection. One leg is thrown smoothly over the bike, one hand digs in his pocket for his keys, and Edwin, still standing there for reasons unknown to himself, watches him glance upwards again and again, confusion growing as fast as the frown creeping on Thomas’s face.  

Then, the first droplet hits the very top of his head. Followed quickly by the next drip, drip, drip.  

Edwin takes a deep breath, and sighs for what seems like the hundredth time today.    

"Hells," he whispers to himself, knowing that no good will come from this, "Thomas," he calls out, and the other man, fiddling with his keys in his hands, shoots him another charming smile. He looks so tired , is what comes to Edwin’s mind, stays there. "Will you tell me something, honestly?"  

"Sure, Ghostie. I owe you one after all." Thomas barely stifles a yawn.  

"Do you have anywhere to go tonight?"  

The hands fiddling with the keys pause. The answer is obvious, but he says it anyway. "Not really. Not such a big deal, though. You don’t have to worry about me, Edwin. Cats always land on their feet." He’s shot a cheeky wink, the effect of which is utterly ruined by the rain dropping down on them, making the Cat King resemble more of a wet kitten.  

Edwin frowns, feels a surge of anger within himself.  "Well. That simply won't do. Follow my car, you can stay with me until you're sorted."  

Thomas blinks at him. "I… no, I can't do that. That's… I wouldn't wanna put you out, it's too much to ask-"  

Edwin waves his hand dismissively in the air. "I have plenty of room.  And besides, what are friends for?"  

Thomas still looks completely taken aback, but he settles back onto his motorcycle, gives a lopsided grin.  "Alright then, ghostie. Lead the way."  

Chapter Text

The Cat King is drunk.  

Good and properly plastered. Utterly doused. Just sloshed with the drink, of which he hasn’t had many, but the few glasses he has knocked back had an alcohol level high enough that even one would make a dedicated wine mom sway. He’s on, what is it? His third? Been nursing it for some time now, would’ve been drinking it faster now that he’s further along, but Edwin has a firm hand around his glass, regulating how often he gets to sip from it.  

Oh. Edwin. Edwin .  

Handsome, stunning Edwin, pressed against his side like a warm blanket. Shaking his head with a gentle but bright laugh, that leaves the Cat King marooned, his breath stolen from him, heart thudding fast and light. He’s staring, he knows he is, but he can’t stop himself. Edwin is impossible to look away from.  

The other catches him, meets his eye with an inquisitive look of his own. The Cat King’s smile deepens, caught, he doesn’t shy. Edwin smiles back, lips curling back from his teeth, a wide smile, reserved for when he’s relaxed or, privately, for him , and reaches a hand up to brush stray hairs away from his face, out of his eye. His fingers a warm spot, a point of bright contact. The Cat King hums, flutters his eyes, relaxing his face even more, despite himself.  

“There you go,” Edwin says, touch lingering, and to the side, Charles coughs loudly. Any possible tension Edwin had so sweetly massaged away returns, the Cat King’s brow furrows deep in a mix between a pout and a frown.  

“Sorry, it’s just--” Charles, brazenly unapologetic, motions to the pair, let’s the little scene speak for itself. The Cat King realizes, a touch belatedly, just how lovey-dovey he and Edwin must look. Edwin is halfway across his lap, or maybe it’s the inverse? It’s hard to tell, their bodies overlapped and intertwined, squeezed into their shared booth. The Cat King’s head rests heavy on Edwin’s shoulder, and his drink still sits in front of him, but in Edwin’s hand. He’s wrapped tightly around Edwin’s arm, clutching like some smitten lover, which, well, which he is. Their legs are tucked under the table, out of his line of sight, and thus a mystery as to which foot belongs to whom, in their loving tangle. He wiggles a foot experimentally, but he’s too weightless to determine where it might be.  

Pathetic. Purge inducing sappiness, way too heavy on the PDA. The Cat King can’t muster even the thought of a fuck to spare. He might have mumbled that last part, let it slip. Charles snorts across from them, raises a conspiratory finger, jabs it expressively in the air as he downs his drink, mouth occupied but sentiment communicated.  

The Cat King makes a move for his drink. It doesn’t budge. He cracks an eye open, blown-out pupils struggling to focus only on Edwin, working hard to ignore the other silhouette leaning in to cross his line of sight, and mutters a wordless grievance when he sees Edwin’s hand keeping his glass fixed in place.  

“s’My drink,” The Cat King starts, without any bite.  

“Slow down, dear,” Edwin counters smoothly. The soft lull of his voice is a blessing, a balm, to the headache edging in, either from the alcohol or the frustration seeping in from not kissing Edwin right here, right now, he can’t tell.  

“You’re not even drinking it,” he argues, mostly for the sake of it.  

“We’re sharing,” Edwin says, then lifts it to take a sip. The Cat King stares at Edwin’s mouth even after he's put the glass down, at the inquisitive quirk of Edwin’s brow he supplies, “ ’s like you kissed me. Indirectly,” he adds.  

Edwin’s brows hike higher, his face tilting in surprise. “Do you want the real thing?” Like he’s reading the Cat King’s damn mind. He’s perfect. The Cat King wants nothing more to soak up Edwin’s presence, drink it deep and let it settle in his veins like a second pulse. How hasn’t he married Edwin yet?  

He's staring at Edwin’s mouth again. “Not really thirsty. Not anymore.”  

“I wasn’t talking about the drink,” Edwin says. His voice is so low, soft, pitched down just for him to hear. Just for the Cat King, only for him.  

Charles scoffs, noisily, next to them. The Cat King, who had been doing wonderfully at ignoring him, finally deigns him with a look, makes it as bitter and smarting as possible. Charles only grins impossibly wide.  

“It’s like I’m not even here,” he observes faux-wistfully. “Like being mad is an afterthought or something.”  

“He gets like this sometimes,” Edwin says, sounding incredibly fond. “He’s having a good time, in both our company. I think he just acts mad sometimes because he thinks he should be.” Edwin adds with a soft laugh. Well. It’s not far off from the truth, really. The Cat King’s got an image to uphold.  

“Think you know me so well,” he grunts. Crosses his arms. He’s acting up now, because, because… He forgets. Just feels right.   

“Well, my dear King, I think I do,” Edwin leans in close, nose brushing his. Edwin’s eyes are shining, and beautiful, they’re all he sees. He could stay here forever, he thinks.  

Right across from your love’s best friend, who is definitely still taking the piss at you, is perhaps the least romantic time to propose, but if he doesn’t say something now, he might never. Sober Thomas will hold things in till it kills him. The Cat King as he is now, weightless and inebriated, has no such reservations.  

The Cat King surges forward, seals their lips together in a brief but assured kiss. He pulls back enough to lock eyes, finding only welcoming adoration coloured by some surprise, and lets this steel him.  

“Edwin, marry me.”  

For a moment, there’s nothing. Then, suddenly, Edwin laughs, full bodied, leaning away from him to hunch over the table. The Cat King’s too shocked to feel the bite of rejection; Edwin is many things, but in matters of the heart, he’s dreadfully dedicated and serious. Rejection, were it ever a possibility, would be given firmly, respectfully, gravely. Not… this.  

Edwin is laughing so hard his whole body seems to shake with the force of it, and he looks like he’s struggling to catch his breath. He’s beautiful, so breathtaking, gorgeous and free that the Cat King forgets to be angry, simply stares. Charles is slapping Edwin’s back, the part he can reach, grinning, but confused.  

“What, what, what did he say?” Charles demands, now using both hands to shake some sense back into Edwin. Reminded, the Cat King snaps his gaze back up to glower at Charles. “C’mon, mate, he looks like he’s gonna blow me up with his mind , what did he say to you?”  

“H-He-” Edwin sucks air in sharply, interrupted by a fit of giggles, but then leans back over to the Cat King to grip him for support. “He-he proposed to me-” then he’s swept away in another wheezing bout of laughter.  

“Pr- like. A marriage proposal?” Charles glances over to the Cat King, registers his grave expression, and then launches himself back against the booth to howl with cackles. The Cat King himself sits straighter in his seat, ignores him, focus fully directed to Edwin who has slumped back over the table to clutch Charles’s arm.  

“Edwin, that's aces, like that means he-” Charles manages, but Edwin is waving a hand, smiling like his face is about to split in two.  

“No, you don’t- Charles, Charles,” he grasps the collar of Charles’ jacket wildly, free hand held up to quiet him, “Charles, listen, this isn’t even the first time ,” “No!” “Yes,” “Oh stop- ” But they’re laughing again, and the Cat King feels uncertainty starting to creep in, under the heavy fog of his alcohol induced haze. He can’t help the slight slump of his shoulders, or how thick his throat feels.  

“’s’not that funny,” he huffs. Edwin sits up suddenly, expression so soft and appraising, and oh, there’s the cold seep of rejection, snaking in like venom.  

“Oh, my king,” Edwin croons, then gathers the Cat King’s face in his hands, to lean in and kiss him deep. The Cat King sputters briefly, but kisses back, distracted enough that he again forgets what he was so hurt over. Edwin pulls away, but only enough to pepper his cheeks, chin, forehead with kisses. “Oh sweetheart, you already have me. I’m already yours, your consort, your prince. ” He’s kissed again, reverent. “We’ve been married for years, love.” Edwin whispers against his lips. His thumb is stroking the Cat King’s cheek adoringly. He frowns, but then- Oh. Right. Edwin is his consort. His prince. They’re married.  

“Oh,” he says dumbly.  

“Indeed,” Edwin is grinning, wild but loving. The Cat King’s mouth twitches, unable to hide his smile. “Which means we need to go home now.” A hand travels down his arm, squeezes warm fingers around his own, clumsy ones.  

“What?” Charles whines.   

Edwin, still holding his hand, glances to Charles. “He only starts proposing again if he’s really, really drunk.”  

“On three glasses?”  

“Four, he had one before we came out,” Edwin corrects. The Cat King doesn’t even remember that. “It’s been a while. Got a little carried away, he was nervous to see you again.”  

“Me?” Charles glances to the Cat King, who just frowns. He was?  

“Don’t tell him I told you.” Edwin whispers loudly, conspiratory. The Cat King frowns a little deeper. He had been, maybe, and nervous wouldn't be the word of choice, to describe the feeling of seeing someone who’s been a solid fixture of his lover’s life for so long, that he’s maybe grown to be a welcome part of your own, but Edwin didn't need to mention it to Charles.  

“Thank you for having us, Charles, it’s always good to see you,” Edwin continues, letting Thomas go long enough to sweep his best friend in a tight hug. Oh, they’re standing now. Since when were they standing? He sways, listing to the side, but he’s caught by a pair of hands. He frowns, glances back and up to see the calculating gaze of Crystal Palace.  

“You,” he starts, surprised. “What are you doing here?”  

 “I live here, Whiskers. You’re in my house.”  

“ Our house. ” Charles cuts in sharply. Crystal smiles, warm and loving. Oh, Thomas is so drunk .  

“We’ll see you in the morning,” Edwin says, and the Cat King finds himself back in his husband’s arms. He loses sight of the other couple, too busy staring at Edwin, his consort, his prince, as he’s led out of the house and to their own home.  

The walk is short, the silence is companionable, the fresh air is doing wonders for his head in more ways than one, he still leans against Edwin as he leads them through the big doors.  

“You said yes? You really said yes?” They’ve somehow crossed all the way to the bedroom in the blink of an eye. Maybe two blinks, three? He feels the bed against his back, his world tilted sideways, and Edwin leant into his vision. He could stare at his prince forever.  

Edwin smiles, and it’s a light source all on its own. “Ask me again in the morning.” Edwin says, and the Cat King falls asleep.  

Chapter Text

The taste and smell of the Cat King is all-encompassing. Musky, warm and familiar, it sits heavily on Edwin’s tongue, fills his nose where it’s pressed into the curls at the base of the soft cock. Edwin does not care whether his lover gets hard or not, his mind is blissfully quiet, safe, secure in the knowledge that he has to do nothing but follow the other's gentle instruction.  

The Cat King’s hips shift, just a little bit, warm calloused fingers stroking Edwin’s cheek in silent command. Obediently, he starts sucking, suckling at the warm flesh in his mouth. He tongues the underside of the head of the cock in his mouth, as it twitches, once, twice, in renewed interest, letting Edwin taste and tease out the last remainders of his lover's earlier orgasm. The Cat King has already come twice tonight, and coaxing a third out of him will take some time. Time which Edwin is very willing to invest.  

Soft breathless murmurs from above egg him on. Eventually, the space in Edwin’s mouth is no longer enough, for either of them, and he lets the hot length of it slip down his throat easily, bobbing his head in slow, unhurried motions to give the stimulation he needs. When hands put light, questioning pressure on the back of his head, he takes a deep breath through his nose, sinks down.  

He cannot breathe with his lover's thickening cock throbbing along the walls of his throat, but he doesn’t have to, does he? No need for air, no need for thoughts, just this, just this .  Edwin mewls and whines, bucks his own hips in little jerking motions along with the motion of his head, trying slowly but surely to drive that cock deeper, deeper. His nose nestles into the Cat King’s skin, amid hums and swallowing motions, as the other’s thighs start to minutely shake.  

Edwin holds him inside, warm pressure on the very back of his throat, until bright spots dance in front of his eyes, then he pulls back for another unnecessary breath, starts all over. He’ll continue until told to stop, continue even then, just a little more, until the Cat King comes, deep into his throat with a shout, maybe starts writhing, bucking roughly into Edwin’s wet, pliant mouth, nearly smothering him between trembling, fuzzy thighs.  

Silence returns, as the cock, held gently between spit-slick bruised lips, softens, and Edwin slips back into blissful relaxation. His knees and jaw ache. There's an uncomfortable, wet patch forming under his own drooling cock. But these sensations barely register. Until he's ready, only when Edwin’s ready, until then, they will stay just as they are.  

Warm, calloused fingers cradle the back of his head. He’s safe, secure. Mind blissfully quiet, Edwin suckles the soft cock in his mouth.  

Chapter Text

Edwin digs through the pocket of his coat, hung neatly over the nearest crate, as the Cat King continues to smirk at him, looking far too pleased with himself, for someone who was currently naked, and about to be whipped. Finally, he locates what he wanted, pulls out his leather gloves. “Bite down on this,” he says, passing one to his lover. “Unless you want your subjects hearing you.” Uncaring of whether his command is followed, Edwin pulls the matching glove onto his right hand, and strides on to the familiar box sitting innocently on another crate. He makes a show of inspecting its contents, pretending, like they both don’t know exactly what he’ll choose. When a gloved hand finally reaches in, Edwin’s voice breaks the silence of the warehouse. Tone detached, neutral, professional. He’s a teacher, and the lesson has begun.

“The cat o' nine tails, commonly shortened to the cat, is a type of multi-tailed whip or flail,” Edwin recites, as he slowly makes his way back to his lover, then around him, behind him, “it originated as an implement for physical punishment, particularly in the Royal Navy and British Army, and as a judicial punishment in Britain, and some other countries.”

The leather of his glove creaks in his grip around the handle of the whip. The sound is mirrored by its twin, as sharp teeth and fangs clench down on the glove in his lover’s mouth, in anticipation. A shiver travels down the Cat King’s spine, following the touch of the leather tails of the whip tracing across his back. Edwin lets those tails brush across the hitched shoulders, then over, tails hanging down and over his lover’s chest, in his line of sight. A look, a hint of what’s to come, a warning. Edwin sees that chin dip. He strikes. The Cat King’s head jerks back up, higher.

Even muffled by the glove, his cry of honest surprise, pain, sends a pang of guilt through Edwin. But this is a lesson, and it is as much a responsibility of the teacher to see the lesson through, as it is on the student to pay due attention. His lover’s neck is tilted at an angle that looks downright uncomfortable, eyes glossing over, yet Edwin can tell he currently has the Cat King’s full attention, judging from those golden eyes still piercing his, struggling through the haze of pain/pleasure, building with every strike of the whip. Silently, inwardly, Edwin keeps count.

“You’re doing well,” he offers, without pausing in his work, repeating it to pierce through his lover’s loud un-ashamed whimpers and moans, “you’re doing well, just a few more.” Edwin fights the temptation to stop, to reach out and brush his naked fingers over that trembling spine, trace the angry looking red raised lines, to soothe, to stop. But they’re nearly there, and his lover really is taking it all so well, and he’s shivering and squirming so, so nicely, all for him. Edwin’s eyes fall to the Cat King’s hands every other strike, tight fists held over the curve of his ass. As long as those hands don’t signal, Edwin keeps count, counting down, down, down. Till it’s over.

When he’s long run out of space on the canvas of the Cat King’s back, every bit of skin looking red, raw, crisscrossing lines giving off such heat Edwin’s front sweats with it, the whip drops from his hand as soon as the last strike lands, as if it burns him through his glove. With no small amount of effort, he pries open his lover’s mouth, pulling out the spit-soaked glove, letting him gasp and suck in air with an open mouth.

He takes his glove off, desperate for contact, comfort, and when he offers his hands to his lover, he rubs his cheek against Edwin’s palm. Permission given, Edwin gently explores his lover’s face with his fingertips, caresses his hair, his sweaty and flushed neck, his swollen lips. His lover keeps moaning, quietly, noises escaping on every exhale like he can’t stop them, forlorn, lost as he is in all of the tender and painful sensations that take up all of his focus.

“I'm so proud of you,” Edwin whispers. Pride and love and hunger fill his veins and heart when he bends down for a kiss, all careful and gentle, a chorus singing in his head when it’s accepted, “you did so well.”

Later, after Edwin has veritably slathered a whole jar of lotion on his lover’s back, he asks “well, have you learned your lesson?”

“Hmm?” His lover tilts his head up from where it was pressed under Edwin’s chin. He smiles, far too mischievously. “Oh, not sure.”

“Thomas!”

His lover laughs into their next kiss, and Edwin’s hard pressed to be angry with him, he can’t deny he enjoys the taste.

Chapter Text

Precisely three seconds after Edwin turns, starts the short trek to his parked car, his brain catches up to his actions. 'You have just invited an absolute stranger to stay in your home. Where you sleep. Why? Because he's handsome? Handsome people can be murderers too, you know .' 

He tells his inner voice to stop being so paranoid, so skeptical. And Thomas is not handsome. He’s ... Just not, so be quiet.   

Not that he can just dismiss the concern entirely. Edwin's aware that this is not something most people would do, and for good reason. As he looks in the rearview mirror, he wonders what this strange man must think of him. Edwin is well aware that he comes across as stuffy, overly professional to the point of seeming borderline unapproachable. He actually doesn't mind that much, because for the most part, it's true. He's very particular, set in his ways, private and while he has a good grasp on his emotions that makes him quite excellent at controlling even the most rowdy classes, he does actually have a short temper at times, coupled with a low tolerance for foolish behavior. He was astonished, therefore, to discover that he actually enjoyed teaching, a profession that was 99% frustration and ever-changing affronts to his sanity.   

The rumble of the motorcycle's engine behind his car seems quieter than normal. Perhaps due to the low speeds they maintain, as Edwin resolutely follows the speed limit to the second digit, keeps a leisurely pace en route to his house. His house is extremely modest compared to the rest of the town. It sits perched behind a small lawn, on a dead-end street at the edge of Port Townsend, where it's quiet, vehicle traffic practically nonexistent. It has two stories, two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, a lovely small fireplace in the den and a wrap-around counter in the kitchen. It isn't grand or showy; rather an unassuming powder-blue house, his escape from the world. His solitude, haven, consistency.   

He pulls into the gravel driveway, parking his car far enough along that Thomas can fit his motorcycle as well, keep it off the street. Turning off his car, Edwin pauses with his hands on the steering wheel, watching for a moment, as Thomas cuts the motorcycle's engine, walks it into the driveway, puts the stand down and unbuckles his duffle bag from the back.   

Edwin takes a deep breath. Swings open his car door. Hopes that he doesn't end up regretting this.   

The sun has only just dipped under the horizon when they enter the house, but Edwin can tell that Thomas is almost dead on his feet. The sudden awkwardness that surrounds them as soon as the door closes is almost unbearable, so Edwin starts giving instructions, falling into familiar patterns as a way to break the tension. 

"Come, I'll show you where you'll stay." 

"Appreciate it, Ghostie, really."   

For a man who looks like such a vagrant , Edwin thinks, he really is very polite.   

The 'guest room' is on the first floor. It's a small room, really only big enough for one twin mattress and a modest dresser. There's no closet, only one window, and no personal decorations at all. The linens are rudimentary and plain. The furniture in the room hasn’t been disturbed in a long time.   

"I apologize that there's not much to it; I don't entertain company often." If Edwin was being truthful, he would have said 'ever’. He actually feels embarrassed, this is what he was afraid of. Here he is, opening his life, to someone who could judge him for being so antisocial, just as so many in the past have done. There's a swell of shame that he feels bubbling in his gut, harsh criticism of his lifestyle comes back to his memory from various colleagues, neighbours. How he's so solitary, so cold, so alone. 

"Edwin, after thinking my two possible options were either to ride through the night, through the rain , or to find another bench, ostensibly public or private , this might as well be a five-star pension." Thomas laughs, sets his duffel bag gently on the floor next to the bed. He looks at Edwin like he personally saved his life. “Even better than, I’d say. Staff’s much easier on the eyes.” He adds with a wink, possible charming effect somewhat lessened by the way he’s dripping water onto the carpet.  

Edwin can't help but chuckle gently.   

"Well, I hope you don't think I'm being rude, I wouldn’t want to warrant a bad review, but I… well if I might offer a decent shower…" At Thomas’ widening smile, answering nod, Edwin holds up a hand. "I'll get you some towels. And give me your clothes, I can wash them. Or hang them up to dry, I’m not familiar with leather, I’ll take a look at the labels I suppose," muttering more to himself than to his guest, he turns on his heel, heads for the linen closet upstairs "oh," he stops short, one foot on the step, as a thought occurs to him. "Thomas, do you need a change of clothes? Just something to sleep in, I don't think anything besides my pyjamas would fit you." He peers around the corner, looks skeptically at Thomas's frame, top to bottom and back up, silently deciding that all of his trousers would definitely have to be folded once, or twice, to fall properly around the man's ankles.   

Thomas looks mildly shocked, blinking at him. "I… uh, I mean if it's not…" 

Edwin nods, continues his journey upstairs. While he's upstairs, retrieving towels in three sizes and a pair of freshly washed pyjamas, he hears the shower downstairs turn on. Good, at least he's been saved the trouble of explaining the intricacies of the bathroom. He’s embarrassed himself quite enough already. 

He comes back downstairs, striding briskly into the guest bedroom, stopping short at the closed door of the bathroom. There Edwin hesitates, towels in hands. He knocks lightly on the door, opens it only slightly. Just enough room for his arm, just enough to push the towels through the gap, leave them on the closed lid of the toilet, for Thomas to find when he's done. He's not sure if Thomas heard him knock, but his arm will be in and out, the door neatly shut, before his intrusion can be noted. 

The toilet seat is up. 

Edwin barely muffles his undignified noise, resigns himself to widening the door by the merest sliver, elbowing the wood just enough to shift a little bit further. If he can drop the lid down with the back of his hand, he can still follow the plan, neatly drop the towels, keep his eyes firmly set on the shiny white tiles on the wall, and slink right back out. The toilet lid is quietly lowered. Thomas whistles a jaunty tune, eyes closed, while he soaps up his hair. The towels drop on the closed toilet lid. Edwin stares, as Thomas whistles a jaunty tune while he soaps up his hair. Suds drip down much like the earlier rain, swept up by the shower running a steady stream of warm water over wet hair, wet hands, wet arms, wet shoulders, wet chest, glistening chest, good grief that chest. Edwin’s cheeks feel like they might currently give off the same amount of steam as is fogging up the mirror on the wall. 

Time, he thinks, for laundry. 

Chapter Text

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, sh-” Edwin hisses.  

Thomas pulls back, slowly, passing the tip of his tongue right over Edwin’s clit as he goes, and makes sure to whisper right against the twitching nub. “I didn’t say anything.”  

Edwin groans, trying to flex his hips. They don’t move, under the bar Thomas’s arm makes. His cunt clenches, flexes around thick, warm digits. Thomas watches another pulse of thick slick ooze past his digits, hums. “Messy boy.”  

“Shut up,” Edwin whines. Thomas watches what's left to see of his face, after Edwin had thrown both his hands over his eyes, like not seeing would somehow belay the fact that his cunt was being cleaned as thoroughly as Thomas was able.  

He's pretty fucking thorough.  

Not that Edwin isn’t putting up a pretty good fight against this being a clean endeavour. Thomas isn’t sure he’s ever bedded someone that lubricated this much. There's something unbelievably...Edwin about it.  

Absolutely, impossibly, never not hot though.  

Edwin keeps trying to squirm against his hold. Which doesn’t move. He watches the bits of Edwin’s face that he can see pink up with rushing blood. Oh, this was bound to be good.  

“You want something?” He drawls, doesn’t move his fingers, no matter how enticing the clutch ‘n release of Edwin's cunt was around them. He knows what Edwin looks like, when he wants something, but doesn’t know how to ask. He waits, patiently.  

Edwin peeks through his own fingers, groans. “Hells...Fuck. Your face-”  

Thomas waits, until his lover looks at him again, and then licks his lips, just to make Edwin groan again. He smirks, bites down on his lower lip with a cheeky hint of fangs. “My face.”  

“I hate you,” Edwin throws down, a direct contradiction to just how tightly his cunt is still clenching down on three fingers.  

“Ghostie, was there something you wanted?” Maybe Thomas needs to coax it out. Doesn’t happen often, not anymore, Edwin is more than happy to, eventually, confess his wants, these days. But there were the times, when something petty, ugly, like the remnants of old shame, managed to brush his mind, and leave his lover stuck in bad memories.   

Thomas raises an eyebrow. In response, Edwin buries his face behind his hands once more.  

Thomas sighs, a bad habit he’d been trying to kick. It was too telling. He waits once more for his lover to look at him, steadfast in ignoring the way that the twitching of that warm tight cunt was starting to run from his fingers through his arm, his chest, down to his stomach, his cock, twitching in response. “Either shit or get off the pot, brat.”  

“Thomas, fuck’s sake,” Edwin frowns, levering himself on his elbows against the wall he’d sagged against earlier, “That’s disgusting, what the fuck?”  

Did the job getting his hands off his face. Is what Thomas’s answering look says.  

Thomas twists his fingers, pressing at a nerve cluster he’s quite familiar with, that never fails to make his lover shiver. It works, as usual, Edwin’s eyes glazing over, his thighs trembling, widening just a bit further. Thomas hums, firmly massaging that sensitive bundle of nerves, a few more times, until he can tell from the way his lover shivers that he’s on the edge of a satisfying orgasm. Then he stills, again. “What do you want, Ghostie? Just ask.”  

“Oh Hells,” Edwin moans weakly, hips pressing ineffectually against the still present arm bar, “It’s. Thomas, it’s weird .”  

“Pretty good with weird,” Thomas reasons, twisting his fingers back to less sensitive areas, “we’re pretty weird, no? We’re the good kind of weird, together.” Edwin whines. Thomas chuckles. “Just spit it out babe.”  

His lover mumbles something that he really, truly, can’t quite catch. Thomas withdraws his three fingers, pressing right back in, with a single one. “What was that sweetheart?”  

“Tell me,” he sing-songs, when all he gets back is another whine, “or I’ll stick my fingers in your ass instead.”  

Edwin lets his head drop back. He can feel the burning gaze of his lover, traveling along his neck. Edwin could come from having his ass played with, but it took longer, and wasn’t quite as good. He knows Thomas is not above playing dirty, and is a man of his word. The tight squeeze of either of his holes was more than enough stimulation for his lover. Damn him for falling head over heels for a service top who got off on how much Edwin got off.  

Edwin frowns down at his lover. Thomas snickers, recognising his triumph. Metaphorically throwing his hands up in the air, keeping them pressed to his face, but a bit more out of the way of his lips, in reality, Edwin folds. “Please, can you maybe. Slap my- Use your hand and um, slap my-”  

“Is that all?” Thomas raises an eyebrow again, but rewards the admission with a thumb over Edwin's swollen clit. “Because I hate to break it to you Edwin, but that’s chicken shit.”  

“I can’t stand the way you talk sometimes” Edwin props himself back up again, to make sure Thomas sees the frown still on his face. His lover all out laughs at him.  

“And yet, you love me,” Thomas lets his thumb slip slide over that clit, again, again, watches the quiver in those thighs that his lover is still trying so hard to hide. Like he couldn’t feel the heat almost rolling visibly off his skin in waves. “And also, you fuck me.”  

“God knows why.” Edwin mutters. Thomas drops his head forward, sucks that beckoning little nub into his mouth, runs his tongue over it until Edwin cries out and a hand flies down to grip his hair and tug.  

“God has nothing to do with it.” Thomas smirks, as he lets his head get pulled back.  

“I hate you.” Edwin whispers.  

“Tell me how hard you want me to slap your cunt, Edwin.” A warm thumb slowly slides through the slick-soaked swollen lips of the cunt before him.  

“ Hate ,” Edwin stresses, then relents right after, with a full-body shiver, “hard, please.”  

“Okay, okay, lean back, get comfortable.” Thomas presses his warm calloused hands to Edwin’s chest, gently pushing until he follows. Back flush with the wall, he trails his fingers back down his lover’s stomach, sinking his fingertips into hips till Edwin hisses. “Widen your stance. Yeah, that’s it, feet apart, brat.”  

“Shut up.” Edwin mutters, following every command meekly.  

“You want me to smack your dripping wet cunt, or not?” Thomas gives him his signature flirty once-over, gratified when, after all this time, Edwin’s chest still visibly quickens on inhales he doesn’t even really need. Thomas kisses the nearest skin he finds with his lips. “That’s what I thought.”  

He has to make sure he has the angle right. Pressing a splayed hand down on Edwin’s lower stomach in a vague mirror of his earlier arm bar, his other fingers drag through the slick still really oozing from Edwin’s cunt. “So messy . My messy boy. Mine.”  

He draws his fingers back, brings them down, mindful of his strength, above Edwin’s clit, where the top part of his cunt hoods the little nub. Not quite a stinging slap, but enough to register as impact, to start. Edwin jolts, not away, but into the contact. A hand finds it’s way into his hair, looking for a handhold, bracing. Thomas pauses for a moment, lets his lover find it, flexing his fingers.   

Alright, then.  

He works himself up to a continuous rhythm. Switching smoothly between palm, fingers and the full length of his hand, he lands slaps on and around Edwin’s cunt, his clit. His lover grows louder and louder with each hit, shocking Thomas at the same time, finding each impact sending heat back through his hands, his arms, settling in his stomach and below, fluttering. Each time he lands square on Edwin's clit, they both jerk.  

Thomas is so distracted by the unexpected feedback that he misses all the signs of Edwin’s approaching orgasm. One second, he's watching the twitching, flushed red, slick soaked lips of his lover's cunt ripple with impact, and the next it contracts, clenching rhythmically, familiarly.  

He's practiced enough that he doesn’t stop his motions, gentling his touch but still slapping through it, but even he can’t help but raise both eyebrows at the veritable stream of warm, wet slick that gushes from Edwin. It soaks the floor beneath him, even dripping down from his arm when it finds no more available skin to cling to. Above him Edwin keeps moaning, softly, tapering off into hitched breaths, hips still rolling into each lingering clench, still chasing after each impact, until the last drop of pearly slick finally joins the rest on the concrete beneath his trembling feet.  

Thomas lets his fingers rest against his clit, gently, pulling back once Edwin starts twisting away from his touch. “Well shit, brat.”  

“Hells.” Edwin gasps out, from behind his hand. The other slowly pets through Thomas’s hair, a wordless apology for the way he’d tugged in wild abandon earlier. His voice sounds like he was holding back much louder noises, and locking them in only gave them free reign on his throat. Thomas smirks, makes no move to get up from the floor.  

“Think you can always be that good for me?” He muses when he catches his lover’s eyes, lifting his dripping wet hand to his mouth, licking a stripe up his palm.  

He bears Edwin tackling him to the floor with well-honed practice. He's fairly certain he’ll get his due, the moment Edwin sucks three of his wet fingers into his mouth, at once. Thomas lets his head fall back onto the floor with a giggle tinted moan, “Yeah, you clean up your mess, messy boy.”  

He feels more than hears Edwin snarl around his fingers. “ Shut up .”  

Chapter Text

Edwin’s grateful for the small pile of laundry Thomas left on the bed for him to busy himself with. Ignoring the warmth of his cheeks, he peers at the washing label of the faded band t-shirt on the top of the pile, as he passes back through the guest room, and notices Thomas's leather jacket hanging off the bedpost.  

He shouldn't. But he does.  

Leather has always enticed Edwin. Whether it be a fine pair of Italian gloves, an expensive belt that compliments his suit so nicely, or a finely crafted genuine leather book cover. Oh, he’s long filled up the most beautiful notebook collection from England. Pure poetry, the combined scent of paper and leather. The soft creak of the spine, the shift of paper, the scrape of his pen.   

The smell of leather has always enticed Edwin.  

The jacket in his hands is black and worn, obviously not cared for in the traditional sense. There are some cracks, mild damage to the cuffs, all to be expected if worn every day. There is a large piece of artwork on the back, stitched there by someone who knew what they were doing, even if they weren't classically trained in tailoring. It's a large depiction of an orange cat, with fierce golden slitted eyes, predatory gaze locked on the viewer, as if following along with every angle. Charming, in a sense.    

Along the bottom, in a very ornate yet blocky script, framed beneath the orange cat’s unsheathed glinting claws, are the words "Cat-o-nine Carnivores." The name doesn't ring a bell, but he supposes it shouldn't. In any case, Edwin appreciates the wordplay.  

On the front of the jacket is a name patch, that reads "Cat King." Well at least Thomas wasn't lying about that. Edwin idly wonders if it's a name he gave himself, or one given to him by his peers. Or subjects? Is Thomas the leader, self-dictated King? Does he have a clowder of other leather-clad, motorcycle-riding, vagrants, with kind eyes, strong hands, broad chests…Next to it is a patch that looks like a cat’s paw print, claws out, tinted red as if bloodied. Above it, a smaller patch, a neon red crown framed in a pair of equally bright turquoise rings. Under the guise of wanting a closer look at the decorative patches, Edwin brings the jacket close to his face. His ruse falls away immediately the moment the scent of the worn leather fills his nose. Leather softly creaks in his white-knuckled clenching grip, as Edwin buries his nose near the collar and breathes in the mixed scent of the jacket itself, and the hints of Thomas’s cologne, sunk and buried into the inner layer of soft leather, from repetitive usage. He stands there, fills his nose and lungs with the enticing combination of smells, until even the air leaving his mouth tastes the same as the air flowing in with every deep pulling breath. 

Edwin hears the shower stop, and he almost trips over his own feet in his haste to get out of the guest room. He barely remembers to re-grab the small pile of laundry on his way out. The washing machine and clothes dryer are out on the back porch, and he takes in a breath of fresh air to calm his nerves as he deposits the clothes into the washing machine, with a more than modest helping of soap.    

The next stop is the kitchen. Settling on a light dinner, something filling, yet easy enough on the stomach, he thinks. Pulling ingredients out of the fridge, Edwin sets to chopping his small selection of vegetables for the stir fry. He’s almost ready to add them to the chicken, setting the bowl next to the wok, while he peers into the fridge again in search for a lemon, mentally going through the contents his spice rack.  

He hears a strange noise from the doorway, realizes with a start that Thomas is standing there, impersonating the sounds of a trumpet. "Presenting," he affects a posh accent, "the most well-dressed man in the room." Thomas ends the statement with a flourish, taking up an appropriately dramatic pose, and Edwin immediately bursts out laughing. Full bodied, head thrown back, so open and loud he fears he might come across as rude, but he can’t help it, and he doesn’t think Thomas minds, judging from his expression. It’s not something Edwin can currently decipher, struggling to blink away tears, but its near enough encouraging, as is the way Thomas keeps up his exaggerated stretches, arms swinging to and fro, to highlight, to, to entertain him .  

To Edwin’s credit, the pyjamas almost fit. At first glance. The pants are… They would be fine; if Thomas had seen fit to actually roll up the ankles. As is, the bunched-up fabric seems to pool around and over his feet, in a damning contract to the way the fabric seems to struggle at the seams near Thomas’ hips. Lengthwise, Edwin reasons their size discrepancy is easy to ignore. But there’s no denying their difference in build. The shirt ends a good four to five centimeters above the waistband of the pants, leaving an exposed stripe of abs, offering a hint of Thomas’s bellybutton. To say the rest of the shirt properly covers the remaining chest, would be straining the truth about as much as the material seems to strain with every push of Thomas’s chest, even just as he takes a breath. Edwin’s honestly surprised a button hasn’t popped off. It seems painted on him around his shoulders, and the sleeves stop well above his wrists. It's almost as if he's wearing a child's shirt. It cannot be comfortable.  

Edwin clearly underestimated their differences, but he can't stop laughing long enough to apologize.  As he gasps for breath, he actually snorts, which sets Thomas off on his own fit of laughter, except his is louder, unrestrained. He clutches the wall with one hand, his ribs with the other, beaming smiles sent Edwin’s way at the end of every bout, before he inhales, loses the air again to laughter, and Edwin reflects on what it must look like; two grown men, giggling so hard they can't speak, in the middle of his kitchen.    

Finally, Edwin is able to get himself under control, straightening, hand moving without much thought to lower the settings of the furnace, add the vegetables, while he wipes an errant tear off his cheek.  "I'm so sorry," he chuckles apologetically, "That cannot be comfortable, let me get you a T-shirt or something.” He busies himself for a bit with stirring the food, checking for any signs of burning. Nodding to himself in relief when he catches no sign of the meal lessening in quality, he turns his head to Thomas. “Do you want a different set of trousers, as well?" He adds.  

"All good, Edwin. I’m actually used to walking around without a shirt." Thomas grins, fiddling with the too-small shirt. “Do you mind?” Thomas asks, and Edwin shakes his head in a negative before he’s consciously thought of it, but truly, why would his opinion matter on something another likes to do in the comfort of his own home? He’ll just go look for the biggest shirt he owns, offer it as an option.  

Edwin turns back to the food for a final stir, before he heads back upstairs, hears the rustling of fabric, the scrape of a chair, imagines the shirt is getting neatly folded over the back. Oh.  

Edwin is partly relieved his guest feels comfortable enough in his home. He keeps his eyes on the food. Maybe just a bit more stirring. He has to make sure it doesn’t burn.  

Chapter Text

The Cat King’s arm around his waist is firm, his fingers are fast and clever as he unbuckles Edwin’s belt, strips him off his shirt. “You will look, and you will recognize how beautiful you are,” he mutters, and Edwin wants to hit him, so he does, body heaving with the effort, colliding with his lover with utter lack of skill made up for with passion. For a moment, there is a wild shuffle on the floor, and Edwin finds himself panting harshly rather quickly, hard cock leaking through his trousers, as Thomas finally pins him down, with disgusting ease, kisses him like a dying man. They kiss, and their shadows in the mirror kiss too, or maybe they devour each other instead. Edwin claws and tears at Thomas’s shirt until it all comes off, tugs manically at his pants until he can hear the fabric tear, with an utterly satisfying sound.   

Thomas grunts, infuriatingly calm, giving no indication of surprise besides another sharp, passionate kiss, and their shadows in the mirror mingle until they become undistinguishable from each other, until they turn into one body, one writhing mass of lips, fingers and legs. Edwin feels as if he cannot breathe, as if it is too much, he doesn’t know whether he is still angry or not, because he does not want to be in front of this mirror, does not want to see himself, but Thomas forces him to, because Thomas thinks he deserves to be seen. Edwin wants to smack him. Edwin wants to suck him off.  

In the end, he does neither, instead wraps his legs around his lover’s waist to keep him closer. He wants to use him as a shield, but Thomas does not let him; while he pushes one finger, slicked and prepared with oil, inside Edwin, his free hand grasps his chin, gentle but firm, turns his head until he can see.  

And he does look, looks at them with open mouth, as Thomas bends down and sucks one of his nipples between his lips, tongue curling around it, while his finger pushes, pushes and Edwin finally gives way and yields, back arching and legs spread. His hands tangle in Thomas’s hair, and their shadows dance and flicker in the mirror, dance and flicker and let him see what it looks like when Thomas looks at him, when he touches him, mouths “mine” against his nipple, before latching onto the other, not letting go of them until Edwin is panting, curses him again, this time in at least two different languages. A second finger joins, a burning sensation added to the feeling of their bodies being close enough to share the same sweat; his own fingers tangle more deeply into his lover’s hair, he pulls, pulls, pulls, enough to make Thomas groan and say his name, ever so quietly, but like a prayer. Edwin does enjoy the sight of that, in the mirror.  

He is stretched without much fanfare, but there are kisses, heavy and hot, kisses placed on his lips, nose, cheeks; when he tries to shove Thomas away or at least turn his head, his lover grips his chin again, forces him to look into the mirror, where golden eyes meet his gaze. He says nothing, only swears again, but it sounds quiet, without sting even to his own ears. Edwin can feel the ghost of a smile on his skin, can feel lips touch his cheek, and then there is a third finger inside him, thrusting forward and hitting the sensitive spot inside him, causing him to groan out a curse again. His lover only chuckles like a madman, which is the best sign for how aroused he must be, to let go of dirty words and sweet endearments so so quickly. When his cock, heavy and hot like Thomas’s kisses, rubs against his leg, Edwin lifts it a little, pushing it directly between his lover’s, taking immense satisfaction now from looking at the mirror, watching the Cat King hump his leg like a rutting dog.   

Moments later, he feels lips on his own again, and this time he meets them without thinking, tongue gliding between Thomas’s lips, to get a taste, while the fingers leave him. They dance, and the shadows in the mirror dance with them, as his lover’s cock pushes inside him, working through tight muscles with patience, and enough slick to make it enjoyable. And when, finally, Thomas is balls-deep inside him, Edwin digs his fingernails into his shoulders and hisses, “Move.” For a moment he thinks that his lover will answer something sassy, but apparently his lover is too far gone himself, because he only grunts and complies. He hits hard, experienced, precise enough to make him see stars with every thrust, and Edwin thanks him by cursing him, his ancestors and everything he has ever loved in low, hissing, broken off swears, eyes glaring at the mirror, and the Cat King burrows his head against his shoulder, moans as if Edwin had told him how beautiful he was.   

Edwin finds himself staring at the mirror without having been prompted before, no hand left on his chin, and for a moment he hates himself for it, but it is difficult to hate when one is feeling so good, and feeling good he does; his head is light, his heart is too, and he wants more, craves more, and sees his need in the mirror, where shadows reach for each other and mingle, light licking over their dark forms with every movement Thomas and Edwin cause. Warmth builds in his stomach, builds and builds, with every clear drop leaking from the tip of his cock, running through Thomas’s fingers as he grips his throbbing erection, strokes it with admirably even motions, and Edwin forgets every thought about shadows in mirrors he has ever had when he comes with a breathy moan, spilling all over Thomas’s hand and arching up against him. His lover fucks him steadily through his orgasm, not stopping afterwards; instead he pushes inside him until he comes as well, his face buried against Edwin’s shoulder, with a small sigh, that sounds almost relieved.  

Edwin watches the shadows blending into each other, lying motionless on the floor, with heavily rising and sinking chests. He tries to hold his own gaze, as long as he can, till his eyes slide closed, as his head turns into his lover’s for a kiss.  

Chapter Text

Thomas, Edwin can tell, is trying his damnedest not to inhale his food like a vacuum does dust.  He has decent table manners, though one elbow has been planted right on the table for the entire meal. To his credit, he did put the napkin in his lap when they sat down. To Edwin’s credit, he resolutely doesn’t look further up than elbow-level. 

They finish the meal among amicable small talk, and Thomas insists on clearing the plates, even going so far as to properly rinse them, place them delicately in the rack of the dishwasher after Edwin points it out for him. "Least I can do," he insists, "Don't know if I made it clear before, but I really appreciate this. Hot shower, nice meal, and a warm bed? More than I've had freely offered in a while. So, thanks, is all.” Thomas turns to him, leaning on his hands on the counter behind him. “Thanks, ghostie."  

The smile sent his way is full of warmth as well as something Edwin can’t quite decipher, prompting Edwin to try to keep how moved he is by the heartfelt thanks hidden. "It’s nothing. Pleasant company is always welcome in my home." 

What , screams his inner voice.  No it's not. You hate entertaining. Why are you lying?  

Thomas excuses himself soon after dinner, citing too many hours on the road in the last week, not nearly enough rest. They say goodnight, and Edwin snags a random book from the shelf on his way upstairs to bed. Turning the cover over in his hands once he’s settled, he can’t help but let out a little huff. In the end, Edwin can hardly focus on Pride and Prejudice, instead spends too many hours staring at the ceiling, thinking of the man downstairs, before he eventually drifts off to sleep. 

Edwin doesn't often truly dream. When he does, it's of places he'll never visit, sights he'll never see, foods he'll never taste and sounds he'll never hear. He dreams of wide-open mountain ranges, green at the bottom, snowy on top. Of long roads, veins of asphalt, cutting through fields of different coloured roses, various crops. Mom 'n' Pop Diners, that only serve the greasiest, most delicious crap food you've ever had the pleasure to eat. The salty wind of the coasts, a chill that bites your nose, whips at your hair.  

Edwin wakes up feeling trapped, practically throwing the covers off the bed in his quest for more air. When he sits up, he smells breakfast being cooked downstairs, and he hastily dresses in plain jeans, a button-down shirt, folding and pressing down the cuffs on his wrists as he cautiously pads down the stairs, steps wary. 

Thomas is definitely cooking at his stove, and he seems to have retrieved his dry laundry from the machine on the back porch. His clothes look clearly washed, fresh, clean, and utterly unconventional. Edwin thinks he recognizes the white socks, and the black shirt, though he can’t recall if the material felt quite as sheer in his hands, as it looks worn. His eyes flit between the socks and the top, down, back up, down, back up, but Edwin’s gaze can’t help its stutter in the middle. Thomas is wearing a kilt . A dark tartan, adorned with a pair of gleaming buckles, that could be decorative, could also be the fastenings, that hold the fabric tight over Thomas’s hips- Thomas is wearing a kilt , as he cooks, carefully tending to whatever he's got going with a spatula.   

Dressed in his own clothes, that fit him, Thomas looks comfortable, much more like the man Edwin had first spotted outside the school yesterday. Was it truly just yesterday? 

"Morning!" Thomas salutes him with the spatula. 

Edwin’s grateful for the distraction of glancing at the clock; 10am. He doesn't tend to sleep this late, but usually he remembers to set his alarm. "Good morning." he manages to affect a pleasant tone, unsure as he is, thoughts rolling around his head, centring on a stranger making himself so comfortable in his home, a stranger looking so comfortable, so at home, in his home. 

"Have a seat, this is just about done." Thomas spends a mere moment looking for the correct dishes and utensils, his obvious familiarity with Edwin’s kitchen just sending his head spinning again, having him sinking in his seat rather heavily as the other sets about serving up two helpings of cheese omelette. 

He tries not to look too sceptical as he takes the first bite, finds his concern absolutely unwarranted. "This is quite good," Edwin insists, completely earnest, "did you whip the eggs with milk?" He inspects the meal, sees various crumbled herbs, meticulously distributed. Thomas preens, taking a bite himself. "I know a thing or two, about a thing or two.” He winks, and Edwin can’t help his answering smile. “I wanted to pay you back for the nice dinner last night, this is really the only thing I know how to make well." He laughs. "Eggs are hard to screw up, you just have to not burn them." 

"Deceptively simple instructions." Edwin offers, thinking about all the times he has burned the eggs, spent an hour scraping it off the pan.   

They finish their breakfast, both humming contentedly at the last, flavourful bite. Washing away the last of the taste, Edwin smiles from behind the rim of his glass. "Well, you can make me breakfast whenever you can. You make good eggs." What. His inner voice pipes up, again. No, really, what.  

Thomas eyeballs him, a smirk making its way onto his face. He looks as though he's about to make a joke, or worse, an observation, but obviously thinks better of it, shifts gears. Edwin rather hates how well he can read the man across the table, that he can follow the other’s thought process plainly on his face, start to finish, while he himself is left floundering at his own mind’s whims, remnants of utter panic still clogging his throat because where the Hells did that comment come from, you idiot?  

"I'd take you up on that Ghostie, only it doesn't seem like this town will take too kindly to me wandering around." 

"They're allergic to leather jackets. We'll find you a nice tweed suit, you'll blend right in." Stop, what are you doing?  

Thomas pretends to retch, dissolves into laughter, closer to giggles, at the thought. It's rather endearing, Edwin thinks.   

Before Thomas is done laughing, Edwin tells himself to stop feeling those feelings, immediately. But he knows himself too well. He's been down this road before. This is the beginning of a full-blown crush . On another man. Good job, Edwin, well done. 

And then the doorbell rings, and Edwin actually considers not answering it. He huffs, excuses himself, and when he realizes who it is before he opens the door, he sighs, groans, and steels himself, opening the door with the most pleasant smile he can force onto his face. 

"Ah, Madam Finch. How are you this morning?" 

Esther Finch doesn’t have to physically enter the doorway, for her expensive perfume to marinate Edwin’s entire hallway. Her forward lean doesn’t help matters, Edwin obligingly offers her his hand to clutch, if only to stave off any actual advance.  

“Edwin, dear boy, I was just in the vicinity,” she drawls, overt syrupy tone crawling out from violently red tinted lips, speaking slowly, as to prolong every second she can keep hold of Edwin’s attention, “you know the Homeowner’s Association has an ordinance against non-running vehicles,” she quips, the thinly veiled barb offered as like a sudden thought, as if they’ve been conversing for a while already, with a far from subtle side-eye thrown at Thomas’ bike, perched legally on the driveway, “but don’t fret, nobody’ll hear it from me, hm? Our little secret. That’s not at all why I’m here dear, truly, don’t fret. I’m merely confirming, transparency and all, your presence at today’s picnic, later? We all know its public, free of course, a wonderful community coming together, but you and I both know how fast the best seats fill up.” She winks, nods briskly, as if she’s sharing an inside joke. “I need to reserve your seat, at my table. Tell me I can expect you around noon?” 

When Edwin returns to the kitchen, a good few minutes later, Thomas actually looks concerned when he asks if Edwin is really thinking of going.  

Edwin sighs, refills his mug, almost wishing he could replace the coffee with something stronger.  "I'm afraid that I must, or Esther will insinuate herself into my life at every opportunity, until I join her at some other function. At least this one is out in public. If I went to one of her dinner parties, she'd probably corner me in the restroom, bite my head off. Or worse." He rolls his eyes, and Thomas chuckles. 

"Not interested, huh?" 

"That," he points at the other, "is putting it quite mildly. I mean, even if I did -" Edwin stops himself, shaking his head.  Idiot , he'd almost said it out loud. "It's just that I find her repellent in every way.  Do you know," he leans forward, conspiratorially. "She's been whispering around town that so many of our town's problems would melt away, if only we segregated the schools again." 

Thomas frowns so hard his forehead creases. "Disgusting. Not one of those." 

"Oh, indeed." Edwin rolls his eyes as dramatically as possible. "And she knows just how loudly she can complain about it. Not too quietly, that no one cares, but not too loudly, not risking a backlash. She's diabolical. A right proper witch. And this town is just awful enough, to allow it." 

The kitchen fills with discussions about the horrors of middle-aged women, with far too much power and time on their hands. A part of Edwin wishes he can bring Thomas with him to the picnic. If for no other reason, than to see Esther's face when a motorcycle ruins her picnic's "immaculate" aesthetic. But he can’t do that to Thomas.  

When Thomas asks if he can use a gardening hose or something similar, to wash his bike, Edwin explains where to find the proper tools, and decides a shower would do himself some good as well. Under the hot blast of the water, Edwin does start to feel a little bit better. There was nothing like a good breakfast and a piping-hot shower to make one feel like a new man. And, thinking back on all the events of this morning, Edwin realizes they never truly broached the subject of Thomas leaving anytime soon. Edwin doesn’t want to contemplate exactly why that makes him so pleased. But he can’t not acknowledge that he is that, pleased. Greatly. Edwin engages in the guiltiest, most silent wank he's had, since he was a teenager still living at home.   

For those short, blessed moments, he forgets all about the church picnic. 

Chapter Text

Getting dressed for a church picnic he does not want to attend, is easily the most depressing thing Edwin's done in a while. It feels like he's preparing for some sort of public execution.  

20 minutes into feeling sorry for himself, he resolves to snap out of it. There's nothing to say he even has to stay that long. He's a grown man, he can come up with an excuse to leave if he so chooses. Yes, he’s a grown man, so he needs to stop nodding at himself in the bathroom mirror.  

His nerves are getting the best of him, as they so often do, he massages his temples to expel the stress headache that's forming. He can feel his mood darkening with each passing moment, if he doesn't get it under control, he'll be miserable company for the entire day.    

The weather’s predicted to stay a bit chilly, so he dresses in charcoal slacks, paired with a deep navy dress shirt. No (bow)tie today, 5 days a week for school is enough. He matches a black pair of shoes with a grey overcoat, inspects the outfit in the mirror. Dark, yes. More suited for winter.  But he really only owns muted colors. Oranges, bright reds and light browns don't really make an appearance in his wardrobe, which probably contributes to his reputation as a cranky recluse.  Besides being reclusive and cranky, of course.   

He splashes a bit of hair treatment around to shape his hair, running a comb through it until he looks presentable. Well, he thinks, with a final nod. Now, or never.    

The Port Townsend Church is only two miles from his house, so Edwin opts for the method of getting there that will take the longest; walking. He barely remembers at the last second, to give a wave goodbye to Thomas in the driveway, the short motion of his hand as absent as the stray thought of how near domestic the quick action was. Edwin strides just a bit more briskly until he rounds the corner of the street. He walks more leisurely after, until he sees the church looming in the distance, tall, traditional, cold. It was built when the town was first settled all those years ago,  has remained a major landmark ever since. With every excuse they can feasibly come up with, the social and political elite file in and around, to see and more importantly be seen by others.  Esther Finch is very much recognized as holding a seat at the top of the hierarchy, though she has no official title to speak of.   

The church sits right in the center of town, in front of it a sprawling, meticulously maintained lawn, big enough to fit two whole soccer fields, or one extravagant picnic. Esther wasn't lying, the whole town has turned out for this event, en masse. The streets are lined with parked cars, the sidewalks crowded with those still arriving, the air smells of barbecued food, grease, and sugar from the cotton candy machine.  

Immediately, Edwin spots a few of his students, their parents. They greet him with warm smiles, some of them are even genuine.   

The picnic is quite loud and crowded, Edwin can feel a general unease settling in his gut. He was never extremely fond of crowds, in a town like this, a crowd tends to mean no escape: you just have to grin and bear it.   

In his peripheral vision, he spots a large, immaculate picnic table, clearly the one Esther has claimed for herself, surrounded by her group of disciples. They're all there, with cocktails, no food in sight, expensive handbags laid out on the table, in sight. They are all wearing the latest fashions, perfectly tailored, made up to an exquisite degree. Wax statues couldn’t peer with their skin. Esther perches in the middle of the nest, her blonde hair done up high, her makeup startling, violent. They all look to her with adoration, laughing when she laughs, leaning in close when she speaks, casting wary, judging eyes on all other attendants at the picnic.    

Oh God, she's spotted him. Edwin sees her faux-whisper to the table, and they all grin, eyeing him like a piece of meat, taking a synchronized sip from their respective drinks.    

“Edwin, darling!" Esther approaches, arms out, and he's forced into a half-hug, while she plants a kiss on each of his cheeks. "I'm so glad you could come, you really must join me at my table, the girls are just dying to talk to you." She insinuates an arm around his elbow, and begins to escort him across the green.  

"Mr. Payne, sir!"    

Oh thank God .  

Edwin stops in his tracks, probably too forcefully, because Esther stumbles a bit, though she manages to turn her sharp anger into a mildly perturbed look, all in a disturbing dangerously quick flash. Dashing across the field towards them, is none other than her own son, Monty Finch, so Edwin figures she’s hard pressed to show any real emotion, other than the perfectly palatable mix of proud and doting mother, beset by her beloved child, imploring her attention.  

"Mr. Payne, hello!" Monty practically chirps, a smile on his face. Edwin notes he barely glances at his mother. As such, the young man misses his mother’s exaggerated eye-roll, while he pulls out a familiar tome, but Edwin doesn’t need to be watching her face to know she’s displeased, with the way her nails dig into his elbow like talons. Undeterred, or simply used to surviving under extreme atmospheric pressure, Monty chatters on, his enthusiasm a very welcome distraction. Edwin leans over the boy’s shoulders, engages him, the most open interest he’s ever shown, as the teen asks him if he’s had a good day yesterday, while flipping through the pages of charts and notes, and did he notice any positive effect from Saturn’s position? When Edwin asks if Monty’d been so kind as to look up his horoscope, for the day, as he’s quite curious, the young man beams at him over his shoulder, nails prick deeper in Esther’s clenching grip, and Edwin ignores her prim tutting, waits for Monty to flip through to the prepared page with an encouraging smile.  

Things should go extremely well for you today, Capricorn, so don't shy away from anything. In fact, take this opportunity to shine as brightly as you can! Crank up your battery and project yourself into the world. You'll find that your smile is contagious, so feel free to use it often. There's a great deal of power behind your self-confidence, enabling you to tackle just about every job with energy.  

“Well, that’s a rather good one, isn’t it? Thank you, Monty, I appreciate it.” Edwin offers, bringing his free hand down on the teen’s shoulders in a gentle squeeze. "You’re welcome, sir! Oh! Have you heard? Jenny got a C+ on her last lit test, she showed me her flash cards, the ones you proposed she make, and it was just so clever, I even learned a little myself!"  

"Imagine that." Esther coos, patience obviously run out, with a barely veiled tone of condescension. She has never approved of Ms. Green, probably because of the rumored divorce she slapped her husband with. It was a well-known fact that Esther did not approve of divorce; it personally offended her on some deep, emotional level, no matter the cause. "I pity that girl, growing up without a real fatherly influence." She turns as she speaks, none too gently tugging on Edwin’s arm. “At least she doesn’t have any brothers, imagine.”  

"They seem to be doing well enough," Edwin offers, struggling to keep the disgust out of his voice. He directs a parting smile and wave to Monty as Esther drags his feet over the grass.  

"Oh yes, they seem fine now, but when they grow up… Again, for the best it’s a girl, at least. Well, you know what happens to boys raised without a strong, masculine influence."  She raises her eyebrows. "It's just a natural fact, they grow up funny . You know." She pats his arm, sighs.  

The queasy feeling in his stomach has increased ten-fold by now. This is far worse than he thought it would be. By God, this woman is like a cartoon: how can one person be so wrong about so many things, so quickly? She makes it look effortless, to be filled with this much casual contempt for good people. And Edwin's about to sit with her, at her table, pretend to be satisfied by her company. He's a coward. He hates himself.    

At first, he thinks he's imagining the drone of an engine. But as it gets louder, Edwin realizes with a jerk that he recognizes the particular pitch, and isn’t that a revelation. Yes, it's Thomas's motorcycle, over there in the road. Pulling up to the curb, parking.    

His cheek-wide smile is barely roped back into a more appropriate expression of mild amusement.    

He can't believe Thomas is here.   

Chapter Text

The whole mess was an embarrassment, one that he had never intended to share with anyone, let alone the Cat King, his lover. There was nothing strange about a young man getting, well, excited during fencing matches, the heat of a brawl. It was a simple bodily reaction. Years spent in an all-boys school tempered much more of such kinds of shame than one might think.  

But Edwin knew better, now. Knew himself better, more specifically, though it was still far too startling to realize that all it took was the threat of violence, a proper show of strength, to leave him gasping with desire.   

He was working to control himself though, trying to at least delay his reaction to a reasonable time, not right in the middle of watching his lover take on imaginary opponents with real ease. Heart pounding, he watches that rapier flash and twirl in his lover’s firm grip, the raw power of the Cat King on display with every flex of those muscles. The glistening stretch of skin on display, toned arms, shoulders, abs. Edwin can’t imagine anyone could have resisted, could resist watching, not when it was Thomas.  

But not everyone would be hard as steel, just from watching. If Edwin had just stayed where he sat, if he hadn't drifted closer, book slipping from his hands in favour of a much more compelling sight, if he hadn’t been watching at just the right time to catch the Cat King pulling off a truly athletic spin, rapier swinging through the air in such a dramatic arc Edwin could almost viscerally imagine the scene, a terrific beast, slain by the brave strong knight. Hells. If Edwin’s hand hadn’t been down the front of his pants by the time Thomas finished his move, turning on his feet so deftly he ended in the perfect position to spot his little voyeur , they both might have been able to ignore the entire debacle. Edwin wouldn't have learned his lesson, but they wouldn't have needed to talk about his little... kink.  

Instead, Thomas now loomed over him, the tip of his rapier digging into Edwin's spread thighs as he babbled away all his deepest secret desires.  

"You really like this," Thomas drawls, dragging the tip of his silver rapier along the soft flesh of Edwin’s inner thigh.  

"Did you think I was lying? Just weaving a tale, to humiliate myself in-" Edwin cut off abruptly, as the sharp point dug in, threatening to break skin.  

"I only thought you were confused. Adrenaline can do many things to a man, not the least that." His lover looks pointedly at Edwin's cock, twitching red, hard enough that it was starting to weep lightly against his stomach. Edwin flushes, heat spreading under the skin of his cheeks, doesn't respond. There was nothing he could really say.  

"Is this what you want? Why you stay silent during practice sometimes..." He didn't finish the sentence, but Edwin knew what he was implying. His lover was always indulgent, and he could understand why Thomas might think Edwin was just looking to get a specific itch scratched. It was a kinder interpretation, than pure hedonism.  

"Not, not just this. Not just the rapier. You. You make me so reckless, I can't even stop to think- moving like you were born to dance , not just fight. I want the danger, but more than anything I want you. "  

"And my rapier." Edwin gasps as the blade rotated against his skin, twisting on its point.  

"The rapier is, um, nice, too. But you could be swinging about a dull kitchen knife, and I'd still..." Edwin gestured helplessly. Finding the words shouldn't be so difficult, but now that he had spilled the shameful part, the words just seemed to dry up in his throat. "It's never been the only thing I want. Danger is just a mindset. And not one I often indulge. Consciously, at least." He finished with a flush. He wouldn't pretend that certain memories weren't shaded a little differently, now that he understood himself better.   

But that had no bearing now. "If- if you want, we can forget all this. There's no need- If you wouldn't enjoy-"  

"No."  

"No?"  

Thomas drops the rapier into the grass, crouching down between Edwin's legs, warm, rough leather scraped hands coming down to press Edwin’s thighs down when they hitch, in response to his smirk. "No. Do you know how many times I've stroked myself, fed only by memories of your pleasure? Thinking of you, with your layers undone, your mouth hanging open, dripping with spit, as you gasped out your pleasure, at my hands, my actions?"  

"Yes, Edwin. Yes." Thomas nods at him, persuading, smooths both his hands down creamy thighs, over the faint red scratches left by the silver rapier. "I can't forget this, even if I wanted to, Ghostie. I know it now. Your desires, your wants." The way he whispers it, makes Edwin feel like a meal, one that Thomas had full intentions of devouring. He licks his lips, clenches his hands, nervously. Thomas looks over his body, assessing, calculating, and Edwin knows he’s not found wanting.  

A warm calloused hand travels down, down. Edwin groans along with the Cat King when a thumb probes behind his balls, presses a stripe down his taint and slips between his ass cheeks. "Edwin. You're already wet? Is this what you did, when I told you I was going outside, going to work out? Did you plan on losing control, filling yourself with your fingers, thinking of my stretches, thinking of fencing practice?"  

"N-no, I just thought, ah-" Edwin wiggles, "If I was... satisfied, I might be able to control myself."  

Thomas smirks so wide at that, it stretches his cheeks. "How wrong you were," he murmurs, pushing his thumb more firmly against Edwin's hole, sliding easily inside with the layer of slick, “to think mere fingers were going to satisfy you. To think that I, your lover, your king, would leave you unsatisfied.” If Edwin had known all it would take was a smidge of embarrassment, he might have revealed his little problem a lot sooner, as it is, his hands clutch and tear handfuls of grass, as his lover summons a little jar of lubricant in his one hand, and reaches for the rapier lying close with the other. Seeing the glinting hilt in his lover’s hand made it all much more real, intense in a way Edwin had never experienced before. His lover has barely touched him, already Edwin feels like he's wavering right on the edge. Unbidden, he lifts his legs, bends his knees and presses them close to his chest, the motion bringing his throbbing cock into slapping contact with his stomach, dribbling more precum with each little jerk as his breathing needlessly picks up. From between his trembling thighs, he watches as Thomas drizzles the lubricant over the rapier’s hilt, until it’s dripping, excess splashing onto the grass.   

Edwin nearly chokes on his groan, clenching down almost in anger at the intrusion of fingers instead of the hard unyielding pressure of the rapier. His lover tuts and coos at him in equal measure. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing this properly, Ghostie. I’m not hurting you, I’m giving you everything you want, need, and more, okay?” Edwin grunts, bears down on the fingers as they move and spread him, slowly opening him just that bit further. His lover waits until his moans turn sharp, and Edwin near sobs in a mix of relief and anticipation when the Cat King’s fingers leave, and are replaced by steel.  

His teeth nearly draw blood, as Thomas presses relentlessly forward, just how he needs. The hilt so much, all at once, that for a moment all Edwin can feel is the harshness of the burn, his legs starting to tense, pull taut. But he knows he can take it, welcomes the hint of pain, as a promise for the pleasure to come. It stretches him like nothing else Edwin has taken before. Thomas handles the rapier just as well as he always does, angling it just right to push past any lingering resistance from Edwin's body, until the wide round length of steel was seated all the way inside him.  

"Good?"  

Edwin squeezes his legs tighter to his chest, clenching his fists in tandem to their trembles, knowing that if he relaxed for even an instant, he could hurt himself even on this side of the rapier. The thought just made his cock throb harder, tip smearing precum across his stomach, sending sparks through his veins. The danger of the weapon now splitting him, made the feeling hit twice as hard.  

"Edwin. Feeling good, doing okay?"  

"Good! I'm good, promise! More , please, I-" Edwin cuts off with a punched-out moan. At his begging, Thomas shoved the hilt the rest of the way inside, in one smooth motion. Edwin's back arches off the ground, his vision whiting out as he took it all. He nearly comes right there. It's so deep inside him, he swears he can taste steel in the back of his throat.  

His lover waits patiently for Edwin to relax again, watching intently, as the blade of the rapier jerks, moved by Edwin’s body clenching rhythmically around the hilt. If he could spare the focus through the onslaught of sensations, Edwin might even feel the cool steel of the guard nestled in between his cheeks, in contrast to the blazing hot handle now deep inside him, warm from Thomas's hand. He sucks in another deep breath, his knuckles almost white, where his grass-stained fingers dig into the dirt.  

By the time Edwin could feasibly speak again, if he tried, if he had anything else to offer aside from pleas, his lover’s already moving, sliding the hilt in and out of him, in powerful thrusts. The ridges of the handle drag against his rim, catching just enough to twinge. Edwin moans and whines, helpless to do anything else, as Thomas's sharp movements, the power in those toned muscles he so admired earlier, make him skid across the ground.  

Every time his lover adjusts his grip, slowing down for just a moment, checking, changing the angle just enough, he still manages to hit that perfect spot deep inside. Edwin sees stars, an entire universe dancing behind his eyelids, behind his closed eyes. At any moment, Thomas could miscalculate, fumble, his slick hands slipping on the handle, wrist cramping from the repetitive movement. Just an instant was all it would take, to injure Edwin, but his lover was perfect. Thomas gave him everything he needed. The threat, the weapon, and the inhuman strength and skill to pull it off. Such a strong, noble knight. A King. Fucking him with a rapier cause Edwin got hard at the sight of his abs. Edwin's laugh catches in his throat as Thomas rolls his wrist, the hilt dragging against his walls. Hells, he was going to combust before he came, from the intensity of it all.  

It's building, rapidly, below his stomach, his cock keeps twitching across his skin, smearing slick everywhere. Edwin reaches down, wipes his hand absently on his rumpled shirt, to try to grip his cock in a semi-clean palm. Thomas veritably hisses at him, slamming the hilt into him, hard enough to knock the breath out of his chest, making his point, without a single word.  

That display is all Edwin needs. He keens, his legs jerking in the air as he comes. The intensity makes his head spin, disorienting and euphoric at the same time, everything crashing down around him. His balls tighten, thick white spurts paint his stomach. Edwin's mouth hangs open, as he pants, his hair stuck to his forehead with the slick of his sweat.  

Vaguely, Edwin registers his lover carefully working the hilt free, amid the last weak clenches of his ass, as he recovers from his violent orgasm. Edwin moans softly, exhausted, as the wide hilt twinges one last time at his rim, sprawling out his legs and limbs as soon as it’s safe to do so. When he feels like he could actually sit up without getting dizzy, Edwin does so, reaches for his lover’s hips, eager to return the favour in whatever way he can. A slick palm catches his, preventing Edwin from touching the tantalizing stretch of bare skin that can still tempt an interested twitch from his soft cock. Edwin whines in the back of his throat. That can't be right.  

"But don't you want-"  

Thomas rolls his eyes, pointedly, the moment Edwin’s pleading eyes search and find his, not releasing Edwin’s hand. "For such a brilliant detective, you’re a bit of an idiot some times, Ghostie." he says, with a little reproachful growl. And a generous dusting of pink across his cheeks, Edwin can’t help but note, as his hand is tugged, pulled firmly to his lover’s crotch.   

Oh.  

Edwin looks up at Thomas, with wide eyes, registering a real red blush now across the Cat King’s face. Thomas had enjoyed himself. Immensely. The wet spot beneath his palm is unmistakable. Edwin himself hadn't come untouched since he was a teenager, more hormones than blood running through his veins. And now Edwin had- had provoked it, just by giving in to his own desires.   

"Well," he says, trying and failing not to let a grin break across his face. "Seems like this has made for some good memories, for the both of us."  

Chapter Text

He keeps his eyes on the Cat King. The Cat King keeps his eyes on him.  

Edwin has lost all track of time. Abnormal for him; it's been trained into him, decades past, to always keep a firm grasp on how much time is passing. If not for the evening sunlight, spilling shades of orange across the floor, he wouldn't know if it were night or day. The Cat King could have had him here for hours, holding him prisoner, with symbolic force.  

There's a little part of his mind telling him he shouldn't be here, shouldn't feel so damnably captivated, but he cuts it off cold. His instincts are hard won, usually correct, but the way those slitted golden eyes look at him, there is far too much potential for him to back away now. The other man is utterly calm, sitting so very still, eyes taking Edwin in like he's memorizing every line in his skin. A transient calm, something deadly behind it, the smug serenity of a predator with a full belly. Edwin can already feel sharp teeth bursting through his skin.  

He's so aroused he thinks he might be shaking.  

Edwin opens his mouth to speak.  

The Cat King cocks his head to one side, just slightly. Raises his eyebrows, just slightly.  

Edwin closes his mouth.  

He can't move; he's too aroused, out of control of himself. He can't move; the Cat King would let him. He can't move; if he does, this might stop. He holds himself still.  

“Good boy.” The Cat King says, a husky hint of sound, riding out on a pleased purr. His lips shift, and Edwin wonders if it counts for a smile or a smirk, but before he can decide, the other leans back, raises his legs, and shifts further back on the decadently covered bed. He raises an eyebrow, lightly.  

Edwin takes off his gloves, his coat. His hands hesitate, fingers stilling on each end of his bowtie.  

The Cat King lies on the bed, clad only in olive-green silk pants, a matching robe. Edwin’s eyes catch on the gold necklaces around his neck, following as the other hooks his fingers and slowly tug, tugs them past and over his head. The chains shimmer in the evening light, before they’re cast aside in a graceless arc off the bed. Edwin loosens his bowtie. The stripe of fabric flutters to the floor. The Cat King’s slitted eyes don’t follow. When Edwin’s fingers, with slight persistent tremor, reach the last of his shirt’s buttons, he lets the two sides hang open, a mirror to the Cat King’s open robe.  

The newly bared expanse of creamy skin only emphasizes the erection tenting Edwin’s trousers.  

On the bed, the Cat King shifts, knees spreading, splaying, displaying, catching and guiding Edwin’s eyes to the other’s own half-hard cock trapped beneath the silk. Hands kept neatly by his sides, in a mirror of Edwin’s own clenched fists hovering uncertainly next to his hips, the Cat King pushes his hips down into the soft bedding, rolling in a practiced wave. At the raise of those eyebrows, his knees’ answering tremble, Edwin’s fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers.  

Edwin knows the Cat King is attractive. It’s rather hard to miss, really. But this feels different, seeing him, bared piece by piece, at Edwin’s pace, is doing things to Edwin. Two sets of trousers meet the floor. Edwin’s mouth waters at the sight of tanned skin on display for him, because of him. Edwin’s shirt gets shrugged brusquely off his shoulders, to a soft huff of laughter from the naked man on the bed.  

Edwin’s mind drifts, the moment his fingers trace down his own neck, the safe touch, the mere promise of what’s to come, already has him reaching the hazy quiet he normally has to chase. He’s unaware that he’s closed his eyes, not until a deep low rumble from the bed has him blinking. The Cat King’s chest isn’t nearly as sensitive as his own, but oh, his own chest. Two sets of hips jerk into the air, as Edwin’s fingers trade their soft ministrations for a sharp pinch. Edwin gasps soundlessly at the sting, the Cat King moans loudly at the sight of Edwin losing himself to his pleasure. From beneath the Cat King’s fingers, Edwin spots the glint of steel, the little bars of his piercings tugged and twisted, in time with Edwin’s own nipples. His cock throbs, imagining how much it would hurt, could hurt, if he-  

Edwin’s right hand shoots down, clenching in a punishing grip around the base of his cock. On the bed, the Cat King groans. Before the other can replicate the sudden move, Edwin strides forward. From his new position, perched on his knees above and bracketing the Cat King’s lower legs, Edwin takes a few deep breaths, smiling with open lips as the Cat King’s hands hover over Edwin’s thighs for only a second or two before he lifts them to instead grab fistfuls of the soft bedding next to his head. “Good boy.”  

It’s definitely a bit too soon, but Edwin relishes the sting, as his finger pushes in. Edwin glances down, sees the trail of precum dripping from the Cat King’s cock down to the bed. The Cat King’s fingers are slightly wider than his own, thicker, so Edwin tells himself it’s only better, if he drags two fingers from base to tip, gathering up the slick, before sinking the two digits all the way inside himself. He can’t tell if the cut off hiss from the body below him was a result of the slightly wider intrusion, or the touch of Edwin’s fingers on that dripping cock. With a bit more concentration, Edwin curls his fingers, hits his prostate dead on.  

Edwin’s free hand wraps fingers around a slick hot cock, moaning when the Cat King mirrors his action, a warm calloused palm sliding through the pre-cum dripping from Edwin’s slit. They’re far from in sync, but their focus is shared as they chase a common goal. It doesn’t take long after that. The air fills with articulated pleasure and hedonism, until Edwin makes a cracked, high-pitched sound, almost like a scream, and sees white, for a split second. When his vision swims back into focus, the Cat King is leaning over him, concern and self-satisfaction warring for dominance in his expression. Edwin uses the grip he somehow has on the other’s hair, to yank him down into a messy kiss.  

“Was it everything you wanted, and more?” The Cat King teases as soon as his lips are free.  

Edwin hums in thought. “And more? Perhaps, next time,” he leans a little forward and says, as commanding and seductive as he can, “I want you to ask for it.”  

Chapter Text

"My God… is that your friend , Edwin?" Esther sneers, horrified.    

"Oh yes," he acts casual. Like this isn't completely bizarre. "It appears he was able to make it after all." Edwin politely excuses himself, pointedly doesn't walk away at full speed like a man escaping a death sentence.    

By the time he reaches Thomas on the street, at least 7 children have gathered around the shiny novelty of his bike, some of them are actually touching it. One child is gripping the handle bars and making 'vroom' noises. Thomas stands by, looking amused, answering their overlapping questions as best he can. When he notices Edwin, he smiles broadly, winking mischievously.    

Edwin comes to a stop, lifts one eyebrow at him.   

"I've come to rescue you, ghostie." Thomas announces, like its an obvious answer to a question Edwin didn’t pose. "This is real shit, isn't it? There isn't even any music. What kinda picnic is this?" Some of the children giggle at the curse word. "Also, babe, you’ve been here less than an hour and already you look fuckin' miserable." Edwin visibly deflates. He had been under the impression that he'd done a faily good job of hiding it. "Don't curse in front of the children." Is all he can think of. Right after, the realization that Thomas just called him babe comes barrelling through, and that is now all he can think of.  

"Well, come on then." Thomas throws his leg over, sits back on the motorcycle, pats the seat behind him.    

Edwin stares.  

Thomas stares back.  

Edwin’s mouth opens but it takes a second try to form the "What."  

"Come on, we're going home. There’s wine in the kitchen, and I’m pretty sure I saw a real nice vintage record player in the living room."  

"Thomas, I." Edwin shrugs helplessly, at a loss for words. "I can't just leave. And definitely not on that."  

"Course you can leave. Come on, say goodbye to- oops, here she comes." Thomas, vagrant that he is, can't even bother to hide the absolute glee spreading over his face.  

Heart in his throat, Edwin whirls around, sees Esther breezing towards them, a look of murder in her eyes. He braces himself, then deflates like a punctured balloon animal, with a slight wheeze he can’t quite smother behind a hand, when Thomas beats him to the punch, loudly. "Good afternoon! I remember you, tittering about yesterday, yeah? Never quite got your name, mine’s Thomas, Thomas King.”    

"Charmed." Esther clips out, curt, glancing at Thomas’ outstretched hand with disdain.  

"Pleasure's all mine, ma'am." Thomas quips, smoothly pulling his hand back, turning the motion into a tip of a hat that's not there, leans forward. "Say, you had a good look at her yesterday, I got her all cleaned up just earlier,” Thomas pats the bike’s seat, smiles wide, on the edge of too much so, "can I interest you in a ride around the block?" He pats the seat again, tilting his head just a bit to the side, towards her, making sure that Esther catches the challenge, the confidence in the invitation.  

Esther almost reels, recoiling with disgust. "That's a very emphatic NO from me, Mr. King . Edwin, dear boy, do come back when you're,” she waves her hand in the air, gesturing in the vague direction of where Thomas is practically preening, perched on his shining bike, arms crossed, “done, with all this." Her message is clear. G et rid of him .  She stalks away, every muscle in her body so tense, Edwin is surprised she can walk at all. When he turns back to Thomas, he sees him offer a cheeky fingerwave at her retreating back.  

When Edwin gives in to the urge to swat his arm, Thomas laughs and laughs, giggles like a child that's just pulled off a particularly dirty prank, looks just as faux-ashamed only when he fully refocuses on Edwin, and his wide-eyed stare at him. "You do realize, I'll pay for that later?" Edwin whispers from behind his clenched teeth.  

"Ghostie. What's she gonna do? Come on, now's your chance. Hop on." He scoots forward, making room.  

"I told you, I can't. I, I just-"  

"Edwin." Thomas looks him right in the eye, expression serious. "Don't worry. It's just a picnic. It'll go on without you. Who cares about what Esther says anyway? Who cares about the people who would care about what an absolute witch like Esther says?"    

The sound of his name coming out of Thomas's mouth is what calms him. Yet at the same time, his heart rate triples, he feels a surge of adrenaline. "I won't fall off?" He eyes the thin strip of seat behind the other man. It doesn't look at all secure. "Not if you hold on." Thomas starts the engine with a wink, and the nearby hovering cloud of children all exclaim in wonder at the noise, laughing, covering their ears. Some of their parents look decidedly displeased. Edwin takes a deep breath, wipes his sweaty palms on his overcoat, forces himself to throw a leg over the motorcycle, tucking up close to Thomas, an arm around his torso. "Sorry." he apologizes over the din of the engine, though he's not sure for what exactly. For touching him?  

"S'alright, babe. Hold on, we're going to be making a quick exit. The wicked witch is decidedly not happy." Thomas pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket, the motorcycle jerks forward, scaring Edwin half to death. He reflexively clings harder, pretending he didn't make a high-pitched yelp out of fear. He doesn't dare look back, to see people's reactions as the motorcycle roars away. He doesn't even want to entertain the thought of how Esther Finch is going to handle him running off without saying goodbye.    

They've gone through two corners, when Edwin realizes he's still clinging to Thomas, perhaps a little too hard. He tries to loosen his grip, he really does, but every time the motorcycle makes the slightest motion underneath his legs, he's worried that their equilibrium will be shattered and he'll go spiraling to the pavement. Also, it's an easy excuse to hold him without any guilt. This was Thomas's idea, after all. Edwin is blameless for clinging. He presses the side of his face against the leather-clad back in front of him. The smell of leather is divine, and he can feel Thomas's ribcage expanding with each breath. It's nice. It's very nice. Edwin almost wishes he lived further away.  

Thomas pulls to a stop, neatly, in the middle of the driveway. He cuts the engine, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. "See? World didn't end." Edwin releases his squid-like grip on that leather jacket, rather unsteadily dismounts the bike, trying to calm his quaking knees. "Actually, there were a few turns back there that almost proved you wrong." A bucket is placed against the garage door, probably used by Thomas when he cleaned his bike. Thomas laughs good naturedly when Edwin gives it a calculating stare, just for effect. Edwin can’t help but smile, a touch wry, marvelling just a bit inside, how easy he now falls into this, this kind of banter, teasing , with someone he didn’t even know 3 days ago.   

He looks at the bike once more, and it occurs to him, again, that he has just ditched Esther at the church picnic, in front of essentially the entire town. Not only that, but he did it clinging to the back of a man on a motorcycle. Edwin needs a good, big glass of wine, and he needs it now. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alright, let's have a drink, before I spend any more time thinking about what I've just done."  

Thomas slaps him on the shoulder with a smile, letting his hand drift to the small of Edwin’s back, and leads them both inside the house.  

Chapter Text

Around 9:30pm, Edwin knows it's a mistake, to be drinking as much as he is. But the wine is good, a proper vintage, the kind one reserves for special occasions, the armchair is warm and comfortable, and also, the company. Thomas is making him laugh. He's telling some hilarious story, incredibly hard to believe yet endearingly earnest, with lots of arm waving and smothered giggles, as he struggles to recount the time his dorm mate’s cats took off with his clothes, after sneaking into the bathroom while he was showering. 

"And I'm not about to go chasing after them wearing nothing but a smile," Thomas shrugs wildly. "He had his girlfriend over, in the common room, and it was kind of going good for him this time, so I couldn’t exactly add a naked scruff chasing two cats down the hallway to that? So, they dash away, laughing their little heads off if they could, and I have to tiptoe slowly back across the hall to my bedroom, wearing my dirty old socks, clinging to my last shred of dignity." 

"Oh gods." Edwin collapses into a fit of giggles, turning red, as he pictures it in his head.   

"Babe," Thomas sips his wine, leans forward, his face dead serious, "when I tell you that it was the worst timing for his girl to get up off the couch and- " 

"Oh gods!" Edwin waves his hands in front of him, he really doesn't want to hear about that part. He collapses back into his chair, laughing so hard that he snorts through his nose, the sound joined and mixing with Thomas’ own delighted giggles.  

The night continues. It must be after 11 by now.   

Edwin is opening up a bit about London, what it was like to live there. Thomas has never been, though he tells him he hopes to one day visit. Edwin's rambling about the hidden treasures of London, how to avoid the tourist traps, what he’d show and recommend to Thomas, when the latter suddenly bursts out laughing, interrupts him with a heavy hand on his arm. "Ghostie, Edwin, have to stop you there," he smiles, lopsided, completely losing his composure, almost spilling the last of his wine, "you've been speaking the most unintelligible British English for five minutes, and I can't follow a single word!"  

Edwin buries his face in his hands, by the time he's done laughing there are tears running down his face. 

In the corner of his blurred vision, he sees Thomas get up, fetch another bottle of wine.  

The incessant, rhythmic buzzing by his face is quite possibly the most obnoxious noise Edwin has ever encountered in his life. He wants to kill it. Throw it across the room, stomp it out of existence. He manages to gather enough of his wits to simply smack the offending device with one hand, knock it away. He hears a clatter, and then… silence.   

Even the absence of sound seems to hurt. Oh god. My head.    

It feels like his brain has been hollowed out during the night, then shoddily put back together, with duct tape and rocks. As soon as Edwin's fully awake, he can feel the room spinning. Closing his eyes does nothing to alleviate the dizziness, quick on its heels is a fiery hot wave of nausea.   

Blearily opening one eye, trying to focus on his surroundings, he ticks off a mental checklist. It's morning, he's in his bed. In his own house. His shoes are on the floor near the bed. His belt is by his shoes. His jacket hangs on the closet door, his watch is on the nightstand. He's wearing the pants and shirt he wore to the picnic yesterday, and the covers have been kicked off the bed, onto the floor.  Also, he feels like he's been run over by a motorcycle.   

Edwin thinks back on the previous night, realizes with a fair amount of horror, he actually drank enough to black out . There's a rather significant portion of the night that he just can't remember.  Most conspicuously missing, is how exactly he got upstairs, into bed. And where is Thomas? 

Sitting up is a challenge, he tackles it slowly, bit by bit. Once upright, his body protests violently at being disturbed, rushing him to the bathroom. What comes up is mostly liquid. On top of drinking enough to temporarily drown his brain, he recalls that he didn't eat much the previous day either. Not that he laments any real loss at missing out on the church picnic. He does berate himself, being so careless with his drinking, as he fills the sink with cold water, unceremoniously dunks his whole head in it. He must look ridiculous, but it feels so good. It takes away the dull ache of nausea, anyway.   

Staring at himself in the mirror, Edwin sends a base thanks to anyone willing to listen that at least it’s Sunday, and he’s not supposed to be at work already. He’d seriously consider calling out sick, something he’s never done in all the years he’s worked at the school. Drying himself off with a towel, Edwin tries to compose himself. While not an official school day, he, as a teacher, still has papers left to grade, tests to prepare. He dresses slowly, makes his way downstairs. The nausea has mostly subsided, but his head is still pounding, and he feels overwhelmingly dehydrated. If there are any bottles of wine left in his pantry, Edwin resolves to pour them down the sink.  

When he enters the kitchen, he finds Thomas, drinking pitch black coffee, with a stone serious expression. He has an ice pack resting on his head as he reads the paper, blinking as the words obviously don’t register, Edwin figures he looks a fair bit like Edwin feels. When he sees his host entering the room, Thomas fumbles for words a bit, but collects himself, manages a wry grin.  "Overdid it a bit, didn't we?" 

Edwin nods, sits across from him, feeling like he's aged 50 years in one night. "I need water. I need some sort of caffeine. And then I have work to do." 

Thomas immediately takes on the task, expertly throwing two pieces of bread into the toaster, pouring an extra cup of coffee from the freshly brewed pot. He puts it in front of Edwin, returns to the kitchen counter for the now toasted bread and a glass of cold water.   

Edwin takes a sip of the water first, it's so cold he can feel it traveling all the way down his throat, into his stomach. "Thank you, my friend." He sighs in relief, braving a few nibbles of the dry toast, starting in on the coffee. "Forgive me, there is a lot from last night I don't remember." 

"Oh yeah?" Thomas hums, gets up to refill his own mug with more coffee. 

"I haven't lost time like that in ages, not since I was much younger. I honestly can't recall how the night ended, or getting in my bed at all." 

"No worries, I remember all of that. I carried you up the stairs, but you made a valid effort of your own, in your defence. S'a good thing we stayed home instead of going to a bar though, don’t think either of our legs, or any limbs really, would’ve been steady enough for a ride home. That was some good vintage."  

Edwin frowns, rests his head on his arm. "Don't drive drunk ever ," he scolds weakly, "I'd be very upset if you were killed in some horrible accident." 

"Nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. I would’ve gotten us a taxi, babe." Thomas chuckles, refreshing Edwin's cup.   

"Did… Did you put me to bed?" Edwin murmurs into his arm, too embarrassed to make eye-contact.  He almost keeps the question to himself, but the curiosity is killing him.  And his history as an affectionate drunk, poses the ever-more embarrassing unspoken question; what exactly had he said last night, if anything? 

Immediately, Edwin can tell that Thomas is watching his words. "Yeah. You were three sheets to the wind, so after I walked you upstairs, I just made sure to put you on your side." He gives a good-natured smile, choosing to lean against at the table, inhaling the scent of the coffee.   

"Not too much trouble, I hope? It's been a long time since I've had that much to drink in one sitting." 

"Nah, Edwin. You were fine."  He says it with a thread of finality, Edwin can't help but feel that it's not the whole story. But he doesn't have the energy, the brain cells, the confidence to figure it out right now. He gulps down the water, munches the toast, sips the last of the coffee. He feels like something resembling a human again, afterwards, he feels like maybe it's possible to finish out the day without further ailments. He shoots a thankful smile at Thomas. 

"Do you have any plans today?"   

"Was thinking of a walk. Get a bit more of a sense of the neighbourhood? It's a nice day, I could use the exercise." Thomas stretches his arms to the ceiling as he talks, and perhaps Edwin’s head isn’t that fully clear yet, because he permits himself a peek at the muscled torso displayed as a result, without a shred of guilt. Maybe it’s the same kind of guilt-less, freeing kind of confidence, that drives Edwin forward. 

"That sounds like a good idea, actually," Edwin retrieves his coat from the front hall closet, "I'll join you, come on. Let’s steady our legs." 

The weather is quite nice, the neighbourhood a calm picturesque backdrop. Edwin ponders it might actually be enjoyable, if they didn’t walk side by side, swinging wildly from awkward, stilted small talk, to complete silence. It feels like torture. Edwin is sure that he somehow utterly embarrassed himself last night, and Thomas is too kind, or worse, too mortified to bring it up. If only he could remember, but it's not coming back to him. There are several times where Edwin finds himself leaning or straight up bumping into Thomas, as his feet struggle to task on auto-pilot, while Edwin’s mind is racing. 

On one such brush of their shoulders, Edwin tilts his head to apologize, when a flash, an image, comes unbidden to his mind; Thomas's face, in quite a close proximity to his own. That happened last night, as well. Thomas looked tired, but amused, and he's saying something. Edwin replays the image in his mind, again, again, like a broken record. The complete image is so close, so within his grasp, yet so far away, intangible.  Again and again, he pores over the memory, certain that it's from last night.  Thomas's face, close by, slightly above his own? That would only make sense if he was leaning over him, considering the man isn’t naturally taller than him. Thomas looking at him, then looking away.  Looking at him, then looking away. Saying something . Saying something with a wry grin, sympathetic eyes.   

This memory can't be from his imagination. It's from last night, and his damn brain won't give up the clues.   

He's interrupted by the present. "Edwin, are you okay?" He hums in reply, already knowing the other won’t be convinced. "Come on Ghostie, we’re going home.” A strong arm wraps around his waist, warm hand dipping lower, steadying pressure on his hip. “I think a nice nap on the couch might make you feel better."   

Edwin smiles. Thomas is a good, caring man. 

Make you feel better.  

Feel better.  

When you feel better.  

Maybe when you feel better-  

Listen, when you feel better-  

You're not yourself, but when you're feeling better-  

"Listen Ghostie, babe," a gentle, reassuring voice,"you're not yourself right now. But, maybe, when you're feeling better, you could ask me again?"

Edwin feels his face go white, he’s grateful for the arm around him, as he suddenly feels dizzy.   

Oh. Oh no. Oh  Hells.  

Chapter Text

The internal panic swelling, raging within his gut, keeps Edwin from focusing on anything for the rest of the day. He's gone through all the trouble of defeating his hangover-related queasiness, only to have it replaced with the vomit-inducing terror, realizing he'd come on to a man, a man that he hardly actually knew, truly, while blackout drunk.

A drifter, a vagrant, with an endless supply of charm, who curses around children, makes a damn strong cup of coffee. A man, who smiles with perfect teeth, rides a motorcycle that's louder than a jet engine, is probably part of a violent biker gang, and tucked Edwin into bed, making sure to lay him on his side. This is who he fell for.   

It's not his fault. Edwin himself, is the one who'd lost control of his faculties, embarrassed the poor man. He's the one who has obviously said something, something completely inappropriate and forward, ruined the comfortable friendship they've only just begun. 

A sudden revelation. Edwin can play dumb. Pretend he has no idea it happened. Who's responsible for every little thing they do, when they're blackout drunk anyway? 

Well, adults. Edwin scolds himself. He'd never be able to pull it off, it's not the right thing to do anyway. He sits in the same armchair he occupied last night, drinking bland tea this time, to settle his stomach, and stares at the wall. He doesn't want to face what he's done. Thomas didn't bring it up in the morning, so there was clearly no rush to get it sorted, on either end.   

His mind drifts back, yet again, to the recently uncovered memory. "When you're feeling better, ask me again?" 

Edwin groans under his sighing breath, frustrated. Thomas said 'ask me again.' That meant he wanted another chance at whatever Edwin had offered, if his memory serves correctly. But that's the thing: memory is not serving. He doesn't even know what he's supposed to ask for, again. Did he ask Thomas to kiss him? To fuck him? Did he ask for a goddamn bedtime story? Or to be the big spoon for the night? Suppose he gathers enough courage, brings it up again, and it turns out to be nothing romantic at all?   

He's too afraid of succeeding, he's too afraid of failing.  So, he resigns himself to spending the rest of his life in this moment, sitting in this armchair, not moving. He'll just be here, forever, with no answer. 

He's the Schrodinger's Cat of romantic and sexual frustration. 

So, they don't talk about it. Thomas had gone out again, earlier, stating the need for a grocery run, and as soon as he steps back through the door, Edwin raises to join him in the kitchen. After unloading the bags, they cook together, bustling around the kitchen, around each other, in easy, companionable silence. Edwin breathes an internal sigh of relief, while he peels potatoes. Maybe they don't have to talk about it. Maybe they can just pretend it never happened. It's a nice dinner. They talk about their day, how Edwin managed to plow through grading tests, what Thomas thought of the neighbourhood. They clear their plates together, wash the dishes side by side. Thomas is only a little quieter than normal, before he says that he'll be swinging by the Allcott estate again, tomorrow. The casual reminder leaves Edwin reeling by the sink.  

Has it been only two days, three? Sounds like an eternity, at the same time, just the blink of an eye. 

Edwin says goodnight as soon as the lull in conversation permits, heads upstairs. He doesn't hear Thomas's bedroom door shut below him, until several minutes later. He sits on his bed, bare feet on the floor, for far too long. He's not even doing anything. He's just staring at the wall, while his brain tells him all the ways this can go wrong, all the ways this can go right.    

You can do this, says his brain. Look at the facts. He invited you to try again, he just didn't want to take advantage of you while you were drunk. How noble! How respectful! You should suck his cock, I'm certain he'd let you! 

Are you completely insane, squeaks his brain in retaliation. Thomas is a nice man, yes, but don't be an idiot, confuse that with wanting to jump into bed with you. Can you even trust your memory? Are you sure what you remember, is what actually happened? 

Edwin wracks his brain. The memory seems so real. It's detailed, in a way that he's sure he couldn't concoct in his own imagination.   

Soon enough, the confusion and fear turns to anger.   

Fuck this, he thinks. Hells, fuck this. I'm going down there. I refuse to be afraid in my own home. I know him. I do. We haven't known each other for very long, but I know him, and I know he wouldn't be violent with me.   

Edwin stands, softly crosses the room. He opens the door as quietly as he can, descends the staircase softly, stalking like a cat. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he peeks around the corner, sees that the light is still on in Thomas's room, but it's very quiet. He approaches the door, and then stares at it, for a full 15 seconds. 

He knocks. A task more difficult than one would assume. Knock too loud, and it sounds angry, knock too quietly, and if it's even audible, it sounds too tentative. Confidence, Edwin, confidence.   

"Yeah?" Comes the muffled response, from behind the closed door. "Come in." 

Edwin opens the door, finds Thomas sitting on the guest bed with a book. It's one of Edwin's books, from his extensive travel library. This one is a book of photography from London.  He watches as Thomas slips a piece of paper in it, to hold his place, sets it down on the bed.  

Shit. Edwin swallows. He really hadn't rehearsed what he would say. He scrambles for the words, hoping for a stroke of insight, something to give him a suave and smooth opening line, for the dialogue they're about to have. "I'm not drunk." Is what eventually comes out. Thomas gives him a questioning look, an eyebrow raise, that quickly lowers, fades into comprehension. He sits up a bit straighter.  "And your offer still stands?" 

Edwin feels his face turning redder by the moment. "I have to be completely honest. I can't remember what it was exactly, that I did offer. But I remember you telling me to try again. When I wasn't a disgraceful mess." 

Thomas chuckles, and Edwin’s heart lurches about in his chest for all that the sound soothes him so, or maybe exactly because of how much he lets it. "You weren't a disgraceful mess. You were fine, like I said. Just. Very open, I guess is the word for it? Almost a different person." 

Edwin looks at the floor. "A better person?" 

"No." Thomas says, firmly, standing up and crossing the floor to stand directly in front of Edwin. "No, I like the real Edwin better. That's why, I wanted to make sure that drunk Edwin and real Edwin felt the same way on this particular subject." Edwin can't stop a smile from inching onto his face. "You know, you're a walking example of the idiom, 'don't judge a book by its cover.'" Thomas takes that final step forward, shrinking the distance between them, allowing their chests to brush just the slightest bit at their synchronized intakes of breath. "I like to keep people guessing. Part of my charm." 

"So, what exactly did I offer?" 

The slightly shorter man laughs, low and soft.  "Hm, well. I think your exact words were, 'let me make you feel good, Cat King.'" 

Edwin can't help but scoff. It doesn't sound like something he'd say, and yet he believes Thomas implicitly. It's so unbelievable, that there's no way he'd say it, if it wasn't true. One of those, 'you can't make this stuff up' situations.   

But the words are out there, now. He said them, they both know it. All of his cards are on the table. 

He lifts his eyes from the other’s lips, they meet Thomas's. Edwin leans forward, their chests are fully touching, tension in the air so thick it's almost tangible. This close, he can smell the other's unique scent; skin, sweat and a tantalizing hint of leather. "Let me make you feel good, Cat King." 

Chapter Text

The worst part of getting tied up in his own thoughts to the point of missing the impending threat until it was too late, grappling weakly, getting yanked into a malevolent demon’s terrible grip, nearly killed again was, unquestionably, getting tied up in his own thoughts, grappling, getting yanked into a demon’s terrible grip, and nearly killed, again .  

The second worst part of it was that he hadn’t been killed, thanks to the Cat King’s interference, and as a result, his obviously depraved and malfunctioning brain had been given the chance to decide it was the hottest experience of his life.  

Never let it be said that Edwin Payne was above begging. The one contingency of it happening so far, though, was that he was naked, and at the mercy of one mercilessly thorough lover.  

Watching his lover rip apart a demon with his bare hands, claws , with the same kind of merciless thoroughness, made Edwin beg to any even slightly less malevolent being in the universe. Needless, for the obvious ease with which the Cat King ducked out and around the demon’s flaying range, a controlled tension to his body that suggested, proved, his mastery of understanding his own body, and its capabilities. He danced, he played , with the promise, the knowledge of endurance. A predator prolonging the kill, not for amusement, but for the revenge of it all, revenge for Edwin . Swiping razor sharp claws in clean precise arcs towards joints, drawing blood each and every single time, blocking attacks meant to hurt with an intercepting arm, replying in kind with an expert grip, and teeth designed to hurt in turn. Edwin didn’t even know what precisely he was begging for, though his body, its reactions, made the underlying thread quite clear. Clear enough to the Cat King, as well, when he stalked up to Edwin, kill discarded as easily as it was made, crowded him against the wall of the alley, raised blood stained hands with claw tipped fingers towards his face, and found to his surprise Edwin leaning forward, eagerly, to meet those blood stained palms, at the same time the Cat King registered the red liquid dripping down to the pavement and had started to pull his hands back.  

“Please, please, oh Gods,” Edwin croaks, eyes widening in tandem with the Cat King, former in a glorious rush of awe and want, the latter in poorly hidden confusion and a building understanding that makes them both shudder with different levels of excitement as Edwin reaches out himself, “my King,” hands trembling as he cups the Cat King’s cheeks, coming off wet, and his lover smiles at him, with teeth gleaming red among the white, as he looks over Edwin’s shivering frame, sees the opposite of fear, “yeah?” tumbling off lips alongside drops of blood, answered almost immediately by Edwin’s “yes, yes , please.”  

Their lips meet, crash, they slot together, in a facsimile of senseless violence that can only be achieved by two people who know this kind of dangerous dance so well. Edwin licks into the Cat King’s mouth, swallowing down the bitter tang of blood as much as his lover’s moans. He imagines he can almost feel the adrenaline still coursing through his lover’s veins, the minute trembles that wrack the frame pushing him bodily into the bricks behind his back, though it doesn’t deter his lover, and Edwin is likewise ill-deigned to stop him in any way, when the Cat King’s hands grip his thighs and start to lift. He obligingly wraps his legs around his lover’s waist, mirrors the position with his arms flung across the other’s shoulders. There’s a time and place for foreplay, what is going to happen here and now rips the concept apart at the seams in a sense that feels far too right to ignore. The Cat King’s hand behind his head is the only thing preventing a splitting headache as Edwin curves his neck backwards with abandon, flashing the creamy expanse of his neck in an offer, a bid , for conquest, and the Cat King is long past denying them both.  

For a while the only sounds that fill the otherwise deserted alley are grunts and cut off moans, as the sole two occupants rut against each other, in varying degrees of desperation. Somewhere in the fray, the Cat King wraps a hot palm around Edwin’s searing hot cock, pulling his attention away from the throbbing of his neck, bruised and bitten, to a different kind of throbbing. He hadn’t even noticed the other opening his trousers, reaching in, and another shocked little gasp leaves him as he notices the Cat King’s equal state of lust only right as the other roughly jerks their hips together, the resulting flinch and pained hiss, as their sensitive cocks get pushed together hard and fast, rocks through both their bodies at the same time. Edwin’s own hands turn into as close as claws as he can make them, fingernails biting into the Cat King’s shoulders as Edwin’s head bows forward. “More, please. Harder.” The only answer is a snarl, a growl, reverberating through the bunched fabric slowly getting soaked with spit, where the Cat King is biting down on Edwin’s shoulder. The hips slamming into his don’t let up, increase their pace instead, so Edwin sighs, clamps his legs firmer around his lover’s waist, nuzzles his nose into sweat slick hair, and scores deeper red lines along the Cat King’s shoulders as he’s jostled, pushed and thrust into and against the brick wall.  

“There’s definitely something wrong with me.” Edwin mumbles, while he flirts with the edge of pain and pleasure, pulling the Cat King’s hair, guiding his face closer, back to his neck. A rough tongue follows a slick trail over purpling bruises, catching slightly on fang-sized punctures of various depths, followed by a similar rough chuckle close to his ear. Edwin rolls his ass against the wall, pushes back into the sparce space between their bodies, every brush of the Cat King’s cock against his own sweet, sweet agony. Hips grind into his, hard, unforgiving, as his lover whispers “Are you afraid, Edwin, just a little?”  

Edwin’s back scrapes against the rough surface of the bricks lining the wall with every thrust of the Cat King’s hips, no matter the fabric of his coat. The hands curled around his thighs are still claw tipped, blood rusted into an even darker shade of red, flaking off, littering their hips. He’s so close, they both are. The Cat King’s smile is dangerous, when their eyes meet. If Edwin pushes back, the Cat King will back off in an instant. He will have had his taste. As will Edwin. The Cat King has always been far more patient than Edwin. “Yes.”  

“Good,” the Cat King whispers back, low and dark. “You should be. I want no mere submission from you. I want you to struggle, against your instincts, your better judgement, to give yourself to me. I want you to give yourself to me, regardless. I. want. you ,” the words come out with far more tenderness than the moment deserves, and his voice tapers off, into deep throated growls, the sound of victory, that lingers long after they’ve both come.

Chapter Text

It’s easy, after that, to shove Thomas backwards, until his back collides with the wall next to the bed. The kiss only breaks when Edwin can’t ignore his need to breathe any longer. Thomas tips his head back, against the wall, voicing a heartfelt groan at the insistent press of Edwin's body against his, and Edwin can’t just leave that be. He ducks forward, trailing open-mouthed kisses, from the corner of Thomas’s jaw, stubble scraping against his lips, to where his shirt meets his throat. Thomas outright whines, when Edwin sinks his teeth into his neck, one hand flying up to grab at Edwin’s hair, while the other scrabbles at the wall, for purchase. Edwin laughs, something feral, almost unhinged in his satisfaction, his glee, hard won overcoming of doubt, and licks over the bite to soothe. He wonders if it’ll leave a mark. The placement, means it probably won’t be visible under his leather jacket, but frankly, that just makes Edwin want to try again. He shoves a thigh between the other’s, trails back up to his mouth. 

Their second kiss is slightly less violent, but no less passionate for it. Edwin tries to take note of everything that makes Thomas moan or shudder against him. He’s desperate for this to be as good as he promised. Nibbling his lip, flicking his tongue, just behind teeth. Rolling his hips knocks an almost desperate noise out of the other, Edwin pulls back from their kiss with a laugh, a little less feral this time. Thomas is panting, but smirking, as well. 

“Knew you proper British men liked a bit of rough play.” He quips, and Edwin jerks his leg up, just enough pressure to border on painful, a teasing reprimand for the arrogance. Thomas shocks him, when his eyes roll a little, he moans weakly, hips jerking into the touch, and oh. Edwin will have to keep that in mind, then. Thomas grins, follows the pull towards the bed. 

“Clothes,” he pleads into the other’s lips, unwilling to fully break the contact to get the words out, letting the frantic clenching and pulling of his hands on Thomas’ clothes do most of the talking, “ off , now, please. I need you naked, yesterday.” Thomas laughs at him, but its weak, and his hands brush off of Edwin’s back with purpose, going to his boxers while Edwin attacks his own clothes with far less finesse, uncaring of any seams protesting. He leans back only just enough to get his own clothes off, let Thomas sit up as much as he needs to finally pull his shirt off his shoulders, over his head. Edwin’s hands tangle in the soft curls as soon as the fabric clears, tongue nudging in, sliding over the top of Thomas’ mouth in a long, wet swipe. Time seems to suspend and stretch, for a bit, as Edwin lets himself get lost, in the kiss, the feeling of so much naked, tanned skin caressing his. He didn’t knock on the door with a specific plan, didn’t dare hope, even, but the moment his eyes fall down to Thomas’s cock, any possible plan for the night is automatically, totally, derailed. Edwin wants that inside him, preferably about three minutes ago, but as soon as physically possible, now, will do just fine. 

His mind blanks, stalls, when underneath him Thomas spreads his legs , as much a show as it is invitation, and reaches up to pull Edwin down when he inevitably, subconsciously, bends within reach. “Fuck, so good. Tell me you have lube, babe, Edwin.” Edwin’s sure his grip on the other’s hips is bruising, but he needs the grip to ground him, as he gathers his bearings for what feels like the third, fourth time tonight.  

The first touch of his fingers to Thomas’s ass is almost a shock, the lube still a little cold, his touch uncertain, almost light enough to tickle, but that doesn’t last long. Thomas holds Edwin’s gaze, until the first finger truly starts to slip inside, then he can’t, tossing his head back, whimpering at the feeling. Edwin pauses, once his finger is sunk to the knuckle, barely holding back his eye-roll when Thomas shifts, impatiently, thumping at Edwin’s back, gently, with his heel. Edwin can’t quite manage to hold in his chuckle, but starts to move, slowly at first, quicker the louder Thomas gets. He wants, Edwin needs to do this right. 

It’s barely been a full two minutes before Thomas resorts to begging. “More, please, fuck , babe.” he gasps, hips jerking, gasping each time Edwin’s finger sinks all the way inside him. Figuring the other probably knows his own limits better than Edwin does, he obliges, and a second finger makes Thomas’s back arch, sharply. Edwin crooks his fingers, drawing the loudest noise yet, in reward. He bends forward, presses a soft kiss to fluttering stomach muscles. Below his chin, Edwin can feel the heat coming off of Thomas’s cock, that as well as the steady stream of pre-cum leaking from the tip, is enough positive feedback to boost his confidence. Licking his lips, he presses a light kiss to the side of the twitching erection, pushing it into Thomas’s skin, just to share in the pleasure of the hot shaft nudging his cheek. He’ll definitely be shoving that down his throat, at the next opportunity.  

For now, though, he has other things to focus on. Edwin’s fingers spread out inside Thomas, who moans, pulling at the bed sheets, kneading the pillow beneath his head, just for something to do with his hands. It feels so fucking good , the clenching of fluttering muscles around his digits, the tight wet heat surrounding, pulling, welcoming his fingers inside.  

“I’m ready, Edwin, come on,” Thomas murmurs, pulling Edwin down with a hand behind his neck, close enough for the soft entreaty to reach his ear, before teeth close around his earlobe in a nip, and hover right beside it, after, to whisper “make me feel good, Ghostie.” It’s only the barely-there distance that allows Edwin to hear, and savour, the soft whimper Thomas lets out, when Edwin removes his fingers from Thomas’s ass.  

After lubing up his own cock, near aching hardness Edwin hadn’t even registered, in his focus on Thomas, Edwin keeps a hold at the base of it, shifts, bends a little, so they’re lined up. Before he moves, before he can, he has to breathe and tremble through the wave of how desperately he wants this. Thomas’ hole clenches down weakly, brushing against the head of his cock. Edwin shudders. Can he do this? Can he truly make Thomas feel good, him? He leans a little forward and says, in a voice that sounds absolutely wretched, pathetic to his own ears, “Thomas, I need you to ask for this.” 

He’s prepared for Thomas to refuse, to deflect, falling back on teasing and cajoling, until he gets what he wants. What he must truly want, which surely isn’t Edwin’s inexperience. He’s also prepared for a straightforward, forceful request, a command that he can immediately fulfil. He’s absolutely not prepared for the wavering, “ Please , Ghostie, I want you.” that falls from Thomas’s lips. 

“Hells.” Edwin gasps, almost involuntary, hips shifting forward to push the head of his cock inside. There’s so much pressure, Edwin swears he can feel the walls stretch and form around his cock, and Thomas groans, long and low. Satisfied. Edwin’s hands on the other’s thighs are trembling, entire body held taut. He can’t remember ever being this connected, surrounded, it’s like a revelation; even more so when he’s fully seated in tight wet heat, panting, and Thomas growls, a sound Edwin can feel in his gut, travelling straight to his cock. 

“ Fuck. ” he hisses. Edwin’s hips start to roll, instinctively, without his input. Thomas’s hands grip at any part of Edwin he can reach, his clenching grip definitely hard enough to bruise. “ Edwin ,” he whines, and Edwin thinks he’d be perfectly content if Thomas never used his name outside of sex, as long as he always sounds like that when he says it. “Thomas,” he gasps back, and with concentrated effort, pulls himself nearly fully out of Thomas’s ass, just to nearly slam back in. The flare of pleasure is so bright, he’s helpless to do anything but immediately repeat it, again, again, with Thomas helping build their combined pleasure, meeting Edwin’s thrusts with rhythmic rolls of his ever-reddening ass cheeks on the bed. 

They settle into a rhythm, not quite fast, hardly sedate, and Edwin’s reduced to grunts and bitten off gasps, embarrassingly quickly. Thomas is not much better off. Edwin hears him, he seems to be almost growling, continuously, low rumbles reverberating from his chest, escaping his clenched teeth and throat bared, as he arches back, matches Edwin thrust for thrust. Edwin closes his eyes, fighting the still near over stimulating combination of sounds, sensations that surround him, cloying, even with the lack of vision. Edwin doesn’t know how long it goes on, but despite his best efforts, the onslaught of pleasure is far too much, too intense, so it’s not nearly as long as he’d like before he feels the signs of impending orgasm are getting harder and harder to ignore. “Close.” He whimpers, now struggling to open his eyes, shuddering when he manages it and his gaze lands right on Thomas’ own eyes piercing his. Their legs tremble together, so it’s a marvel how Thomas still manages to keep his voice steady. “Want it,” he purrs, heels coming down over Edwin’s lower back, trapping, as if there was any chance of Edwin not wanting to live and die right where he is right now, “make me feel good, Edwin. Come inside me.” Edwin can feel his hips jerk violently at the words, the heels on his back switching to an even more restraining hold in answer, and he’s helpless, the sharp clench of Thomas’s ass around him, the prolonged effort to keep his orgasm at bay almost making black spots dance in his vision, so he gives in. His cock empties, pumps come into and right back out of the other’s ass with an obscene squelching sound, slick dripping and escaping past Edwin’s cock as he’s held inside, as he softens with little aftershocks, twitches. Only when his lax cock has softened to the point of sliding out of Thomas’s ass of its own accord, does Edwin pull his hips back with any real strength or purpose to the motion.

Thomas’s cock is as wet as his ass, twitching violently, angry, against his hipbone. Edwin slides uncoordinated down the bed, engulfs it into his mouth and throat. It hits the back of his throat immediately, painfully, and Edwin heaves back up amid sudden choking, a deluge of saliva rushing into and out of his mouth, while his eyes water. “Fuck! Edwin, wha-” Thomas cries out, elbows failing to support his body, falling back down on the bed with a gasp, when Edwin aims and spits the rest of slick that’s in his mouth directly on the cock held tightly in his left hand, and wraps his lips around the head again straight after. This time, Edwin makes sure to keep his hand steadily wrapped around the base, and his lips wrap snugly around the shaft as he bobs his head, taking his descent a bit slower, but no less enthusiastic. When a trembling hand shifts through his hair, and he hears a serious warning of the other’s orgasm approaching, Edwin’s answering swallow is obvious, pointed. Some of Thomas’s come escapes, trickles out, through the corners of Edwin’s stretched lips, but Edwin’s pleased enough to hum around the softening cock in his mouth, pulling out one last twitch, as he preens at the fact that he still managed to swallow down most of it.  

The bed is still an utter mess, far from pleasant, not conductive for a good night’s sleep. And they’re both even more so a mess, sweaty, rapidly drying fluids of various origin marking their skin. When Thomas pulls Edwin close, he follows with a laugh. When he peers around Thomas’s broad chest, to see just what he’s doing with his arm that seems to be fumbling around the nightstand, he laughs so hard and fast he snorts, and Thomas kisses the happiness off and back into his lips, while he drops the cord to the alarm clock to the floor next to the bed. The thought that tomorrow’s Monday, a school day, passes out through his head as swiftly as it entered.

It’s the best sleep he’s had in years.

Chapter Text

The thrumming hum of the motorcycle’s engine is driving Edwin absolutely crazy. Not to mention, it’s distracting his students.  The boys who sit near the windows are attempting to subtly glance over their shoulders, get a peek at who drove a motorcycle into their school’s parking lot, the ones sitting too far to get a glimpse are glancing at each other instead, whispering.   

It wouldn’t have been such an annoyance if the damn thing would just leave, but whoever stalled it has been sitting, engine running, for five straight minutes. During study hall, five whole minutes feel like an eternity.   

Edwin knows if he doesn’t get his class under control, they’ll be jittery, distracted for the rest of the period. He has to put a stop to this.  He stalks to the window, pretends not to notice the hurried scrambling of students pretending to be fascinated by their coursework, peers down at the parking lot. The man in the distance, leaning on his motorcycle, is studying a road map. Not a care in the world for anyone else’s peace and quiet.   

"Return to your studies," he tuts at the boy, leaning near comically out of his chair to sneak another peek. Not like Edwin blames the children, a motorcycle was not something you saw every day in this town.  Scooters, maybe.  The occasional Vespa.  Not real motorcycles.   

"Stay seated, class."  Edwin orders as he leaves the classroom, fully aware that they won’t.   

He thinks of all the things he’s going to say to this rude man, all the curt phrases and serious demands he can make of a complete stranger.  He’s no shrinking violet, he’s not intimidated by confrontation (some would venture to call him very confrontational), but the inherent danger in approaching a stranger with a complaint, does make his heart beat just a little faster.   

It’s a beautiful mellow spring day, perfect day for a ride on a motorcycle, Edwin has to admit to himself.  The temperature is perfect, trees beautiful to look at, air smelling crisp, cool, clean. It does absolutely nothing for his current mood. By the time he closes in on his target, he’s got a good snippy energy built up, and this inconsiderate ass will feel the brunt of it. 

The man, still seated, inspecting the road map like it will lead to buried treasure, doesn’t hear Edwin approaching from behind him.   

"Pardon me," he begins, wincing in annoyance at the deafening putter of the bike’s engine. " Excuse m- -” Edwin falls silent with a sigh. It’s clear that a polite introduction will not suffice. Desperate times, and all that follows. 

He reaches out, taps the man rather hard on the back, feeling the hard muscle of the man’s shoulder, even through the thick black leather motorcycle jacket.   

The stranger jumps a mile, letting out a short, sharp exclamation of surprise, although it’s barely audible over the engine.  He gives Edwin a glare that could freeze over a hot spring, grips his chest with one hand while he turns off the engine with the other.   

The horrific noise abates, only to be replaced by the man’s low voice. 

"Good grief, sweetheart, you nearly gave me a heart attack, appearing out of nowhere like that. Anyone ever tell you that you can’t just sneak up on a man like that, what are you, some kind of ghost?"   

Edwin quietly mouths ‘sweetheart .. ghost?’ to himself, then shakes his head with a little frown, rids himself of the distraction from both the other’s man’s lilting voice, and the reason he came out here in the first place. 

"Well, that brings me to why I came out here.  Your motorcycle was disturbing my students. I would ask that you keep it turned off, until you’re ready to leave." 

The stranger tilts his head. "Your what?" 

"My students. This is a school you’ve parked in front of." Edwin gestures behind him, speaks slowly, as if to an infant.   

"School?  I thought this was the Allcott estate…" The man looks back at his map.   

"No, that would be about 5 miles away.  You haven’t gotten there yet, though if you continue on the main road, you should get there in just a few minutes."  Edwin rolls his eyes. This is all taking far longer than he thought it would. 

"What sort of accent is that, ghostie?  You’re not from here."  The man folds his map, seemingly content to believe Edwin’s directions.   

"I could say the same thing about you." Edwin snips, ignoring the ridiculous nickname. Immediately reprimands himself internally, feeling like he’s just taken bait.  

"From America myself. Taking a little road-trip," The other man beams, pats the motorcycle’s seat.  "Crossing the pond for the first time.  Seeing the sites, meeting the people, sort of an adventure, you know."  He looks absurdly proud of himself, Edwin can’t help but notice the meager possessions the man has rolled up and secured to the back of the bike. 

"Hm, fascinating. Yes, well. I must get back to my students—" 

"Where’d you say you were from?" 

Edwin sighs, choosing pointedly to not halt in his turning, ending halfway with a sideways gaze at the stranger. “I didn’t. London. I am from London, if you absolutely must know. I teach in this school,” he gestures again, “and I truly must get back to my students, if you don’t mind.  I only came out to ask that you turn your engine off.” 

"What do you teach?" 

My god, the man could absolutely not read social cues.  “English literature.  Now, Mr…” 

"Thomas. But my friends call me The Cat King."  He holds out a gloved hand and Edwin shakes it, with no small amount of reluctance.   

"I’m sure they don’t call you that," he tuts.  "My name is Edwin, and I must be going.  Goodbye."  He turns on his heel, stalks back towards the school. 

"So long, ghostie."  He hears Thomas call after him.  He nearly whirls around, ready to ask just what was meant by that nickname, but the other man is already kickstarting the engine back up.   

He roars out of the parking lot with a wholly unnecessary flourish, speeding down the road at an alarming speed until he’s gone from sight, leaving only a small rubber burn on the pavement. 

"Fool is going to kill himself, driving like that on these roads."  Edwin grumbles.  He glances up, sees all 14 of his students bolt from view from where they had previously stood, peering out the window to eavesdrop on the exchange. 

Edwin sighs as he looks over the latest batch of exam scores from his class.  High grades from his studious pupils as usual, lower grades from the boys who were almost equally as bright, but didn't put forth the effort. A long-standing issue, one the school board doesn’t seem half as concerned with as he is. Now alone in his classroom, Edwin hears the final bell, the ensuing floor-shaking exodus of students to the open air. He leans back in his seat, vowing to try to come up with some sort of solution to this problem later.   

He packs some essays to read, homework that still need to be graded, into his briefcase, retrieves his coat from the rack in the corner on the way to the door.  He very much needs a nice cup of coffee. 

"Hey, Mister Edwin!" A loud shout echoes from the end of the hallway, and Edwin frowns, to himself, turning to face the student that the other teachers have affectionately likened to a bird.   

"Mr. Finch, I have repeatedly told you to call me Mr. Payne. Not to refer to me by my first name, and especially not within the school grounds." 

The teen has the grace to look apologetic, yet in pure young-spirited fashion, physically shrugs off the comment just a moment later. “I’m sorry Mr. Payne. But I have good news for you!  Check it out!"  The young man pulls a thick book out of his shoulder bag, flips it open to a page, bookmarked with a grey and blue checkered bit of laminated paper, thrusts the turned book and open page at Edwin, near bouncing with anticipation.  Edwin bends his head and glances, inspects the writing, charts and scribbles. It's a large astrology analysis.  On the top of the page, written in bold letters is 'Capricorn'. Below, Edwin skims through a far too large amount of text, even for an avid reader, and regrettably still unwillingly picks up phrases such as ‘ You’re in the market for a partnership, and you might be pleasantly surprised, Capricorn.’, ‘Any existing relationship can deepen through dialogue.’ or ‘Saturn favours staying power, so look for a plus-one who’s in it for the long haul.’ Edwin skims faster, rereading the same few sentences to stall, making an estimate of a more natural seeming amount of time to read a prediction of his love life, from an astrology tome held up by a fifteen year old. 

Next to all of this utter tripe, is a note stating 'check star alignment! '    

Edwin can't help but smile, still, at the student’s obvious enthusiasm for the subject.     

"Isn't that great news?" Monty Finch asks him with an answering smile, "Not only does your horoscope predict it, but I did in fact check, of course, and the star alignment today is also very favourable.  Know what that means?" He adds in a conspiring, whispering tone. 

"You have a bit too much free time and need to be assigned more homework?" Edwin asks, with a hint of a smile still on his cheeks and a tilt of his head to accompany his teasing intention.   

The teen starts up his own analysis of the analysis , and Edwin knows if he doesn't put a stop to this conversation, Monty will keep talking, undeterred, for the next 20 minutes.  "Alright, well Mr. Finch, thank you for sharing your inspiring passion for astrology. Enjoy your weekend."  He pats the boy semi-affectionately on the shoulder, and brushes past him with long strides, beating a hasty retreat. 

"Trust in the stars, Mr. Payne!" 

Edwin tosses his brown leather shoulderbag into the passenger's seat of his car, pulls out of the school's parking lot, sighs deeply, rolls the windows down and lets the crisp air fill the car, rustle his hair.   

He passes the Allcott estate on his way into town, glances out the window at it as he passes, though he doesn't know what he expects to find. The outer gates are closed, locked, he can't really see past them, so he shrugs to himself, refocuses on the road.   

Port Townsend is one of the most affluent in the state. The people who live here have money, and they like to show it off. The school Edwin works for is a private, all-boys school that prides itself on how many of its students move on to acclaimed universities and careers pre-planned by either doting or detached parents. The houses are beautiful and scenic, most of the people are shallow and nosy.    

Edwin pulls to a stop when he finds a good parking space, a few blocks away from his favourite coffee shop. It's small, locally owned, and one of Edwin's favourite things to do is order one of their dark roasts, with a scone, that is decidedly nothing at all like a bisquit, and settle in one of the overstuffed chairs by the window while he grades papers.   

When the little bell above the door softly chimes as he walks in, he's happy to see that his favourite barista is behind the counter, studiously arranging the pastries.  "Hi Edwin!"  She chirps, and immediately sets to the task of hand-grinding the beans for his coffee.   

“Hello, Niko, good afternoon.” Edwin smiles at her and looks for a seat, settling in with a cursory glance through the window. The smile falls from his face.   

He's utterly confused, instead, looks around to see if anyone has noticed that this is happening, or if he's just imagining it. A little shake of his head doesn’t clear the vision; the sleek black and brown motorcycle parked next to the curb across from the café. The man sitting on the bench near it in the lightest definition of the word ‘sitting’, limbs spread akimbo across the furniture, head lolled back against the backrest.  

"Quite weird, right?  I gave him a cup of coffee to go, and then he didn’t actually go. He pretty much fell right to sleep on that bench. I don’t think that’s a good position to sleep in.  But, he looked so tired I don't have the heart to disturb him. And nobody has passed that bench, the bike is turned off and parked legally, so I don't think anyone minds. Have you ever seen a bike like that? I like his jacket, so cool!" Niko smiles, retrieves his scone and reaches for a mug just as the coffee finishes brewing. Edwin thanks her, but holds up a hand, silently asking her to wait as he chooses another corner of the coffee shop, making sure he can keep the bench and its occupant in his line of vision, though he can't pin down exactly why.  

Probably just the novelty of it all. Port Townsend was a town steeped in tradition, both in values and a clockwork year-round schedule. The town council kept everything pretty, decent, and calm. If Edwin was completely honest with himself, it was the reason he settled here.   

He's interrupted from his wandering thoughts, when the sound of several high-pitched voices, barely audible over the loud clacking chorus of stiletto heels on well-maintained concrete reaches his ears. 

Oh no. This is going to go really bad, really fast. 

Edwin is out of his seat, ignoring Niko’s questioning little “Edwin?”, and heading for the door before he’s even consciously considered the decision. As soon as he’s greeted by the warm air outside, he’s also greeted by the sight of one Esther Finch, and several members of the Homeowner’s Association. When that calculating gaze locks on Edwin, and stays so, Edwin spares a thought, a quick mental note, that Monty must have been wrong about the star alignment. He does not feel particularly pleasantly surprised, at all.  

Edwin only has a whole amount of three seconds to properly steel himself, swallow a deep sigh, and force the most pleasant smile he can muster onto his face. 

"Madam Finch.  How are you this fine afternoon?" 

Esther Finch lives on the nicest street, in the nicest neighbourhood, in a perfectly nice house, fit for an entire family of the nicest people in Port Townsend. There is nothing nice about Esther Finch. As the sole reigning heiress of the town’s long-lasting elite, she has more money than the mayor, owns enough land to constitute a national park, and is truly one of the worst people Edwin has ever met. Edwin reasons either her life didn’t quite turn out the way she imagined, or she simply decided her life reached its peak during her college years, and she’s not quite willing to give that up, even decades later. Obsessed with holding on to (at the very least the idea of) eternal youth, nostalgia perhaps for the control and power of years long, long past, Esther Finch both shoves and turns her nose up at everyone and anyone’s business in equal amounts, and takes extra personal interest in any males below the age of 20. 

So according to the laws of the universe, one of her personal goals in life was to get Edwin into her bed, and under her thumb.   

There’s something sickening about a woman twice his age sizing him up like a treat, giving him a saccharine-sweet smile instead of the disgusted curl of red-painted lips Edwin saw on her face just moments before.  "Oh, Edwin, sweet thing." She struts closer with a clack of stilettos, kisses the air next to each of his cheeks, takes his hand, clinging to it like some sort of schoolgirl. She really is terribly obvious, and after over a year of this game, Edwin wonders how long he will have to make it clear he's not interested before she gives up. Or switches targets. Over the shoulder of her expensive-looking beige blazer, Edwin can see her cronies sizing the man occupying the bench up, the latter almost comically still asleep, dead to the world, utterly unaware of the danger he’s in. Like a cat taking a nap next to a pack of dogs. Edwin would laugh, but as it is, he fears his little slip of eye-contact might already be playing with fire. 

"I wanted to invite you to my church's public picnic tomorrow. The whole congregation will be there, of course, and I just wanted to make sure you knew you had a special invitation to my table." She idly strokes his hand with one thumb, and Edwin feels extremely uncomfortable.   

His mind races, trying to come up with some sort of excuse that she'll accept. Reflexively, his eyes are drawn back to the motorcycle, the man on the bench near it. "As it happens, I'm entertaining a friend this weekend, and I'm not sure I'll have the time." 

"Well, invite him along! Everyone's welcome at the church, hmm, unless he's one of those , of course." She crinkles her nose and narrows her keen eyes, the most her face can manage anything approaching a true expression of laughter, not even aware that Edwin is not sharing her amusement at her joke. 

In fact, this whole exchange is making him feel like he's 8 years old. A child, back home, listening to older family members talk about what is right, and more importantly, what is wrong with the world. 

"Do consider it, Edwin, sweet thing.  I'll be so sad if you don't come.  You really should get out more, you know how people talk." 

The people talking tend to mostly consist of Esther and her cronies. Edwin does not much care for their gossip. Does not much care for confrontation either, truly. That is how he reasons to himself, his reaction, staying silent in the end, wringing his hands as Esther Finch turns around, and struts right up to her new target. The gaggle of middle-aged women part for her like lower ranked predators, giving their pack leader the first choice of prime cut flesh. They close the circle with poorly concealed excitement behind faux concerned frowns. One slender hand reaches out, a manicured finger taps, taps, taps the shoulder of that black leather jacket. Edwin quiets his own breathing, in order to hear the exchange he knows is coming.     

The man, Thomas, Edwin’s mind supplies, stirs awake with an ease that belies the tension rapidly filling the air, and almost seems to take in the sight of a group of older women looming over him as a regularity. He raises his hands, gives a finger waggle that Edwin theorizes might be found charming by someone, somewhere , and makes no further move to get up, or even rearrange his limbs in a semblance of proper posture. "Now what can I do for you, ladies?" His voice is a low, rough sound, and has a wildly different effect on Edwin than it does the people he’s actually adressing. 

"Oh, I do hate to be the bearer of bad news, but, as a long-standing member of the Homeowner’s association, and of course, you see, simply being involved in the protection of our community, I must tell you about some, hmm, concerns .” There’s the curl of red-painted lips, as cold eyes flick between the man on the bench, and the motorcycle parked perfectly legally nearby. “I assume you’re just passing through, of course, but I simply must ask, you understand. Do you have a license for that thing ?” Thomas smiles good-naturedly, charmingly, but Edwin knows restrained anger when he sees it. “I must ask you to keep that noisy machine out of residential streets, our children, you understand.” Esther’s gaze tracks over Thomas in barely concealed disgust, then flit to the cup of coffee, sitting innocently on the bench. “Littering, likewise, is not tolerated here.” One of the women of the group, perhaps sensing the opportunity to score peer approval, walks over briskly, snatching the coffee cup with a flourish. While Thomas, charming smile still on his face, but rage building in his eyes, offers a quick “That’s not even empty, honey,” the woman is already marching to the trash can and depositing it with unnecessary drama, “alright then.” is all that leaves Thomas’ mouth, tilting his head back to Esther as she is clearly not done just yet. “Furthermore, there’s been complaints of vagrants sleeping in a public area, I've come to tell you to move along."  She motions sharply, waving her hand through the air in the direction of the bench and Thomas on it, like shooing an unwanted animal. 

"Wasn't asleep, really. Just resting my eyes. And I'm not dangerous, just dangerously good-looking."  Thomas smirks, but it fades when he sees it has no effect.  He holds up one of his hands, starts ticking off fingers. "One: I have a license, of course. Two: I’m also parked perfectly legally. Three: littering implies something left behind, and I’m still right here aren’t I? And I'm not a vagrant, either. Just passing through, like you said." 

"You really want get into semantics with me ?  I have both the mayor and the police chief on speed dial, darling. This is private property, and you are not welcome here."  Another shooing wave of her hand.  

"Look honey," Thomas begins again, clearly exasperated. “Was I sleeping in a public area , or on private property now?” 

"Darling, you call me honey one more time and we will have a problem." 

Thomas takes a deep breath. Edwin wonders where he finds the strength to keep calm, attempting to keep a charming front. " Ma’am , I’m really just passing through. I got a coffee, paid for it ,  drank about half of it, and relaxed a bit on this public bench . I may have dozed off, but I'm not bothering anyone, not littering-"   

He's cut off, when Esther turns sharply, and struts over to the motorcycle. Bending down to inspect every inch of its surface, her manicured, sharp nails sweeping ever closer over its glinting finish. Edwin can see her calculate how much it’d cost Thomas, if she were to call the town’s towing service, demand a full check-up at the most exclusive garage, under the guise of proper concern of the safety of the vehicle, around the children , of course. Edwin knows she has pretty much all the town’s official services on speed dial, considers it her civic duty to spring them on anyone and everyone that she deems threathens her world view. As it was, he can see Thomas coming to the same conclusion, tension lining every bit of his frame as he stands up from the bench, slowly. Approaches the woman circling his motorcycle, slowly. 

If you asked him later, Edwin would not be able to say why he did it.   

He finally stalks over, putting on the most pleasant expression he can muster.  "Ah, Thomas! My friend, I do apologize for taking so long, I quite honestly forgot whether we agreed to meet inside or out, and I frankly hadn’t spotted you yet through this..crowd. Ah, Esther, I see you've met my friend!"  He puts an awkward hand on Thomas's shoulder, clamping down hard as a warning. 

"Your friend ?"  Esther glances skeptically between them, taking a delicate step back. 

Edwin feels Thomas shaking, still, with pent-up anger, but to his credit, he says nothing against the false claim. Edwin can feel his warm gaze on the side of his face, sees that charming smile widen in his peripheral. 

"Why yes, you couldn't tell by the accent?"  Thomas smiles broadly, swinging his own arm around Edwin’s shoulders in a much more natural, convincing display of camaraderie. 

"Hm," Esther’s narrow gaze burns into them for a long while, the gaggle of women behind her far less subtle in their tittering. Finally, she sneers, "Edwin, darling, do tell your friend to get a haircut and some decent clothes." She turns on her heel, marching away like the palpable tension hadn’t reached a smothering point, offering a last “And do educate him on the community guidelines!” over her shoulder, as she leads her minions further down the street.   

"Bitch," Thomas hisses under his breath, leaving Edwin’s side the moment the blonde is out of sight.  When he looks back, his expression softens ever so slightly. "Real neat trick, that appearing out of nowhere, again, Ghostie." 

"Edwin Payne." He holds out his hand, and Thomas shakes it with a real smile. 

"Thomas King. But my friends call me--" 

"The Cat King, yes I remember. You make quite an impression wherever you go, I must say."   

Thomas smiles just a little wider, stretching out his arms above his head, shaking loose some more of the tension any confrontation with Esther naturally brings. "Figures, after the day I've had. Came all this way, just to find out that the entire Allcott family is vacationing overseas. That's what I get for dropping in unannounced, I suppose."   

"Does that mean you're moving on?" 

Thomas hesitates, looking up at the sky as if it might answer an unspoken question, looking like whatever it’s telling him makes him unhappy, but recovers quickly. "Well, I guess I'll have to. Better not tempt fate, get moving before someone calls in the presidential army to remove my bike." He laughs and moves to shake Edwin’s hand again. "Thanks for keeping me from getting into trouble. And sorry if I caused you any, I owe you one." 

“You owe me nothing.” 

Edwin watches, silently, as the other man turns. Bends over his motorcycle as if inspecting possible damage to it, caused by one Esther Finch’s sheer proximity, nodding to himself at the end of his inspection. One leg is thrown smoothly over the bike, one hand digs in his pocket for his keys, and Edwin, still standing there for reasons unknown to himself, watches him glance upwards again and again, confusion growing as fast as the frown creeping on Thomas’s face.  

Then, the first droplet hits the very top of his head. Followed quickly by the next drip, drip, drip. 

Edwin takes a deep breath, and sighs for what seems like the hundredth time today.   

"Hells," he whispers to himself, knowing that no good will come from this, "Thomas," he calls out, and the other man, fiddling with his keys in his hands, shoots him another charming smile. He looks so tired , is what comes to Edwin’s mind, stays there. "Will you tell me something, honestly?" 

"Sure, Ghostie. I owe you one after all." Thomas barely stifles a yawn. 

"Do you have anywhere to go tonight?" 

The hands fiddling with the keys pause. The answer is obvious, but he says it anyway. "Not really. Not such a big deal, though. You don’t have to worry about me, Edwin. Cats always land on their feet." He’s shot a cheeky wink, the effect of which is utterly ruined by the rain dropping down on them, making the Cat King resemble more of a wet kitten. 

Edwin frowns, feels a surge of anger within himself.  "Well. That simply won't do. Follow my car, you can stay with me until you're sorted." 

Thomas blinks at him. "I… no, I can't do that. That's… I wouldn't wanna put you out, it's too much to ask-" 

Edwin waves his hand dismissively in the air. "I have plenty of room.  And besides, what are friends for?" 

Thomas still looks completely taken aback, but he settles back onto his motorcycle, gives a lopsided grin.  "Alright then, ghostie. Lead the way." 

Precisely three seconds after Edwin turns, starts the short trek to his parked car, his brain catches up to his actions, ' You have just invited an absolute stranger to stay in your home.  Where you sleep.  Why? Because he's handsome? Handsome people can be murderers too, you know .' 

He tells his inner voice to stop being so paranoid, so skeptical. And Thomas is not handsome. He’s ... Just not, so be quiet.   

Not that he can just dismiss the concern entirely. Edwin's aware that this is not something most people would do, and for good reason. As he looks in the rearview mirror, he wonders what this strange man must think of him. Edwin is well aware that he comes across as stuffy, overly professional to the point of seeming borderline unapproachable. He actually doesn't mind that much, because for the most part, it's true. He's very particular, set in his ways, private and while he has a good grasp on his emotions that makes him quite excellent at controlling even the most rowdy classes, he does actually have a short temper at times, coupled with a low tolerance for foolish behavior. He was astonished, therefore, to discover that he actually enjoyed teaching, a profession that was 99% frustration and ever-changing affronts to his sanity.   

The rumble of the motorcycle's engine behind his car seems quieter than normal. Perhaps due to the low speeds they maintain, as Edwin resolutely follows the speed limit to the second digit, keeps a leisurely pace en route to his house. His house is extremely modest compared to the rest of the town. It sits perched behind a small lawn, on a dead-end street at the edge of Port Townsend, where it's quiet, vehicle traffic practically nonexistent. It has two stories, two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, a lovely small fireplace in the den and a wrap-around counter in the kitchen. It isn't grand or showy; rather an unassuming powder-blue house, his escape from the world. His solitude, haven, consistency.   

He pulls into the gravel driveway, parking his car far enough along that Thomas can fit his motorcycle as well, keep it off the street. Turning off his car, Edwin pauses with his hands on the steering wheel, watching for a moment, as Thomas cuts the motorcycle's engine, walks it into the driveway, puts the stand down and unbuckles his duffle bag from the back.   

Edwin takes a deep breath. Swings open his car door. Hopes that he doesn't end up regretting this.   

The sun has only just dipped under the horizon when they enter the house, but Edwin can tell that Thomas is almost dead on his feet. The sudden awkwardness that surrounds them as soon as the door closes is almost unbearable, so Edwin starts giving instructions, falling into familiar patterns as a way to break the tension. 

"Come, I'll show you where you'll stay." 

"Appreciate it, Ghostie, really."   

For a man who looks like such a vagrant , Edwin thinks, he really is very polite.   

The 'guest room' is on the first floor. It's a small room, really only big enough for one twin mattress and a modest dresser. There's no closet, only one window, and no personal decorations at all. The linens are rudimentary and plain. The furniture in the room hasn’t been disturbed in a long time.   

"I apologize that there's not much to it; I don't entertain company often." If Edwin was being truthful, he would have said 'ever’. He actually feels embarrassed, this is what he was afraid of. Here he is, opening his life, to someone who could judge him for being so antisocial, just as so many in the past have done. There's a swell of shame that he feels bubbling in his gut, harsh criticism of his lifestyle comes back to his memory from various colleagues, neighbours. How he's so solitary, so cold, so alone. 

"Edwin, after thinking my two possible options were either to ride through the night, through the rain , or to find another bench, ostensibly public or private , this might as well be a five-star pension." Thomas laughs, sets his duffel bag gently on the floor next to the bed. He looks at Edwin like he personally saved his life. “Even better than, I’d say. Staff’s much easier on the eyes.” He adds with a wink, possible charming effect somewhat lessened by the way he’s dripping water onto the carpet.  

Edwin can't help but chuckle gently.   

"Well, I hope you don't think I'm being rude, I wouldn’t want to warrant a bad review, but I… well if I might offer a decent shower…" At Thomas’ widening smile, answering nod, Edwin holds up a hand.  "I'll get you some towels. And give me your clothes, I can wash them. Or hang them up to dry, I’m not familiar with leather, I’ll take a look at the labels I suppose," muttering more to himself than to his guest, he turns on his heel, heads for the linen closet upstairs "oh," he stops short, one foot on the step, as a thought occurs to him. "Thomas, do you need a change of clothes? Just something to sleep in, I don't think anything besides my pyjamas would fit you." He peers around the corner, looks sceptically at Thomas's frame, top to bottom and back up, silently deciding that all of his trousers would definitely have to be folded once, or twice, to fall properly around the man's ankles.   

Thomas looks mildly shocked, blinking at him.  "I… uh, I mean if it's not…" 

Edwin nods, continues his journey upstairs. While he's upstairs, retrieving towels in three sizes and a pair of freshly washed pyjamas, he hears the shower downstairs turn on. Good, at least he's been saved the trouble of explaining the intricacies of the bathroom. He’s embarrassed himself quite enough already. 

He comes back downstairs, striding briskly into the guest bedroom, stopping short at the closed door of the bathroom. There Edwin hesitates, towels in hands. He knocks lightly on the door, opens it only slightly. Just enough room for his arm, just enough to push the towels through the gap, leave them on the closed lid of the toilet, for Thomas to find when he's done. He's not sure if Thomas heard him knock, but his arm will be in and out, the door neatly shut, before his intrusion can be noted. 

The toilet seat is up. 

Edwin barely muffles his undignified noise, resigns himself to widening the door by the merest sliver, elbowing the wood just enough to shift a little bit further. If he can drop the lid down with the back of his hand, he can still follow the plan, neatly drop the towels, keep his eyes firmly set on the shiny white tiles on the wall, and slink right back out. The toilet lid is quietly lowered. Thomas whistles a jaunty tune, eyes closed, while he soaps up his hair. The towels drop on the closed toilet lid. Edwin stares, as Thomas whistles a jaunty tune while he soaps up his hair. Suds drip down much like the earlier rain, swept up by the shower running a steady stream of warm water over wet hair, wet hands, wet arms, wet shoulders, wet chest, glistening chest, good grief that chest. Edwin’s cheeks feel like they might currently give off the same amount of steam as is fogging up the mirror on the wall. 

Time, he thinks, for laundry. 

Edwin’s grateful for the small pile of laundry Thomas left on the bed for him to busy himself with. Ignoring the warmth of his cheeks, he peers at the washing label of the faded band t-shirt on the top of the pile, as he passes back through the guest room, and notices Thomas's leather jacket hanging off the bedpost. 

He shouldn't. But he does. 

Leather has always enticed Edwin. Whether it be a fine pair of Italian gloves, an expensive belt that compliments his suit so nicely, or a finely crafted genuine leather book cover. Oh, he’s long filled up the most beautiful notebook collection from England. Pure poetry, the combined scent of paper and leather. The soft creak of the spine, the shift of paper, the scrape of his pen.  

The smell of leather has always enticed Edwin. 

The jacket in his hands is black and worn, obviously not cared for in the traditional sense. There are some cracks, mild damage to the cuffs, all to be expected if worn every day. There is a large piece of artwork on the back, stitched there by someone who knew what they were doing, even if they weren't classically trained in tailoring. It's a large depiction of an orange cat, with fierce golden slitted eyes, predatory gaze locked on the viewer, as if following along with every angle. Charming, in a sense.   

Along the bottom, in a very ornate yet blocky script, framed beneath the orange cat’s unsheathed glinting claws, are the words "Cat-o-nine Carnivores." The name doesn't ring a bell, but he supposes it shouldn't. In any case, Edwin appreciates the wordplay. 

On the front of the jacket is a name patch, that reads "Cat King." Well at least Thomas wasn't lying about that. Edwin idly wonders if it's a name he gave himself, or one given to him by his peers. Or subjects? Is Thomas the leader, self-dictated King? Does he have a clowder of other leather-clad, motorcycle-riding, vagrants, with kind eyes, strong hands, broad chests…Next to it is a patch that looks like a cat’s paw print, claws out, tinted red as if bloodied. Above it, a smaller patch, a neon red crown framed in a pair of equally bright turquoise rings. Under the guise of wanting a closer look at the decorative patches, Edwin brings the jacket close to his face. His ruse falls away immediately the moment the scent of the worn leather fills his nose. Leather softly creaks in his white-knuckled clenching grip, as Edwin buries his nose near the collar and breathes in the mixed scent of the jacket itself, and the hints of Thomas’s cologne, sunk and buried into the inner layer of soft leather, from repetitive usage. He stands there, fills his nose and lungs with the enticing combination of smells, until even the air leaving his mouth tastes the same as the air flowing in with every deep pulling breath. 

Edwin hears the shower stop, and he almost trips over his own feet in his haste to get out of the guest room. He barely remembers to re-grab the small pile of laundry on his way out. The washing machine and clothes dryer are out on the back porch, and he takes in a breath of fresh air to calm his nerves as he deposits the clothes into the washing machine, with a more than modest helping of soap.   

The next stop is the kitchen. Settling on a light dinner, something filling, yet easy enough on the stomach, he thinks. Pulling ingredients out of the fridge, Edwin sets to chopping his small selection of vegetables for the stir fry. He’s almost ready to add them to the chicken, setting the bowl next to the wok, while he peers into the fridge again in search for a lemon, mentally going through the contents his spice rack.  

He hears a strange noise from the doorway, realizes with a start that Thomas is standing there, impersonating the sounds of a trumpet. "Presenting," he affects a posh accent, "the most well-dressed man in the room." Thomas ends the statement with a flourish, taking up an appropriately dramatic pose, and Edwin immediately bursts out laughing. Full bodied, head thrown back, so open and loud he fears he might come across as rude, but he can’t help it, and he doesn’t think Thomas minds, judging from his expression. It’s not something Edwin can currently decipher, struggling to blink away tears, but its near enough encouraging, as is the way Thomas keeps up his exaggerated stretches, arms swinging to and fro, to highlight, to, to entertain him . 

To Edwin’s credit, the pyjamas almost fit. At first glance. The pants are… They would be fine; if Thomas had seen fit to actually roll up the ankles. As is, the bunched-up fabric seems to pool around and over his feet, in a damning contract to the way the fabric seems to struggle at the seams near Thomas’ hips. Lengthwise, Edwin reasons their size discrepancy is easy to ignore. But there’s no denying their difference in build. The shirt ends a good four to five centimetres above the waistband of the pants, leaving an exposed stripe of abs, offering a hint of Thomas’s bellybutton. To say the rest of the shirt properly covers the remaining chest, would be straining the truth about as much as the material seems to strain with every push of Thomas’s chest, even just as he takes a breath. Edwin’s honestly surprised a button hasn’t popped off. It seems painted on him around his shoulders, and the sleeves stop well above his wrists. It's almost as if he's wearing a child's shirt. It cannot be comfortable. 

Edwin clearly underestimated their differences, but he can't stop laughing long enough to apologize.  As he gasps for breath, he actually snorts, which sets Thomas off on his own fit of laughter, except his is louder, unrestrained. He clutches the wall with one hand, his ribs with the other, beaming smiles sent Edwin’s way at the end of every bout, before he inhales, loses the air again to laughter, and Edwin reflects on what it must look like; two grown men, giggling so hard they can't speak, in the middle of his kitchen.   

Finally, Edwin is able to get himself under control, straightening, hand moving without much thought to lower the settings of the furnace, add the vegetables, while he wipes an errant tear off his cheek.  "I'm so sorry," he chuckles apologetically, "That cannot be comfortable, let me get you a T-shirt or something.” He busies himself for a bit with stirring the food, checking for any signs of burning. Nodding to himself in relief when he catches no sign of the meal lessening in quality, he turns his head to Thomas. “Do you want a different set of trousers, as well?" He adds. 

"All good, Edwin. I’m actually used to walking around without a shirt." Thomas grins, fiddling with the too-small shirt. “Do you mind?” Thomas asks, and Edwin shakes his head in a negative before he’s consciously thought of it, but truly, why would his opinion matter on something another likes to do in the comfort of his own home? He’ll just go look for the biggest shirt he owns, offer it as an option.  

Edwin turns back to the food for a final stir, before he heads back upstairs, hears the rustling of fabric, the scrape of a chair, imagines the shirt is getting neatly folded over the back. Oh.  

Edwin is partly relieved his guest feels comfortable enough in his home. He keeps his eyes on the food. Maybe just a bit more stirring. He has to make sure it doesn’t burn.  

Thomas, Edwin can tell, is trying his damnedest not to inhale his food like a vacuum does dust.  He has decent table manners, though one elbow has been planted right on the table for the entire meal. To his credit, he did put the napkin in his lap when they sat down. To Edwin’s credit, he resolutely doesn’t look further up than elbow-level. 

They finish the meal among amicable small talk, and Thomas insists on clearing the plates, even going so far as to properly rinse them, place them delicately in the rack of the dishwasher after Edwin points it out for him. "Least I can do," he insists, "Don't know if I made it clear before, but I really appreciate this. Hot shower, nice meal, and a warm bed? More than I've had freely offered in a while. So, thanks, is all.” Thomas turns to him, leaning on his hands on the counter behind him. “Thanks, ghostie."  

The smile sent his way is full of warmth as well as something Edwin can’t quite decipher, prompting Edwin to try to keep how moved he is by the heartfelt thanks hidden. "It’s nothing. Pleasant company is always welcome in my home." 

What , screams his inner voice. No it's not. You hate entertaining. Why are you lying?  

Thomas excuses himself soon after dinner, citing too many hours on the road in the last week, not nearly enough rest. They say goodnight, and Edwin snags a random book from the shelf on his way upstairs to bed. Turning the cover over in his hands once he’s settled, he can’t help but let out a little huff. In the end, Edwin can hardly focus on Pride and Prejudice, instead spends too many hours staring at the ceiling, thinking of the man downstairs, before he eventually drifts off to sleep. 

Edwin doesn't often truly dream. When he does, it's of places he'll never visit, sights he'll never see, foods he'll never taste and sounds he'll never hear. He dreams of wide-open mountain ranges, green at the bottom, snowy on top. Of long roads, veins of asphalt, cutting through fields of different coloured roses, various crops. Mom 'n' Pop Diners, that only serve the greasiest, most delicious crap food you've ever had the pleasure to eat. The salty wind of the coasts, a chill that bites your nose, whips at your hair.  

Edwin wakes up feeling trapped, practically throwing the covers off the bed in his quest for more air. When he sits up, he smells breakfast being cooked downstairs, and he hastily dresses in plain jeans, a button-down shirt, folding and pressing down the cuffs on his wrists as he cautiously pads down the stairs, steps wary. 

Thomas is definitely cooking at his stove, and he seems to have retrieved his dry laundry from the machine on the back porch. His clothes look clearly washed, fresh, clean, and utterly unconventional. Edwin thinks he recognizes the white socks, and the black shirt, though he can’t recall if the material felt quite as sheer in his hands, as it looks worn. His eyes flit between the socks and the top, down, back up, down, back up, but Edwin’s gaze can’t help its stutter in the middle. Thomas is wearing a skirt . A dark tartan, adorned with a pair of gleaming buckles, that could be decorative, could also be the fastenings, that hold the fabric tight over Thomas’s hips- Thomas is wearing a skirt , as he cooks, carefully tending to whatever he's got going with a spatula.   

Dressed in his own clothes, that fit him, Thomas looks comfortable, much more like the man Edwin had first spotted outside the school yesterday. Was it truly just yesterday? 

"Morning!" Thomas salutes him with the spatula. 

Edwin’s grateful for the distraction of glancing at the clock; 10am. He doesn't tend to sleep this late, but usually he remembers to set his alarm. "Good morning." he manages to affect a pleasant tone, unsure as he is, thoughts rolling around his head, centring on a stranger making himself so comfortable in his home, a stranger looking so comfortable, so at home, in his home. 

"Have a seat, this is just about done." Thomas spends a mere moment looking for the correct dishes and utensils, his obvious familiarity with Edwin’s kitchen just sending his head spinning again, having him sinking in his seat rather heavily as the other sets about serving up two helpings of cheese omelette. 

He tries not to look too sceptical as he takes the first bite, finds his concern absolutely unwarranted. "This is quite good," Edwin insists, completely earnest, "did you whip the eggs with milk?" He inspects the meal, sees various crumbled herbs, meticulously distributed. Thomas preens, taking a bite himself. "I know a thing or two, about a thing or two.” He winks, and Edwin can’t help his answering smile. “I wanted to pay you back for the nice dinner last night, this is really the only thing I know how to make well." He laughs. "Eggs are hard to screw up, you just have to not burn them." 

"Deceptively simple instructions." Edwin offers, thinking about all the times he has burned the eggs, spent an hour scraping it off the pan.   

They finish their breakfast, both humming contentedly at the last, flavourful bite. Washing away the last of the taste, Edwin smiles from behind the rim of his glass. "Well, you can make me breakfast whenever you can. You make good eggs." What. His inner voice pipes up, again. No, really, what.  

Thomas eyeballs him, a smirk making its way onto his face. He looks as though he's about to make a joke, or worse, an observation, but obviously thinks better of it, shifts gears. Edwin rather hates how well he can read the man across the table, that he can follow the other’s thought process plainly on his face, start to finish, while he himself is left floundering at his own mind’s whims, remnants of utter panic still clogging his throat because where the Hells did that comment come from, you idiot?  

"I'd take you up on that Ghostie, only it doesn't seem like this town will take too kindly to me wandering around." 

"They're allergic to leather jackets. We'll find you a nice tweed suit, you'll blend right in." Stop, what are you doing?  

Thomas pretends to retch, dissolves into laughter, closer to giggles, at the thought. It's rather endearing, Edwin thinks.   

Before Thomas is done laughing, Edwin tells himself to stop feeling those feelings, immediately.  But he knows himself too well. He's been down this road before. This is the beginning of a full-blown crush . On another man. Good job, Edwin, well done. 

And then the doorbell rings, and Edwin actually considers not answering it. He huffs, excuses himself, and when he realizes who it is before he opens the door, he sighs, groans, and steels himself, opening the door with the most pleasant smile he can force onto his face. 

"Ah, Madam Finch. How are you this morning?" 

Esther Finch doesn’t have to physically enter the doorway, for her expensive perfume to marinate Edwin’s entire hallway. Her forward lean doesn’t help matters, Edwin obligingly offers her his hand to clutch, if only to stave off any actual advance.  

“Edwin, dear boy, I was just in the vicinity,” she drawls, overt syrupy tone crawling out from violently red tinted lips, speaking slowly, as to prolong every second she can keep hold of Edwin’s attention, “you know the Homeowner’s Association has an ordinance against non-running vehicles,” she quips, the thinly veiled barb offered as like a sudden thought, as if they’ve been conversing for a while already, with a far from subtle side-eye thrown at Thomas’ bike, perched legally on the driveway, “but don’t fret, nobody’ll hear it from me, hm? Our little secret. That’s not at all why I’m here dear, truly, don’t fret. I’m merely confirming, transparency and all, your presence at today’s picnic, later? We all know its public, free of course, a wonderful community coming together, but you and I both know how fast the best seats fill up.” She winks, nods briskly, as if she’s sharing an inside joke. “I need to reserve your seat, at my table. Tell me I can expect you around noon?” 

When Edwin returns to the kitchen, a good few minutes later, Thomas actually looks concerned when he asks if Edwin is really thinking of going.  

Edwin sighs, refills his mug, almost wishing he could replace the coffee with something stronger.  "I'm afraid that I must, or Esther will insinuate herself into my life at every opportunity, until I join her at some other function. At least this one is out in public. If I went to one of her dinner parties, she'd probably corner me in the restroom, bite my head off. Or worse." He rolls his eyes, and Thomas chuckles. 

"Not interested, huh?" 

"That," he points at the other, "is putting it quite mildly. I mean, even if I did -" Edwin stops himself, shaking his head. Idiot , he'd almost said it out loud. "It's just that I find her repellent in every way.  Do you know," he leans forward, conspiratorially. "She's been whispering around town that so many of our town's problems would melt away, if only we segregated the schools again." 

Thomas frowns so hard his forehead creases. "Disgusting. Not one of those." 

"Oh, indeed." Edwin rolls his eyes as dramatically as possible. "And she knows just how loudly she can complain about it. Not too quietly, that no one cares, but not too loudly, not risking a backlash. She's diabolical. A right proper witch. And this town is just awful enough, to allow it." 

The kitchen fills with discussions about the horrors of middle-aged women, with far too much power and time on their hands. A part of Edwin wishes he can bring Thomas with him to the picnic. If for no other reason, than to see Esther's face when a motorcycle ruins her picnic's "immaculate" aesthetic. But he can’t do that to Thomas.  

When Thomas asks if he can use a gardening hose or something similar, to wash his bike, Edwin explains where to find the proper tools, and decides a shower would do himself some good as well. Under the hot blast of the water, Edwin does start to feel a little bit better. There was nothing like a good breakfast and a piping-hot shower to make one feel like a new man. And, thinking back on all the events of this morning, Edwin realizes they never truly broached the subject of Thomas leaving anytime soon. Edwin doesn’t want to contemplate exactly why that makes him so pleased. But he can’t not acknowledge that he is that, pleased. Greatly. Edwin engages in the guiltiest, most silent wank he's had, since he was a teenager still living at home.   

For those short, blessed moments, he forgets all about the church picnic. 

Getting dressed for a church picnic he does not want to attend, is easily the most depressing thing Edwin's done in a while. It feels like he's preparing for some sort of public execution. 

20 minutes into feeling sorry for himself, he resolves to snap out of it. There's nothing to say he even has to stay that long. He's a grown man, he can come up with an excuse to leave if he so chooses. Yes, he’s a grown man, so he needs to stop nodding at himself in the bathroom mirror. 

His nerves are getting the best of him, as they so often do, he massages his temples to expel the stress headache that's forming. He can feel his mood darkening with each passing moment, if he doesn't get it under control, he'll be miserable company for the entire day.   

The weather’s predicted to stay a bit chilly, so he dresses in charcoal slacks, paired with a deep navy dress shirt. No (bow)tie today, 5 days a week for school is enough. He matches a black pair of shoes with a grey overcoat, inspects the outfit in the mirror. Dark, yes. More suited for winter.  But he really only owns muted colors. Oranges, bright reds and light browns don't really make an appearance in his wardrobe, which probably contributes to his reputation as a cranky recluse.  Besides being reclusive and cranky, of course.  

He splashes a bit of hair treatment around to shape his hair, running a comb through it until he looks presentable. Well, he thinks, with a final nod. Now, or never.   

The Port Townsend Church is only two miles from his house, so Edwin opts for the method of getting there that will take the longest; walking. He barely remembers at the last second, to give a wave goodbye to Thomas in the driveway, the short motion of his hand as absent as the stray thought of how near domestic the quick action was. Edwin strides just a bit more briskly until he rounds the corner of the street. He walks more leisurely after, until he sees the church looming in the distance, tall, traditional, cold. It was built when the town was first settled all those years ago,  has remained a major landmark ever since. With every excuse they can feasibly come up with, the social and political elite file in and around, to see and more importantly be seen by others.  Esther Finch is very much recognized as holding a seat at the top of the hierarchy, though she has no official title to speak of.  

The church sits right in the center of town, in front of it a sprawling, meticulously maintained lawn, big enough to fit two whole soccer fields, or one extravagant picnic. Esther wasn't lying, the whole town has turned out for this event, en masse. The streets are lined with parked cars, the sidewalks crowded with those still arriving, the air smells of barbecued food, grease, and sugar from the cotton candy machine. 

Immediately, Edwin spots a few of his students, their parents. They greet him with warm smiles, some of them are even genuine.  

The picnic is quite loud and crowded, Edwin can feel a general unease settling in his gut. He was never extremely fond of crowds, in a town like this, a crowd tends to mean no escape: you just have to grin and bear it.  

In his peripheral vision, he spots a large, immaculate picnic table, clearly the one Esther has claimed for herself, surrounded by her group of disciples. They're all there, with cocktails, no food in sight, expensive handbags laid out on the table, in sight. They are all wearing the latest fashions, perfectly tailored, made up to an exquisite degree. Wax statues couldn’t peer with their skin. Esther perches in the middle of the nest, her blonde hair done up high, her makeup startling, violent. They all look to her with adoration, laughing when she laughs, leaning in close when she speaks, casting wary, judging eyes on all other attendants at the picnic.   

Oh God, she's spotted him. Edwin sees her faux-whisper to the table, and they all grin, eyeing him like a piece of meat, taking a synchronized sip from their respective drinks.   

“Edwin, darling!" Esther approaches, arms out, and he's forced into a half-hug, while she plants a kiss on each of his cheeks. "I'm so glad you could come, you really must join me at my table, the girls are just dying to talk to you." She insinuates an arm around his elbow, and begins to escort him across the green. 

"Mr. Payne, sir!"   

Oh thank God . 

Edwin stops in his tracks, probably too forcefully, because Esther stumbles a bit, though she manages to turn her sharp anger into a mildly perturbed look, all in a disturbing dangerously quick flash. Dashing across the field towards them, is none other than her own son, Monty Finch, so Edwin figures she’s hard pressed to show any real emotion, other than the perfectly palatable mix of proud and doting mother, beset by her beloved child, imploring her attention. 

"Mr. Payne, hello!" Monty practically chirps, a smile on his face. Edwin notes he barely glances at his mother. As such, the young man misses his mother’s exaggerated eye-roll, while he pulls out a familiar tome, but Edwin doesn’t need to be watching her face to know she’s displeased, with the way her nails dig into his elbow like talons. Undeterred, or simply used to surviving under extreme atmospheric pressure, Monty chatters on, his enthusiasm a very welcome distraction. Edwin leans over the boy’s shoulders, engages him, the most open interest he’s ever shown, as the teen asks him if he’s had a good day yesterday, while flipping through the pages of charts and notes, and did he notice any positive effect from Saturn’s position? When Edwin asks if Monty’d been so kind as to look up his horoscope, for the day, as he’s quite curious, the young man beams at him over his shoulder, nails prick deeper in Esther’s clenching grip, and Edwin ignores her prim tutting, waits for Monty to flip through to the prepared page with an encouraging smile. 

Things should go extremely well for you today, Capricorn, so don't shy away from anything. In fact, take this opportunity to shine as brightly as you can! Crank up your battery and project yourself into the world. You'll find that your smile is contagious, so feel free to use it often. There's a great deal of power behind your self-confidence, enabling you to tackle just about every job with energy.  

“Well, that’s a rather good one, isn’t it? Thank you, Monty, I appreciate it.” Edwin offers, bringing his free hand down on the teen’s shoulders in a gentle squeeze. "You’re welcome, sir! Oh! Have you heard? Jenny got a C+ on her last lit test, she showed me her flash cards, the ones you proposed she make, and it was just so clever, I even learned a little myself!" 

"Imagine that." Esther coos, patience obviously run out, with a barely veiled tone of condescension. She has never approved of Ms. Green, probably because of the rumored divorce she slapped her husband with. It was a well-known fact that Esther did not approve of divorce; it personally offended her on some deep, emotional level, no matter the cause. "I pity that girl, growing up without a real fatherly influence." She turns as she speaks, none too gently tugging on Edwin’s arm. “At least she doesn’t have any brothers, imagine.” 

"They seem to be doing well enough," Edwin offers, struggling to keep the disgust out of his voice. He directs a parting smile and wave to Monty as Esther drags his feet over the grass.  

"Oh yes, they seem fine now, but when they grow up… Again, for the best it’s a girl, at least. Well, you know what happens to boys raised without a strong, masculine influence."  She raises her eyebrows. "It's just a natural fact, they grow up funny . You know." She pats his arm, sighs. 

The queasy feeling in his stomach has increased ten-fold by now. This is far worse than he thought it would be. By God, this woman is like a cartoon: how can one person be so wrong about so many things, so quickly? She makes it look effortless, to be filled with this much casual contempt for good people. And Edwin's about to sit with her, at her table, pretend to be satisfied by her company. He's a coward. He hates himself.   

At first, he thinks he's imagining the drone of an engine. But as it gets louder, Edwin realizes with a jerk that he recognizes the particular pitch, and isn’t that a revelation. Yes, it's Thomas's motorcycle, over there in the road. Pulling up to the curb, parking.   

His cheek-wide smile is barely roped back into a more appropriate expression of mild amusement.   

He can't believe Thomas is here.  

"My God… is that your friend , Edwin?" Esther sneers, horrified.   

"Oh yes," he acts casual. Like this isn't completely bizarre. "It appears he was able to make it after all." Edwin politely excuses himself, pointedly doesn't walk away at full speed like a man escaping a death sentence.   

By the time he reaches Thomas on the street, at least 7 children have gathered around the shiny novelty of his bike, some of them are actually touching it. One child is gripping the handle bars and making 'vroom' noises. Thomas stands by, looking amused, answering their overlapping questions as best he can. When he notices Edwin, he smiles broadly, winking mischievously.   

Edwin comes to a stop, lifts one eyebrow at him.  

"I've come to rescue you, ghostie." Thomas announces, like its an obvious answer to a question Edwin didn’t pose. "This is real shit, isn't it? There isn't even any music. What kinda picnic is this?" Some of the children giggle at the curse word. "Also, babe, you’ve been here less than an hour and already you look fuckin' miserable." Edwin visibly deflates. He had been under the impression that he'd done a faily good job of hiding it. "Don't curse in front of the children." Is all he can think of. Right after, the realization that Thomas just called him babe comes barrelling through, and that is now all he can think of. 

"Well, come on then." Thomas throws his leg over, sits back on the motorcycle, pats the seat behind him.   

Edwin stares. 

Thomas stares back. 

Edwin’s mouth opens but it takes a second try to form the "What." 

"Come on, we're going home. There’s wine in the kitchen, and I’m pretty sure I saw a real nice vintage record player in the living room." 

"Thomas, I." Edwin shrugs helplessly, at a loss for words. "I can't just leave. And definitely not on that." 

"Course you can leave. Come on, say goodbye to- oops, here she comes." Thomas, vagrant that he is, can't even bother to hide the absolute glee spreading over his face. 

Heart in his throat, Edwin whirls around, sees Esther breezing towards them, a look of murder in her eyes. He braces himself, then deflates like a punctured balloon animal, with a slight wheeze he can’t quite smother behind a hand, when Thomas beats him to the punch, loudly. "Good afternoon! I remember you, tittering about yesterday, yeah? Never quite got your name, mine’s Thomas, Thomas King.”   

"Charmed." Esther clips out, curt, glancing at Thomas’ outstretched hand with disdain. 

"Pleasure's all mine, ma'am." Thomas quips, smoothly pulling his hand back, turning the motion into a tip of a hat that's not there, leans forward. "Say, you had a good look at her yesterday, I got her all cleaned up just earlier,” Thomas pats the bike’s seat, smiles wide, on the edge of too much so, "can I interest you in a ride around the block?" He pats the seat again, tilting his head just a bit to the side, towards her, making sure that Esther catches the challenge, the confidence in the invitation. 

Esther almost reels, recoiling with disgust. "That's a very emphatic NO from me, Mr. King . Edwin, dear boy, do come back when you're,” she waves her hand in the air, gesturing in the vague direction of where Thomas is practically preening, perched on his shining bike, arms crossed, “done, with all this." Her message is clear. G et rid of him .  She stalks away, every muscle in her body so tense, Edwin is surprised she can walk at all. When he turns back to Thomas, he sees him offer a cheeky fingerwave at her retreating back. 

When Edwin gives in to the urge to swat his arm, Thomas laughs and laughs, giggles like a child that's just pulled off a particularly dirty prank, looks just as faux-ashamed only when he fully refocuses on Edwin, and his wide-eyed stare at him. "You do realize, I'll pay for that later?" Edwin whispers from behind his clenched teeth. 

"Ghostie. What's she gonna do? Come on, now's your chance. Hop on." He scoots forward, making room. 

"I told you, I can't. I, I just-" 

"Edwin." Thomas looks him right in the eye, expression serious. "Don't worry. It's just a picnic. It'll go on without you. Who cares about what Esther says anyway? Who cares about the people who would care about what an absolute witch like Esther says?"   

The sound of his name coming out of Thomas's mouth is what calms him. Yet at the same time, his heart rate triples, he feels a surge of adrenaline. "I won't fall off?" He eyes the thin strip of seat behind the other man. It doesn't look at all secure. "Not if you hold on." Thomas starts the engine with a wink, and the nearby hovering cloud of children all exclaim in wonder at the noise, laughing, covering their ears. Some of their parents look decidedly displeased. Edwin takes a deep breath, wipes his sweaty palms on his overcoat, forces himself to throw a leg over the motorcycle, tucking up close to Thomas, an arm around his torso. "Sorry." he apologizes over the din of the engine, though he's not sure for what exactly. For touching him? 

"S'alright, babe. Hold on, we're going to be making a quick exit. The wicked witch is decidedly not happy." Thomas pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket, the motorcycle jerks forward, scaring Edwin half to death. He reflexively clings harder, pretending he didn't make a high-pitched yelp out of fear. He doesn't dare look back, to see people's reactions as the motorcycle roars away. He doesn't even want to entertain the thought of how Esther Finch is going to handle him running off without saying goodbye.   

They've gone through two corners, when Edwin realizes he's still clinging to Thomas, perhaps a little too hard. He tries to loosen his grip, he really does, but every time the motorcycle makes the slightest motion underneath his legs, he's worried that their equilibrium will be shattered and he'll go spiraling to the pavement. Also, it's an easy excuse to hold him without any guilt. This was Thomas's idea, after all. Edwin is blameless for clinging. He presses the side of his face against the leather-clad back in front of him. The smell of leather is divine, and he can feel Thomas's ribcage expanding with each breath. It's nice. It's very nice. Edwin almost wishes he lived further away. 

Thomas pulls to a stop, neatly, in the middle of the driveway. He cuts the engine, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. "See? World didn't end." Edwin releases his squid-like grip on that leather jacket, rather unsteadily dismounts the bike, trying to calm his quaking knees. "Actually, there were a few turns back there that almost proved you wrong." A bucket is placed against the garage door, probably used by Thomas when he cleaned his bike. Thomas laughs good naturedly when Edwin gives it a calculating stare, just for effect. Edwin can’t help but smile, a touch wry, marvelling just a bit inside, how easy he now falls into this, this kind of banter, teasing , with someone he didn’t even know 3 days ago.  

He looks at the bike once more, and it occurs to him, again, that he has just ditched Esther at the church picnic, in front of essentially the entire town. Not only that, but he did it clinging to the back of a man on a motorcycle. Edwin needs a good, big glass of wine, and he needs it now. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alright, let's have a drink, before I spend any more time thinking about what I've just done." 

Thomas slaps him on the shoulder with a smile, letting his hand drift to the small of Edwin’s back, and leads them both inside the house. 

Around 9:30pm, Edwin knows it's a mistake, to be drinking as much as he is. But the wine is good, a proper vintage, the kind one reserves for special occasions, the armchair is warm and comfortable, and also, the company. Thomas is making him laugh. He's telling some hilarious story, incredibly hard to believe yet endearingly earnest, with lots of arm waving and smothered giggles, as he struggles to recount the time his dorm mate’s cats took off with his clothes, after sneaking into the bathroom while he was showering. 

"And I'm not about to go chasing after them wearing nothing but a smile," Thomas shrugs wildly. "He had his girlfriend over, in the common room, and it was kind of going good for him this time, so I couldn’t exactly add a naked scruff chasing two cats down the hallway to that? So, they dash away, laughing their little heads off if they could, and I have to tiptoe slowly back across the hall to my bedroom, wearing my dirty old socks, clinging to my last shred of dignity." 

"Oh gods." Edwin collapses into a fit of giggles, turning red, as he pictures it in his head.   

"Babe," Thomas sips his wine, leans forward, his face dead serious, "when I tell you that it was the worst timing for his girl to get up off the couch and- " 

"Oh gods!" Edwin waves his hands in front of him, he really doesn't want to hear about that part. He collapses back into his chair, laughing so hard that he snorts through his nose, the sound joined and mixing with Thomas’ own delighted giggles.  

The night continues. It must be after 11 by now.   

Edwin is opening up a bit about London, what it was like to live there. Thomas has never been, though he tells him he hopes to one day visit. Edwin's rambling about the hidden treasures of London, how to avoid the tourist traps, what he’d show and recommend to Thomas, when the latter suddenly bursts out laughing, interrupts him with a heavy hand on his arm. "Ghostie, Edwin, have to stop you there," he smiles, lopsided, completely losing his composure, almost spilling the last of his wine, "you've been speaking the most unintelligible British English for five minutes, and I can't follow a single word!"  

Edwin buries his face in his hands, by the time he's done laughing there are tears running down his face. 

In the corner of his blurred vision, he sees Thomas get up, fetch another bottle of wine.  

The incessant, rhythmic buzzing by his face is quite possibly the most obnoxious noise Edwin has ever encountered in his life. He wants to kill it. Throw it across the room, stomp it out of existence. He manages to gather enough of his wits to simply smack the offending device with one hand, knock it away. He hears a clatter, and then… silence.   

Even the absence of sound seems to hurt. Oh god. My head.    

It feels like his brain has been hollowed out during the night, then shoddily put back together, with duct tape and rocks. As soon as Edwin's fully awake, he can feel the room spinning. Closing his eyes does nothing to alleviate the dizziness, quick on its heels is a fiery hot wave of nausea.   

Blearily opening one eye, trying to focus on his surroundings, he ticks off a mental checklist. It's morning, he's in his bed. In his own house. His shoes are on the floor near the bed. His belt is by his shoes. His jacket hangs on the closet door, his watch is on the nightstand. He's wearing the pants and shirt he wore to the picnic yesterday, and the covers have been kicked off the bed, onto the floor.  Also, he feels like he's been run over by a motorcycle.   

Edwin thinks back on the previous night, realizes with a fair amount of horror, he actually drank enough to black out . There's a rather significant portion of the night that he just can't remember.  Most conspicuously missing, is how exactly he got upstairs, into bed. And where is Thomas? 

Sitting up is a challenge, he tackles it slowly, bit by bit. Once upright, his body protests violently at being disturbed, rushing him to the bathroom. What comes up is mostly liquid. On top of drinking enough to temporarily drown his brain, he recalls that he didn't eat much the previous day either. Not that he laments any real loss at missing out on the church picnic. He does berate himself, being so careless with his drinking, as he fills the sink with cold water, unceremoniously dunks his whole head in it. He must look ridiculous, but it feels so good. It takes away the dull ache of nausea, anyway.   

Staring at himself in the mirror, Edwin sends a base thanks to anyone willing to listen that at least it’s Sunday, and he’s not supposed to be at work already. He’d seriously consider calling out sick, something he’s never done in all the years he’s worked at the school. Drying himself off with a towel, Edwin tries to compose himself. While not an official school day, he, as a teacher, still has papers left to grade, tests to prepare. He dresses slowly, makes his way downstairs. The nausea has mostly subsided, but his head is still pounding, and he feels overwhelmingly dehydrated. If there are any bottles of wine left in his pantry, Edwin resolves to pour them down the sink.  

When he enters the kitchen, he finds Thomas, drinking pitch black coffee, with a stone serious expression. He has an ice pack resting on his head as he reads the paper, blinking as the words obviously don’t register, Edwin figures he looks a fair bit like Edwin feels. When he sees his host entering the room, Thomas fumbles for words a bit, but collects himself, manages a wry grin.  "Overdid it a bit, didn't we?" 

Edwin nods, sits across from him, feeling like he's aged 50 years in one night. "I need water. I need some sort of caffeine. And then I have work to do." 

Thomas immediately takes on the task, expertly throwing two pieces of bread into the toaster, pouring an extra cup of coffee from the freshly brewed pot. He puts it in front of Edwin, returns to the kitchen counter for the now toasted bread and a glass of cold water.   

Edwin takes a sip of the water first, it's so cold he can feel it traveling all the way down his throat, into his stomach. "Thank you, my friend." He sighs in relief, braving a few nibbles of the dry toast, starting in on the coffee. "Forgive me, there is a lot from last night I don't remember." 

"Oh yeah?" Thomas hums, gets up to refill his own mug with more coffee. 

"I haven't lost time like that in ages, not since I was much younger. I honestly can't recall how the night ended, or getting in my bed at all." 

"No worries, I remember all of that. I carried you up the stairs, but you made a valid effort of your own, in your defence. S'a good thing we stayed home instead of going to a bar though, don’t think either of our legs, or any limbs really, would’ve been steady enough for a ride home. That was some good vintage."  

Edwin frowns, rests his head on his arm. "Don't drive drunk ever ," he scolds weakly, "I'd be very upset if you were killed in some horrible accident." 

"Nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. I would’ve gotten us a taxi, babe." Thomas chuckles, refreshing Edwin's cup.   

"Did… Did you put me to bed?" Edwin murmurs into his arm, too embarrassed to make eye-contact.  He almost keeps the question to himself, but the curiosity is killing him.  And his history as an affectionate drunk, poses the ever-more embarrassing unspoken question; what exactly had he said last night, if anything? 

Immediately, Edwin can tell that Thomas is watching his words. "Yeah. You were three sheets to the wind, so after I walked you upstairs, I just made sure to put you on your side." He gives a good-natured smile, choosing to lean against at the table, inhaling the scent of the coffee.   

"Not too much trouble, I hope? It's been a long time since I've had that much to drink in one sitting." 

"Nah, Edwin. You were fine."  He says it with a thread of finality, Edwin can't help but feel that it's not the whole story. But he doesn't have the energy, the brain cells, the confidence to figure it out right now. He gulps down the water, munches the toast, sips the last of the coffee. He feels like something resembling a human again, afterwards, he feels like maybe it's possible to finish out the day without further ailments. He shoots a thankful smile at Thomas. 

"Do you have any plans today?"   

"Was thinking of a walk. Get a bit more of a sense of the neighbourhood? It's a nice day, I could use the exercise." Thomas stretches his arms to the ceiling as he talks, and perhaps Edwin’s head isn’t that fully clear yet, because he permits himself a peek at the muscled torso displayed as a result, without a shred of guilt. Maybe it’s the same kind of guilt-less, freeing kind of confidence, that drives Edwin forward. 

"That sounds like a good idea, actually," Edwin retrieves his coat from the front hall closet, "I'll join you, come on. Let’s steady our legs." 

The weather is quite nice, the neighbourhood a calm picturesque backdrop. Edwin ponders it might actually be enjoyable, if they didn’t walk side by side, swinging wildly from awkward, stilted small talk, to complete silence. It feels like torture. Edwin is sure that he somehow utterly embarrassed himself last night, and Thomas is too kind, or worse, too mortified to bring it up. If only he could remember, but it's not coming back to him. There are several times where Edwin finds himself leaning or straight up bumping into Thomas, as his feet struggle to task on auto-pilot, while Edwin’s mind is racing. 

On one such brush of their shoulders, Edwin tilts his head to apologize, when a flash, an image, comes unbidden to his mind; Thomas's face, in quite a close proximity to his own. That happened last night, as well. Thomas looked tired, but amused, and he's saying something. Edwin replays the image in his mind, again, again, like a broken record. The complete image is so close, so within his grasp, yet so far away, intangible.  Again and again, he pores over the memory, certain that it's from last night.  Thomas's face, close by, slightly above his own? That would only make sense if he was leaning over him, considering the man isn’t naturally taller than him. Thomas looking at him, then looking away.  Looking at him, then looking away. Saying something . Saying something with a wry grin, sympathetic eyes.   

This memory can't be from his imagination. It's from last night, and his damn brain won't give up the clues.   

He's interrupted by the present. "Edwin, are you okay?" He hums in reply, already knowing the other won’t be convinced. "Come on Ghostie, we’re going home.” A strong arm wraps around his waist, warm hand dipping lower, steadying pressure on his hip. “I think a nice nap on the couch might make you feel better."   

Edwin smiles. Thomas is a good, caring man. 

Make you feel better.  

Feel better.  

When you feel better.  

Maybe when you feel better-  

Listen, when you feel better-  

You're not yourself, but when you're feeling better-  

" Listen Ghostie, babe ," a gentle, reassuring voice, "y ou're not yourself right now. But, maybe, when you're feeling better, you could ask me again? " 

Edwin feels his face go white, he’s grateful for the arm around him, as he suddenly feels dizzy.   

Oh. Oh no. Oh Hells.  

The internal panic swelling, raging within his gut, keeps Edwin from focusing on anything for the rest of the day. He's gone through all the trouble of defeating his hangover-related queasiness, only to have it replaced with the vomit-inducing terror, realizing he'd come on to a man, a man that he hardly actually knew, truly, while blackout drunk.   

A drifter, a vagrant, with an endless supply of charm, who curses around children, makes a damn strong cup of coffee. A man, who smiles with perfect teeth, rides a motorcycle that's louder than a jet engine, is probably part of a violent biker gang, and tucked Edwin into bed, making sure to lay him on his side. This is who he fell for.   

It's not his fault. Edwin himself, is the one who'd lost control of his faculties, embarrassed the poor man. He's the one who has obviously said something, something completely inappropriate and forward, ruined the comfortable friendship they've only just begun. 

A sudden revelation. Edwin can play dumb. Pretend he has no idea it happened. Who's responsible for every little thing they do, when they're blackout drunk anyway? 

Well, adults . Edwin scolds himself. He'd never be able to pull it off, it's not the right thing to do anyway. He sits in the same armchair he occupied last night, drinking bland tea this time, to settle his stomach, and stares at the wall. He doesn't want to face what he's done. Thomas didn't bring it up in the morning, so there was clearly no rush to get it sorted, on either end.   

His mind drifts back, yet again, to the recently uncovered memory. "When you're feeling better, ask me again?"  

Edwin groans under his sighing breath, frustrated. Thomas said 'ask me again.' That meant he wanted another chance at whatever Edwin had offered, if his memory serves correctly. But that's the thing: memory is not serving . He doesn't even know what he's supposed to ask for, again. Did he ask Thomas to kiss him? To fuck him? Did he ask for a goddamn bedtime story? Or to be the big spoon for the night? Suppose he gathers enough courage, brings it up again, and it turns out to be nothing romantic at all?   

He's too afraid of succeeding, he's too afraid of failing.  So, he resigns himself to spending the rest of his life in this moment, sitting in this armchair, not moving. He'll just be here, forever, with no answer. 

He's the Schrodinger's Cat of romantic and sexual frustration. 

So, they don't talk about it. Thomas had gone out again, earlier, stating the need for a grocery run, and as soon as he steps back through the door, Edwin raises to join him in the kitchen. After unloading the bags, they cook together, bustling around the kitchen, around each other, in easy, companionable silence. Edwin breathes an internal sigh of relief, while he peels potatoes. Maybe they don't have to talk about it. Maybe they can just pretend it never happened. It's a nice dinner. They talk about their day, how Edwin managed to plow through grading tests, what Thomas thought of the neighbourhood. They clear their plates together, wash the dishes side by side. Thomas is only a little quieter than normal, before he says that he'll be swinging by the Allcott estate again, tomorrow. The casual reminder leaves Edwin reeling by the sink.  

Has it been only two days, three? Sounds like an eternity, at the same time, just the blink of an eye. 

Edwin says goodnight as soon as the lull in conversation permits, heads upstairs. He doesn't hear Thomas's bedroom door shut below him, until several minutes later. He sits on his bed, bare feet on the floor, for far too long. He's not even doing anything. He's just staring at the wall, while his brain tells him all the ways this can go wrong, all the ways this can go right .    

You can do this , says his brain. Look at the facts. He invited you to try again, he just didn't want to take advantage of you while you were drunk. How noble! How respectful! You should suck his cock, I'm certain he'd let you!  

  Are you completely insane , squeaks his brain in retaliation. Thomas is a nice man, yes, but don't be an idiot, confuse that with wanting to jump into bed with you. Can you even trust your memory? Are you sure what you remember, is what actually happened?  

Edwin wracks his brain. The memory seems so real. It's detailed, in a way that he's sure he couldn't concoct in his own imagination.   

Soon enough, the confusion and fear turns to anger.   

Fuck this , he thinks. Hells, fuck this. I'm going down there. I refuse to be afraid in my own home. I know him. I do. We haven't known each other for very long, but I know him, and I know he wouldn't be violent with me.    

Edwin stands, softly crosses the room. He opens the door as quietly as he can, descends the staircase softly, stalking like a cat. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he peeks around the corner, sees that the light is still on in Thomas's room, but it's very quiet. He approaches the door, and then stares at it, for a full 15 seconds. 

He knocks. A task more difficult than one would assume. Knock too loud, and it sounds angry, knock too quietly, and if it's even audible, it sounds too tentative. Confidence, Edwin, confidence.    

"Yeah?" Comes the muffled response, from behind the closed door. "Come in." 

Edwin opens the door, finds Thomas sitting on the guest bed with a book. It's one of Edwin's books, from his extensive travel library. This one is a book of photography from London.  He watches as Thomas slips a piece of paper in it, to hold his place, sets it down on the bed.   

Shit . Edwin swallows. He really hadn't rehearsed what he would say. He scrambles for the words, hoping for a stroke of insight, something to give him a suave and smooth opening line, for the dialogue they're about to have. "I'm not drunk." Is what eventually comes out. Thomas gives him a questioning look, an eyebrow raise, that quickly lowers, fades into comprehension. He sits up a bit straighter.  "And your offer still stands?" 

Edwin feels his face turning redder by the moment. "I have to be completely honest. I can't remember what it was exactly, that I did offer. But I remember you telling me to try again. When I wasn't a disgraceful mess." 

Thomas chuckles, and Edwin’s heart lurches about in his chest for all that the sound soothes him so, or maybe exactly because of how much he lets it. "You weren't a disgraceful mess. You were fine, like I said. Just. Very open , I guess is the word for it? Almost a different person." 

Edwin looks at the floor. "A better person?" 

"No." Thomas says, firmly, standing up and crossing the floor to stand directly in front of Edwin. "No, I like the real Edwin better. That's why, I wanted to make sure that drunk Edwin and real Edwin felt the same way on this particular subject." Edwin can't stop a smile from inching onto his face. "You know, you're a walking example of the idiom, 'don't judge a book by its cover.'" Thomas takes that final step forward, shrinking the distance between them, allowing their chests to brush just the slightest bit at their synchronized intakes of breath. "I like to keep people guessing. Part of my charm." 

"So, what exactly did I offer?" 

The slightly shorter man laughs, low and soft.  "Hm, well. I think your exact words were, 'let me make you feel good, Cat King.'" 

Edwin can't help but scoff. It doesn't sound like something he'd say, and yet he believes Thomas implicitly. It's so unbelievable, that there's no way he'd say it, if it wasn't true. One of those, 'you can't make this stuff up' situations.   

But the words are out there, now. He said them, they both know it. All of his cards are on the table. 

He lifts his eyes from the other’s lips, they meet Thomas's. Edwin leans forward, their chests are fully touching, tension in the air so thick it's almost tangible. This close, he can smell the other's unique scent; skin, sweat and a tantalizing hint of leather. "Let me make you feel good, Cat King ." 

It’s easy, after that, to shove Thomas backwards, until his back collides with the wall next to the bed. The kiss only breaks when Edwin can’t ignore his need to breathe any longer. Thomas tips his head back, against the wall, voicing a heartfelt groan at the insistent press of Edwin's body against his, and Edwin can’t just leave that be. He ducks forward, trailing open-mouthed kisses, from the corner of Thomas’s jaw, stubble scraping against his lips, to where his shirt meets his throat. Thomas outright whines, when Edwin sinks his teeth into his neck, one hand flying up to grab at Edwin’s hair, while the other scrabbles at the wall, for purchase. Edwin laughs, something feral, almost unhinged in his satisfaction, his glee, hard won overcoming of doubt, and licks over the bite to soothe. He wonders if it’ll leave a mark. The placement, means it probably won’t be visible under his leather jacket, but frankly, that just makes Edwin want to try again. He shoves a thigh between the other’s, trails back up to his mouth. 

Their second kiss is slightly less violent, but no less passionate for it. Edwin tries to take note of everything that makes Thomas moan or shudder against him. He’s desperate for this to be as good as he promised. Nibbling his lip, flicking his tongue, just behind teeth. Rolling his hips knocks an almost desperate noise out of the other, Edwin pulls back from their kiss with a laugh, a little less feral this time. Thomas is panting, but smirking, as well. 

“Knew you proper British men liked a bit of rough play.” He quips, and Edwin jerks his leg up, just enough pressure to border on painful, a teasing reprimand for the arrogance. Thomas shocks him, when his eyes roll a little, he moans weakly, hips jerking into the touch, and oh. Edwin will have to keep that in mind, then. Thomas grins, follows the pull towards the bed. 

“Clothes,” he pleads into the other’s lips, unwilling to fully break the contact to get the words out, letting the frantic clenching and pulling of his hands on Thomas’ clothes do most of the talking, “ off , now, please. I need you naked, yesterday.” Thomas laughs at him, but its weak, and his hands brush off of Edwin’s back with purpose, going to his boxers while Edwin attacks his own clothes with far less finesse, uncaring of any seams protesting. He leans back only just enough to get his own clothes off, let Thomas sit up as much as he needs to finally pull his shirt off his shoulders, over his head. Edwin’s hands tangle in the soft curls as soon as the fabric clears, tongue nudging in, sliding over the top of Thomas’ mouth in a long, wet swipe. Time seems to suspend and stretch, for a bit, as Edwin lets himself get lost, in the kiss, the feeling of so much naked, tanned skin caressing his. He didn’t knock on the door with a specific plan, didn’t dare hope, even, but the moment his eyes fall down to Thomas’s cock, any possible plan for the night is automatically, totally, derailed. Edwin wants that inside him, preferably about three minutes ago, but as soon as physically possible, now, will do just fine. 

His mind blanks, stalls, when underneath him Thomas spreads his legs , as much a show as it is invitation, and reaches up to pull Edwin down when he inevitably, subconsciously, bends within reach. “Fuck, so good. Tell me you have lube, babe, Edwin.” Edwin’s sure his grip on the other’s hips is bruising, but he needs the grip to ground him, as he gathers his bearings for what feels like the third, fourth time tonight.  

The first touch of his fingers to Thomas’s ass is almost a shock, the lube still a little cold, his touch uncertain, almost light enough to tickle, but that doesn’t last long. Thomas holds Edwin’s gaze, until the first finger truly starts to slip inside, then he can’t, tossing his head back, whimpering at the feeling. Edwin pauses, once his finger is sunk to the knuckle, barely holding back his eye-roll when Thomas shifts, impatiently, thumping at Edwin’s back, gently, with his heel. Edwin can’t quite manage to hold in his chuckle, but starts to move, slowly at first, quicker the louder Thomas gets. He wants, Edwin needs to do this right. 

It’s barely been a full two minutes before Thomas resorts to begging. “More, please, fuck , babe.” he gasps, hips jerking, gasping each time Edwin’s finger sinks all the way inside him. Figuring the other probably knows his own limits better than Edwin does, he obliges, and a second finger makes Thomas’s back arch, sharply. Edwin crooks his fingers, drawing the loudest noise yet, in reward. He bends forward, presses a soft kiss to fluttering stomach muscles. Below his chin, Edwin can feel the heat coming off of Thomas’s cock, that as well as the steady stream of pre-cum leaking from the tip, is enough positive feedback to boost his confidence. Licking his lips, he presses a light kiss to the side of the twitching erection, pushing it into Thomas’s skin, just to share in the pleasure of the hot shaft nudging his cheek. He’ll definitely be shoving that down his throat, at the next opportunity.  

For now, though, he has other things to focus on. Edwin’s fingers spread out inside Thomas, who moans, pulling at the bed sheets, kneading the pillow beneath his head, just for something to do with his hands. It feels so fucking good , the clenching of fluttering muscles around his digits, the tight wet heat surrounding, pulling, welcoming his fingers inside.  

“I’m ready, Edwin, come on,” Thomas murmurs, pulling Edwin down with a hand behind his neck, close enough for the soft entreaty to reach his ear, before teeth close around his earlobe in a nip, and hover right beside it, after, to whisper “make me feel good, Ghostie.” It’s only the barely-there distance that allows Edwin to hear, and savour, the soft whimper Thomas lets out, when Edwin removes his fingers from Thomas’s ass.  

After lubing up his own cock, near aching hardness Edwin hadn’t even registered, in his focus on Thomas, Edwin keeps a hold at the base of it, shifts, bends a little, so they’re lined up. Before he moves, before he can, he has to breathe and tremble through the wave of how desperately he wants this. Thomas’ hole clenches down weakly, brushing against the head of his cock. Edwin shudders. Can he do this? Can he truly make Thomas feel good, him? He leans a little forward and says, in a voice that sounds absolutely wretched, pathetic to his own ears, “Thomas, I need you to ask for this.” 

He’s prepared for Thomas to refuse, to deflect, falling back on teasing and cajoling, until he gets what he wants. What he must truly want, which surely isn’t Edwin’s inexperience. He’s also prepared for a straightforward, forceful request, a command that he can immediately fulfil. He’s absolutely not prepared for the wavering, “ Please , Ghostie, I want you.” that falls from Thomas’s lips. 

“Hells.” Edwin gasps, almost involuntary, hips shifting forward to push the head of his cock inside. There’s so much pressure, Edwin swears he can feel the walls stretch and form around his cock, and Thomas groans, long and low. Satisfied. Edwin’s hands on the other’s thighs are trembling, entire body held taut. He can’t remember ever being this connected, surrounded, it’s like a revelation; even more so when he’s fully seated in tight wet heat, panting, and Thomas growls, a sound Edwin can feel in his gut, travelling straight to his cock. 

“ Fuck. ” he hisses. Edwin’s hips start to roll, instinctively, without his input. Thomas’s hands grip at any part of Edwin he can reach, his clenching grip definitely hard enough to bruise. “ Edwin ,” he whines, and Edwin thinks he’d be perfectly content if Thomas never used his name outside of sex, as long as he always sounds like that when he says it. “Thomas,” he gasps back, and with concentrated effort, pulls himself nearly fully out of Thomas’s ass, just to nearly slam back in. The flare of pleasure is so bright, he’s helpless to do anything but immediately repeat it, again, again, with Thomas helping build their combined pleasure, meeting Edwin’s thrusts with rhythmic rolls of his ever-reddening ass cheeks on the bed. 

They settle into a rhythm, not quite fast, hardly sedate, and Edwin’s reduced to grunts and bitten off gasps, embarrassingly quickly. Thomas is not much better off. Edwin hears him, he seems to be almost growling, continuously, low rumbles reverberating from his chest, escaping his clenched teeth and throat bared, as he arches back, matches Edwin thrust for thrust. Edwin closes his eyes, fighting the still near over stimulating combination of sounds, sensations that surround him, cloying, even with the lack of vision. Edwin doesn’t know how long it goes on, but despite his best efforts, the onslaught of pleasure is far too much, too intense, so it’s not nearly as long as he’d like before he feels the signs of impending orgasm are getting harder and harder to ignore. “Close.” He whimpers, now struggling to open his eyes, shuddering when he manages it and his gaze lands right on Thomas’ own eyes piercing his. Their legs tremble together, so it’s a marvel how Thomas still manages to keep his voice steady. “Want it,” he purrs, heels coming down over Edwin’s lower back, trapping, as if there was any chance of Edwin not wanting to live and die right where he is right now, “make me feel good, Edwin. Come inside me.” Edwin can feel his hips jerk violently at the words, the heels on his back switching to an even more restraining hold in answer, and he’s helpless, the sharp clench of Thomas’s ass around him, the prolonged effort to keep his orgasm at bay almost making black spots dance in his vision, so he gives in. His cock empties, pumps come into and right back out of the other’s ass with an obscene squelching sound, slick dripping and escaping past Edwin’s cock as he’s held inside, as he softens with little aftershocks, twitches. Only when his lax cock has softened to the point of sliding out of Thomas’s ass of its own accord, does Edwin pull his hips back with any real strength or purpose to the motion.  

Thomas’s cock is as wet as his ass, twitching violently, angry, against his hipbone. Edwin slides uncoordinated down the bed, engulfs it into his mouth and throat. It hits the back of his throat immediately, painfully, and Edwin heaves back up amid sudden choking, a deluge of saliva rushing into and out of his mouth, while his eyes water. “Fuck! Edwin, wha-” Thomas cries out, elbows failing to support his body, falling back down on the bed with a gasp, when Edwin aims and spits the rest of slick that’s in his mouth directly on the cock held tightly in his left hand, and wraps his lips around the head again straight after. This time, Edwin makes sure to keep his hand steadily wrapped around the base, and his lips wrap snugly around the shaft as he bobs his head, taking his descent a bit slower, but no less enthusiastic. When a trembling hand shifts through his hair, and he hears a serious warning of the other’s orgasm approaching, Edwin’s answering swallow is obvious, pointed. Some of Thomas’s come escapes, trickles out, through the corners of Edwin’s stretched lips, but Edwin’s pleased enough to hum around the softening cock in his mouth, pulling out one last twitch, as he preens at the fact that he still managed to swallow down most of it.  

The bed is still an utter mess, far from pleasant, not conductive for a good night’s sleep. And they’re both even more so a mess, sweaty, rapidly drying fluids of various origin marking their skin. When Thomas pulls Edwin close, he follows with a laugh. When he peers around Thomas’s broad chest, to see just what he’s doing with his arm that seems to be fumbling around the nightstand, he laughs so hard and fast he snorts, and Thomas kisses the happiness off and back into his lips, while he drops the cord to the alarm clock to the floor next to the bed. The thought that tomorrow’s Monday, a school day, passes out through his head as swiftly as it entered. 

It’s the best sleep he’s had in years. 

Thomas is reading a London travel guide. The other book, that Edwin had seen him leaf through the previous evening, sits on the nightstand, open. From his position on the bed, most of his body actually sprawled across Thomas, with his head cushioned on the soft spread of skin between chest and lower stomach, Edwin can see a two-page map of the London underground. When he tilts his head up, he sees the back of the London travel guide.  

“Anything interesting?” He manages to whisper, swallowing back the slightest twinge of pain the words still bring with them. 

Edwin would be more embarrassed, his throat so sore his voice creaks out of him, like he’s taken up smoking with an avid need to make up for all the years of abstinence, if it hadn’t been so helpful earlier, when he phoned into work. Mick, part of the school administration staff, had listened to just two lines of Edwin calling in sick, before he ordered him to take an extra day, and get his ass back in bed.  

The fingers curled around the guide-book drop lower, bringing Thomas’s smiling face into view. “Did you know,” he starts, while one hand presses the book down to his chest, and his other takes advantage of the space to reach for a glass of water on the nightstand, that he offers to Edwin while he continues, “that the Tower Bridge is apparently haunted? For years, visitors have claimed sightings of a British police bobby patrolling the bridge, and a woman in black roaming the night.” Thomas goes on, affecting a faux serious tone, leaning in with such gravitas, that Edwin smiles so widely around the glass perched on his lip, he nearly spills. 

“Utter tripe.” He mutters back, still smiling. 

“What? You’re not the least bit curious? Don’t want to investigate?” Thomas teases, wrapping an arm around Edwin’s waist as soon as the glass is safely placed aside, pulling him in and leaning his head down slow enough for Edwin to turn his face, dodge the kiss, should he want.  

“We could go for a stroll, I suppose. Do the rumours define what constitutes as ‘night’, for the woman in black to be strutting about? Should we bring flashlights?” Edwin drops his chin on the other’s chest, as he indulges him, indulges them both. He waits, with a soft smile on his face that he can’t keep back, as his lover hums in deep thought. 

“We might as well find a place close by, babe. We’re going to need more than one stroll, might have to walk across and around the area a good number of times. This sort of thing requires commitment.” 

Edwin leafs through the London photography book. Pages turn, until he reaches the area in question, at which point he places his thumbs on either side of the open book, lets himself fall back into Thomas’s chest. The other man shifts the guide from his chest as Edwin nears, making place for Edwin’s head, and together they move on the bed until they’ve slotted together, in the perfect position to view the book Edwin now holds up for them both to see.  

“Which side of the bridge, then? We need to think this through.” Edwin mumbles, more to himself than to the other, though he keeps his words audible enough, for the other to hear. He feels Thomas dip his head, kiss him softly behind his ear. A nose nuzzles into Edwin’s hair, still slightly damp from their earlier shower.  

“As far as I’m concerned, Ghostie, we have all the time in the world.” 

Edwin hums his assent, thumb gently swiping over the various photos of Potters Field Park, looking at the streets around the bridge, the nearest schools, thinking of checking up on traffic laws, possible necessary licensing for the motorcycle. All the things one should consider, really. 

This sort of thing requires commitment. 

Chapter Text

Third time's the charm right? At least that's what Edwin is hoping, as he approaches the solid wood door of the windowless shop, for the third time that week. He'd come by the first time, hoping to ask for help with a product he'd ordered off the internet, but had cowardly, damnably turned right back around, fled, the moment he saw the man at the counter. The second time, he'd retraced the path with a small amount of hope, holding out on the thought that maybe it wouldn't be that same man on shift again, perhaps someone less, less attractive , possibly female, would be working instead.  

No such luck.  

So again today he'd taken the bus, with the object in question firmly buried, hidden at the bottom of his shoulderbag, and when he got off at the stop directly across from the shop, he’d gone and walked right past. After doing a few loops around the block, Edwin finally works up his courage, waits for the streets to be clear, before heading for the shop.  

He yanks the door open much harder than he means to, in his haste to work past his reticence, it slams back against the wall, making him wince. Edwin's shoulders draw up to his ears almost as fast as he’s sure he’s just drawn everyone’s attention to himself. Nervously, he glances around the shop, and is pleased to see it surprisingly empty. As he ventures forth, sliding off his shoulderbag and placing it on the counter, he lets his eyes trail over the shelves. The shop remains silent. There are no other customers, no one stands behind the counter. Maybe today, his luck will have finally turned.  

He’s halfway through the first line of shelves when the door to his right opens. It separates the warehouse from the front store, Edwin observes silently, as he spots several more lines of densely packed shelves in the short span of time the door is open, before it closes again with a soft, muted, almost admonishing click. The man now leaning with his back against the door is equally quiet, for all that his presence in the room is unbearably loud, or maybe that’s just the blood rushing to Edwin’s face and ears as soon as their eyes lock. The ridiculously attractive man offers him a soft ‘hi’ along with a wave of his fingers as he walks past, towards the front of the shop.  

It's the last thing Edwin sees before he's running out the door as fast as his legs will carry him.  

Thomas watches him go, still with a smile, as he rounds the corner and stands behind the counter. The poor thing left his bag behind.  

The little ting of the bell, attached to the door, feels exceptionally mocking to Edwin. It’s slightly less than ten minutes later, that he crosses the threshold once more. His eyes are drawn immediately to the brown shoulderbag on the counter, and the man leaning on his elbows, right next to it.   

“So, can I help you, or are you just browsing?”   

Edwin’s hands itch, to grab, clench fingers, dig and twist a leather strap that isn’t currently around his shoulders, so instead the nervous energy redirects itself into his legs, taking him at a brisk pace straight to the counter before his mind can fully put the thought to their intent. It’s only actually about five steps, leaving him with an excess of nerves, still, that even more unfortunate than any other kind of limb, find no better outlet than his mouth.  

“I have a question for you.”  

The other man, who in Edwin’s mind could give the models on the front pages of the magazines on the rack near the counter a run for their money, simply tilts his head forward. He leans over the counter, conspiratory, and smiles, winks at Edwin in a way that he supposes should have a disarming, charming effect, all part of customer service, but makes Edwin feel more like he’s walked into a trap, and the bars have just snapped shut.  

“Well, I hope it’s related to sex ,” he faux-whispers, “because if you’re looking for the bus schedule, you’re in the wrong place.”  

Edwin knows if he doesn’t get it out now, he won’t, ever. So, he resists the urge to roll his eyes, and trudges through. “I bought something. Ordered it, off the internet. But it doesn’t- It won’t work properly, for me. On me .” His hands reach for his bag, start fiddling with the strap to ground him. “Is there such a thing as a guide? A book, on- on toys. If so, I’d like to purchase it.” And leave immediately , is left unspoken, but clearly broadcasted between their eyes as they lock over the counter.  

“Going to need a bit more information than that,” the man starts, slowly walking back around the counter, trailing his fingers over the glass as he rounds it. Edwin takes a small step back, then another, keeping space between them, as the other man leans against their shared side of the glass, head tilted towards the nearby rack of books and magazines, the rest of his body quite deliberately framed towards Edwin, at an angle Edwin is damn sure he’s well aware shows off his best features.   

“There are, of course, many guides and books.” One arm extends, bracelets and rings catching the dim mood-lighting in the store, as the man gestures with a wave of his fingers, at the many books lining the shelf. “Much as there are many different sex toys. So, if you’re looking for a specific guide, for a specific toy you purchased, you’re going to have to let me know what you bought, specifically .” The man emphasizes his words with an exceedingly expressive face, not bothering to hide his amusement, near glee, at luring Edwin into expanding his question, digging deeper. It’s all just on the proper side of honest, innocent inquiry. Customer service, strictly professional. If not for the smirk, the eyebrow raises, the casual way he’s leaning steadily forward, into Edwin’s personal space. Damn him, above all, for being handsome enough to pull off that kind of attitude, make it work , having Edwin turn to his bag, open it, pull out the box nestled at the bottom, and hand it, to an unnamed employee in a sex shop, all with only minor trepidation.    

Chapter Text

“My name’s Thomas, by the way,” the other man offers, still smiling, as he takes the box from Edwin’s hands, “follow me.” He adds, walking away to another side door, box under his arm, gesturing Edwin inside with a theatrical sweep of his free arm. Edwin walks into what he assumes is the staff break room. Not that he takes much note of it, crossing straight to the three-person couch against the far wall, eyes flicking to the coffee table, two single chairs across from it, back to the table, as he sits at the other’s prompting. The box gets placed on the low table, and Edwin nods politely when the man, Thomas, excuses himself for a moment, leaving the room to close the front door. Before Edwin can spiral too far into doubts of what exactly is happening here, what is he doing , the other returns, sits on the other end of the couch. Edwin notes the sufficiently respectable distance, and that, along with the way the other reaches for the box that started it all, with a reassuring neutral expression, actually helps ease Edwin somewhat. By the time the box sits innocently on Thomas’s lap, and hands start to lift the lid, Edwin is far less nervous as he predicted he’d be. Still quite embarrassed, though.  

He can only stand to peek from the side, as the vibrator is taken out of the box, colour almost violently pink in the gentle lamplight. He blushes, worse than he did when he unwrapped it himself for the first time, seeing it held in someone else’s hands, Thomas’s hands. Putting the empty box back on the coffee table, Thomas holds the vibrator at the base with one hand, while he turns sideways on the couch, knee bending and angling his body towards Edwin.  

“First things first, this right here,” Thomas starts, waving the vibrator in his hand, “is a rabbit vibrator, meant for women. That’s your problem, ok.” Before Edwin can reply, verbally, the blood rushing to his cheeks undoubtedly visible enough already, an answer in itself, Thomas continues. “Second, hey, it is a much more common mistake than you think, so don’t sweat it. I get it, I do. Internet sex toy purchase, your first, I presume? You’re embarrassed, so you’re rushing it before your courage runs out, you’re clicking and adding to cart and paying before you can chicken out.” Edwin just nods, in tandem with Thomas, as he explains exactly what happened to land Edwin on this particular couch. Thomas keeps his tone professional, neutral, and Edwin finds himself clinging to the sense of normalcy that the other creates. This is normal. He’s a customer, he’s getting customer service. He can get through this.  

“And then you end up with a women’s vibrator, and you can’t get it to work properly, cause this bit right here,” Thomas holds up the vibrator as he speaks, pointing, running his finger along the smaller extension that protrudes from the base alongside the main, bigger silicone shaft, “is there to stimulate a clit, which I’m guessing you don’t have. And now you’re here, and you must be so pent up, you poor thing.” Edwin’s knee jerks, when Thomas gently places his hand just above it, palm squeezing, equally gently if no less shocking. “You’ve come to the right place sweetheart, I can definitely help you.” Thomas’s hand stays on Edwin’s thigh, burning hot through his pants at every single point of contact, as Thomas’s upper body leans away, vibrator placed back into the box on the table, as he continues to talk. “So, that’s either a refund, or you can exchange it right here for whichever you prefer once we’re done. Let me know, later, okay? Right now, I just need a few things for the demonstration.”  

Edwin’s not sure if that is a part of regular customer service. Edwin is sure, however, that he must’ve said that out loud, because Thomas chuckles and his head is suddenly really close as he whispers back “Wouldn’t call it regular customer service sweetheart, but I pride myself on going above and beyond, and this is a service I most certainly won’t mind providing.” Edwin doesn’t know quite what kind of face he pulls at the other’s flirting words and tone, but he does notice the immediate shift in Thomas, as he leans back and puts a respectful distance back between them again, leaving Edwin blinking dazed from one moment to the next.  

“Okay, maybe actually first first things first. Your name?”  

“Edwin.”  

“You okay?”  

“I. Yes?”  

Thomas gazes at him in silence, eye sweeping him from top to bottom. By the time he finally talks again, he’s bitten down and swiped his tongue over his lip no less than three times, and Edwin’s own bottom lip is no better off. But his breathing, that Edwin himself hadn’t noticed picking up in nerves, has noticeably slowed down to a normal level, and that seems to be the thing Thomas was waiting for.  

“Are you okay?” He asks again.  

“Yes.” Is Edwin’s answer.  

“You're cute, Edwin. I like em cute. A demonstration ,” Thomas emphasizes the word, drawing it out while his upper body draws nearer to Edwin again, “is decidedly not a part of customer service. But I’m offering, cause well, I’m selfish, and I am definitely not lying when I say it’s a service I want to provide. If you say no, we walk right out and to the counter and you get good old regular customer service. I’ll refund or exchange the vibe for something better, and you can go right on home. But say yes, say yes and I’ll show you all the possible ‘something betters’, let you try them out, try them out on you, show you exactly how they’re supposed to work, on men. Are you pent up enough to let me, Edwin?”  

Edwin had ordered the toy about eleven days ago. He got it in the mail, in a nondescript plain brown box, not two days later. He left it sitting on his bedside table for twice that many days, before he opened it and took out the vibrator. He left the vibrator itself lying on his bedside table for another day, before he made himself put in the required batteries. Reminding, remembering, how he finally, actually managed to gather up enough courage to turn it on, try it out, only to end up frustrated and confused, leaves the same embarrassing taste of inexperience on his lips, as relaying all of that out loud to Thomas. It’s a small blessing, that the other man is content to listen quietly, attentively, nodding along at appropriate intervals, only offering a mildly amused smile as Edwin admits it also took him multiple tries to enter the shop. If Edwin hadn’t left the shoulderbag on the counter...  

“We wouldn’t be in for a nice afternoon,” Thomas quips, brushing his hand along Edwin’s arm, patting his hand when he’s travelled all the way down, and using the handhold to push himself up off the couch, “I reckon, after all of that frustration, you’ve more than earned this. Or should I say, these...” Thomas’s voice trails off into the distance, as he walks out of the room and into the main storefront, and Edwin guesses even beyond, as he can hear more than one door opening somewhere in the distance.  

Edwin spares a thought to possible sex shop employee training, as Thomas manages to enter the room, arms laden with various packages crinkling in his grip, at exactly the right moment to break Edwin’s thoughts before they spiral, again. As impossibly embarrassed as he still very much is, Edwin can think of far worse things to do with his time, than watching an attractive man show and explain a range of sex toys to him.  

“Take of your shoes. To start with.” Thomas winks at him, smiling reassuringly. Somehow, somewhere along the way, Edwin had almost completely managed to not think about the actual implications of what Thomas offered him. ‘Try them out, try them out on you.’ Yes. That would require Edwin to take off his shoes. To start with.  

Edwin takes off his shoes.  

In his peripheral vision, he registers Thomas doing the same, maybe more, but his own head stays pointed at the coffee table, nearer now that he’s bent forward over his knees. Thomas has big, long arms, he muses, blinking rapidly while taking in the many different boxes and bottles on the table. Perhaps sensing Edwin’s hesitance, or just seeing his shoulders rise minutely, Thomas offers a comforting touch, as he pulls Edwin back, to lean against the back of the couch, with one warm hand, broadcasting his intent with slow obvious movement of his other hand towards the top button of Edwin’s shirt. He murmurs a reassuring “we don’t have to use all of these, Edwin, I just figured I show you the options out there, okay?” and smiles wide again, almost endearingly so, when Edwin lets him undress him, open button after button, offers nothing save a few nods in return, along with an encouraging shrug of his shoulders when Thomas begins to slide his shirt off, after he’s finished unbuttoning it. Edwin silently watches Thomas neatly fold it, place it on the small bit of free space on the coffee table, then pull his own faded band shirt off in a single tug, flinging it carelessly to the floor. There’s no time for Edwin to start feeling self-conscious, no time to compare his own creamy skin, slender chest, to Thomas’s wider, tanned upper body. Before Edwin has made more than a passing glance at the other man’s body on display, the entire length of it is pressed to his own.  

Edwin tries to kiss back, the moment his shock clears enough, but he’s not sure if he’s doing it right, seeing as how making out with a near total stranger on a couch is decidedly not something he normally does, but no complaints pass Thomas’s lips. Not that there’s any space between them for even air to escape, save for the occasional wet gasp that gets smothered, swallowed again by the insistent press of lips on his. It’s not Edwin’s first kiss. But it’s the first that feels like this . Thomas’s head keeps shifting, tilting, changing the angle, with his nose tickling Edwin’s face, cause the other barely leaves the space to properly manoeuvre, and Edwin doesn’t have any to give, seeing how he’s fairly plastered to the couch. It’s an overwhelming wave of warmth, wet and nearly rough in all the right ways, as a tongue licks over the back of his teeth, flicks over his own. All Edwin can do is follow, seemingly always a second behind, stuck reacting to a passionate kiss that is being given to him, generously, eyes fluttering as the room begins to blur and all he can focus on is Thomas’s lips, his tongue. Edwin’s head ends up tilted backwards, pressed firmly to the back of the couch, with Thomas’s lips on his keeping him there as his mouth is almost lazily yet no less intensely explored. He’s vaguely aware of Thomas’s hands running over his shoulders, arms, down and back up, down. Warm palms slide from his lower arms to his hips, fingers teasing over the stretch of skin just above the waistband of his pants. A knee presses, kneads into his crotch, pulling a jerk from his hips and making Edwin turn his face away and out of their lip-lock to shudder in a breath. Though Thomas leans back and shoots him an inquiring look, the knee stays. It starts to grind, in little circles, nudges, of increasing pressure. Pressure met by Edwin’s cock, straining against the other side of the zipper.  

Edwin would flush bright red, if all the blood hadn’t already travelled down. Thomas seems to relish the reaction, and Edwin supposes this is how the current situation should be going, but he still has to fight the urge to cover his lap with his hands. He’s given a little reprieve, though the urge to squirm increases tenfold right after, as he watches Thomas lean backwards and sift through the bottles and tubes on the coffee table. The tube in the other’s hand is simultaneously familiar and unknown to Edwin, so he’s glad that Thomas starts explaining as soon as he’s back in position. It means that the knee in between Edwin’s thighs starts right back up on the kneading circles, but Edwin still manages to catch the gist of it. By the time Thomas finishes describing the kind of lube he’s holding, his fingers have unbuttoned the top of Edwin’s pants, and the zipper is pinched between fingertips, slowly dragged down. It’s almost like an out-of-body experience for Edwin, who finds himself raising his hips when prompted, lifting his legs, shaking off the fabric of both his pants and underwear as soon as they’ve dropped down enough by gravity, and sitting back, all in silence. Until he feels a finger under his chin, tilting his face up, to peer into Thomas’s eyes holding a mix of amusement and concern.  

“Still okay?”  

Edwin nods.  

“You know what I’m holding?” Another nod. “And you’re okay with me using it on you? You’re going to tell me the moment you stop being okay with any of this?” Edwin’s head keeps bobbing along with every question.  

“Quiet one, aren’t you?” Thomas’s finger slips, turns into a grip on Edwin’s chin that he can’t shake or nod himself out of. “That’s alright,” he assures Edwin, as he smoothly rids himself of his own pants with one hand, leaving him in black boxers, “I’m quite well versed in body language.” He winks. And then Edwin watches as Thomas spreads a generous helping of lube on his hand, which lowers and wraps itself around Edwin’s erection, and Edwin doesn’t think he could speak a single word in any language if his life depended on it. The noise that escapes him sounds like the porn actress in the first clip on pornhub, that he opened in the name of research on how to use his ‘rabbit vibrator’ (and really, it should have tipped him off right then and there that the vibrator he ordered was for women, and women only) but he has no time to get embarrassed cause the sensation on his cock just doesn’t stop. Edwin gasps and just keeps on gasping, making little ‘ah, aah’ noises on every exhale that he just can’t hold back, as Thomas pumps his hand up and down his twitching cock, spreading the warming, cooling, tingling lube all over his shaft. The sensation of having a hand that’s not his own pumping his cock is a whole new kind of pleasure on its own, the alien feeling of the lube added to that, make Edwin feel like he’s about to come hard, and fast, way too fast. He still can’t quite manage to get his throat to clear, form words instead of moans, desperate bitten off noises, small little “nnh, nh”s collecting behind his clenched teeth, but his hand shooting down his body and clamping around Thomas’s wrist does the trick just as well.  

Only Thomas doesn’t stop.  

By the time Edwin’s blinked the white spots out of his vision, Thomas is sucking a second hickey into his neck. “What’s the rush?” Thomas mumbles against his skin. At Edwin’s questioning noise, he continues, “You got somewhere to be?” Edwin shakes his head minutely, hips twitching when he realizes that Thomas still has his slick hand wrapped around Edwin’s soft cock. “Enjoy the ride, then. Point of foreplay is to get you relaxed. Penetration’s only part of the show, y’know.” Thomas’s head leans into view, and he chuckles at Edwin’s confused expression. “Did you think I was just going to shove a few bits of silicone up your ass, pump it about a bit, send you home with whichever fills your cheeks the best? Or, ooh , I see.” he drawls, as if he’s figured it all out just from Edwin’s expression. Edwin himself doesn’t even know what face he’s pulling. He gets a slight sense of pity coming off of the other though, and his heart starts to beat just a bit faster in his chest when Thomas continues. “You think it’s a one-and-go thing, think just because you’ve came, play time’s over? Oh, Edwin,” the hand on his cock squeezes, gentle but firm, and Edwin feels the clench travel and spread warmth all the way up his spine as his cock throbs despite having come just minutes ago, “sweetheart, we’re just getting started.”

Chapter Text

The words, whispered into his ear, shoot up the same path along his spine, hard and fast like an electric shock. It spurs him on. It’s the only explanation he can give himself, for the way his hands grab and cling to Thomas’s shoulders, the way he surges forward to claim the other’s lips in a kiss that starts with their teeth clacking, lips getting bruised and ends with the both of them trying to suck the other’s tongue into their mouth. The hand loosely wrapped around the base of his cock moves, fingers trailing down, down, instead of back up his shaft.  

Edwin keens at the first touch of wet fingers behind his balls, shivers as they trace a tingling line down his taint, knees widening of their own accord. Thomas pecks him softly on the lips, a few times, before dropping down, kneeling in front of the couch, in the space Edwin’s just provided. Edwin’s so distracted by the two fingers massaging up and down his taint, coming close to but stopping just shy of touching his fluttering rim, that he doesn’t notice Thomas gently pulling one of his hands towards him, until the cold lube lands on his palm. The tube clicks back shut as Edwin stares at the slick slowly spreading in a circle on his palm, slowly warming after contact with his skin, which feels like it’s burning, from the inside out from the tip of his toes to the topmost hair on his head. Heat somehow finds an even higher setting in his face, when Thomas takes his wrist again, and guides Edwin’s hand to where Thomas is still trailing his up and down his taint. Edwin’s fingers hover above his hole, dripping lube.  

Both sets of eyes blow impossibly wide, the moment the tip of Edwin’s pointer finger nudges its way into his hole. Edwin stares at Thomas, the latter focused on Edwin’s finger slowly but surely sinking to the knuckle. Edwin is the first to break away, eyes flicking to the coffee table. He’s acutely aware of Thomas’s eyes staying, fixed on Edwin’s finger pumping in and out of his own ass. Edwin wonders if he’s at all surprised at how smoothly Edwin progresses from one to two of his fingers, how practiced the stretching motions of his hand and fingers are. Edwin might not have had any success with the vibrator, but missing out on a new and exciting experience, doesn’t automatically mean he’s had unsatisfied nights. He muses that even if he’d had, it’d been worth it, surely, for he’s currently in a whole new and exciting, ongoing experience, right now. The way his cock twitches at the novel sensation of being watched, having a rapt audience watching him finger himself, is not something Edwin can ignore.  

Neither are the boxes on the coffee table.  

They both startle, partly from Edwin’s voice piercing the silence that had fallen around them, and partly, Edwin figures, because it’s him who breaks it. “You mentioned a demonstration?” While he doesn’t quite land the steady tone he tried to maintain, Edwin’s gratified to see Thomas smile wide at him, biting down on his bottom lip almost in childish glee and excitement, as he gives a searching glance over the boxes. He’s equally glad for the way Thomas’s fingers still don’t leave his skin, touch grounding, helping to keep any possible nerves that might still try to spring up at this point at bay.  

Thomas’s hand pulls back in sight, returning from where he grabbed something on the far end of the pile. Edwin’s fingers pause as he takes in “a string of beads?” That’s exactly what it is, the correct term being anal beads, as Thomas explains, while he applies more lube - the tingling kind - Edwin’s mind quietly supplies, to his fingers and subsequently to the beads. One by one, from the smallest resembling a pea, to the largest which Edwin’d say is closer to a marble, they’re covered in the lube until they shine. Thomas hooks his finger through the ring at the end of the string, and lets it fall and slip through his fingers, dangle, and land on Edwin’s hip. He traces a tingling path down to where Edwin’s ass clenches on his fingers. At Edwin’s nod, the slight spread of his fingers at his entrance, the beads start slipping in. Edwin’s ass rolls down instinctively, invitingly, as the pressure increases at a snail’s pace, Thomas controlling the stretch, not giving in to Edwin’s silent pleas, as he shifts his ass on the couch.  

“While smaller than your average dildo, I mean, I’m sure even the largest bead is one you can definitely take right now, as it probably equals to your own two fingers,” Edwin blinks open eyes he wasn’t aware he’d closed, to flash a mildly annoyed look down his heaving chest, at the man in between his legs, who stopped moving , “the point of anal beads is the slow build-up.” The smile on Thomas’s face is definitely more of a smirk, now. Edwin wants to slap it off. He wants to kiss it, bite it. He settles for a groan laced with as much frustration he can muster, instead. Wants to hate the other man so much more when he gets a laugh in return, though he can find the small victory of the final, largest bead slipping in, settling just past his rim. His hips twitch forward in tandem with the little tugs to the attached ring, pulling the large bead in a nice little taut nudge, nudge, nudge to his sensitive opening. “The other point of the beads,” Thomas whispers into the skin of Edwin’s tense, trembling thigh, “is the release of said slow build-up.” The finger suddenly yanks, roughly, on the ring. Beads slip out of Edwin’s feebly instinctively clenching hole, with such a wet squelch that it almost feels like there’s come dripping out of his used hole as the last bead slips free. Absurd, as that’s a sensation Edwin isn’t familiar with. Absurd, how much he suddenly craves it.    

It’s too soon for Edwin to come again, but still his cock near aches with the need for it, flushed an angry red, all the way to the dripping tip. A small spurt of pre-cum is all that came out, rapidly cooling on the skin under his bellybutton. He’s trembling, fingers clenching on the couch material, nodding along without really listening, as Thomas finishes properly putting away the beads, and reaches for two larger boxes, placing them side by side, in Edwin’s view.  

The purple dildo in Thomas’s hands is thinner than the rabbit vibrator, but longer, with a slight curve to the tip that promises pleasure, despite lacking the need for batteries. The lube Thomas spreads over it is from a different bottle than the previous two, and his grin has a feral glee to it when Thomas notices Edwin staring. “Put your hands under your thighs for me, hold them open?” He asks, instead of answering Edwin’s unspoken question. As soon as Edwin has the backs of his knees in firm grip, they threaten to jerk back closed, in response to the cold strip of lubricant Thomas just drops right from the tube, held over his cock. Though quickly warmed by his skin, the initial sensation leaves goosebumps trailing after its path down the length of his cock, down his balls, where it pools and sinks into the couch, deepening the wet spot Edwin’s sweat and slick coated hole has already made. Edwin takes some deep, centring, breaths through his nose, registering on the third pass of air, the scent of- “strawberries,” Thomas mutters, face so close to his slicked cock, the puff of air he releases among the single word sends a responding throb to Edwin’s erection, “my favourite.” Thomas finishes, in a movement of lips pressed directly against Edwin’s cock. Edwin can feel the other smile against the sensitive skin, feel those lips widen, a tongue peeking out, tip tracing a vein from bottom to slit.  

At the probing exploration of that tongue tip, flicking then dipping into his dripping slit, Edwin can’t stop his legs from bucking up, with a whine that slowly deepens into a drawn-out moan, as Thomas simply moves with him, and comes back down with him just the same, only then Thomas moves further, bobbing his head forward and taking Edwin’s cock all the way down his throat in one movement, with a pleased hum. Edwin’s given no time to properly react, as the curved tip of the purple dildo nudges once, twice, three times at his hole, to enter on the fourth. He’s given no respite, he’s well prepped, slick, and his body’s response is faster than his brain, his hips already rolling in invitation. There’s nothing for Edwin to focus on except the slow but steady push of Thomas’s hand around the base of the dildo, the couch sticking to his sweaty back, the overwhelming feeling of Edwin having no choice but to take exactly what he’s given. And liking it. He’s coming hard, the moment the curved tip of silicone, with hardly any give no matter how hard he clenches down on it, edges around, and then fully presses deep right into his prostate. There’s no give then either, no relief of pressure, even as Edwin writhes, trapped between Thomas’s throat around his spurting cock, and the dildo held steady and firm by Thomas’s hand, unrelenting contact with the little bundle of nerves in his ass, is sending sparks of searing heat up his spine in a rapid succession of fireworks. Colours blur behind Edwin’s tightly shut eyes. It’s overstimulation to the core, and Edwin’s crying, hissing with the intensity, as he shakes and shakes, feeling any semblance of strength leaving his limbs one by one, all focus narrowed on the inferno between his legs, the cause of it.  

Edwin’s soft cock is released from Thomas’s lips with a, obscene ‘pop’, the other’s gaze keen and alert while he sits back on his haunches, blinking back with a smile at Edwin’s own dazed gaze. A warm thumb gently wipes across Edwin’s cheeks, and he’s vaguely aware of the other standing up, with alarming ease for someone who’s just spent so much time on his knees. Thomas crosses to the other side of the room, rummages through the fridge, returns with a bottle of water, taking a seat next to Edwin on the couch, all in the span of time it takes Edwin to force his lungs to pump some much needed oxygen back into his body. His arm feels numb when Edwin reaches for the offered bottle, so he sighs both in relief and in thanks when Thomas proves incredibly observant once again, and spins the cap himself, lifting the bottle to Edwin’s lips, tilting it perfectly for him to take a few blessedly refreshing sips.  

“I. I honestly don’t think I can handle any more.” Is what comes out of Edwin’s mouth, out of all the thoughts currently running through his head. Eyeing the variety of toys still on the coffee table, daunting more than anything, right now, he does feel that it is the most important thought to voice.  

“Sure you can. The real question is whether you want to.”  

Edwin swallows, aware of the other’s gaze on his throat, his face. Thomas must be following every minute change in Edwin’s demeanour, following the path Edwin’s eyes trace.  

“I’m not denying it’ll take a while,” Thomas says, after knowingly wrapping his hand around the sleek vibrator the very second Edwin’s gaze landed on it, “but all the best things take time. And you’re the best little thing that has walked into my shop in quite a while, Edwin.” He finishes, in a whisper against Edwin’s neck. Unbidden, Edwin’s eyes shoot to the other’s crotch as soon as Thomas is finished speaking, pulling a laugh out of him. “Don’t you worry about me, Edwin. I’m having plenty of fun myself.” Thomas’s lips glisten with a mix of spit and strawberry flavoured lube, his tanned chest has a healthy flush to it, his fingers look sticky with various fluids, and there’s a large wet spot darkening the front of his boxers. Edwin feels like he should at least offer something, after the kind of service he imagines would land Thomas a promotion if he wasn’t already the store owner. Thomas acts like it’s a reward on its own, for Edwin to nod his consent, to let himself be rearranged on the couch, listed sideways till he’s lying flat. His ass would be right on the dubious wet patch on the couch, if it wasn’t for Thomas shifting with him. His legs end up on either side of the other’s waist, splayed across Thomas’s hips, with his ass perched on the seat Thomas makes with his feet.  

There’s a bottle, a new one, again, in Thomas’s hands. Edwin blinks and spares a quick thought to where the vibrator has gone, and Thomas answers, because of course he notices just as fast. There’s laughter in his words, kept gentle but no less teasing. “Babe, there’s no way I’m just going to stick yet another object up your ass already. We’re taking our time, remember?” He shakes the bottle in his hand to draw Edwin’s eyes to it, turning it in his palm to properly show the label once he has Edwin’s attention.  

Massage oil.  

Edwin is going to die on this couch.  

Chapter Text

“I am slightly more than five foot, thank you very much.” the Cat King snipes testily, in a deluge of sarcasm, as he sheds his jacket with rough tugs of his hands instead of a snap of his fingers, a testament to his ire. 

“Five foot one and a few centimeters, when you’re bristling.” Edwin replies, not bothering to look up from his notebook, nor pausing in his writing.  

When his lover kicks his combat boots off, one by one, sending the second of the pair flying through the room in arc among his hissed rumbles, Edwin merely tuts, and ignores the answering glare. 

When the bed dips under his lover’s weight, Edwin silently lifts his arms, allowing the Cat King to drape himself along his front, any further complaints muffled by the fabric of his shirt, but no less vocalized, as his lover buries his face in Edwin’s chest. 

And when the soft fur of the Cat King’s tail brushes against his leg, Edwin lifts it just enough for the dexterous limb to curl around, and his hands smooth down his lover’s back and back up his spine in practiced motions. 

Slowly, the weight on Edwin’s front increases. Slowly, his lover relaxes. Slowly, the Cat King’s face nudges up, up, up Edwin’s chest, until he can nuzzle into the bend of Edwin’s shoulder. 

“You have an escape plan?” he mumbles against Edwin’s neck. 

“Hm?” is Edwin’s most eloquent reply. 

“For getting out from under me, when I fall asleep on you.” 

Edwin laughs, stretching out his legs, sliding his fingers over his lover's shoulders. 

Edwin picks up his notebook and resumes his writing. 

Chapter Text

“It’s a nice soothing argan oil, with a hint of eucalyptus.” Thomas starts, as he warms a decadent serving of the oil in his hands, smoothing his broad palms over Edwin’s calves in a touch that decidedly manages to build the opposite effect of soothing, for all that Edwin’s sure the intent is innocent enough. “It’s good for your skin, and sinks in without drying all too fast, or leaving any kind of sticky residue.” The words wash over Edwin, while warm calloused hands knead and sweep over his skin. A smile crawls across his face, as Thomas keeps his words light, casual, almost detached, while the touch, and sensations it elicits in Edwin, are the opposite. Ridiculousness be damned, Edwin’s sure the look he gives Thomas is laced with entirely too much fondness, as he watches the runway model between his legs rub soothing argan oil into his ass cheeks, methodical, tender ministrations meant as an interlude, a break activity, before he will be sticking another object up that very same ass. Slowly, under Thomas’s expert hands, Edwin relaxes, sinking into the couch almost completely by the time those hands reach his stomach.  

There’s a teasing flirty dip of a pinky into his bellybutton, drawing a laugh out of Edwin, and as he lets the sound fill the room without an ounce of self-consciousness, he marvels at how easy this all feels. It all clashes so violently with any possible expectation he had, when he finally braved to walk through the shop door, what feels like hours ago. He can’t even properly remember his nerves, his fears, even the last threads of them wiped away by the warm press of hands smoothing up and down his ribs. Fingers twitch along his sides, trail higher to spread the soft scent of eucalyptus across his shoulders in a thin layer of oil, hands press and rub and massage in an arc running along his collarbone, thumbs dipping, trailing up to his chin, back down. Edwin’s head tilts back, stays so, as Thomas reapplies oil to his hands. A single wet finger traces a path down the centre of his chest. It veers to the side halfway, and at the soft flick of that finger to his peaked left nipple, Edwin’s back arches off the couch with such strength a muscle twinges when he comes back down. He’s no stranger to his chest’s sensitivity, aware that he enjoys a gentle touch to his nipples, but the added intensity of the touch coming from fingers not his own, actions driven by another and as such not able to be predicted, prepared for, makes the pleasure so much more potent. The finger’s stilled, to a more gentle pressure just below his nipple, and Edwin blinks up at Thomas who looks down at him with an expression uncomfortably close to awe. “Fascinating.” Thomas whispers, and Edwin’s head turns along with his, eyes on the other's face, watching him peer closely, searching, at the coffee table’s contents.  

A hand reaches out, returns in the shape of a curled fist, held in front of Edwin’s eyes as fingers unfurl, show something closely resembling a clothespin, lying innocently in Thomas’s palm. “A nipple clamp,” Thomas explains, watching Edwin’s brow pinch, “just the one, and you’ll tell me if it doesn’t feel good or starts to hurt, yeah?” At Edwin’s nod, the clamp slowly moves towards his chest, two fingers pinch and hold the two ends open. There’s a quick check from Thomas when the clamp hovers directly over his nipple, there’s cold metal touching the brown ring of skin around Edwin’s right nipple, and then the clamp shuts.  

It’s pain. It’s pleasure. It’s somehow either, both, neither, a unique feeling that flirts with the edge between, darting back and forth with little bursts of heat spreading sharp and fast from his chest. It is intense, and every throb of it is sudden, and it is too much . Edwin’s head swings sharply to the side, as if it’s the only way he can express the state of chaos his body is in. Not quite true, for his mouth is open, and he’s moaning loud, hitched beaths and gasped exhales leaving him wildly. It’s not enough, and his hips jerk hard into Thomas’s stomach, leaning over him. It takes a few thrusts, of increasing desperation, but at last Thomas gets the hint and drops down, pressing himself along the length of Edwin’s body, without pausing his ministrations. One arm dips and curls around Edwin’s waist, supporting the small of his back while he trashes and shivers and trembles. His other hand hasn’t stopped kneading Edwin’s other nipple, trading off gentle barely-there skims of a single fingertip, with deep kneading rolls of a thumb just under the raised nub. Each touch feels connected to his cock, trapped against Thomas’s stomach, twitching along with every touch to his sensitive chest.  

The moment Edwin’s face dares shape itself closer to an actual wince, the clamp leaves, and is replaced by Thomas’s mouth, wet hot heat, suction. A tongue laves across the nub in broad swipes, while his other nipple is gently pinched and rolled between thumb and finger on the other side of his chest. His hips stutter in their next roll against the body on top of him, and then Edwin’s last roll is against air.  

Edwin can’t imagine what he looks like to Thomas, who props himself back up with a last lick, last taste of Edwin’s chest. The other is slowly repositioning the both of them, attempting to replicate the way they lounged on the couch, before the argan eucalyptus oil came into play. Edwin’s sure his legs and ass are positioned exactly the same as before. But right now, Edwin is far, far from relaxed. His chest is still twinging, nipples hypersensitive, reacting with tingles just from Edwin’s own heaving breath, his ass clenches in Thomas’s lap, and he whines. He thinks he needs to replace his toothpaste at home, as there’s no way he can handle his reaction to the scent of eucalyptus anymore.  

“ No. ” Edwin’s shaking his head before he properly forms the short word with his lips. Thomas stills with the vibrator in his hands, and gives him an appraising look from his flushed red ass and cock, his angry red hued chest, to his pink tinted face. “You think you’re done, or you’re not ready?” He asks, while one finger teases up the length of Edwin’s cock, fingers following to wrap loosely just below the weeping slit, thumb pressing and smearing pre-cum around the swollen head. Thomas brings the vibrator closer to Edwin’s face while his fingers play with his cock, and Edwin’s sure that he picked a much better vibrator than the one Edwin can blame (or credit) this entire situation on. Edwin’s sure, certain, that Thomas could have him seeing stars within a minute, on the lowest setting, have him purchasing one in every colour.  

“I don’t want it.” Leaves his mouth, in a rush, a hushed whisper, an escape from his own spiralling thoughts. The certainty of it surprises them both, for what Edwin is sure is a wildly different reason. Before the confusion on Thomas’s face can spiral on its own, Edwin forces himself to continue, with all the bravery of someone who has just had their walls tore down, and immediately replaced with confidence. “The customer is always right, isn’t that the saying?” Edwin’s gratified to see the confusion on the other’s face ease, and he makes an effort to return the growing smile on the other’s face with a little upturn of his own mouth. Gods help him, he’s blushing. It’s like they went and took a one-night stand in reverse. Edwin’s had two mind-blowing orgasms, at the hands of an unfairly handsome man, and now he’s flirting with him, and has the gall to be nervous about it.  

“S’not the whole saying, you know. The customer is always right, when it comes to taste .” Thomas quips, and Edwin’s sure if he let him, he was going to hear a far smoother, expertly flirtatious remark. There are so many more boxes on the coffee table. But the other has fallen silent, instead, because Edwin’s foot, firmly pressed snug against the bulge straining against Thomas’s black boxers, nudges, pointedly.  

“What would you recommend me, if I told you my tastes right now were for something other than vibrators?” It is insanely gratifying, to see the other’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. Less encouraging, when Thomas shifts backwards just a bit, putting space between Edwin’s foot and the blazing hot erection he didn’t manage to map nearly as completely as he liked. When Thomas reaches over the table to rifle through the boxes again, Edwin’s faltering confidence tanks.  

He’s busy observing the pattern of the couch to the side of his face when his legs are rearranged again, and while Edwin has no excitement for it, he turns his head obligingly towards Thomas, and the two small boxes he holds up.  

“Ribbed for pleasure, or Cherry Pop/ping Cherry?”  

The breath that leaves Edwin even  tastes relieved.  

Thomas continues, with a small smile and large smouldering eyes. “They’re both lubed, but if that’s not to your taste,” he emphasizes the word with an eyebrow waggle that shouldn’t be as funny as it is to Edwin, so he blames leftover giddiness from his relief of not being rejected for the little laugh he lets out, “I also got the regular ole reliable. Could rub some argan on there, if you liked the eucalyptus so much? Although I’m not sure, hold on..” he trails off, and reaches for the little bottle of oil to read the label, probably to check if it’s safe to be used on a body’s interior as well as exterior. He looks absolutely ridiculous, is the thought that comes to Edwin, unbidden, and hardly fair, as he doesn’t even want to imagine what he must look like right now. But it’s not a harsh thought, no malice behind it. Thomas just looks ridiculous, squinting his eyes at the bottle, hint of his pink tongue peeking out from over his bottom lip. This is the man who’s given Edwin two earth-shattering orgasms, a massage, and is going to fuck him, hopefully soon. He looks ridiculously earnest, he looks real , in a way the models on the cover of magazines could never be, in a way Edwin never expected when he first glimpsed him behind the counter those few days ago, and got his breath caught so far down his throat he felt like coughing all the way back home. He sounds real, too, when Edwin dips his toes in a teasing nudge against the front of those boxers. Thomas gently slides his sticky palm over Edwin’s ankle with a low chuckle, while he’s putting away the bottle, and reaches for the ribbed condom pack.  

Edwin bends his knees with little prompting, raises his hips obediently for the other to place a pillow underneath. He takes a few fortifying breaths, then bites down on his lower lip as he watches Thomas efficiently roll the condom down over his erection. It might still not take much longer than a minute, Edwin thinks, as his eyes rove over Thomas’s cock, as he shifts. It’s not as long as the purple dildo, but thicker for sure, and the feeling of it slipping between his cheeks, dipping down and sliding once, twice, in a tease over his twitching hole, is on a whole other level than any mere silicone could hope to copy. For one thing, the hot length pushing inside, being clenched down on by Edwin’s ass, seems to properly fill the space, seek out all the little bundles of nerves and sensitive parts of Edwin’s inner walls almost as if it’s got a mind of its own, unguided by a twisting, pumping hand. Instead, it’s the concentrated thrusts of Thomas’s hips against his, its broad palms underneath his thighs, folding his knees back even further so he can press in deeper. They pant and grunt together, and their hips slap together at the end of every deep thrust, sound barely cushioned by the pillow under Edwin’s hips. It is nothing like getting fucked with a dildo, a vibrator, or even Edwin’s own fingers. Edwin’s not getting fucked, he’s fucking. His arms tremble and fight against his desire to lift them, but he manages to fling and wrap them around Thomas’s shoulders anyway. He pulls him down, buries his nose in the other’s sweaty hair and breathes him in. His hands dip down and trail back up, nails pressing into skin just enough to feel the scrape in a feedback loop on his fingertips. This is so, so much better than anything any sex toy could ever give him. Edwin turns and catches Thomas in a bruising kiss, trying to offer his pleasure, his enjoyment, in as many ways as he can. He’s not sure how much of it comes across, but the rhythmic clenching of his ass seems to pull a stutter or two from the other’s hips, and Edwin reasons that’s as good as anything.  

Eventually their kiss breaks solely due to the increasing need to breathe, and they’re left panting with their heads pressed side by side. Edwin feels his own orgasm closing in, with every telling throb of Thomas’s cock in him, chasing his own orgasm. He doesn’t quite know where the sudden need to have Thomas peak first comes from, but he indulges it just the same. It’s only fair, he muses, as he starts to caress every inch of skin in reach. It’s also perhaps the only chance he has to get his hands on the attractive man above and in him, so Edwin’s hard pressed to reconsider his actions, as he dares to nip at the red-tipped ear within distance. It’s that, and a few decent rolls of Edwin’s hips, pushing back hard, that get Thomas’s hips stuttering in a familiar pattern. Edwin spares a mournful thought to losing out of the particular experience of being filled , when a sweat-slick palm wraps around his cock, and a single pump has him shooting off with a matching moan.  

For a while, the only sounds that fill the room are of two men fighting for their next breath, another, another. Edwin isn’t sure which one of them starts to laugh softly, first. But he is the one to initiate an even softer kiss, first.  

Edwin doesn’t quite skip out the door, unwilling to risk his own ass’s ire. Instead, he walks out, the soft ting of the bell above the door waving him out. He strides over to the bus stop, stands in front of the posted bus schedule, though he has to read it twice before the timetable registers. His eyes keep flicking to the little card in his hand instead. The opening hours of the sex shop on the back. The store phone number on the bottom. Thomas’s personal phone number on the front.  

It’s a real pity he didn’t have the promised vibrator in stock, in the colour Edwin wanted.  

Well, Edwin supposes it isn’t such a hassle. He can spare the trip to get a proper refund, exchange.  

Third time’s the charm, who knows what the fourth will bring.  

Chapter Text

The Cat King was, for all his grace, one lanky tangle of limbs at times, only emphasised by the way he was currently sprawled out on his - their - makeshift throne. Recently modified, it could now comfortably seat two people. With the way his lover currently occupied the furniture, there was no space for anyone but the King. One leg up, so his bare foot could dangle off over the side of the arm, the other leg bent underneath. With his slitted golden eyes half-lidded, comfortably hazed, content little smile upon his lips, arms thrown up over his head so his upper arms and hands hung off the arm in a mirror to his freely-dangling foot, Edwin’s lover looked the epitome of comfort. 

Which was a shame, because Edwin really did want to take a seat.  

"C'mon you, shuffle up." he huffed. As Edwin stood beside the lounging form of the Cat King, the urge to reach out, trail his fingertips in a light caress over the other’s nearest bit of exposed skin surged within him. The sole reason he held back, was the way his lover was staring him down, small quirk at the corner of his mouth, merest tip of his tongue visible, peeking between his lips. Pure cheek in the soft purr emanating from his throat. Purest form of a challenge.  

Edwin fully anticipated the snarky little "make me", because that's exactly the kind of playful mess he had to go and fall in love with, but before it could come, the Cat King moved. Twisted himself with an unfair amount of grace, shuffling forward, both his legs now swung off from the arm of the couch. "C'mere you." The Cat King echoed, craning his neck back, leaving only the barest sliver of gold visible enough to make eye-contact with, patting the seat behind him.  

There was no hesitation as Edwin dropped himself onto the furniture, relieved to finally be off his feet. Though in the practical sense there was no fatigue to be felt, a long day of proper field work did give him the need to rest. Beside him, the Cat King shuffled, pulling his legs from where they dangled, silently offering more space. As soon as Edwin found comfort, his lover’s heat neared, curling, wriggling, twisting, until any space previously offered was reclaimed with quiet surety. A soft mop of hair met Edwin’s lap, his lover snuggling his face into the smaller man’s thighs with a happy little murmur.  

Without thinking, Edwin raised a hand to cup his lover's cheek. 

As with pretty much everything in their shared life, the Cat King was a characteristically...energetic cuddler. Even coiled into a vaguely round lump, he continued to wriggle, tracing the outside of Edwin's thigh with a stray digit, stretching, reclaiming his hold around a leg, repositioning the arm beneath his broad chest someway more comfortable. An endearing constant of motion, enough to draw and keep Edwin’s attention, currently willingly given. 

“You're insatiable." Edwin hummed, voice laced with fondness, expression soft, as he traced his thumb along the edge of the Cat King’s jaw. Edwin smiled at his lover’s playful frown, pondering the choice of whether to nuzzle into the thigh below, or chase the soft touch of that thumb. A soft chuckle filled the warehouse as the Cat King appeared to try to do both simultaneously, with results that weren't exactly yielding.  

"It's been a long day, love, I’m allowed to be." The Cat King offered, half muffled, as he pressed his face more insistently against Edwin's lap. Fingers trailed up, absentmindedly in their slow drawl, up over Edwin's hip, coming up to sweep gently against his waist, in a way that had Edwin wriggling despite not being ticklish. 

"I was with you all day!" There was no malice in Edwin's voice, his mock exasperation defeated by the way he tried not to giggle from his lover’s ministrations. "Yeah,” The Cat King started, burying his face into the side of Edwin’s thigh before continuing, with an exaggerated pout that could be felt through Edwin’s trousers for all that his lover’s face was so intimately pressed to the fabric, “but I couldn't show you my love, like this."  

"Insatiable and shameless. Noted." Despite his words, as he spoke, Edwin trailed his fingers through soft hair, scratching at his lover’s nape, sweeping along the Cat King's jaw, lightly drawing them up and over his cheek, ending with a light caress behind his ear.  

The effect was instantaneous. 

The Cat King melted .  

All at once the wriggling halted, his lover going lax in Edwin’s lap like a puppet with its strings cut, hands falling to curl and softly knead whatever part of Edwin was closest, that broad chest draped over the opposite hip rumbling into low, contented purring that soaked through layers of clothing and warmed Edwin to the core. 

Turning his head the slightest bit, making sure not to dislodge or dissuade Edwin from continuing his caresses, the Cat King sighed in bliss. 

And promptly bit down on the meat of Edwin’s thigh. 

"You know you love me." The Cat King breathed, voice heavy with emotion for all the soft whispered declarations leaving his lips, slitted eyes warm, bright with adoration as they focused in on Edwin’s face. The Cat King’s own face tilted upwards, to compensate for his current position, a heap of limbs on the floor in front of the throne. 

"Get back up here, and I'll show you how to properly show your love."  

Chapter Text

Edwin is surprisingly comfortable with the sensation of feeling like prey .  

When a hand beckons, Edwin stumbles forward, on only mildly unsteady legs that carry him those final few steps to the bed. His own fingers deftly loosen and lose his clothing in the vaguest semblance of order. Fabric shifts, falls to the floor, all barely a flicker of blurred movement at the very edge of Edwin’s vision, eyes caught and held instead by the Cat King’s slitted eyes, shining brightly golden, even half-lidded in contentment.  

He doesn’t quite realize he’s even reached the bed, not till Edwin’s knees make impact with the soft bedding, the sheets muffling, soothing both sound and any real pain. Predator and prey share a small laugh, at the shared expense of their eagerness, as a warm calloused palm grabs a hold of Edwin’s wrist, tugs him across the bed in one smooth pull, a grip that won’t let Edwin move in any direction that isn’t forward, towards more . There’s a shudder passing through them both as Edwin’s free hand steadies itself on the Cat King’s chest. Edwin’s rarely been as happy as when he can surrender, and still feel safe.  

“I mean to take my time with you,” the Cat King murmurs, voice rumbling on a low purr, deep, sweet and rich as honey all at once, “you'll let me?”  

“Yes, please, yes.” Edwin whimpers, and then there’s a hot wet tongue in a place only said tongue has ever gone before. Edwin’s whimpers turn to soft cries, muffled by the pillows, as the Cat King kisses, licks him open. For a while, there’s no telling of who even moans the most, or the loudest. There’s plenty of noises overlaying the obscene wet slick licks and nips. Edwin’s sounds are swallowed by pillows, sheets and his own teeth sinking into the nearest of his wrists clenching in the bedding. The Cat King moans and growls his own enjoyment, pleasure muffled against Edwin’s skin, palms and fingers kneading trembling hips, air huffing audibly through his nose. His tongue and teeth map every bit of his lover, tasting both in and out in equal measure. Soft licks to the rim are traded for kisses, little suckles traded for harder sucks right above and below the fluttering opening. A tongue traces, teases, peeks then plunges past the rim, back out and back in, in a senseless rhythm meant to draw out shivers, but not match the trembles shooting up Edwin’s spine.  

It all serves to keep Edwin aware of every lick, makes him whisper “please, please” and “ah, my King, ah!” as the Cat King offers, hints at more, gives. Edwin is playing catch up and losing, not knowing where exactly he’s being lead to, only that he’s close, burning for it.  

And the Cat King doesn’t stop.  

When that sinful tongue flicks directly against his prostate instead of teasing around it, and his legs inevitably give out, his lover follows him down to the bed. Fingers unerringly find his left nipple, start to toy with it, in time of that tongue starting to thrust with equal accuracy, and Edwin admittedly loses some time, with his head buried in the sheets.  

It’s filthy, the sheets are soaking wet, the air is ripe with sweat and come. Shivers wrack Edwin’s entire body, tingles burst from his still twitching ass, spread out to the tips of his fingers and toes digging into the bedding. There’s a soft kiss to one of his ass cheeks, and a huff of only slightly cooler air that wafts out over the wet skin, blown purposely from the Cat King’s panting lips. It makes Edwin’s hips push back in a silent plea for more, ass clenching on something that is no longer there. The sob Edwin releases into the sweat-slick sheets is part relief, part overstimulation as hands knead the flesh near his twitching hole. There’s spit dribbling down in a strand, starting at the top of one of his cheeks, trailing down to pool around and in as palms spread the cheeks of his ass apart , mingling with the slick already liberally coating the red tinted skin.  

“I’ve made a mess of you, Ghostie.” The Cat King’s voice sounds raw, throat scraped dry, as if he’d just finished giving an hours long speech. “I take full responsibility, love, don’t worry.”  

Edwin’s next sob is all relief, spoken into sweat-ripe air, as his lover takes to the task of cleaning him up with just as much dedication, if not more so.  

“Take your time.” Edwin whispers.  

Chapter Text

“Thomas, what time are you leaving again, for your- ah.”  

Edwin freezes, halfway through the mirror, sending ripples across the surface.   

“Hm?” Comes the distracted hum, in lieu of an answer, as Edwin’s eyes flick between blood red painted lips and fingers deftly capping the stick of lipstick. Sitting in front of his own mirror, the Cat King’s lips tout, purse and press together, while Edwin follows the mirrored view of fingers until they move out of view, as the Cat King tucks the little stick into what looks like one of several pockets, hidden within the folds of silk and lace that adorn his lover’s frame. An altogether delicate looking ensemble, made all the more striking by the eye-catching dissonance between the Cat King’s toned, lean physique, and the soft, luxurious and most noticeably copious amounts of fabric that despite their overwhelming presence manage to only covering half of said lean, toned frame. Deliberate on multiple fronts, Edwin knows. All par of the course.

Edwin swallows, hard. He doesn’t recall fully stepping into the room, but notices he must now be several steps closer all the same, to be able to enjoy the softness of the dress’s fabric underneath his fingertips. As his palm gently traces the curve of the voluminous red skirt spreading out in an arch off of the bodice, Edwin let’s his brain restart with all the patience of someone used to being struck at a loss of words around his lover.  

“What kind of gathering was this, again?” is all he can eventually manage, but it’s enough, or at least allows his lover to indulge him in response, the colour slowly rising in the Cat King’s cheeks, framing his lips, the lipstick, the knowing look in those golden eyes, the lips , the lipstick.  

"I thought you said you had research tonight? In London. Your office.” The Cat King mouths the words ‘ Do not disturb’ at the end of his sentence, taking great care and equal pleasure in moving his lips slowly.  

“Yes, but it’s of no matter,” Edwin mutters, waving his free hand dismissively, “I had a book here I wished to collect for it actually. But it can wait. I’ll get right back to it, later.” He steps forward.  

“Get back to Charles, you mean.” The Cat King smirks. “Poor thing, I normally would’ve been ready and gone by now. Leaving him alone for extended periods of time, are you sure that’s responsible, Ghostie?”  

This isn’t the first time the Cat King’s gone out, like this, while Edwin’s out, he realizes with a jolt. The lipstick, the way the dress sits on him. His lover does this, and Edwin rarely gets to see it. A pang goes through his gut. It’s still taking some getting used to, the soft ever-present heat, radiant comfort of what this is between them, the most important thing is that like the Cat King knows how wholly Edwin loves him, Edwin needs him to know he loves this too.  

“Research can wait. You look so good.” And more so does the cheeky grin Edwin gets in response.  

“I do, don’t I?” The Cat King purses his lips again, a warm palm covers Edwin’s hand, pulling it slowly up, from where he’d kept it buried in the soft folds of fabric this whole time. His lover’s lips are even softer, Edwin wills his touch to be as gentle as he can make it, as he traces the red painted lower lip with the pads of his fingers.  

“Can I kiss you?” He whispers.  

“You’d better.” The Cat King breathes against his fingers, and Edwin leans in.   

It’s a kiss that starts out more cautious than usual, a more tentative build into the comfortable heat they’ve settled into. Edwin threads his fingers through his lover's soft hair, lets his other hand travel gently down the back of the dress’s bodice, to rest on the Cat King’s waist. The stool in front of the dressing table wobbles precariously as the Cat King surges into the kiss, Edwin’s hands moving to hold him steady.   

“I’ve got you.” Edwin murmurs against his lover’s cheek, hand rubbing circles into a bare shoulder.   

The Cat King gives a little laugh, into Edwin’s mouth, pulling back only to gaze at him from up through his long, blackened lashes. “You’ve got lipstick on you, is what you’ve got.” he states with a pleased purr, smudging it further around Edwin’s lips with his thumb. Edwin inhales sharply, pressing his body closer.   

“Can I have some more?” He whispers back.  

The Cat King lets out a small chuckle, gleefully letting it grow into a louder bout of laughter, then kisses Edwin, harder, harder and harder each time, letting Edwin taste the very colour of his lips, the joy, desire. He pulls away for only just a moment, to take in Edwin’s half-lidded eyes, his panting mouth, all smeared with lipstick. Golden eyes flit from Edwin’s own eyes, to lips, to neck, to the collar of his shirt with the top few buttons left open. 

“Hm, Ghostie.” The Cat King leans in, runs his nose along the line of Edwin’s jaw, trailing kisses down his throat. “What time d’you reckon you have, before-?”  

“I can be late.” Edwin says, hands flying down, hitching the Cat King’s dress up, so he can wrap one hand around each thigh, each leg, dragging his lover to him as he steps even closer. And of course, the Cat King’s not wearing anything beneath the dress, his half-hard cock pressing against Edwin’s full erection, bulging and straining against his trousers, the moment their hips meet.   

“You’re sure? I don’t want to keep you from your research.”  

“Thomas.” Edwin cups the other’s chin, his chest heaving. “Keep me.”  

When the Cat King smirks, and moves to pull the stick of lipstick out from between the folds of his dress, Edwin makes a mental note to at least make sure to return to London with the book he needs for their research, seeing as how nothing else was going to be getting done tonight, save for himself.  

Chapter Text

It always starts nice, cuddly. Oft there's a chin hooking over Edwin's shoulder, and the Cat King never denies nor confirms whether he's truly reading along, or just enjoying the vacant length of skin running from nape to the hollow of Edwin's throat. One of the places Edwin's scent is strongest (verbal denial or confirmations aren't necessary, since Edwin's ear is close enough to catch the far-from-inconspicuous little sniffs his lover takes, the way the Cat King's nose languidly traces up his neck). Eventually the scenting turns to tasting, with a tongue following the line of Edwin's neck back down to the hollow of his collarbone. Over time, his lover has perfected the amount of pressure of his fangs, the nips to thin skin over shoulder and arm are gentle, in comparison to the way the Cat King's own broad shoulders and toned arms shift, possessively pulling Edwin's back closer to a wide chest. It's when fingertips dance over his belt, skirting over the clasp, palms smoothing over the fabric over his hips instead of going forward with that promising touch, that Edwin gently butts the back of his head against his lover's cheek. The air tastes like amusement as Edwin breathes in just to huff, but its a price he's willing to pay, to get his point across. Edwin is decidedly not in the mood to read the same paragraph three times, without remembering anything past the first three words for all his effort.

Fingers deftly unbuckle the clasp, and are already stroking teasingly over Edwin's erection, from tip to base, before the belt is pulled through the last hoop and unceremoniously tossed aside. 

A palm cups, fingers moving in practiced motions to cradle the base of his erection, warm thumb and forefinger circling warmer throbbing skin. They cinch, closing on a ring, on the verge of too tight. Edwin's journal twitches as his fingers around the spine do. It's going to be one of those evenings, then. 

The Cat King tastes the sweat on Edwin's bobbing Adam's apple as he swallows, waits for their eyes to meet before moving. Which he does, after a soft nod. A soft nod from Edwin, and the Cat King reacts with hard fast unrelenting pressure. There's a hand on Edwin's throat, claws under his chin. The Cat King's fangs threaten to break skin, the unspoken demand keeping Edwin's head in position against his lover's shoulder when the hand falls away with a lingering caress of claws leaving little red lines across the skin of his throat. 

"What are you reading? Tell me." The Cat King whispers, in between bites that feel passive like an after-thought, but Edwin knows are deliberate. A warm, calloused hand slides down Edwin's body, skin pushing down on skin rather hard on its path, leaving tingles in its wake. The sweet promise of bruising, claiming. 

Edwin recites on autopilot, barely registering there are actual words falling from his lips, in short bursts, among gasps, whines, moans. The Cat King's hand flies mercilessly over his erection, skin flushed an angry red all the way across his lower abdomen, trembling thighs. His socked feet slide to and fro among the rumpled sheets, in uncontrolled bursts of motion, driven by excess energy his body can't seem to get rid of under the hot heavy onslaught. The Cat King's focus is intense, all encompassing, bordering on nearly but not quite just enough, too much.

Edwin's words are almost lost under the obscene wet slapping sounds of the palm and fingers sliding roughly across his cock. Friction and heat battle each other to the front of sensations threatening to overwhelm him. Edwin's positive the Cat King was not reading over his shoulder, before. Otherwise, he'd have surely called him out by now. Edwin's been speaking absolute gibberish, he's sure of it, having run out of source material after those mere three words from the start of that same damn paragraph. 

The familiar circle of thumb and forefinger suddenly cinches and clenches around the base of his erection, with such force Edwin winces. His strangled gasp breaks on a sob, that rips from his chest with such force it cuts off his current run-on sentence with a feeble whimper. 

“It’s unfair, really,” the Cat King murmurs, "everything about you is just so pretty, Ghostie, even your voice, like this.”

“T-Thomas...” Edwin whispers, and oh his voice sounds wrecked, something he hadn't even noticed, something that got lost among the words he can't properly recall voicing for the past time either, as his mind feebly struggles to pierce the blissful haze his lover covered him with. Edwin hisses as fingers tease up his throbbing cock, and there’s a warning there, but as no further words follow, the Cat King ignores it.

"Enough reciting, enough work, okay?" A gentle kiss is pressed to sweat-slick hair, as that palm returns to firmer pressure, and doesn't stop. The Cat King twists his fingers on the upstroke, gently kneads his thumb in circles around the weeping slit of Edwin's erection. Legs pull taut and tense in rumpled bedding, they shake, toes curl as Edwin's hips start to jump in hitched little jerks, the time passing between each aborted thrust lessening, lessening, lessening.

"Instead, won't you sing for me?"

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Edwin feels too feeble to even pant, chest struggling to heave for breath with whatever strength he has left. Tingles of warmth have long changed into bursts, sparks that stay trapped underneath his skin, skittering, dancing all over, continuously sending signals of pleasure up to his brain that feels like it’s about to collapse inward under the strain of feedback. It borders, teethers on the very edge of pain, real, sharp . Edwin shakes his head wildly to and fro on the pillow he’s sweating into, but the sensations don’t stop. His barely half-hard cock gives a feeble twitch where it lays, in a small pool of his own come, across his lower stomach. Fingers mercilessly caress, tug, pinch at the swollen flushed red area of his chest. His ass barely manages to clench down on the plug inside of him, placed so deeply, angled so perfectly against all of his sweet, sensitive spots, he imagines it might’ve been specifically made for him. The fur of the tail attached to the base feels wet as it brushes against his cheeks with ever roll of his hips. Edwin’s not sure if he’s clenching down to hold, or trying to push it out, by now.  

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, sweat turns from drop to bead to near rivulets running down into the bedding. At some point his own tremulous whine pierces through the fog around his brain, his senses, and Edwin keens all the more, stunned at how weak he sounds. A shiver runs down his spine and seemingly stays there, heightening the stuttered jerks of his hips even as warm calloused palms sweep from chest, to neck, to cradle his face in a gentle grip meant to soothe.  

“Shh,” the Cat King whispers against his sweat-slick nape, nose pressed to wet slightly curling hair, “I’ve got you.” Fingers skate over his open mouth, drag across, drag down his bottom lip. “I’ll give you what you need.” A warm tongue nudges in, in, in over his lips, brushing over the roof of his mouth from the back of his teeth to as far as it can stretch, and back. After it retreats, fangs nip at his lips.  

Edwin tastes a mild tang of iron as he swallows. He shakes, he aches. He begs.  

“Nnh, no please,” fumbles off his lips first, followed by more. Pleas, tremulous whines, tear-filled gasps, echoes of surrender, vague threats.  

Teeth snap together with a clack, narrowly missing his tongue, as Edwin’s jaw clenches around a hiss that escapes nonetheless, piercing the air as his head thumps back against the pillow, his ass grounding down against the pressure of the plug filling him, pushed in impossibly deeper, closer, by fingers curling in a grip around the start of the attached tail, nudging against the base. Hips shake, feet tangle in the sheets in uncoordinated kicks to get away, get away.  The plug follows, hard unyielding silicone dragging along his inner walls. Fingers follow, fingertips scratching red little lines up the inside of his hips, nails biting crescent shapes into the side of his knee. Lips follow, pressed softy, soothingly next to the stinging press of claws. A rough wet-hot tongue follows, licking a stripe through the slick that covers Edwin’s lower stomach, replacing the sensation of slowly drying come with rapidly cooling saliva dribbling down in rapid lines along his pelvis, coating the base of his cock.  

The Cat King spits on the head of Edwin’s half-hard cock, wetting the slit.  

Fingers on the base of the plug suddenly push in hard and fast, with a twist of a wrist at the end of the movement, that serves to press the rounded tip of the plug against the entirety of Edwin’s swollen sensitive prostate.  

Edwin’s cock, still nowhere near fully hard, unable to rise again no matter the ministrations, slit dry save for the Cat King’s spit, abruptly twitches and jerks as his whole body seizes up, clenching so hard around the plug it hurts, it hurts . As his cock softens fully, after a completely dry orgasm, Edwin’s mouth remains locked wide, soundless. Arms shudder violently, hands clenching in the bedding as he strains to push himself up, a whine torn from his throat at the effort, voice stuttering on a weak groan as he manages, and finally stills.  

For a given measure of still, anyway. Edwin’s shivering, heaving for breath like he just surfaced from the bottom of the ocean. Sitting across from him, the Cat King’s eyes rove over every inch of his skin like he’s unsure what part of Edwin to focus on. Under his lover’s heavy, adoring gaze, Edwin narrowly gets his own hands out of the way before collapsing back onto the bedding, feeling heavy, hot, sticky and empty . He’s not sure how to properly control his limbs, but luckily his lover understands the feeble twitching half-lift of his arms, follows the signal with a small wave of his hands, the tingle of magic sweeping over in a cleansing haze, and then there’s the Cat King wrapping himself all around Edwin, arms draped protectively around his middle, chin resting gently on Edwin’s chest. They sigh in tandem, twin sounds of contentment. Edwin’s eyes slowly flutter closed as most of the weight of his lover sinks down onto the bedding next to him.  

“So, that was as good for you as it looked for me, yeah?”  

Edwin tilts his head towards the sound of the Cat King’s voice. Eyes still closed, he smiles, choosing to nod instead, though also deciding at the last second to add a pondering hmm. His smile widens, showing his teeth in a grin, at his lover’s questioning noise.  

“Well, if we really want to know the answer to that question, you’d have to be able to compare the experiences properly...”  

Chapter Text

“...Was my turn to get the left shoulder...”   

Edwin near jumps out of his skin, even if the grumble is so quiet, more breath than a whisper. He has to admit he’s been near sleep, eyes drooping over the morning paper he was reading, long given up on reading the same two paragraphs. He definitely wasn’t prepared for a bundle of fly-away fur to pop up right next to his elbow. He takes a proper look and identifies Sari, one of the Cannery cat regulars, who had definitely not been there a minute ago. She’s loafing on the crate next to the chair Edwin’s curled up in, angrily swatting her tail to and fro in obvious irritation. It takes Edwin a couple of seconds for his brain to catch up proper, to make sense of what she was actually just saying, and then his eyes follow her keen side-eye across the room.   

It has been a quiet morning for himself, his lover, and the dozen and a half cats lounging about. Edwin himself had chosen to nestle in one of the comfortably worn armchairs, near enough yet not directly in the path of one of the room’s high and tall windows. With the winter sun setting so obnoxiously early in the evenings, and taking its fair time in reappearing, Edwin swears he can feel his company’s energy drooping visibly from the deprivation. Letting the others eagerly claim and fight over the sunniest spots in the room, is thus a sacrifice he’s willing to make.   

Though it seems they’ve learned to share, somewhat.  

The Cat King lies sprawled across the floor, in the middle of the biggest beam of near-warm sunlight, at the center of the biggest pile up of cats Edwin has ever seen. At the bottom of the pile, head pillowed in his arms, the Cat King is fast asleep.  

At least, Edwin reckons he’s sleeping. He’s not quite sure, as he can’t see most of his lover, covered as he is by a dozen dozing cats.  

Sari meanwhile is still peering up at him, something almost questioning in her gaze.   

Edwin shrugs. He really couldn’t guess at the rules to the strange little stacking game happening. Is she expecting him to do something about her perceived slight? At times, Edwin marvels at the similarities between the cats and children, albeit drawing from what little experience he’s ever had with the latter.  

“It's unfair, right?” Sari whispers when she deems Edwin silent for too long. “They’ve taken up all the best spots...”   

She sounds so sullen, truly. It drives Edwin to crane his neck, shooting a more direct glance over the scene in sympathy to her plight.  

“I really don’t think there’s any room left,” he whispers back as he reclines, “and I’m not sure I’d jump on a dozing cat’s back if I were you. I can’t see that ending well. I’d hate to have to imagine the state of your coat should you start a startle-stampede. And just think of how cross your King’d be. You’d all be useless for the rest of the day, certainly.”  

Sari frowns at that, considering. Edwin bites his bottom lip to resist the urge to laugh out loud, at the thought of the Cat King’s face when he woke up to a mad chaos of cats dashing to and fro, many skittering with their claws out, over and around him. That would definitely wake him up. A morning start like that would truly put him in the worst mood for the rest of the day. Edwin had the compulsion to ensure that didn’t happen. He felt strangely like he was back at his family’s estate with his mother’s temperamental cat in his lap, afraid to do anything that would cause it to wake.   

And that sparked another thought.   

“You know what we could do though?” he whispers to Sari. “But, it might be risky…” The calico looks up at him with what he considers the official feline ‘I’m listening, you have my attention’ face. The very implication that something might be a no good, very bad idea that could inconvenience someone had already made up her mind that whatever it was, she was going to be a part of it.   

That led them to the position they were currently in. See, his mother’s cat, fat and lazy thing that it was, would invariably fall asleep in any convenient sunny patch. Young Edwin, bored from lack of stimulation in the sterile house he’d grown up in, would gleefully see how many nearby objects he could stack on the cat, before it woke up, and attempted to claw at him from under a pristine desk or cabinet.   

It wasn’t so much different with the Cat King, except that they had more surface area to work with, and the stakes felt significantly higher. For one, Edwin was quite used to sleeping in the same bed with his lover. He honestly didn’t know if he could properly fall asleep without the other’s warmth, the sound of his heartbeat, the soft sensations of his sleep-deep beathing. He did not relish the thought of finding out. For another, he was confident that if the Cat King woke up under an undignified pile of sardine cans and lint, he was capable of magicking himself out from under it in an instant, and as such there’d be no mere attempt at any punishment.  

A dozen cats hold their breath while Sari tries to resist giggling around her mouthful, as she very carefully holds out another sardine can for Edwin to take. The latter finds himself needlessly holding his breath as he adds it to the growing pile. So far, he's strategically stacked a row of books along the Cat King’s back, to give himself a slightly flatter surface to work on. From there, they have since pilfered the entire Cannery’s floor worth of cans, Edwin’s bowtie, a myriad of cat toys, two very stubborn cats that absolutely refused to move from their spot on the Cat King’s legs, and using an old worn deck of cards one of the cats managed to scrounge up from somewhere, Edwin’s built the tallest house of cards recorded in his personal history.    

Edwin realizes they’ve run out of objects in the room to use, as he holds his hand out in waiting and Sari just rubs her head gently against his fingers. Feeling the high of achievement still racing through him, he’s unwilling to stop without a proper finale. Determined, he rises onto silent feet, sneaking over to his abandoned armchair. Softly he picks up, turns and crosses the room again, his morning reading in hand. What he would normally consider an integral part of his morning routine, was now to be sacrificed for a much more noble purpose. Sitting down cross-legged, Edwin very slowly tears up the paper into smaller squares, then silently and even more slowly attempts to fold it into tiny paper cats. He perches them on every last bit of free space; there’s a line along the edge of the books, one on top of the highest point of the sardine can tower, one on each of the Cat King’s heels, up his lover's neck, and of course Edwin puts a whole clowder of them among the Cat King’s thick locks of hair, mimicking the earlier morning scene where the Cat King most resembled a cat bed.  

“Hmm. What’s next?” Sari whispers by his elbow, sounding breathless from withheld laughter, as Edwin places the last of the paper cats on the back of his lover’s hair.  

Edwin tilts his head in thought. Truly, his king must’ve been exhausted to still be so fast asleep while Edwin’s morning had taken on the most unconventional turn. While empty, the absolute plethora of cans, not to mention the books, it must still all have a certain weight to them, especially when added up?  

“What is it?” Sari whispers.   

Slowly, Edwin’s hand reaches out, and his fingers start to softly dance and tug at the soft hair at the nape of the Cat King’s head.   

“Careful! You’ll wake him up.” Sari hisses at him. Around them, the other cats start to back away, slow at first, then faster when their king’s head turns and leans into Edwin’s touch. A low purr starts crawling up from the Cat King’s chest. Edwin waits for the vibrations to reach his fingers when he breaks the suddenly tense silence.  

“Oh,” he says conversationally, his voice suddenly back up to normal volume, making Sari and the two stubborn cats on the Cat King’s legs freeze with shock and terror, “I reckon he’s been awake since I got out of the armchair.”  

Chapter Text

“Do try to keep your feet planted, I don’t want to have to tell you again.”  Edwin tuts as he circles slowly back to stand in front of his lover. “Unless you need me to untie you?” Using the bottom part of the leather handle below his firm grip, Edwin gently tilts the Cat King’s head up, waits till eyes meet, waits some more till eyes clear enough to focus. “Are you all done?” He whispers, already smiling as he draws back, watching his lover wildly jerk his head side to side.  

“Fuck I am, stop playing around and hit me.”  

“Are you sure?” Edwin hums, already moving his feet back into to a leisure circling, turning his single tone into a little ditty as he goes. Already swinging the six-tailed whip down in a neat arch, striking six lines of blazing red into the Cat King’s back.  

“Your feet, dear. On the floor, please.” Edwin waits for his lover to shuffle and shift in the chair, his bonds. He waits for the shifting to lessen. Edwin doesn’t wait for him to settle. His next strike comes from the side, Edwin judging the distance perfectly as to dig the tips of the whip into the soft meat of the Cat King’s left thigh. His lover jerks sideways, not hard enough to topple the chair he’s bound to, but near enough as the wood clacks harshly on the floor as it heaves back down, the Cat King’s chest heaving with it. A cat-o-nine tail whip can draw blood, if there’s intent.  

“M’not done.” The Cat King whispers.  

Edwin bends forward, presses a soft kiss against the side of the Cat King’s sweat-damp forehead. “If that chair topples, I am going to assume you are.”  

He waits for his lover to nod.  

The Cat King shifts in the chair, the bonds. Fingers are flexed, curl into fists. Feet are firmly on the floor, ankles pressing into the legs of the chair, wood creaking.  

Edwin changes his grip on the whip handle, moving his arm, his shoulder, back into a position that’ll enable his next swing to arch from below instead of coming down. “Five, I think. Five, then you may come.”  

He hears the wood of the chair creak in his lover’s tense anticipation.  

“Tell me.” Edwin demands.  

“Five, ghostie, then I can come.” The Cat King rushes out, through gritted teeth.  

“Good boy.”  

Edwin loosens his shoulder and swings the whip neatly between the Cat King’s spread legs. Four of the many knots just above the very tip of the whip’s many tails hit his lover’s balls. One. The whine the Cat King lets out is thin, and the shivers wracking his frame are minor. Edwin swings again, right after, keeping his arm a bit closer this time so the whip lands full and centre on the Cat King’s balls, with some of the whip’s tails hitting the soft skin between hole and raw-red balls. Two . Number Three is again delivered swiftly. Edwin aims for the Cat King’s cock and lands a clean hit, whip digging into the twitching shaft, balls hitching on impact with sensitive skin. The head of his lover’s cock looks a flushed, angry red, milky pre-cum pearling at the slit and drip, drip, dripping down in a steady stream to puddle on the floor in between his feet. The Cat King’s face, from what little Edwin can see as it droops over his ragged panting chest, is a flushed red tone with tears dripping from eyes to match.  

Four comes just a tad softer, but in contrast Edwin makes sure to aim the whip’s ends right into the soft flesh just behind the Cat King’s balls. Edwin files the sound his lover makes, wretched yet tinged with pleasure, as well as his own reaction to it, away for later introspection. He adjusts himself in his trousers, and moves to stand directly in front of his lover.  

“Five.” Edwin says out loud, after pausing just long enough to watch the Cat King start to shift again. Five is swung in a wide arch and comes down in just as wide a spread over the bound man’s entire lap. Edwin is sure he sees a knotted tip hit right on the head of his lover’s cock, right before the Cat King howls and comes in several spurts in a line across the floor. His feet twitch and shift on the floor as his body seems to sag in on itself, and Edwin kneels uncaring of the state of the floor, to free the Cat King’s feet before anything else.  

“Let’s get you out of that chair.” Edwin mutters as he sets to work. “And straight into bed?” The Cat King asks with a teasing lilt, slightly lessened in effect when he looks good and ready for a much-needed rest. “Just so,” is all Edwin replies, eyes focused on his task. Deft fingers move swiftly up the Cat King’s legs, and Edwin’s made short work of the last rope on the Cat King’s thighs when one leg lifts over his shoulder, across his back and tugs him forward.  

“You can’t tuck me into bed yet babe.” The Cat King doesn’t pout, but it's a near thing.  

“And why is that?” Edwin indulges, absent-minded as his hands resume their task.  

“Can’t sleep without a good night kiss.” His lover presses, with a smile too soft to be deemed a smirk when Edwin looks up, eyebrow raised.  

Edwin can’t hold back his eyeroll, though he makes sure to add a smile of his own when he moves to undo the final bit of rope, and helps his lover stand. “Is that so? Not as if I ever claimed you weren’t going to get one, now did I?” He hides a grin in the inside of his arm as he pulls the Cat King’s arm across his shoulders, turning his head away from the far too contagious glee in the other’s face, far too innocent for what they’ve just been up to, but that’s how they are, he supposes.  

“Well, a kiss -before- sleep would make me feel better, too.” The Cat King demands, as he gingerly walks to the bedroom, leaning his weight on Edwin’s shoulder with every other step.  

“A kiss to feel better here, here too, definitely going to need one here, as well as here, no way that’s going to heal without a kiss, ...”  

Yes, Edwin thinks, that’s how they are . He gently pushes his lover to fall forward onto the bedding, cock first.  

It’s alright. He’ll kiss it better.  

Chapter Text

Exactly how a cat manages to give a look so perfectly conveying a mixture of disappointment and condescension, despite lacking eyebrows, is not known to Edwin.   

“Humans, twice the arrogance, with less than half the grace. How on earth you thought you could fit through that hole wholly eludes me.” She states, slitted eyes on her curled paw, words directed to Edwin.  

Precarious as his situation is, Edwin stubbornly edges the current limits of his mobility, straining his neck to tilt his head backwards just enough. Managing the proper angle to somewhat ‘look down’ on the calico cat neatly perched across from him, he mutters a curt “I don’t recall asking for your opinion, cat.”   

“I’m not altogether sure you even deserve it, little mouse.” The feline sneers, tail in the air as she slowly rises, with a calm unhurried little stretch of her four legs. As she descends from her perch among the old crumbled remains of the abandoned building and nears, the very tip of her fluffy tail flicks to and fro. She starts up a monologue when she reaches the wall Edwin’s currently forcibly occupying , whispering to him like gossip passed between conspirers. “I imagine the King will either be pleased or the opposite, about this,” Edwin hears her mutter, as his head tries in vain to dodge the fur brushing against his chin, tickling his nose, “being the unfortunate one of his subjects to have discovered you, I’m the one who’s going to have to explain this mess you’ve got yourself into, you know. I hear he’s entertaining company at this time, won’t like being interrupted for this, not one bit.” Edwin rolls his eyes, uncaring if the cat spots it, and makes to speak, another curt dismissal, a more heartfelt plea for her aid, he doesn’t actually know. She interrupts, before his lips fully form around a sound.  

“Then again...Might just insist on leading him and his friends here.” she offers, with what Edwin knows, with certainty, is the feline version of a smirk and a raised eyebrow where a cat ever to have them. He surmises this one must be quite a regular in the court of the Cat King. She’s moving again before Edwin can reply, and he’s faced with her swaying tail as she walks away. “Sure to lose interest in the little mouse, after seeing what poor prey that one is...Trapped meat spoils the hunt.” Is the last thing he hears, before the cat saunters past one of the many corners, made up by walls half-standing, and Edwin is left counting the different shades of grey in the concrete surrounding him, once more.  

It takes some time. Then, in the distance, on the other side of the wall, a voice. Voices . On Edwin’s hips and along his back, a hand. Hands. The points of contact multiply, one hand turning into two, two hands turning into three.   

Edwin slowly realizes how tense he’d become, at the same time and tempo said tenseness leaves him, smoothed away by gentle fingers, calloused palms and featherlight caresses down his back and hips.  

Hands, blessedly warmer than the cold dusty stone beneath his stomach, tighten their grip on Edwin's hips, and try to yank him out of the wall. It doesn't work, of course, and Edwin remains very much stuck, only sliding an inch or so backwards before he comes to a stop again, with a sharp hiss of discomfort, and only the further rumpling of his shirt to show for it. The only thing really achieved by the tug is the loosening, untucking of his chemise from his trousers, and every further pull brings his bare skin into contact with the cold stone he’s so precariously perched on. Edwin sucks in air through his teeth in short bursts, the fronts of his shoes scraping against the floor as he struggles to make his displeasure known. His own hands and arms remain useless, his elbows used only to brace, weight held balanced on the underside of his lower arms. As he gasps and pants in a lull between the rough handling, gentle fingers slip in under the edge of his rumpled shirt. Purposefully or not, the soft touch along the bare skin above his waistband is soothing. Edwin's breath hitches less and less, legs and feet shuddering to a halt.  

Voices start up again behind him, but no matter how hard he strains his ears, Edwin can’t catch a single word.   

There’s a hand cupping his ass, palming a cheek, warmth searing through his trousers. Voices are raised, lowered, quieted. One hand turns into two, two hands turn into three.  

Deft fingers glide from back to front along the waistband of his trousers. Edwin’s stomach hitches in reflex, at the unintentional brush of the back of those fingers as they pop open his trouser button, tug down the zipper. Before its well and truly fully down and open, another hand shoves its way in and smoothly reaches further behind his underwear, firmly cupping Edwin’s soft cock, and his little hitch turns into a startled jerk as calloused fingers curl and press into the skin at the base of his cock, fingertips digging, rubbing into the top of his balls from behind.  

"Ah! What are you- what is this," Edwin finally manages weakly. " Charles, Thomas? What's-"  

As he speaks, he’s ignored, hands working in tandem to tug his trousers over his hips, down his legs, to pool around his ankles. Fingers dance back up the inside of both his legs in teasing, barely-there touches. A palm is placed in the middle of his back, thumb rubbing comforting circles. A firm grip with fingers spread around each of his hips holds him in place, cutting off escape where he ever even able. Edwin’s mind reels as he slowly tries to catch up with his body’s current situation, effort made harder with each gentle knead of a warm, calloused palm against his cock.  

Six hands. Three pairs of hands mean Charles and Thomas and Monty, means the three of them are touching him together. Edwin's not entirely certain how to deal with that revelation, or the image that presents itself in his mind as a result.  

The overwhelming feeling is amplified, when the hands holding him still, suddenly move him. A curl of those fingers and a light tug are all it takes to spread his legs further, fingers drifting inward to then spread him open. As if practiced, the other one - Edwin doesn't even know which is which , has no idea, tries desperately to figure out some way to differentiate, comes up blank - pushes one slick finger into him, fingertip curling against a sensitive bundle of nerves with brute accuracy as soon as the knuckle meets his rim.  

Edwin attempts to slap a hand over his own mouth, to muffle any embarrassing sounds, and finds himself even more mortified to discover that he cannot reach his own face with his hands. His lips fall open and pleasure tumbles out, as Charles/Thomas/Monty continues to finger him open with expert touches. One finger turns to two, two fingers turn to three. By the time the slick wet noises from behind him start to match the volume of the moans and stuttering gasps leaving Edwin’s mouth, a tongue doesn’t replace, but is added to the three fingers rocking in and out, and Edwin’s answering moan ricochets off the stone walls with such strength that the second following echo still rivals the answering groan of whoever just thrust their tongue even deeper up his ass than any of the three fingers had managed. Hands grip and dig into the meat of his ass as whoever it is on the other end of that hot, wet tongue eats out Edwin’s ass like they’re starved for it. Edwin imagines he could almost hear the combination of spit and slick that by now must drip from his assailant’s mouth splatter on the floor.  

No amount of squirming, either to escape or give in to the pleasure wracked upon him, gets Edwin anywhere, as his composure slips further and further. He was a bit cold before, but now his whole body is overheating, burning up with every touch. He pants, eyelids fluttering, touch ghosting over every bit of his skin in the form of gentle roving fingers over the expanse of his trembling back, feather-light caresses to the soft skin of his inner thighs, firm squeezes and teasing sweeps of wet warm fingers over the slit of his rapidly filling cock.  

The current pace isn’t meant to make him last. It’s a veritable deluge, a wave of sensation. It’s about ten minutes since Edwin’s been found. He’s perched on the tips of his toes, unsure even to himself whether he means to lean into or away from the waves of pleasure, when he’s swept up. A hand starts to pump his cock a second after the first spurt of pearly come leaves him, and Edwin’s hips can’t help but jerk along with each firm pump as he’s milked. His ass clenches without rhythm around the very tip of the tongue, teasingly flicking against his red-flushed fluttering rim. Fingers press against the sensitive skin directly behind his drawn-up balls, determined to get that last bead of come to drip down the slit of his spent cock. Over-sensitive, Edwin’s last few hitched breaths carry an undertone bordering on too much as lips wrap around the head of his softening cock.   

A sudden touch to his cheek, his face, has Edwin’s eyes flying open.  

“Charles...” Edwin whimpers, high-pitched, wavering, pushing his cheek into the gentle hand that cradles it. “Just checking in with my best mate.” Charles offers with a smile, wiping a stray tear from the corner of Edwin’s eye with his thumb. “You alright?” He asks, as his thumb stroked down Edwin’s cheek, resting lightly on his lower lip, pulling it down into a slight pout. As Edwin focusses on Charles’s face, the latter’s eyes stay drawn to his own thumb on Edwin’s lip.   

For all that he is physically trapped, Edwin thinks there’s something quite empowering about making another man blush. Charles’s eyes flutter, and he gasps without a sound but makes the motion all the same for Edwin to spot with inward glee, as he wets the thumb with a quick little sweep of his wet, pink tongue. Dipping his head forward, Edwin lets the digit slip further into his mouth, making sure to hum in approval as his lips close around it in a teasing suckle. The thumb is slowly released, glistening in the low light, and Edwin makes sure to keep his lips pressed to the pad as he finally answers.  

“I’m fine, Charles.” Edwin makes a point to smile encouragingly, adding a playful wink the next second. “Could be a bit better, though. Say, if I could get a helping hand or two, to get me out of this wall I’m trapped in?”  

“We’re working on it, don’t worry.” Charles smiles down at him, as his wet thumb slowly traces Edwin’s slightly parted lips, corner to corner. Seemingly pleased with the sight, Charles raises his head and free arm in tandem, reaching a fist towards the wall. A playful nip of Edwin’s teeth on the soft pad of Charles’ thumb makes the latter falter, turning his fist into a splayed hand for balance at the very last second, as his hips jerk forward in response to Edwin’s teasing bite, straining erection skirting close to Edwin’s face as knees near-buckle and legs stutter. An amused chuckle falls down to Edwin’s ears. As he gently smirks up at his mate, Charles raps his knuckles against the wall one, two, three times in short succession.  

The other side of the wall is silent.  

Right as Edwin's starting to think the other two are dragging it out a bit too long, sudden pressure pushes, reaches, breaches. Skin erupting with goosebumps all over, warmth and unyielding pressure bursts into shivers shooting up his spine as he trembles, then goes tense all over, mouth falling open as his eyes flutter shut. He can vaguely hear Charles breathing in his ear, he must’ve bent down. Edwin feels him hide his smile against his cheek, then lips gently press a trail of kisses from cheek to ear.   

"Did someone finally get around to putting a cock in you?" Charles whispers, knowing full well the answer, relishing Edwin’s hitched gasp, soft moan and tremulous whimper all the same.  Gentle fingers card through Edwin’s sweat-slick hair, pushing it away and back from his forehead. The colder air sweeping over the newly exposed skin brings a second of comfort, followed by a quick shock as Charles’s other hand fists into the bunched front of Edwin’s shirt and roughly pulls. A fingernail scratches across his suddenly exposed nipple, followed by a rough pinch, just to hear that lovely hitch in Edwin’s breath again. "Which one of them is it?” Charles whispers against the back of Edwin’s head. “Whose cock is that in you, Edwin?"  

In lieu of an answer, not sure if Charles even truly wishes one, Edwin reaches out as much as he can with his hands. He’s similarly unsure if he truly manages it, or Charles is clever enough to take the hint. What matters is the warm hips now underneath his clenching fingers, the scent of sweat, desire, and something altogether Charles, that Edwin can near taste as he nuzzles his nose against the other’s erection, mouthing, licking at the growing wet spot where the head of Charles’s cock dribbles pre-come into his underwear and trousers. As the tip of his tongue nudges in the search for more, more, more , the length pressing forward twitches.   

Edwin’s head suddenly jerks sideways, lips swerving free to form a overwhelmed string of curses. Behind Edwin, in Edwin, the hot hard erection just quickened its thrusts, strong hips slapping with audible impacts of flesh on flesh. At the same time, coordinated to the second, the soft lips that Edwin had incredulously nearly forgotten about glide forward in slow increments with every hard jerk of Edwin’s hips.   

In front of him, Charles moves even closer. Grabbing Edwin’s hand from where it slipped down, Charles gently loosens white-clenched knuckles, placing the hand higher on his now bare hip. Trousers tugged down by the other hand, he gives three short taps to the back of Edwin’s hand, waiting for Edwin’s eyes to clear somewhat of the pleasured haze. “Tap if you want a break, yeah?” he says, with a hand cradling the back of Edwin’s head, fingers playing with the short hairs there, the other hand slowly guiding his erection to Edwin’s lips.   

Edwin licks his lips, taps his index finger against the tan skin of Charles’s hip. One, two, three. He opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue, eager, slicking the head and length with his spit as it glides past his lips, and immediately starts to fuck his throat in earnest.  

There’s musk on his tongue, steel in his ass, velvet around his cock.  

Edwin feels good, he feels so, so good. He’s hot, slick wet, tight. There’s pressure all around him, inside of him, but what blankets him from all sides feels nothing like cold uncaring concrete, but comfort, safety, desire. There’s a never-ending barrage of sensation, a constant buzzing of moans, groans and sounds of slick enjoyment. Layered right across are fragmented growls of praise, interspersed with the more silent but no less validating constant touching. There are hands everywhere. Edwin can’t tell any of them, can’t tell anything apart any more, joined as he is, shared so wholly by and in between his three partners.  

Charles can tell when Edwin comes, even without auditory cues or tapping, because Edwin's eyes widen, hands clenching into fists at his hips. From the muffled groan behind the wall, Charles reckons the hot rippling clench of Edwin’s ass mid-orgasm must’ve dragged another over the edge along with him. Smiling, he gives one more thrust of his own hips and then pulls out, even though Edwin technically hasn't told him to, and even protests the action with a small bereft sound. Taking himself in hand and pumping Edwin’s spit brusquely up and down his own length, Charles angles the head of his cock just so. Some come lands on slightly spread, swollen lips. Most streaks across Edwin’s face.   

Charles reaches out with his thumb to wipe a smear of come away near Edwin’s left eye. Edwin huffs in a mild show of the futility of the gesture, but lets him.   

Edwin feels filthy, is filthy. The combination of concrete dust and sweat has already started to dry and cake on his skin, what feels like everywhere of it. He’s sure his eyes are as red and puffy as his bruised lips, and dares not think about the state of his clothing, whatever is still properly on his body. He’s left naked from the waist down, tattered remains of his shirt hanging loosely off of his elbows that swing out wildly as soon as they have the renewed space to do so. One hard, true real tug by warm calloused palms has Edwin out of the hole in the wall and into the lean arms of one of his lovers. Legs shaking from the effort to support even a fraction of his weight after resting for such length of time, Edwin feels a trickle of come trailing down the inside of his thigh, covered in sucking marks he can’t even remember registering. His head lolls backwards onto the shoulder that supports most of his weight. He sighs, sounding utterly put upon. He is well and truly an utter mess.  

He feels amazing.  

He’s promptly semi-carried out of the building, with support on all sides, thrice-confirmed affirmations washing over him feeling almost as nice as a long hot bath.  

As soon as they reach their shared quarters, he still very much demands said long hot bath.   

“N ext time,” Edwin starts, as he rests his head back against the rolled-up towel on the edge of the bathtub, “we do it in a bed " he stresses, barely acknowledging the discussion going on at the other end of the room, where his three lovers animatedly discuss what to ask for next year, when they celebrate their next anniversary.   

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Edwin smiles, the Cat King hums, and illuminated by the soft pulsing yellow light, Charles’s face immediately goes slack.

“Bend your knees a bit more, that’s it,” Edwin whispers, leaning into Charles’s hand kneading into the top of his thigh, “and spread your legs” the Cat King adds, voice full of magical suggestion.

Charles staggers a little as he tries to shift forward, but moves his knees all the same, listing towards Edwin like he’s been pulled. His arousal is immediately thick enough for Edwin to sip off the air without even touching him. It makes his skin tingle into goosebumps under his clothes, to watch a genuine blush creep across Charles’s cheeks, his pupils blown almost perfectly round.

“Oh my, aren’t you delicious,” the Cat King coos, lips pressed to the shell of Charles’s ear, slitted golden eyes locked on Edwin’s. “Figures you’re into this kind of thing, sweet puppy.”

Charles whimpers.

“Charles…” Edwin whispers, surprised at his own voice, sounding absolutely floored.

The Cat King hums again, shifting closer, moulding his frame along Charles’s back, pressing kiss after kiss, following the trail of sweat beading off Charles’s brow as he whines in between them, leaning towards Edwin, pressing back towards the Cat King, but staying on his knees, what a good boy, gods.

With every soft pulse of yellow light, every caress of gold adorned fingers up and down Charles’s frame, his pleasure is illuminated. Trembles wrack Charles’s body, eyes closing with a rapid fluttering of his eyelashes. What a loss to let him go so soon, Edwin thinks, but he can tell the exact moment the Cat King thinks his point has been proven. The Cat King’s broad palm drags down Charles’s front, settling into the curve of hip and thigh. He blinks, once, twice, lets his powers dissipate like they were never there at all.

Charles gasps like he’s coming up from underwater.

Instantly, the blush of his cheeks goes from soft pink, to near-purple-red with rage, and he tries to launch himself to his feet. For all that his face is twisted with ire, it’s clear he’s hard as stone. “I’ll fucking—!!”

Edwin places a hand atop the fist clenched into the fabric of his trousers, and shifts closer as Charles’s knees lock up before he can get them to even partially hold his weight. His other hand gently brushes Charles’s heaving chest. Palm to rapid heartbeat, Edwin waits for it to slow, minutely. “You started it.”

Charles knocks his hand aside, looking ready to incinerate him, but the prominent erection bobbing in the warm air between their bodies kills the effect by quite a bit. “He tries that shit again, I’ll rip out his throat!”

Edwin just smiles, petting Charles’s tense shoulder. “He won’t do it again,” he promises, sending the Cat King a nod.

“Well, that was exciting.” The Cat King drawls lightly, managing to sound unaffected, but Edwin can almost feel the slow pulse of his arousal when he meets his gaze again, and it’s keying him up. It’s keying Thomas up, too, the sight of his wider pupils brings memories of the taste of his arousal, familiar on the back of Edwin’s tongue. “So, this sort of suggestion is something you’ve always been able to do, and we’re not immune, you’re just ... polite?”

“Polite isn’t the word I’d use,” Thomas winks, smiling through the way the lust in the room spikes, “but for a manner of speaking, yes.”

“You’ve been holding out on me.” Edwin mutters around a smile.

Thomas purrs back at him, twining his hand into Charles’s hair. “Are you going to punish me for it?”

“Later.” Edwin retorts, while the fingers of his right hand finally manage to gently unclench Charles’s tight grip, and his left hand slides down the length of Charles’s upper body.

“Promise?” Thomas kiss-whispers into Charles’s nape, expertly following every jerk and shake, as Charles shocks forward into a lean. His intended curse morphs into a gasp of breath, in response to Edwin’s palm softly grinding into the wet tip of his cock. Fingers curl around the length, slowly getting slicked by the soaked bedding, that’s wetted with every beading drip, drip, drip of pre-cum.

Despite his teasing words, Thomas keeps his every touch as near-chaste as is possible for him, letting his warm hands drift across Charles’s frame without any clear purpose other than just to make him feel good. Clamping down and holding a tight lid on his magic, the yellow lights are brought down to a steady, low pulsing. Eventually, Charles’s head rolls back, and his next few breaths seem to sigh out all his lingering tension. When Thomas starts to acutely feel Charles’s weight settle into him, and sensing the trust Charles is settling into him with it, he dares to roll his hips and bring Charles’s hips forward with him.

Charles whines.

Oh, but he wants to be taken care of so badly, doesn’t he, their sweet puppy.

Edwin and Thomas lock eyes, and for the second time that night, Edwin nods. Things get a little out of control after that. Or, at least out of Thomas and Charles’s control. Edwin stays carefully focused on both, gorging himself on the sight of Thomas as his hips dip lower, forward, then up, in, in. There’s the sound of Thomas’s deep breaths, Charles’s shallow gasps. The soft smacking of Thomas’s lips against any part of Charles he can reach, shivers that erupt on Charles’s frame, like he’s a raw nerve of pleasure.

They’re insatiable, and Edwin tries his best to keep them there as long as he can, with his hand pumping the length of Charles’s dripping cock, and his eyes shining with lust staying locked on Thomas. The combined scent of it all sits heavy on the air, like a fog on their minds.

Sensing, seeing the inevitable climax approaching, Edwin brings his head close to Charles, a soft smile on his lips. “You’re doing so well Charles,” he starts, touching the tip of his nose against the other’s slack jaw, “such a good boy.”

He keeps his hand moving, fingers dragging through the suddenly increasing slick, keeping pace until he’s certain Charles’s hips are trying to pull away rather than into his ministrations.

“There you are,” Edwin coos, nipping at his own bottom lip, savouring the spark of lust it visibly sends through Thomas before he watches him close his eyes as well, hips slowing down into a grind, to a stuttering halt.

“That’s where I want you.” Edwin’s voice rings clear and bright, over twin sets of panting in the room. “That’s where I want you both.”

Chapter Text

“I got you a gift.” Edwin looks up from his notebook at the loud declaration, pen stilling in his hand. His admittedly already weak frown at being disrupted from his work lessens into a look of amusement with every sauntering step the Cat King makes. The other beams excitement, strolling into the room with two small boxes in his hands, one stacked on top of the other, held together neatly by criss-crossing ribbon tied into a delicate bow at the top.  

As his lover rounds the desk Edwin sits straighter, obligingly shifting his work to the side and leaning back into his chair to make room. “Looks like more than one to me.” He quips through his smile. Once again, his lover has gotten something for him. Only for him, just because. There is no reason that Edwin can think of— they aren’t celebrating anything in particular.  

Charles, Crystal and Niko have gone off to conduct official case business, leaving Edwin and Thomas to themselves in the office, further fuelling Edwin’s belief that this is to be a special present, just between them. Otherwise, Thomas would have surely given it to him earlier, when everyone could have seen his reaction.  

The Cat King cocks his head to the side and lets a fang slip through into his own charming smile. “Let’s say they go together, shall we?” Setting the boxes in Edwin’s lap, Thomas uses the leaning move to steal a kiss, and then seats himself on the desk, vivid bright eyes flitting from the boxes to Edwin. “Well. Go on, you can open it.”  

The boxes are beautiful. Dark red like spilled wine, with matching lids the colour of maroon roses, a satin ribbon edged in black wraps around them holding them tight. Almost too beautiful to disturb. But the enthusiasm in Thomas’ voice spurs Edwin on.  

Carefully he pulls the ends of the ribbon, and lets it fall to the sides. Lifting the first lid Edwin spies a bundle of impossibly soft fabric, resting gently on a bed of black tissue paper. Its golden colour stands out starkly, almost glinting like the actual metal is woven into every thread. When Edwin gives into the urge the fabric shifts and glides between his fingers like water. Carefully pinching an edge between his thumb and finger Edwin quirks an eyebrow at his lover as he lifts the intricate lace bralette.  

“Don’t pull it out completely yet. Open the next box.” Thomas’s smile is growing by the moment, both fangs showing now, his eyes blown wide, glittering with pleasure.  

The excitement rubs off on Edwin, who sets the sunshine bright garment back neatly on its bed of paper. Gently placing the box on the desk next to where the Cat King is sitting, Edwin’s hands fall to the box in his lap.  

As soon as he tips the lid off, he both understands and matches his lover’s giddiness.  

Nestled inside on matching black paper and with equal alluring shine, if not more so, are a pair of stockings, fabric so thin and delicate they’d appear practically sheer were it not for the myriads of little glints sparkling as Edwin lifts one up to look underneath at the matching strips of lace to hold them up. Lightly pressing and sliding his thumb down the neat rows of ribbons, perfectly twisted into bows, Edwin resists the urge to lift the fabric to his nose if only for the sake of not keeping his lover waiting too much longer.  

“This is gorgeous.” Edwin says, just to watch his king preen with delight from the corner of his eyes, as he dips his hand back into the box to look at the last item.  

The crotchless lace panties glint teasingly at Edwin from his hands, in such a stark matching shade of gold he imagines holding them up to his lover’s face they’d match perfectly, down to the teasing sentiment itself. Hells, they are perfect, because they are from his lover.  

“Will you put them on, for me?”  

Edwin slowly rises from his seat, making a point to keep his eyes focused on his hands. Testing the stretch of the panties’ waistband with his thumbs as he walks, he carefully sneaks a glance at his lover tilting his head in confusion. Edwin leaves him to blink in silence and try to recover as Edwin makes his way to the door.  

“Let me rephrase that.” Edwin amends as he bends over to casually remove his right shoe, then his sock. Still mindful to keep his lover in the corner of his vision, he notes the Cat King hasn’t moved from his seat atop the desk, only turning his chest enough to lean on one arm and gaze back at Edwin in confusion.  

“It’s meant to be a gift for you , babe.” Thomas manages to utter eventually.  

Edwin nods as he opens the door, neatly slides his sock on the door handle, and shuts the door with a soft pointed click, looking up right as the Cat King makes to speak again.  

“Yes. So would you wear this, for me?” Edwin asks as he toes off his other shoe and sock.  

“Would you let me help you put them on,” Edwin repeats as he rounds the desk, moving to stand in between his lover’s readily spreading legs, watching as understanding starts to flicker and spread across the Cat King’s growing smile, “make you look all pretty for me?”  

“I want to see you shine for me.” The words brush Thomas’s lips as Edwin kisses him.  

Edwin’s pleased to find that the panties do indeed match his lover’s eyes perfectly, even when said eyes are blown so wide in pleasure that Edwin must lean in close to spot the barest hint of gold on the edges of black.  

Chapter Text

Sometimes, on very few occasions, Edwin can be downright impatient.   

The sight in front of him as he pauses his work and pulls his hands back loosens Edwin’s frown of concentration. The corner of his mouth rises in a pleased smile. “You look good like this,” he whispers, bending over to press a kiss to the top of his lover’s head, continuing with his nose buried in the hair behind the Cat King’s left ear, “but you already know that.”  

The Cat King’s fingers twitch behind his back, and his lower lip has been worried and bitten to a dull red throbbing. Warmth has spread in a deep red hue down his neck to his chest. A similar red blush paints and frames the wide grin that stretches across the Cat King’s cheeks.   

Red, red, red.   

Not quite the same shade as the many coils of rope adorning his body, but close. Close enough.  

Hells, the things Edwin wants to do, what he needs to do to his lover, right now.   

At the first purposeful touch of Edwin’s fingers, fingertips ghosting up the soles of his feet, the Cat King sucks in a breath and tenses up. Muscles slowly pull and tighten against bonds that offer next to no give. Soft tan skin presses against knots, shoulders rising as minutely as they’re able to, in response to the sudden sensation, body keying up to a new constant state of expecting something.  

“S’posed to be relaxing, babe. Remember?” The Cat King quips.  

Edwin tuts, then grins.   

He runs his hands up and down his lover’s sides, gently at first, but gradually deepening the pressure, making sure to press his palm along ribs. In a teasing pace, Edwin curls and drags his fingers across every knot and loop of rope they meet and pass. A single finger hooks and works its way in between skin and woven rope and lifts it just slightly, to then release with a small jolting shock to the Cat King’s side. Red creeps across the abused skin. Edwin’s rewarded with a moan offered to his own mouth.   

Shifting back and turning, moving all but his gaze away from his lover, Edwin orders the Cat King to move. “Up, sit up for me. Feet together, knees as well please, let me look at you.”   

He watches silently as the other follows his commands with an obedience as equally beautiful as his ever-present grace. Always so compliant for him. Edwin rewards his king with a kiss to one ear and a tender caress to the shell of the other one. Fingers trace across the Cat King’s nape as his lover sags in his bonds as much as he’s able, legs splaying open with a soundless shift of bedsheets.  

It earns him a swat to a thigh and a gentle reprimand.  

Edwin ignores his lover’s mumbled apology, and its amused undertone, in favour of reaching for more of the red rope. He stays silent as he uncoils it completely. He sits himself behind the Cat King’s back, holding a palm to his lover’s bound wrists to serve both as support and as a hold .  

His other hand falls to the back of the Cat King’s ankles, nimbly shifting and coiling the length of red rope above his achilles tendon, bringing and twisting the loop together around the front. Crossing to the other ankle Edwin loops it again, crossing again, and back again. Again, again. He creates a fan of criss-crossed rope, pulling just hard enough to leave the Cat King’s lower legs spread apart a mere two inches, before weaving the remaining length around the Cat King’s thighs in an X and tying it off once he’s sure his lover is stable kneeling by himself.  

Next Edwin chooses two slightly shorter lengths. Unspooling each, he folds them in half and attaches one to the end of the other with a square knot, making a single longer rope to work with. It gets wrapped around the untouched space left on his lover’s thighs. The ends run through the bend, where Edwin deftly secures them. A new loop starts a few inches further down until in the end, three neat rows of red rope bind the Cat King’s thighs tightly together, and his red flushed cock twitches against his lower stomach.  

Red, red, red.  

The Cat King’s back hits the bedding.  

Giving into the urge Edwin pets from ankle to hip, fingers dipping down to trail gently back up a trembling inner thigh. The Cat King’s cock gets a gentle teasing smack, and Edwin notes but otherwise ignores the promising shine of pre-come teasing at the slit.  

He takes the remaining red rope and moves to the Cat King’s bound wrists now trapped between sheets and sweat-slick skin. Feeling for the golden ring at the center of the coils, Edwin wraps the rope around and runs the tail through it. Drawing it tight he watches carefully as his lover’s breath quickens, rapid short gasps and sighs all that can escape from his bound chest. Satisfied with his lover’s flexibility and certain of his preserved comfort, Edwin brings down his hand and secures the final bit of rope to the thigh binder he's made.  

He watches as his lover slowly adjusts, remembering to breathe, relaxing his muscles. Letting the ropes hold him, letting go of the built-up tension. The Cat King struggles, Edwin observes as his king can’t help focusing on the smallest move Edwin makes. Sweat beads on his skin, and the unyielding pressure of the red rope’s knots make his muscles bunch against his will.   

Edwin moves to the armchair facing the bed.  

The Cat King’s fangs worry at his red-bitten lips, head of his cock an angry red, glistening with pre-come now steadily dribbling out with every shake and restrained thrust of his hips, chafing the skin red against their bindings.  

Red, red, red. 

Edwin picks up his sketchbook and an ink pen.  

“Relax for me.” He tuts, as red ink fills the paper in scratches.  

Chapter Text

A soft click, a flash. A softer whirr of handheld machinery follows, and Edwin briefly entertains the thought of retiring from detective work.  

Acquiring a modern camera and taking pictures with it hadn’t been on Edwin’s list of possible new ventures. But when encouraged by -and in ever present company of- an insanely hot lover, who could truly blame him for wanting to capture or even frame every moment?  

“Really, babe? Delete it.” Is the short, murmured response his insanely hot lover gives to the otherwise silent room.  

Ah.  

Unfortunately, Edwin’s favourite kind of photo just so happens to be the kind his lover hates the most.  

Candid photos are near impossible to achieve when his lover makes it his personal life goal to never let Edwin snap a casual picture. He reasons it might just be a ‘cat thing’. The Cannery cats were among Edwin’s first list of subjects to capture once he figured out how to navigate the digital contraption in his hands. But capturing them in any sense proved far more difficult than he thought. More often than not Edwin had cursed and muttered under his breath how counting  them had hardly been as much of a trial. Unlike then, the Cannery resident cat colony always seemed to know when he was nearby and either made themselves scarce or worse, no matter how quiet Edwin tried and knew himself to be.  

Edwin likes to think he can walk as quiet like a mouse, but finds his choice of phrase as ill-timed as his stealth. Every single cat so far that he has managed to frame in his lens, has also managed to catch him in his approach every time, striking some picture perfect elegant pose right before Edwin snaps a photo.  

It takes a certain degree of willpower not to glare over his shoulder on retreat, knowing full well the cat that Edwin just pictured in perfect repose was now loudly licking its privates.  

The Cat King is just as bad, if not worse.  

Not because he doesn’t catch Edwin coming, but because he never lets himself be truly seen. If Thomas even thinks Edwin has his camera out, he’ll dip and tilt his head, let his smile widen to cover most of his face, with glinting golden eyes to frame it all together. Edwin can almost picture the accompanying purple flames so clearly at times that the scent of smoke fills his nose without the presence of fire.  

Edwint hates when he does that. He hates that his lover feels the need to it, hating even more that that need is present around Edwin, no matter if a camera is involved at all.   

Edwin has many pictures of the Cat King, and less than half as much of Thomas.  

So, Edwin tries his best to make them a surprise. And sometimes he gets lucky. He doesn’t overtly flaunt his achievements.  

Well, at least not these ones.   

Getting a decent candid picture is as rare as solving a case in a single day, or spotting a fine leather journal up for grabs. Edwin holds these moments close to his heart. He’ll take the photo, hide it, print it out at the official Dead Boy Detectives office, and then frame it.  

Edwin first framed Thomas instead of the Cat King during a summer evening. The two of them had settled down, or should he say up, atop the slated rooftop of the Cannery. They sat in peaceful silence amid the noise of far-away traffic, faint bird twittering, and the many squeaks and mews of the nest of kittens clambering over their laps.   

Slowly they conquered more and more of their king’s lap, with a brave few fighting their way up to his shoulder. At one point, a small orange kitten even decided to make itself at home on the Cat King’s head, nestling down into the soft locks. At the first audible sound of purring greeting the air Edwin had promptly lost his heart at the sight. He has to admit keeping his mind focused and more importantly his laughter at bay to snap a photo had been more difficult than he’d anticipated, especially since he was trying to remain inconspicuous about the whole thing. Nevertheless, sitting next to the Cat King on the rooftop, Edwin succeeded in framing Thomas, his lover. In the photo, pure joy lights up Thomas's face, showing off his teeth in a bright smile, tears of pride and laughter in his golden eyes.   

That photo sits on one of their bedside tables.  

On the bed next to it, lies Edwin’s lover, amid ruffled bedsheets. Silhouetted by the play of orange hues of morning light and the contrast of the last shadows of night, Edwin watches in silent appreciation as the Cat King’s chest rises and falls in rapid huffs of breath. Wide golden eyes narrow slightly with each fluttering blink. As his lover’s claws slowly loosen their white-knuckled clenching of the bedsheets, Edwin’s eyes flicker down to the small screen display of his modern camera.  

His finger moves to and fro, flicking between the two photos he just managed to take in the span of a minute.  

The Cat King in his picture perfect elegant pose on the bed, loose limbed with a soft smile on his lips, head tilted towards Edwin.  

Thomas in the middle of reacting to the cucumber Edwin placed in between them, panic and tension in every line of his body, wide eyed and lips open in a silent scream.  

“Really babe? Delete it. ” The Cat King murmurs again.  

Edwin has no intention of deleting one of his rare achievements.  

His bedside table needs a photo frame of its own, after all.  

Chapter Text

There’s a hill outside Port Townsend. Beyond the forest, where time is fickle, and the residents of the woods twice more. The forest is not a place to wander, and even seasoned travellers should mind the path they’ve already tread as much as the path ahead. The hill itself is far from impressive, falling short on any list of features that’d make it worth noting on any map.  

But it has the clearest view of the night sky in all of Port Townsend.  

The Cat King has wished for a lot of things, staring up at the stars, his eyes trailing down night’s canvas as a streak of light interrupts the dark.   

None of them came true.    

The air is calm, temperature perfect. Green summer grass shifts underneath his shoes. The Cat King can’t bring himself to sit down, nervous energy thrumming under his skin. With effort masked with practiced grace, he slowly turns and spreads his arms out with a flourish. A silent wink is all he offers the other, hoping the gesture hides how he doesn’t trust himself to speak, and that his trademarked smirk reads as confidence instead of fear.  

The Cat King feels he’s quite entitled to his worry, as he silently watches Edwin Payne pace back and forth a few metres ahead. They’ve spent enough time together now. The Cat King knows Edwin Payne. He knows Edwin has something to say, and it’s only a matter of time before it comes out.  

“Does it meet your standards of privacy?” He starts, trying to buy time.  

“Quite, thank you.” Edwin replies.  

It is the first time the Cat King has heard the other's voice in almost a week, and though relief floods him at the sound, he cannot help but note all the ways in which it sounds different.  

“It seems-” Edwin clears his throat, but it doesn’t seem to help. “It has been brought to my attention that. Well..” He trails off into a sigh. “I’ve somehow been even more taciturn than usual.” Edwin says, continuing in a voice that sounds awfully rehearsed , interrupting the Cat King’s wandering thoughts.   

“That so?” Is all he can offer. Would it be easier for him, for either of them, he wonders, if Edwin would deign to look at him, or not?  

Edwin's body language is very expressive, truly. The Cat King can almost see the annoyance wafting off the set of his shoulders. What little he can gleam from the other’s eyes as they dart to and fro between the ground and himself is not enough for him to decipher, but whatever the other is feeling, whatever he is obviously pushing himself to say...  

It’s driving the Cat King half insane. All the little things keep piling up, up, up.  

“I have recently made a series of rather significant personal realizations.” Edwin nods at his own feet. “One that involves you.”  

The Cat King has never been more unprepared for anything in his lives. He’d hoped, he’d yearned, and he’d wished . From the moment Edwin Payne had unexpectedly walked into his town, his Cannery, his life, the Cat King had hung onto every single word out of his mouth. He had wanted nothing more than to become involved with him. When Edwin walked back out, the part of the Cat King that was confident he’d return wasn’t as big as he’d grown so adept at pretending.   

“Only good things, I’m sure.” The Cat King quips. “Especially one that involves me?”  

The moment Edwin stops pacing and turns to face him, expression filled with an emotion he can’t place, every inch of the Cat King’s body floods with fear for a split second before he smothers it down with an aloof smile. For a moment suspended in time, the Cat King stands in between two buildings, cherishing getting the last word while clinging to the lingering warmth on his cheek, the fading soft pressure of Edwin’s lips.   

So sure that was all he’d ever get to have.  

Fleeting, an alley-cat craving the occasional friendly touch, but never forgetting the coarseness of the bricks surrounding them.  

‘You’ll miss me’ he’d said. And Edwin had stayed away for nearly a month. The first time he’d returned, it’d felt like a fervent wish come true. And the feeling never left, resurfacing the time after that, again, again, again. He watches as the other approaches in small steps. The Cat King fights the urge to lift his eyes to the stars above them.  

“I think I love you.” Edwin states calmly.  

And the forest and the hill and the whole of Port Townsend around the Cat King goes oddly silent, drowned out by the roar of blood in his ears.  

It was his turn to surprise Edwin apparently. The Cat King must admit it must be a rare sight, for him to truly lose his words. It has happened once or twice, here and there, but never like this. For a long stretching moment, the Cat King just gapes at the other.   

“You think?” Is what finally escapes from the rapid swirl of his thoughts.  

Edwin sighs. “Really? That’s what you choose to focus on?”  

The Cat King shrugs with an ease he doesn’t actually feel. “I mean, it could have been a very romantic and beautiful declaration. But the ‘I think’ ruined it a bit, to be honest.”  

“Honesty has always come naturally for me. But for the sake of sincerity ,” Edwin starts with a wry grin, “I do feel it is the most accurate representation of my feelings.”  

“Feelings.” The Cat King whispers to himself.   

“Feelings,” he repeats to Edwin with a laugh that actually sounds as genuinely happy as he is.   

“Feelings.” Edwin succinctly replies, not bothering to hide even a shred of fondness from his voice.  

“Feelings!” The Cat King shouts to the stars.   

“I know that you and I have rather different definitions of forever,” Edwin offers when their eyes meet again, “but if you’d lend me your time, I wish to spend mine learning to love you.”   

“Hmm,” the Cat King hums, “I’ve never had much luck with wishes” he whispers back.  

Edwin’s eyes shoot up to the sky, and the Cat King follows his gaze at just the right time to watch a trail of light.  

His head flicks back down, startled, as Edwin’s hands take hold of his own.  

“Maybe they were mine.” Edwin states.   

“And d’you think they’ve come true, then?” The Cat King asks with a small smirk that slides off his face as he tilts his head up at the same time Edwin’s head tilts down.  

Chapter Text

Thomas, Charles finds out, is the unfairly hot stereotype of what a truck driver is not supposed to look like in Charles's experience, which is vast thank you very much, so he's rightfully wary as he trots a bit slower after Edwin's brisker walk outside to the truck this Thomas is leaning against. And perhaps Charles has to admit he's got a real nice set-up, cozy yet not crowded with the three of them in the cabin. Perhaps Charles has to admit that while this night is shaping up to be the weirdest improv Edwin's ever sprung on him, he doesn't have a hard time becoming more and more relaxed in the presence of a stranger, a stranger so close to his mate.  

A stranger leaning close to him , too, Charles notes as the topic turns to sports. He's leaning in, Thomas is leaning in, and it might've taken Charles a few minutes to realize that when that happened, Charles didn't automatically lean back away. He doesn't know what to make of that, so he launches into a long detailed story about cricket. And then he doesn't know what to make of Thomas listening so intently, so earnestly, to him , so he falls silent. And then the blasted silence of all things is far more comfortable than he's ever had with anyone other than Edwin, so Charles really starts to wonder how long the drive is to the next town proper.  

He doesn't know what he's more unnerved by; there's the fact that he nodded off, and thus missed the point where Thomas and Edwin had apparently decided to stop and pause in a truck parking lot for the night. Then there's the fact that he nodded off . Charles fell asleep. Deep enough not to notice a conversation, the noise of blinkers (there'd better have been), cut of the engine? As it is, Charles gently blinks away the fog of sleep, blurrily watching a hand retreat from what he guesses either his shoulder or arm, whichever part Thomas could reach from the driver's seat. The other is halfway out the door, just his torso in the cabin with his face, his smiling face, aimed at Charles. Waiting patiently for Charles to move, slowly trickles into the latter's sleepy brain, so move he does under Thomas's gentle guidance, until his boots touch the grass next to the truck and he's got a bit more thought to spare to wonder why he's actually getting out of the truck in the first place? And where's Edwin?  

"He's taking a piss," Thomas supplies, correctly reading the question off of Charles' face, "he's off over there in the bushes, when he gets back we'll all crawl back in the truck and get some sleep. D'you need to piss?" He casually asks as he moves behind Charles, readying the cabin for said aforementioned sleep, apologizing for the pause in driving, between moving the seats to fall flat, but he's reached his max hours he's legally allowed on the road, and he can't risk getting into trouble with his boss, not even over some cuties. "You understand, yeah?" Thomas calls over his shoulder. Charles mumbles a quick soft "What? Oh yeah mate, no problem" back, as his eyes lock on Edwin emerging from the bushes.  

Edwin looks exactly the same as he always does, same smile on his face as he always carries around Charles. Who mirrors it, albeit sleepily, which earns him a soft kiss to the cheek which feels all the warmer for the snap of the cold night air that follows it. Charles's eyes follow that smile on Edwin's face and see it shared with Thomas, by Thomas in turn. Chap's been nice so far, Charles can always appreciate someone who really listens to him nag on about cricket. And he's undeniably, unfairly hot. But, as Charles once again meekly follows his mate back into the nice warm cabin, he's gotta be missing something here. There's something about this guy that's drawn edwin in. And that is something Charles needs to see for himself. To understand, and perhaps to experience.  

There's not much to experience once the truck door snaps shut behind him. Thomas generously offers some food in case they're hungry, tells them where he keeps a spare water bottle in case they get thirsty, and then offers to take the furthest makeshift seat-bed in case they want to cuddle up. Very thoughtful. Not what Charles wants. And Edwin neither, for all it takes is a single silent look of communication and then Edwin's plopping down in Thomas's claimed space with a huff, and Charles finds himself following with far less trepidation than he expected.  

Edwin settles behind Thomas, leaving Charles to either squeeze himself between or lie down in front of the other man. Thomas, obviously startled, makes the choice for him with a widening of his arms, his very muscular, firm arms, that instinctively come back down once Charles nestles in, and circle around his chest and waist. The weight of them is new, much heavier than Edwin's more familiar ones, for all that they're not even fully pressing down on him. The thought that Thomas is the nervous one right now amuses Charles, endearing enough as well to make him cover the other's arms with his own and press them down till they've relaxed.  

He feels rather than hears the huff of breath against his nape, and for a few moments their mingled breath is all the noise that fills the cabin over the soft whirr of the a/c and the occasional noise from passing vehicles.  

Charles feels the extra weight of Edwin's arms slowly dragging over their combined ones. He drops his own from the middle, choosing to let his hands rest on the soft blankets that've been draped over the seats, instead. Seconds later, Charles' hands tense. Fingers curl into the blanket. Knuckles whiten in their straining. Edwin's hands move down Charles's body in a familiar, long seeking stroke. Under Edwin's hands, Thomas's hands are moved right along. They're the hands touching Charles. They're the fingers tugging his shirt out of his waistband.  

They're the fingers unbuttoning his jeans.  

Charles' whine is decidedly louder than the a/c and passing cars combined, when instead of soft long fingers, a rough hand grips his half-hard cock in a loose hold, while a calloused thumb touches right under the head, then presses harder. There's the scrape of stubble against the soft shell of his ear, and as he recognizes the hand that squeezes his shoulder in encouragement as Edwin's, a warm voice whispers: "he told me you don't like to make much noise."  

"S'alright," Thomas continues as he starts to stroke, keeping his fist loose and his strokes slow and measured, "I'm pretty good at body language. Though we're pretty far out from any town, now," he adds with a kiss-whisper to the skin right behind Charles's ear, keeping his lips pressed there as he turns his head with Charles, as he tries to muffle a whimper into the blankets, "and we're the only ones in the parking lot, so if you wanted to...Well," a keen escapes Charles's lips as Thomas turns a loose stroke into a hard twisting grip at the base of his cock, making sure to gently but firmly press the outside of his fingers into a rolling knead of the twitching balls under them, "I'd quite like knowing that I'm doing you good."  

Charles's next bitten back whimper nearly turns into a sob, as Thomas falls silent only for Charles to hear Edwin's voice instead. Edwin, who is whispering to Thomas, who is telling Thomas things. Telling him exactly what Charles likes, what makes him writhe and buck and jerk and tense. And maybe Edwin found out sooner than Charles did, what makes Thomas worth the longer drive. Thomas is insanely good at taking directions. Every suggestion, every little bit of info that Edwin offers up is greedily, happily, earnestly applied instantly by those strong warm hands.  

And even things that Edwin isn't telling him, that Edwin couldn't have possibly shared, right? They couldn't have possibly discussed him , this , before without Charles knowing, right?  

Thomas bites down on Charles's nape, teeth sinking into the skin this close to breaking that Charles knows he'll be feeling the ache tomorrow and he moans half with desire now and desire to trace the mark he knows will be there with his fingertips in the morning. His hips jerk forward with a curse as the other man follows it up with a sharp squeeze to his slick-wet cock, a palm roughly grinding on the weeping slit.  

"He's close," someone, anyone whispers into the warmth of the cabin, it could've been him for all he's aware of his limbs and his mouth as Thomas works him over, "he likes to be kissed as he comes." Now that is something Charles himself would definitely never divulge, but he doesn't get the chance to reply nor deny as his head is tilted. There's a hand holding his chin and a hand on his cock, there's a tongue lapping over his open lips and a hand on his cock, there's a tongue slowly dipping inside, sliding over his lower lip in gentle waving motions, till the tip touches his teeth, then behind and there's a hand on his cock.  

There's a tongue touching his and a hand palming the head of his cock, as Charles comes in a truck cabin in a dark parking lot, with his lover watching on.  

Chapter Text

The scent of gasoline and dry summer grass lingers, as if caught in its own separate atmosphere layer. It’s only partly muffled inside the gas station, where the stench of cheap cigarettes and even cheaper beer replaces some of it. There are no prices listed for any products, and the cheap radio mounted in the corner behind the single cash register is playing the latest top 40 list of very repetitive pop hits. The music plays at just enough volume to be heard over the mindless chatter of the shop’s occupants, but not enough to accurately recognize any lyrics.   

Charles nudges his shoulder against Thomas, breaking the latter’s focus. “Snickers or Butterfinger?” He asks, and Thomas stops wondering which one of Taylor Swift’s latest songs is currently playing, glancing at the other’s hands.  

His eyes flick up to Charles’s to make sure the other sees him wrinkle his nose, and he pointedly slows his movements as he reaches out to grab a couple of Mars bars.   

“Edwin likes ‘em, you know.” He hears Charles mutter to his back as he turns, and Thomas doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know the other man is grinning like a brat when he tells him to “grab them all, then.” He doesn’t need to guess whether the right corner of Charles’s lips turns up into an honest smile either, as the other man is still wearing it as they round the corner of the aisle together, white plastic bags filled to the brim. One with bottles of water and soda, the other full of Snickers, Butterfinger, Mars and Twix chocolate bars.  

The tween behind the counter silently scans and rings up their purchases. Aside from a mumbled note of their total amount to pay and a soft “bye”, the young man goes back to muffled yawns and boredom as soon as Charles and Thomas walk out the door. The two adult men cross the deserted highway gas station, eagerness quickening their steps when Thomas’s truck comes into view. They’re each opening a door and climbing in with broad smiles and a hoard that’d make any kid jealous on Halloween.   

The only part of Edwin that is visible at first is the top of his sleep-tousled hair, but as soon as Charles tips his bag and the content lands on the blankets with a muffled thump, there’s a hand blindly patting and shuffling along the cotton until fingers make contact with a chocolate bar. When the hand retreats and reappears seconds later to toss the unwanted Mars back in favour of questing for a Snickers or Butterfinger, Thomas and Charles share a fond grin.  

“Good nap, Eds?” Charles asks around a snapping bite of his Twix.  

“You want this?” Thomas follows, holding out a Snickers between his fingers.  

“Always.” Edwin’s response is quick, confident and sure, his questing fingers hooking around Thomas’s wrist. A short shake is all it takes for Thomas to drop the candy, and though Edwin’s face is turned to Charles as he shuffles out from under the blankets, Thomas knows the words are directed at the both of them. “I’ll always want you.”   

“Then I’m yours,” Thomas’s words are hushed, serious, and he’s fighting past the tightening of his throat to declare “I’m yours for as long as you want me to be” at the same time as Charles barks out a laugh and throws out a much simpler “it’s three in the morning Edwin, you’re right insatiable mate.” 

Soft laughter fills the truck cabin. Edwin and Thomas share a smile of their own while Charles crumples his chocolate bar wrapper into the truck’s can holder. Brusquely shoving the rest of their purchases aside, Charles peels off his sweater. He carelessly throws it somewhere near the dashboard and moves his hands to the button of his trousers. Thomas follows at a more sedate pace.  

“Who’s insatiable now, then?” Thomas can’t help but quip, stealing a quick peck when his head pops back out from under his shirt and he finds Edwin’s face is close enough.   

“Winner gets to decide, Tomcat. Remember?” Charles grins back with a wiggle of his eyebrows, falling back into easy chuckles as Thomas’s eyes widen in understanding and his pace hurries to match Charles’s progress.  

By the time they’re well and truly naked, Edwin figures he can almost catch his own relaxed reflection in the pair’s lust-wide pupils. Before either of his lovers makes to declare themselves the rightful king of the cabin, Edwin clears his throat. Basking in the instant snap to intent attention, Edwin makes a show of sitting up, pulling his knees neatly underneath him on top of the blankets that covered him before.   

“If I’m not mistaken,” Edwin starts with a slow passing gaze down his naked body, “I do believe I’ve won.”   

The sight of his lovers’ eager smirk and grin fill Edwin with a warmth he’s coming closer to properly describing every day. For now, he’s rather pleased with himself. Glancing down Charles’s body and flicking his eyes across to Thomas, with a lingering look at both their laps, Edwin’s rather sure they’re in for a pleasant night all around.  

“Thanks for the chocolate,” he offers, leaning forward to shift his fingers through thick golden locks and dark short hair, moving his hands down the back of the head, down to nape, down to neck.   

“I think I’d quite like something sweeter, though.” Edwin mutters, partly to himself as he’s not sure either of his partners has noticed. At the slight commanding nudge of his hands, his partners leaned forward, and Edwin watches Thomas lick away the small bit of chocolate lingering on the corner of Charles’s mouth.   

Edwin stays silent and slowly slides his hands off and away, thinking to himself how he’s really more the savory kind. He watches steam and condensation gather on the truck cabin’s windows, licking his lips as Thomas and Charles kiss, lick and bite at any skin in reach of theirs.  

Chapter Text

Thomas nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden sound, and comes even closer to biting through the lip he’s been worrying between his teeth. Who cared whether the top two or three buttons were left undone if he’d gotten blood on his crisp white shirt. He ignores how his lip throbs and turns into a mad dive for his phone on the bedsheets where it lies, playing the song he specifically set for when Edwin calls.   

His thumb quickly taps on the green icon to receive, sliding over to tap on the speaker and after a short greeting of “well hey there,” falling from his grin he neatly tosses the phone back to the bed. Keeping his head cocked towards his phone for a reply, his hands move to adjust the collar of his shirt, and his eyes flick back to the mirror to judge how well his trousers hug his backside. Two buttons undone, then, he decides. For now.  

Edwin’s icon flashes on the phone on the bed, and a timer neatly displays the call has started and is now at 0:32 seconds. But the voice coming from the device isn’t Edwin’s. Thomas, puzzled, slowly turns fully back to his bed. Sounding almost muffled, the voice he now recognizes as Niko, one of Edwin’s best friends, has obviously been talking for longer than half a minute. By the time Thomas takes a few hesitant steps closer, and wills his ears to focus harder on the noise and voice on the other end of the line that seems to come from far away, he can catch what is obviously a conversation between multiple people. He reasons with a soft chuckle that he’s really probably not supposed to be privy to this, and his hand moves on autopilot to press a finger to the red icon.  

Seconds later, his hand falls slowly back to his side, and Thomas sits on the bed next to his phone.   

Edwin’s icon flashes on the phone, the timer reads 1:24.  

Thomas listens to the conversation between Edwin and his friends.  

“- still say you should go with blue,” Niko adds to the ongoing debate, followed by Charles and Crystal both sighing and groaning in equal measure how the choice was between red and what Crystal claims to be a very stylish mustard yellow . Edwin’s voice then rings out, so faint Thomas must bend his head forward till he’s close to touching the phone. The awkward position of looming over his bed is worth it to hear his lover muttering faintly, petulantly that at this point he’d wear any colour as long as it wouldn’t make him late for his date, thanks.  

Thomas's shoulders shift in silent laughter at the clear sound of Charles blowing a raspberry in response. His smile slowly turns wry as he listens to Edwin’s best friend continue with a friendly ribbing. “Don’t think he even cares,” Charles offers, “way he fawns over you, you could show up in vomit green and he’d still compliment you.”    

“Profusely.” Crystal adds, deadpan.   

“As well he should Eds, you’re a catch.” Charles continues. “Though I might have a word with him in the future and tell him to tone it down a notch. Or two. He can’t have you walking back in here with a full bouquet of flowers or such every damn time, mate. He’s got to know he’s setting standards.”   

“Imagine.” Crystal adds, deadpan.   

Over the overlapping teasing between Crystal and Charles, Thomas can hear Niko’s voice clearer than any other, confirming his theory that she’s sitting close if not right next to Edwin’s phone.   

“I think it’s really sweet. He’s really helped with your confidence.” Niko states so matter of factly,  Thomas can picture her kind accompanying smile so clearly it almost feels like it’s aimed at him directly. His finger hovers over the red phone icon for a few seconds, before retreating to his lap again as warmth creeps down his cheeks, settling behind his ribs.  

“He’s setting a standard for making you happy, Edwin. That’s good enough for me.” Crystal states with finality. Her words are closely followed and echoed by Charles, who does add at the end that they’ve got to have a proper meeting next time. The trio of friends laugh together, with Thomas joining them in silence, as Edwin snippily replies that they can discuss that some other time, when he’s not running late for his date, thanks.  

Thomas can just about hear the smile in Edwin’s voice, and for a second when he’s sure Edwin directs it around the room full of people he likes, he trusts, he loves, Thomas imagines he could be standing there among them, someday.  

Shaking his head with a gentle huff of breath, Thomas finally decides to end the call. As his finger nears the screen by an inch, he hears a sudden rustle that indicates Edwin’s phone is being picked up. Suffused with sudden panic, Thomas hurries to end the call on his end as Niko’s voice rings out a final time.  

“Don’t forget your phone Edwin!” She calls out cheerily.   

Before Thomas’s finger makes contact with his phone screen, the phone call is ended.  

Later, with his hands filled with a grand bouquet of tulips, Edwin casually mentions to Thomas that his friends would like to meet him someday. Hooking his arm around the back of Edwin’s mustard yellow sweater to guide him as they stroll down the street, Thomas assures him that he’d love to.  

 “They sound like great people.” He offers while Edwin buries his nose in the delicate flowers to smell them.  

Chapter Text

Port Townsend doesn’t have a beach as much as a stretch of sand that leads into a stretch of water. Still, it gets a lot of visitors during the hot summer days and an adequate amount of people leisurely walk around on moderate summer evenings.  

Hours past midnight in early July, the beach is practically deserted.  

Edwin’s rolled up his trousers and stands barefoot in the water, letting it lap gently at his ankles in slow waves. His toes curl and press into the cold wet sand as he peers at the horizon. The night’s quiet, peaceful. The seagulls in the distance sound far away.  

Carried all the easier over the crisp night air, his lover’s petulant whining reaches Edwin’s ears from a few paces behind him. Edwin resolutely stares forward, smiling freely at the Cat King’s antics as he, bless him, truly does try to keep quiet. Unfortunately for him, there is nothing to distract Edwin from the other’s presence. He knows well enough that should he turn around and trek back up the beach, by the time he’s reached his lover well enough to properly see him, he’ll be presented with the Cat King of Port Townsend in all his immaculate presence.  

So Edwin pretends the sea holds his interest just a little longer, and keeps his eyes forward as his ears fill with Thomas’s muttered words.   

“Fucking hate sand, get off me.” Thomas whispers under his breath. “How are you getting everywhere when there’s hardly any wind?” He grumbles. Edwin hears him furiously patting and swiping his hands over the large blanket they’d placed on the beach earlier.  

“Oh no way -urgh- get the fuck out of Edwin’s shoes!” Thomas hisses, prompting Edwin to turn as quietly as he can just to snicker at the sight of his lover wildly shaking the pair of brogues he took off earlier. One second Edwin’s turning and stepping out of the water while huffing a laugh at the sight of Thomas holding his shoes upside down with a deep frown visible even in the hours that don’t even classify as early morning. The next second he’s two steps closer to joining his lover on the blanket, noticing it is completely free of sand. Right in the middle of it the Cat King lounges, the perfect picture of shirtless temptation.  

“How’s the water?” The Cat King asks. Edwin tells him it was “cold, but refreshing” and the other cannot quite manage to hold back the wrinkle of distaste his nose makes, or maybe he’s not even aware that he’s doing it. Perching himself on some free space on the blanket, Edwin’s careful to keep his bare feet off the fabric. At the Cat King’s pointed look and silent patting of the space riiiiiiight next to him, reserved for one Edwin Payne, the latter makes his own point of flicking his eyes to and fro between his sand-caked feet and the sand-free blanket.  

“Pfft, I totally don’t care ‘bout that babe, get over here.” The Cat King huffs, and Edwin tries in vain to keep from smiling in amusement as he shuffles closer, and closer. He finds he really does fit rather nicely against the other, and also that it is rather pointless to try and hide your expression when your partner’s face is literally three inches from your own. The Cat King catches and mirrors Edwin’s smile with a smirk of his own, and seconds later Edwin is the one to smirk as Thomas hisses in a breath at the contact between Edwin’s cold sandy toes and the tanned warm skin of his ankle. Edwin’s smirk breaks into a laugh, into soft easy giggles that keep up even as his lover sputters and shifts dramatically on the blanket.  

Edwin wears his amusement on his lips all throughout the ensuing gentle scuffle, the playful roll of the Cat King’s body against his, the warmth seeping into him from his lover’s frame eventually pressing him down into the sand-filled blanket, till lips cover his and replace it with affection, with love, love, love with every peck, peck, peck.  

Edwin doesn’t know who deepens the last gentle press of lips first. They both let out encouraging sounds at the first touch of tongues and clack of teeth, and then all that matters is that neither want it to stop. There’s a tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth, right behind his teeth. Edwin stubbornly doesn’t let it retreat, suckling on the tip and coaxing it back with a gentle warning press of his teeth to the underside. Thomas shivers and plunges his tongue back in with a groan. Edwin doesn’t care that sand causes his fingers to part the hair at his lover’s nape with a much coarser scrape of skin. Once he finds purchase, he doesn’t hesitate to use his hold of the other’s neck. Edwin’s head digs into the sand through the blanket as Thomas switches between kissing and biting his lower lip, each time using the mere second of opening between them to suck in a breath, and then share the taste of salt and morning air with Edwin when they slot back together. Fingers that aren’t grasping and pressing sand against skin are twisted into the blanket or digging grooves into the sunkissed sand that’s slowly warming up around them.  

When Edwin shakes his head out of a particularly long and deep kiss, he sees Thomas’s flushed cheeks and pleased grin bathed in the rosy hue of the rising sun.  

“We missed the sunrise.” Edwin whispers.  

“There’s always the next time.” Thomas offers after another kiss.  

Edwin nods his agreement, smiling as his lover follows the movement of his head to keep their lips pressed together. His smile widens at Thomas’s speculative look when they pull apart.  

“Does it have to be the beach again next time, though? Can we try the park, like on the grass? Or at least stay on the boulevard? They’ve got benches on the pier. I’m just saying it might be more comfortable, you know. I’m trying to be considerate here...”  

As his lover’s words carry along the crisp morning air, Edwin smiles and keeps his eyes on the morning sun and the rolling waves of the sea.