Take this pill; I'll feel better. That's what the doctor said. I hold onto the thought. It's the only thing that gets the sticky blot down my throat. When it catches sideways, my mouth fills with sick spit. I swallow water, hoping it will help me get the quick-dissolving capsule down. It comes unclogged. I breathe easier.
The front door opens and closes. I hear Mirajane's laugh before I see her, high-pitched, mellifluous. Gildarts' deep bass follows. I wash my cup and slap it into the dish rack as Mirajane saunters into the kitchen with wild, curled hair and gleaming eyes. She's dressed simply in a pair of black high-rise jeans and a crop top as yellow as a daffodil; she's the type of beauty that doesn't need much else.
She catches me looking at her, smiles, mouth slashing like a cut, and waves.
Gildarts is gentler with a prodding, "Hey, man."
"Hey," I say, noticing he's loaded down with bags of groceries for Mira. He hefts them onto the counter with a flex of his biceps and starts unpacking. It's all very domestic. I lived with Gramps for longer than I ever did with Dad, and he made this apartment home, but still, a part of me flinches from this simple routine.
Mira must notice how I look like a bear stepped into a trap because she lets her fingers run once down my arm as she passes in a waft of flowery perfume. "Are you hungry?"
I can feel my pill break open in my stomach. I nod.
"Go sit. I'll put these groceries away and whip something up."
The way Mira cares about people is simple, though I imagine it must be painful when she cuts open her chest and lays her heart bare for anyfuckingone to stomp on. I never used to be aware of it. I tread more carefully now in an attempt to choose the path of least destruction.
"Thanks," I grunt to please her, and it works.
I take up residence in the living room where the chaise longue stretches in front of a black-screened TV. I settle into it with a gasp of the springs. The world is soft edged with muted light streaming in through the windows. Mira and Gildarts are laughing again. Paper bags rustle. Something sizzles in the pan. I let my eyes drift closed and imagine I can feel my medication righting the wrongs. Thinking wrong. Feeling wrong. Living wrong.
"Hey."
I jostle awake. The sun has crawled a few inches across the sky; I haven't been sleeping for long. Mira holds out a plate stacked high with a smoked meat sandwich, still steaming. My mouth waters. Mira takes up the small square to my right. This, too, is so foreign, so domestic. My shoulder bumps hers while I eat. She watches me like I might find a dog to feed it to when she's not looking. Not a chance. It's only a sandwich, but it's so good, that I finish it in four bites.
"I'll take that." Gildarts appears. It surprises me that he's still here and that he takes my plate, though maybe it shouldn't; he's been on his own for most of his life. Simple things like dishes and laundry are a necessity, things I'll need to learn to do only for myself now; the house is empty. There's a gap in me, a crevasse, a gorge. It threatens to spill open and swallow me down; unlike my pill, there's no chance I'll catch in its throat.
"You're okay." Gildarts' large palms rest against my shoulders and tether me to this couch, this apartment, this moment. His thumbs dig into my knotted muscles; some tension is squeezed out of me. I draw in a breath, deep to fill the hole, and it works, for now.
Gildarts keeps kneading his fingers as if he knows I'm weighted like a helium-filled balloon, no string. Mira reaches across the distance and takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are small and cool and fit into mine with an ease I've avoided my entire life. I lean into it because I can't lean anywhere else and it surprises me the ease with which she takes my weight, my fucking sorrow, and supports me. Even if it's only for an hour, I feel lighter.
Mira draws her thumb across my wrist over the pulse point and scars; she knows my body already and has the keys to unlock and release my anxiety. Her fingers trail up my bicep to my shoulder, where she meets Gildarts' squeezing hands, and back down again. Chills roll down my arms. I take a deep breath, let it out.
"There you go," Mira says quietly. I could be a horse, ready to spook, the way she speaks to me. She shimmies closer, her shins pressing against my thighs as she crosses her legs and faces me.
Gildarts' thumbs move to my neck and punish the knotted muscles there, too. Soon, I'm leaning into his hands, allowing myself to be vulnerable in this way so I don't have to be vulnerable in others. His fingers find the cut of my jawbone and gently tip my head back toward the couch. Giving in allows something to shift; it happens in the space of a second and is spider-web fragile. I could get up now and break it all apart, but I don't.
My pulse beats steady beneath his hands. It's cool in the apartment but I'm hot as Mira flicks open the collar of my shirt to reveal more skin for Gildarts. He leans over the back of the chaise longue to reach me better, smelling clean like soap. My body reacts without my permission, with my chest heaving and my hips arching slightly. Patiently, he moves his hands down my chest. Every move is calculated and cautious as he finds the space between my pectorals and slicks my sweat away with the flats of his thumbs.
Mira's clever hands work on the next button of my shirt, the next, and the other, until the panels fall open and my chest is bare. She makes a noise of approval, something cat-like and pleased. My dick pulses in my pants where it's pinned to my leg by the seam. My thoughts were whirling before; they've uncoiled and stretched sinuously now. There is this. My apartment. This moment. Tripping into the next.
Testing the waters, Mira inches closer. I never would have allowed for this before. Something has come unstuck in my mind, one last bit of resistance finally breaking free, like aged glue left to rot in the sun of Mira's presence. I grasp for her anywhere I can and end up grabbing her by the thighs and pulling her against me. Sometimes, with her big eyes and bigger personality, I forget how small she is. How, when I spread her legs across my lap, she's forced as wide as she can go, how, when I close my arm around her back and hold her close, pressing my hips up, up to her centre, I can eclipse her waist.
Her breath catches. I loosen my arm only to have her tell me, "Tighter."
I pull her close again and she grinds off my lap. It's almost painful, but the pressure, the pressure is sweet.
Leaning forward, Mira cups my chin but seeks Gildarts. I watch from below as he claims her mouth, a small, teasing kiss at first, and then harder. One of them makes a pleased noise. Or it's me as I fumble with Mira's cheery shirt and yank it up. She spills out, full, no bra, nipples hard. I taste her skin around the most sensitive part before I take the raised tip onto my tongue and kiss her the way she deserves to be kissed. She writhes with a gasp of pleasure.
Mira pulls Gildarts to the right side of the couch. My chest gets eager-tight in unfamiliar ways. I watch his body, the way he moves with tampered aggression, confident and male in his wanting. He strips his shirt; Mira pulls his belt loose and frees the button keeping them up. His garments fall away and leave him abruptly nude and startlingly erect. They both look to me for my reaction like the chances of me shying away though we've come this far are still astronomic. I don't know how to say I'm all in. My vocal cords don't work.
I massage my cock into the meat of Mira's thigh and watch Gildarts. His mouth widens into a smile with teeth. He holds his cock tight at the base and feeds it to Mira, one inch at a time, her mouth widening around the width. I kiss her throat, her jaw, the corner of her mouth, and listen to Gildarts' breath arrest with my nearness. He fucks her mouth slowly while cupping the base of my skull. The heat of his palm runs down my spine.
I'm shaking, eager, opening Mira's pants with my clumsy fingers. She pulls back from Gildarts and gets off my lap to get her pants off and I take the opportunity to do the same, kicking them off as unceremoniously as a college kid eager for his first fuck.
Gildarts sits in the spot I vacated. He's still watching me as he works his hand over his length. "Come here."
My palms tingle and my cock tightens, but with Mira's palm on the notch of my hip, guiding me, I'm brave enough to step forward. He meets me halfway and presses his mouth to the head of my cock in a closed-mouth kiss that turns open, wet tongue, dripping spit, a deep, dark moan while he takes me deep and then deeper. I'm caught in the action; minutes roll by.
Mira inserts herself between us, getting on Gildarts' lap with her back to his chest and her centre poised over his erection. While Gildarts sucks my cock, he massages between Mira's legs, finding the right spot to make her hips push back. I know the second her body contacts his; his eyes flutter closed, and he bucks forward. They both whimper.
I fumble for Mira's chin and lift her head. I want her to look at me while he fucks her. Her eyes are glossy blue and euphoric. I almost lose sight of everything, looking at her, but she says, "I want you to fuck me, too," and it's like an electric shock through my system.
Gildarts leans back and pulls Mira with him, arm around her chest, separating her breasts. He spreads his legs wider, and Mira's as well, inviting me inside. I'm not sure she can accommodate both of us, but Mira's always been giving. I get on my knees and line myself up to her opening and with a gasp and a gentle swear from her, I'm in, Gildarts' heat on one side, Mira's on the other.
I hold onto them both as we move in tandem. Despite the vague sense of unreality, for the first time in days, I feel like I'm back in my body.
Haiiii, new readers, old readers. I am alive.
I was feeling a little stuck in my writing and thought I'd come to fanfiction for a break. This filthy, sad little thing is one-third Freyjabee, one-third Mirajens, and one-third Ikathy. Not only did they encourage me, but they also showed me some artwork that sparked *flaps hands wildly* this.
Anyway. I recognize this is short, and smut and not really a work of art, but if you liked even some of it, I do have a work of art with (some) smut called Sorrow's Forest by Kaitlin Corvus, and it can be found on Amazon. (This little novel won me an award, please indulge me, and add it to your GoodReads.)
Mmmkay well. It's been a slice. Happy 2025.
Kaitlin (Freyja)