Archive of Our Own

It’s a beautiful evening for a party, even you must admit.

The rooftop has just enough of a breeze to keep the temperature comfortable in the late spring air. Below, the cityscape sounds rise and blend with the soft murmurs of commerce and connection, the twinkling of champagne glasses, the fake laugher and soft string quartet in a perfect convalescence to numb and soothe. It’s a sensorial overload, just enough to inoculate. The usual uncomfortable itch beneath your skin isn’t here, quieted by the solitude found perfectly amongst the many. You could maybe even enjoy it, were it not for the sensation of vertigo at the cliff’s edge.

Unfocused eyes passing over the people around you, you stand like a doll waiting for its child to come play. Off to the side, you linger, next to something potted and pretty. Something a bit like you: made to be looked at, watered as needed; a decorative set piece. The plant inside is pretty enough.

Upon a leaf, you spy—well, you can’t quite be sure. It might be a ladybug. It may be a lady beetle. You know enough to know there’s a difference, that one is good and one is not, but no more. It crawls all the same, unbothered by your stare, unbothered by the fake laugh of a woman near the tart table, unbothered by the glow of string lights, unbothered by the sound of your hands smoothing over the other again then again.

…It’s ten thirty. You’re still alone. Unusual. Atypical. A break in pattern that makes you swallow, makes your shoulders feel tight between your shoulder blades where wings would rest if you had them. Your calves stretch as you take a step to the side, like maybe moving will break whatever illusion must be keeping you hidden from view. The only reasonable explanation. You aren’t usually kept from display for this long.

The click of your heels startles the beetle away. Deep, carmine wings flutter and disappear into the wind’s whisper, catching your stare, taking your breath along with it.

“That’s quite a good luck charm you found there.”

It takes you a moment to realize the voice is speaking to you. Must be, as there isn’t really anyone else around. Most of the other party-goers are doing their part across the patio, schmoozing the night away. Your little spell worked, but not in the way you’d intended, considering it’s a stranger who finds your side.

“Definitely,” you agree, turning to be polite and make conversation and—ah, a mutant. Turtle. Tall, handsomely dressed in a fitted suit and blue mask, even more handsomely built. “I can’t remember the last time I saw one around here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was talking to the ladybug about you,” the mutant says, eyes glittering like diamonds behind their veil, his face and voice and posture so full of charm, you feel you could bottle it and use for perfume. It—stuns you, for a moment, so unused to being the recipient of an open compliment, making you blink, once, twice, before you laugh with your surprise.

“Wow, that was… particularly cheesy,” you tell him, shoulders and tongue both loosening a little. “You get that off the charcuterie board on your way over, or did it come for free with the boyish good looks?”

“Made you laugh either way,” the mutant points out slyly, grinning at your quip.

“I suppose so,” you admit. Truthfully, you’re not really sure why you’d laughed, really. If it was the line, who spoke it, or to whom. You study him for a moment, unnecessarily. You know every face on the patio and the name on the guest list to whom it belongs. “I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these before. Is it your first time?”

The mutant’s face turns, and the long tails of his mask catch and stream in the wind as if by a lover’s caress. The lights from the city below and above halo him, trace his sharp features and soften them just a bit. “I usually try to avoid this sort of thing. It’s not really my style to rub elbows and kiss ass like this.” His eyes cut over to yours, and the corner of his mouth curls. “...Might start making an exception now, though.”

…He’s flirting with you, you realize a little belatedly. A concept so foreign, you aren’t really sure how to react to it.

“I’m Leo,” the mutant greets in the silence, holding out his hand for a shake.

You respond with your own name, and take his hand in yours. It’s—colder than you expect, rough, both in skin and scar. Yet his touch is silken cloud itself, an angel’s exhale, like you’re something delicate he’s looking to hold close. Goosebumps rise on the back of your neck, and you feel the boundary of your outline shimmer.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you respond, just a touch breathless at the duality of him you hadn’t expected, made nigh mute as much by the flutter of feathers in your gut as you are by the golden gag upon your lips.

“I’m not really sure how this works. Can I get you something to drink?” Leo asks, eyes lingering on your hand where he holds it a little longer than he probably should. You open your mouth to tell him no; to thank him, to abscond, to walk away from something that isn’t, wasn’t, can’t ever be yours. He’s asking for more than a drink, you know.

Before you can, however, a weight settles in at your side, familiar and warm, and a hand spreads like cancer in the exposed skin at the dip of your back.

“Hello, Leonardo,” purrs the voice near your temple. “I see you’ve met my wife.”

Leo’s hand grips your own for a barely perceptible heartbeat before dropping it, that easy smile from before still there but clearly made of mortar now. Fascinating; you wouldn’t have noticed had you not seen the shift yourself. “Bishop. I was looking for you earlier.”

A smile curls into your skin. “Lucky as ever. You indeed found a Bishop, though perhaps not the one you intended at first.”

Turning your face, you paint on the familiar mask of the pretty wife. “Hello, John,” you greet, showing your cheek when he leans in for the chaste little kiss he always likes to display when you’re in his arms. The doll, in place at last for its master’s playtime. “Leo was kind enough to keep me company while I waited for you. Did you get stuck at work?”

“We’re approaching the end of the quarter, you know how it is,” John says. You don’t—John has, in fact, never been late to your long recollection—but you don’t argue; instead, you nod obediently. His fingers curl around the flute of champagne in his hand, and he takes a slow sip as he turns his attention back to Leo. “You mentioned you were looking for me. Is there something you need?”

Leo glances between you and John. “I was, but…”

“If it’s about work, you can speak freely. My wife is also a member of the EPF.”

Your teeth clench hard enough that you hear your jaw creak in your ear.

Despite the assurance, Leo stares at you blankly for a moment. You half wonder if he’s about to ask you to pull a key card out of your clutch, though upon second glance that isn’t really the vibe you get from his body language. Something else, then. Another reason for hesitation. A moment later he clears his throat and speaks at last. “It was about the request you sent us earlier.”

“That’s one way to put it,” John says, clearly amused. Your hackles raise at a tone you recognize well. “Are you perhaps referring to the fact you were instructed not to leave your sector during your rounds? Come, Leonardo. We’d love to continue working with you and your brothers, but we have procedures for a reason. Rules are best followed, don’t you think, darling?”

John turns his head and looks at you. Your skin crawls. You answer. “Yes, of course.”

“See, my lovely wife agrees. And I haven’t met anyone who can argue with her yet,” John says, facing away once again.

Part of you wants to look at Leo and give him an apologetic look, but the otiose whim comes and goes, knowing its impotence. It’s not as if you are on his side, that you are capable in any meaningful way of going against your husband. No one is. Best he too learns now not to cross those wires.

“See, that’s the thing, though,” Leo continues easily, to your surprise, yet somehow also not. “We work with you. Not for you. So as far as I’m concerned, you can take your request and maybe think about why we’re not gonna be following it.”

You openly gaze at Leo, a little in shock. Genuinely, you can’t remember a time you’ve heard someone besides—Her—speak to John in such a manner.

“‘Cause if we see someone needing help, I’m not going to be wondering if I’m stepping on some invisible toes before I reach out,” Leo finishes. He looks to you. “No matter who it is needing me.”

It should feel, maybe, like he’s pushing against you. Instead, all you can think of is the soft cradle of his palm, the texture of his skin against yours, the pomegranate-flavored promise he’d wordlessly offered. If he is pushing against you, maybe that isn’t so bad.

“Is that why you came here tonight?” John asks, handing you his champagne glass to hold while he pulls his phone out of his pocket and does something with it. “Normally you return the RSVP notice ripped up in the self-addressed envelope. I have to admit, I was curious when you didn’t. Even more curious when you actually showed up.”

“It would be rude of me to make you wonder,” Leo replies cooly. “Just wanted to make sure you remembered where we stood. And where we don’t.”

“I see, I see,” John replies, before he laughs and reaches out to clap a heavy hand on Leo’s shoulder. “You know, it isn’t often people surprise me. I knew it was a good thing to keep you around. I’ve learned so much from you tonight already.”

The fingers in your back curl, and short nails skim along your skin. Another promise that makes you swallow. One with a much less pleasant taste.

“Glad we had this talk then,” Leo says, before he looks to you. You look back, waiting for him to bid you farewell and disappear into the crowd. Instead, he speaks again. “The offer for that drink is still on the table, if you’d like.”

Another unexpected twist. Most people pick up on the way John keeps you on his wrist like a timepiece. A pretty thing to be admired, to keep time. An object for his use alone.

You wait for John to protest. He doesn’t, so you find your voice. “I appreciate the offer, really I do, but I don’t drink,” you tell him regretfully, running your tongue along the back of your teeth.

“Not even water?” Leo asks, startling a second laugh out of you. So he’s stubborn, you note. Not just with John; with you, too.

“…Okay. Water sounds lovely,” you finally acquiesce, watching as he salutes with two fingers and disappears off towards the tables. Slowly, you address your husband, who takes back his flute and swirls the pretty bubbles inside. Wondering how best to put together all of the totality that is Leo in an appropriate manner to your husband, you start, “He’s… odd. I haven’t seen him before. You work with him?”

“Unfortunately,” John grits into his champagne, his mask not quite so perfect now that you are the only one to see beneath it. “He’s one of those Hamato.”

Oh. That certainly explains—well, most everything, you muse, humming and nodding once.

“He likes you,” John says.

“I suspect he likes any girl with tits in a pretty dress,” you reply dryly.

“He likes you.”

John’s insistence makes you quiet. Partially because you know better than to argue. Partially because his tone says all it needs to. You know better than to say it out loud, but you feel comfortable dredging the general idea of a notion at least. “…I don’t think you can use him like the others.”

“No,” John agrees, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on your spine.

There’s a stretch of silence. You stare at Leo’s broad shoulders as he leans over the drink table, pointing at a bottle of water with a long finger. A finger whose cool texture you can’t seem to get out of your mind. The string quartet picks up again, a Vivaldi piece this time. He disappears, in a blink, behind a wall of dancers. Were you not staring at him, you wouldn’t have even known he was there. A ninja, indeed.

“What did you mean when you said you learned a lot?” you ask John, tilting your head up at him when he doesn’t immediately answer. The slow smirk on his face makes you a bit uneasy.

“Never you mind, wife,” he replies, bending down and dropping a lingering kiss on your lips. It hints faintly of alcohol, too dry for your tastes, not enough sweet. “How are you feeling?”

A familiar question. You run your mouth along the roof of your mouth. The metallic taste isn’t there. “…All right.”

“Good. I’m feeling good tonight, myself. May even imbibe a bit more before we go, if we have time.”

His palm flattens, warm, on your back. You resign yourself to exactly what that means. Still, it’s an odd suggestion from him on a work night. “You don’t think it’ll be too late by the time we get home?”

“You’ve done an excellent job of putting me in the mood, tonight,” he says, bending down and nipping beneath your ear. “My beautiful wife in a dress I picked out for her. How you expect me to keep my hands to myself is a mystery.”

“Hmm,” you hum, obediently tilting your head. The movement allows you to see the moment Leo walks up, bottle of water in hand, eyes first on the place where John’s teeth scrape your skin, then on the blank expression likely on your face.

“One water for the lucky lady,” Leo says, twisting the cap off himself before handing it over.

“…Thank you,” you tell him genuinely, taking it and savoring the cool perspiration on your warm skin. Lucky. You wonder if he’s talking about the fact that John’s not exactly being subtle about what he wants later, or maybe the ladybug appearance earlier, or maybe some other thing you haven’t picked up on yet because he feels like he has this way of saying more than his words do. You take a sip: crisp, cool, refreshing. It feels good. You hold it close. “I hope you change your mind about coming to the parties. You seem like a really nice guy.”

“I can be,” Leo responds, sliding his hands into his pockets. “And who knows. I might be convinced.”

He glances over at John, who tips the last of his champagne down his throat before wiping his lips clean with the pad of his thumb. “I’m certain we’ll look forward to your continued partnership, Hamato,” John says, curling his arm around your waist and pulling you close. “Shall we go home, darling? As you said, it’s already late.”

“Sure,” you tell him, looking over to Leo one last time. “…You should come next time. I’ll look for you.”

Leo tilts his head, then laughs like you’ve bested him. “I guess you will.”

Next to you, John smirks. “Like I said, Hamato. Haven’t met anyone that can argue with her.”

The smile on Leo’s face fades ever so slightly, so you pick up the slack and flash him one of your own before you turn, led away from the event as if on reins.

“Good work,” John says once you’re alone waiting for the valet, prompting you to look at him in confusion. As far as you’re aware, you’ve done nothing worth such praise.

“With what?”

His hand on your nape, and the subsequent claiming squeeze, is your only, unsettling answer.

You hate the EPF building.

It’s ugly, for one. Tall and bland and boring, artistically devoid of anything to make it interesting. The doors are heavy, and the security is unkind. Borderline rude, even. You’d think it was just you, but you’ve seen them act the same way no matter to whom they’re speaking. Just getting to the elevators is always fucking miserable.

You glance at your reflection in the metal wall of the elevator door that takes you up to the correct floor. You look fine. Nothing out of place. You’re still you, still here, hand resting on the strap of your bag where your unusual package resides, ready for its unusual delivery.

The elevator dings, and you step off. The floor security glances up at you, then presses the button to unlatch the door. You thank him briefly, then pass through.

The hallways are long and all the same, too. It took you the first couple of months to learn where all of the rooms you needed were. John’s office, the lab downstairs, the restroom, the supply room, the dispensary, the medical ward. All of them look the same until you’re inside, and with the purposeful lack of signs, it’s muscle memory alone that acts as your north star.

Your mind disengages, navigating, thoughts drifting, not really paying attention to where you’re going or what is there. Faces bleed into long strings of names and positions, nothing unusual as you approach John’s office, nothing extraordinary—

—until a flash of green and blue startles you out of your reverie, out of place and new.

Leo turns before you even really compute that he’s what you see there, his posture easing a little as he says your name in greeting. “Fancy seeing you here,” he says brightly, his hands resting on his hips.

“Leo! It’s good to see you,” you tell him genuinely, taking in his appearance. It’s much different than the elegant suit you saw him wearing at the party; now he’s sporting black wraps to cover his hands and feet and little more, showing off lithe limbs that move without sound. On his back rests a pair of swords, held by a blue sash that matches his mask, with beautiful silk hilts that look soft to the touch. It’s… a better look for him, you think. One fit for a ninja who saved the world.

“…This suits you better,” he says, prompting you to look down at your own, much more casual outfit than the dress he’d probably imprinted you into his thoughts wearing. Something you’d thrown on once John had sent you his message.

“Heh, I was just thinking the same of you,” you confess with a smile, before you glance at John’s office door. It’s shut. “Are you waiting on an appointment?”

“He sent me a message saying he wanted me to come and take a look at some stuff for him,” Leo says, folding his arms. “I got here a few minutes ago.”

A working lunch, then, you guess, wondering if that’s why he reached out to you. Quietly, you head on over and knock, but no one answers. “Hm. He’s probably either on a call or around the building somewhere.”

“Did you need him?” Leo asks, and you shake your head, stepping away from the door a bit.

“No, I mean, yes. Sort of. He just asked me to bring him his lunch, nothing serious,” you tell him, the words as foreign on your tongue as they are in your mind.

Leo smiles, his charm turning on as easily as if he were breathing. “Wow, lucky guy. Someone half as pretty as you bringing me food would make my day for sure.”

The compliment startles you out of your thoughts and makes you laugh. “The whole day just from lunch?”

“Compound interest, or something like that. You would definitely make it an amazing month, easy.”

Your skin prickles, and you fall silent. The hallway follows as you sit on the uneasy awareness that it feels, probably, a little too good to talk to Leo. It’s an easy thing to fall into, considering your situation, and you need to be a little more careful. This isn’t right, right? Inappropriate, somehow?

Still, you can’t help but keep the conversation going a little. Plus, he might have some insight to it, if it’s something normal John’s doing and you’re just missing it for the trees. “He doesn’t usually ask me to do this. In fact, I don’t think I ever remember him forgetting his lunch. I would imagine, if he did, he’d probably just have one of his assistants pick him something up. Or, knowing John, he’d just go hungry. He gets sucked into his work if I don’t fish him out every once in a while.”

You feel Leo’s eyes heavy on the side of your face. Turning to look at him, you see his gaze deviate, his thoughts veiled from your ability to decipher.

“Maybe he misses you,” Leo suggests. The very thought is so absurd that you reflexively scoff a skeptical laugh. “What? You don’t think so?”

“That would require us to be apart long enough for something like that to happen,” you tell him after a moment’s pause. It’s as much as you can say, considering. “John is fastidious. He works long and hard, but he always comes home at night.”

You hate it. You’re relieved by it. The unending maw in your chest rumbles.

“…Maybe you’re right, though,” you tell him distantly, not really believing the words, more making conversation than agreeing, but also unable to prove outright that they are wrong.

“I would,” Leo says after a moment.

“Be right?”

“Miss you.”

Your fingers go tight on the strap of your bag. A cavalcade of responses makes its way along your throat like fluttering fingers, each more absurd than the last. You settle, at last, on, “You don’t really know me enough to know that, though, do you?”

“An easy problem to solve,” Leo says, flashing you a fetching smile that you see only out of the corner of your eye.

…He doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed or shy about how he’s talking to you. Maybe you’re the only one having weird thoughts about this, and there’s nothing untoward about it. It’s true that you really aren’t used to talking to people outside of the organization, after all. Your social cues are probably all fucked up.

“It… sounds nice,” you admit, because that much is true no matter what frame his words take. “I don’t really have a lot of friends outside of work.”

“See, I’m like, prime friendship material,” Leo says, animated in a way you haven’t seen, yet feels as natural as breathing. “Number one in the business. Graduated mega cum laude from Amigo U.”

You press a smile away. “…There’s no such thing as ‘mega cum laude,’ Leo.”

“That’s just how coconuts island my friendship skills are. They had to make a new designation for my mad skills,” Leo retorts.

Coconuts island, you parrot silently, lifting a hand to cover your laugh. “Yeah, yeah, all right. I’ll talk to John and see what he says about it.”

Leo tilts his head, his brow furrowing slightly. “You… have to ask your husband if it’s okay for you to have a friend?”

The smile on your face fades. The response, easy, obviously unspeakable, endlessly pirouettes on the tip of your tongue.

Tension, thick, oppressive, rises like a tide. The long hallway is silent. Your skin stretches thin over everything beneath. Before you can do more than see the tsunami’s warning recede, the door opens at last and you pull your lips into a pretty curl reflexively.

“I thought I heard you knocking,” John says to you, standing off to the side and opening the door wide. “I was on a phone call. Thank you for waiting. Leonardo, I see you made it here as well. You’re rather prompt, aren’t you?”

“I’m a speedy guy,” Leo retorts. You can feel the way he still hasn’t taken his eyes off the back of your head, but you ignore him in favor of digging through your bag and pulling out the prize inside.

“I heated it up before I left, so it should still be warm,” you tell John as you hand him the meal, hoping it hadn’t gotten too cold while you were waiting.

“As thoughtful as always,” John says, accepting it and putting it to the side of his large desk. “I appreciate you going out of your way on my behalf. How are you feeling?”

Swiping a tongue along the roof of your mouth, you check. Nothing. “All right.”

“Good.” You wait for him to explain the odd behavior, why he’d asked you so suddenly to bring him something to eat. He doesn’t, and instead just turns his attention over to where Leo is still hovering in the doorway.

“Leonardo, come in. I don’t have too long before my next appointment, but I’m interested on your thoughts with some items our reconnaissance team came across yesterday evening,” John says, and you take the time Leo’s using to come in to turn and face your husband again.

“Did you need anything else before I go?” you ask him, watching curiously as his mouth curls into a cold crescent.

“You’ve done everything perfectly, darling,” John replies, pulling you into a swift smooch.

…You don’t know why, but something about how he says it makes your mouth dip into a frown. Quickly enough, you smooth it away like a wrinkle and nod. “All right. I’ll see you at home, then.” Turning around, you look to Leo and give him a smile of his own. “See you again soon.”

“You will,” Leo says, faltering your steps for a heartbeat as you walk quietly back down the hall, while you can’t help but feel, spine stiff and heartbeat fast, that it feels a little like a threat.

It takes you a few days to work up the courage for it. You’re convinced that all of the unease of the meetings with Leo is coming from you, but it still feels… improper, somehow, like you’re doing something naughty. Something that would make John upset, if he knew about it. Something you shouldn’t.

It happens in the shower, staring at the tile, standing beneath the last few minutes of heated foray. You talk yourself into it, reminded that you aren’t even remotely desirable, that normal people do have friends, that you can move past the queer feeling from novelty and have something nice, if John allows it. That’s all it has to be. You won’t even ask to be Leo’s friend; you’ll just ask how he feels about it. You probably even should, before it gets an appearance of something that it definitely isn’t. Easy.

Coming into the kitchen, you start pulling things out of the fridge and cabinets to prepare breakfast for both yourself and your husband. It’s Saturday, so he’ll be going into the office later than usual. Sometimes not even at all, if he feels he got enough done during the week.

A warm pair of lips brushes along your nape as you’re whisking eggs, long fingers curling around your hips. “Good morning, darling,” John greets into your skin, prompting you to hum in response. “Sleep well?”

“I did. You?” you ask, glancing over at the rest of the food to make sure it isn’t burning.

“Quite,” he says, pulling away to fiddle with the espresso machine. Magic, surely. You’ve never been able to work the damn thing, no matter how hard you’d tried. “You were in the shower quite a while this morning. Are you feeling all right?”

Out of habit, you run your tongue along the roof of your mouth before realizing that this time, he’s asking in a different way. “I was thinking,” you respond, reaching over to the fruit to start cutting it into bite-sized pieces.

“About?” John asks, placing a coffee cup at your elbow filled with your favorite brew.

“Leo asked me the other day I was in your office if—well, I suppose he didn’t ask. He kind of just said it. But he wants to be my friend. What do you think?”

John’s quiet enough for long enough that you find yourself pausing in your meal preparation, turning to look over at him curiously. He’s studying you over the rim of his own coffee cup, his sharp eyes looking for something. He doesn’t seem surprised you’re asking him such a spontaneous question. You blink, giving him the time to churn whatever gears in his head need to mesh, and watching as he seems to find something incredibly amusing.

“He said he wants to be your friend?” John asks, and you huff a laugh.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” you confirm, relaxing since his reaction appears to be humor and going back to your task of cutting fruit. “Do normal people just do that? Demand friendship from someone?”

“What brought the conversation on?” John asks, and you squint as you think back to the conversation.

“…We were discussing your work habits. He said you probably missed me, and that he would. I told him that he didn’t know me well enough for that, and that was when he basically invited himself into it.”

“Sounds about right,” John murmurs. “He’s an arrogant one, that’s for certain. And easy to understand. If he doesn’t want something, he’ll have nothing to do with it. If he sees something he wants, he takes it.”

John’s fingers trail along your nape, staring at your hands arranging your breakfast. Then, to your surprise, he grins.

“I’ve decided. It’s a marvelous idea. Befriend him.”

“You tell me he’s an cocky prick, then tell me to be his friend.” You wrinkle your nose, causing John to chuckle.

“It’ll be good for you,” he says, coming close so he can rest his hands on your shoulders. With a soft squeeze, his voice drops, his mouth finds the curve of your ear. You thought his humor genuine at first. You realize the truth of it after. “It’ll be good for both of us. And I know you know how important it is to be good for me.”

An obsidian chill trickles down your spine. A swallow traps in the back of your throat, choking you silent.

“You’ll be his friend, won’t you, darling?” he whispers, fingers curling with the hem of your shirt. “Bring him nice and close.”

“…Of course, dear,” you respond, looking, lightheaded, at your mug of cooling coffee.

The truth of it is, you realize within the next week, you’re in a significant conundrum. Multifaceted, too, for how it boggles you.

For one, you have no way of contacting Leo. Both times you’ve spoken to him, it’s been pure coincidence. He always seems to find you. Surely he has a cell phone you can use to contact him, but naturally you have no idea what the number is, nor the courage to ask John if he knows. He told you to do this; you can’t ask him for help.

For two, even if you did know how to come into contact with Leo, you really have no idea what it even means to be a friend. You’re sure, before, that you had some. You can even almost remember: hazy memories of going out for drinks, laughing at and telling jokes, patting someone’s back when someone broke their heart. You were a good friend, maybe, you think.

Finally, it’s obvious that John wants something. From you, from Leo, you can’t tell; but the desire is definitely there. He isn’t telling you either, so it’s something you need to figure out on your own. So on top of learning how to be a friend again, you need to do it in a way that will make your husband pleased with your actions. Not too much as to be improper, not falling short of whatever goal he wants you to achieve. Bring him close, he’d said—but not how close.

Cold tendrils grip your heart. John told you to be Leo’s friend. But you have no idea how.

You start by trying to profile the guy. John had called him easy to understand, after all. If you can guess what he likes to do, you can just—go to the place where you do that thing and probably run into him. So you think about everything you know about Leonardo Hamato (ninja, tall, handsome, stubborn bitch, swords, works with the EPF, brothers, connections to yokai underworld) and start looking.

Unfortunately, the trail grows cold fast. It occurs to you that perhaps your own condemnation—that he doesn’t really know you at all—is a reversible curse. He can’t miss you any more than you can find him in a city of millions. Especially when his whole schtick is being a secret ninja, sticking to the shadows. Three whole days you bop around all of the places you can think of for him to haunt, and for three days, you retire home mildly grumpy and increasingly annoyed when John just smiles at you from his side of the bathroom sink like he knows what you’re doing and it’s amusing to him.

So you decide to leave it be. It’ll happen naturally, according to all of the articles you tear apart like How to Get Friends, How to Make Friends, New York Connections, Selling Your Winning Personality And Earning Friends, among all of the others. It wouldn’t be the first time you ran into Leo by pure luck, after all. You just—have to relax. Take your time.

…Not exactly two things you’re very good at.

Then, as if the universe itself has decided to reward you for your patience, you run into him again at the EPF building. You’re not quite sure how he managed it, as you yourself are fast through the security check being Mrs. Bishop and you hadn’t seen him come inside in front of you, but you don’t waste time wondering about it.

“Leo!” you call while jogging up, bringing him to look over his shoulder where he’s waiting for the elevator.

“Well, well, if it isn’t a sight for sore eyes,” he greets, giving you a quick glance. “You don’t exactly look dressed for a race. Everything okay?”

“Had to make sure I caught you,” you explain, digging in your purse. “You’re really hard to find, you know that?” Leo’s smile grows wide. “Yeah, yeah, eat it up. Anyway, I spoke to John. He said he likes the idea of us being friends.”

“…I see,” Leo responds, reaching over and hitting a different button on the elevator. Up, now, instead of down. The elevator next to the two of you dings, opens. He doesn’t move from your side. “Lucky me, then.”

Finally, you pull your phone out. “Right, so, um. Can you give me your number so we can chat and meet up? If I have to go to one more dojo asking about you and get laughed at to my face, I might actually explode.”

Leo bursts out laughing. “You—Hold on, I’m sorry. You were going around to dojos looking for me?”

“It—It was the best thing I had to go on!” you exclaim, feeling your face burn hot. You certainly aren’t going to tell him about how you hovered outside the nearby gate down to the Hidden City before you got dizzy and had to go home, wondering if you should text John or if it would go away on its own. “Anyway. Phone number. Chop chop.”

“You’re pushier than you look, huh,” Leo says, though he obediently takes your phone and starts tapping into it.

“Sorry. I’m… maybe not as patient as I could be,” you confess, tangling your fingers together.

“It’s cute,” Leo says, handing you back both your phone and his. “Now you do me.”

His phone is—odd, leaving you wondering how many more times you’re going to connect the word with him. Clearly not any of the major manufacturers that you recognize, and the icon is one you can’t identify. No matter, you think, putting your number in and then handing it back to him.

“Thank goodness,” you sigh, feeling ten tons of tension sliding off your shoulders. It prompts you to joke, “I was terrified I’d have to start combing all the way down to the sewers to find you.”

“Can’t have that, now,” Leo says, turning his head right before the elevator door dings. “Ladies first.”

Stepping into the elevator, you realize belatedly that you really don’t have a proper reason to be here, other than meeting up with him. You’ve never dropped in on John unannounced, and Leo has clearly deviated his own plans to converse with you along the way. Cringing, you turn and confess, “I… didn’t actually come here to see John.”

“Oh?” Leo says, quirking his head. “Are you working?”

“No. I was hoping I would find you eventually. I’m sorry if you’re going to be late for something.”

Leo bumps his shoulder into yours gently. “Don’t worry about it. I’d be late for a pretty face.” He then gestures at himself. “Considering I carry one of those with me everywhere I go, I’ve got some time to burn.”

You splutter out a laugh, the brag taking you off guard as you’d fully expected him to flirt with you instead. You laugh a lot with him, you think, reaching up to your face and pretending to scratch at your cheek as you feel the unfamiliar muscles pull. Maybe John was right. Maybe this will be good for you.

“So, what do you like to do?” you ask, pulling yourself out of your thoughts. “I read a lot of articles on friendship, and they all recommend doing fun hobbies together.”

Leo looks at you, and he gets this expression on his face that’s half-fond, half-exasperated. “Articles? You sound like my brother.”

“Oh? Which one?”

“Donnie,” Leo says, and a quick profile flicks through your head where you’ve memorized everyone in the organization. Your nose wrinkles.

“Do I really? Isn’t he remarkably …clever? It seems kind of embarrassing that I had to do that.”

“You’ll see when you meet him,” Leo responds, and—ah, yeah, you suppose that is something that might happen someday. Isn’t that something that happens when you make friends? You make more friends, because of their friends? Meeting families, getting to know them, too? That feels like something you kind of remember doing.

The elevator door dings. It’s John’s floor. You step out, though you hover in the lobby instead of pressing straight through to the hallway. The security guard raises an eyebrow at you, but you ignore him in favor of turning to see Leo directly behind, studying you, waiting to see what you’re going to do.

“You didn’t answer the question,” you remind him, causing him to smirk and rest his hands on his hips.

“I will after you do.”

You squawk indignantly. “That’s—! That’s not fair!”

“All’s fair in love and war,” Leo shrugs.

“This is neither of those!”

Leo hums, tilting his head and giving you a long look. Huffing, you fold your arms and think. What do you do for fun? It’s not really a question you’ve ever pondered. The immediate response nothing comes up, but you hardly think he’s going to let that slide as an acceptable answer.

Instead, you try to think about what you do while you’re waiting for John to come home. You—clean the apartment, first. He likes things tidy, and you like him happy. You cook, you read. Sometimes you go on walks around the area and get some sunlight. There’s a bench in the park a few blocks down that you particularly enjoy, as it overlooks a little pond where ducks like to nest. Beyond that, you… just kind of exist.

…Is this really a life worth so much trouble, you think, before you quickly shake off the abyssal despair and wrench your attention back to Leo.

“I… like to cook,” you settle on, feeling your shoulders dip. It’s true, for what it’s worth. Finding new recipes, perfecting them, experimenting in the hours you’re left alone… it’s fun, you think, perhaps for the first time.

“How convenient. I love to eat,” Leo responds cheerfully. “Sounds to me like we’ve got something fun we can do.”

Ah. A bright idea springs to mind. “I… also like to visit the park near my apartment. There’s a nice bench, and some ducks in a pond, and… well, we could maybe do a picnic?”

Leo’s face brightens in a way that makes you think he really does want to be your friend and hang out. “Sounds great. Then I can tell you all about all the things I’m into and we can swap. I’m thinking movie night, my place.”

He likes movies, you note, mentally adding it to the quiet profile sheet in your head. That’s pretty nice; you have lots of time in the day where you can catch up on the ones he likes so you can chat meaningfully.

“That does sound really nice,” you agree, twining your fingers together a little sheepishly. “Okay. Well, I guess I’ll go see if John’s in since I came all this way.”

“You don’t exactly seem thrilled to check in on him,” Leo points out, the sharp edge of his words trailing over your skin like the tip of a blade.

“…I don’t like bothering him,” you respond. “And I’ve never dropped in on him like this, so…”

“Then don’t,” Leo says, like it’s that easy. “We can go ahead and do our picnic now, if you’d like.”

Your heart rate ticks up as your mind whizzes. You—you want to spend more time with him. But you’re also hyper-aware of the way he’d obviously changed his course to speak with you, hyper-aware of the way you’re completely unprepared both emotionally and materially to host, hyper-aware of the proximity to your husband as you discuss having a meal with another man, permission or no. Hyper-aware that a diverging path in your actions has arrived, and he isn’t telling you which one to take. The air grows thin in your lungs. You swallow.

Leo’s asking you to decide. You don’t remember how.

Just as you’re about to grow dizzy, a faint chirping from Leo’s pouch rings into the lobby. You watch his face fall a bit, just enough to be noticed, as he pulls out his phone and answers the call.

“Hey. …Yeah, I’m here. Can you—Yeah, all right.” With a sigh, Leo taps the screen and lowers it. “Sorry. They’re looking for me downstairs.”

Something that isn’t relief but isn’t agony wells inside of you in a maelstrom of uncertainty. It’s wretched and exquisite all in one. “That’s fine,” you tell him. “I’ve got your number now, so we can meet up another time.”

“Trust me, I’d much rather be doing this with you,” he says. “If it weren’t for the fact that we’ve been trying to get this shit figured out for a week now—”

“No, no, it’s really okay,” you promise.

Leo’s jaw works, his mouth slashed into a frown. He looks off to the side then, and with a sigh, you watch as he tucks whatever’s troubling him back so he can put his pretty face back on. “I’ll text you,” he says, walking back to the elevator and pressing the down button.

“Sounds good,” you agree, genuinely. You watch him step onto the elevator as it opens, and wave your fingers at him when he turns and looks at you one last time with eyes that crush the air from your lungs before the doors slide shut.

Finally alone, you inhale shakily. That—That went well, you think, looking down at your phone and its new contact. Locking the screen, you turn and face the floor security who is looking at you curiously. “Is John here?”

“I believe so,” he nods, buzzing you through.

Walking down the long hallway, you come to a stop in front of your husband’s office. You knock, wait, wait, wait, knock again, wait, wait; nothing happens. He’s not here. Probably in a meeting somewhere else, or maybe in the field dealing with something that came up. He wasn’t expecting you. You shouldn’t be here.

Returning down the hall, you pause at the security guard’s desk and wonder if you should leave a message with him. You could text him, of course, but you don’t want to distract him in case he’s well and truly busy. He could get hurt, or worse.

“He wasn’t in his office. Could you let him know I stopped by just to check in on him? No need to worry or anything of the sort,” you ask, fidgeting with your phone. When the guard nods, you go back to the elevator and call it up. Stepping inside, you close your eyes and tilt your head back, staring at the flat white light as you fall in slow motion.

As he—promised? threatened?—Leo texts you. A lot.

It starts innocuously enough. Checking to make sure that he has the right number for you, asking how you are, the sort of thing that would feel almost boring and out of character if you didn’t get the feeling, a little, like he was testing the waters to make sure that you won’t explode about it. It’s easy, fun, harmless.

Within about a week, though, that goes completely out of the water.

Leo Hamato (2:53 a.m.)
check this shit out

Leo Hamato (2:53 a.m.)
Attachment: 1 Video

You come across the text the next morning, awake at normal human hours. Curious, you open the video and oh my god how is that physically possible.

sent (7:34 a.m.)
Okay, I admit, I didn’t even know skateboards could even do that.

Leo Hamato (7:34 a.m.)
right?? somebody better call the dr bc that was totally SICK

Leo Hamato (7:34 a.m.)
no i can do better than that. oh shit, call 911 bc this turtle is on FIRE

sent (7:34 a.m.)
WHY ARE YOU STILL AWAKE?

Leo Hamato (7:34 a.m.)
sleep is for the weak

sent (7:34 a.m.)
NO?

Leo Hamato (7:34 a.m.)
if you want me in bed so bad u just gotta ask nicely

sent (7:34 a.m.)
Leo, please. Go to bed and get some sleep.

Leo Hamato (7:34 a.m.)
…hm ok that backfired

Leo Hamato (7:34 a.m.)
hey. what are you doing thursday afternoon

sent (7:34 a.m.)
Nothing that I know about. Why?

Leo Hamato (7:35 a.m.)
perfecto. you me the park with a full spread

sent (7:35 a.m.)
Sounds great. Now please, go get some sleep?

sent (7:36 a.m.)
Leo?

Leo Hamato (7:37 a.m.)
yep. yep. on my way now. honk shoo mi mi mi

sent (7:37 a.m.)
Thank you, Leo. See you Thursday.

Leo Hamato (7:37 a.m.)
god damn it

sent (7:37 a.m.)
?

Leo Hamato (7:37 a.m.)
i mean yep see you then

And so on Wednesday, after John leaves for work and you’re in the apartment all by yourself, you go to the grocery store. A catastrophic mistake, you realize, as soon as it occurs to you that you don’t know what Leo wants to eat.

With John, you know everything: what he likes, what he doesn’t like, the boundaries of what he’s comfortable experimenting with, his favorite flavors and textures and methods of eating. He doesn’t like to eat with his hands, because it’s dirty. He likes things well-seasoned, but not too spicy. He hates sweets, even the taste of them on you when he dips in for a kiss.

You text Leo to ask him, but he doesn’t respond. Sleeping, finally, hopefully, but still unable to resolve your conundrum—until finally he texts back the single line.

Leo Hamato (9:34 a.m.)
hey sorry i was in the shower. i’m good with whatever you decide!

Standing in front of the cheese, just to the side enough where you won’t be in the way of other patrons, you quietly try not to have a panic attack.

He’s doing it again. Making you decide. Your blood slows and thickens in your veins, crystallizing into ice that cuts and bleeds from the inside. Your knees press together where they tremble, shaking you up to your deflated lungs. Everything’s spinning. You’re going to pass out.

No. No, you’re not. You aren’t this pathetic, you think, gritting your teeth so hard your jaw aches. Besides, it would just be a burden on John. You can only imagine the phone call—yes hello, your stupid wife fainted in the cheese aisle because it’s easier to die rather than make a decision. Please come get her and pay for the whole event.

Mortification and shame bloom hot, countering the ice of anxiety but making you feel ill. Have you always been like this, or is it just one more thing about you that changed that day?

“Ma’am, are you okay?” you hear someone ask you, and you close your eyes and give a jerky nod.

“Yeah, just. Feel like I’m going to throw up,” you croak. Your tongue flies to the roof of your mouth out of habit, but everything’s fine on that front. No, it’s your own emotions making you feel like this.

The phone in your hand vibrates. Wait, no, it’s—you’re the one shaking. Quivering, you hold it close to your chest so you can keep stable enough to send the text without making too many errors.

sent (9:37 a.m.)
I need you to choose

sent (9:37 a.m.)
Please

Before you can even expect a response, he’s calling you. For a moment, you consider declining and sending him to voicemail. There’s no way you’re going to be able to sound normal at this point. But then, a sort of… despair-induced resignation hits. He should probably know sooner rather than later that you’re like this.

“Hey,” you greet, clearing your throat when it sounds crackly even to your own ears. “I, uh.”

“Sandwiches,” Leo responds, his voice steady in your ear. A complete foil to your own. “I really love sandwiches.”

…He’s not telling you what kind of sandwich. But it’s… enough. It’s enough.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do that,” you croak, feeling your throat tighten, eyes burn, fingers grow taut on your phone. A small step. An extended hand. “Thank you.”

“Want me to stay on the line?”

“No, no, I’m okay now,” you assure him, closing your eyes and thinking about the way he’d disappeared into the crowd on the rooftop while bringing you a bottle of water. It’s enough. “See you at the park in a bit?”

“It’s a promise.”

It’s enough. You get all of the materials you need, bring them home, and pack something impressive enough that you realize about halfway through you’re definitely compensating for nearly having a panic attack at him. Like you’re trying to prove that you’re a functioning person, even though you aren’t really sure that’s true.

You broach the conversation after savoring how bright and open his face gets the first couple of sandwiches in, after the small talk and people watching and explaining what’s what in each of the containers.

“Thanks for earlier,” you tell Leo again, gazing down at your hands where they rest near your lap. “I, uh. I don’t really make decisions very often, so I have trouble with it.”

“Is it something you’re happy with?” Leo asks, prompting you to look up at him questioningly. His gaze, despite the probing question, is steady and gentle, but not even remotely infantilizing. A blanket, but no more. “Seems pretty inconvenient to me.”

“…It is,” you admit. “But it isn’t really something I have to deal with too often.”

“Because Bishop decides for you?”

Your teeth find your lower lip. “It’s easier when I do what he thinks is best,” you tell him. “I guess it just kind of. Became the default over time.”

“Doesn’t really sound like a healthy relationship to me.”

You bark out a humorless laugh. “No, I guess it doesn’t, does it?” Gently, you look over to his face and take in the soft, concerned expression on his face. Ah, you’ve said something to worry him. You smile, handing him one of the small tarts you’d whipped up. “Here. These are my favorites. Tell me what you think.”

Leo takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. With a hum, he lifts his gaze, out over the pond where the ducks swim in daydreamy, meandering circles. “…It’s sweet,” he says, popping the rest of it in his mouth all at once.

“Do you like sweet things?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Leo says, slowly pressing his thumb to the corner of his mouth and turning a warm, enigmatic gaze your way.

The rest of the picnic has a light whimsy to it. As you wave to Leo’s back while he parts from you to return home, your motions grow heavy, your smile dim. It’s an odd feeling, something you’ve never felt before, like an unfamiliar song heard scant from another room.

The feeling settles like a shroud along your shoulders, haunting your steps all the way into your apartment, to your kitchen where you unpack and start to tidy things. Even when you hear the door open, it clings to your shadowed steps towards your husband.

“How was work?” you ask, reaching your hands up to undo his tie for him in a practiced motion.

“Uneventful,” he answers. “Much less interesting than your day, I’m sure. How was your time with Leonardo?”

You tilt your head. Time to put the feeling into words. “It went well, and I had fun. I still think he’s very odd, though. He has a way of not saying what he’s really thinking, and it’s a bit uncomfortable, if I’m honest.”

“You think he’s hiding something from you, then?” John asks, clearly amused, and you ponder before you sigh.

“I’m not really sure. I don’t really know him well enough to say. But he’s definitely not an open book.”

“Hard to be as open as what you’re used to,” John says, a little cruelly and making you flinch. A hand grips your jaw and tilts your head back. He studies your face, his eyes sharp. “It’s coming soon, isn’t it?”

That would explain things. Obediently, you run your tongue along the roof of your mouth. You taste the lingering hint of the tarts, sweet, on your palate. And, now that you’re paying attention, something a little more. Something sharp, crimson, hot.

“…It’s coming soon,” you agree quietly.

“Good. A nice reminder of what’s important,” John hums. Bending down, he kisses you, making a displeased noise when his tongue swipes along your teeth.

“Oh, sorry,” you breathe, studying the way his lips go wet when he licks them. “I made some tarts for this afternoon.”

“No matter. My mouth can go other places,” he murmurs, kissing along your jaw and using his grip to turn your head. Burrowing his face in your throat, he inhales deeply, letting one hand rest in the small of your back to pull you close. “You smell like sunlight.”

And he smells like the EPF building, you think, tilting your head, closing your eyes as his mouth trails down to your pulse. Clinical, a little like the way he pulls away and leads you towards the bedroom, stripping both of you down and settling into place between your knees.

“Does it feel good?” he asks when his fingers find your clit, circling it perfectly with experience. You nod, curling your fingers into the sheets by your head, cracking open your eyes to watch him slowly stroke his cock. Guiding it in, he slots into familiar places that stretch and envelop.

“John,” you gasp, hands finding his shoulders, skin burning hot with arousal. Truly, the day you stopped fighting this was the day you could admit it could feel good to be fucked by someone who knows your body better than you do. Like a marionette, you dance beneath his fingers, moving where he puts you, arching and sweating and tumbling closer to the end. Skin against skin, until at last you feel the warmth of his orgasm while he shudders and pants into your shoulder.

You don’t come this time, but it’s fine. You’re not really in the mood for it. It feels good all the same, leaving you to catch your breath while lazily trailing your fingers through his long, wet black hair. Gazing up at the ceiling, seeing not it but beyond, tasting blood that isn’t in your mouth yet, you drift and dream the thoughts that you only can in the dark. A quiet whisper betrayed by the feeling of your husband’s softening cock wet on your thigh, his weight crushing you into your marital mattress.

…What would your life be like if you’d met Leo, long ago? If it wasn’t at a fancy cocktail hanging off your husband’s wrist that you learned his name? What if—what if everything had been different, none of this had happened, and you were—you, and only you? Single, in all the ways that mattered more than he knew?

It’s horrifyingly easy to imagine. The feel of those hands on your skin. Rough, cool, big. The ease of his smile, the way he laughs at even the dumbest things. He’s so bright and warm and—sunshine, you think, recalling John’s words to you. That you smelled of sunshine. Almost like the best of Leonardo had come home with you.

You can’t help but huff out a little laugh as you think about Leo’s silly faces he made at the ducks, only for your heart to seize and then rush when John nuzzles his face in your chest. “What is so funny?” he slurs into your cleavage, relaxed in the way he only gets after emptying himself into you. The closest he ever comes to something human.

Guilt squeezes her titanium talons around your throat and you purge the line of thought with disgust. Swallowing, seeking a personal redemption, you turn your mindless touches into something a little more intentional, twirling his ebony hair around your fingers.

“Thinking about old times,” you answer, forgetting the impossible dream as you remember who you are, where you are, why anything else is impossible. Ten, almost eleven years of marriage. How long it’s been, even as it feels simultaneously like naught a day and more than a lifetime. “Heh. Remember that mustache you used to have?”

“You hated it,” John mumbles, causing you to laugh into the night.

“I did,” you agree, though you go a little somber as you think about the real, more honest magnitude of the feeling. How much deeper than that it had gone. Before you’d learned to give in—to give up.

Perhaps because of the closeness of intimacy, perhaps in the bare light streaming in through the curtains, perhaps because of so many things you can’t possibly fathom, John goes quiet. More quiet than usual, his head turning into your caresses, his own fingers reaching out to skim along your free wrist where it rests by your pillow until a solemn confession comes from a place you weren’t even sure he had.

“I was so young then. Practically a child, leading the department. It was the only thing I could think of to be seen as a man. Infantile, in retrospect.”

Your bedroom is still. His cheek, pressed to your chest, is doubtless harassed in the constant thump of your heartbeat. You wonder what he thinks as he listens to it, if he is, if he finds any comfort in how steady it remains despite it all.

“You were highly capable, even then,” you tell him honestly. “I’m sure they respected your skill, more than anything else. Father, especially. You wouldn’t have been promoted, otherwise. And he wouldn’t have agreed to us.”

“Luck,” John curses, voice a little bitter before it smooths to silk. “But it’s no matter. I have no such need for posturing any further.” He sits up, and your hand streams lazily to the tips of his hair where it reaches his toned mid-back. “Do I, wife?”

His eyes shine strangely in the dark. You shake your head, knowing that there’s a deeper question here, unsure of how to answer it other than to blindly agree. That is, after all, the shortcut to happiness. “No, you don’t.”

You wait for him to speak again, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans in and kisses you again, thoroughly this time, slowly inspecting with tongue and teeth and lips as if to ensure that everything is still exactly how he left it. You let him, well aware by now that the space is his more than it will ever again be yours.

“Mm. Perfect. Not so sweet now,” he murmurs, dipping in again, then again, then again, until the evening bleeds to black and you fade into a dreamless, lonely sleep.

Spring turns to summer. The city grows hot and humid, the ducklings at the park grow and fly away, and you find yourself in the comfortable position of calling Leo a friend. He sends you funny videos in the dead of night, you reply with jokes and meet him for coffee. It’s fun. Harmless. What normal friends would do, you’re pretty sure.

The doubt still remains, though. John told you to bring him close. But how close? Close enough for him to know your order and have it ready for you by the time you arrive? Is that too close? Close enough for him to snap at someone rushing you in the bodega checkout line? Is that too close, too? You should ask, probably, you think as you lie in bed with your husband’s limbs draped over your nude body and his semen still sticky a bit inside. You should ask, but the conversation feels frightening. Like a test whose answer you should already know. Or one you’re failing just by needing to take it.

You should ask, but you don’t. You endure Leo’s friendship and the enigma it presents, even when he, a little meanly, insists on having you decide things. Small, still—where you’ll go for lunch, which of his hands holds the movie tickets, what time you’ll meet up next week—but enough that it feels a bit like you’re putting weight on an old, injured leg. Recovery towards the person you were—before.

…Your mouth tastes of meat and memory. Each evening passes into a shudder, and you part from John a little less eagerly than before. Even when he all but demands it, the rattle in his pocket like a cruel ticking timer.

Today, you’re meeting Leo at some pizza place called Run of the Mill he’s been hyping up for forever. Apparently it’s a hole in the wall dig where he goes with his brothers, whom you’ve still not met properly. You half expect them to be there when you walk inside, but instead you find yourself surrounded by mutants and yokai of every size and shape you can imagine.

“Table for two, Bone Boy,” Leo tells the skeleton yokai, who gets a massively unimpressed look on his face.

“You brought a date here of all places? Estúpido. Cheap ass. Loser. Lame.”

Leo presses the palm of his hand over his plastron. “You wound me, Junior. Didn’t your old man teach you any manners?”

“He taught me to kick your ass out,” the skeleton yokai retorts, though you watch with amusement as he grabs two menus and leads the way over to a small, secluded table.

Sitting in the chair, staring down at the menu, you anxiously twist your wedding ring around your finger. He hadn’t corrected that skeleton yokai on you being a date. It had been a joke between two friends, that much had been obvious, and John had told you to come to dinner with Leo tonight, but it still feels—

Well. It’s fine. Just you being odd, the way you tend to be around him, probably.

Instead of lingering on that, you look around you. It isn’t too often that you’re surrounded by this many non-humans. All of the shapes and magic flowing around the room catches your eye and enchants. Maybe this is why John wanted you to come at such a busy time, when the clientele is more likely to expand your horizons. Your shoulders relax, and you finally settle in and stare at the menu instead. Most of it looks normal.

“Do… Do I want to know what the ‘Creepy Supreme’ is?” you grimace and ask Leo, who groans like you’ve struck him.

“Oh man, that one’s so damn good. Probably a bit advanced for you now, though. Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

“‘That sort of thing?’” you echo, tilting your head. Leo hums across from you, narrowing his eyes as his cocky smile spreads even wider.

“Things that wriggle in the dark. Getting in all the places that feel good.”

You feel heat bloom on your cheeks and clear your throat. Glancing over at another table, you see a pizza that—oh, dear god, those are tentacles. “I… see,” you squeak. Leave it to you to think he was making a sexual reference when it’s literally tentacles. You’ve really got to get this shit under control. “M-Maybe just cheese, then?”

Leo’s face brightens into a chipper grin, and he slaps his menu shut. “Cheese it is, hermosa. The lady gets what she wants.”

…He’d tricked you into deciding something again, you realize with an amused huff. Sneaky little fucker. It reminds you of something John had said once: that Leo, when he wants something, gets it. For whatever reason, he’s decided he wants you to choose. It’s probably moot to even fight it at this point.

The pizza comes out surprisingly quickly considering it’s probably the dinner rush. “Whoa, that was super fast.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a bit of history with this place,” Leo brags, passing you a plate like he’s dealing you a hand of cards. “…Do me a favor and don’t look at the Wall of Cheaters for me.”

Your guffaw is interrupted by the cheese pull being longer than your arms can even reach, causing you to squawk. The taste is equally incredible, enough to make you wonder if it would be so bad to be more adventurous next time.

Ah. Next time. The words linger as you ponder them, tapping your napkin to your mouth and staring where Leo’s telling you about some adventure he and his brothers went through in the back room over by the velvet rope, putting context into the whole “cheater” thing from the sounds of it. Your brain has already decided you wanted to come back again, before you’d even put the thought into consciousness yourself. Bizarre.

“That sounds like a rough time,” you tell him, though by the way his eyes light up and go soft, you wonder if that’s really true.

“We were pretty wild kids,” Leo says, lifting his gaze to yours. “You have any fun stories like that?”

You feel your mouth dip into a little of a frown. “Mm. No, nothing like that.” Easily enough, you exchange it for a smile. “I enjoyed hearing about yours, though. I’d like to hear more, if it’s okay.”

Leo shrugs his shoulders. “I mean, I could talk about me all day long without blinking an eye,” he says before propping his chin up on his hand and gazing at you. “But I already know all about me. I want to know more about you.”

Gently, you grasp the straw in your drink and stir the ice. It clinks against the glass noisily, a bit like shattered glass in a bottle. “I’m afraid I’m not really that interesting,” you confess.

“I find that hard to believe,” Leo scoffs. “Not with the way Bishop’s always talking my ear off about you.”

Surprised, curious, your hand pauses in its fiddling. “What? He does?”

“Yeah. Half the time I’m talking to him these days, it’s about you.”

Your hands press to the table. “I—About what?"

“Lots of things,” Leo says, his attention leaving yours to dance around your face. “What you made for dinner. How you looked in a new outfit. Trips you took, what you thought about where you went.” His eyes change, then, and you don’t have a word for what you see, only that it makes the small hairs on the back of your nape stand on end. “Always feels a bit like he’s bragging about you. Like now that I know you exist, he needs to rub my face in it. Makes me curious.”

Your chest feels tight. “I—had no idea,” you confess. John certainly doesn’t say those things to your face in any manner that would feel complimentary. Well. All except one, that is. One way that you’ve always, always known you were valuable to your husband in the eyes of the other. “I’m… not really surprised to hear that it comes across that way though. I don’t really have any illusions that I’m much more than an accessory to him.”

“Pretty enough for it,” Leo agrees easily, prompting you to fumble your phone a bit.

Gathering yourself, you glance up at his face and then away when it’s too intense an expression to maintain. This is maybe too advanced a social situation for you to navigate while you’re remembering how this whole friendship thing works. When you’re still delicate and remembering a little too easily just how quickly you’d fantasized about him being the one in your bed.

“Of course, he continues to show just how shortsighted and blind he can be,” Leo continues, not waiting for you to respond, not even seeming like he’s waiting for his own brain to catch up. “Imagine having you for a wife and being able to talk about anything other than the way you smile.”

“Smile?” you repeat in surprise, reaching up your left hand to touch at the corners of your mouth like you’ll find something there worth commenting on. Looking at him to see if he’ll tell you.

Leo’s eyes widen just a bit, and you see his shoulders and jaw both go a little tight. When he doesn’t elaborate, you open your mouth to ask him what he means—only for a sudden, intense chill to fall over your shoulders. It’s gone as quickly as it appears, prompting you to look gravely above your head in search of an air vent. There isn’t one.

Surely—Surely not now. It wouldn’t be so cruel—

“Well, you know. It’s not like Bishop and I are coffee buddies or anything,” Leo says, and you laugh, deciding to be the one to tease this time to distract yourself from the mounting anxiety curling like frost on the rim of your vision.

“We aren’t?”

It takes him a moment to realize what you’re doing, and then his beak wrinkles. “Not—Not you. I mean—you know. Him. You’re not Bishop.”

“Aren’t I, though?” you remind, more yourself than him.

And then, like he always does, Leo steals your breath. “No. He’s Bishop. You’re…” He trails off, and when he speaks again, it’s to sigh your name like it’s spun sugar. Your name.

You can’t even know how you react, because every sense in your body glitches, and you realize with despair you’ve run out of time.

Your skin flares hot. Your muscles freeze. The air in your lungs catches and lingers, serrated and cutting your throat until you taste blood. You’re never been so cold in your life. Your jaw aches from the force of keeping your teeth from chattering.

Your stomach dips, and terror seizes your heart. You’ve never been so far from salvation when you rapped your knuckles on the door of hell.

Another glitch pixelates your vision. The sight of Leo makes your blood boil to steam. Hatred, puce, vile, the need to gnash and rip. Hunger unlike anything claws the lining of your gut. An endless void strips you of everything, even your own heartbeat.

Pressure on your chest. A hand. Five fingers—so yours. It’s clammy. You grip your phone and grit your teeth. Leo’s concerned and you hate the way he reaches out to comfort. His hands are so, so soft on your shoulders, on your throat, on your thundering pulse.

“John,” you choke out, feeling brick on your back, realizing with vertigo and a temporary relief from the grainy edges on your vision that you’d somehow left the restaurant and found yourself in an alley. Did he move you, or did you flee? Does it matter? He must be thinking the worst—

“What’s wrong?!” Leo asks, his hands searching your body like he can find some ailment. He won’t, not unless something goes very, very wrong. “Where does it hurt? What’s happening?!”

“John,” you plead, eyes burning with tears, throat tasting of blood and bile. Your tongue presses to the roof of your mouth. It feels like teeth. You need to get him away from you. You flatten your palms to his plastron and push. “Not you. John.”

“He’s not—” Leo starts. Your nails find the edge of his shell and the soft flesh there. A bestial urge to claw his skin until you find bone interlocks, overlaps, sinks behind a primal urge to trail it with the pad of a finger to test its texture. You’re sweating. You’re freezing. You don’t recognize the face reflected in the whites of Leo’s eyes. You aren’t you.

Every cell in your body screams with pain, but you manage to find your phone. A trembling finger finds John’s contact, and you make an animalistic noise as the tone rings. When he answers, your stomach flares with a fury that you’d long buried without the courage to act on it.

“Hello, darling,” John says, his smooth voice like sandpaper in your veins. “Is it time?”

“Yes,” you manage to bite, then, “I’m—so cold.”

“Ah, so you are,” John responds, calm like nothing’s wrong. You’ll kill him for this—yes, yes! “Short on time, then. Is Leonardo still with you?”

It takes ten thousand years, a second, a lifetime, nothing at all for you to meet Leo’s gaze. He’s staring at you with horror, with agony, with something that makes your mouth burn for eight million reasons.

“Yes,” you whisper, unsure how you can feel the tears on your cheeks when you’ve been frozen for so long.

“Give him the phone,” John says, and you relinquish it over.

You don’t hear the words. It’s impossible to hear anything with the incessant whispers in your ears in some language you can’t understand but also have known since you’ve been you. A wind chime dances in the summer sun. You’ve drowned in green and know nothing else. The turtle mutant is carrying you. You want to kill him. You wonder what it would be like if he kissed you. Disgust fear revulsion hate all blur into one—

With a blue flash, you smell your apartment. A cold hand presses to your forehead. A familiar voice coils into your ear like poisoned chocolate. You’re just you enough to recognize the voice of your captor, to hear the faint rattle in his suit pocket that will pin your wings back into place.

The cold grip on you goes tight, then lets go. You slump forward, into a chest that smells like life, like death, and your fingers curl into something soft. You want to rip this, too. Wonder what his blood would taste like. If he’d splatter something pretty on the walls. If his fancy suit can take on that much red.

Bitter replaces blood on your tongue. Then water, then a hand covering your mouth so you can’t spit it out. You struggle and snarl, hitting at what you can, choking, drowning, clawing, fighting, unable to breathe, coughing when the water goes into places it shouldn’t it wasn’t meant to be you’ll kill him for this if it’s the last thing you do—

—You swallow. You must.

You hear it, then, from ears that are at last your own. You’re screeching through clenched teeth like a beast. He’s laughing; John is laughing, recklessly, madly. Before you, through tears, swims his triumphant pose. He’s rumpled, mussed, clothes askew and hair wild around his flushed face. He’d look beautiful, maybe, if he weren’t a demon. Or maybe that’s why he does.

“Good, good!” John hisses, pressing his hand to your mouth harder, and this time you taste blood that feels like your own. “Good. Swallow it all. Purge her from you again.”

Your fingers, weak, tangle with the sleeve of his button shirt. It’s spotted crimson. Everything hurts. He shimmers, blurs, and you feel the broken whimper beneath his palm. A human, pitiful, noise.

It hurts. It hurts so much. The vision of him blurs, bleeds, your nose running as you sob and fall limp. Everything hurts. Your brain feels like it’s too big for your skull, pressing on places it wasn’t meant to know, your heart fluttering in a chest that is as much a cage as the walls around you. It hurts. Everything hurts.

John slowly lowers his hand from your mouth and sheds his suit jacket. Unbuttoning his shirt at the wrist, he starts rolling up the sleeve to his elbow, exposing the deep gashes in his forearm. You tremble in fear, but he prods them with that same sharp smile from before.

“A little close on that one, wife,” he says, opening the drawer at his hip and pulling out a box that rattles. First aid kit, probably, judging by the smell. Ah. You’re in your bathroom. You open your mouth to apologize, but all that comes out is a gasping breath where your lungs are still remembering how to work. “Are you alone again?”

Always, you think, eyes welling up with tears and gazing up at the endless white of the ceiling. The soft glow of the bulb lights cast shadows that slowly follow your slump onto the cold tile floor. With a pathetic sniffle, you nod as much as your cut-string neck allows.

“Good. Now. Don’t move,” John barks, prompting you to look over at him with fatigued eyes. “You made me drop the bottle. I’ll have to account for all of them.”

Oh. You hadn’t realized. Makes sense, you guess, considering the way you’d been fighting him like a wild animal. Like a monster, you quietly correct, listlessly taking in the way he crouches down and puts pill after pill in the little unmarked bottle.

After a few minutes, he pauses, his face growing stormy. With a rattle, he dumps all of the pills into his palm, his lips moving silently—counting, you guess—once, then twice, then again. His teeth bare in a snarl, probably not too unlike one you’d showed him not a few minutes ago. With a snap, he opens all of the drawers, dumping out their contents, replacing them, moving the rug and shaking it out.

“Damn it,” he hisses, before he runs a hand over his wild hair, pulling it out of its updo and letting it spill like water over his shoulder. “No matter. It’s lost enough.” Cold eyes finally turn and look at you, and he sighs. “You look wretched. Not quite dead yet?”

You make a half-alive sound to agree. The bathroom is quiet, save for your labored breathing and the muted hum of the city outside. It’s only you and him in here, now. You’re fine. Still, you wince when he reaches out, then again when he carries you. Always stronger than he looks, you think, whimpering when he places you on the bed. Just like every time, the sheets scrape and scratch, your skin buzzing from overstimulation.

“Enough. It will go away soon,” John chides, prompting you to seal your lips together hard. Right. You shouldn’t be complaining. It hurts, but you’re alive; you’re you, you and only you. Your eyes close, and not until you feel something prodding at your lips do you open them again.

“Drink,” John commands. Parting your lips, you curl them around a straw and draw the water into your mouth. Cool, not cold, not warm. Just right. He pulls it away. “Swallow. Breathe.” Then, after a moment, “Can you speak yet?”

Licking your lips, you try. All that comes out is a small, croaking, “Sorry.”

“We caught it,” is his only response, before he takes the water away and brushes a hand on your forehead.

Feverish, your eyes burn again, and you let yourself wish his touch was cold.

You can’t remember life before you were infected by Krang.

Something about the hivemind being forcefully ripped away in the EPF lab had taken everything else with it, they hypothesized. Friends, family, your memories of everything that made you you, gone. The cheering faces of people in white coats greeted you with a name that wasn’t your own, relieved behind their glass observation wall to have saved someone who was—only nominally, only while medicated—still human.

…She whispers to you, sometimes. When the medication starts to wear off and the meat in your mind remembers its master. It’s how you know it’s time for another dose of the medicine. Quietly, at first, then with the rage that boils forever in her heart like blue fire.

She hates it all, and thinks it’s hilarious you agree.

“You’re recovering well,” John says, a few days after the relapse. He comes and sits next to where you’re gazing at the wall, a husk of the person he calls his wife. You haven’t moved much since he put you there. You wonder if it would be okay if you just—didn’t, ever again. If you stayed right here in the quiet dark until the rot perfumed your pass into peace.

“Why did you marry me, John?” you ask drearily, not looking at him, knowing the answer, wondering if he’ll be honest to the air between you today.

“Because I wanted to,” is his response; always, half-truth, evermore. Your lips press hard together, but nothing more comes out. No point in dancing on a stage by yourself. Ignoring you, he continues. “Any lingering side effects?”

“Same as always,” you answer obediently.

“Tell me anyway.”

“Sore. All over. Can’t really move. Really tired. Don’t want to eat.”

John nods, then rests his hand on your hip where the sheet fell a little low the last time you wiggled to get some blood flow. He pulls it up to your chest, smoothing it out. You’d think he was comforting you, except he never does; it’s more a concern for wrinkles, by his own admission.

“You seem more out of sorts than usual,” he prods, and you—hm. Now that he mentions it, he’s right.

“I guess I am,” you say. His hand grows heavier on your side. A quiet command. “I’m not sure why. I didn’t really notice until you said something.”

“Notice now,” he demands. “Is it something related to the relapse?”

No—and yes, you think, chewing on your lower lip. Walking through the jumbled thoughts playing competitive pong in your head.

“…This one scared me,” you confess.

“It was closer than we usually let it get,” John agrees, his hand smoothing over the bandages on his forearm. “You haven’t clawed at me like that since you decided to stop fighting and be a good wife.”

Revulsion makes your eyes flutter closed. You ignore the jab, unsure if it is one or just him stating the truth. “You didn’t let me have a pill when I asked you the night before,” you tell him. It’s as close to confrontation as you think you’ll ever be able to get.

“No, I didn’t,” John says, annoyingly unaffected by the bare hint of your ire. “I was curious to see what would happen.”

Your jaw aches already, more so with the way you clench it not to bark back at him in fury. The words prance on the tip of your tongue—I don’t live in the laboratory anymore, John—but you keep them locked away inside. They’re useless. You are wherever he wants you to be, after all.

Instead, you sigh out heavily through your nose. Fear was part of your problem, yes, but it wasn’t just the intensity of the relapse. You’ve had scary episodes before. It was something else, too. Something you can’t quite put your finger on, not until John’s fingers go tight on your hipbone.

“Is it perhaps about Leonardo?”

…Oh, you think, blinking slowly at the bland color John chose for your bedroom wall. Right. You hadn’t been alone. Not this time. Someone else’s fear was lingering on your skin.

“I hadn’t thought about that. But… yeah, maybe,” you mumble, though in the quiet of the room it may as well be a roar.

“Did you try to hurt him?” John asks.

“No. I don’t think so. But he saw me like this,” you quietly put to the air, only the sound of the fan above you circling, circling, circling to meet it. “Leo—He tried to help.”

“And he did,” John responds. His fingers curl into the sheet. “He has the ability to make portals that allow him to teleport. He brought you here as soon as I told him where to find me. His one good quality is his inability not to get involved. Nice to see it being put to good use once in a while.”

That blue light… it was probably a portal, you guess, thinking about his mask. He can use yokai energy. You knew as much from memorizing his profile; but you don’t mention that to John. Still—“He was scared. She wants to hurt him. I pushed him away.”

John sits quietly, and then he speaks in an amused tone that forces your brow to furrow. “You think he’ll misunderstand?”

“I can’t exactly tell him the truth,” you snap.

“You think he won’t want you anymore.”

Your chest tightens, and—yeah, that’s it, isn’t it? You know who he is, what his skills are. There’s no way he wouldn’t have picked up on the way you genuinely wanted to kill him. Well, not you, per se, but you in as much as he would have known. He tried to help, and you shoved him away. Demanded to see your husband. After he so sweetly took you to a place close to his heart.

“I… I’m scared,” you say, now that you’ve put the bounds on the expansive maw inside. If you had the energy for it, you’re pretty sure you’d cry. “Scared he won’t want to be my friend anymore.”

John hums, running his hand along your arm. “You enjoy it, then? Your little homework assignment?”

You nod. “Yeah. He’s really weird, but in a funny way. I’d be pretty bummed if he didn’t want to be my friend anymore.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” John says. Slowly, jaw tight from the ache it causes, you look to his face. It’s perfectly smooth, absolutely nothing to see deeper than his irises in his eyes. A chill tangles in the ridges of your spine, tripping over each formation of bone on its way down. He’s hiding something, even from you.

He leaves you then, and you swallow around a strange knot in your throat. The entire conversation left you feeling nauseous, so you close your eyes and wonder if you’ll be able to get some sleep. Time will pass more quickly in unconsciousness. The healing will happen in a dream, a dream that, if you’re lucky, smells of sunshine and flowers with ladybugs and sandwiches with sweets and grass beneath your feet. A lovely dream.

A knocking on your doorframe startles you where you’re about to drift off. Unusual; John never knocks before coming into the bedroom, though you’re sure no one else is there.

Yet, confirming it’s not him, you hear his voice saying, “Just go in.”

Confused, unable to muster the energy to roll over and see what’s going on, you call out, “John?”

The breath in your lungs catches when someone else enters your field of view. Leo, holding himself carefully, moving with a silence that erases him from any kind of perception were you not looking at him, steps close to your side of the bed. He looks—worried, contained, muted, so many things that feel like a foreign language calligraphied into his expression.

“Leo!” you call, blinking, unsure if you really are seeing him, if this is perhaps the dream.

“Hey,” he greets, giving you a weak, crooked smile. In a smooth move, he kneels down next to your bed, getting on eye level with you. “Bishop called. I, uh. Heard you weren’t feeling well. He said I could come over. Is that okay?”

Slowly, you turn your head and lock eyes with John. He has the same blank expression on his face before he steps out of the room, telling you nothing. It’s—He had to have said something, reached out somehow. But why? Why bring him here?

“You—Why are you here?” you ask, turning your gaze back to Leo and watching him rub at the back of his neck. His eyes drift off to the side, his shoulders visibly tense.

“I—Look, I’m sorry if I overstepped,” he says, mouth working fast on an apology you don’t really understand. “I was just—being stupid. Out of line. I don’t know what the hell got into my head. I mean, I do, but—”

Gingerly, you reach out a quivering hand and press your finger to his mouth to shush him. As if you’d wired his jaw shut, it snaps closed, all sound ceasing instantly.

“None of that,” you chide, pulling your hand back and letting it rest pathetically next to you. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about. If anything, I need to apologize to you. I probably should have told you; I’m… sick. It’s managed, but I have to take medicine for it. John keeps it safe for me since it would be bad if I missed it.”

“…Oh,” Leo says, instantly relaxing. “Then you weren’t—okay. I didn’t mess us up?”

“No, not at all. I knew I was going to have an attack soon, I just didn’t know it would be so sudden. I’m sorry I freaked you out. Old habit. John’s always told me to keep it close. I was… I was worried I scared you off. You haven’t been texting me.”

“No, no, it’s…” Leo trails off, his eyes falling to your hand. Carefully reaching out, he takes it in his own, his eyes growing tense when your wrist lies limp without the energy to control it. His thumb presses at your wedding ring, and his eyes deepen to the depths of galaxies before your eyes, agonized in a way you can’t really begin to put words to, like the vernacular isn’t a constellation of his stars you know.

Swallowing, you squeeze his grip on you and hold on. You wish you could tell him. Hear the way he’d doubtless be able to make it all feel like it sucked a little less. But it wouldn’t be fair; not to him, when he could never be allowed so close; not to you, who gazes upon a race you are never allowed to run. “You okay?”

Leo scoffs, bringing your joined hands to his forehead as if in prayer. “That depends. Are you okay?”

You make a soft affirming sound. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Then yeah. I’m okay.” He nods, taps your hand on his forehead, then lowers it back to the bed. “So. I’ll be watching, now. Making sure you’re not going to keel over on me. No more hiding, okay? If you need to get to Bishop, let me know and you’re there in the blink of an eye. Knock that secret shit out. You’re safe with me.”

Throat aching, you feel your fingers curl in the sheets. “I know.”

Something changes, after that day. As if you’d put down a weight you hadn’t even realized you were carrying, your shoulders feel light and airy. The sun feels brighter. You start to save recipes while browsing on your phone, thinking of menus, browsing maps of nearby parks.

Hope, you identify, holding your hand up towards the ceiling and watching the fan blades cut between your spread fingertips. You couldn’t remember what it felt like before now.

It takes you a week from that conversation before you’re able to get out of bed properly. Leo doesn’t visit you again, but he does start texting you once more. The same funny videos, pictures of himself in the middle of insane stunts that should be impossible, and endless streams of nonsense that makes you wonder how he can possibly have time for anything else. Philosophical things that make you think and gaze and wonder. Things that touch places in your soul you had forgotten you’d had.

“You’re in a good mood.”

Looking over your shoulder where you’re making breakfast, you see John entering the kitchen while knotting his tie around his neck. Putting down the utensils you were using, you take a kitchen towel in hand, stepping close and dabbing at a spot of shaving cream he missed.

“Happy to be out of bed,” you explain, turning back to your task. “Blueberry sound good this morning?”

John leans over your shoulder and studies where you’re mixing pancakes up. He hums, resting his hands on your hips as he rests his nod against your crown.

“By the way,” he says, plucking at your good mood like a harpist, “I have evening plans for us tonight.”

“Oh?” you ask, wondering what he has up his sleeve. As far as you know, there isn’t an EPF fundraiser dinner on the calendar any time soon, so it can’t be that. “What is it?”

“A surprise,” he replies. His hands squeeze, then release. “We’ll meet at my office tonight. Around eight thirty should be fine.”

Late, you note, tilting your head. “What’s the dress code?”

“Hmmm. That one dress,” he tells you, going to fiddle with the espresso machine and do whatever incantation is required for it to work. “The one that I got you before New Years.”

That… doesn’t really tell you much. It’s a simple black thing. Can be dressed up or down, depending on how you accessorize it. You glance over at him to try and see if he has more information for you, but his brow is furrowed in focus. You’ll just… bring some glam accessories in a purse or something, you decide, putting the batter in the pan to get started.

With a pressed, performative kiss to your cheek, he disappears off to work. The temptation to text Leo and see if he’s busy rises like an old habit, but you know already that he’s busy today. Meetings, or something, he’d said, sending you a giant pouting meme when he’d had to bail on your usual hangout.

Still, your mood isn’t one to be diminished. John was right; you are in a good mood. Riding it high, you get dressed properly and then go out into town. The sunshine spills onto your skin and meets the happy warmth already inside, dancing in your footsteps as you do some window shopping. A bookstore nearby has a pretty display of potted plants, and you briefly entertain coopting a piece of the living room to start a collection.

“He’d never allow it,” you sigh under your breath, tracing a finger along one of the leaves. Plants meant dirt, and dirt was dirty. John hates dirty things.

The rest of your morning disappears into the pages of different books, flipping through without really reading them, sipping slowly at a cup of coffee that goes cool as your attention wanes from it. By lunch, you find your way into a cafe, staring out of the window up at a bird resting on a streetlight as it preens its wings.

After lunch, you head home. A few hours has the space perfectly clean, exactly the way you always keep it. A load of laundry later, a light supper in case John’s plans don’t include food, and then you shower so you, too, can be pristine for your husband, down to every follicle.

You text Leo a mirror selfie of you in the dress, nibbling on your lower lip when the decision point hits and it feels a little intimidating still.

sent (7:02 p.m.)
Attachment: 1 picture

sent (7:02 p.m.)
What do you think? Dress up or dress down?

Leo Hamato (7:11 p.m.)
where you headed?

sent (7:11 p.m.)
Not sure. Do you think it looks okay?

Leo Hamato (7:11 p.m.)
looks amazing, hermosa. pretty as a picture

Leo Hamato (7:11 p.m.)
either way you choose, it’ll be beautiful

…Annoying, you think without heat. Again, he’s not really giving you an answer and instead is pushing you into deciding on your own. Once more, you look at your reflection through the eyes of Leo’s compliments. Pretty as a picture, he said. Surely John would have mentioned if it required you to be properly dolled up; he usually does. Swallowing thickly, you leave the apartment without all the accouterments you’d been planning, chin high in the air. If he wanted you more dressed up, you’ll point out that he should have told you so at breakfast.

Entering the EPF building after hours is always an irritating affair. The door requires key card access, and the security desk requires both it and paper sign ins. The staff at night is even more unkind, their eyes looking at you like they know your heart harbors the soul of the enemy; like they know one wrong hour would have left you rotting in the basement of the building forever.

They let you through all the same. Mrs. Bishop doesn’t get held up, not even when she’s half monster, you think, pressing the button for the elevator to come get you.

Ironically, the security upstairs is gone. You peer around the desk for a moment, looking for a sign in sheet of some sort, but all you see is the card swipe machine. It’s not even plugged in, so you just tiptoe past it, slowly in case someone comes from a coffee break looking for you to make your presence known and accounted for.

…You’ve never been here this time of day, you think, walking slowly down the hall. Your heels click loudly on the tile, echoing, announcing your arrival like trumpets, but no crowd awaits to meet you. You’d think the building abandoned, were it not for the light pouring out of John’s door.

Arriving, you knock uselessly on his door frame. There’s no way he didn’t hear you coming down the hall, and indeed, he doesn’t seem surprised that you’re here.

“There you are, right on time,” John says. He stands from his desk, fiddling with his wrists to unbutton his shirt cuffs. “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

Confused, you obediently do as he says. Demurely, you cross your hands in front of you at the hips, waiting for him to explain what he has planned for the evening.

After a moment of watching him fold his suit jacket and hang it over the back of his chair, you speak up. “Did I dress correctly for… whatever it is you have planned?”

John spares you a quick glance before he hums, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows. First his left arm, then his right, still covered in stark bandages where your struggle had marked him. Clean, exactly how you’d wrapped them that morning after his shower.

“Everything seems to be in order,” he answers. No clarification. You wait for him to start packing up his things, but he doesn’t. Instead, he glances at his watch, then starts walking towards you, index finger curling in his tie and starting to pull it loose.

“…John?” you ask, too perplexed to move, lost in whatever strangeness has taken hold of him.

“I had a wild hair,” he answers without answering, coming close enough for you to smell the coffee on his breath.

“You?” you blurt out, unable to contain the absurd.

“You bring out the best in me, wife,” John says, flatly even though it feels like it should be mocking. You can’t tell from his inflection, still a little stunned from his bizarre behavior. “You’re correct, though. Not as spontaneous as it may seem. I’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

“Th—Thinking about what?” you stutter, because you kind of think you might know, except it feels like a fever dream. “You—You’re not telling me you called me to your office late at night for sex, are you?”

“Why not?” John responds, reaching out a hand so he can trail a single finger along the inside of your dress’ shoulder strap. “You are my wife, and I am your powerful husband with the authority to work whenever I want. Nobody questions if John Bishop wants to stay late for an evening.” He leans in, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Close your eyes. Let me make that good mood of yours even brighter.”

Throat clicking on a swallow, you obey. Your eyes flutter shut, and you try to quiet the twisting snakes of discomfort in your gut. It’s fine; sex with John is better when you give in. You can let this be hot, even, maybe.

“That’s it,” John murmurs into your pulse, his hands finding your sides and caressing them while his mouth slants over yours, slowly, methodically kissing you with the full weight of ten years behind it. When you make a soft noise, he consumes it, molding close, pressing you to the door behind you with a firm push, bringing your hands to his nape to hold him in place.

Oh… he’s in one of those rare moods where he wants you to feel good. He really is into whatever’s happening here, you muse, exhaling on a sigh of his name as his teeth scrape to your collarbone. His fingers then tangle in the skirt of your dress, and that’s when you regain a bit of your thoughts. “John… John, wait, what—what if someone—”

Pulling himself from your skin, mouth wet, pupils blown, John looks at his watch. A triumphant smirk slashes his face, and he leans in to kiss you while his fingers find the hem of your panties and pull. “Don’t worry, darling,” he pants into your mouth. “It’s late. There’s nobody here. Be as loud as you want.”

“That’s—!” you start to protest, but god if he doesn’t know exactly where to put his fingers to make you go compliant. Lethargic, perfect circles around your clit mix with the hard suck of his mouth on your pulse, the smell of his cologne and shampoo stinging your nose with erotic familiarity. “Nngh—!”

“Look at you,” John breathes, rubbing you over and over and over, eyes nearly black yet somehow sharp as knives as you knead your head against the door behind you. “Dripping down my wrist. Squeezing so hard, too. You want something?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp, tangling one hand in his shirt, the other in his long hair to pull as he slides his fingers deep, deep inside, curling them in that perfect manner he does when he wants you to come. “John!”

“Not yet,” he denies, spreading his fingers, rubbing hard against places that have you seeing stars. It’s infuriating how good he can make you feel with so little, like your body betrays its need to be no more than only what he needs. Tears, frustrated and overstimulated, prick at your eyes. “You can do better than that. Tell me you want it.”

Shame spreads hot on your chest. You do; you do want it. Teeth gnashing, body vibrating, you let your hands sink into his hair, pulling it free of his updo, letting it spill like ink to dye your fingertips black as his heart. Turning your head, you close your eyes, and lick your quivering lips. It’s humiliating, but you know debasing yourself will lead inevitably to pleasure when he’s feeling generous.

“Please,” you beg, first consciously, then again on a wail when he curls his fingers and grinds the heel of his hand against your clit. “Fuck, fuck, please—!”

“Good girl,” John growls, pulling his hand out of your cunt and using it to turn you around. It’s better like this, you think deliriously as you hear the clinking fumble of his belt. When you can melt into the door and feel good without thinking about who exactly is doing it. It could be anyone, even though you know the exact shape he makes inside of you.

The press of his cock comes first, hot and familiar. You can’t help but chase it a little, all but vibrating with how tightly wound you are, the risque perversion of it finally hitting your veins like wine. Getting fucked like this, owned by a despicable but beautiful man, pinned like a butterfly in a cage where his cock is all you know—you can forgive yourself for finding it erotic even as it blackens your soul just a little more.

John’s cock slides in with a purposeful single stroke that chokes the breath in your lungs on a sharp gasp and an answering moan from deep inside his chest. No matter how many times he fucks you, it’s always a bit of a shock, like your body refuses to learn and accept him. Like it’s always the first time he’s penetrating you like this, deep and hot, the heft of his sack warm and sticky with your mess against you when he’s all the way in like this.

“Perfect,” John grunts into your ear, fingers bruising on your hips, holding you in place as he pulls out, then slides back in on a deep stroke. Your nails claw against the wood of the door, back arching to get him inside even more, skin clinging to everything from the sweat beading head to toe. “Let me hear how it feels.”

Obediently, you press your face to his door and keen on his next thrust, again on the next, then the next, each pass of his cock pushing you further and further away from shame. It simply feels too good to hate yourself, to hate the way you writhe against him, the way you shape into whatever he wants so long as it means he doesn’t stop fucking you.

“Good,” you whimper, reaching behind you and tangling your fingers into the knots in his hair. “Feels—so—”

“Mmm, gonna come, are you?” John bites against your ear, one of his hands dipping between your legs to rub at your clit. “Want me to get you there? To fill you up so full you can’t stand up?” His strokes get harder, a little faster, designed to hit all the places inside that have you pulling taut as a bow in his arms.

The orgasm hits hard, wracking your body all over with shivers that leave you gasping and whining like a bitch in heat. Your spine bends to its peak, presenting, mouth watering at the sound of flesh hitting flesh, skin sparkling when his fingers go rough on your clit as he comes almost like he’s daring you to do it again. You can’t, you won’t; and you’re conscious enough to feel the moment he finishes inside you, deep, spilling into all the places that have all but tattooed his name on them in a wretched font.

After a few moments, you get to the part of post-coitus where you feel absolutely disgusting. The good feeling is all but gone. Sweaty, sticky, leaking with come. Looking over your shoulder, you see John in a similar situation as you doubtless are: hair matted, mouth parted in an attempt to catch his breath, pupils blown, reality seeping back in.

“Scratch the itch?” you ask, wincing a bit when your voice is a little fucked. Yeah, okay, you’d been a little loud once he told you no one was here. Probably actually for the best you weren’t in the apartment for this.

“For now,” John confirms, pulling out of you. Holding you open, he stares at his prize, running a finger through it and laughing a little meanly when you shiver. “Seems I wasn’t the only one. You’ve made quite the mess here.”

“Shut up,” you grumble under your breath, straightening and looking around for your panties. Spying them across the room, you waddle over on unsteady legs and pull them into place, trying not to be too grossed out by the way you can feel his semen still leaking. Glancing around, you spy a box of tissues and take one, using it to get as clean as you can. “I don’t suppose you have any wipes in here?”

“Just ran out this morning,” John answers, surprising you a little. With how much of a clean freak he is, you half expect he’d have back ups for his back ups. “I’ll pick some extras up tomorrow. Now, why don’t you go ahead and meet me at the front of the building? I’ve got one quick phone call I need to make, and then we can pick up some dinner on the way home.”

Humming, plucking at your outfit, you get everything into place as best as you can. “Sounds good,” you tell him, wondering if he really had been planning just on meeting you in his office to fuck, or if there had been some other plan that he’d dropped in favor of making you a mess against his door. Deciding it doesn’t really matter, you start towards the elevator and head towards the door. It’s only gazing at your reflection, studying the fucked-out haze in your eyes, that the lingering isn’t it a bit late to be making a phone call tiptoes across the backs of your eyes. Shrugging it off, you take the opportunity to fix your appearance a bit more so you’re presentable in public.

Outside the building, you take a deep breath of the city air. It’s warm and humid, making you feel even more disgusting than you already are. A nice, long shower when you get home, you think, tilting your head up towards the light-blotted sky. A cool drink. Maybe even—something, something quickly lost when you turn your head and see none other than Leo standing there, phone in hand and blank look on his face.

“Leo!” you exclaim, surprised he’s here at this hour. The odds seem astronomical. “What on earth are you doing here this time of night?”

Uncharacteristically, Leo doesn’t mirror your bright facade. In fact, he barely acknowledges you, shoving his phone in his pocket and giving you a bare glance before he clears his throat. “I, uh. I was supposed to meet with… someone.”

“This time of night?” you ask, before your brain catches up. “Right. Ninja.”

“Ninja,” Leo echoes, swallowing so thickly you see his throat work with it.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you tell him, studying his body language. He definitely seems a bit off, covering his beak with his mouth and not facing you like he usually does. Poor thing is probably upset, you think, wondering how you can help. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

Leo’s other hand curls into a slow fist, then unfurls like a flower, tension almost singing from his posture. Still, when he speaks, it’s smooth. “…Nah. But thanks for offering.” Finally, finally he turns his head and looks at you, his eyes drifting down like a leaf on a breeze, then back up to meet yours. “Just like I thought. Beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you tell him, pressing your palms to your dress and feeling a little bashful about it. “I appreciate your help. It had me feeling a lot more confident.”

“Good,” Leo says, his voice warm as melted chocolate but still somehow distant. “I, uh—I need to go. Now. I’ll text you later.”

A little perplexed at his distant behavior, you wave him off, turning when you hear the EPF door behind you open and close again. Spying John, you approach, glancing over your shoulder to see only the memory of a blue mask behind you.

“You’ll never guess who I just ran into,” you say, turning back to John and resting your hand on his arm when he offers it. “Leo was here.”

“Was he now,” John responds, and you fall silent, contemplative, when it strikes you, a few blocks down, that he didn’t sound nearly as surprised as he should have.

When John tells you to meet him at the office the following night, you arrive mentally prepared for him to rail you against his office door again. Some new kink he’s trying out, you suppose, a little annoyed it has you out after dark but glad it isn’t anything too awful to indulge. The more he’s into it, the better it is for you, after all.

He doesn’t fuck you, though. He takes you out to a ballet, the smug aura nearly choking as you stand at his side, clearly playing the part of the jewel in his crown. You get home and fall into bed, confused but also a little relieved, serenaded to sleep by the soft snores in your ear.

It happens again the following night. Again, you expect sex; again, you merely pick up some takeout on the way home. Again the following night, then again, again, for several weeks, off and on. Sometimes he takes you out, sometimes he just takes you home. It isn’t every night, but enough that it doesn’t feel odd when he texts you to meet him at the EPF building.

…Maybe he just wanted to get you out of the house, you wonder. Maybe he’s trying to reconnect after the scary episode with Krang. Maybe it’s some kind of game he’s trying to play. Maybe he just likes walking home with you hanging off his arm. Any number of possibilities, each as perplexing as the last.

“Doesn’t it seem odd to you?” you tell your reflection in the mirror, sighing despondently, then straightening your spine and trying again, slightly differently. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you? Hm. Doesn’t it seem odd to—no, that’s not right.”

Defeated, grumpy, you slump against your dresser. Glancing at your watch, you see that you’re due to meet Leo for coffee in twenty minutes. Even with the practice, it’s an intimidating thought, bringing up concerns about your marriage to someone else. The weight of it hangs like a sword above your head, swaying just a little more with each iteration your mouth mutters in the mirror.

With a sigh, you press your thighs to your outfit and shake it off. You aren’t sure if today’s the day you’re going to be brave enough to broach the conversation, but you are certain that today is not going to be the day you’re late.

Inside the cafe, you spy Leo sitting at a small table near the back corner. He already has two drinks with him, because of course he does. You see the moment he realizes you’re there, and how his face brightens when he sees you—but definitely not the same way it used to.

“Thanks for getting this. I’m not late, am I?” you ask, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Five minutes early, as expected,” Leo says in lieu of a greeting. “I told them to put a turtle in the foam this time.”

So he did. “Oh, it’s so cute!” you gasp, marveling over the latte art. Taking a sip, you hum in delight and lick the foam where it coated your upper lip. “Tastes good, too. Great pick, Leo.”

Leo props his head with his hand covering his beak, turning his gaze to the side. “Glad you like it.”

He’s doing it again, you muse, sipping slowly and studying him carefully over the rim of your mug. Just like the last few times you’ve met with him. You’d thought at first he was annoyed with you in some fashion, but any suggestions of not meeting was met with indignation.

Swallowing, you decide to be brave. It isn’t The Conversation, but it’s definitely a big one you’ve been wanting to have. You can broach the other when you’re satisfied with this one. “Leo, um… Is everything okay?”

Eyes widening a little, so slightly you only notice because you’re openly staring, Leo turns his attention back to you. “Why do you ask?”

“You just seem a little… distant lately,” you land on, tilting your head. It’s hypocritical, but you offer anyway. “You know you can talk to me if something is bothering you, right? That’s what friends are for.”

Leo’s gaze softens, and he smiles into his own coffee. His shoulders relax, and his fingers dance along the surface of the table. “You’re exactly right. I’m fine, hermosa. But thanks for checking in on me.” Sitting up straight, he places his arm along the back of his seat, and whether by mask or relaxation, he goes back to his usual self. You let him without protest, knowing more than most the need to change topics. “So, talk to me about that book you’ve been reading. Any good?”

You scoff. “Like you’d be interested in books.”

“I’m interested in books that make you gush about them for half an hour.”

“Rude, it was only like, fifteen. And it doesn’t have any pictures.”

“That’s fine. I’ve got crayons and hands. Get talking.”

After chatting with him for a couple of hours, you separate at the door and return home. It’s a complex emotion, what you feel as you reflect on the day.

You’d told John once that it felt, a little, like Leo was hiding things from you. You’re now sure of it; something is bothering him, but he refuses to tell you what.

“That’s… normal, right?” you ask the air of your entryway when you arrive home, toeing out of your shoes and slowly putting your things away. “It’s not like I tell him everything.”

Slowly, you lift your gaze and stare at your reflection in the mirror that hangs by the door. You’re you, as much as you ever are. Gliding your tongue along the roof of your mouth, you taste only coffee and croissant. The nightmare in your skin sleeps for now.

Around seven thirty, caught up half-watching a nature documentary about fish in the arctic circle, you realize that you are still, unusually, alone in your apartment. A little concerned, you grab your phone and check for messages. Nothing. Nibbling on your lip, you decide to take a bit of initiative, just in case.

sent (7:34 p.m.)
Are you still at the office?

John (7:35 p.m.)
I am.

sent (7:35 p.m.)
Okay. Just checking.

John (7:35 p.m.)
I didn’t realize it was so late. My apologies for worrying you. I’ll be a while yet.

sent (7:35 p.m.)
That’s fine. Would you like me to stop by and bring you some dinner?

John (7:35 p.m.)
What a kind, diligent wife I have. That would be perfect.

Your nose wrinkles in distaste; you can all but hear the condescending mocking in his response. Still, you offered and he said yes, so off you go. Texting him back a confirmation, you turn off the nature documentary you were half-watching and get dolled back up to go.

…You forgot to bring up this odd behavior with Leo today, you realize halfway to the little sandwich shop halfway between your apartment and the EPF building. So wrapped up in Leo’s odd behavior, you’d neglected John’s. Huffing out an annoyed sigh, you quicken your pace and hope the place is still open.

Fifteen minutes later, you walk into the EPF building. It’s as empty as a graveyard, as it always is this time of night. The front security waves you in with frigid eyes, the elevator quietly dings, and your heels make the same clacking sounds down the hallway.

John is at his desk when you arrive, scouring through a pile of paper about an inch thick. The artificial overhead light is off, leaving only the small warm lamp on his desk and the harsh fluorescents from the hall to illuminate his work. He doesn’t look up when you enter, though he does speak. “Kind of you to offer. I was actually just about to text you first. I hope you grabbed yourself some, as well?”

“I did,” you confirm. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to eat now or later.”

“Now is satisfactory,” he says, surprising you a little. Truthfully, you’d said it more as a bit of conversation rather than an actual option. “Let me tidy things up, and we can enjoy.”

You stare as he stacks his paperwork into various files, arranging them in his suitcase and snapping it shut. The idea of him eating in here is an anathema; crumbs seem an inevitability and are just shy of his bane.

Still, it was his idea, so, dutifully, you pull out the sandwiches from the bag and arrange them neatly on his desk. Quietly, you sit in one of the two chairs that sit before his desk, nibbling on your meal while trying to incorporate this newly allowed activity into your zeitgeist.

“Long day,” John says after a while, prompting you to look up.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It was partially by choice. I’m uninterested in keeping this investigation open longer than it already has been.”

Your eyes fall to his suitcase and you think back to the inch-wide compilation of information. It isn’t often that you really think about what John does for work. He goes to the office, deals with mutants and yokai, comes home. Unless you’re going with him to the laboratory in the basement for one of your checkups, it’s not really your business what he does to pay the bills. So you’ve always thought.

“Is it a tough one?” you ask, supposing that it’s a wifely duty to listen to him unburden his concerns once in a while.

“It is,” he confirms, taking a bite, chewing, swallowing, bringing his eyes to yours. “It was one your father asked me to take care of before he died.”

Your sandwich halts in midair, hovering for a moment in the ripples of his reveal. “…That has been a while, then,” you murmur, forcing yourself to resume your meal. It tastes suddenly like sawdust.

John makes a soft sound in his throat. “Truthfully, I wasn’t particularly interested in it. But one doesn’t tell him no and expect to get anywhere in the Force.”

An understatement if there ever was one, you think, throat getting a little tight with discomfort. “Was it one of the conditions?”

“No. Well, not officially,” John says, opening the drawer next to him and pulling out a packet of wipes. “It might as well have been, though.”

Mute, you pop the last bite of your sandwich into your mouth. You aren’t hungry anymore, the food barely going down, but you eat anyway. When John hands you his water bottle, you mutter a quiet thanks and take a sip, then dutifully wipe your hands clean when he hands you a wipe as well. You look, and notice his desk doesn’t have a single crumb on it. Thorough as always.

“We should go to that sandwich place more often,” John says, reaching up and hooking his finger in the knot of his tie. Your eyes snap to the motion, watching as he slowly slides it side to side, loosening the silk one heartbeat at a time. The edge of his jaw where his stubble is beginning to cast cuts sharply to his throat, bringing your eyes with it. Shadows pool in the dip of his collarbone, accentuating their flawless shape. When he speaks again, his Adam’s apple bobs in perfect tempo. “Don’t you agree, darling?”

“Yes,” you reflexively respond, hyperaware of the way his fingers then move to his wrists, twisting the cuff buttons loose, then neatly folding his sleeves up to his elbows. Your throat clicks on a swallow. Hopefully you’re just watching him dress down a bit.

The wish grows pale in the night sky as you watch him relax back into his office chair, his eyes finally meeting yours across his desk. The cold fire inside is unmistakable for any other. With a tip of his head, your stomach drops. You have a pretty good idea of how he’s imagining the rest of the night going.

“Come. Sit here,” he says, gesturing at his lap.

Standing, called to your master’s side like a dog, you notice out of the corner of your eye that the door is still open. Only after you obey his instructions does it really sink in that he isn’t going to do anything about it, when his fingers grip your thighs to pull you close, when his hips rise a little to meet your own, when he exhales slowly and pulls the skirt hem of your dress loose to your waist.

“John, the door,” you say, looking over to where the light cuts into the dim of his office like a blade.

“Is there,” John finishes, letting his fingers trail up your ribcage towards your breasts. “Ignore it. Focus on me. I’ve had a long day, and my lovely wife is here to make it all better.”

With firm fingers, he grips your jaw and pulls your mouth to his for a slow, deep kiss. Uninterested in fighting, you reciprocate, gliding your touch into his hair after plucking it free from his updo, savoring the silky ink caressing the whispered space between your fingers.

John breaks the kiss, licking his lips and staring headily at your mouth. “Belt,” he tells you, drawing your attention down to his lap. He’s still probably only half hard, but his head tips back when your fingers find the clasp and the metal clinks together. “That’s a good sound. The sound of me about to fuck you.”

Warmth blooms in your cheeks, and you hate the way your mouth waters a little. He’s doing it again; getting into that mood where he wants you to come. Something about the office, maybe, how it’s taboo or inappropriate. Maybe because you brought him food. A reciprocation of filling, perhaps. His stomach for your cunt. At least it’ll feel good if you let him have his way.

“Hold on,” you tell him, bringing your hand to your mouth and licking it wet. He’s never too crazy about that and has often called it disgusting, but you hardly expect him to have lube in his desk drawer next to his cleaning wipes.

John hisses when you free his cock, your wet palm stroking it with practiced firmness to get it hard. His grip falls to your ass, tightening and bruising as he rolls his hips into each caress. A conflicted path rises; it would be easy to ignore his plan and get him off quickly here. Maybe he’d get his fill of whatever degeneracy makes him want office sex, and you could go home without having to put out. But you know better; he’d just fuck you at home, too, and maybe then he wouldn’t be in the mood to make it good for you.

Graciously, he decides for you by snatching at your wrist. It’s a little tight and hurts, but not enough for you to make a noise about it. The same isn’t true for the press of his other palm beneath your dress.

“Look at you,” John meanly comments, teeth sharp in the dark around each word. Abashment makes your skin flare hot. “Rubbing off on my palm like that when I’ve barely touched you. Are you already wet?”

He asks, but before you can loosen your teeth to answer, his fingers trace along the edge of your pretty panty gusset and then pull it to the side and infiltrate in. The first few passes of his fingers are too soon for pure pleasure, but after a moment he gets you going enough that you start to get nice and slick for him.

“That’s a good girl,” he purrs, luxuriating your clit with purposeful pulls that slowly warm your blood and melt your muscles. You feel your hips moving against him, seeking more, and don’t bother trying to hold it back. Sexual pleasure is all you have, even if it makes your guts boil with shame to fuck the devil like a whore.

Tipping your head back, your eyes flutter shut as the pleasure rolls and rolls with each caress. Skull lolling onto your shoulder, your fingers tangle in his shirt, mouth parting on each soft little purr of pleasure, eyes fluttering open—

—just enough for you to see the shadow cast from the hallway door.

Your body stiffens. Shock, first. Someone is standing right outside John’s office. You’d been making noise. There’s no way they don’t know what’s going on. Your lips open, and you choke out—“John!”

“That’s it,” John bites, suddenly sinking his fingers deep, deep inside where your tongue ties in a knot and your spine goes to jelly. Your eyes blur, the protesting alarm tumbling out of your lungs on a broken cry of his name, hips grinding against your will deeper into the sensation.

Unclenching your jaw, you tug on his shirt and try again in a hiss. “John!”

“Needy thing, always wanting more,” John retorts again. You start to protest, to push him away, to whisper the fact that someone is fucking listening to the two of you having sex in his office—only for your mouth to snap shut when the shadow shifts and you recognize the shape.

…It’s Leo, you identify in disbelief, seeing the shape of his shell, the jut of a sword on one side. Leo is there, in the hallway, has been for long enough to know exactly what’s happening in here, and he hasn’t moved.

Your face snaps back forward, heart suddenly racing in your chest. He isn’t moving. Why isn’t he moving? Why hasn’t he absconded away? He’s quiet enough that you would have never known. He’s smart enough to know it.

An alien feeling boils into your blood, evaporating it to crimson steam in your veins. Mouth parting, tongue suddenly heavy in your mouth, everything feels recontextualized. You and John aren’t alone. You don’t focus on the way it feels for him to be fingering you; you focus on what Leo’s face might be doing, why he’s standing there, listening to the way you can’t keep the noises in with your husband up to his knuckles in your cunt.

“Please,” you gasp, eyes closed, speaking words to one but meaning them, deeply, darkly, secretly, for another in a way that makes your very soul tremble. “Please. Want… Want you inside.”

You wonder what Leo would do if you told that to him. What he’d say, what he’d do. If he’d laugh like John does, pulling his fingers out and using the slick mess to lubricate his cock, or if he’d stay in a little longer, tease you more, have fun with it.

Body going pliant, pressing close, you turn your head so you can stare at Leo’s shadow on the floor. Fingers pull your panties to the side, open you up, guide you down onto a familiar cock, sliding in and parting you just the way you expect. Yet it feels different, somehow, bringing you to tangle your fingers in John’s hair to pull his face into your neck, hiding the shadow from your husband’s awareness, eyes locking on the way Leo’s fingers curl into a fist the moment you moan from how full you are.

He knows you’re getting fucked. He isn’t moving.

God. His hands. They’d feel amazing on you. He’d be so good, you think desperately, boring a hole into the floor for how hard you stare at his shadow’s outline. The sound of sex fills your ears in an entirely rhapsodic manner now, knowing that Leo’s there, listening to the sound of slapping skin, of each bitten grunt from John, each whimpering keen from you, the squeak of the chair, the ruffle of clothes. What must he be picturing? Your face, caught in pleasure, barely able to breathe for how dizzy you suddenly feel?

“Gonna come,” you breathe, sooner than usual, telling Leo, telling John, biting down hard on your lips as you whine from the impending tsunami about to drown you and erase you all over again. “Gonna come, gonna come, nggh…!”

John’s thrusts get a little deeper, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it hard. The orgasm hits you like a freight train, harder than any you can remember, a true release that shatters and steals a piece of you into the wind. You can feel your mouth making noise but are powerless to stop it, pinned to the outline of Leo’s shadow where it blurs in the tears that catch in your lashes. You can only hope to every atom inside of you that it isn’t Leo’s name tumbling to nonsense.

A few sloppy thrusts later, John finishes as well. Ignoring the familiar sensation of semen flittering in, you quiver against him, shimmering in your skin and studying the stone-still outline of your friend in the carpet. You watch his fingers claw, raise to his mouth, watch him disappear without a sound like he wasn’t even there.

He… He definitely was, though, you think, slowly peeling yourself off of John’s chest and looking at him. His hair is askew, fucked up from where you’d gripped it like reins and rode him hard. Clothes are equally mussed for the both of you, and the stench of sex is heavy in the air.

Mortification hits and tastes like bile in your throat. Something awful has happened now. It was one thing, before, when you’d briefly thought of Leo that one time in passing. This time was completely different. You’d fucked your husband while thinking of another man, fantasizing about him openly. No matter the circumstances, there was nothing normal about that, nothing that could be explained as you not knowing the boundaries of friendship. What would Leo think if he knew? That you’d had sexual thoughts about a him, a friend, just a friend, someone who can only ever be a friend?

You came just thinking about another man. You’ve crossed a line.

“Fuck that was good,” John hisses, reaching up and fully removing his tie. He’s covered in a thin layer of sweat, his cheeks flushed with exertion. Glazed eyes meet yours, and with two fingers he grips your chin to keep your gaze locked with his. He hasn’t looked once to the door, only to the clock at the corner of his desk. “Wife. I do believe that was some of the most spectacular sex we’ve had. Perfectly performed. Shall we get cleaned up and go home?”

Guilt contorts your guts into a gordian knot. You give him a wobbly smile and agree.

You wait for the hammer to come down, for karma to punish you for the transgression of thinking about Leo’s hands while John’s cock was tickling your guts.

If he notices anything off, though, he says nothing. Every day passes, placid as the rest, for the two weeks that it takes your guilt to subside enough that you don’t feel nauseous every time he fucks you in your bed. There might have even been a world where you forgot all about it.

It had been a slow, lazy day today; John hadn’t gone into work, and the two of you had lounged in the apartment reading and doing chores around the place. It was then, taking in the state of the kitchen and its gleaming perfection, when John had turned to you, grabbed your chin, and told you to dress pretty for him.

“How?” you asked, looking to understand the scope of his directive.

“For dinner. Special treat.”

…That means you’ll need to put on a show, you think, nodding and disappearing into the bedroom to prepare. It takes a while to paint on your delicate porcelain mask, beautiful and his to break as he pleases.

The evening is luxurious. Silken tablecloths, expensive wine, course after course of decadence that scintillates even as it unnerves you. It isn’t uncommon that John frequents these places, but it’s usually for a purpose. Speaking with a contact, celebrating something, rubbing elbows with someone looking to donate to the EPF.

You gaze at him through your eyelashes studiously when he isn’t looking. He hasn’t made any hints that any of that is the case for tonight. He isn’t even making a show of holding your hand or presenting you to the others like a prize. He’s been… perfectly pleasant. Normal, even, as much as you can imagine normal being. The thought makes your skin crawl. It’s like standing in the mudflats, watching the tide water recede, knowing a destructive wave is soon to follow in its quiet wake.

Demure even until the valet returns with his car, you wait for the other shoe to drop. Sliding in to the expensive leather, buckling your seat belt as he rounds the car, glancing at him before turning your gaze to the traffic like you’re analyzing it and not him.

“That was a lovely dinner, don’t you think?” he asks once he’s settled in and driving, bringing you to rest your hands neutrally on your lap.

“It was,” you agree, seeing your opening. “What was the occasion?”

“Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about,” he responds, reaching over to fiddle with the air controls. The finality of his tone seals the conversation in an envelope, and you make an affirmative noise, turning your face to gaze at the city lights and suppose you’ll find out soon enough.

Once back home, you pause in the entrance to remove the strapped heels you’d worn. They hang in your hand, hooked on your pointer finger, when the moment finally comes.

“I’ve been thinking,” John starts, interrupting your mellow mood, your trip to the bedroom to undress and turn in for the night.

“…About?” you prompt when he doesn’t continue, turning your head and watching him fold his suit jacket neatly and drape it over one arm.

“Leave the light off. …Lots of things,” he says ambiguously after stopping where you were reaching for the light switch, stirring a pit of frustration in the back of your throat. You swallow it; better ambiguous than antagonistic. “Shall we have one last drink before bed?”

“Sure,” you agree, thinking he means water until he pads over to the wet bar and starts grabbing at the liquor. He pours you a finger’s worth of cognac into a brandy glass, beckoning you closer and pressing it to your palm. You stare at it a little helplessly for a moment until he laughs, taking it back after putting the bottle away and downing it in a single toss of his head.

“You misunderstood. That one was for me while I got you something else,” he says, causing your shoulders to relax a bit—at least until his hand reaches out, caressing soft lines along your exposed skin the opulent evening gown you’re wearing blooms like it knows it’s his property. “You have such soft skin. Have I ever told you that?”

He has, usually in front of others whom he wants to humiliate. There’s no one else here tonight. “A few times.”

John hums, tracing his fingers up to your nape, pressing in at sensitive skin. When he speaks again, he says something you’ve known to be true but never expected him to put to words. “I love putting you on display. Art is meant for consumption, after all. And it’s so entertaining, watching all those people gaze at you with envy in their eyes. Women, wishing they could be you. Men, wishing they could fuck you. It’s my favorite game.”

You swallow, feeling a bit like a rabbit before a wolf who has already eaten, unsure of his intentions, what role you’re meant to play. “…I’ve noticed.”

“Of course you have. Clever little thing,” he says, stepping forward, pressing his body to yours from toe to cheek from behind, encasing you in against the counter and ensconcing you in his heat. His lips trail along your neck, and when he suddenly smiles, it feels like a dagger to your throat. “I’m sure you’ve noticed the way Leonardo looks at you, too.”

Your body goes still. Your throat feels hot and cold, tight, vibrating with tension that makes you quake.

If he notices—has has to, he’s all but buried beneath your skin—John ignores your reaction. He tilts his head, sinking his teeth into the lobe of your ear, flicking it once with his tongue before he pulls away just enough to whisper into it. “The dark is such a lovely place for fantasies. I know what he wants. What about you? Do you wonder, wife? What it would feel like to be caught beneath that shell? Grabbed by those big hands, pinned down, rutted into like a beast?”

Your hands snatch to the counter, humiliation and something else stirring in your stomach hot as fire. Your teeth clench and you try to cut whatever sick game this is off. “John, that’s—”

“I wonder how he’d touch you. If he’d even know how to handle something as soft as this.” His hands skim up your biceps, shaking where little goosebumps rise. “He’s clever, too. He’d probably learn quickly how you like it when your nipples get some attention. Do you think he’d be agile enough to try his claws on them, or would he worry about breaking you?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, but the poison of his words remains. You’re dizzy; from the whiplash, the terror, the lust from the image he’s clawing into your mind without consent. God, you—you do think he’d learn. Leo would learn you in a minute, find every piece of you that feels good, the best ways to pinch and bend and stroke. He’s so good, so good, of course he would. His skin, rough and cool, would feel so good against yours. His shell hard, secure, keeping you safe while he unwound you one pluck of his fingers at a time.

“I wonder what his cock is like,” John presses into your pulse, grinning callously when you can’t help the high-pitched warble that escapes from your trembling lungs. “Picture it with me, wife. Maybe it’s thick enough that it’ll hurt going in. Long enough that he won’t fit it all. Something inhuman that twists and burns and and presses.”

His hand slides in the thigh slit of your dress, gripping the meat of your leg and squeezing it hard, forcing your knees to part.

“J… John…!” you plea, feeling your eyes burn, wanting this inhuman torture of him dangling something impossible before you to end.

“I know you’ve thought about it,” John purrs into your skin, just as his fingers caress where you’re unable to hide exactly what his cruel line of thought has done to you. Almost sweetly, over the fine cotton, like he thinks it’s cute you’re getting wet thinking about Leo doing all of this to you and not him. “Letting a mutant fuck you like a rutting beast. Or maybe he’d be all sweet and tender. Pretending to make love like something that wants to be human. Which would you prefer?”

A line snaps in your chest. “Please, stop,” you finally manage, half-sobbing, overstimulated, aroused, horrified.

Surprising you, he does. With one last amused chuckle, John turns his face to yours and brushes a soft kiss to your trembling lips. It tastes of rich alcohol and hell. “I see you’re in no mood to play tonight. Shame. I was looking forward to some fun. Go ahead off to bed. I’ll bring you your glass of water there.”

Peeling away from you, John wanders into the kitchen. You don’t hesitate, turning towards the bedroom and resisting the urge to snap the door shut between you. Instead you settle for changing quickly, washing your face, brushing your teeth, and climbing into bed with your back to his side.

…You’re still wet, you think with horror, rubbing your thighs together and feeling the hollow empty inside. Wanting not John, but Leo to fill it. Unable not to think of it, now that John’s opened that door, shown you the fantasy you’ve tried so, so hard not to see.

It was probably inevitable that you’d feel this way. Leo’s handsome, and kind, and so, so good it hurts. He was never going to be just a friend, not when he treated you like—like a person. You were always going to want something impossible with him.

A little bird, trapped in a gilded cage, hung beside a window to blue skies and endless sunshine, you muse, closing your eyes when you hear John enter and place the glass of water on your bedside table.

The next morning, it’s like it didn’t happen. John is exactly himself, making you the perfect espresso, dipping in to drop a quick kiss to your waiting lips before heading off to work, leaving you alone to wallow.

…Is this hell really worth it, you despair, staring at the breakfast dishes as the empty abyss grows wider in your heart.

As if sensing, reaching through some unseen aether and finding the ripples of your desolation, your phone vibrates with a text from Leo. You stare at his name for a moment, disassociated, hollow, before you pin the maw shut once more and pretend you’re human again.

Leo (8:02 a.m.)
hey, you up?

sent (8:02 a.m.)
I am. What’s up with you?

Leo (8:02 a.m.)
aweeeesome. hey, i’ve got someone i want you to meet today. i think you’ll get along well with him but i wanted to give you a heads up in case that’s too much

sent (8:03 a.m.)
That’s very kind of you. Is this a friend of yours?

Leo (8:03 a.m.)
that’s complicated. he’s part of the family though

sent (8:03 a.m.)
If you trust him, I trust him. When do you want to meet?

Leo (8:03 a.m.)
let’s do lunch. if i come home one more time with sandwich breath without sharing i think he’ll kill me

sent (8:03 a.m.)
LOL sounds good!

Lunch gives you enough time to panic a little about seeing him again after what happened last night with your husband, while also having plenty of time to pull together a pretty picnic spread. You maybe put a little more effort into it than usual, wanting to put a good impression forward since you’re meeting someone new, and end on the conclusion that you maybe kind of overdid it but, like, in a chill way. Totally.

What you see when you arrive in the park is not at all what you expect. You were thinking—family, mutant, probably turtle. Instead you see a perfectly normal human man, not too far from your own age yet somehow looking up to Leo like a father. No—a dad, you correct, a strange kind of envy bubbling up in your gut that you don’t understand.

“There’s my girl,” Leo calls, waving you over and gesturing. “This is Casey Jr.” Turning towards him, Leo tilts his head in a meaningful way towards you that you don’t understand.

“Nice to meet you,” you greet, ignoring the odd behavior. “Do you have any food allergies?”

“I grew up eating rats, so I’m probably good,” Casey jokes after shaking his head subtly at Leo, elegantly dodging a smack to the back of his head. “It’s nice to meet you, too! Sensei talks about you a lot.”

“Does he, now,” you say, tangling your fingers together. Nope, no, not thinking about it, not even when Casey gets a devious grin and Leo looks a bit like he’s eaten bag fugu.

…Sensei. Okay, so, maybe not dad, but something more akin to a role model, you wonder as you open the basket and display the spread. Two sets of eyes glitter like stars behind you, and for a few moments, the only sounds are the cityscape and the quaking ducks—until Leo bites into one of the fancier treats and moans.

It’s a perfectly reasonable reaction to good food, you remind yourself tersely, a little mortified at how your blood flares hot at the sound. Except then his head rolls around on his shoulders, and he gives you a look a bit like you’re shining, and you can’t help but remember all the things John whispered into your ear about Leo’s cock.

“Hermosa, this is—” Leo manages through a mouthful, not even bothering with manners.

“Sensei, that’s disgusting,” Casey says, wrinkling his nose.

“What’s disgusting is how good this is,” Leo quips, swallowing and putting his fingers in his mouth. You stare at the action, ensorcelled at the sight of his tongue slowly lapping at the pads, until you snap your attention to your hands in your lap and hope you’re not floating a few inches off the ground. Oh, fuck. Now you have a mental image of his tongue to add to this hellish existence. You’ll never be free.

“I’m so glad,” you respond between gnashing teeth, hoping that you don’t sound as fraught to his hearing as you do to your own.

“…Yeah, it’s pretty fucking good,” Casey agrees, nearly choking when Leo chops him firmly on the skull.

“Watch your language, kid. I didn’t raise you to speak like that.”

“You did, actually,” Casey drawls, making your eyes narrow a little and make you lean back more towards the “dad” side of the pendulum.

“Truth is, I brought him here for a reason,” Leo says after polishing off another sandwich. You straighten your spine a bit, wondering if you’re about to get some context on that mysterious look they shared at the beginning.

“Oh?”

“It’s adorable. Prepare yourself,” Leo says, pressing the back of his wrist to his forehead. “Go ahead, Junior. Just like we practiced.”

Casey’s cheeks go a cute shade of pink. “Leo mentioned you were married, and, well. I’m wanting to propose to my girlfriend, but I’m… not really sure… what… how… I mean, I was wondering if you could… Not to say that it would be a perfect guarantee or anything, but—I mean, you know…”

“Kid’s a mess,” Leo explains with a fond smile when Casey seems unable to do so himself, flapping his hand and looking at you like he wants you to share in the joke. “He heard you were hitched and wanted to pick your brain for April’s side of things.”

Casey leans in. “April being my girlfriend, of course—”

Leo leans in further. “And my sister—”

“Please stop doing that, Sensei.”

“It’s only weird if you make it weird, bro.”

You remain mute for a moment as the two of them go back and forth, feeling a bit more withdrawn than you’ve been around Leo in a while. Swallowing, you carefully weigh exactly how much you can share to answer questions without generating too many.

“I’m afraid I probably won’t be of much help,” you say, silencing the two into paying attention to you. “The proposal itself was clinical, more of a formality, really. My marriage was arranged. My father and John worked it out and I just signed the papers when the time came.”

“Arranged?” Casey repeats, sounding surprised. “People still do that? Did you at least get a chance to talk about it?”

Your gaze slides off to the side. He asks you the question you have asked yourself many, many times.

The faceless fog from before Krang stole your memories stands sentinel between you and any kind of righteous anger at your situation. So many times in the dark of night you dreamed of hissing a curse at your husband, only for his slow, smirking, unspoken are you sure that’s what happened? to haunt you.

He doesn’t gaslight you on purpose; he doesn’t have to. She does it well enough for him.

Was there a time when you would have said yes to John? Had it been your idea to bring to your father? Did you love him, really, once? How had you felt, without the noose pressing into your throat every minute as John Bishop’s anchor?

“…I’ve come to accept it,” you say instead, because it’s true that any fight you’ve had about your situation was strangled—literally—out of you years ago. A bird whose wings have atrophied, whose pretty songs are but false memories of the sky it no longer even remembers. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more assistance. I’m happy to answer outside of my own experience, though, if that would help.”

“I’d hate to push if it’s something sensitive,” Casey says, a hesitant and sad expression on his face, almost like he regrets bringing it up at all. He looks like a kicked puppy, and you almost wish you’d weaved some magical lie, just for him, so you could see those stars in his eyes once again. But that would hardly be feasible, cruel even, and you are a terrible liar on the best of days.

Leo cuts in then, slicing through the awkward haze in your heart as effectively as if he’d used one of his blades. “You say it’s good, it’s good. You can talk to us about whatever you decide you’re comfortable with. Only what you’re comfortable with. It’s your decision. Mega cum laude, remember?”

It hits you hard, here: warm in the sun, mouth tasting the sweet lingering cucumber, toes curling in the patch blanket beneath you, listening to Casey ask Leo what the fuck he’s talking about “mega cum laude”—it really sinks in who Leo is, who he demands himself to be for you.

Feeling your eyes go wide, you hear finally what he’s been saying all along: that he is, to you, whatever you decide for him to be.

You. Not John, not Leo, you.

It’s… thrilling. Intoxicating. Terrifying. Rapturous, all at once, filling your lungs with so much air you can’t breathe around the sunshine atmosphere that has bloomed inside. Cotton-candy sweet, your blood rushes and heats your skin, every inch of your body tingling with an awareness that you’re alive and here and seen in the eyes of the other. It’s so completely the opposite of the feeling you’d had at the breakfast table, you almost feel dizzy with it.

You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth. It tastes like sandwiches.

The next day, you float from task to task. More of a poltergeist than a person, spilling your coffee, stubbing your toe, drooling your toothpaste out of the corner of your mouth while staring vacantly at your expression in the mirror.

It haunts you, this freedom Leo has given you. You… don’t really know what to do with it.

It’s when you get a text from John that you realize that you haven’t even really consciously spoken to him today. He’s been paper mache in your backdrop, acting little more than an ensemble filling in the space that you know can’t stand empty. Only the dual coffee cups at the sink let you know that yes, he was definitely in the kitchen this morning, connected enough to you to make you a drink.

John (2:53 p.m.)
Come to the office tonight. Seven fifteen. I need your assistance with a project I’m working on.

sent (2:53 p.m.)
Okay. See you then.

You respond easily enough, but truthfully the words sit like bile in your gut. There’s only one “project” involving you that John has his hands in.

Reflexively, you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth. You check your reflection. For now, you’re still you, still alone.

He didn’t mention dinner, and you don’t have enough of an appetite to ask after it when the time comes. You’ll just play ignorant if he brings it up, then force down whatever takeout he decides to get on the way back to the apartment.

Like it always is after hours, the EPF building is creepy and stands alone. The night guard, aloof as ever, monitors your advance to the elevator until you’re alone inside. Staring at the numbers climb, you shift uneasily in your shoes. Discomfort pulls on the ties in your guts like puppeteer fingers.

Perhaps it’s because you aren’t wearing heels tonight, but you catch a conversation trickling out of John’s open office door as you approach. Odd; there’s never anyone else here this time of night. Politely, you pause outside the door to let them finish whatever business is going on—

—only for you to pause when you recognize Leo’s voice when you come to a stop.

“…not what I’d expect from you,” he says. This isn’t the Leo that you know; it’s the Leo who speaks to John—to Bishop—with the confidence of someone who knows he’s speaking with an equal. Colder than the warm sun you’ve come to know. This isn’t Leo; this is Leonardo Hamato.

“Nor I,” John’s response comes, and his voice too is different than one you know. It’s… contemptuous, you think, unsure of the boundaries of the guess but certain in its ballpark. Not John; Agent Bishop of the EPF. “But I’ve been quietly interviewing you, and I think you’re the perfect fit for the job. In fact, I’m confident no other will do.”

Leo scoffs. “I’m a little old for flattery to help your case here, Bishop. What’s the project?”

“Oh, it’s not flattery,” John quickly corrects. You hear the squeak of his chair and wonder if he’s sitting down or standing up. “Trust me, I’m more than annoyed you’re the prime choice. But I am also aware of my own limits.”

“Unlike you to be so modest, too.”

“On the contrary, I am as self-assured as ever. I can, in fact, guarantee that you will want to be involved the moment you hear the proposition.”

The sound of skin on skin. Adjusting posture, maybe. “Whatever. Let’s hear it then. I’ve got bigger fish to fry tonight.”

“We’ll see about that,” John says, amusement like a bell in his voice. Then, startling you, his voice changes arc, and you know it’s now directed at you. “Come on in, darling.”

Caught, hoping you haven’t heard anything you weren’t supposed to, you slowly step into John’s office. With a glance to Leo, you smile and give him a little wave that he doesn’t return, though his face softens all the same.

“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting,” you say, glancing at the clock John keeps on his desk. You can’t quite see it from this angle, but you’ve never miscalculated the distance from the apartment before. “You did say seven fifteen, right?”

“I did,” John agrees, beckoning you closer. “And you aren’t interrupting. In fact, you are the star of the evening.”

Your skin crawls, but you obediently step closer. Throat tight, you try to ignore the very real possibility that your worst nightmare is about to come true: that John is going to tell Leo about your situation, and he’ll never look at you the same. How can he, when he of every person in the world knows exactly what kind of monster you can be?

“Relax,” John coos, voice sugary and soft. He reaches out and wraps his fingers around your wrist, tugging you closer than you’d come. “What time is it?”

Eyes falling to the clock, you read it. “Seven thirteen.”

“See? Two minutes early. A diligent wife, coming exactly when I tell you to.” His thumb presses into your pulse at your wrist, and he pulls at you again. You’re close enough now to see your reflection in the whites of his eyes; closer than you’d stand in front of someone in polite company. “A good wife, with pretty eyes and soft skin to go with that clever mind. I don’t reward you enough for all your efforts, do I?”

So he says, but the way his fingers skim up your arms to your throat feels more like a punishment. Hyperaware of the heavy stare on the side of your head, you freeze, paralyzed, sure that what you think is happening can’t really be what’s happening. Even as John pulls you the one little bit closer, boxing you in at his desk, you stand mute in disbelief.

And then he kisses you, quick little brushes that deepen along with the ghost of his palms on your shoulders, down your biceps, squeezing and crowding in even closer, close enough that his body heat collides with your own.

Your breath hitches, and over your shoulder you hear a tense voice. “What are you doing?”

“I told you,” John replies to Leo’s tight question. His lips brush against your own as he speaks, as he clenches your tits and bites on the edge of your jaw, then plants a hum in your ear. “I need your help with a project.”

Leo makes a choked sound. “This—This can’t be what you meant.”

John’s hand cradles your cheek to tilt your head, his eyes sharp over your shoulder. “Does it change your mind for me to say yes?”

A click echoes in your ear. Leo’s jaw snapping shut. John barks a cruel laugh, and his hands grip your thighs to part your knees and make room. The catch of your skirt on his wrists is enough to jump start your brain, your hands snatching to his shirt and knotting in the fine fabric. “John, you—you can’t be serious right now. This is—”

Pulling back, straightening his spine, staring down at you, John slowly tilts his head.

“Leonardo,” he says at last, “is free to leave if he wants.” Then, with an iron grip, his fingers find your hips and turn you in place, pressing you into his desk until its edge cuts into the meat of your thighs. Head to toe, he covers you, mouth finding your ear from behind as he whispers his poison. “Watch.”

Lifting your gaze, you stare at Leo with your heart thundering in your throat. His are wide, focused entirely on you with an intensity that feels like the gravity of a planet. Every muscle in his body is tight to the point of sculpture, until, slowly, like he can’t believe he isn’t in a dream, he sinks into the chair at his back.

“See,” John coos devilishly into your ear even as you feel a little like you’ve swallowed a sun. His hands find the hem of your shirt and caress up to your tits, squeezing them again with more intent. Your cunt squeezes at the way Leo’s eyes magnetize to your chest, his pupils dilating and blotting out the light. “We’re all on board here.”

“She didn’t agree to it,” Leo bites, his jaw barely moving. “I’m not going to get involved without hearing it’s okay.”

“It isn’t cheating if I’m telling her to do it, now is it?” John asks.

Leo’s face darkens. “Not your permission. Hers. She has to decide. Not you.”

John sighs and leans back, one hand dropping to slide up your skirt while the other palms the space between your shoulder blades. “Leonardo, I’ve known my wife for a long, long time. Inside,” he says, fingers dipping beneath your panties to where you’re embarrassingly soaked and whining at the barest touch, “and out. More of her than you can even imagine.”

Your teeth sink into your lower lip, embarrassment and arousal winding so tightly together you can’t even begin to pull them apart. Your palms press heavily on John’s desk, fighting a losing war to keep yourself upright, squeezing your eyes shut in the hopes that pretending Leo isn’t there will keep you from coming the moment John touches your clit, that you won’t moan Leo’s name even with John’s fingers doing the work.

Metal clinks in your ear. “The body has a way of saying yes,” John hisses, shoving hard at your back and forcing you to bend and present on his desk, “and she is all but screaming it. But if you’re so insistent, you can just sit there and observe for now.”

Gaze blurry, so turned on you’re pretty sure you’re going to die, you lock eyes with Leo and watch the way his body reacts to the sight and sound of John’s cock sliding inside. He looks starved, hands tight on the arms of the chair so much that you can hear the wood creak, nostrils flaring and teeth bared. God, fuck, you wonder if he can smell it, if the way his jaw is moving is his tongue working inside his mouth like he’s thinking about using it on you. Just the thought makes you moan, nails scrambling along the smooth wood of John’s desk to try and find leverage against each of his hard, rough, soaked thrusts.

Struck stupid by Leo’s hunger, you give in like you never have before. Your entire body melts into the dual sensation of John fucking you and Leo’s stare, unable to look away from the way he’s all but screaming for you not to. Each slap of John’s hips against your own fucks a humiliating noise out of you, but you don’t even care, spellbound by the way Leo’s looking at you like you’re a thing to be worshiped, a treasure to be seen upon a pedestal.

The office echoes with the sounds of sex. You’re faintly aware of just how wet you are, soaking the backs of your thighs like you never have before. Skin on skin percusses the air in perfect tempo to the rush of blood in your ears, boiling and skinning you alive. Your body wants you to curl into the wood, to arch and meet and meld, but every cell in your body fixates instead on Leonardo and the way his teeth clench a little harder each time you breathe.

When John suddenly halts in his foray, you actually protest, arching your back, angling and trying to keep him inside. He wheezes and laughs, a bit of the wild madness he gets when you fight him coating his jagged voice when he speaks. “Oh, Leonardo, to describe my wife’s beautiful cunt to you. I know you can hear it, but, oh. You’ve felt nothing like it. Tight. So hot. She squeezes when you touch her clit just so. Nothing in the world feels quite like fucking her. You wish I would let you do it. Let a mutant touch here, where she’s soft and hot like summer-made silk.”

Nails drag along your ass, and a mean finger glides around your clit to prove his point. Your forehead kneads into the wood of the desk as you finally contort into it, sweaty and sticky and burning with the need to see Leo see you come. Stroke after stroke, deeper and slower now, John winds you up further, coiling you into a spring held in place only by the teeth gouging your lower lip.

When John pulls his finger away, you whimper a most contemptible, pathetic mewl. “I did promise you a treat, didn’t I, darling?” he asks you, grinding his cock in, massaging the heft of his sack between your thighs. “Answer me.”

“Y-Yes,” you breathe, mouth open on a pant. You can barely get air in your lungs, let alone use it to speak. “You did.”

“Ask Leonardo if he wants to touch you.”

It wasn’t a request; you don’t want it to be one.

“L…L—Leo, d—!” you try, starving for it, but John starts slowly working his cock in and out in a maddening pace that, when met with the blackness of Leo’s eyes, gags the very air once more from your lungs. “Do—D-Do you—”

“Yes,” Leo chokes out, fingers curling into claws that splinter the wood of John’s fine chair. Euphoria, incandescent, bubbles in your veins. He wants to touch you.

“Ah, see? You wondered if he did, and now you know,” John purrs at you. Then, to Leo, he says, “My wife wishes for you to touch her. Disgusting. But a promise is a promise. I will allow the use of one hand.”

As soon as the sentence is out, he starts fucking you in earnest again. You wail into the wood, so fucking close to coming you’re sick with it, only for a gentle pressure to find its way to your nape. Cool, rough skin caresses the skin just beneath your ear, tracing a bead of sweat, thumbing adoringly at the shell of your ear.

“Look at me? Please,” Leo breathes, a request you’re too eager to fulfill.

He looks wrecked. Adoring, face close enough for you to feel his heavy breath on your mouth. Sobbing, you snatch a hand to his wrist, holding his in place, burning with the agony of having him close enough to kiss.

“Watch me come?” you gasp out. Leo nods and nods and nods.

His claw catches your soft skin. Just a hint of a press of something sharp, without any of the fear that comes with it. Somehow that’s the feeling you carry with you as you break, as you shatter like you did the last time you knew Leo was watching.

Ecstasy like nothing you can even comprehend scatters along every nerve edge, centered on the weight of his palm on your sweaty skin, the murmur of his praise in your ears. You turn your face into his wrist, quaking like you’ve been tased, thoughts dyed a brilliant blue.

It takes you longer than usual to come down from the high. Long enough that you mutely feel John ejaculate into you, long enough that your skin feels shimmery like starlight. Through it all, Leo’s gentle hand strokes your neck, caressing your jaw with the backs of his fingers, tracing every plane of your face as if to memorize it.

…He’s shaking, you realize at last. Blinking through the post-orgasm haze, you turn your face to his palm and bring it to your mouth, kissing it a little drunkenly. Once, twice, a few more times, then once with a slow promise of your tongue along a crease of skin when he doesn’t pull away. The shaking only gets worse. A visceral desire cuts like a knife; to pull his fingers into your mouth, lathing them with your tongue until your drool drips from your chin and he licks it clean. Just the fantasy of it makes you moan, makes you clench around your husband where he swears under his breath.

John pulls out. You feel his come bead down the back of your thigh, though his finger is quick to catch it and press it back inside. A familiar ritual. When he speaks, it’s with a dark chocolate voice of a man knuckle-deep inside abused flesh. “Leonardo. You look tense. You’re welcome to take care of yourself here. I’m sure my wife would love to watch.”

Your stomach dips and your mouth goes dry. God, you want nothing more, you think, wondering if Leo can see as much on your face for how obviously it must be written there.

Leo looks at you with carnivorous eyes, then over your shoulder to John. His jaw works hard on a clench, and then he answers with a tone too easy for the steel in his skin, for the way he’d just been quivering beneath your touch like but a glance would cut him free. “Nah. I’ll wait until she can do it for me.”

John barks an haughty laugh. “And what makes you think that’ll ever happen?”

Leo turns his hungry gaze back to you, skimming his thumb along your lower lip in a sweet caress. “You’re not the only asshole who knows he’s right.”

John laughs again, though this time it’s a bit closer to something modeling genuine humor than before, twisted though it may be. Quickly enough, he settles, and you hear the unmistakable sound of his belt. “Well, that’s certainly enough of a down payment for now from you. Leave. I need to clean up my wife and get her some food. We’ll discuss our …project in more detail going forward.”

With a tap of his thumb on your mouth like a kiss, Leo gives you one last look before he stands. A swing of his sword more waltz than war calls forth a kaleidoscope of blue magic, swirling and sparkling like a jewel. He steps into it, and with a zip in space, he’s gone.

Something cold and wet glides along the back of your thighs, and you grimace. Jesus, you made a fucking mess. Pushing up your torso with jellied arms, you look over your shoulder and see John looking more unkempt than usual. You’re quite sure you’re a fucked-out, knackered mess yourself, but you can’t help the unimpressed look. “What the fuck was that all about?”

John delicately returns your clothing, smoothing his hand over everything to remove whatever wrinkles displease him. “The beginning of something very interesting,” he muses, his tone telling you there’s more to it than what he’s deigning to tell you now. “I imagine you’re famished after that. Let’s get some food and head home.”

“Yeah. Okay,” you agree, raising your hand to rest on your nape where it still tingles.

Truthfully, you fully expect things to get awkward with Leo going forward. You’re certainly out of your element, staring at your phone for the next few days, wondering if you should text him or if you should wait for him to reach out.

Leo, good, always so good, can’t resist sending you shitposts for long. Then come the invitation for a sweet treat, and you’re helpless to do anything but agree immediately. So you agree to meet him at a bakery, and you have exactly five minutes upon arrival to wonder if it’s going to be awkward before he fixes it all.

“I knew you had cake but damn,” Leo says as soon as the waitress leaves your table to drop off your slice, causing you to blink owlishly at him and then burst into semi-hysterical laughter. Yeah, things are gonna be fine.

“Thanks, I needed that,” you tell him once you’ve caught your breath.

Across from you, Leo grins, but then his face falls a little more neutrally and he studies you. “…Has that ever happened before?”

“A cake joke?” you ask, smiling because absolutely not, no one has ever flirted so openly with John Bishop’s wife.

“No. The… What happened the other night.”

“Oh,” you say, fidgeting a bit in your seat. Just thinking about it makes a small coal of heat kindle in your gut. “No. I was totally shocked. John has always liked using me as a kind of… I don’t know, trophy? I guess? But it’s never been something like that before.”

It’s also a little shocking that John himself hasn’t acted like anything’s different, though you don’t exactly know how to get into that can of worms with Leo. You’d been half-convinced John would start limiting how often you go spend time with him, or at least redefine parameters on your friendship.

More importantly, though, you confess, “I… I was more surprised you were into it.”

Leo snickers around a mouthful of cake. “Not my first threesome.”

You blink. Leo being a slut was definitely not on your bingo board. “What, really?”

“I was a bit wild in my youth,” he admits, propping his elbow up on the table. His thumb swipes at the corner of his mouth to catch some icing, his eyes getting a touch of the edge that you recognize, now, as arousal. “Did some experimenting. Kind of comes with the territory when you’re bi in the city and have a mating season.”

That makes you snort into your coffee with fond humor. “I see. I told John you probably liked anything with tits in a dress. My mistake. Should have said anyone, huh?”

Defying your expectations once again, like always, Leo’s face softens and he gifts you with an easy smile. “Nah. Just you.” Your bite hovers in the air, slowly lowering back down to the plate as you stare at him with surprise, but Leo doesn’t take it back; if anything he softens even further, reaching out with his napkin to wipe gently at your cheek. “Yeah. I just like you.”

It isn’t cheating if I tell her to. The words echo in your ears with each harried thrum of your pounding pulse, the way they have since you first got a moment alone in the shower at home last night. Sex is one thing. This, this knot you feel in your stomach, is something else. Something that hasn’t been on the table, any table, your entire life.

Swallowing thickly around the nova in your throat, you meet his gaze with a cautious, hesitant strength. “…I don’t know if John would allow it,” you tell him, so, so afraid of letting yourself want like this.

“He fucked you in front of me,” Leo reminds you, like you hadn’t been there, like you hadn’t felt the stretch of your husband’s cock but come because of Leo’s hand. “I’ve all but been invited in.”

“That’s… true,” you respond, taking one step closer to the cliff. An ocean stretches before you; deep, eternal, blue, blue, blue. All you have to do is spread your arms and fall.

“Do you want it?” Leo asks, the question you knew he would, because he always insists that you are the one to decide, because he’s so god damned good, because you know he’s taught you how to ride and now he wants to see you be brave enough to fly. “It’s your decision to make, hermosa.”

The answer trembling on the tip of your tongue frightens you into deflection. Your lips press together in a self-depreciating smile. “You always do have to make me choose. I’m not very good at it, you know.”

“I know. That’s why we’ve been practicing,” Leo says, his voice a cozy cinnamon honey that melts the bones of your body. “This is a big one, though, I know. So for now, let’s just stick to what we know big man says is okay while you think about it.”

You tilt your head. “Which is…?”

“One hand,” Leo reminds you, raising it and wiggling his fingers at you.

You open your mouth to scoff and protest the thought, but before you can even come up with a pouty response, before you can ask him what exactly he thinks he can do with just one hand, his eyes tell you everything you need to know.

Dark, hungry, starving. The shift happens so quickly, you wonder if he doesn’t just always feel like that, if he just hides it behind a veil he can lift at any moment; if every second he’s before you he is little more than a wolf waiting for permission to take a bite.

His fingers ghost along the edge of your jaw in a touch like fairy footsteps. Along the bone to your ear, caressing the lobe with the faintest of touches. Down your throat, chasing the goosebumps and shuddering breath that catches like giftwrap. A shiver chases down your entire body as his fingers find the neckline of your shirt, tracing its texture before carrying the press of his fingertips to the space between your breasts.

Your nipples go hard in anticipation, your grip on your fork tight, thighs quivering to match the empty ache you feel tickling deep inside. Breathless, you gasp when he hooks his finger in the cleavage of your bra and uses it to tug you a bit over the table, forcing you to open your eyes where they’d fluttered shut without you even knowing.

He’s barely touched you, and you’re already razed.

“…Yeah. I can do a lot with one hand,” Leo murmurs, making you keenly aware of the furnace he’d stroked just beneath your skin with only the barest hint of a touch.

“H… How did you do that…?” you wheeze, confident it must be some sort of yokai magic he’s employing to enchant you so.

“Just with this,” Leo says, reaching down to your hand and taking your fork from your limp hand in his. Deftly, he cuts a bite from your cake, and holds it up towards your mouth with eyes that burn and a smirk you viciously ache to taste. “Imagine how good it’ll be when I get to use two.”

The rest of the—can you call it a date, now, when that’s so clearly what it is, what you both so clearly want it to be?—is back to the hilarious banter that initially charmed you so. He makes you laugh, shows you how good it feels for your shoulders to be loose, makes you feel safe in a bubble the size of a cafe booth. It’s just fun in a way that makes you feel alive—and beneath it all simmers a low fire whose cinders you spy when his gaze lasts just a little too long, when his hand catches yours while snagging the check and his fingers dance across your knuckles, when he hooks your pinky with his own at the door and draws you close enough for you to taste the sugar on his breath.

“Think about it?” he asks, looking young in his optimism.

You don’t have to ask him about what. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.”

With a grin, Leo brings your knuckles to his mouth for a brushed kiss. It’s—exhilarating, you think, caught in a shimmery bloom long after he’s disappeared in the shadows between buildings. You hold the image in your heart, sewing it into a secret place like a little treasure.

…And then it’s John’s ruthless smile on the backs of your eyelids, and the precarious warmth in your gut congeals and weighs heavily. The once hopeful cliff feels cold, iced by the bars of the capricious cage in which you reside. Dangerous, letting yourself want like this. Haven’t you learned better than that? Doesn’t your body remember what happens when John finds out you desire something? Can’t your soul see the scraggy stock upon which it skirts?

Hope is a currency your pauper heart can only crave. You close your eyes and try to breathe.

By the time you get back home and spend the afternoon gathering yourself, you manage to tuck all of that dreamy vim into the small box labelled with your name said in Leo’s affectionate tone, deep in the corner of your heart where John will hopefully never find it. You clean and tend and prepare a meal, then greet him obediently at the door as he arrives. You are a good wife, here, now, and nothing more.

For a while, you think he won’t ask. The conversation is typically sparse, revolving around tasks that need to be done around the apartment, an offhand comment about something that annoyed him at work. Naively, you almost let yourself think he won’t ask; but he does, of course, just like you knew he would. He never lets an opportunity to needle you slip by.

“So, how was your afternoon with Leonardo?” he asks, staring at you over the rim of his wineglass.

“It went well,” you tell him, trying to remember how you talked about Leo before he breathed life into your veins. “We went to a cafe for cake and coffee.”

John’s nose wrinkles, predictably. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

“I don’t know how you can stand cognac.”

John barks a laugh. “Well said.”

You hesitate a little, then, staring at the food on your plate. You… don’t know the boundaries John’s setting around your relationship with Leo. They’re beyond what you personally find appropriate for a wife, but John seems content—demanding, even—for you to dwell in that gray area. Maybe, if you push just a little, you can find where in the sand he stands.

“…I think he wants more,” you begin, fighting every urge to glance up through your eyelashes.

“I know so,” he says, startling you into looking up at him from the sheer confidence in his voice. “I counted on it. You didn’t think I arranged for him to come by the office every time we fucked on a whim, did you?”

Your grip on your utensils goes tight enough to sing. Your face feels hot and your teeth clench. “…I didn’t know you did that at all.”

“I was sure I mentioned it,” John says easily. “Perhaps it slipped your mind?”

It most assuredly did not. You—You knew Leo had listened that one time, of course, but—but knowing it was on purpose, that John had tricked him into coming—oh god, the time you ran into Leo outside the EPF building the first time, he—he was probably standing right outside the door while John railed you against it—!

“I knew he would want to hear it,” John murmurs, refilling his glass of wine like he isn’t actively making you nauseous. “I could see in his eyes that he wanted you. All I had to do was give him a little taste, and he wouldn’t be able to resist.”

Your temper flares at him in a way it hasn’t in years. Fury boils beneath your skin, stealing your breath, burning your veins, scalding your blood. Your jaw aches with how hard your jaw vices shut, knowing that parting your lips now will be disastrous. No; you’re older, wiser than the little girl who would fight an invincible opponent. You know better than to pick a battle you can’t possibly win.

…Oh, god. You remember at the first party, when you’d observed the easy manner in which Leo had parried each of John’s snipes. When you’d guessed to him that Leo wasn’t one he could use. The wrath in your gut coagulates into a fetid stew that turns inward and poisons. A tiny, terrible seed takes hold. Is it your fault? Did you wound his ego and force him to do something to prove you wrong? Had you drawn attention where he hadn’t noticed before?

Had John used you as bait to manipulate Leo?

“You’ve done such a spectacular job with him. Truly, I can’t compliment your work enough,” John says, tapping at his mouth with the cloth napkin from his lap. You wonder if you look as green as you feel. “In fact, I think a reward is due.”

“…Like what?” you croak.

John places his utensils down on the table, propping his elbows up and folding his hands in front of his glacial smile. “I’ll let you have him.”

“I don’t… What does that even mean?” you ask, exhausted, more confused about John’s intensions now than you’d been before you started the conversation.

“Think nothing of the details. I’ll have everything arranged myself. All you’ll have to do is continue performing in the same exemplary manner.”

You’ve been dismissed. The rest of the meal is silent. You spend it staring down at food you mechanically put into your mouth, tasting only the bile threatening to choke. The robotic, dissociated feel persists into the rest of the evening as you clean up the dishes, stare blankly at a crossword without filling anything in next to where John reads his book, and into the bathroom where you gaze at the perfect twin brushing her teeth.

You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth. It tastes of mint and despair. You are still you.

It is, perhaps, waiting for the shoe to drop that is the worst part of it all. He’s planning something awful, you know. A week passes, and you get only a few hours of sleep a night, too many wild scenarios sprinting through your whizzing mind to allow you any rest.

And then it comes to you at last, when John tells you the news you in the morning with a smile that makes you shiver. One foot out the door, briefcase in hand, smiling down where you’re straightening his tie, he ruins your day.

“Oh, that reminds me. Leonardo will be coming to dinner tonight.”

Your hands pause, and you look up at him in a mixture of confusion and dread. “…Here?”

“Here,” John confirms. “I asked him to be here at seven. That should leave you plenty of time to prepare.”

For the meal, perhaps so. For whatever it is he has planned, not even close.

The first hour of the day, you let yourself wallow in a terrible, anxious dread. It takes every fiber of your being not to pick up your phone and text Leo, telling him not to come. The punishment from John for thwarting whatever he has planned would be legendary, surely. You’re no fool; you’ve heard the whispers in the EPF about the Hamato Clan. Having Leo under his thumb would be extraordinary, and he seems to have gotten in his head that you’re the key to making that happen.

Worse still, you can’t even warn Leo, because you have no idea what to say. Hey, my husband is trying to position you so he can use your cool abilities for his own ends. Yeah, like Leo doesn’t already know that. He’s no fool. He’s probably even picked up on the fact that John’s using you, though that opens up the sickening line of thought that he thinks you’re in on it.

But then you remember his eyes, his touch, the softness of his voice. No; you can trust Leo. You can trust him to trust you.

It settles in your chest then as a directive. The first one you can remember choosing for yourself. You will become a shield. Whatever it is that John has planned, you’ll protect Leo as much as you can. He’s notoriously closed off, you know better than anyone else—but that same knowledge comes from the one position of strength you have, tucked away beneath his scales. Your fate is long sealed; but you can, perhaps, if you’re smart and careful, change Leo’s.

After the pity party comes to an end, you decide to do a bit of malicious compliance. John wants you to host a dinner for your unicorn that, frankly, you like a lot more than him, probably in some kind of fucked up power thing against either you or Leo or both. That’s fine; you’ll make it exquisite, and, naturally, serve a sweet treat your guest will love for dessert.

By the time John comes home from work, you have a truly impressive spread ready to deploy, and the sugary smell of cake permeates the apartment air.

“…You baked,” he says as he enters the kitchen, his nose wrinkling in distaste.

“I did,” you say easily while chopping vegetables, pretending you don’t notice his aversion. “I know Leo likes cake, so it was an easy call as a host.”

If John has more on the mind about your choice of menu for the evening, he doesn’t share it. Instead, he departs, leaving you to share a secret triumphant smile with your mise en place.

Once everything is in the oven getting cooked and you get a break in the action, you go and take a shower to get properly dolled up. You pause in the middle of choosing your outfit because, well, it’s just John, it’s just Leo, it’s just your apartment; but then John comes up behind you, drawing his hand up the length of your bare spine and looking over your shoulder at the options you’ve laid out on the bed to peruse.

“…The black one,” he says, drawing your eyes away from the lovely blue dress you’d been trying to see if you were bold enough to wear in front of your husband.

…You aren’t, not tonight, not yet, and nod obediently. “The black one.”

You go to get dressed, but as you go to reach for underwear, John’s hand catches yours. “You won’t be needing that tonight.”

Your eyes snatch over to meet his. He doesn’t elaborate and leaves you only with a mysterious smile. Unsettled, choosing your battles, you obey that, too.

Seven on the dot finds you fiddling with where you arranged everything beautifully on the table. You’ve had a few of John’s business partners over, but this feels different; a notion confirmed when there’s a knock at your door and your pulse jumps in your veins. It doesn’t do that when you’re playing the part of the doll.

John goes to open the door. Unable to contain your excitement, you flitter in behind him like a little bird, smoothing the skirt of your dress to remove any wrinkles. Then, when the door opens and your eyes lock with Leo’s, your stomach dips and your skin sparkles. He’s here.

“Good evening, Leonardo,” John greets, gratefully accepting the extended bottle of wine Leo hands over. “Shall I take your jacket?”

Leo, dressed to impress, runs his hands along the fur-lined neckline of his jacket. “And risk ruining my fit? I’ll pass.” His outfit does look unfairly good, you think, taking in the ripped jeans and loose shirt. Then you see him turning his attention to you, when he then gestures at the bottle in John’s hand. “Non-alcoholic.”

Your lips part in surprise. “…Thank you,” you tell him genuinely, touched that he’d go out of his way to accomodate you in such a manner. “Well, dinner’s ready. Come on in.”

“Smells amazing,” Leo compliments as he toes out of his shoes, following behind where you lead him to the dining room. “I could smell it as soon as I got into the building.”

“Wow, really?” you ask, mouth rounded, though as soon as you say it, you figure it’s some kind of mutant thing.

Leo confirms it by tapping a finger to the side of his beak and shooting you a wink. “Good nose.”

…You try not to think about all the times he’s stood outside John’s office smelling you get fucked and fail.

The first part of the meal is, shockingly, perfectly cordial. You keep waiting for John to do whatever it is he’s going to do, or say whatever it is he’s going to say, but all he does is sit there and chew thoughtfully while Leo tells you all about this new comic book he’s reading. You wish you could get caught up in the plot of it, as it truly does sound interesting, but each clink of John’s silverware against the china reminds you of his presence, the cool fire of him at your elbow. Your spine sings with the tension. Cold sweat tickles your skin at your spine. Each bite is herculean.

It’s when you’re halfway through your second glass of Leo’s wine that he finally breaks the détente, gesturing using his knife at John with a flick of his wrist.

“So. I’m not stupid. You’re not stupid. You asked me here for a reason,” Leo starts. “Considering you didn’t send a little note like you usually do, I’m guessing it has something to do with her.”

Suavely, John takes his cloth napkin and dabs at his mouth. “Keen as ever, Hamato,” he says, folding it and placing it next to his plate. Then he says something absolutely absurd with the same cadence as if discussing the weather. “You’re going to fuck her and I’m going to watch.”

With a cough, you fumble your wine glass and spill a small burgundy stain on the tablecloth. “I—I’m sorry?!”

“Remember our conversation, darling,” John coos, taking his napkin and draping it over the wine stain. You stare at him with wide eys, back of your hand pressed to your mouth, stunned to the point that thought is both formidable and stochastic, marred by the surety that you did definitely just hear what you thought you heard.

“I’m not going to do that,” Leo interrupts, drawing your gaze over to where he’s glaring at your husband. “Not with you being the one to say it.”

“There you are again with your silly provisions,” John sighs. “She will tell you she wants it. Both because she knows to be good for me. But also because I’ve made sure of it.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“That’s exactly how it works.”

“I’m not fucking her without asking her what she wants.”

“Then ask, if you must.”

Both men then turn their attention to you, and heat flares beneath your skin. It’s multifaceted; both the mortification of being put on the spot, but also for the verity of John’s assumption. Whether arranged by his machinations or not, manufactured for whatever goal he seeks, the result is still the same.

Swallowing thickly, you lower your hand from your mouth and fold it with its twin in your lap, shoulders hiking up to your ears before you take in a deep breath and relax. It was, probably, inevitable that you’d end up here. The moment you’d turned from that city skyline and seen Leo behind you, taking your hand in his, it was always going to end up like this. You should count yourself lucky enough, in a way, that your husband is enough of a bastard to give you a path to having it, to whatever end.

“…I want it,” you yield, the words hitting the curve of your lips, the air, your ears for the first time. Ten thousand pounds slide off your shoulders in an instant, your chest cracking open with a freedom of confession so your heart can spill out. The truth finally splays upon the table like an open wound; you raise your eyes to meet Leo’s and make sure your voice doesn’t waver. “I want you.”

Leo’s eyes go wide, and you can see the way his shell stops moving before it raggedly rises again in a broken inhale. His jaw works, tensing, tightening, before his tongue slowly leaves his mouth to wet his lips. Then, his teeth clench, he tosses his napkin onto the table, shoves away from it, and points a finger towards you.

“You. Come here. Over here. You”—he shoves a finger at John who is tenting his hands in front of an amused smile—“stay the fuck here and don’t say a god damned word.”

Boggled, unsure, trusting Leo, you gently follow behind to the far corner of the dining room. It’s clearly within earshot of John, so you aren’t exactly sure the point, but you decide to give Leo an illusion of the two of you having a private conversation.

“I’m—I can’t do this,” Leo whispers harshly, eyes scanning your face. “I can’t believe that you want this.”

“Why not?” you ask, tilting your head, genuinely asking but seeming, somehow, to be striking him like you’ve asked him something profound.

“You’re—” he starts, gaze everywhere like he can’t choose where to rest. “This is something you decided? You? No one else? One hundred percent?”

“One hundred percent,” you respond again, running your tongue along the roof of your mouth habitually. It tastes of rich wine.

“It doesn’t—We don’t have to do this. If he’s forcing you—”

“Leo,” you interrupt gently, silencing him, stilling him, all in one syllable. “It’s my decision.”

Leo takes in a deep breath that seems to last forever. When he speaks again, he isn’t whispering, not even trying to pretend that the statement is for your ears only. “You better be sure. Because if you let me do this, if you tell me it’s okay, I’m going to be really, really hard to get rid of.”

You look at John. He’s studying you like you’re something fascinating. You look at Leo. He’s gazing at you like you are the moon and he is but the tide, beckoned upon your will.

You nod, and Leo gives in.

It isn’t the first time you’ve had sex. You’re very familiar with the process. But when Leo first touches you, the realization that you’re going to experience something uncharted is unmistakable. His hands cup your jawline, and you gasp at just how delicate the touch is. A single thumb caresses your cheek, which blooms beneath the sigh from Leo’s parted lips. He touches you like he can’t believe he’s allowed to, like he wants to memorize every cell you call your own.

“…You really are soft,” he murmurs, ghosting his fingers to your ear, your throat, your pulse. The pads skim along the edge of your clavicles, circling the dip between them once, twice. Each pass of his affection swirls little sparkles of pleasure, catching and chasing like tiny dust devils composed entirely of fairy dust. “I could touch you like this forever.”

“I certainly hope not,” John’s voice comes from over Leo’s shoulder, cutting through the moment like a blade. “Come. You’ll make use of the bed. Some alacrity would be nice.”

Blinking the daze out of your eyes, you study the disaster in the kitchen and the still-set table. “The dishes—”

“Are the least of your current concerns,” John says, going to the wet bar. “With the way Leonardo looks at you, I’m optimistic you’ll soon have trouble using your legs.” He pours a large glass of cognac, then gestures to the hall. “This way.”

Leo’s lips press together, clearly annoyed. “You know, foreplay is half the fun, right? You must be really fun in bed.”

“You heard any complaints my wife made,” John quips back easily, causing you to choke even as Leo clicks his tongue in annoyance.

Inside your bedroom, you stare for a moment at your sheets with a kind of disembodied shock. You—you really are here, with Leo resting his hand in the small of your back, the smell of alcohol from John’s glass just behind him. It’s real, it’s happening.

“Cold feet?” Leo asks into your ear, and you shake your head rapidly.

“No, just—kind of not really believing this is happening.”

With an oof! Leo gently tackles you into the bed. You bounce a few times, snorting a laugh into his skin, before he pulls his head back and looks down at you where you’re caged in with one arm around your head.

“Yeah. Same,” he says, voice soft, eyes softer. His fingers find your chin and trace down, hungrily taking in skin but with a gentleness that makes you want to scream. “I’ve thought about this since I saw you on the terrace, looking at that ladybug like it was a dream.”

The confession warms you like hot milk before bed, breath rushing out. Your lips part, but before you can speak, his face dips down and he presses just a hint of a kiss beneath your jaw. Again, again, again, little butterfly lips flutter, chasing goosebumps and shivers. Each one makes you tremble, your hands finding his plastron like they had when you’d pushed him away, only this time pulling him close.

“Leo,” you sigh, tilting your head instinctively out of his way, savoring how each caress of his skin injects a little more honey into your veins. Thick, sweet, it bubbles to mead, intoxicating every cell in your body with the barest of touches.

Hungry for more of him, you tug at the jacket covering his shell. With the dexterity of a warrior, he takes it off in a heartbeat, tossing it onto the floor in a heap and coming back to your skin like every second away is torture. His teeth sink into your pulse, prompting your spine to arch towards him, guided by the large palm he blooms in the small of your back to marry you close.

It’s so unlike your experiences with John, where he gets the both of you undressed and down to business with ruthless efficiency. This is—fun, sexy, empowering. You want to laugh, but you want to moan at the same time. Even the way Leo smothers a satisfied grin into your skin when you wind your arms around his neck and sigh out his name makes you feel good.

“Are you planning on getting your dick out any time soon, or should I go get my crossword?” John’s voice suddenly drawls through, though a nip of Leo’s mouth on your jaw brings you right back to him and away from where John’s sitting in a chair, watching you get fucked like it’s pay per view.

Leo looks at you, but speaks to your husband. “Nah, keep your eyes right here. You’ll learn a thing or two about making a pretty girl feel good.”

It certainly is much slower of a pace than you’re used to with John; but it feels incredible. Partially because it’s Leo, partially because he’s building you layer after layer with sensations, you find yourself more aroused than you can remember being in your life. He hasn’t taken a stitch of clothing off of you, barely stripped himself, but already you can feel that you’re soaked, grinding your hips against his with something bordering desperation.

His mouth trails down to your chest, biting at your nipple through the fabric of your dress, then more, more, one hand gliding up your thigh. Eagerly, you let them fall apart, expecting him to slot right into place, only for both of you to pause at the same time. You, because he sits up like he’s moving away. Him, because—

“You—You’re not wearing any underwear,” he chokes.

Oh, fuck. You’d forgotten. Your face pulls into a scowl. So he’d had this planned all day, then. “John’s doing.”

“I’m an efficient man,” your husband says, perfectly pleased.

“Presumptuous,” Leo corrects.

“Was I wrong?”

Leo grunts, turning his attention back to you. “Fucking annoying,” he bites, before he bites, on the inside of your thigh by your knee. You jolt, though the way he moans makes you clench on the pounding ache deep inside like never before. “God. Fuck. You taste so good. Can’t wait to get my mouth on you.”

You aren’t sure what he means by that—he has very definitely gotten his mouth on you, multiple times actually. But when he grabs at your dress and pushes it up, asking you to hold the hem, and he stares at your cunt like a wolf looking at a full meat meal, you aren’t prone to asking questions. And then, he stuns you even further as he presses your thighs open with his palms, and licks where you’re soaked.

“L-Leo!” you screech, further speech stripped from you as his tongue quickly gets to work rewriting your brain’s wiring. Your body melts into the unfamiliar sensation of his mouth on you, jaw working, moans vibrating—oh, fuck, he’s really into it, you think deliriously, the last properly coherent thought you have. It’s filthy and wet and disgusting and it’s going to make you come.

The pleasure mounts fast, couriered along by the tight grip of his hands on your thighs to keep them tight to his skull like he wants you to crush it. Claws skim along the skin beneath them, another layer of sensation that has your spine contorting like it’s trying to peel itself to the ceiling. Your feet scramble along the smoothness of his shell, unable to find a good grip because of the way he’s massaging his hips into the bedsheets below him.

And you—you’re sobbing; you can hear it but can’t control it, barely able to breathe with how tightly he has you wound. His tongue does something that flutters against your clit, and then he sucks and moans, and then you’re gone, shattered into the wind, clawing at the sheets beneath you and grinding into his face like you’re trying to fuck it. You’ve—You’ve never felt anything like this before; absolute unyielding pleasure, enough to leave you a little delirious, a little insane in its wake.

Right when you think you’re going to die, Leo lifts his head, and he laughs like a man half his age. “Oh, fuck, did you—holy shit, you are incredible. I need to do that every day.”

“Disgusting,” you hear, a repulsed condemnation, though you can only stare as Leo’s grin sharpens and he tongues at his lips where you’ve soaked his face.

“Someone’s jealous he never got you to soak his face like that,” Leo mocks, rubbing the back of his hand along his mouth and then licking it clean.

You try to reply, but your mouth isn’t quite working yet.

“What’s wrong? Turtle got your tongue?” Leo teases, laying his body atop yours and nipping at the corner of your jaw where it meets your ear.

“Please?” you warble, mouth aching for a kiss, needing to see what the greatest pleasure you’ve ever felt tastes like on his tongue.

“Mm. Not here. Not with him,” Leo murmurs into your ear, kissing it softly. “I’ll kiss you properly later, hermosa. Just you and me. Make it special.”

Your eyes burn at that, and you nod just once, melting into the sheets when you hear him give an approving hum deep in his chest. “Oh. Do that again. That felt really good.”

Leo huffs a laugh. “Wait until you get me fucked out enough to churr.”

“Churr?”

“You’ll see,” Leo promises, nuzzling your pulse. You feel his hand slide up your side, then back down, and you hear the familiar clink of a belt coming undone. Your heart skips and races, making Leo smile against the delicate skin when he undoubtedly feels it. “Oh, yeah, you want it, don’t you, pretty?”

“Told you I did,” you remind him, hooking your fingers in the edge of his plastron before thinking better of it and reaching down to help rid him of his pants. Two people making light work, or something. “Get—Stand up. Or something. Get these off.”

“Fuck, I love how bossy you’re getting,” Leo grins, rolling over and lifting his hips so he can slide the jeans and let them join his jacket on the floor. He also takes the opportunity to start unbuttoning his shirt, though he sneers when he sees John looking at him. “I’d tell you to take a picture, but I don’t do free nudes anymore and I closed my OnlyFans a few years ago.”

“You have a cloaca. That answers a lot of my questions,” John says, tilting his head and looking like he’s watching a nature documentary.

“Yeah? You think of my cock a lot?”

“I do. I’m quite particular about what goes in my wife, after all.”

Leo rolls his eyes, then turns his attention back to you. Instantly his demeanor changes, all of the snarky attitude combusting to dark, hungry eyes. With an elegant move that highlights his strong arms, he moves across the bed so he’s between your legs, kneeling on his heels and gazing down at you.

You take the opportunity to take him in. It’s odd, how… human he looks like this. A man, looking at you with desire. It’s a familiar sight, but also, very, very different. For one, all you feel is mutual anticipation. You want this. But also, you find yourself thinking of Leo as beautiful, too. John is, of course, conventionally attractive—and knows it—but Leo makes your lungs catch their breath. The angle of his shoulders to his neck, the curve of his shell, the dip of his plastron, each scute strong down to the thick thighs that frame his tail where it’s dipped low between them.

It’s then that you see the weeping slit John noticed earlier. His cloaca, you identify, reaching out and delicately tracing a finger along the edge. Leo visibly shudders, and you watch the skin pucker like he’s clenching hard on something.

“I’m open to you fingering me, but I’m kind of wanting to last long enough to get my dick in you this time,” Leo says between tight teeth, and you laugh before giving him a little tease with your fingertips along the seam.

“What, I can’t be curious?” you coyly ask, slipping a fingertip inside. A rush of power takes your breath away when you hear the way it makes his breath break, when you feel the tight grip on your knees where he’s trying to control himself.

Oh, to break the control of Leo Hamato and be at his unhinged mercy, you think dreamily.

“You’re a demon,” Leo chokes, taking your wrist gently in a hold and bringing it to his mouth. He brushes a kiss along your knuckles, then uses the grip to pin your hand above your head. “Do you want to let me see the other one so I can hold them up here? Or do you want to touch?”

Even here, even with this, he’s still making you choose. You weigh the options for a moment, then reach up with your other hand and tuck it beneath his palm with the other. A streak of vulnerability trickles down your skin; you aren’t naked, but you are exposed, and you have no illusions that you wouldn’t be able to break free if he didn’t want you to.

“Let me know if you need a break,” Leo says, his other hand pushing your dress further up your stomach to get it out of the way, his eyes meeting yours and waiting for you to acknowledge his words.

“Yeah, I will,” you promise, closing your eyes and exhaling softly as Leo takes your hip in his hand and presses his cloaca to your cunt. It feels—odd, but good, a slickness that isn’t your own and that brilliant texture of skin you’ve come to associate with him. Pressure against your clit, a little, then more, growing with each grind of his hips into yours. You’d expected a cock, but this is—“Really good,” you choke, the thought escaping your brain into the air.

“Yeah?” Leo asks, prompting you to nod in affirmation. “Want more?” You nod again, because your skin is starting to warm again. You won’t come again—you can’t, never have been able to—but god, this feels amazing enough that for a moment you wonder.

He pauses, and you feel fingers. First on your clit, massaging it and making your stomach tighten, and then down to your cunt where his spit and your slick have you embarrassingly wet. You think, first, that he’s going to finger you; but then you realize he’s holding you open, open for—

An inhuman sound tears from your lungs as something slowly penetrates you. Back bowed hard, wrists pulling at his grip, you rip asunder. His cock, you realize, delirious, dizzy, electrified. The tapered end itself drags along your inner walls unlike anything you can describe with words, the girth stealing all breath away, the length cushioning him right against the tender kiss of your cervix. You entire body quivers, tense, arching and wrapping around him and pulling and doing whatever you can to climb into his shell with him and never come out.

Oh, oh, it’s—it’s something unreal, something for which words can’t speak, something impossible, fractal inside. He seats like a glass slipper, hips melded to yours the exact moment you’re sure he can go no further.

And he’s the same, you realize, forcing your eyes open and seeing that Leo just looks wrecked above you. You aren’t alone in the divine revelation of the union. His face is settled in rapture, his entire body shaking, the arm holding him up by your wrists quivering as every inch of his body beads with sweat. His mouth parts and a low, animalistic groan rips from deep inside of him.

He opens his eyes, he looks at you, and you feel your skin sparkle with the knowledge that nothing will ever be the same.

In an unspoken agreement, you feel Leo move in the same moment that you glide your legs around his thighs to help him. The slow pull out, the slow stroke back in, every inch of his cock dragging along sensitive nerves and lighting them up like string lights. You hear your mouth make a whimper, the only sound you’re capable of.

Again, again, again, until he manages enough inertia to establish a proper rhythm. You’ve never been fucked this deep before; it feels like the tip of his cock is writing his name in cursive on the inside of your ribs, like you’ll swallow and taste his precome. Your eyes flutter shut—but you open them quickly again, unable to bear looking away from the sight of him rutting above you. You want to see it. You want to be trapped in the moment with him.

The bedframe creaks. You feel so full. Your skin shimmers with a distant epiphany that you are indeed going to come from this. You must. Your legs draw him in, thighs quivering, brow arching like your spine. You don’t even need to touch your clit; he’s going to fuck you into orgasm, untouched, just like this, because it’s him, because it’s him, because it’s you, because it’s you and only you.

“She’s close,” you hear John say, closer than before. You look over through blurry, tear-filmed eyes and see that he’s dragged the chair towards the bed. “She’s going to come soon.”

You are. Holy fuck, you are, you think, squeezing your eyes in disbelief. You’ve never come more than once in your life but Leo’s fucking you and oh fuck you’re going to come—

“Hm. So are you, from the looks of it,” John adds on.

“Fuck—off,” Leo chokes between moans, his grip on your wrists tightening almost to the point of pain. It feels incredible; you hope it bruises.

“You want to come inside her?” John asks, causing your eyes to snap open. “Fill her up with your come?”

Leo’s hips jerk hard against yours, stuttering a bit in his pace, before getting harder. You’re gonna come gonna come gonna come—

“Yeah, you do,” John continues, his voice velvet in the sounds of sex coating the walls of the room. Leo’s skin against yours. Hips thrusting harder with each iteration. The bedframe threatening to give out. Leo’s increasingly labored breaths. The mewling cries from your own mouth. “All right. Do it. Come inside her. Get in there so deep it smells only of you. See it dripping out of her. Know you fucked my wife so good she gets big and round with your spawn.”

“L—Leo—!” you keen, pulse thundering, splintering into ten thousand pieces as you come hard on his cock. The orgasm stuns you like a bolt, like light in the dark, blinding every sense you have from anything that isn’t Leonardo. His skin against yours, the smell of his sweat, the burn of his scales rubbing against your inner thighs, the weight of his shell as he grunts and thrusts despite the way you’re squeezing down onto him to keep him in. Ecstasy remakes you into something new, something in the exact shape to hold his eyes.

He fucks you through it, hard, harder, deep, deeper, rutting into you like a beast. Pleasure crests again, maybe still, maybe more, you lose count. You take it all greedily, squeezing your legs tight to keep him close, sobbing when he finally chokes out a swear and fuses his hips to yours while filling filling filling you with come until it almost hurts. More, hot, plunging inside, coating and marking, making you hiss and arch your entire pelvis into his to keep him close.

Slowly, you come back to yourself. You’re whimpering with each breath, you realize, licking your dry lips and trying to pull yourself back into your own skin. You feel incredible. Well-fucked, messy in the best way. You don’t want to move, just want to lie here beneath the near-crushing weight of Leo, his face is smothered in your throat, panting into your pulse, his shell hard against you, his cock still full and hard inside.

“Pull out,” John says, flicking the switch off on the afterglow.

Your chest withers. You open your mouth to protest, but close it again before you do. If you want this to happen again, you’ll need to cooperate and be obedient—and god help you, you want this to happen again. So you part your legs a little, and massage at the base of Leo’s skull to try and help scoop his come-dumb brains back into his head.

Slowly, Leo draws his cock out. Each inch is another caress that has your lips parting on barely audible gasps, fighting the urge to balk and tell him to slide back inside where he belongs. You feel empty, emptier than you usually do after sex; and then comes the feeling of come oozing out of you. You squeeze unconsciously around it, so sensitive the touch of it is almost too much.

“Quite a lot of semen,” John comments, reaching out and catching where it’s leaking out of you. Your teeth sink into your lower lip as he presses it back inside, just as he does with his own come after he fucks you. “Is that normal, or because it’s her?”

“No, really, fuck off,” Leo grunts, reaching between his legs to tuck his cock away.

John laughs, and resumes his motions of keeping you stuffed with Leo’s come. You tremble with each touch, still a little shell-shocked from two (three? four?!) orgasms when you’re only used to one that is half as hard.

“Well, that was elucidating,” John says, pulling his fingers out of you and wiping them clean with a tissue from the bedside table. “I have a lot to analyze. Thank you. You may go so I can clean up my wife. I’ll be in contact with you soon.”

You open your eyes and look to Leo, seeing that he, in the same moment, has looked to you. Your body aches—from the sex, from the emotions of it, from the thought of him having to leave you now; but you smile, and give him a little nod.

“Text me for sandwiches?” you tell him, and he huffs a laugh, ducking down and pressing a long, wet kiss to the bottom of your jaw.

“Text you for sandwiches,” he agrees; and though it looks a little like he’d rather peel off his skin, he rolls off the bed, gets his clothes, and portals away.

As soon as he’s gone, you feel like all the bones in your body have disintegrated. Lethargically, you loll your head over to John, who is looking, pondering, at your body. “What… Why did you do that?” you ask, not sure if you’re asking about letting Leo fuck you, or the way he watched, or how he acted during the whole thing. You glance at his crotch, and—yeah, he’s hard. But he doesn’t seem interested in doing anything about it.

“It’s a work thing, darling,” John assures you, standing up patting you on the head. “Don’t worry about it. You did a good job. Go get cleaned up and tuck off to bed. I imagine you must be exhausted after getting fucked by that thing. I’ll take care of the dishes and join you after I arrange my notes while things are fresh in the mind.”

He leaves the bedroom, and you scowl after him once you feel safe to do so. But then you turn your gaze to the ceiling and close your eyes, sliding your arms above your head and recapturing the feeling of writhing beneath Leo, pinned, helpless, as he fucks you within an inch of your life. Your skin shimmers just from the memory, and you press your knees together and fight the incredible urge to touch yourself thinking about it.

…But why, you wonder? Why should you resist? Sliding your fingers between your thighs, you find where you’re slick from you and Leo both, messy, wrecked, sensitive. You encircle your clit with two fingers, eyes closed, mind seeing the way Leo had looked when he’d first slid home deep inside. Like you were a luminescent goddess, and he couldn’t believe he was the one chosen to deflower you.

Softly, you moan, turning your face into your pillow and squeezing your thighs. You won’t come like this; you’re too sensitive, it’s too much, pushed already past what you normally can tolerate. But it does feel good, and you’re already looking forward to revising the moment in the shower stall for the rest of your life.

…A new dread takes over, though, as you finally find your feet and weakly make your way into your bathroom. Gazing into the mirror, you turn on the shower and touch each of the bite marks Leo left behind on your skin as you wait for it to get hot.

You’ve tasted the forbidden fruit, now. You aren’t the same person you were before the first bite. You’ll want him again. You’ll only ever want him again. And that, you think, is perhaps what John has wanted this whole time.

Just as John had made you his tool to bend Leo…

…Leo is now the perfect tool for him to use against you.

The next morning, it is a battle to wake up on time.

Every inch of your body is sore, but in a way that makes you think of Leo every time you move. Each contortion reminds you of a moment from last night: the ache in your biceps is from when you were pulling at his wrists from coming on his cock; the ache in your back is from where you arched off the bed when he slid inside; the ache in your thighs is from when he ate you out until you sobbed and felt imminent doom.

…You burn the first round of pancakes.

John comes into the kitchen like it’s just another day. Then again, it probably is to him. Who knows how long he’s been orchestrating you fucking Leo in his mind; the act finally happening is likely barely a blip on his radar.

“Good morning, wife,” he greets, brushing a kiss to your crown. “How are you feeling?”

“Great,” you answer honestly.

“Not too sore?”

“Not in a way that hurts, no.”

He pulls away and makes you your coffee. You take it and the pancakes to the table, and eat in silence that feels somehow both more and less oppressive than usual. Like you’ve gotten the chance to stretch your wings, but also like now you’re more aware of the boundaries of your cage than before. More like the you from the beginning who balked and protested and fought before you learned that to be meek was to survive.

John leaves for work with a performed kiss to his cheek, and basically as soon as he’s gone, you get ready and slip out yourself.

You’d woken this morning to a text from Leo. Just a dropped pin somewhere you didn’t recognize, nothing more. You need nothing else Leo asks you to come somewhere, your feet are already moving.

When you arrive to the location, you look around. It’s just some random back corner alley. Nothing unusual can be seen, nothing looks out of place. A little confused, you send Leo a text letting him know you’ve arrived. He replies with a thumb’s up emoji. so you tuck your phone in your pocket and wait.

It doesn’t take long. The manhole cover at your feet starts to jostle, and you jump away just as a familiar face peeks out from beneath it. It’s—

“Casey, right?” you greet, watching his face bloom with a smile.

“Hey, you remembered!” He comes out fully from the manhole cover, then puts it back into place. “Sensei asked me to show you how to work this. Just in case you need it, I guess.”

Your eyes cast downwards. “The… manhole cover?”

Casey looks at you, then nods in understanding. “He hasn’t told you yet.”

“Told me… what?”

“That we live underground,” he replies, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the manhole cover.

You press your fingers to your smile, remembering a passing comment you’d made and the mysterious smile from Leo that had come with it. That clears that up, you think, before beaming at Casey. “All right. Let’s see it done, then.”

It takes about ten minutes, but Casey finally gets you feeling pretty confident about how to lift the damn thing. It’s unbelievably heavy, but with the right leverage, you can use a fulcrum to pry it off. By the time you climb down the ladder and into the sewer below, you’re sweaty but feeling pretty good about yourself.

“It’s best if no one sees you do it, of course,” Casey says. “Master Donatello has security that can take care of things, but we prefer not to get things to that point.”

Your footsteps pause, and you realize suddenly what’s happening. Inevitable, probably, but still surprising that the day is actually, officially here. “…Is he taking me to the Lair?”

“Well, technically I’m taking you to the Lair,” Casey nitpicks, causing you to huff a laugh and start walking again. He definitely is Leo’s… something.

The Lair is completely unlike anything you expected. It is definitely the sewers—the delicate humid, muggy aroma goes nowhere, even as you approach what is clearly a base of operations—but it’s also very definitely a home. Piles of things rest everywhere: books, stuffed animals, skateboards, weapons, a single dirty sock. Right in the middle is the huge skating ramp you’ve seen in the many videos Leo’s sent you of him doing some sick trick, but also technology that boggles the mind dots every corner you can see. Cameras, boxes, the hum of electricity in the air.

It… feels like a super hero base, you think, biting down on your lip to keep from saying something so silly.

And then, someone calls your name. Not just someone—him. Turning your head, you see Leo walking up. The shimmering bright mood in your chest dims, however, when you pick up on the way he’s… a little hesitant, a little withdrawn. Barely noticeable, but there.

“Thanks, Junior. Go tell the others we’ll meet up in the lounge,” Leo says, dropping a heavy hand on Casey’s head.

For a moment, you stand before Leo, unsure of what to say, what you’re allowed to do. He seems in a similar boat, staring down at you—oh. Of course. You know exactly what he’s doing. It’s what he’s always done. He’s waiting for you to decide.

With two steps, you’re pressed close, arms around his neck, holding onto him tightly. With a shuddered exhale into the skin of your nape, he reciprocates, his arms like steel bands at your back, pinning you to his shell in a hug that feels like a promise.

“…Hey,” you greet, nuzzling the side of his beak with your cheek.

“Hey,” he greets back, pulling his head back so he can press his forehead to yours. He gazes into your eyes, and you release one hand so you can trace the bottom arc of his crescent.

“You… look like something’s bothering you,” you tell him, and watch as he closes his eyes and nods. “Tell me?”

“I… owe you an apology,” he starts, before he furrows his brow, shakes his head, and tries again. “No. I need to beg your forgiveness.”

“For what?” you ask, boggled, wondering what he could possibly be talking about.

Slowly, Leo releases you. Not enough for you to step away—not that you want to—but enough that his hands can rest on your sides, a gentle hold that makes you feel precious. “Last night, I…” He turns his head, then forces it back so he can meet your gaze. “Last night, I came inside you without asking if that was something you were okay with.”

“Oh,” you say, shoulders dropping with relief. “No apology needed. I… I really liked it,” you confess, feeling your cheeks grow warm.

But Leo still shakes his head. “I still should have asked. That’s a… pretty big step. More than what was on the table. Bishop was talking to me about it, and I got the image in my head. I wanted it, more than anything. But I should have asked, first.”

You tilt your head. “Did it seem like I wasn’t into it?”

“I’m not Bishop,” Leo says, his voice sharp. “That whole—your body saying yes thing. It’s bullshit. Words matter.”

Just like that, you see the issue. You open your body for him, melting yourself, softening, cupping his jaw with both hands so you can draw his gaze to your own, so he can see you speak from the heart.

“Leo. You aren’t John,” you tell him in a murmur, though you may as well be screaming for how desperately he clings to each word. “I trust you. You’ve only ever made me feel safe. You’ve earned the right not to need to ask for every little thing. It’s always going to be yes.”

“But—But what if it’s not?” Leo asks, trembling a little in your hold. “What if I do something you don’t want. Will you tell me no?”

“I will,” you promise. It’s like gazing through a kaleidoscope, thinking about all of the tiny little prismatic ways Leo makes you feel secure. Leaning in, you brush your lips against his cheek, smiling when the small act makes his breath hitch, his fingers tightening just a little where he’s holding you close. “You okay?”

“You okay?” Leo turns back on you, and you nod, pressing your cheek to his and breathing in, savoring the smell of his skin. “Then I’m okay.”

Satisfied, Leo steps back and pulls on your hand to follow him. You do, and quickly you get lost in the meandering hallways of the Lair. Soon enough, you enter a large room with a projector screen and a few lumpy couches, and—turtles, all of them.

They introduce themselves—unnecessarily, you think, having memorized their profiles from the EPF files—but you particularly hesitate when you meet Raph. Taking his hand in yours, something about it feels… familiar.

He seems to share the same sentiment. “Have… we met before?” he asks, rubbing at the back of his head.

“No, I don’t believe so,” you tell him, though you secretly suppose it’s possible you could have met him in the before time. You can’t tell him as much, of course, as that would require an explanation of why you lost your memory, and that’s…

…that’s…

…something you should do, you think, a bit of a sick knot tying in your stomach as you find your hands tight in Michelangelo—Mikey’s—grasp. You trust Leo, fully, completely. It’s something he deserves to know, and… truthfully, the thought of telling someone, of having someone who isn’t John knowing… it’s terrifying, but also perhaps a relief.

“I hear you also like to cook,” Mikey says, drawing your thoughts from the deepness inside and back into the moment.

“Oh, you do as well?” you ask, intrigued. “What sort of things do you like to cook?”

“A little bit of everything,” Mikey says with a dramatic flair, before he hops in one place. “Ooh, ooh, have you seen the latest cookbook from Meat Sweats?! He put a lemon drizzle cake recipe in there that I’ve just been dying to try.”

“I’m sorry, M—Meat Sweats?”

“Y’know, Meat Sweats! Rupert Swaggart? Celebrity chef?”

“Oh, yeah, I know him! He has a really good risotto recipe. What is it he always says?”

“Unleash the flavor!”

You laugh at Mikey’s terrible impersonation, and then again when he sprints off in a blur of color telling you to stay put so he can get the cookbook in question. You look around to see what the others have been doing while you’ve been wrapped up in conversation, only for you to see Raph and Donnie next to Leo, a somewhat grave expression on their faces.

Before you can think anything else of it, Mikey returns, and you politely put your attention back onto him.

After what feels like ten minutes but is more like an hour, you peel yourself away from Mikey and his tempting book of sins. You glance at your phone screen; it’s about lunch time.

“Another appointment?” Donnie asks, prompting you to turn and look at him. He’s been a little more distant than his brothers, though you don’t fault him for that. It would be easy to label you as a hostile person because of the EPF connection, or worse as John’s wife.

“Not an appointment, per se. I just usually clean the apartment in the afternoons,” you tell him. “I didn’t get a chance to do it yesterday as I was preparing for Leo to come to dinner, and, well. John likes a clean apartment.”

“And I presume you always do what he says?” Donnie asks, folding his arms.

“…It makes things easier,” you respond, tangling your fingers together.

Donnie’s eyes narrow, but it doesn’t particularly feel combative. At least, not towards you. It’s more like he’s placed you on a microscope slide, and he’s trying to determine at what magnification your secrets will best be exposed. It isn’t particularly pleasant, but you bear him no ill will, so you allow it.

Instead, you turn your head and look for Leo. You find him standing next to Raph, and—he flinches when you meet his gaze, prompting you to hesitate, wondering what that’s all about.

“You should stay for lunch, at least,” Donnie says at last. “We’re having pizza.”

Something about that feels… comforting. It reminds you of the time you and Leo went for pizza, how he’d told you all the stories that connected him to the place. “Is it from Run of the Mill?” you ask, watching as Donnie blinks curiously.

“You’re familiar with it?”

“Leo took me there. I liked it a lot,” you tell him, before grinning. “I told him I’d be brave and try the creepy supreme next time we went.”

Donnie studies you, then tilts his chin. “…Yeah, you’ll do fine,” he says, spinning on his heel. “Come on. I’ll get you a plate.”

A little perplexed as to what just happened, you turn and look for Leo once more. He’s not in the room, but Raph and Mikey are both coming your way, with the latter hooking his arm around your neck and hauling you to the kitchen at his side.

Today, the spread is a simple pepperoni, and it is, in fact, not from Run of the Mill. It’s still excellent, and you laugh while Raph and Donnie arm wrestle over who gets the first slice (except it’s you, Mikey whispers, handing it over to you when his brothers aren’t paying attention and then taking one for himself).

“Bamboozled! Absolutely improper!” Donnie proclaims when climbing out of the wall, jabbing a finger in Raph’s direction. Raph who bellows in disbelief when he opens the box and two slices are already gone, with you and Mikey standing side by side, munching in concert, next to the sink.

“I like it here,” you say to Mikey, who all but pukes rainbows and unicorns when you tell him.

Full with pizza, full with an odd familial joy that you’ve never experienced, full with something intangible with no name, you finally find Leo in the doorway to the kitchen. He’s leaning against the frame, gaze heavy on you, waiting.

“Ready to head up?” he says, and you nod—but are only able to escape free once Mikey releases you from a squeeze you’re pretty sure cracks a few of your vertebrae.

You half expect him to portal you back to your apartment. He doesn’t; instead he starts walking, and you follow, studying him. He’s… he’s not himself, you think, but it’s different from the morning. It’s almost an agony shrouded on his shoulders, like something hurts and he’s trying to hide it.

“Leo?” you ask, halfway down the large pipe, unable to take it any further. Reaching out, brushing your fingers along his forearm, making him stop in his tracks as surely as if you’d gripped him.

“Not yet,” he says, through clenched teeth, his body taut, his touch on your hand so, so gentle it almost brings tears to your eyes.

He leads you to the ladder, and you watch as he easily lifts that heavy manhole cover like it’s a cup of tea. He takes your hand again, and you walk with him down the street, mute, unsure of what’s warring in his head, aching with helplessness but wanting to respect his wish.

Just outside your apartment building, he stops. With a soft pull, he brings you into a shaded alcove next to it, quieter than the street, and it’s there that his hand cups your jaw, tilts it up, and he kisses you.

Rhapsody sings through your veins; you melt into him, soft as honey, warm as sunshine, birdsong thrumming in your heart. Accepting him, reciprocating eagerly, you kiss him back, pressing your palms to his plastron, to his chest, sliding them to cradle his skull and keep him close. Again and again, his mouth moves over yours, chastely at first, then deep, then gliding his tongue along yours until you’re trembling and wrecked. Over and over he kisses you, rewriting his name on your soul, once more, once more, until you lose count of hours and days and wish it could be exactly here from whence you never part.

When he breaks the kiss, you realize that Leo’s eyes are damp, the depths of them galaxies enticing you to explore, but for the jagged inhale he gasps against your lips.

“I’m safe,” he tells you suddenly, kissing you once more, drawing back and kneading his forehead with yours. “I’d do anything for you. Anything you want. I’ve gotten to know you, and I miss you when you’re gone, just like I knew I would.”

Your chest swells, stealing your breath. You’ve never felt more cherished in your life, but something—something is wrong, something about his face is screaming that it hurts—

“Don’t say anything. Just—Just breathe,” he tells you, or perhaps himself, though he makes a wounded sound when you tilt your head up and steal his mouth in a kiss once again. More, more he gives, more he takes, until your lips ache with it, until you’re sure they’re swollen and bruised, and even then you want more.

“It’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispers into your mouth, clearly anguished. You kiss him once more, hoping to help, but lamenting when he kisses you like a dying man and the harrowed look on his face only gets worse.

“I… I don’t know what to do,” you tell him, cupping his face, staring, looking, pleading. “How do I make it go away?”

Leo just shakes his head, closing his eyes, nuzzling his beak against your nose. “One thing at a time,” he breathes, inhaling deeply, then exhaling shakily. Then, opening his eyes, he traces his thumb on your cheek beneath your eye, and he murmurs something in Japanese you don’t understand but feels more tender than any caress you’ve ever received, even from him.

“I… I don’t…”

“You are not alone,” Leo translates, stunning you silent. “Never. Not as long as I draw breath. Nor after.”

Staring into his eyes, it hits you, then, the exact depth of what you feel for him. It’s something you’d always assumed would be out of your reach, trapped, always, beneath John’s thumb, locked in the cage by his side, never yourself, always John Bishop’s Wife.

Your heart glows. You open your mouth to tell him, to revel in the emotional ecstasy, but—no, you can’t. What good would it do? No matter your feelings for Leo, you can never be what he deserves. The moment John finds out, he’ll chain Leo to you as surely as you have been chained to John. You can’t leave; not while She whispers in the back of your skull, not when your mouth tastes of flesh and infinity.

So long as you are poisoned with Krang, you can never be with him.

Leo’s lips press at the corners of your eyes, and when he draws back they’re wet. You wonder what expression you’re making, if it’s hopeful, if it’s despair. But he just smiles, cupping your cheeks, looking down at you, drawing you into a soft world where none of it matters and, for just this little place he’s clawed from the rock, you can decide your fate.

“Don’t rush it. Your own pace,” he whispers, brushing one last kiss to your lips, lingering with it like it hurts to pull away. “Go on upstairs. I’ll text you for our next date.”

“Okay,” you respond, unable to do or say more, unable hardly to breathe from the intensity of emotional turmoil inside. You hadn’t thought yourself capable of so much, the billowing squall choking any words from your lips. You watch Leo portal away, his dark eyes and gentle smile the last thing you see, before you are alone in the dark alley save for the rats.

The doorman greets you on your way in; you nod and take the elevator, numb, barely able to press the correct button for your floor. All the way to your apartment door you amble, lost, until at last you enter your apartment and collapse to the floor the moment you’re inside.

You sit there, unmoving, for some unknown length of time. Unable to work up the energy to clean the apartment, unable to eat or drink or do anything, you eventually manage to crawl to the couch, where you lie and watch the shadows on the wall grow longer and longer as the sun sets. The void in your stomach wars with the unending sun Leo planted inside, amazed that you can love someone so much and have it hurt an equal, terrible amount.

…You wonder if it wouldn’t have been kinder if you’d never felt this way at all, if you’d continued your entire life as John’s little doll. But then you close your eyes, and everything is blue, and you know you’d suffer it all just for a moment more of it.

The sun falls from the sky, and at last you get a bit of inertia about you. The apartment will have to wait until tomorrow, you decide, going into the kitchen and starting to pull something together for supper.

Right as John opens the door to come inside, you place it on the table. Out of habit, you meet him at the door, reaching up to undo his tie for him.

“You look tired,” he says, prompting you to hum.

“I’m feeling a little under the weather,” you tell him. It’s true, though you’ll never tell him why.

“Is it getting close again?”

You run your tongue along the roof of your mouth. It tastes of Leo.

“…No,” you respond, turning your back to him.

“You did have a long night last night,” he says, and you close your eyes as your skin shimmers with the memory. Knowing that you couldn’t have gotten all of Leo’s come out with how deeply he planted it. Knowing that, even now, you’re still carrying it with you. “You still made dinner, though. A lovely, diligent wife. Good work. Come eat, and we’ll turn in early.”

“Okay,” you tell him, sliding into the practiced role for which you’ve been a master, smiling prettily up at him. You think to kiss his cheek, but decide instead to keep the taste of Leo, and only him. “Welcome home.”

When John tells you to come into work with him the next day, you swallow the tight knot in your throat and obey.

It’s always a little dehumanizing, getting checked in the labs. Logically, probably, since the concept of you as a person is tenuous and dependent entirely on the bottle of pills rattling in your husband’s pockets at all times. But the logic of it doesn’t make it any less agonizing, even when they pretend politeness to “Mrs. Bishop” they wouldn’t if you were anyone else.

There was a time when you would cry every time you put the scratchy gown on. It still makes your stomach turn, your skin glisten with cold sweat, your pulse get a little high. But the tests they run now are less invasive, less painful than the ones in the beginning. It isn’t so bad, at least compared to what you know it can be.

The hours pass beneath needles, scanners, lasers, lights. You’re poked, prodded, sampled, probed, examined until you’re light-headed and consumed. Weary, you slouch into the uncomfortable chair they provide for you while running their tests, covered in new bandages and wishing anything else could be happening.

One of the top scientists calls John down from upstairs, and within about ten minutes, he’s inside the lab. The black of his suit is jarring around the white and silver of science, and he casts you a look as soon as he enters.

“How is she?” he asks the scientist, and you tune out the report, uninterested in the details. It’s all the same, anyway. The Krang infection is still present, there has been no progression, but there has been no improvement, either. Numb, depleted, you nod or shake your head whenever they ask you something and leave the nuance to John.

Eventually, they decide your check up is complete. You’re released to change back into your clothes, and John takes you to the elevator doors.

“We’ll be getting lunch and taking it home,” he says.

“Don’t you still have work this afternoon?”

“I took off an hour for lunch. You seem out of sorts.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“None needed. You are my wife.”

So you are, you think blearily. So you are.

At home, you eat the food he chose with a robotic disinterest. You need the calories, you know, but you’re fundamentally uninterested in eating. You aren’t even really sure what it is, or how it tastes, or if you like it. It is but energy for an exhausted body.

“I have some news that I suspect will interest you,” John says. You make a questioning noise, reaching for your water and slowly drinking it. “I’ve made a decision, based on the data I compiled with your night with Leonardo.”

God. You don’t want to be talking about this right now. “And that is?”

“You’re free to fuck him as much as you want. In fact, I demand it,” John says, causing your jaw to drop open in shock. “But I do have one caveat: you aren’t allowed to use any form of birth control.”

Struck absolutely dumb, you gape at your husband. The stupor is such that you forget yourself, and reply with the first thought that enters your brain. “I’m absolutely not doing that.”

It’s been a long, long time since you argued back against your husband. You expect many things, any possible. A sharp retort. Perhaps him grabbing your hair and hissing in your face, the way he used to. Dragging you into the bedroom and reminding you just how powerless you are.

But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he just smiles.

“You will,” he says, a cold thing that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, “because if you don’t, I will dispose of your medication.”

Your entire body freezes like prey. The possibility—the reality—of what he’s saying leaves you dumbstruck. Thought, logic, all of the things that make you human flash to dust, and you are left with the simple instinct to live at whatever cost. That instinct, held hostage by a tiny little bottle that rattles when he gathers your trash and stands.

“I encourage you to get started soon. You wouldn’t want him to lose interest in you, now would you?” John cruelly hums, patting you on the head as he walks by to get to the door. “In fact, go see him this afternoon. I imagine he’s taken you to his little hideout. When I get home tonight, I expect you to be waiting for me filled with his come. You won’t like what will happen if you don’t.”

The door shuts behind him as he leaves, and for a long time, you don’t move.

Eventually, the fear comes, as does the confusion, leading you to get up and start pacing around the room. Why is he demanding you fuck Leo? Why so specifically without birth control? The likelihood of you getting pregnant is astronomically low; the scientists in the lab cautioned him about it in the beginning, when he’d announced he was taking you as a bride. You aren’t even sure if Leo, being a mutant, can get you pregnant. If that’s even John’s goal.

Weakly, you reach to your pocket and grab your phone.

sent (7:32 a.m.)
Leo. Are you awake?

Leo (7:32 a.m.)
always for you. good morning, hermosa 💙

sent (7:32 a.m.)
Good morning.

sent (7:32 a.m.)
💙

Leo (7:36 a.m.)
everything ok?

Leo (7:38 a.m.)
sweetheart?

sent (7:38 a.m.)
I need to talk to you.

sent (7:38 a.m.)
And probably Donnie

sent (7:38 a.m.)
Actually maybe all of you

sent (7:38 a.m.)
No sorry can it just be you first

Leo (7:38 a.m.)
you’re kind of freaking me out. everything ok? need me to portal there?

sent (7:38 a.m.)
Actually that would be perfect. Thank you

Before you can even place your phone down on the table, there’s a flash of blue lighting up the room. Two steps and Leo’s close, hands on your face, studying you head to toe like he’s looking for something.

“Hey,” you greet, bringing him to pause in his examination and meet your gaze.

“Hey,” he responds breathily, touch softening. You feel your eyes well with tears, overwhelmed with terror and love, and he frowns. “You’re scaring me. Talk to me.”

“I… I don’t know where to begin,” you croak, sniffling.

“The beginning’s usually a good place,” Leo offers, his hands sliding down to your biceps. You shake your head, closing your eyes.

“I don’t remember the beginning,” you whisper. “I don’t remember anything before—”

Taking in a deep breath, you open your eyes and gaze into his. He’s waiting, giving you the space, but here if you need him. A net, allowing you to soar through the sky but there to catch you if you fall. Everything, exactly, what you needed.

Taking in a deep breath, you tell him.

“It was twelve years ago,” you start, and the moment you say the number, you watch his face crumple with understanding. “I don’t know how it happened. I woke up in a lab, and they told me they were able to—to contain it, or something.”

Leo’s head falls forward, his forehead pressing to your shoulder. His fingers grip you almost to the point of pain.

“Krang,” he hoarsely groans, and you nod. “I wanted them to be wrong, but—”

…Raph and Donnie, you guess, remembering their grave faces when you’d met them in the Lair. They’d probably noticed something and brought it to Leo’s attention. It would explain his behavior at the end, and if anyone outside of the EPF would know what signs to look for, it would be the Hamato clan.

“I was really weak. Confused. I didn’t remember anything. I could barely walk or talk. I wasn’t even really human,” you continue, closing your eyes once again as you remember those dark days when you were little more than a rat in a cage. “I met a man then who said he was my father. He was some high ranking official in the EPF. He wanted to keep me there, have them experiment on me, keep me locked up.”

“That’s horrible,” Leo says, pulling back so he can stroke his fingers down your face. “What the hell did he think that would do?”

“I’m not sure,” you say, shrugging one shoulder. “But it was around that time I met John.”

You think back to that first time you saw him. Peering through the glass at where you’d been huddled in the corner, his sharp eyes had pierced you, seen things you didn’t understand. You’d hated him from the moment you’d seen him—something She found hilarious, Her cackling laughter pouring from your own lips the first time you had a relapse and tried to choke him.

“He spoke with my father, and they worked out an agreement. I would marry John and become his ward. He’d be responsible for making sure I was a presentable human. In return, John got a promotion, and he was allowed to work on some cases that got him to the top of his department quite quickly. My father got to save his name, and John was able to take his place when he retired.”

Leo’s face contorts with disgust. “That’s—They used you? Like you were some kind of—trinket?!”

“That’s all I’ve ever really been to John,” you remind him, smoothing a hand along his plastron to try and soothe him.

“Now I really want to take his head off,” Leo says, causing you to give him a wry smile.

“So soon? I haven’t even gotten to our marriage.”

Leo’s hand in the small of your back curls, his claws protectively catching in your shirt. “…Tell me. Tell me everything.”

So you do. “Those first years were hard. He wanted to experiment on me. I was sure I’d rather be dead. I fought him hard. He’d force me to do everything. Eating. Drinking. Taking the pills when I got close to remission. He’d hurt me when I didn’t obey him. I’m not even sure what hurt worse; the words or his hands. He’d fuck me and then take me to a party, like he was daring me to say something.”

“Rape,” Leo corrects with a broken whisper, stepping closer, almost cradling you now. “He raped you.”

“…Yeah,” you agree after a pause. “I didn’t really see it like that then, though, I guess. He was my husband. That’s what husbands do.”

Leo shakes his head. It’s then that you realize he’s shaking, your story taking more of a toll on him than you realized.

“Leo, I’m—”

“Don’t. Don’t,” he cuts you off, brushing a kiss to your jaw. “I can take it. You were so, so strong. This is nothing. Keep going.”

Swallowing, you wait for him to change his mind. He doesn’t. “…It was so exhausting,” you whisper into his nod, closing your eyes when they begin to burn. “I was always tired. Everything hurt. I was so alone, and when I wasn’t, I wished I was. I wanted to die, but he wouldn’t let me. So I just—stopped fighting him. I gave up.”

“You survived,” Leo bites. “You fucking made it.”

You sniffle again, his words like a balm on all of the pain, just like you knew they would be. Impossibly, you smile, and you wonder just how it is that you’ve been fortunate enough to meet him. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did.” Swallowing, then, you finish the explanation. “I told you once that I was sick.”

“Yeah. Before, when you—Yeah. That was a relapse?”

You nod. “I told you I needed John. He keeps the pills with him.”

“Pills,” Leo repeats. “They help with the infection?”

“I don’t know anything about them. They never really talk to me about anything, just John,” you say. “John keeps the pills on him all the time. But, I wondered, if maybe—”

“Donnie,” Leo says, following exactly where you’re leading. “That’s why you wanted to talk to him.”

“Yeah. That, and, well. I figured you deserve to know exactly the hot mess you’re getting into with me.”

Leo’s grip goes hard on you, and he dips close to brush a kiss to your lips. Despite that, it lingers, sparkling, on your skin long after he pulls away and nuzzles you. “Don’t make it sound like I wouldn’t want to,” he murmurs. Then, reaching behind him, he draws one of his swords with an ease that makes your knees feel weak. “Hold on tight.”

In a blink, you’re in an unfamiliar place. It’s a lab, you see from all of the devices around you, but very unlike the lab in the EPF. It smells familiar, like—

“The Lair?” you guess, looking at the brick of the walls around you.

“Home sweet home,” Leo agrees, before turning his head and bellowing. “Don!”

There’s a thunk somewhere followed by a muttered swear, and you watch as Donatello emerges from somewhere, rubbing his head like he’d hit it. “This had best be something worth—well, hello,” Donnie says, lifting the goggles from his eyes and studying you. “I certainly didn’t expect you again so soon. I was thinking Leo would need to work on you a bit longer for you to come here. I guess it’s a bit more reciprocated than he thought, huh?”

“Donnie,” Leo warns through his teeth. “Not the time.”

“Boo, it’s never the time,” Donnie despairs before sighing and looking you over. “So, do we have a confirmation then? Krang infection?”

“You guessed, huh?” you ask.

Donnie finishes his orbit around your body and hums. “I was temporarily part of the hivemind myself for six minutes while piloting the Technodrome. Distinctly unpleasant. Just enough for me to feel that something was off with you. It was Raph who picked up on it, not me.”

You open your mouth to ask why Raph would have known something was off, but before you can, Donnie keeps talking.

“I’m guessing you have some kind of external limiter on the infection progress. A machine, maybe, or a compound?”

“A pill,” you tell him. “Taken right before I feel the remission coming on.”

“A pill,” Donnie oohs. “I’m guessing they tried consistent prophylactic application and it failed?”

Your eyes shudder shut, your hands finding your forearms in a self-soothe. “…Yeah. It failed.”

“C’mon bro, make with the science,” Leo says, causing Donnie to click his teeth.

“Science isn’t something to be hurried, Leonardo,” he tuts. “In any case, this is new territory for me. If you can give me some of the pills, I can attempt a reverse engineer of it. Do you happen to have some handy? I’m quite eager to get started.”

Your stomach drops. “…I’m not allowed to have it myself. John keeps them with him at all times.”

“That’s no problem, then. Nothing a little bit of slow motion jutsu can’t handle.”

“Not with this one,” Leo cuts in, crossing his arms. “He’s sharp, Donnie. Plus I imagine he knows we’re going to be looking for it. He hasn’t exactly been subtle about pushing my buttons when it comes to her.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you glance at Leo. This isn’t the first time he’s mentioned that he and John talk about you. You’ve been on the receiving end of John’s crueler barrages before; you can only imagine what he’s saying to Leo to try and get under his skin.

“Okay, so, what then?” Donnie asks, clearly displeased.

Leo holds up his hands. “Poke around for now. See what you can figure out. Drop some feelers in the lab down at the EPF. C’mon, hermano, you’re the brains of the outfit. Figure something out.”

A slow grin comes onto Donnie’s face. “You mean… I have permission to dig now?”

“Get the whole band in on it, I don’t care. Just—be subtle. We’ve got some precious cargo at stake here.”

…Meaning you, you realize, tangling your fingers together while Donnie speeds off towards some kind of megascreen computer. A gentle weight rests in the small of your back, but before Leo can say whatever it is he’s about to, you cut in.

“There’s—one more thing,” you say while turning to him, watching his mouth close. “It’s… It’s a conversation we need to have. Privately.”

Leo straightens, and nods. “Sure thing. C’mon, my room’s over this way.”

Leo leads you through the Lair, down one of the meandering halls. A little bit down the way, you spy a railcar. Inside, it’s very clearly Leo’s space. You can smell him in the air the moment you step inside. The walls are plastered with memories of things he loves, and his shelves are stocked with comic books, little figurines, and trinkets from his adventures. Everything is cast in a soft blue glow from a lava lamp in the corner, next to his bed, where—

—where you see a picture, framed clumsily. A familiar picture of you in a black dress, taking a mirror selfie.

“…You kept this?” you ask, a little surprised to see it.

“It’s the only one of you I’ve got,” Leo responds, his voice soft in the air. “So until I get a better one, that’s it.”

Your chest aches. Turning slowly, you tell him.

“John gave me an ultimatum this morning,” you tell Leo, slowly, each word like a mouth full of nails. This isn’t how you wanted this to happen. “He told me I could have you as much as I wanted, but said that I’m not allowed to use birth control. I told him I didn’t want to have—us—be like that. And he told me that I either fucked you, or he’d stop giving me the pills.”

Leo doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. It’s a terrifying, overwhelming silence that meets you. Petrified, you keep speaking.

“And it’s—I hate it, so much. He knows this is something I want, and he had to taint it. He always has to ruin everything. It can’t just be something I choose anymore. You were the one thing that was mine, that I could want, and now it’s—”

“Now it’s what?” Leo interrupts, stepping close, close enough that you wipe at your eyes and look at him. “Were you only having sex with me because it was something you could choose for yourself?”

“No,” you bark, hiccuping, frustration making your throat tighten and ache. “You—You’re so—Don’t you get it? You’re the only person that’s ever really treated me like I was human. You taught me how to feel things again. How to want things. You’re—You’re everything to me.”

Choking back on a sob, you finally let out the one true dream, the one you’ve been holding closest to your heart.

“I wish more than anything that I’d met you before all this. That I was normal, and I could just—be yours. I just want to be with you. I love you so much, and I can’t—I can’t let you be chained like that. It isn’t fair to you.”

Soft, gentle hands cup your cheeks. You look up just in time for Leo’s mouth to caress your own, the tender brush of lips against yours halting the cries until they die down to little mewling gasps.

“Say it again,” Leo breathes again your mouth, leaving you to blink through the tears where his agonized face blurs before you.

“Say what?”

“Tell me. Tell me you love me. Tell me it isn’t just me. That you feel the same.”

It takes a moment for your muddled brain to process what he’s saying. But then you do, and your chest aches. “Leo, I—I love you. I love you so much. I love everything about you. Your dorky comics. The way you text me all hours of the day. The way you sigh every time you take a bite of a sandwich. The way your crescents are just a little crooked. I love it all.”

Leo breathes out a pitched thing that sounds like it hurts, his brow furrowing hard. And then it smoothes, and his eyes open to show you all of the stars he’s kept inside, free for you to wish upon each one.

“I love you too,” he responds, swallowing, “so I’ll ask you. I want you to be mine. I don’t care what papers you’ve signed in some courthouse. I want your heart. I want to laugh with you and eat your sandwiches and make love in the moonlight until we can’t move anymore and the sun comes up. I want it all. I’m with you on it, if you tell me you want it.”

It’s more than you deserve. He truly is the beauty to your beast, you think, squeezing your eyes shut. “Are you really okay with it?”

“Donnie’ll work fast. I’ll make sure he’s incentivized,” Leo jokes. “But until then, we’ll have this. We’ll have each other. I’m already yours, whether you take me or not.”

Euphoria. You nod, stepping close, wrapping your arms around his neck and marrying your mouth to his. Then, remembering he prefers words, you part for just a breath and make sure he knows. “I’ll always decide I want you, Leo.”

With a sharp exhale, Leo kisses you again, again, again, hands trailing your body, pushing until you feel the softness of his bed at the backs of your knees. Eagerly, you pull him down on top of you, gushing out a laugh when he wheezes and lifts himself off of you in an apologetic hurry.

“Fuck—Shit—You okay, I didn’t—”

“Stop talking,” you purr into his mouth, licking into it, sliding your legs around his waist and grinding against the base of his plastron. Leo’s wounded noise disappears into your lungs, then is echoed when his hands grip your thighs and help pull you close.

It’s different, this time. It’s just the two of you, here in a dark room. No performance, no spectators, nobody else even in your mind. It’s just you and Leo, moving in rhythm, seeking skin, experimenting, seeing what feels good. You find out that he likes it when your nails sink into his scales, and he gets a smug look on his face when his claws catch your skin and you gasp.

Your shirt hits the floor first, after you reach down and grab the hem, then twist it off over your head. Leo stares down at your tits, at the lines his claws make in your skin when he drags them down from your clavicle to your hips.

“…Didn’t get to see all this last time,” he breathes.

“It’s yours,” you tell him, reaching to his hand and resting it on your breast.

His thumb presses at your nipple, circling it, then flicking it when you sigh out in pleasure to have it touched. His other hand soon mirrors the moves, and you become keenly aware that touches feel very, very different at Leo’s hands than they ever did John’s. You were never very sensitive here, you thought; but just a few moments of Leo’s attention has you shifting beneath him, thighs squeezing his hips just a little tighter.

“…Sensitive,” Leo comments, bending his head down and lapping at the taut flesh. His suckles intensify when you moan, one hand clutching at the back of his skull, the other gripping at his sheet. “Oh, yeah. Gonna have fun with this.”

Fun… right, sex with Leo is fun, you think, huffing a laugh. It’s amazing how such a simple shift in mindset can make the entire experience feel different.

“What… What you did last time,” you start, feeling a little shy.

“When I ate you out?” Leo asks, making your cheeks feel warm.

“Um, no, not that. That was—amazing. But, after that, when you—before you—”

“Use your words, sweetheart,” Leo says, pressing his palms to your skin and dragging his hands to your hips. “Was it my hands? My mouth? My cock?”

A little meanly, he grinds his cloaca into the seam of your pants on the last one, and you realize you can feel him soaking through the fabric of your pants. Meeting you halfway, you think a little deliriously, knowing you’re absolutely drenched where you’re empty and begging.

“F-Fingers,” you get out. “When you were using your fingers, to, um, hold me open.”

“Before I dropped in you?” Leo says, his voice low and rumbling.

“Is that what it’s called?” you breathe.

“Mm. Yeah. When my cock comes out. Nice and wet and ready for you to play with it.” He leans over you, kissing beneath your ear and then sinking his teeth into the soft flesh there. “Have to hold you open for it. I’m big enough to hurt you if I’m not careful.”

“That,” you gasp. “Want—that.”

Leo hums. “You want me to drop into that pretty pussy again? Fill you up and make you get all hazy eyed like before? But baby, I’m barely done playing. I just got started.”

Barely coherent, you lick your lips. “We have all day. I want you inside first.”

At that, Leo huffs a laugh. “True. No hurry this time, huh? No one to tell me to pull out when I should be keeping you stuffed. Man, you looked like you wanted to claw his eyes out when he made me pull out last time.”

It’s probably fucked up that the mention of violence against your husband combined with Leo’s fingers on your pants button is really working for you.

A bit of shuffling gets you finally bare beneath him. Spreading your knees, you reach for him, and he goes with an easy breath. The moment it happens, that he’s pressed to you head to toe, skin against skin, shell against stomach, your legs wrapping slowly around his hips to keep him close, you softly begin to cry.

“Shh, it’s okay, beautiful,” Leo hums into your mouth, kissing you slowly, his tongue petting yours comfortingly.

“Just—feels good,” you whimper, sniffling, coiling around him as much as you can, seeking another kiss’s comfort.

“I know, sweetheart. Feels good for me, too,” he murmurs, reaching down and lining himself up. You feel it, just like before; the press of his cloaca against yours, the way his fingers glide through your slick, caressing first, making the first plunge deep inside to curl and seek.

“A-Ah, Leo,” you gasp, rolling your hips into his hand, quivering with each pass of his scaled skin along the sensitive insides.

“Sure you don’t want me to make you come like this first?” he asks, voice gravelly. “It’d be so easy. You’re basically already there.”

Your eyes burn, skin hot, blood rushing through your veins like starlight. “I—I can’t—I don’t usually come again, and—”

“Hah, tell that to someone who hasn’t felt you,” Leo barks, covering your mouth with his own, mimicking the curl of his fingers inside your cunt with his tongue along the roof of your mouth. You chase, and all you taste is him. Breaking it, he nips your lower lip, and promises, “Don’t worry. You’ll come on my cock again, beautiful. I guarantee it.”

Trust blooms like a flower behind your eyes, so you nod, opening up to him, unfurling. “Make me—Wanna come on your fingers, too. Just like this.”

“Bossy,” Leo says, though the hearts in his eyes give away exactly how he feels about it. “Look at me. I want to see it when it hits.”

The request is difficult to fulfill, as your body naturally wants you to close your eyes and sink into the heat. But the moment his fingers curl, you can’t look away from the enraptured gaze on his face, the way he’s looking at you like he does sometimes, like you’re beautiful or incredible and he wants to do this forever. Pull after pull of his fingers, deep inside where no one else has touched—John’s fingers aren’t as long, even if they are just as skilled at pulling you apart—he finds and caresses places that make your skin feel like a star.

“Oh, god, fuck, right there,” you keen when he turns his wrist and something has galaxies blooming behind your eyes. He rubs against it persistently, and within seconds you’re gone, trapped inside a lovesick gaze.

“Holy shit, that was incredible,” Leo says, pulling his fingers out of you and slotting them into his mouth. You watch dumbly as he licks them clean, carefully as if not to miss a single drop. “Fuck. Now I wanna eat you out again.”

“Next time. Cock now,” you pant, pushing with all your might against his shoulder. He doesn’t even budge.

“You’re adorable,” Leo praises, reaching back between your legs and once more finding your clit. He teases it a little before once more holding you open, his cloaca pressing close.

“Please, please, please—” you chant, slotting your mouth beneath his own, and silently contorting in pleasure when you feel that same penetrating cock from before. Inch after inch, each subsequent one surely the last before no another follows, until at last you’re completely, unquestioningly full.

Leo cradles his arms around your head, his mouth hot and deep against your own as he settles into place. It’s then that a low, primordial rumble begins in his shell, and you think oh, that’s what a churr sounds like, just before he grinds his hips into your own and your thoughts bleed to blue.

It’s… unlike anything you’ve done, the way you couple with Leo. It’s almost a rocking, grinding motion, something slow, something deep. You feel it down to your toes, to the tips of your fingers; an abysmal pleasure that reaches down to the core and seeks something more than just physical. He burrows down to the very soul of you, scooping it out, taking a bite like it’s a pomegranate and he wishes to condemn himself to this place for life.

Through it all, on each breath you manage to take, you whisper his name like a prayer, trapped in the euphoric glow of something awesome. Each wave of pleasure compounds upon the last, growing, building, an investment to a grand finale that is almost terrible for how you know it’s going to absolutely ruin you.

You’ll never be able to have sex with John again, you think deliriously.

The rocking intensifies. Slowly they become defined thrusts. Leo’s hands grip and hold your flesh, one finding your hip to hinge you open, the other your nape to keep your mouth close to his. Each collision of hips rattles your bones, and you very quickly become aware that you are absolutely going to come on his cock as promised.

You don’t have enough air in your lungs to say anything. All you can do is feel, gasping as the edge grows sharp, as the cliff that terrified you once before becomes inevitable. Your nails find skin and sink in; Leo’s churr echoes in your ears; his mouth finds yours and you wail into his possessive kiss as he makes you come, again, untouched.

It goes, on, on, on, seemingly unending pleasure. You can’t tell if you’re still coming or if that’s just what it feels like, now, to make love to Leonardo. You’re pulling him close, greedy for his end, wanting that feeling from before of his come settling deep inside where no one can wash it out. Your teeth flash, and you sink them into his throat like an animal, hips arching into his to force him even deeper, and with a groan, he lets go.

Pulse after pulse of his come fills and fills, more than you can hold, seeping out the side. Moaning with delight, you knead your hips into his own, milking him for more even as his hand snatches to your body with a hiss to keep you still.

“Fuck, fuck, too—much—” he chokes, wheezing when you squeeze on him instinctively. “Fucking demon.”

You laugh, rich and sick with love, skimming your lips to his and drawing him into a kiss that melts him into you. He seeps into every crevice you have, completely boneless on top of you, pinning you in place just in case you had the desire to go. And then, once you break the kiss to just bask in the feeling of him, he tucks his face into your throat and begins to churr again.

The sound somehow brings tears to your eyes, annoyingly so. You’ve probably cried more today than you have in years, you think petulantly, gently stroking the back of his head. It might be embarrassing, were it not for the way Leo so gently brushes them away when they come.

Eventually, Leo begins to stir. You feel the heft of his cock start to disappear and make a protesting noise. Soothing it with a kiss, he explains, “Anatomy. Gotta go back in for a bit.”

“This sucks,” you pout.

“Gives me a good excuse to use my mouth instead.”

“This sucks less now,” you say, causing him to burst out laughing.

The rest of the afternoon disappears into a blur of sweat, come, and ecstasy. You lose count of how many times you make love, and slowly they blur into one long session with no definite end and no definite end. By the time you finally manage to exhaust each other, Leo tucks you beneath his arm and you curl into his shell, dozing to his scent and the gentle thrum of his heartbeat.

“We’ll get it all figured out,” Leo says, his thumb swiping mindlessly beneath your ear where his hand is tucked behind your nape. “You just focus on surviving a little longer. I know you can do it. And I’ll be here when it gets hard.”

Swallowing hard, you nod and turn to press a kiss to his scute.

When you finally step through the portal to come home around supper time, one last kiss dazzling your gaze on the way out, you’re a bit surprised to see that you aren’t alone. Home early, John greets you with a charming, fake smile that makes your skin crawl.

For a few hours, you’d been free. Just—not really.

“Welcome home, darling,” he greets. “I see you’ve been working hard. Good, good. Come here. I’d like to see something.”

You step close, thinking he’s going to check out the giant hickey on your throat, or perhaps the way you definitely stink of sex. Instead, you gasp out when he pins you to the kitchen counter from behind, pressing his body all along your back, his hand gliding towards the waist of your pants.

“You reek of it,” he purrs into your throat. “Open your pants for me.”

Trembling, you reach down and undo the button on your pants, closing your eyes with revulsion when John slides his hand down the front beneath the cotton of your underwear. Then—

“Ahh, there we go,” he coos, finding where Leo’s come has leaked out, where you didn’t wash it so he could check, slowly circling your clit with it. You hate to admit it, but he really is good with his hands. “He really is quite filthy, isn’t he? Or maybe you’re the disgusting one, letting a mutant fuck you like this. Do you like the way his monster cock feels?”

Teeth chattering against the overstimulation of him touching where Leo long left you satisfied, you respond. “Y-Yes.”

“That’s good, at least. Let’s get you stuffed back up. Don’t want to waste any of it.” He says as much while pressing his fingers back inside your cunt, pushing Leo’s come back inside, taking a moment to stretch your abused walls while he’s there. You whimper and tremble, skin blooming hot with shame, before you remember Leo’s words: survive. Just a little longer.

“Such a good, diligent wife,” John praises, pulling his fingers out. He walks over to the sink and starts washing his hands, then buttons your pants for you and presses a cold kiss to your clammy forehead. “Excellent work, as always. Now why don’t you go get cleaned up, and I’ll order us something to eat. You’ve earned a special treat, I think.”

Feeling sick, hoping you’re doing the right thing, you nod and head off to your bathroom. And then, just as you’re staring at the shower with agony writhing in your chest—

Leo (6:49 p.m.)
💙

sent (6:49 p.m.)
💙

—you dare to be bold and hope, just this once.

Somehow, it’s Donnie’s idea to wait a few days before he starts poking around the apartment looking for things. Leo is pushing pretty hard on the get shit done right now and pull my fucking girlfriend out of hell train, and you’re locked very comfortably on the whatever keeps my husband from finding out what we’re doing train. This puts Donatello into place as the moderating force, especially since Raph is quickly shot down as being anywhere close to logical with things and assigned front door watch, and Mikey’s idea of stealth is hanging his ass out the window.

“So, what exactly are you looking for?” you ask Donnie as he steps inside, goggles affixed, some kind of strange contraption in his hand.

“Anything, really,” he says, irritation clear in his voice. “Considering how little we have to go off of as is, I’m kind of desperate at this point.”

“I’m guessing the EPF hack didn’t go well?” you ask, looking to Leo who pinched between his eyes.

“Don’t even bring it—”

“Stupid, stupid, past Donatello, contracting out like that. Never again, I say! I have three of my best cracking softwares working on it around the clock and still nothing! Alas, I truly am my own worst enemy. The price of genius, ahem, ahem.”

…Yeah, you like him, you decide.

The kitchen reveals nothing, nor does the living room, nor the dining room. Then, inside the bedroom, Leo notices Mikey giggling as he goes through your underwear drawer, earning himself a chop to the head that sends the poor thing to the floor. Leo then takes over the duty himself, and you very politely pretend not to notice the way he glances at you halfway through with heated eyes.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Mikey pouts. “There’s nothing here!”

“There’s got to be something,” Donnie grits, turning towards you. “This is your apartment. Where would Bishop keep something important?”

“On him, or in his briefcase,” you reiterate for the ten thousandth time. “He doesn’t bring work home. We’d probably have more luck looking in his office at the EPF building.”

“I could snipe the security cameras and get us in!” Mikey says, making a finger gun and sticking his tongue out.

“That’d stand out too much,” Leo protests. “He can’t find out we’re poking around. We should exhaust here, first.”

“Think,” Donnie says, stepping close to you and getting his face an inch away from your own. “Think. Use the plasticity the hivemind gives you.”

Your stomach clenches in protest. “I—don’t do that.”

“You do today,” Donnie denies quickly. “Think. You’ve seen something. Maybe not consciously. But you saw it. It’s important. Think.”

“I can’t—”

“You will. Think.”

“Donnie,” Leo says in warning, but is promptly ignored as Donnie reaches out and grabs your bicep tightly.

“Think!”

“Donnie!” Leo barks.

The door to the bedroom snaps open. Raph is inside. “We got company. Alpha Bravo is on the way up.”

Your jaw drops open. “What? But—it’s only—“

Donnie grabs your jaw with his hand and forces you to look at him. “No time for that. Think.”

Desperately, you squeeze your eyes shut. You hear Leo start to protest, but he’s silenced—probably by Donnie—giving you an empty slate with which you can think.

…You don’t use your brain like this often. It’s frightening, leaning on the neural pathways that come with the hivemind. Even like this, closed off via the medication, they don’t feel like your own. Memories here that aren’t really your own linger in the folds of your brain. Things like the way Leo looks at you when he thinks you aren’t watching; John checking your coffee cup to see if you drank it all; a cashier giving your wedding ring an envious stare; the security guard at the EPF building glaring at your back. Things you don’t really notice, things you tune out, things that are white noise for your every day.

Things like the day you were exhausted from a relapse, and didn’t really process John losing a pill in the bathroom, not until now.

Your eyes snap open. You’re sweaty and weak. Blinking, returning to yourself, you and only you, you see that Leo’s now the one holding onto your biceps to keep you steady.

“…Bathroom,” you tell them groggily. “Last time I had a relapse. He… I knocked the bottle out of his hands on accident. He dropped the pills. I think he lost one.”

Raph hisses in the doorway. “We don’t have time for this! He’s gonna be here any minute!”

Mind whizzing from the still-lingering connection in your brain, you snap a plan into place. It’s—insane, truly, but if it works, it will be worth whatever punishment is on the line. “Raph, you and Mikey go out the window. Donnie, go into the bathroom. Shut the door behind you and look. Quietly, please.” You then look to Leo. “You and I are going to put on a bit of a show.”

Donnie’s beak wrinkles. “Oh, gross, I have to listen to you two have sex?”

“Even better. You get to listen to us have sex in front of her husband,” Leo says. “He’s probably been looking for that pill every day. If he hasn’t already found it, he’ll get it soon. We should move now.”

“And what if he goes into the bathroom?” Donnie protests through clenched teeth.

“…We’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t,” Leo shrugs, slapping a hand on his twin’s shoulder. “Good luck in there.”

“It’s small. White. Round. About the size of my pinky nail,” you tell him, holding up your hand.

“Great. Awesome. I’m going to try not to puke,” Donnie says, shutting the door to the bathroom.

Just as he does, you hear the key in the front door. Panic flares, and you quickly start stripping. If John catches you before you’ve gotten started, there’s a change he’ll send Leo home. Your only chance is for him to catch you in the middle of it.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Leo says as he pins you onto the bed, slotting his mouth into place to smother your delirious laugh.

At first, you try to track John’s movements through the apartment with your ears. He hesitates in the foyer, likely seeing your shoes but not you. Then into the kitchen, where you hear the water running. Then—

“Ah—!” you gasp, distracted from the thought as Leo’s claws trace down your side to your hip and sink a little into your soft skin.

“Here with me,” he murmurs, that territorial way he gets about him singeing the edges of your focus.

He kisses you again, and this time you focus on him; the slow drag of his mouth against yours, the occasional nip of teeth, the way he sometimes sucks on your tongue like it’s your clit and he thinks he can use it to make you come. It’s an intoxicating experience, heating your blood with a ruthless spark, and very quickly you lose the thread that you’re meant to be a diversion.

Leo seems to be in a similar boat. He doesn’t have that performative swagger about him he gets when John’s around. It’s all him, the Leo you know, kneading a tit in one hand as the other traces little love notes in the sensitive skin beneath your belly button. Gently, you part your legs, nestling him into place and squeezing his hips with your thighs.

“Want you,” you sigh drunkenly against his mouth, swallowing the answering moan while rolling your hips against his. You’re wet; he is, too, but you’re not particularly in a rush for him to fuck you. Instead, you just enjoy the feeling of his wet slit against your own, each grind a slow, lethargic wave closer to ecstasy.

It’s then that the bedroom door opens, and you hear John make a thoughtful sound. “Oh, perfect. I was going to ask you tonight when you were planning on fucking him again.”

“You’re home early,” you hear Leo grunt against your jaw, his tail pressing low between his thighs so his cloaca can fit even better into place.

“I wrapped up my work for the afternoon and was planning on surprising my wife. This is much better, though,” John says, looking around. You stare at his back, heart pounding in your chest as you see him start to approach the bathroom.

“John!” you exclaim, prompting him to stop and turn to look at you. Swallowing, you quickly think of a lie. “I… I was hoping you’d watch, actually.”

“Oh?” John says, turning away from the bathroom door and tilting his head to look at you curiously. “What makes you say so?”

Oh, fuck. You hadn’t expected him to want clarification. Luckily, Leo’s a much better liar than you, and he jumps in.

“She came harder when you did,” he says—an unholy lie, but one you can allow as it has John’s smug aura all but filling the room. “I think she likes it when you watch.”

“Is that so,” John says, his voice taking on an odd cadence you don’t really recognize. “In that case, I suppose I can take some time to partake.”

He passes the bathroom and instead grabs the chair from the corner of the room. Bringing it close, he takes a seat and crosses his legs, folding his hands in his lap. You exhale shakily; one crisis averted, and you can get through one more session of Leo fucking you while John looks.

Leo sits up on his heels then, peeling his shell away from you. You hate it, kind of obsessed with how it feels when he fucks you while crushing you beneath his weight; but you understand the performance of this one and reach up to start playing with your tits.

It’s a delicate balance, you know. You need to give Donnie enough time to tear the bathroom apart quietly, but you need to move quickly enough that John doesn’t lose his attention. Leo seems to agree, as he skips his usual long foreplay and instead guides his hands to your hips.

“Fingers or mouth today?” he asks, making you swallow. John thinks oral sex is disgusting. He’s more likely to walk out if that’s on the table.

So you answer, “Fingers, please.”

Leo nods, and you slowly exhale as he glides a single finger down your stomach, all the way to your clit. One, two circles, three, before he dips down to your cunt and circles the opening there. You clench in anticipation, making him huff a laugh.

“So pretty here,” he murmurs, gently pressing at the entrance without dipping inside, going back to your clit to give it some more attention. “Already wet, too. All I did is kiss you. You want it that much?”

You nod, biting your lower lip—only for John to reach out and grip your jaw, using a finger to pull it free.

“None of that now, darling. Let’s hear those pretty noises,” he says, and you nod obediently. But he isn’t done, his eyes now shifting over to Leo. “As for you. Let me see how you finger her.”

Leo looks up at him and sneers. “I don’t need your input on this one.”

“It’s not for you, fool,” John retorts. “You may be her new favorite toy, but I’ve been fucking my wife for ten years. I know a thing or two about making pretty holes feel good. Take for example, this.”

You then watch as John reaches out and dives two fingers into Leo’s cloaca where it’s soft and loose from your caresses. He opens his mouth on a snarl, teeth flashing in the light, but—John’s fingers crook, and his body contorts against his will. Helpless to do anything but accept unwanted sensation, Leo trembles, slit leaking around John’s wrist, hips arching into it as his mouth drops open and a broken moan falls out of his mouth.

“Curl your fingers like that,” John says, pulling his hand out unceremoniously, “and you’ll have her coming in half the time of your long, drawn-out nonsense.”

Standing up, John sighs, going over to the dresser and picking up a handkerchief for his hand. Sensing that he’s leaving, you call to him, “John—”

“You know what you’re doing, Leonardo. You’re just seeking my approval, for whatever reason. I’m bored. Make sure you put that cock of yours in her before you finish, and get that come nice and deep. Don’t pull out until it’s all inside.” Reaching up to his tie, he loosens it, looking now to you. “I’ll order some take in. For two,” he enunciates, shooting Leo a miffed look, then heading out and shutting the bedroom door behind him.

Your attention turns to Leo, who’s sitting there looking stunned. Gingerly, you sit up, reaching your hands out to cup his cheeks. Heart aching, you stroke his skin, calling sweetly to him. “Leo? Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not—” he bites, brow furrowing, anger and disgust rippling off him almost tangibly.

“You’re right. Bad question,” you soothe. “Let’s stop. What do you need? Hug? Water?”

Leo’s eyes open, studying you, and you wait patiently for his answer. Then his lips wobble, pressing hard together, and he very gently eases into you until he’s got you pressed to the sheets. He curls protectively over you, his shell to the door, and his eyes water as he takes you in.

“You’re looking after me,” he says, causing you to stroke the red crescent on his cheek softly.

“Of course I am. I love you.”

Leo shakes his head. “You’ve—You’ve had to put up with that for years. I can do it once for you.”

You frown. “Leo. You don’t have to put up with anything.”

“You’re not picking up what I’m saying,” Leo says, the gears in his head all but audibly whirring for how hard he’s trying to put his feelings into words. “…Can you touch me there?”

You think, then, “Your cloaca?”

“Yeah.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your cheek. “It helped you, right? When I touched all the places he touched?”

…Oh. You understand. Nodding, you get what he wants. What he needs. To use you to cover it up, to make him forget, to rewrite all of the places and memory of hurt and replace them with pleasure instead.

“Tell me if you need to stop,” you command him, and Leo laughs easily against your mouth.

“Bossy,” he whispers like a love confession, kissing you deeply and moaning the moment your fingers press into his giving flesh.

He’s soft and warm inside, a bit like your cunt on the rare occasion that you’ve explored it. He seems a lot more sensitive here than you are, though, with no particular place seeming to feel better than the other. You glide your fingers along every inch you can find, catching on the rim and giving it a little pull, delighting in the way that has him quivering against you, mouth open on a soundless cry as his kiss dies into something akin to shock.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps out, breathing picking up, body writhing a little against your own, his hands clenching hard in the sheets by your head. “Fuck, sweetheart, fuck, fuck—”

You slide your fingers inside as deep as you can, fluttering them a bit like he does to you. His entire body quakes, a high-pitched chirping noise coming from his throat, and you feel something press up against the pads of your fingers, first a little, then more, growing in size, swelling forth.

“Oh, is that…?” you start, circling the tip and recognizing it by touch. You’re a bit in disbelief that that thing fits inside you, as even in here it’s genuinely impressive in size. You try to see if you can wriggle your fingers past it, get a gauge on how thick and long the rest of his cock is, but the tight fit has Leo jerking against you like you’ve tased him, and his already thin control snaps clean.

“Fuck you, lemme fuck you, please, lemme fuck you—” he babbles, kissing you again and again, like he’s trying to consume you mouth first. Nodding as best as you can, you spread your legs and try to line up to his cloaca, and this time, he doesn’t hold you open.

He drops, and you barely manage not to scream.

The slide of his cock is faster, deeper than usual, sliding home and piercing you like a spear. That itself is enough to get you close, but then he slides out and in, hard, deep, thrusting with his legs hard enough that the headboard cracks against the wall. Reaching up, he grabs it for leverage, leaving you to clutch at his shell while he fucks into you like a beast.

Neither of you speak, reduced to an animal instinct to come and breed. You’ve never felt so close to him, heavy fat tears sliding down your face as he absolutely rails into you. Blood boiling, heart racing in your chest, your skin flays and burns in the heat of ten thousand suns. You couldn’t stop even if Krang herself commanded it of you. Only Leo controls you now, and he serves at your altar alone.

The smell of sex permeates the air with the sounds of sin. You’ve never been so wet, and he’s hitting places inside that clap and make you squeal like a fucking porn star. Him, too, matched with a deep animalistic rumble that sounds like something a dragon would make. Breathless, chasing the peak, you wrap your legs around him and wail as you orgasm rushes close. Then—

—oh, fuck, it hits and you’re lost, you’re gone, pixelated into stardust, ten thousand fractions of yourself beneath his gaze. He doesn’t stop; he keeps fucking you, ignoring the way you’ve clearly come, ignoring the limits of your body as you start to sob, because you haven’t told him to stop and never will. You want to die like this, getting fucked by Leonardo Hamato, and if this is your end, so be it.

You lose track of time. It fades into nothingness beneath the rapture Leo heaps onto your body like adoration, like love, until at last he too meets his end. One last grinding thrust melds his hips to yours, his cock reaching into impossible places as he coats your insides with come. Hot, wet, it seeps into every corner, etching you, marking, scenting. He pulls your hips close, claws breaking the skin, head bowed as his shoulders heave with every breath.

…He looks more animal than human, now, you think, wondering if the same is true of you. Perhaps this is why you’re so well matched. One questionably human creature fucking another.

Then, with a tenderness that feels impossible after the absolute brutal ravishing you just received, Leo curls forward and tucks himself into place. Head to toe, he matches you, tangling up so deeply in your limbs you can’t even really tell which is yours and which is his anymore. His face burrows deep into the sweaty clave of your throat and shoulder, his tongue lathing lazy strokes on salted skin like you’re a treat. Through it all, his cock remains deep inside, plugging you, just like it should be.

“…Th’t was incred’bl,” you slur, unable even to protest when Leo wheezes with laughter.

“…Can’t feel my legs,” he agrees, throat completely fucked out.

With the last of your energy, you bring your hands to his nape and massage it, kissing at the top of his skull. “…You okay?”

Humming, Leo nips your skin before straightening his neck, aligning his face next to yours. “Depends. You okay?”

“You’re here. So yeah. I’m okay.”

“Then I’m okay,” Leo responds, closing the minuscule gap and kissing you. It’s slow and meandering, almost like his tongue is apologizing for the cruelty his body heaped upon yours. Then, with a smack, Leo breaks the kiss and sighs out against your cheek. “We gotta get your fingers back in my cloaca pronto.”

“I’ll say. I thought you were about to come just from that alone.”

“You have no idea.”

At your hip, your phone vibrates. You reach down with a jellied arm and unlock the screen.

Donatello (4:12 p.m.)
Gross. Gross. You’re disgusting. Gross. Barf. Puke. Et cetera

Donatello (4:12 p.m.)
Setting that aside. Is this what I’m looking for?

Donatello (4:12 p.m.)
Attachment: 1 Image

Your heart stops. Your extremities tingle. “…He found it.”

Turning your screen to show Leo the picture Donnie sent, you watch as his eyes go wide, his fingers zooming in on the picture like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, either. “Holy shit. He actually found it.”

Looking to Leo, you exhale sharply as he crushes his mouth to yours in a spirited, spontaneous kiss of relief and joy. You savor it for a moment, then two, before you pull back and try to remember that this was, in actuality, the easy part of the plan. Donnie still has a lot of science to do.

Pressing your hand to his scute, though, feeling his heartbeat thrum even through the hard shell, warmed by the way he grips his own over it like he can’t bare not to touch, you let just a little more hope into your heart.

“Okay. The two of you need to go. Tell Donnie I’m sorry for scarring him. I owe him some coffee.”

“Lots of coffee,” comes the muffled response from the other side of the bathroom door. “And donuts.”

“And donuts,” you agree, smiling brilliantly. “Good luck.”

“I’ll text you any updates. Otherwise, sandwiches tomorrow?”

Donnie wretches. “Oh, god, is that what you two call it? Some kind of sick code word for—”

“Sandwiches,” you agree. “Go get him before he gets us caught.”

Taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger, Leo gives you one more kiss for the road. This one is softer, abiding against your skin long after his lips mechanically part from your own.

“We’re going to do it. Wait for me,” Leo says.

“I will,” you promise, heart shimmering in your throat to the same harmony as Leo’s blue portal.

Hope, it seems, is as much a fool’s errand as ever.

Days pass first. Then weeks. Then a month passes with no news from Donnie, only a quiet tension that sings in Leo’s shoulders every time you meet. To his credit, Donnie doesn’t ever seem to come out of his lab, apparently obsessed with a success you slowly realize is not to be found.

Just before the second month mark, Leo asks if he can take you somewhere special, and you agree.

To say that you’ve never been to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge feels obvious. It’s oddly quiet up here, so far up, with the wind and the distant city ambience all that distract your ears. The height is a bit precarious, but with Leo at your side, it feels impossible to be afraid.

And, to your surprise, just a little though the light pollution, you can see the stars.

“It’s beautiful up here,” you comment, leaning against him once he has the two of you properly situated off the side. “Do you come here often?”

“Only when I need to clear my mind.”

“So a lot.”

“Yeah, a lot.”

You huff a laugh, then hum thoughtfully. “Did you need to clear yours, or did you think I needed to clear mine?”

“A bit of both,” Leo hems. “You’ve been seeming kind of down lately. I know I’m stressed the fuck out. Thought the two of us could so with something special.”

He then procures a bottle of wine—alcohol-free, of course, you note, because Leo absolutely lives to spoil you.

“Have I ever told you that you’re the best?” you ask, accepting the bottle when he passes it to you for the first swig.

“Once or twice a day for the last three months. But I’ll take another one,” he answers.

For a few minutes, it’s just that. The two of you, side by side, sharing a bottle of non-alcoholic wine, gazing out over the city. Then, an odd kind of ataraxia takes hold, and you find yourself gazing into the empty maw where your heart should be.

“…I’m actually only sober because of Krang,” you confess suddenly to Leo, picking at the non-alcoholic label on the bottle with a fingernail.

“What do you mean?” he asks, watching you do it.

“The loss of control. It’s kind of a trigger for me, I guess. Any kind of intoxication. Drugs, alcohol. Anything that disconnects me from my body. I hate it. Makes me think of Her.”

Leo makes a thoughtful noise. “Makes sense. I’d be scared too if it were me.”

“Did Krang scare you? When you fought Her?” you ask, looking up to Leo.

“I didn’t really fight her that much,” he answers. “I mostly fought Krang One.”

You blink. “One. One? There were two?”

“Three, actually,” he answers. Squinting at you, he says, “I guess they didn’t have that in the EPF files?”

You bite the inside of your mouth. “I guess they might. I’m not really a member of the EPF.”

“…But Bishop said—”

“—that I’m an employee. But I’m not. I’m a test subject.” Leo stares at you, then slowly reaches over and takes your hand in his own. It’s warm and comforting. “I could read some stuff that I got from John’s office. But not all of it. It was his idea to keep a story straight about who I was.”

“…I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, and you smile a humorless thing that cuts the edges of your mouth and makes your soul bleed.

“He decides everything,” you continue. “What I eat. What I look like. The clothes I wear. I don’t even remember what my own style was. I don’t really like the things I wear, but he buys them, so I wear them. My entire life is just one string of decisions made by John Bishop.”

Silently, Leo pulls you close and nuzzles your temple. It should comfort you. A long time ago, it would have. But you know Leo now. You know what he’s doing. Quietly, you call him on it.

“Leo. Why did you really bring me here?”

He goes still. He breathes in. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, barely heard over the night air.

“Donnie can’t duplicate the pill.”

The sentence you’ve been dreading for months hits your ears, and even with all the mental preparation, it hits you like a stone. Your fingers go cold, and you realize, suddenly, just how much you really had been hoping. One last hope, struck down, deceased.

Your body goes numb. It really is hopeless.

At your side, Leo snatches at your hand, almost like he can feel the life he’d built draining out of you. “Or at least, not yet, he’d said. Or easily. Something. Sweetheart, you—please, look at me.” You do, and you see a kind of frenzy on his face, even as he paints on a smile. “We’ll—We’ll fake your death. Donnie’s done it before. The idiot’s got into so much trouble with the feds, you wouldn’t believe, and—and we’ll just—break into the EPF and steal the pills. Get a supply, give Donnie more time to work on it.”

You tilt your head. “Do you really think they’ll keep making them once I’m dead?”

Leo flinches hard, but he doesn’t give up. His face gets hard, though, and his hand tightens on your own. “You asked me once how Raph knew about your infection,” he says. “It’s… It’s because he was infected too.”

Your eyes widen. “What? Raph was?”

Leo nods. “They took him and changed him. He was part of the hivemind for almost a day. But I was able to connect to his ninpo and helped him through it. He beat it, all on his own. And you—I could do that for you, too.”

“I don’t have any ninpo, Leo,” you remind him.

“You—You’re one of us, though. You’re part of us,” he proclaims, reaching over and resting his hand over your heart. “It’s… It’s risky. You’d have to connect back to the consciousness.”

Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach twists with anxiety. “That would mean not taking the meds.”

“It would,” Leo acknowledges, his mouth grim. “And I talked to Donnie about it, and he said… he said he wasn’t confident the pills would bring you back at that point, if we couldn’t do it.”

…He’s been working so, so hard behind the scenes to cure you, you realize. Your throat tightens hard, your stomach swirling with a fucked up mix of love and despair that hurts and twists and cuts. Your entire body feels tight, every breath an agony.

“You know,” you say, softly, a little like a song, “I never did think I would experience love.”

Leo’s mouth twists. “You—You just hadn’t met me yet.”

You laugh, and for once, it’s a real, pure laugh. One that comes from a place you were sure you’d lost. Taking in a deep breath, you look at Leo and see an expression of total heartbreak on his face, like he knows what you’re about to say.

“I’m… tired,” you confess to him. “I’m just so tired. Always waiting for Her to come back, always terrified of John. If… If I asked you to… would you kill me?”

Leo’s grip on your hand becomes painful. You don’t pull away. You let it ground you, a little concerned that you’re liable to float away like a balloon into the ether without it.

Leo’s jaw works, and you watch him swallow. His eyes well, but his face is intense. Sure.

“…It would haunt me for the rest of my life to kill someone I love,” he croaks, but does not stutter. “…But if that’s what you want. What you really want. If that’s your decision. I’ll do it.”

It’s an absolutely revolutionary level of choice. A choice you’ve never once had. The choice to just… give up. The one choice you’ve wanted this entire time.

Somehow, having it now, gives you the courage to give hope one last little try.

“…Okay,” you tell him. “I’ll try it then. I’ll try to have you help me through it. And—And if it fails, I want you to be the one to kill me. Before I can hurt anyone.”

“I promise,” Leo warbles, reaching out to pull you close to his shell. You go easily, holding onto him desperately, quivering at the thought of something as terrifying as letting yourself fall once again into that crimson, blood-soaked hell. “I’ll save you. Whatever it takes. I promise.”

“You already have,” you whimper into his throat, knowing that your grip has to hurt, not loosening up, not hearing him complain.

After a moment, Leo changes his hold so that you’re settled in his lap. Looking out over the skyline now, it looks different. Beautiful in a way that you couldn’t really appreciate before, not when there had been uncertainty and fear. Things you don’t really feel, not anymore.

“It’s so pretty here,” you say, looking over your shoulder and sending Leo a bright smile. “Thanks for saving it, hero.”

And then he does something he rarely does; he ducks his head in embarrassment, pressing his hot face to the back of your nape and pouting as you laugh into the night sky. If he could, you imagine he’d be bright red with a blush, backed up by the way he starts grumbling into your skin while fishing around in a small portal he makes.

“Here. Donnie made this for you,” he says, taking your left hand and clasping what looks to be a fancy watch around it.

“A watch?”

“A tracking bracelet with a homing SOS beacon. So I can come to you when it happens. And a watch.” He then hesitates, tracing over it with his fingers, and he presses one more to your ear. “It’ll have to do until I can get you a ring you actually like this time.”

Slowly, you turn your head to see him giving you the cheesiest grin of all time. It falters a little when your eyes start to well up, but he’s quick enough to laugh when you press your face against his throat so you can sob there instead.

“Happy tears?” he asks, threading his fingers along your nape when you mutely nod.

If John notices your new piece of jewelry, he doesn’t say anything. He’s become incredibly tolerant of the fact that Leo has become territorial over you, almost like he’s gotten exactly what he wants.

It’s surprising, then, when he calls you to his office at the EPF building one day, maybe a week or so after your conversation with Leo on top of the bridge.

“You seem different lately,” he comments after a quick greeting, and you calmly give him a nonchalant answer.

“I’ve just been tired lately,” you tell him. It’s honest, if a bit misleading. The best kind of lie.

“How do you feel?” he asks, his gaze piercing. Obediently, you swipe your tongue along the roof of your mouth. It tastes of flesh and fate.

“…Fine,” you respond, looking to spin the conversation away from Krang and closer to literally anything else. You aren’t exactly an S-Class liar like Leo is. “I’m not sure why I’m tired, to be honest.”

John leans back in his chair and studies you, then asks a question that shocks you a little. “When was your last period?”

“I—I’m sorry?”

His eyes narrow. “Your last period. When was it?”

Stunned into compliance, you do the calculation. “About… four weeks ago?” Does he think you’re tired because it’s coming up?

“…You’re late,” he says, and you watch, baffled, as a delighted grin crosses his face.

“John, what… What are you saying?” you ask carefully. You aren’t pregnant; Leo would have smelled it on you. But you don’t tell him that, as something is definitely going on with him.

“You’ve asked me before why I married you,” John says, the whiplash keeping you quiet. “I’ve told you many half answers.”

“…I was aware,” you tell him. “I always thought it was because you wanted Father’s approval.”

“That was part of it. Again, a half answer,” John says. He stands from his chair, putting his hands behind his back as he paces across the room and back again. “How many people survived Krang infections?”

“…One, that I’m aware of,” you cite, meaning yourself.

“And how likely do you think it is that Krang herself would be interested in being poked and prodded?”

A voice on the edge of your thoughts tickles and teases. Try it. You push Her to the side, for now. “I think the very thought is absurd.”

“Precisely. So if a person was interested in studying just what makes Krang so powerful without the need for oversight, what would you propose happen? Let’s say, for arguments sake, that the person is male, and the subject in question were female. And let’s make her his wife, just for fun.”

…A cold hypothesis closes around your throat like talons.

John, astute as ever, sees it and laughs. “Of course, the possibility of you becoming pregnant was always slim. The talking coats downstairs warned me about it when I asked. But mutant DNA… it has a propensity to spread. Especially potent DNA, like that in semen. Now, imagine this: someone with Krang DNA and all of its gifts, blending with the power of mutant DNA. Half mutant for sure. Maybe even half Krang? Oh, what a rarity that would be. Imagine the lessons one could learn from the flesh of such a creature.”

Nausea billows in your gut. You clutch at your chest. “You—You wanted Leo to get me pregnant?! So—So you could experiment on my child?!”

“I was clear, wasn’t I? No birth control allowed. And now here you are, late on your cycle. The humiliation of letting my beloved wife rut with an animal pays off at last, it seems.”

The sentence all but literally slaps you in the face. Only the cumulative practice of a decade’s worth of subservience keeps you from reacting beyond a flinch. No; you play the part of the perfect wife, just like you always have, no matter how deep the roiling fury inside.

It works. John tuts, coming close, pressing his warm hand to your cheek. “You seem a bit feverish. Intense news for you, I’m sure. You have a very important job for the next few months. Why don’t you go home and rest for me, darling?”

“…Okay,” you tell him, stepping outside of his office, leaving the building, and stepping onto the sidewalk. Your stomach twists and turns, the frozen chill of the news scraping up your spine with agony. You shiver, wrapping your arms around you, horrified at the news. All the way to your apartment, into the elevator, you battle with the rage and hate and need to rip John’s head off that you’ve kept bottled up for so long. Your teeth snarl. Your tongue presses to the roof of your jaw.

Your mouth tastes of blood that isn’t yours.

Suddenly, you realize that your reactions weren’t just your own. You look over to the mirror in the hall next to you, and you see a reflection. A person stands there. She’s pretty. Leo would like her. She looks scared, though. Like she’s realizing something terrible is happening.

(You are no longer yourself.)

―あなたは一人じゃない。

Your eyes snap open. Clumsily, your hand hits the watch face on your left wrist. It beeps with a turtle icon that flashes once and then disappears. Donnie’s work, surely, you muse, unlocking your door and screaming when you see a dead body. Your dead body.

“Why are you yelling?!” Donnie yells, while you swear profusely and turn your back on the sight.

“Because—! I just walked in on my fucking corpse!” you yell back. “Sorry if it freaked me the fuck out!”

“So dramatic. Mikey and Raph said they’re—” Donnie grumbles while rolling his eyes, though he’s interrupted by Leo crashing from the bedroom, eyes wild until they settle on you.

“You okay?!”

“She’s fine, she just flipped out when she saw—”

“Jesus, Don, right here?” Leo grimaces, clearly uncomfortable with the thing itself.

Your stomach lurches. It’s not entirely because of the corpse.

Seeing it, Leo reaches over and cups your cheek with his hand. For a moment, you turn your face to it, seeking comfort; but then She comes in, and you clench your fist against the urge to test his severed head as wall decor.

“Yeah, it’s coming,” Leo says, gazing into your eyes. “Those aren’t your eyes.”

“…She really wants you dead,” you explain, causing him to bark a laugh and smack a kiss to your mouth.

“Yeah, well, it’s mutual. Here, give me your ring.”

Your wedding ring. You haven’t taken it off in over a decade. Reaching down, you twirl it off, studying your hand without it. It doesn’t look like yours anymore—though that could also just be the hive mind dissociating you away from yourself.

“All right. Don’t look over here,” Leo cautions you.

“Why?” you ask.

“Because. When I put a ring on your finger, it’ll be the real deal. I don’t wanna spoil the surprise.”

You splutter a laugh that turns into a coughing fit. Before you can fully recover from it, Donnie’s in your face with a piece of paper and a pen. “What’s this for?”

“Suicide note. Make it convincing,” he cautions.

…That won’t be hard, you think, reflecting on the conversation you just had with John. You open your mouth to ask Donnie if you can make the corpse pregnant, but suppose that really it’s irrelevant. You can say you killed yourself because you thought you were pregnant. Whether you actually are or aren’t isn’t really a thing that matters.

It’s shockingly cathartic, writing the note. It takes you longer than it should, due to the fact that Leo and Donnie keep having to ping you back into yourself. It’s terrifying, and the urge to call this whole thing off and crawl back to John for the pill you know is sitting in his coat pocket makes your hand quake.

“Jesus. You write one of these before?” Donnie asks, reading over your shoulder once you tell him you’re done. “It reads mighty convincingly.”

“No. Just… have some baggage,” you say, closing your eyes when you feel a comforting pair of lips on your crown.

“You good here, Don?” Leo asks, and Donnie pauses, turning and looking at you with serious eyes.

“Listen to me,” he says, gripping your shoulders with both hands. “You can do this. Follow Leo’s voice. Focus on that feeling. Repeat after me. I can do it.”

“I can do it,” you say, except it sounds like it’s someone else’s voice.

“Good.” Donnie then turns and walks up to Leo, hesitating, and crushing him with a hug. You hear a muffled good luck before he pulls away, and then with a flash of blue, you’re… somewhere.

It’s… peaceful here, you think, looking all around you. Somewhere far, far away. The angle of the sun is completely different, closer to sunset. Grass bends in the breeze as far as the eye can see, bleeding red in the light of the dying day.

Red. Like blood. The only thing you can taste, now.

“…I’m really scared,” you confess to Leo in a meek voice, who comes up from behind you. His arms wrap tightly around your chest. He’s shaking. Or maybe you are. Maybe you both are.

He said it again. You hear the words, and you know them, now. あなたは一人じゃない。

“I know,” you whisper. You open your mouth to tell him that you love him, hope that you do, even though all you can hear is a scream.

Your flesh changes. You become something inhuman—something you’ve always been, underneath. Your wings spread and stretch, and you are both you and not you and everyone who isn’t you all at once. Your thoughts erase, the bounds between you and Her and all of the others smudged, then lost.

You are eternal and infinite. You are so, so, so cold. The void meets your heart and sinks in its teeth and bites. You’ll never taste food again. All that is left is meat and melancholy.

It’s dark here. Everything hurts. You bleed in the light of the sun. You want to kill him. You love him. You don’t know who he is. He’s ours. You’re alone. You’ve always been alone. You’ve only ever been part of the all. The abyss stands before you. All you have to do is jump and it will be over. Here, all alone, you can finally end it all.

You’re not alone.

A streak of blue, thin and weak like silk. You reach out and grasp it with your hands. Except… no, you can’t. Hands… you don’t have hands. Things that belong in the void don’t have such things.

You have them. Touch me with them.

You want to. You want to touch that pretty blue silk. It reminds you of something. But it can’t. You have no memories. You have all of them, for eternity. You’re nothing here, nothing outside of yourself. You never really were you, in the end.

I’m here. You can remember me.

It aches. Everything hurts. Your body is lost, torn to pieces, ripped asunder. They broke you, cast you into the endless, froze you, pierced you, condemned you to the end. There’s nothing left of you to mourn. If you aren’t going to kill, to get revenge, you may as well let go.

Don’t let go. I’m not letting go. Fight it. Come home.

You’re so tired.

I know.

It hurts. It hurts so much.

I know.

You just want it to stop.

I know.

You just want—

Say it.

You want—

Say it.

Your eyes snap open. Even in the dark, you can see Leo beneath you. Your hands are wrapped around his neck, covered in blood. Quickly, you release him, trying to scramble away—you were killing him—but he moves faster. His hands snatch at yours, and with a rush, he rolls until you’re pinned beneath him.

You’re sobbing. Open, broken heaves, like you’re a child and something hurts. And it does—it hurts, just like it did the first time, having the hive mind ripped away. A piece of you lost forever, only its scar tissue remaining… except this time there is no scar. There is no loss. There’s only—

“Leonardo,” you wail, the one thing you’ve been crying, clutching onto him, holding him as close as you can. “Leonardo!”

The grip on you gets painful, but you arch into it, pressing closer, clawing at his shell desperately. He doesn’t say anything at all, but the way your shoulder gets wet tells you all you need to know.

Slowly, your blubbering turns to distant sobs, then little hiccups, until at last you’re able to breathe. It’s then that you remember the blood, and you push at him to get his attention.

“Leo, you’re hurt,” you protest, mouth dipping into a frown when he gets a smug look on his face.

“My girlfriend packs a mean punch,” he explains. “It’s fine. You’re good, but I’m better.”

“Leo,” you snap. “I—I told you to do something before I hurt somebody.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me. Not really,” Leo says, dipping close, brushing his beak against your nose.

“Except I did, idiot!”

Leo kisses you. Annoyed, you reciprocate, then push him back.

“Wait, I—did it work? Am I really—?”

He kisses you again. You melt a little more, your hands finding the back of his head, until you turn your face and gasp out.

“Leo, I—”

“Yes. Details later. Let me kiss you,” Leo begs. “Please?”

Slowly, you turn your gaze to him, and realize that—oh. He isn’t wearing his mask. It’s tangled in your hand, and you hadn’t realized. That streak of blue that had caught you from the edge—it had been him, the whole time.

This time, you kiss him. You kiss him, and it’s here, caught beneath his shell, winding into him, licking into his mouth, tasting blood—his blood, blood he happily spent if it meant you never had to taste anyone else’s again.

Pulling back, you look, really look at him. You feel… clear, light, like you haven’t in your entire life that you can remember. It’s like a fog has eased from your brain that you hadn’t even seen, a film gone from the earth. Colors look brighter, more intense, and you see the way Leo looks, really looks, for the first time.

“Oh,” you murmur, reaching up and tracing the edge of his crimson crescent. “You’re…”

“A handsome devil? I know,” Leo grins, except when you just smile, he gets visibly embarrassed about it.

“Yeah, actually,” you agree, looking then over his shoulder. Beyond it, swimming in the skies like a crown, you see an ocean of stars. They remind you of Leo’s eyes, all the times you’d gazed into them and thought you’d seen, paling in comparison of the vision you have now.

“What are you looking at?” Leo asks gently, caressing the edge of your face with a single claw.

“The world. It’s… so different. You should look at the stars. They’re so pretty,” you encourage him, looking back to his face only to halt a breath when his smile gets soft, soft, soft, like he’s seen all he needs right here.

“Now why would I do that when they’re even more beautiful reflected in your eyes?” he says, so seriously that for a moment it makes your heart skip a beat. But then the joy of the moment takes over, and it really really sinks in what happened—that he did it, that you did it; you’re free, uncaged, unbound by anything except whatever desires you have.

You can think, of course, of but one thing that you want. Joyous are you then to know that it is already yours.

Looking at Leo, you laugh, cupping his face and booping his beak with your finger. “How on earth did I fall for someone so cheesy?” you ask rhetorically, watching his eyes sparkle and dance, the galaxies of his own making the ones in the skies pale in comparison.

“Lucky us to have a lifetime to figure that mystery out.”

Your obituary goes live three days later.

“You wanna go to the funeral?” Raph asks, popping in another tart from the batch you’d made that morning.

“That seems kind of macabre,” Donnie drawls. “I love it. Let’s get our old granny suits and go.”

“Nah, I’m good. And stop eating those! They’re for the party!” you remind him, swatting at his hand and laughing when he squawks.

The Hamato clan, you’ve learned, have zero chill. In lieu of anyone attending your funeral, they have, at Splinter’s recommendation, instead thrown a “life day” party. No names mentioned, of course, just friends of friends and good food and plenty of alcohol.

You meet April, at last, who isn’t yet wearing a ring. Pulling Casey off to the side, you ask him about it.

“Well, y’know,” he says, tangling his fingers together anxiously, “I figured since you dumped that other guy and now you have a real relationship with Sensei, you could, y’know…”

“Hold up my end of the bargain about it?” you ask, watching as he sparkles and nods. “All right. Well, you’ll have to start nagging the old man to propose, then. Nothing’s official without a rock on my finger.”

Casey looks at your hand, then nods with a seriousness that is objectively hilarious. “Understood. Mission accepted.”

He disappears all but in a poof, and you’re left to look at April and shrug.

After a few hours of mingling, you get a bit fatigued from all the socializing. Luckily, you find Leo off on the edge of the kitchen, tart in one hand and his heart in the other as you approach.

“You look good,” he says, holding the tart up to your mouth so you can take a bite.

“Mm. Never better,” you say, chewing and looking at him through your lashes. “You, on the other hand, look pissed.”

Leo hums, then turns and heads further into the kitchen. You follow, and accept the water he presses into your hands.

“I ran into Bishop at the office this morning,” he says. His mouth dips into a frown. “He looked—fine. It really pissed me off.”

“That he looked fine?” you ask, not really sure what he’s getting at.

Leo’s dark look deepens. “If I thought something happened to you—if something really did happen to you. I wouldn’t be fine. I’d be beside myself. Just—it makes me mad. So I asked him if he even cared about you at all. Just to. I dunno. I was mad and wanted to get under his skin.”

As per usual. But the way he’s bringing it up makes you wonder if there’s more. “…And he said…?”

“Nothing,” Leo said, before his face gets a little pensive. “But… he did soften up a bit when I asked. But then he just turned and left. I guess that kind of made me even more mad.”

…It’s a question you’ve asked yourself before, of course. What John’s actual feelings for you were. If he cared, or if it was all machinations for his career. The things he did to you could never be reconciled or forgiven, to say the least. But…

“…He always made me my favorite coffee in the morning,” you tell him, thinking of that second mug, wondering what John did in the mornings now. What he felt as he made his own cup, if anything. If he still got two down only to solemnly put one back, or if he felt nothing. If he even still lived in that same apartment where he thought you’d killed yourself because of him.

Leo visibly gets annoyed. “That’s not even close to the bare minimum. I know you have better standards than that. Please tell me you have better standards than that. I will make you coffee twice a day. And tea. I will be such a good husband, it’ll make your head spin. Test me.”

You laugh, nestling up close and tilting your head up for a kiss. “Bold claim coming from someone who hasn’t even put a ring on my finger.”

Leo glances down at your hand, your left hand, where your ring finger is bare. Reaching down, he gently takes it in his own, and brings it up to his lips for a brushed kiss. “I guess you’ll be needing a new last name, considering the whole faked death thing,” he says, before he grins. “I have a good idea of one you can take, if you’re interested.”

Tossing back your head, you press your left hand against his plastron, tilting your head imperiously. Some things never change. “I see how this is going to go. All right, then. I’ve decided. You’re going to put that ring on my finger within the hour. I want it now so I can enjoy it for a long, long time.”

With a grin, Leo has you tossed over his shoulder, making you yelp and drop the glass of water all over the floor.

“Leo!”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Leo proclaims, boldly carrying you through the crowd and ignoring all of the friends and family laughing at him where he's speed walking through them. “Outta the way! I gotta put the ring on my fiancee’s finger! It’s diamond!”

Uninterested in getting away, accepting your inevitable fate, you cup your hands around your mouth and yell at Casey where he's looking at Leo like he's lost his marbles, “Here’s your example! Good luck, Junior!”

“Look at you. Raising my kids already,” Leo says, and you bite your lip when you feel his hands clenching on your thighs where he’s got you gripped in place. “Life's gonna be good when I get you going with one of our own.”

You try not to sparkle too hard. It's a difficult battle, one you're sure you lose. Hope for the future... it feels good. “You just like me bossy.”

“Got me there.”

“All right, then. Be a good fiance for me, and get practicing on making one. I want people to think the sewers are haunted before the end of the week, you understand?”

Leo pauses, and then starts running full speed down the hall towards his bedroom, leaving the bricks there with only your reverberating joyous laughter as proof the two of you were ever there.