Game For Two

by NightBl4de

Summary:

The famous and mysterious homosexual novelist Andrew learns that his internet gaming friend, whom he met and became his closest friend after installing the game called Crush Party, is actually his courier, for whom he has had a long-standing and platonic feeling. Coincidentally, this courier, victor is actually one of Andrew's biggest fans. What will this duo, who actually have so many coincidences right next to them, do when these facts come to light?

Notes:

• For Silly.

Chapter 1

Andrew Kreiss’s alarm always rang at 6:15 a.m. sharp.
Not because he needed the extra fifteen minutes before work — but because he liked to drink his coffee in silence before the rest of the city woke.
His mornings were methodical. Grind beans. Boil water. Two sugar cubes, exactly. Sit at the small kitchen table in his dimly lit apartment, letting the bitter heat roll over his tongue. The warmth grounded him, the quiet gave him a head start on the day.
By 8:00, he was in the sleek glass building downtown, blending into the polite anonymity of corporate life. His dark suit was always pressed, his hair combed back neatly, and his voice — deep, deliberate, measured — was only used when necessary.
Co-workers knew him as dependable. Calm. The type who remembered birthdays but never talked much about his own life. To them, he was simply Andrew — polite nod, quick handshake, no drama.
What they didn’t know was that the very same man went home at night, loosened his tie, and became A.K. North — a secret novelist whose works filled the pages of some of the most popular mature M/M romances in niche online circles.
His books weren’t smut for smut’s sake. They were slow burns that made readers ache. He wrote glances that carried more weight than kisses, and when the touches finally happened, they were the kind that made your lungs forget how to work.
His readers didn’t know what he looked like. He liked it that way. The mystery gave him freedom — and safety.

Across the city, Victor Grantz’s alarm was the sun. The moment its warmth slipped through his blinds, he was already sitting up, stretching, messy hair falling in his eyes.
His mornings weren’t neat like Andrew’s. Breakfast was usually something grabbed from the corner bakery, eaten one-handed as he unlocked his bike. The city blurred by him in flashes of morning air, traffic hum, and snippets of overheard conversations from sidewalks.
His courier job was fast-paced — in and out of buildings, quick deliveries, polite smiles that occasionally turned into cheeky jokes when the recipient seemed friendly enough. Victor was good at this; people liked him without much effort on his part.
By the time evening came, his delivery bag was tossed aside, and he was in his small but cozy apartment — lights dimmed, headset on, monitor glowing.
The game he’d been hooked on lately was Crush Party, a colorful, chaotic co-op game that paired two players to complete absurd challenges. Sometimes the goal was to outmaneuver rival teams. Sometimes it was to keep your partner alive through sheer chaos.
Victor played to win, but more importantly, he played for the banter. He was a natural at bratty commentary — not cruel, just sharp enough to keep people laughing or rolling their eyes.

Thursday nights were Victor’s favorite for gaming.
The city outside was winding down, delivery work was done, and the only thing on his to-do list was a cold can of soda and a glowing monitor.
His apartment wasn’t fancy — a one-bedroom tucked above a small print shop — but it had just enough space for a desk pushed against the wall, two monitors, and a cluttered shelf of figures from games he’d half-finished. The hum of his PC filled the room like a familiar purr as he slid into his chair, headset settling over his messy hair.
He cracked the soda, took a long sip, and queued into Crush Party.
The game’s pairing system spun through its little animation, an exaggerated roulette wheel of usernames until finally — "Partner Found — Username: ArkRaven" — popped up in bright letters across the screen.
Victor raised a brow. He didn’t recognize the name from his usual late-night player pool. The avatar appeared on his screen: black-and-gold armor, clean lines, no unnecessary decals or joke accessories. It wasn’t the gaudy “look at me” style he saw on most players — it was minimal, calculated.
The match countdown began, and Victor leaned back in his chair, already grinning.
Victor (V): “Nice armor. What, win a catalog shoot or something?”
There was a pause. Then a voice came through his headset. Low. Smooth. Calm.
ArkRaven (A): “…No.”
It was a single syllable, but the delivery was unhurried, as if the man on the other end could take his time with every word.
V: “You sound like you’ve got a mortgage.”
A: “…And you can tell that from a jump animation?”
V: “Mortgage jump. Responsible jump. Probably iron your socks too.”
A beat of silence — and then it happened. A chuckle, low and warm, slid through Victor’s headphones. It wasn’t forced, not the polite kind people gave to strangers. It had weight, the kind of laugh you could lean into.
Victor felt it settle in his chest, a little unexpected spark.
The map loaded in — bright candy-colored chaos — and they dropped into the first challenge. Victor darted forward immediately, but out of the corner of his screen, he noticed ArkRaven wasn’t rushing like the rest. Every move was measured, precise. He didn’t scramble when an obstacle appeared; he shifted around it like he’d known it was coming.
When Victor made a risky jump that left him dangling from a ledge, ArkRaven doubled back without hesitation to pull him up. No lecture, no sigh — just a steady,
"Got you."
Victor raised his brows behind the screen. Most random partners would have left him hanging and gone for the points.
Midway through the match, Victor started testing him — taking deliberately bad angles, baiting enemies into their path, throwing in cheeky comments just to see if ArkRaven would bite.
V: “Careful, old man, don’t throw your back out carrying me.”
A: “…You’re not that heavy.”
The smoothness of the reply, paired with that slight pause before it, made Victor’s grin widen.
By the final round, they were in sync in a way Victor didn’t expect for a first-time duo. He’d move left; ArkRaven would already be covering his blind spot. Victor would dash ahead; ArkRaven would hang back just enough to intercept a sneak attack.
When the Victory! banner flashed across the screen, Victor leaned into his mic.
V: “Not bad, old man.”
A: “Not bad, kid.”
The banter felt like it could’ve kept going all night.
And it did.
Instead of logging off like most strangers, ArkRaven queued up another round. Then another. By the third game, they were trading stories in between objectives — Victor talking about the nightmare of traffic in the city, ArkRaven giving vague but oddly charming anecdotes about coworkers and terrible coffee.
Victor didn’t know it yet, but that voice — calm, low, with a subtle edge of amusement — would start to feel like part of his nightly routine.

The second night after their first match, Victor logged in expecting to bounce between random partners again.
But there it was — ArkRaven’s username — already lit green in the lobby.
He didn’t know why it made him sit a little straighter in his chair, or why his fingers were already moving to send a quick invite before he could think about it.
The connection beeped, and that familiar calm voice slid through his headset.
ArkRaven (A): “Evening.”
Victor (V): “Look who’s here. Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”
A: “…Or you couldn’t stay away from me.”
Victor huffed a laugh, leaning back in his chair. Smooth bastard.
Early Games
At first, they stuck to game talk — light banter between obstacles, coordinated moves when things got tricky. But something about ArkRaven’s timing in conversation was addictive. He never rushed to fill silence, never overexplained. He’d let a beat pass before replying, like each word was weighed in his mind before being released.
Victor noticed he liked that. The pauses made you listen harder, made you want to pull more out of him.
He tried to pry little details here and there.
V: “So, what’s your deal? Day job? Secret agent? Mob boss?”
A: “…Something like that.”
V: “You’re not denying it. Should I be worried?”
A: “Not unless you give me a reason.”
Victor bit back a smirk. The man could turn anything into a tease without raising his voice.
Outside the Game
By the end of the first week, their conversations had begun spilling past the matches themselves. They’d finish a game, and instead of saying goodbye, they’d sit in the empty lobby just… talking.
It wasn’t deep confessions — not yet — but little threads of daily life. Victor would complain about the bakery selling out of his favorite croissants by the time his delivery shift ended. ArkRaven would mention the slow death of the office printer and how no one dared touch it.
One night, ArkRaven mentioned he liked cooking but rarely had the time.
V: “Cooking? Like, serious cooking or microwave cooking?”
A: “Serious. I like to take my time with it.”
V: “…Figures. Bet you’d make it dramatic too. Knife work and low lighting and all that.”
A: “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Victor laughed — a quick, bright sound that made something warm settle in Andrew’s chest on the other end of the call.

It was Victor who broke the boundary first.
Late one night, after they’d been on for hours, he sent ArkRaven a meme through the game’s private chat — something stupid about “partner who carries the team.” It was harmless, but it was outside the game’s formal voice channel.
The next day, ArkRaven replied — not with a meme, but with a single, dry text: You’re lucky I don’t deduct points for recklessness.
Victor sent back “Daddy’s mad 😏” before thinking, and instantly regretted it… until ArkRaven replied,
Careful. You don’t want to see what happens when I am.
Victor had to shove his headset off for a second just to groan into his hands. Oh, he’s dangerous.
The Late Nights
What started as an hour or two of matches turned into four… five… six. More than once, Victor realized it was nearly sunrise by the time they finally said goodnight.
It wasn’t like with other players, where silence was awkward or filler talk was forced. With ArkRaven, silences felt deliberate, and when they did speak, there was a sense of precision in each exchange.
Victor began looking forward to it in a way that made him a little nervous. He’d catch himself glancing at the clock during his courier runs, thinking, Just a few more hours, then we can play.

 

About two weeks in, something small but noticeable changed. ArkRaven began to throw subtle jabs back at Victor — not just reacting to his teasing, but initiating it.
During one particularly chaotic match, Victor barely managed to dodge a trap and muttered, “That was close—”
A: “You wouldn’t have made it without me.”
V: “Cocky much?”
A: “Confident. There’s a difference.”
Victor rolled his eyes — grinning the whole time — and shot back, “Confident people don’t iron their socks.”
ArkRaven’s quiet laugh came through, low and short, and it hit Victor in the chest the way it had the very first night.
By now, the routine was set: Victor would log in at night, ArkRaven would already be there, and the world would narrow down to just their voices, their banter, and the flicker of movement on the screen.
Neither of them said it out loud, but they both knew — this wasn’t just a random match anymore.

Victor’s Friday morning started like most — late breakfast from the bakery (almond croissant today, thank God), coffee he drank too quickly, and a courier route stacked high enough to keep him pedaling across half the city.
The early summer heat clung to the air even before noon. The wind whipped past him as he wove between cars, the smell of bread from the bakery district giving way to exhaust and the metallic tang of the business quarter.
By midday, he’d already knocked out eight deliveries. His phone pinged with the next job:
Package: Luxury Stationery Set — Address: Clearwater Heights, Unit 1003 — Recipient: Andrew K.
Clearwater Heights was one of those places — not quite gated, but close enough. The streets were wide and quiet, lined with expensive cars that looked like they’d never seen a scratch.
The building loomed tall, all pale stone and glass, the kind of architecture that whispered, you can’t afford to stand here too long. Victor propped his bike near the entrance and took the package from his bag. It was a rectangular box, heavier than it looked, wrapped in crisp brown paper with a label printed in elegant serif font.
He hit the buzzer. A soft chime echoed from inside before the lock clicked. The lobby smelled faintly of lemon polish, with plush chairs that looked too expensive to actually sit on.
The elevator ride was smooth, almost silent, and when the doors slid open on the tenth floor, the hallway was so still that Victor could hear the faint hum of air-conditioning.
He found 1003 and knocked.
The door opened — slowly, but without hesitation — and the man on the other side was…
Tall. Lean. Dressed in loose grey sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt, both just slightly rumpled, as if he’d been working from home and hadn’t expected company. His hair was dark and swept back imperfectly, a few strands falling forward. Square-framed glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, catching the hallway light.
But it wasn’t any of that that caught Victor off-guard. It was the man’s presence — steady, composed, almost quiet in a way that filled the space between them.
Victor’s grin came instinctively, practiced from hundreds of deliveries. “Package delivery,” he said brightly, holding it out.
The man took it with long, deliberate fingers, his gaze dropping briefly to the label before returning to Victor’s face. Pale eyes — cool, assessing — lingered on him a beat longer than most customers’ did. Not suspicious, not unfriendly… just looking.
“Thanks,” he said simply, his voice low and even.
Victor’s smile faltered just slightly — not from discomfort, but from the way the single word resonated through the quiet hallway. Something about the tone tugged at his memory, but he pushed it aside.
“No problem,” he replied, giving a casual nod before turning toward the elevator.
In the brief walk back to his bike, Victor found himself replaying the interaction. There was nothing unusual about it on paper — just another delivery, another customer — but he couldn’t shake the impression left behind.
The man’s voice had the same calm, deliberate weight as…
No. It couldn’t be.
Victor shook the thought off and pushed away from the curb. He had more stops to make.

By the time Victor got home that evening, the sky had already shifted into a deep blue, the last streaks of gold fading at the horizon.
He dropped his courier bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and let himself collapse into his desk chair.
The glow from his monitor was familiar and comforting — the one constant in his nights for the past couple of weeks.
His fingers hovered over the mouse for a moment before clicking open Crush Party.
As the game loaded, his gaze flicked to the friends list.
ArkRaven — Online.
Right on cue.
The First Words
Victor sent the invite without hesitation. The connection tone buzzed, then that voice — low, even, unhurried — slid into his headset.
ArkRaven (A): “Evening.”
Victor (V): “Hey, stranger. Been holding the lobby for me?”
A: “You’re late.”
V: “What, were you counting the minutes?”
A: “Maybe.”
Victor chuckled, leaning back in his chair. Normally, ArkRaven’s calm tone was like cool water — steady, grounding — but tonight, there was something else. A faint warmth hiding under the evenness.

They queued up for a match, and Victor kept the conversation light at first. He recapped a ridiculous delivery from earlier — some old lady who had made him wait while she found the exact change down to the last cent. Andrew gave the occasional amused hum, but didn’t bite on his usual back-and-forth.
Then, during a loading screen, ArkRaven spoke again.
A: “I saw someone interesting today.”
Victor’s ears perked. “Oh? A mysterious office romance?”
A: “Not quite. Delivery guy. Came to drop off something I’d ordered.”
Victor grinned automatically. “What, was he hot or something?”
A: “…Yes.”
The bluntness made Victor pause. ArkRaven wasn’t usually that direct.
V: “Oh-ho. You’re blushing right now, aren’t you?”
A: “Unlikely.”
V: “C’mon, give me the details. What’s your type?”
There was the smallest pause before ArkRaven replied, almost like he was picturing it again.
A: “Bright. The kind of smile you notice before you notice anything else. Confident, but not… fake. Bit of mischief in the eyes.”
Victor’s stomach did an odd little flip.
He forced a laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like you’ve been reading too many romance novels, dude.”
A: “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just been reminded of my type.”

For the next few minutes, Victor played as normal — at least on the outside. Inside, his mind was running in circles.
The description was too close.
The timing was too close.
His memory flickered back to the man at the apartment door earlier: tall, lean, dark hair, glasses, that steady way of looking at him.
The kind of voice that stayed in your head.
…No. No way. It was coincidence.
If Andrew noticed Victor’s slight distraction, he didn’t comment. Instead, during a quiet stretch between matches, he spoke again.
A: “Your turn.”
V: “My turn for what?”
A: “What’s your type?”
Victor smirked into the mic. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
A: “I would. Humor me.”
Victor tilted his head, letting his voice slip into a teasing drawl. “Tall, maybe. Knows how to shut me up without saying much. Someone who… has layers, you know? Looks calm, but there’s something else under it.”
There was a pause — just long enough to make Victor wonder if he’d gone too far — before ArkRaven let out a quiet, almost amused hum.
A: “Sounds like you’ve been reading too many romance novels.”
Victor laughed, shaking his head. Touché.

A few matches later, Victor decided to test the waters.
V: “Oh, speaking of novels — I’ve been binging this one lately. Pretty… mature stuff, but really well-written. About these two guys who…”
He went on to give a vague but glowing description of one of Andrew’s own works — not naming it outright, but hitting enough unique points that any dedicated fan would recognize it.
He expected a joke, maybe a quip about his taste.
Instead, ArkRaven was silent for two beats too long before replying.
A: “Sounds like you’re into the author more than the story.”
Victor grinned. “What, you jealous?”
A: “Should I be?”
The words landed heavier than they should have, and Victor had to look away from the screen for a second.
They played until late — later than usual — and when they finally signed off, Victor sat in the glow of his monitor for a while, headset still on, staring at nothing.
He didn’t have proof. Not yet.
But he was starting to think his favorite gaming partner and the man who’d opened the door that afternoon might be the same person.
And that… was dangerous territory.

The next morning, Victor was useless at pretending he wasn’t distracted.
His first coffee went cold before he even remembered to drink it. His phone buzzed twice with work notifications, and he had to reread them both because his brain kept looping back to last night.
Andrew’s voice.
The way it had gone soft — not warm exactly, but personal — when he’d described the delivery guy.
The fact that the description was almost uncomfortably close to… well, him.
And then there was the pause. That fraction of a second between Victor describing his “type” and Andrew’s amused hum. The kind of pause where you could practically hear someone deciding how much to give away.
Victor’s Memory Replay
By the time Victor was halfway through his delivery route, he’d already replayed yesterday’s apartment scene at least a dozen times.
He remembered the smooth, deliberate way Andrew had opened the door. The sharp, quiet focus in those pale eyes. The voice that slid out in that calm, steady tone.
He tried to convince himself it was just a coincidence.
Plenty of tall guys in glasses existed. Plenty of people had that low, collected voice.
And it wasn’t like Andrew had given his real name in-game. ArkRaven could’ve been anyone.
But every time Victor thought about the way Andrew had said “Thanks” in the doorway, and then the way ArkRaven had said “Evening” a few hours later, the voices aligned in his head like puzzle pieces clicking into place.
Andrew’s Morning
Meanwhile, in Clearwater Heights, Andrew was staring at the unopened box of luxury stationery on his desk — the one Victor had delivered.
He’d recognized Victor instantly yesterday.
Not from real life — they’d never met before — but from the feeling.
The way Victor smiled when he spoke. Bright, a little cocky, like every word was meant to hook your attention. And the eyes — that glint of teasing energy that made you think he could ruin your composure if you let him.
Exactly the way Andrew had always imagined the character “SunChaser” from Crush Party might look in person.
And the moment Victor had walked away, Andrew had known with a dangerous certainty: it was him.
Neither of Them Saying It
That night, Victor logged in early, hoping to catch Andrew off-guard — maybe get a hint in his voice before he could mask it.
Sure enough, ArkRaven popped online a few minutes later.
V: “You’re early. Missed me?”
A: “Someone’s confident today.”
V: “Confident’s just another word for correct.”
Andrew chuckled — a soft, almost indulgent sound — and Victor’s fingers tightened slightly on his mouse. That laugh was exactly the one he’d heard in his head all morning.
As they queued up for matches, Victor decided to push. Not outright accuse — no, too obvious — but prod.
V: “So, this delivery guy you were talking about yesterday… you see him again?”
A: “Not yet.”
V: “Gonna ask him out when you do?”
There was a slight pause, barely noticeable unless you were listening for it.
A: “Maybe. If I thought he’d say yes.”
Victor leaned back, smirking at his screen. “Sounds like you’re already halfway in love with the guy.”
A: “Sounds like you’re fishing for something.”
Touché.
Andrew’s Counterplay
Andrew wasn’t oblivious to Victor’s probing. In fact, he found it entertaining — like playing chess against someone who didn’t realize the other player was two moves ahead.
If Victor was really the man from yesterday, Andrew didn’t just want to confirm it. He wanted to see how far Victor would go to try and corner him into saying it first.
During the next match, between bursts of coordinated attacks, Andrew slipped in his own tests.
A: “Had a delivery yesterday. Courier had a decent bike — not your average beat-up thing. Black frame, gold accents.”
Victor’s fingers froze on the keys for a fraction of a second before he forced out a casual, “Sounds fancy.”
A: “And the guy was quick. Efficient. Guess that’s why he can afford to be cocky.”
Victor couldn’t help laughing — partly from nerves, partly from the fact that Andrew’s version of “teasing” was so dry it was almost sharp. “You’ve got a thing for couriers now?”
A: “Maybe just one.”

Later that night, they were in the middle of a slower match, camping near an objective. The game’s ambient sounds faded into the background as the conversation shifted again.
V: “You ever wonder what your game friends look like in real life?”
A: “Not really. I already have a pretty good picture of you.”
Victor grinned. “Oh yeah? Describe it.”
A: “…You’d rather I didn’t.”
Victor’s pulse kicked up. That wasn’t a no. That was a you already know.
But he let it slide — for now. If he kept pushing, he might ruin the fun.

When they finally signed off, neither of them had said anything directly.
But the air between them felt thicker now — less like friendly banter and more like two people circling a truth they both knew, each waiting for the other to take the first step.
Victor lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, replaying the exchanges.
Andrew sat at his desk, fingertips brushing the edge of the unopened stationery box, thinking about the way Victor’s voice had caught once or twice.
Both of them knew.
Neither was ready to say it.
Not yet.

Chapter 2: Clear Droplets

Victor was already a little flushed from the heat outside when he climbed the last few steps to the apartment door. The late afternoon sun had baked the air into a heavy, lazy warmth, and the delivery box in his hands was warm against his palms. It wasn’t anything unusual — just another paper set order from the same address as before. The customer had been polite last time, and Victor vaguely remembered his voice… low, deep, measured.
He knocked.
There was a faint sound from inside — not the shuffle of slippers, but the muffled slosh of water. Then footsteps. Bare ones.
The door swung open.
And there he was.
Andrew stood in the doorway, skin damp, hair still dripping from the shower, a plain white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets clung to his collarbone and slid lazily down over defined muscle, tracing lines over his chest and stomach before disappearing into the edge of terrycloth. His scent was clean and warm, faintly spiced from soap.
For a split second, Victor forgot to breathe.
Andrew’s posture was casual — leaning one shoulder against the doorframe as though he wasn’t half-dressed in front of a stranger. His hand braced just above Victor’s head, not quite touching, but close enough that Victor could feel the shadow of it.
“You’re fast,” Andrew said in that same low voice Victor remembered, deep and smooth enough to slide under his skin. “Didn’t expect the delivery so soon.”
Victor’s throat went dry. “I… uh—yeah. I was in the area.” His own voice came out softer than he intended, almost swallowed by the quiet air between them. He adjusted the box in his arms, trying to focus on the fact that he was here to do a job, not to gawk.
Andrew’s gaze dropped briefly to Victor’s hands holding the package, then back to his face. Slow. Unhurried. Assessing.
“You can set it inside, if you want,” Andrew murmured. He shifted just enough to let Victor glimpse the soft lighting of his living room behind him — warm tones, shelves stacked with books, a desk in the corner littered with papers and pens.
But Victor hesitated. Stepping inside felt… intimate, somehow, with Andrew standing there like that.
“I—uh, it’s fine,” Victor said, clearing his throat. “I can hand it over here.”
Andrew didn’t move right away. Instead, he leaned a fraction closer, the faint heat of his damp skin brushing Victor’s cooler air from outside. A bead of water slipped from the ends of Andrew’s hair, landing on the back of Victor’s hand. The sensation jolted through him — warm, light, startling.
Victor forced himself to focus on the label. “Here you go.”
Andrew finally took the box, fingers brushing deliberately against Victor’s as he did. His touch lingered a second too long to be accidental, his eyes fixed on Victor’s face with something unreadable in them — part curiosity, part… interest.
“Thanks,” Andrew said, his mouth curving slightly at one corner. “You’ve been delivering to me twice now. You always this quick?”
Victor’s ears warmed. “Only for good customers.” The words slipped out before he could stop himself, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Andrew’s answering smile was slow, deliberate. “I’ll have to keep ordering, then.”
The pause that followed felt heavier than it should have — not awkward, just… thick with something unspoken. Victor’s pulse was still uneven when he finally stepped back.
“Have a good evening,” Victor said, trying to sound breezy.
“You too, sunshine,” Andrew replied, voice rich with that easy confidence that seemed to stick to him like heat.
Victor walked away feeling as though the sun was still on his skin — except the warmth came from somewhere entirely different.

The sky was heavy with the late-afternoon gold that comes right before dusk, washing the streets in a soft, honey-warm glow. Victor’s delivery bag weighed lightly against his shoulder, but his heart… his heart felt like it was hauling a thousand boxes. He knew exactly which address this one was.
Andrew Kreiss. Apartment 5C.
The same name from the receipt last time. The same man who had opened the door dripping wet, towel hanging low, voice smooth like dark chocolate melting.
He’d spent the whole week replaying that night’s in-game chat — every cryptic comment, every “delivery guy” reference, every slow, unhurried laugh Andrew had sent through his mic like it was nothing. Except it hadn’t been nothing. Not to Victor.
The elevator dinged softly and the metallic doors parted with a sigh. He stepped out into the hallway, the patterned carpet muffling his footsteps. The closer he got to the door, the more he swore he could hear his own pulse in his ears.
Victor raised a hand to knock —
And the door opened before he even touched it.
Andrew was there.
Not just in the towel this time, but leaning against the doorframe like he owned the entire hallway. His hair was still damp from a shower, darkened to a richer shade, droplets slipping from the ends and tracking slow, meandering paths down the sides of his neck.
Victor’s gaze dropped despite himself.
The towel hung low on Andrew’s hips, slung there like it had been knotted without much care. A faint trail of water trickled down the ridges of his abdomen, disappearing under the fold of terrycloth. His skin looked warm, faintly flushed from the steam.
“Evening,” Andrew murmured, voice a deep rumble that managed to be both casual and intimate. “You’re earlier than last time.”
Victor swallowed. Hard. “Traffic wasn’t bad.” He held up the package like a shield, though his hands had gone slightly clammy. “Paper set. For… Mr. Kreiss.”
Andrew’s mouth tilted in a knowing half-smile. “That’s me.”
He didn’t take the package right away — just leaned closer, one palm braced against the doorframe above Victor’s shoulder, bringing their faces into the kind of proximity that sent every nerve in Victor’s body into overdrive.
Victor could smell it this time — the faint scent of Andrew’s body wash, something woodsy with a shadow of spice.
“You know,” Andrew said lazily, “you remind me of someone I’ve been talking to lately.”
Victor’s grip on the package tightened. “Oh?” His tone was light, but the air between them was thick enough to catch in his lungs.
Andrew’s eyes flicked over Victor’s face like he was memorizing every line. “He’s got this… sunshine thing going on. Always teasing me. Knows how to get under my skin in just the right way.”
Victor let the faintest smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “Sounds like trouble.”
Andrew’s gaze sharpened, just for a heartbeat — the flicker of recognition Victor had been waiting for. “Yeah,” Andrew murmured, voice low. “Exactly like trouble.”
The pause that followed was almost physical. The kind where every second drags out into something stretched and electric.
Andrew finally took the package, but instead of stepping back, his fingers brushed over Victor’s as he did — deliberate, lingering just long enough to make it obvious.
“Thanks, sunshine,” Andrew said, voice dipping into a teasing register that was unmistakably the same one he used in-game.
And just like that, the last thin veil between their online nights and the real world snapped.
Victor’s pulse kicked. He tilted his head with a slow, dangerous kind of grin, stepping back just enough to break the contact but not the tension. “See you tonight… partner.”
Andrew’s smile widened — and this time, it was pure, unfiltered heat.
Victor walked away, but not before glancing over his shoulder once.
Andrew was still leaning there in the doorway, watching him leave, towel hanging low, water still dripping from his hair… and wearing the exact same expression Victor had imagined a hundred times while lying in bed with his headset on.
Tonight’s game was going to be very different.

The next time Victor found Andrew’s address on his delivery sheet, his pulse was already acting strange — a steady, pounding reminder of every single late-night exchange they’d had in Crush Party. The teasing. The innuendos. The way Andrew seemed to know.
And the way Victor was starting to know too.
By now, their in-game avatars were practically glued together in every match, bantering in private messages between fights, or lingering in the lobby long after their teammates had logged off. Victor had replayed last night’s conversation in his head far too many times — Andrew describing “the delivery guy” with such meticulous detail that it had been like looking into a mirror.
He couldn’t decide if Andrew was playing with him… or daring him to bite.
When Victor reached Andrew’s door, the faint sound of a pen scratching against paper reached him from inside. It stopped the moment he knocked. Footsteps approached.
The door swung open, and there stood Andrew — not in a towel this time, but in a fitted charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted faintly with flourishes of black ink. His hair was slightly mussed, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times while thinking.
And his eyes?
Victor swore they lingered.
“Hey,” Andrew greeted, voice low and smooth, as if they’d already been in the middle of a private conversation. “Right on time, sunshine.”
Victor’s grip on the delivery bag faltered for just a fraction of a second at the nickname. That was their in-game banter. That was him.
Andrew didn’t miss the flicker in his expression — he smirked like a man who’d just made his opponent flinch in chess.
“You’ve got a… special delivery today,” Andrew added, sliding something out from behind the doorframe.
It wasn’t the usual signed receipt or clipboard. It was a thick hardcover novel — the one Victor had been rereading for the past year, the one that had hooked him so deep he’d started quoting lines from it in-game without even realizing.
The gold title caught the light, but it was the neat scrawl on the front page that made his breath hitch.
To the boy who keeps me up at night. Don’t be late for our next match.
— A. Kreiss
Victor looked up, heartbeat loud in his ears. “…You…”
Andrew leaned casually against the doorframe, arms folding like he had all the time in the world. “I figured it was time to thank my favorite player personally.”
“You—” Victor’s voice cracked half a laugh, half disbelief. “You knew?”
“Since towel day,” Andrew said without shame. His gaze flicked deliberately downward, then back up to lock on Victor’s eyes. “You didn’t make it hard, sunshine. You’re exactly my type — on screen and off.”
Victor’s breath caught, the weight of every flirt, every accidental confession in-game settling into truth. The air between them was hot with everything they hadn’t said out loud yet.
Andrew tilted his head slightly, watching him like a cat cornering a mouse. “So… are you going to thank me for the book, or are you planning to keep standing there, red in the face?”
Victor smirked — that sunshine edge sharpening just enough. “Careful, Kreiss. You might find I’m even more dangerous in person.”
Andrew’s lips curved, slow and satisfied. “God, I hope so.”

Victor’s thumb dragged lightly along the book’s spine, but his eyes were on Andrew.
Still leaning in the doorway, still wearing that infuriatingly smug expression like he’d been waiting for this exact day.
Victor had spent weeks wondering if their connection in Crush Party was just a game — just words typed in late-night adrenaline.
Now Andrew was standing here, very much real, very much watching him like he’d already won.
Victor took a breath, steady, deliberate. “You know…” he said, low enough that it forced Andrew to lean just slightly closer to hear. “You’ve been running your mouth for weeks.”
Andrew smirked. “And you’ve been showing up for every match. Guess we both like it.”
Victor set the delivery bag on the porch railing without looking away. He turned the book in his hands once, twice — then tucked it under his arm, freeing his hands.
“I could just thank you for the book,” Victor continued, stepping forward until Andrew had to either move back or let him in. “Or…”
Andrew’s smile deepened, but he didn’t step aside. “…Or?”
Victor tilted his head, sunlight catching the edge of his cheekbone, and for the first time since meeting him in person, let the same smirk he used in-game slip onto his face — slow, cocky, unshakable.
“Or,” Victor said, voice almost a purr, “I could make sure you remember me off-screen too.”
It was Andrew who broke first.
He reached out, hooked his fingers into Victor’s shirt collar, and pulled him just inside, the door shutting with a click behind them.
The scent of coffee and paper filled the space — and the warmth of Andrew’s chest was suddenly pressed to his.
Victor didn’t waste it. His hand came up, fingers brushing Andrew’s jaw, tilting it just enough to close the gap.
The kiss wasn’t hesitant — it was a crash, weeks of pent-up teasing snapping into something hungry, deliberate.
Andrew tasted faintly of mint, and his answering grip on Victor’s waist was firm enough to make him stumble back a step.
When they broke for air, Andrew’s breath was ragged. “Finally,” he muttered against Victor’s mouth.
Victor laughed, low and unsteady, forehead pressed to his. “You were waiting for me to make the move?”
“Damn right,” Andrew said, brushing his thumb over Victor’s hip before pulling him in again. “Always better when you know the other player’s just as hooked.”
This kiss was slower — not less intense, but savoring now, mapping each other’s pace. Victor’s hand slid along the nape of Andrew’s neck, feeling the tension there, the way he leaned into the touch.
Outside, the street was quiet. Inside, the game they’d been playing had just changed forever.
Andrew’s grip didn’t loosen. If anything, the second their mouths found each other again, he pressed Victor deeper against the wall by the door, like he’d been holding back weeks of wanting.
Victor’s breath caught — not from surprise, but from the way Andrew kissed like he was claiming the win after a long, brutal match. Firm, sure, with just enough teeth to make him gasp into it.
Victor’s hands slid up over Andrew’s damp shoulders, following the heat of his skin where the towel left him bare.
God, he was still warm from the shower — drops sliding over muscle, trailing into the dip of his back.
Andrew noticed the way Victor’s fingers lingered. “Like what you feel?” he teased against Victor’s lips, voice a little rough.
Victor gave him that same sly smirk from earlier, but it didn’t last long — not when Andrew’s hand slipped lower, palm splaying at his hip and thumb rubbing slow, dangerous circles just under the hem of his shirt.
The air between them thickened. Victor tilted his head, deepening the kiss, letting his tongue brush against Andrew’s in a challenge. The sound Andrew made — that deep, satisfied growl — shot right through him.
The towel at Andrew’s waist loosened, falling just enough for Victor’s thigh to brush against bare skin.
Andrew grinned into the kiss, pushing in closer until there was no space left between them.
Victor broke away only to murmur, “You’re making a mess of your entryway.”
Andrew’s hands slid to cup Victor’s face, thumbs brushing along his jaw. “Then I guess we should take it somewhere I don’t mind wrecking.”
Before Victor could reply, Andrew’s mouth was on his neck — slow at first, tracing the line under his jaw before biting just enough to make him gasp.
His hands roamed now, shamelessly mapping out Victor’s frame, finding where his breath hitched, where his muscles tensed.
Victor’s own restraint cracked. His fingers hooked into the edge of the towel, tugging it the rest of the way loose, letting it fall to the floor.
Andrew chuckled low, pulling back just enough to meet Victor’s eyes. “Your move, delivery boy.”
Andrew didn’t bother picking up the towel. He just caught Victor’s wrist and walked him backward, steady but deliberate, toward the bedroom.
Each step, Victor’s back grazed the wall until they reached the doorway — Andrew’s grin widening at how quiet Victor had gotten.
“You’re not typing now,” Andrew murmured, leaning close. “What’s the matter? Out of witty comebacks?”
Victor’s only reply was a subtle tilt of his head, brushing his lips against Andrew’s just enough to bait him.
It worked. Andrew growled softly, crowding him through the door, kicking it shut with his heel.
The bedroom was dim, just the lamp casting a low, amber light across the sheets. Andrew turned him, easing him toward the bed until Victor’s calves hit the edge.
“You’ve been driving me crazy for weeks,” Andrew said, one hand sliding up Victor’s side beneath his shirt. His palm was hot — firm, like he wanted to memorize the shape of every rib. “Dropping hints. Smirking. Acting like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”
Victor let the faintest smile curve his lips. “Maybe I didn’t.”
“Oh, you knew.”
Andrew pushed the shirt higher, pausing long enough for Victor to lift his arms so it could be pulled off entirely.
The moment it hit the floor, Andrew had him by the waist again, lips finding his collarbone, biting and soothing in equal measure.
Victor’s fingers slid into Andrew’s damp hair — that post-shower softness still clinging to it — and tugged just enough to make Andrew look up.
Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the teasing was gone.
“You want me,” Andrew said simply.
Victor’s breath caught, but his voice was steady. “Convince me.”
Andrew laughed under his breath, leaning in until their foreheads touched. “Gladly.”
He pushed Victor back onto the mattress, following him down. His weight was solid, grounding, but not crushing.
His mouth found Victor’s again — slower now, lingering like he wanted to savor every second. His hands slid over Victor’s chest, fingertips brushing along lines of muscle, tracing circles that dipped lower and lower.
Victor shifted beneath him, knees parting just enough to draw Andrew in closer. The move earned him a sharp inhale from the older man, followed by a hand gripping his thigh in a silent don’t start unless you mean it.
“I always mean it,” Victor murmured, his voice dropping.
Andrew’s restraint slipped further. His kisses trailed down, lingering over Victor’s stomach, his breath warm against skin that was already tensing in anticipation.
Victor’s hands were in his hair again, urging him, testing how far he could push before Andrew snapped completely.
And Andrew did — in the best way. He shifted, settling between Victor’s legs, letting his hands roam freely now, claiming space like he had every right to it.
Every touch was firm, deliberate, the kind that left no doubt who was in control… until Victor caught his wrist mid-stroke, pulling him back up into a kiss that was all teeth and heat.
The shift was subtle but real — Victor rolling them so Andrew was the one beneath, his grin turning wicked. “You’re not the only one who can drive someone crazy.”
Andrew laughed low, but the sound broke when Victor’s mouth found his neck, matching the bites Andrew had left earlier. The balance tipped back and forth — hands roaming, breath hitching, bodies pressing closer until there was no telling who was winning anymore.
The teasing from game nights, the careful dance of deliveries and stolen glances — it all burned away into something raw, breathless, and real.

Chapter 3: Love Language

The evening air carried that soft, dusky chill that always came after a summer rain — not cold, just damp enough to cling to Victor’s skin through his shirt as he approached the familiar door. He’d made this route before, more times than he could count, but lately every step here felt like walking into something heavier. He couldn’t tell if it was anticipation or trouble.
The package in his hand felt unusually light. His other hand kept smoothing over the creases in the brown paper as if he needed something to do with his nerves. The light spilling from the windows of Andrew’s house was warm, golden, almost too inviting — a trap disguised as comfort.
Victor rang the bell.
The door swung open not in a hurry, but in that slow, deliberate way that always made his stomach knot. And there he was — Andrew. No towel this time. No dripping hair. But something in his presence still hit just as hard.
He was in a casual black t-shirt and loose sweatpants, barefoot, one hand braced lazily against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world to stand there and watch Victor. The other hand held a book — not just any book, but the book. The one Victor had mentioned in passing months ago during one of their longer delivery exchanges. His favorite novel, the one he’d reread until the spine cracked.
Victor blinked, thrown. “That’s—”
“I know.” Andrew’s mouth tilted at one corner — that near-smile that wasn’t a smile at all, just something dangerous in disguise. “It’s yours.”
Victor hesitated, glancing between the package in his own hand and the book in Andrew’s. “…Mine?”
“Signed, even.” Andrew turned the book so the title caught the porch light, then flipped it open. On the creamy first page, in looping black ink, was a personal dedication from the author — Victor’s name written clearly.
Victor’s breath stalled. “How did you—”
“You talk more than you think you do.” Andrew stepped forward, bridging the space between them just enough that the edge of the book brushed Victor’s chest. “Game nights. Little details you drop without realizing. You make it… easy.”
The heat that flared up Victor’s neck was immediate, and he knew it had nothing to do with the weather. His fingers brushed the cover, not quite taking it yet. “…You planned this?”
“I don’t do accidents,” Andrew said simply. Then, as if the air between them wasn’t already stretched thin enough, he added in that deep, even voice: “Figured if I was going to confirm what you’ve been suspecting… I’d do it properly.”
Victor’s grip tightened around the book, finally taking it — and in that moment, their fingers overlapped just slightly, long enough for Victor to feel the warm press of Andrew’s skin. It was brief, but the contact had weight, like the first push in a long-built tug-of-war.
Neither of them looked away.
Andrew leaned in just a fraction — enough that Victor caught the faint scent of rain still clinging to his shirt, the quiet rasp of his voice low enough for only him to hear:
“So… you going to thank me now, or next game night?”
Victor swallowed hard, words caught somewhere between his tongue and his racing pulse. He didn’t answer — not exactly. But the faint, knowing smile that curved his mouth before he turned to leave was enough to make Andrew’s eyes narrow with interest.
The book felt heavier in his hands than it should.
And Victor knew — by next game night, something was going to give.
Victor set the delivery bag aside, the book tucked under his arm like it was both armor and a challenge. The moment he stepped onto Andrew’s porch, the air between them felt almost electrically charged. Every time he had come here before, it had been a polite handoff, a smile, maybe a nod. Tonight, the quiet heat simmered, waiting to spill over.
Andrew didn’t move immediately. He leaned casually against the doorframe, one shoulder brushing the frame, and studied Victor like he had all week — patient, calm, but utterly predatory in that way that made Victor’s pulse spike. “You brought it,” he said softly, the words almost a whisper but loaded.
Victor’s chest tightened. “Of course I did.” He paused, fingers brushing over the cover of the book. “…You really did sign it, huh?”
Andrew’s smirk deepened. “I told you. I don’t do accidents.”
Victor’s laugh was low, shaky, more tension than amusement. “…Seems like you plan everything.”
“I plan what matters.” Andrew stepped forward slowly, enough that Victor could smell him — that faint woodsy-spicy scent, dry and warm from his earlier shower. “And you… matter.”
Victor froze, heat rushing through him. Something shifted in the air, thickening like syrup around them. For the first time, he felt that late-night in-game teasing manifest in the real world. He could feel the pull, the magnetism that had been building silently across their games and deliveries, now undeniable.
Andrew’s hand hovered near Victor’s arm, brushing against it lightly — teasing, testing — and Victor’s fingers twitched to meet it. They didn’t touch fully at first, just almost, letting the tension coil tighter with every heartbeat.
“…You’ve been driving me insane,” Victor muttered, almost to himself, almost to Andrew.
Andrew leaned in, letting the edge of his lips graze Victor’s jaw, just enough to send shivers down his spine. “…Good. I like a challenge.”
Then Victor made the move — subtle, deliberate. He closed the distance between them, pressing himself just slightly against Andrew’s chest, tilting his lips up to meet his. Andrew’s eyes flickered briefly with surprise, then darkened with that slow, consuming grin Victor had come to memorize in every late-night chat.
The kiss started slow. Testing. Taste and breath mingling, a teasing tug-of-war. Victor let his hands trail up Andrew’s shoulders, fingers pressing into damp hair at the nape of his neck. Andrew responded immediately, hand going to Victor’s hip, thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles that hinted at more.
The weight of weeks of teasing, hints, and stolen online moments pressed in on them. Every inch of Andrew that Victor could touch was deliberately warm and yielding, but the restraint in Andrew’s eyes made it clear — he was letting Victor take the first bite, first move, first claim.
Victor’s lips moved over Andrew’s jaw, over the curve of his ear, each kiss deliberate, slow, building heat. Andrew groaned softly, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through Victor’s chest. His hand slid under Victor’s shirt, tracing the muscles beneath, and Victor arched instinctively.
“You like that, don’t you?” Andrew murmured against his skin, voice husky and teasing.
Victor smirked into the kiss. “…Maybe.”
Then Andrew caught him by the wrist, tugging him toward the bedroom, each step measured, controlled. Every brush of skin against skin, every shared breath, was an extension of their game nights — the late-night teasing, the delivery handoffs, the subtle innuendos — now transformed into real, physical chemistry.
They reached the bed, and Andrew leaned Victor back against the mattress, hovering over him with that confident, predatory smile. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he admitted softly, letting his lips find Victor’s again, deeper now, hungrier, lips and teeth and tongue tracing patterns like they had all week online but infinitely more intense in real life.
Victor’s hands fisted in Andrew’s damp hair again, tugging lightly, urging him closer. Andrew’s hands roamed Victor’s sides, the small of his back, finding every point that made him shiver, every breath hitch, and responding with the teasing confidence that had kept Victor up late at night, imagining this exact moment.
Breath came faster. Hearts hammered. Their mouths moved together in a slow rhythm, each kiss, each touch a test and a surrender at once. Andrew’s lips trailed down Victor’s neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spots deliberately, while Victor’s hands explored the planes of Andrew’s chest, feeling warmth, tension, and the solid weight that grounded him even as desire flared.
The tension that had been coiled for weeks — every late-night chat, every delivery, every sly, teasing remark — finally exploded, crackling between them like fire.
Victor pressed himself fully against Andrew now, letting his hands roam freely, letting the long-suppressed desire take over. Andrew responded in kind, pulling him closer, lips and hands moving in tandem — push, pull, tease, claim — until there was no separation between them anymore.
The game, the deliveries, the teasing, the hints — everything had led to this: their first, fully shared, unbearably electric moment in each other’s arms, and neither could — nor wanted to — pull away.

Chapter 4: Accident

Victor had been slipping into Andrew’s apartment more often lately. At first, it was just for an evening or two — dropping by after a late shift, crashing on the couch with a game controller in his hands while Andrew sat at the desk, typing away on his latest manuscript. But slowly, subtly, his toothbrush had found its way into Andrew’s bathroom cup, his favorite hoodie hung lazily over Andrew’s chair, and a spare blanket was folded at the edge of Andrew’s bed.
It wasn’t official yet — no big conversation about moving in or what they were — but the truth was clear: Victor was getting comfortable here.
So comfortable, in fact, that when he ordered some things online the other night — mostly harmless, or so he thought — he hadn’t even noticed that his saved address was no longer his own apartment but Andrew’s.
It was a mistake that only revealed itself when Andrew opened the door one bright Saturday morning to see a neat brown package resting at his doorstep. He wasn’t expecting anything, but the name on the label made his brow arch:
“Victor Grantz.”
Curiosity flickered. Andrew bent, scooped up the box, and closed the door with a quiet click. The package was light, sealed with nothing but standard tape, and it rattled faintly when he tilted it. He carried it into the living room where Victor was curled up on the sofa in sweats, hair still mussed from sleep, game paused on the TV.
“Victor,” Andrew said evenly, holding up the box.
Victor blinked, rubbing his eyes. “Mm? Oh—what’s that?”
Andrew’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “It has your name on it. Delivered here.”
Victor’s brain stalled. His body jolted upright in an instant, eyes going wide. “Wait—wait—what?” He scrambled to the edge of the couch, panic already coloring his voice. “That—no—that’s not possible—”
Andrew tapped the label with one elegant finger. “Your name. My address. Interesting.”
Victor was already on his feet, rushing forward, hands reaching desperately for the package. “Give it—give it here! That’s not—”
But Andrew was taller, faster, and far too entertained. He pivoted smoothly, lifting the box out of reach like he was playing keep-away. Victor leapt up to grab it, but Andrew only lifted it higher, arching a brow.
“You’ve been using my place as your delivery hub, haven’t you?” Andrew teased, voice low, calm, but with a sharp edge of amusement.
Victor’s cheeks burned crimson. “I—I didn’t mean to! I forgot to switch back—” He bit his lip, eyes darting nervously toward the package. “Please. Don’t open it.”
Andrew’s smile deepened at the sheer desperation in his voice. “That’s an awfully suspicious thing to say.” He shook the box lightly, listening to the rattle inside. “Now I’m curious.”
Victor’s hands flew to his face. “Andrew!” His voice cracked in mortification. “I’m serious, don’t—”
But Andrew was already sliding his finger under the tape with a deliberate slowness, eyes locked on Victor the entire time. “If you didn’t want me to know, you wouldn’t have sent it here.”
Victor let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a strangled whimper, collapsing onto the couch like his soul was being wrung out. “This is the worst day of my life.”
The tape gave way with a soft rip, the cardboard flaps opening under Andrew’s steady hands. He peered inside, expression unreadable at first, before a flicker of amusement curved his lips.
“Well,” Andrew said smoothly, drawing out the syllable. “This is… enlightening.”
Victor peeked out from between his fingers, mortified. The package’s contents were spread across Andrew’s palm: two freshly published boys’ love novels — the very same series Victor had gushed about being his favorite during one of their first game nights — and beneath them, nestled with almost comical innocence, a discreetly packaged box of… toys.
Not just any toys. Adult toys.
Victor’s heart stopped.
Andrew tilted the book, letting the glossy cover catch the light. “You bought the new edition,” he mused softly. Then his eyes flicked to the other box, his smirk wicked. “And… accessories.”
Victor buried his face in the nearest pillow, muffled words escaping in a rushed groan. “Kill me. Just kill me right here.”
Andrew set the novels aside carefully, but the toy box he rolled lightly between his palms, studying it like it was a fascinating little puzzle. “Interesting taste,” he said with a teasing lilt. “Is this what you read while you play your games at night?”
Victor threw the pillow at him. “Shut up!” His entire body radiated embarrassment — ears red, neck flushed, eyes wide with mortification. “I didn’t mean for you to see that! I was supposed to open it alone and—ugh, this is so humiliating!”
Andrew caught the pillow easily, expression calm but his eyes gleaming. “Humiliating?” he repeated softly, stepping closer. “Or… revealing?”
Victor froze, words caught in his throat. Andrew knelt in front of the couch, the toy box still in hand, placing it deliberately on the coffee table between them. Then he leaned in, his face mere inches from Victor’s, and murmured:
“You know… I write about things like this.”
Victor’s stomach flipped. His mouth opened, closed, but no sound came out.
Andrew’s voice dropped, intimate and smooth. “I can tell when someone’s curious. When someone’s been waiting for the right excuse. And, Victor…” His fingers brushed Victor’s knee, warm, steady. “…you’ve been waiting, haven’t you?”
Victor’s breath hitched. The room felt too small, too hot, the air thick with tension. He wanted to deny it, laugh it off, anything — but his flushed face and wide eyes betrayed him.
“…Maybe,” he whispered, bratty but trembling.
Andrew chuckled low, brushing a thumb along Victor’s thigh. “Adorable.” He leaned back, deliberately leaving the toys untouched but in plain sight. “We’ll save this for later. For now, just know…” His smirk softened into something deeper, something heated. “…you don’t have to hide anything from me.”
Victor swallowed hard, torn between wanting to bury himself under the couch cushions forever and wanting Andrew to close the distance between them and finish what he’d started.
The novels, the toys, the package — it was the most embarrassing moment of Victor’s life. But as Andrew leaned in and pressed a slow, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth, Victor realized something else too.
Humiliating or not… it had pulled them closer than ever.
The rest of the day went by in an odd blur. Victor spent half of it sulking, face red every time his eyes flickered toward the incriminating package sitting neatly on Andrew’s coffee table. Andrew, of course, was no help. He moved around the apartment with calm composure, occasionally shooting Victor little glances that said more than words ever could.

By evening, Victor had convinced himself Andrew had forgotten about it. They’d eaten dinner, played a few rounds of their usual co-op game, even laughed over shared snacks. The apartment lights dimmed to a cozy warmth, the atmosphere soft and domestic. Victor almost managed to breathe again.
Then, when he least expected it, Andrew reached out and tapped the toy box still sitting untouched on the table.
“Shall we?”
Victor nearly choked on the water he was drinking. “Wh—wha—no! No way!” He sat up straighter, clutching the cushion like a shield. “That’s… that’s not—that wasn’t—”
Andrew arched a brow, perfectly composed. “You bought it.”
Victor’s face flamed. “Y-yeah, but not for—like—not for this! Not for you to—ugh!” He buried his face in his hands, groaning. “I was just curious, okay? Just… stupid curiosity!”
Andrew leaned closer, voice dipping low, velvet-smooth. “Curiosity isn’t stupid.” His hand gently tugged Victor’s wrists down so their eyes met. “Curiosity is… honest.”
Victor’s chest thudded painfully. The look in Andrew’s eyes wasn’t mocking — it was steady, patient, but charged with something heavy, something Victor couldn’t quite hold without trembling.
“I don’t want you to feel ashamed of what you want,” Andrew murmured. He traced his thumb along Victor’s cheek, featherlight. “Not with me.”
Victor’s lips parted, words catching in his throat. He wanted to argue, to tease, to hide behind some bratty remark — but all he managed was a shaky whisper: “…You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
Andrew’s smirk curved slow, dangerous, affectionate all at once. “Not when I’ve been handed a gift-wrapped opportunity.”
And before Victor could protest again, Andrew rose, opened the box with careful fingers, and pulled out the sleek toy inside. The sight made Victor’s entire body heat in waves.
“Oh my god,” Victor muttered, covering his face again. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Andrew chuckled low. “You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.” He set the toy aside for the moment and leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to Victor’s temple. “Relax. We’ll go at your pace.”
Victor peeked through his fingers, his heart doing backflips. “…You’re evil.”
“Maybe,” Andrew murmured against his ear. “But I know you want this.”
They ended up in the bedroom, the toy still waiting on the nightstand like a promise. Andrew guided Victor back onto the bed, lips brushing his neck in slow, deliberate kisses that made Victor arch helplessly.
“Still nervous?” Andrew asked between kisses.
Victor’s breath came shallow, bratty mask slipping. “…You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Andrew smiled into his skin. “Guilty.” His hands slid under Victor’s shirt, teasing along his waist, his ribs, until Victor shivered. “But I want to enjoy you more.”
Their mouths met, slow and hungry, weeks of tension unraveling all over again. Victor kissed back fiercely, almost desperately, his hands tugging at Andrew’s hair, pulling him closer. Every brush of Andrew’s lips, every scrape of teeth, sent sparks straight down Victor’s spine.
When Andrew finally reached for the toy, Victor’s whole body stiffened. His face burned red, but he didn’t stop him. Instead, he looked up with wide eyes, biting his lip. “…If you laugh at me, I’m leaving.”
Andrew’s expression softened, though his eyes gleamed. “Never. I’d rather worship you.”
The words alone nearly undid Victor.
Andrew kissed him again, slow, grounding, as he eased the toy into play. Every movement was measured, patient — coaxing rather than forcing. Victor’s embarrassment tangled with growing waves of sensation, each one making his breath stutter, his bratty remarks dissolve into broken gasps.
“…Andrew—” he moaned softly, clutching at the sheets, his body arching.
Andrew’s voice stayed low, steady, teasing but warm. “That’s it. Let me see you.”
Victor’s cheeks burned, but he obeyed instinctively, letting himself feel, letting the mortification melt into something rawer, sharper, better.
The toy hummed, each vibration sending Victor’s thoughts scattering. He bit down on his knuckles, but Andrew caught his hand, lacing their fingers together.
“Don’t hide,” Andrew whispered against his ear. “I want every sound.”
Victor whimpered, half a protest, half surrender, his body trembling with each wave of sensation. His bratty edge flickered back once, voice shaking: “You—you’re so unfair—”
Andrew smirked, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Life’s unfair. I’m just thorough.”
The teasing, the closeness, the utter control Andrew held over the moment — it pushed Victor over the edge, breathless, undone, yet utterly safe.
When it was finally over, Victor lay sprawled across the sheets, flushed, panting, eyes glassy with the afterglow. Andrew brushed damp hair from his forehead, his touch tender, grounding.
“…You’re ridiculous,” Victor mumbled weakly.
Andrew kissed him again, soft and slow. “You’re perfect.”
Victor groaned, burying his face in Andrew’s chest, but the faintest smile tugged at his lips.
And though the package had been the most humiliating accident of his life… it had also turned into one of the best nights he’d ever had.