They still had some of Sakusa’s appointment time to kill after changing out of their overalls and back into their office-wear, so Atsumu suggested they use their plumbing money to catch some breakfast. Sakusa agreed, on the condition they returned to the coffee shop they’d gone to the day before.

True to form, Sakusa re-ordered himself the same pistachio cookie and black coffee, while Atsumu ordered something fruity and spent the rest of the money on snacks for Osamu, Bokuto, and Hinata.

God it felt fantastic to waste good Adler money.

‘How long d’ya think it’ll take ya to see if those thumbprints are any good?’ Atsumu asked him once they settled into the same seats as yesterday too.

Sakusa gave it some thought. ‘A day or two. There are a lot of prints, most of which will probably be useless, but I have to try them all.’

‘Can I help?’

‘Not this time.’

‘You sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘Can’t I just—’

‘No.’

Atsumu sucked at the straw of his drink until it made a horrible sound. He never did like resting on his laurels. Keeping busy was the best way to ensure victory, but this kind of heist hinged entirely on a tech; Atsumu, Bokuto, and Hinata would only be kept busy buying supplies and sitting on standby until it was time to sneak in and steal the painting.

That was why Atsumu preferred to do things the fun way.

‘How’d ya do it so fast, anyway, Omi-kun? I know you’re better than Ushijima, but he’s a genius too, right? I mean, if not for the prints, you’d have gotten ‘em in twenty-four hours.’

Sakusa sniffed, but Atsumu could tell he was soaking up the compliment. ‘Ushijima is the kind of hacker that specialises in extracting information. He could steal your banking details in the blink of an eye, dig up the dirty past you’re trying to hide, or locate what offshore account you’re piling illegal money into.’

‘Sounds scary,’ said Atsumu.

Sakusa hummed. ‘It is, and it works surprisingly well for heists. You don’t have to sneak through the back door if you’re already holding a metaphorical knife to your opponent’s throat. Some people send the Adlers their prizes gift-wrapped just so Ushijima won’t destroy them.’

‘I heard somethin’ ‘bout that,’ Atsumu grumbled.

A while back, a client had hired the Adlers to steal a jewelled brooch from the collection of one of Japan’s wealthiest CEOs. It had seemed an impossible task considering she wore it ninety percent of the time, but a week later, the woman had turned up personally to hand Ushijima the brooch. According to Hinata who’d heard it all from Kageyama, she’d also gone as far as to make them up some goodie bags and apologise for the trouble she’d caused.

It made Atsumu’s blood boil just to think about it.

‘It’s good, but it also means Ushijima’s a little slower than I am when it comes to breaching security. That’s not to say he can’t do it, obviously. He can just fine. I’m just faster. And better.’

‘Because you make the software, right?’

Sakusa nodded. ‘I don’t think they know, but the new model the Adlers installed is based on one of my designs. All I had to do was start running an algorithm to work out the number codes for their locks and I already had the rest worked out. That was, until I realised they’d added an extra layer.’

‘Thumbprints,’ Atsumu mused.

‘There are only so many number combinations you can create with four digits.’ Sakusa sipped his coffee. ‘But the number of possible thumbprint configurations is so high I’d probably die of old age three times over before I got through them all. The only way to break them is to steal the original print. If this doesn’t work—’

‘It will.’

‘But if it doesn’t—’

‘It will,’ Atsumu said again. Sakusa looked pissed off to be interrupted twice, but Atsumu didn’t care. Negative energy was not welcome in the Super Sexy Stealth Jackal workspace. ‘Besides, I also have like, three other backup plans to get prints if for some reason it doesn’t. So don’t worry about it.’

‘Wha—’ Sakusa spluttered. ‘If you had other ideas, why did we risk entering enemy territory first?’

‘Because that plan was the quickest and we’re short on time.’

As much as Sakusa probably wanted to, Atsumu knew he couldn’t argue with that. ‘Oh,’ Atsumu added. ‘That reminds me, gimme yer phone.’

Sakusa didn’t even take a breath before saying, ‘No.’

‘Fine, then here,’ Atsumu dug his own phone out of his pocket and slid it towards Sakusa. ‘Put yer number in it.’

Sakusa eyed the device like it contained various contagious diseases. ‘Why?’

‘We’re gonna have to start keepin’ in contact outside of work and I’m not havin’ you hijacking my fuckin’ microwave to do it in Morse code.’

Atsumu didn’t even know Morse code.

Gingerly, Sakusa picked it up and held it out for Atsumu to input the passcode. Atsumu shook his head at him. ‘You’re the hacker, Omi-Omi, guess it.’

‘Just put the code in, Miya. Or I’ll blow your phone and your microwave to pieces.’

Atsumu grinned and raised a suggestive eyebrow. ‘Ooh? And then what?’ He laughed when Sakusa’s nose wrinkled right on cue, then he sat back in his seat with his drink and insisted, ‘How’s this? If ya get it in three or less, I’ll grant you a wish.’

‘A wish,’ Sakusa repeated, totally deadpan. ‘Are you ten years-old?’

‘An Atsumu Wish is a priceless gift, Omi-kun. It means I’ll do just about anythin’ so long as it doesn’t directly result in my death.’

Three years ago, he’d given an Atsumu Wish Voucher to Suna as a gift for his birthday. He’d drawn it up on a post it note and packed it in a box ten times larger, partly because he was lazy, but mostly because it was the kind of gift Suna treasured the most; the opportunity to humiliate a Miya twin. He certainly hadn't disappointed.

Sakusa pursed his lips as he pondered that. ‘What about the death of someone else?’

‘OK, that’s fuckin’ terrifyin, but sure, I guess? Depends on who it is.’

With a nod, Sakusa said, ‘Deal.’

From his short distance away, Atsumu could see very clearly the first four numbers Sakusa typed without a moment’s hesitation: 6969.

He choked on his fruit drink.

‘What?’ Sakusa asked with a small frown. ‘That’s the kind of moronic thing you would do.’

Was he really that predictable? Or was Sakusa just a genius? Probably, he realised grimly, a sad mixture of both.

‘I mean, yer not wrong. Yer just a month too short, Omi,’ he wheezed around the pain of something citric burning his nose tubes. Sakusa passed him a stack of napkins and Atsumu spluttered gratitude. ‘That was it before I found out Shouyou and Bokkun had the same one. We all had to change ‘em because we took the prank text thing a little too far.’

‘See?’ said Sakusa. ‘Moronic.’

‘Whatever. You’ve got two guesses left, Omi. Make ‘em count.’

Sakusa’s thumbs hovered contemplatively over the numbers. ‘This is the most pointless thing I have ever done,’ he said. ‘I could just write my number down on a—’

‘Aaah, but that’s no fun, Omi. Hurry.’

‘Fine,’ he huffed, and tugged the phone closer to his chest to hide it from Atsumu’s craned neck.

For all of his complaining that it was a pointless task, he certainly took it seriously; the face he made as he mulled it over made Atsumu think he was taking an exam rather than guessing a passcode.

Eventually, after another typed attempt, Sakusa scoffed, held up the unlocked phone and said, ‘You are either incredibly narcissistic, or far sappier than you’ve led me to believe.’

Atsumu sat up straight and his head tilted in confusion. ‘Wait, you actually got in?’

That wasn’t supposed to happen. Sakusa was supposed to try and guess random combinations and get them all wrong, and Atsumu was supposed to laugh about it and—

‘Of course I got in,’ Sakusa said as he started inputting his number into Atsumu’s contacts. ‘You hardly made it difficult.’

While that might have been true for someone like Osamu or Suna, Atsumu certainly hadn’t thought Sakusa of all people would even know his birthday, never mind remember it. They’d known each other for years, sure, but they weren’t exactly close. Before now, their conversations had never ventured beyond light arguments or irritable insults thrown in the office corridors.

Atsumu definitely didn’t know Sakusa’s birthday.

It made him think he probably should.

It almost maybe kind of made him think he wanted to know more than just his birthday.

‘Oh,’ came Sakusa’s voice to break him from his reverie. ‘Osamu is calling you.’

‘Huh?’

Sakusa wiggled the phone. The screen was lit up with Osamu’s contact picture; the ugliest shot of him in Atsumu’s arsenal. He’d probably kill Atsumu for letting someone else see it, but the fact that he was calling right now meant that he probably deserved it.

‘Oh,’ Atsumu said. ‘Oh, shit.’

He accidentally declined the call in his effort not to make skin-to-skin contact with Sakusa’s hands and had to call Osamu back. He answered after one ring, but Atsumu didn’t give him a chance to talk. ‘What is it? What’s wrong, ‘Samu?’

Osamu’s voice was a hurried whisper. ‘Shit, Tsumu. You gotta get back. I’m hidin’ in the toilet right now, but I think yer boss is gonna call the hospital if I don't get out soon.’

‘What, why? What the fuck happened?’

‘I dunno! One minute I was playin’ Bubble Shooter 3, and the next thing I know, Meian’s tappin’ my shoulder and askin’ me to follow him to his office ‘cause he’s got a possible job he wants you to look at! I tried to get Bokuto and Hinata to get the hint and save me, but Meian waved ‘em off and said I could just tell them ‘bout it later. Ya told me business was slow, Tsumu! What the fuck?’

‘It was! Shit! Fuck! How long have you been hidin’ for?’

‘Uhh… twenty minutes or so? Meian came to check on me at one point and I had to play a video of explosive shit noises and cry to get him to leave.’

‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ, ‘Samu! I told ya to use Plan Diarrhoea not create a fuckin' Shitpocalypse.’ Atsumu didn’t even want to think about the consequences of that. He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Just stay there. We’re five minutes away.’

Atsumu ended the call, stood up and motioned for Sakusa to do the same. ‘Code red, Omi. Apparently, Meian-san thinks I’ve been experiencin’ Shitmageddon for the last twenty minutes because my brother is a fuckin' moron.’

Sakusa sighed, neatly wrapped his untouched pistachio cookie in a napkin, and pocketed it. ‘Don’t expect me to drive any faster than usual.’

It took some skilful manoeuvring to get to the second-floor bathroom without Meian spotting them, but they managed it and sent Osamu home with a bagful of snacks and an Atsumu promise to beat his ass into next week the next time he laid eyes on him. For all the panicking he’d done on the phone, Osamu certainly seemed to find the whole thing hilarious now that Atsumu had successfully rescued him; he played an excerpt from the video of shit noises and Sakusa had to shake Atsumu’s shoulder to get his soul to return to his body.

How the fuck was he supposed to look Meian in the eye?

They parted ways at the stairwell, but before he disappeared with his duffel bag, Sakusa turned back and promised to delete the CCTV footage of the double Miyas, and to text Atsumu the moment he found any matches on the prints.

As Atsumu watched him go, it almost felt odd to think that just a few days prior they’d been at each other’s throats. Contrary to Atsumu’s beliefs, they worked far better together than he’d ever thought possible; whatever wavelength Atsumu found himself surfing, Sakusa seemed able to tune himself into the same frequency with practised ease. He supposed his company wasn’t so bad either. Sakusa was mean, sure, but in the same kind of upfront and honest way that ‘Samu and Suna were. The kind of way that made Atsumu feel warm and safe in the knowledge that he didn’t really mean it, not like the people he’d grown up with at school or the scrubs at his old job.

That train of thought escorted him all the way to the office floor, and all that remained was for Atsumu to make the walk of shame back to Meian’s room. As he hunched, clutched at his stomach, and shuffled up to Meian’s door to knock it, he could feel the rest of the office watching him intently. Bokuto’s stare was the hardest of them all, like a firm, apologetic hand on the back. Atsumu pulled as much strength from it as he could manage and knocked on the door.

When Meian answered he looked down at Atsumu so pitifully, that Atsumu thought about running away again. To somewhere extremely far away. Somewhere like a deserted island with a population of minus-one where he could wallow in his own misery alone. Forever.

‘Yikes, Miya.’ Meian rubbed at the back of his neck and winced at him. ‘Rough day?’

Atsumu gritted his teeth. ‘Samu must have fed me somethin’ rotten,’ he ground out. ‘Gonna leave such a bad review on Yelp.’

Right after he killed him and buried him four-thousand feet deep in an unmarked grave.

‘If you’re not, uh,’—Meian cleared his throat—'feeling a hundred percent, you can just take the rest of the day off, you know. Maybe find some medication for your, uh. For you.’

Atsumu wanted to die. Right there in Meian’s office, in the most dramatic and terrible way imaginable. If his head suddenly exploded into a billion bloody pieces, maybe Meian would stop looking at Atsumu like he couldn’t stop recalling the sounds of his overactive bowel.

‘No,’ Atsumu shook his head. ‘I’m fine, Meian-san, It’s not that bad, really. I’m, uh… recovering fast. You can carry on with what you were sayin’ earlier. Somethin’ ‘bout a job? Maybe it’ll distract me.’

Meian’s eyebrows pulled together in an are you sure about that kind of way. Atsumu ducked under his arm by way of response and seated himself in the chair opposite Meian’s desk. The sooner this was over with, the better.

Warily, Meian took his own seat and gave Atsumu a final once over. Whatever he saw in Atsumu’s eyes seemed to satisfy him. ‘Bigshot guy came calling last night,’ he began. ‘Wants an envelope from the safe of a high-rise penthouse. He’s willing to pay huge numbers if we can get it to him within two months.’

That didn’t sound too difficult. Atsumu could easily juggle that whilst continuing with the Monster Heist. It would also provide him with excuses to leave the office whenever he pleased; Hinata and Bokuto were starting to look a little pale being kept behind their desks for so long.

‘Easy,’ Atsumu said. ‘We’ll start plannin’ right away.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Meian said. ‘But I also have a condition before I let you agree officially.’

‘Hm?’

‘I want you to put aside your differences and work it with Sakusa.’

Atsumu wasn’t really paying attention. He was busy sorting through his thoughts, both for the new heist and the opportunities it would provide the Monster Heist, so he forgot he was still supposed to hate Sakusa when he shrugged and said, ‘Sure, OK.’

Meian continued, ‘Look, I know you two don’t get along, but I’ve done some research into the building you’ll be infiltrating, and it looks heavily fortified. There’s a pretty solid combination on that safe, and a team of—Wait. Did you just agree? I thought you were going to burst a vessel.’

Shit. Whoops? Was it too late to start throwing a tantrum?

Probably.

Atsumu dug around in his metaphorical brain-filing-cabinet for a bullshit excuse. He landed on, ‘We’re beyond desperate, Meian-san. If we can’t get our paintin’ back, then we need somethin’ to distract ourselves with. If that means we gotta work with Om—Sakusa, then so be it. I’m sure Hinata and Bokuto will be fine with it too.’

‘Ha,’ Meian said with a surprised smile. ‘Wow. Seems like stopping you guys from participating in that heist was a good idea after all. For a moment there, I was starting to worry it wasn’t.’

Poor bastard, Atsumu thought. He had no idea what the MSBY Monsters were about to unleash upon the Adlers in nine days’ time.

Atsumu hoped he had life insurance. He was probably going to need it.

‘Yeah, I’m growin’ as a person, or whatever. Just let me sign off on it.’

‘I’ll have to talk to Sakusa first. Get him on board. Swing by tomorrow morning and we’ll iron out the details.’

The fax machine beside his computer was busy printing something when Atsumu slumped back down into his chair. Atsumu waited patiently for it to churn out the single piece of paper and almost choked when he read it:

It was the front face of a ‘Get Well Soon’ card, only, whoever had sent it had spent a lot of time defacing it with explosions and poop emojis.

He got up and stalked over to Hinata and Bokuto’s desks. They were huddled and hunched over Hinata’s phone, watching a video of Kageyama falling down the stairs set to music.

‘This you?’ he demanded, holding it out for them both to see.

They looked up at the same time, eyes wide and mouths gaping like gutted fish.

Hinata took the sheet and started laughing uncontrollably the second he realised what he was seeing. Bokuto joined in shortly after, his laugh raucous enough to startle a curse out of the nearby Adriah. He slapped Atsumu on the back. ‘Oh god,’ he said. ‘I wish I’d thought of that.’

‘What d’ya mean ya wish you’d thought of it. It was you two, right? Who else could it be?’

Hinata shook his head as tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘No, Atsumu-san,’ he wheezed and held up his hands defensively. ‘It wasn’t us, I swear. We were planning on using our lunch break to buy you medicine, though.’

Bokuto reached the conclusion first. ‘Ohohoh! Never thought I’d see the day that Sakusa made a joke! ‘Specially not one that funny!’

Atsumu looked down at the paper. Sakusa hadn’t sent him this, surely. He was… adept with a computer, petty, and the only other person besides Osamu who knew about the whole thing.

Sakusa had sent it.

He snatched the paper from Hinata and stormed back over to his desk. For ten minutes he tried to think of something mean to reply with, but his mind remained frustratingly blank. He settled for texting him instead and scoffed when he realised what name Sakusa had saved his contact details under.

(11:30) To: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

Tysm 4 the kind words omi u fkn asshole

(11:31) From: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

What the fuck does any of that even say?

Also, you are welcome.

(11:33) To: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

(link)

thats urban dictionary. work it out scrub

(11:34) From: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

That is a link to a Rick Astley song.

(11:34) To: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

HA

(11:38) From: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

What did Meian-san want?

(11:39) To: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

new job

also heads up

hes about to come ask u to work on it with us

I know itll be mega fucking hard for u

but try to act like u hate me when he does ;)

The reply took longer to come back this time. Atsumu drummed his fingers against the desk as he waited.

(11:45) From: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

Why would he suddenly want us to work together? After all this time?

(11:46) To: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

so many questions omi

(11:46) From: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

Just answer them.

(11:47) To: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

idk smth about a safe???

wasn’t rlly listening

but it’s a good thing

means i have good reason to barge into ur office to bug u whenever I want

(11:49) From: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

Do not come to this office, ever again.

You are absolutely NOT welcome.

If I have to create and install anti-Miya security I will.

(11:51) To: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

u wouldn’t

i can see it in ur eyes omi

nobody is immune to my

me

(11:51) From: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

Your you?

(11:52) To: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

yea I was going 2 start listing my good qualities

but there are so many it would take 2 long

also

clear ur schedule tomorrow

(11:53) From: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

No.

(11:55)

Why?

(11:56) To: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

ur the sugar daddy with the coins omi

we gotta start shopping

(11:57) From: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

I’ll just give you my card, Miya.

(11:58) To: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

Nooooopeee

ur not getting out of this

now that we’re meian approved and don’t hav to sneak round

its time for a fun day out of ~team bonding~

Atsumu didn’t get another text until later that night. He was busy rustling himself up some food and sending pictures of it to Osamu’s ‘Rate My Plate’ group chat when Sakusa’s name dropped down in a notification.

(7:28) From: Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi

Thanks for today.

For what? Atsumu pondered. Getting him the prints? Buying him food? That odd moment they’d shared in the bathroom?

Maybe he’d done something else nice without realising it. Though that was highly unlikely. Atsumu didn't do nice things for people very often.

Sakusa probably wouldn’t answer honestly even if he asked, so in the end Atsumu just replied with a serious, Any time, Omi, like he’d known all along.

Atsumu had been stuck in Meian’s office all morning signing documents and talking with the client over the phone. The guy was a total asshole, the kind who kept asking Atsumu to speak clearer and provide proof that he was qualified for the job and not just some mouthy kid. It took every ounce of Atsumu’s concentrated willpower not to call him something unforgivable, and by the time Meian was through bombarding him with files of information and promises that he’d persuaded Sakusa to ‘cooperate’ it was already passed ten in the morning, and he was exhausted.

Finding Bokuto, Hinata, and Sakusa in the carpark standing in a line beside a huge white van with their thumbs up was almost too much for his brain to handle.

He pointed at them, and then at it, dumbstruck. ‘What the fuck is that?’

‘Sakusa bought me the van I asked for!’ Bokuto grinned, twirling a set of keys around his fingers. ‘Isn’t it cool, Tsum-Tsum?’

Atsumu blinked at Sakusa. ‘You what?’

‘I told you I’d buy whatever you needed,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘Plus, your old van was disgusting. You couldn’t pay me to get inside it.’

Atsumu eyed Hinata.

Hinata eyed Atsumu.

They both broke into sprints at the same time and wrestled each other to the passenger side door. Hinata was both deceptively strong and fast; he managed to push Atsumu out of the way and climb inside with a smug smile before Atsumu’s hand had even reached for the door handle.

‘Hahah!’ Bokuto laughed from somewhere behind him. ‘That’s my disciple!’

‘Unfair!’ Atsumu yelled. ‘You got a head start!’

Hinata poked his tongue out. ‘Your just getting old and out of shape, Atsumu-san! Enjoy the back seat! I hear it’s seventy-percent less fun than the front!’

Sakusa laughed at that, nasty and dry, and Atsumu turned on him with an exaggerated scowl. ‘Don’t you start! Yer in the back seat too, ya fuckin’ idiot. Seriously,’ he groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Feels like I’m livin’ in the fuckin’ twilight zone this mornin’.’

Bokuto got into the driver’s seat, and Atsumu and Sakusa piled into the three seats directly behind, one seat left empty and awkward between them. As per Bokuto’s request, Sakusa had somehow managed to find a van with a fully stocked minibar installed in the back area, but the mod cons didn’t stop there: there was a desk built into the left wall for a tech with a chair folded up beneath it, an electric fan nailed to the upper right corner, and a few stacked boxes packed with various useful pieces of equipment that definitely did not belong to any of them.

‘Any more surprises I should know about?’ Atsumu leaned over to whisper once Bokuto had gotten them on the road.

Sakusa’s eyes rolled upward as he contemplated it. Then he leaned in too so that Atsumu could smell the coffee clinging to his breath, and whispered, ‘Ah, yes. There is one. I got Hinata the dog.’

‘What?’

One of Sakusa’s eyebrows raised in a challenge and there was a small flash of teeth as he smiled a wicked sort of smile. Atsumu was forced to retreat because his face suddenly flushed, and his heart decided to leap into his throat. Somewhere inside his brain, and alarm bell rang. Somewhere else in his brain a voice told him to inch closer and say something he wouldn’t be able to take back.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. That was probably not a normal thing to think about your Work Associate Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Shit.

Sakusa opened his mouth to answer, but Atsumu didn’t get to hear it – thank fucking god – because the van was suddenly flooded with the opening notes of Pitbull’s ‘Hotel Room Service’ and the booming reverberations of Bokuto’s ‘Mr. Worldwide!’

That was as good excuse as any to lean back into his seat and forget about Sakusa’s smile altogether. There was no time to think stupid, dangerous thoughts about other people's mouths and how soft they looked when he was too busy chanting alongside Hinata and Bokuto, ‘WE AT THE HOTEL, MOTEL, HOLIDAY INN! WE AT THE HOTEL, MOTEL HOLIDAY INN—SING IT OMI—’

Atsumu and Hinata turned to look at him, holding out imaginary microphones for him to sing along, but Sakusa just looked straight ahead at Hinata’s headrest like he was hoping it might grow hands and arms and use them to strangle him to death.

They shrugged and continued without him, ‘HOLIDAY INN!’

The van bounced ominously beneath their restrained dancing, and it took four more songs before Sakusa loosened the death grip on his seatbelt. By the time they stopped in the carpark of an outlet mall, he’d relaxed enough to start bopping his head along, though Atsumu would wager he wasn’t familiar with any of the songs on Hinata’s playlist.

‘That sound system is awesome,’ Bokuto bragged as they climbed out. He gave Sakusa a thumbs up. ‘Thanks a bunch, Omi!’

‘I regret it entirely.’

‘I speak fluent Omi now,’ Atsumu cut in. ‘That means “You’re welcome, Bokkun. I’m glad you like it.”’

Bokuto beamed. ‘Aw, good! ‘Cause I was gonna say, you can’t have it back now. It’s mine. You’d have to wrestle me for it.’

Atsumu whispered to Sakusa, ‘And you definitely wouldn’t win that fight, Omi-Omi, trust me. I still can’t feel my left ass cheek.’

Their first stop was a craft store, stacked floor-to-ceiling with so many different colours it was almost headache inducing. It was quiet before they had entered; only two elderly women were inside, perusing the selection of crochet patterns and yarn, but they made quick exits once Hinata and Bokuto started talk-yelling.

Sakusa doused his own palms in hand sanitizer, then Atsumu held out his, then Hinata, then Bokuto. Then they each took a comically tiny metal basket and started loading them up with packets of confetti, balloons, pompoms, and stickers.

‘Woah, hey there, Omi-Omi,’ Bokuto said when he eyed Sakusa’s basket. ‘Isn’t glitter a bit too mean spirited? They’ll be scraping that out of their cracks for years.’

Sakusa looked him dead in the eye and said, ‘Precisely.’

Atsumu gasped and his eyes lit up with an idea. ‘That’s perfect, Omi! I saw this trick once where this guy made a balloon explode usin’ the juice from orange peel skins.’

Sakusa nodded. ‘We can fill the balloons with glitter and rig them to fall over the Adlers’ heads.’

Atsumu grinned and snapped his fingers. ‘Then we open fire with orange-juice-infused water guns. We already need them for what I had planned with the paintin’. Ha! It’s genius!’

Both Sakusa and Atsumu started loading their baskets with unholy amounts of glitter and balloons. Atsumu almost felt bad for the money Sakusa was going to have to fork out for so much stuff, but Sakusa didn’t seem to care. His basket was packed higher than anybody else’s and he was still adding more. Disturbingly, his hands were even hovering over the selection of multi-coloured thumbtacks.

Hinata shivered as he watched them. ‘Scary,’ he said. ‘You two are scary!’

‘Maybe you were right in hating each other before,’ Bokuto agreed. ‘Maybe it was supposed to be that way so the world would know peace.’

‘Shut up and put more glitter in yer damn baskets. Don’t you want to see the Adlers lookin’ like extras from a fuckin’ Barbie movie?’

Neither needed more convincing than that. Bokuto gave his basket to Hinata, made a makeshift basket of his own by pulling up the hem of his shirt, and scooped a whole shelf into it. ‘Let’s go!’ he cried.

Their second stop was a toy store, for the water guns.

‘I didn’t know they did so many different kinds these days,’ Hinata said in awe as they stared at the wall of plastic. He was right; there were large ones, small ones, ones that were dual-wield, and other, more advanced ones that were shaped concerningly like rocket launchers and assault rifles. ‘It’s like I’m in a real spy movie!’

They put more than they needed in the cart. Sakusa insisted it was better to be overprepared by having one of each, than to leave it to chance. What if their streams weren’t strong enough, or didn’t reach far enough?

‘Hmm, you’re right,’ Bokuto hummed. ‘We have to test them out. On each other.’

‘No,’ said Sakusa. ‘We don’t.’

‘Yes,’ said Atsumu. ‘We really, really do.’

They bought the vintage wine from a specialist store, and three new sets of skin-tight black heist-wear. Sakusa took them to his favourite gadget store and bought ridiculously expensive earpieces for each of them and something else Atsumu didn’t know the name or function of for himself. They bought rope, woollen blankets, and umbrellas, then finished off the rest of Atsumu's list in a discount store.

Midday, they stopped for food in a fast-food restaurant, and Atsumu watched with a small smile as Sakusa talked passionately and in depth to Hinata about something or other.

At first, Atsumu had been worried Sakusa would refuse to mingle. That he’d drift awkwardly around on the outskirts like a vampire without permission to enter their home. But he’d done the opposite all day; he’d bought Bokuto his van and hadn’t complained that loudly at Hinata’s crass choice of music. His snipes had lost their vitriol, and he’d smiled more than Atsumu had ever seen him smile before. He'd fit in so quickly, and so seamlessly, it was as though he’d been a part of the team since the start, like they hadn’t spent the better half of four years refusing to compromise with each other for the sake of their own pride.

More than anything, Atsumu was glad; it felt like the final piece of the puzzle had slotted into place.

Why the fuck hadn’t they done this sooner?

‘There’s one more thing we need to do,’ Sakusa said once they’d finished their ice cream. ‘Hinata, Bokuto-san, there’s a pet shop over that way. You should go and pick out some stuff for Hinata’s new dog.’

Hinata screamed, loud and with the intensity of a banshee. ‘Seriously? Omi-san?’

He held out his bank card. ‘It’s ready to pick up next Monday. You should prepare for it.’

Hinata took the card and looked at it like it contained the answer to the universe. ‘Oh my god! Thank you so much, Omi-san! I’ll never forget this! I’ll name it after you! Do you want to be its godfather? I can make the certificates!’

‘That’s fine,’ Sakusa said with a grimace. ‘Please call it a normal name.’

Hinata saluted him and dragged Bokuto off to the pet shop. Sakusa turned to Atsumu once they were gone and said, ‘My cousin owns an art shop that way.’ He pointed in the opposite direction to the one Hinata and Bokuto had just taken. ‘He’s also an art forger. We can commission the painting from him.’

Not many things surprised Atsumu, but Sakusa managed to every five minutes. He hadn’t said out loud that he’d been worrying about securing a forger quick enough and talented enough to create the replica he needed. But Sakusa had already picked up the slack. ‘Woah, Omi-kun. So many underworld connections. Should I be concerned?’

‘Always. Let’s go.’

It turned out that Sakusa’s cousin was called Komori, and Komori was both hilarious and mildly terrifying. Atsumu wondered if it was genetic.

‘Oh?’ he said as he leaned forward on the counter. ‘This is the Miya Atsumu you keep talking about? I see, I see, it all makes sense now.’

Atsumu raised an eyebrow. ‘You talk about me to yer cousin, Omi-kun? That’s cute.’

‘Only to complain about your abundant faults,’ Sakusa said without removing a, quite frankly, terrifying glare from his cousin.

Komori didn’t seem to be fazed. He smiled at Atsumu. ‘If you not having any faults is considered a fault then yeah, sure. He waxes poetic about that all the time.’

Sakusa picked up a pencil from a nearby pot, sharpened it using the electric sharpener on the edge of the counter, and aimed it at his cousin. ‘The only reason you are still alive right now is because cleaning up after your murder would be too much of an unsanitary hassle.’

Atsumu plucked the pencil from his grip and put it back into the pot. ‘Ok, let’s maybe, not do that, considering we need to commission yer good cousin here, yeah?’

Also, Atsumu was staring to like the guy already.

Sakusa huffed. ‘Two reasons,’ he said begrudgingly.

‘Yeah, yeah, sure, you dramatic sack of shit. Come on into the back so we can talk business.’

Komori lifted the countertop and led them through to the back room. The whole room stank of paint fumes and something else acrid and chemical, and there were easels everywhere, displaying paintings ranging from finished pieces to mere sketches and outlines. The guy obviously had a talent, Atsumu could see that; there was an exact replica of Monet’s ‘The Water Lily Pond’ lying listlessly next to a series of Manet masterpieces.

Komori took a seat on the couch occupying the only corner not to display a canvas, and Sakusa followed suit without the usual evaluation of cleanliness. Atsumu didn’t miss the way Sakusa’s foot kicked out discreetly at Komori’s leg.

‘Kiyoomi already sent me the gist of what you guys need done,’ he said, voice pinched, hand rubbing at his shin. ‘You said you needed it to dissolve?’

‘Under water, if possible,’ Atsumu nodded.

‘That shouldn’t be too difficult. Most ordinary people can’t tell the difference between water-based and oil-based paints anyway. Plus, the painting isn’t a classic, right? It’s just—’

‘One they found at a pawn shop,’ Sakusa drawled. ‘Yes.’

Komori chuckled. ‘Come back in five days,’ he said. ‘I’ll have it all made up for you in time for your little game. On a special cousin discount, too, since I care about your happiness so much, Omi.’

‘I don’t want your shit discounts. Do it properly or I’ll turn you in to the police for fraud.’

They shook on that, and spent a while longer discussing details. Atsumu had questions about the durability of the dissolvable paper canvas that Komori was happy to answer, and Sakusa spent a little while longer still catching up with his cousin.

Atsumu listened carefully, happy to pick up what little fragments of insight into Sakusa’s life outside of work they left behind.


i

Greg has been reliably informed by a variety of people that he’s not that good at most things. His mother always told him he didn’t need to be a genius to be happy and his grandpa liked to agree because it was clear Greg was never going to do anything worth mentioning.

What working at Waystar and becoming closer with the Roy side of his family has shown him is that maybe he is good at something after all, even if that thing is just stopping his cousin’s brand new husband from having a meltdown every few hours.

To be honest, he kinds of likes it. Tom is incredibly insecure and maybe borderline insane, but he’s really kind sometimes – he bought Greg shoes after all. And three suits. And an overcoat because he said Greg’s anorak was giving him allergies. Plus he bought him all the clothes he needed to wear at the wedding because he said he couldn’t have Greg embarrassing him.

So even though Tom is a dick a lot of the time, Greg kind of owes him because they’re sort of friends and sometimes Tom really does act like he cares about him. And maybe Greg really does like him more than he should. He definitely owes him enough to go check on Tom when he comes back from talking to Shiv looking murderous, throws out the guy Greg is 99% certain his cousin is having an affair with, and then disappears outside with a whole bottle of whisky, leaving his own wedding reception behind.

It's not as easy to follow Tom as he thought. It’s like he’s swallowed up by the shadows the minute he leaves the party. Greg stumbles around the building, trying to spot him somewhere. Thankfully a member of staff points him onto the gravel path leading to the garden and when he gets just far enough away from the reception that he can barely hear the thumping bass of the music, he finds Tom. He’s sat on a bench with his head in his hands, suit jacket draped across the seat next to him and his shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.

“Tom?” Greg asks, approaching him slowly. Tom isn’t fond of being startled. “Are you okay?”

Tom doesn’t look at him, just sits up and takes a swig from the bottle he carried out with him. “Sure, Greg,” he says, voice rough from the liquor. “I’m fucking great.”

“Okay.” Greg nods. “Sure, yeah. It’s just that you don’t um… You don’t really seem that fine? If that’s okay for me to say?” Tom ignores him and just has another sip of whisky. “Can I sit? I’m gonna sit.”

He does sit, shuffling onto the bench next to Tom. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to bring up that Nate guy or even Shiv right now. But at the same time, he wants Tom to know that he’s there for him. His hands curl and unfurl in his lap and then one of them hovers over Tom’s knee, uncertain until it’s not. His hand settles gently and he can feel the heat of Tom’s skin through the fabric of his pants.

Tom looks at Greg’s hand, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Greg? What the fuck are you doing?”

“I, uh…” Greg makes to withdraw his hand, but Tom covers it with his own. “Tom?”

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look at Greg. He just shakes his head and squeezes Greg’s hand.

“I’m not okay,” Tom says quietly. “She… Greg, she asked me for – ” He swallows hard and Greg pretends not to see the tears in his eyes.

He doesn’t finish his sentence and Greg doesn’t push. “It’ll be okay, Tom.”

“Uh-huh.” Tom nods too quickly for it to be sincere. “Uh-huh, sure. Yeah.”

He looks over at Greg, something wild in his eyes and Greg has about five seconds to worry that Tom is about to punch him before Tom puts down the whisky, grabs Greg’s face with both his hands and kisses him. Later, Greg will find it in himself to be embarrassed about how quickly he kisses back, arms winding around Tom’s neck, shifting closer to him. Right now though, his brain is just a cacophony of panic and want and relief that this has finally happened.

Then Tom pulls away and there’s a moment that goes on forever but lasts no time at all where he looks like he wants to kiss Greg again. But when Greg blinks, it’s gone and Tom is getting to his feet with a manic grin plastered to his face.

“Well, I guess I should stop skulking in the dark and get back to my party!” he announces loudly enough that Greg jumps. “I’m a married man now, Gregory, and this is the – ” he falters, the smile wavering on his face for a moment. “This is the happiest night of my life,” he finishes.

“Yeah,” Greg says. “I know, Tom. I know.”

Tom nods and forces his smile even wider before turning and walking back to the castle and his wedding and his wife.

ii

After whatever the fuck Boar on the Floor was Greg can’t sleep. He spends nearly an hour in the shower, trying to scrub the anxiety, the worry that he’s fucked up again and this time no one will be able to help him from his skin. It doesn’t work.

Lying in bed with the sheets pulled all the way up to his chin, he finds it impossible to sleep. He sees Tom’s face every time he closes his eyes. The way he didn’t just look embarrassed, or like he was angry at Logan but so deeply sad, like this was all inevitable and he’d spent his entire life waiting to be humiliated and degraded like this. Like he deserved no more than this.

Eventually, Greg gives up trying to sleep. He gets out of bed, pulls a jumper on over his pyjamas and slips out of his room.

Tom’s room is right next to his, he knows because Tom had made an odd joke about keeping Greg awake. He lifts his hand and knocks softly on the door – loud enough that Tom can hear him but not so loud that everyone else in their part of the house will too.

There’s no answer.

He should take the hint and go back to bed but he can’t imagine a world where Tom is actually asleep right now. He knocks again and then again. Tapping relentlessly like an overgrown woodpecker until he hears movement inside the room and the door opens.

Tom looks a little surprised to see him but mostly he just looks tired. “Greg,” he says monotonously. “I thought you were Logan and his cronies, here for more hazing.”

“No,” Greg says. “It’s just me. Greg.”

“Why are you here?” Tom asks, resting his head against the door like he can barely keep himself upright.

There’s a lot Greg wants to say. Like ‘I’ve missed you’ and ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about how defeated you looked when Carl took the sausage from you’ and ‘You kissed me on your wedding night and never again and I want to do it again so badly’. In the end, he just gives Tom an approximation of the truth.

“I uh, I didn’t want to be alone after… all that.”

At his core, Greg knows that all Tom really wants is to be wanted, to be needed. And while he wants comfort right now, he also knows it will help Tom to know that someone wants him even if his wife and her family don’t. They’re symbiotic parasites the two of them and they’re happiest using each other.

Tom sighs and steps aside. “Come in.”

There’s a couch at the end of the bed but Greg forgoes it and perches on top of the rumpled bedding. A tumbler of dark golden liquor is on the bedside table and Greg nods at it.

“Can I have one of those?”

A glass is poured for him and Tom sits next to Greg once he’s handed it to him, their shoulders brushing. Greg drinks what he assumes to be bourbon in one gulp.

“Tonight was kinda uh…” he fumbles for words. “Intense?”

A hitching breath escapes Tom as he drinks his own bourbon. “I don’t want to talk about it, Greg. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened.”

Greg ducks his head in a nod. “Sure yeah, never happened. Like the thing with the papers or the, uh, thing at your wedding.”

Tom sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on, man,” Greg says with a frown. “You know what happened. You kissed m–”

A large hand is clapped over his mouth. “Shut up, Greg. Or I’ll forget to be nice and throw you out on your ear.”

“Mmph,” Greg says, pushing Tom’s hand away. “Tom, do you not think that maybe we should talk about it?”

“No, Gregory, I don’t,” Tom says primly as if they’re not both sat in their pyjamas, dancing around a kiss like two middle schoolers. And Greg almost believes him except for the way Tom’s hand is inching across the space between them, little finger brushing Greg’s.

Greg looks down at his lap and tries to hide his smile. “Tom?”

“What, Greg?” Tom asks stiffly, hand slowly covering Greg’s, fingers intertwining.

“Can I stay here tonight? With you?”

Tom doesn’t answer him, just shuffles back on the bed until he’s lying down. He tugs on Greg’s hand, pulling him with him until they’re lying next to each other. In a move that has his stomach doing a little backflip, Greg shifts and rests his head on Tom’s chest. Almost immediately, Tom’s hand settles in his hair, stroking softly and Greg’s eyes slide shut.

When Greg is just about to fall asleep and Tom’s breathing has evened out, his rhythmic petting of Greg’s hair slowing, he asks what had really been keeping him awake.

“Why did you keep it quiet? About my pre-meeting with that writer? You could have told Logan to save yourself.”

There’s a long silence and eventually, Tom mumbles: “Shut the fuck up, Greg.”

Greg adds it to the list of things they don’t talk about.

iii

Greg has had enough. It’s not that he thought he was as important to the company or the family as Shiv or Roman, definitely not as important as Gerri or Logan himself. But he thought he was more than ‘sprinkles’. A garnish that’s all they see him as. Fucking expendable.

He paces the floor of his cabin, trying to work up the courage to say something, to maybe confront Uncle Logan and tell him he can’t just throw Greg to the wolves, or to go and tell Kendall that he has a way out for both of them stashed in an envelope under his bed at home. He knows he probably sounds crazy, talking to himself like this but his whole body is shaking and he feels like he might vibrate out of his skin at any moment.

When there’s a knock on the door he jumps a foot in the air, hands fumbling with the handle and lock. Tom stands outside, looking dishevelled and upset and fucking angry and Greg – Greg does not want to have to deal with his shit.

“What?” he asks, sounding braver than he feels. “Tom, why are you here?” Tom pushes past him into the room, jaw set and his hands curled into fists. “I’m really… I’m not in the mood to be yelled at Tom. If this is one of my last nights of freedom, I don’t want to spend it fighting with you, alright?”

“I think my marriage is over,” Tom says and Greg deflates.

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, Tom.”

“Uh-huh.” Tom nods, keeping his chin high like he’s ready for a fight. “The thing is, shithead. That everything is a little precarious now and you… you’ll be okay because you’re just the sprinkles. It’s me they really want.”

“That’s not… I’m more than just sprinkles, Tom.”

“Yeah,” Tom says, finally really looking at Greg. “You are.”

Afterwards, Greg couldn’t say which one of them actually moves first. He just remembers the collision, Tom’s mouth on his, hands sliding into his hair, his own arms pulling Tom closer and then letting go so he can divest himself of his clothing and strip Tom of his.

He allows himself to forget everything except the way Tom clutches at him too hard, too desperately and keeps mumbling things that don’t make any sense at all – maybe not even to Tom himself. But Greg needs this, needs to know he’s not alone, that he’s making the right decision. He’s doing this not just for himself but for Tom too and to show the rest of the Roys that he is more than just their expendable cousin. He is someone and they’ll regret taking him for granted.

When he walks to the helicopter with Kendall, Tom is still sleeping in Greg’s bed where he left him. Greg watches the yacht grow smaller and tries to ignore the pit in his stomach that tells him he should have woken Tom and asked him to come with him.

iv

The door looks a lot hazier than it did the last time Greg was here, stumbling towards Tom and Shiv’s apartment at two am. He has a key, doesn’t need to knock but he does anyway because he isn’t actually sure that Shiv knows he has a key.

Tom answers the door. There are pillow creases on his face but he’s still dressed in shirtsleeves with his suspenders hanging off his waist. He looks tired, like an old bloodhound and Greg, in his slightly manic state, wants to either slap him or kiss him. Anything to bring out the energetic Tom he is used to.

“Is Shiv here?” he asks Tom who has already gestured for him to come in. “Not that it isn’t cool if she is. It’s very cool. Fine in fact.”

“She isn’t,” Tom says, collapsing onto the couch. “She was but she went out again, said not to wait up.”

“Oh,” Greg nods. “Cool.” He doesn’t wait for Tom to ask why he’s here, instead showing him his wrist. “I got the watch. It doesn’t work and I had to spend forty grand on it and I know I’m like, rich now? But that’s a lot of money, Tom.”

Tom is looking at him like he just started doing the macarena while reciting Russian poetry, confusion painted on his expressive face in broad strokes. “You came here at two am to tell me you bought a broken watch? What the fuck, Greg?”

He pushes Greg’s arm away from his face and Greg shakes his head. “No, I came because… I don’t know. I thought being with Kendall... we’re doing the right thing, aren’t we? Trying to make Waystar better? And like, you wanted to stay at ATN and I don’t. So I thought me and Ken, we could be a team?”

Tom is still staring at him and Greg notices the hurt on his face, but can’t stop talking.

“Like, I liked being on a team with you, Tom but we want different things. So I thought: Kendall. But Kendall, man, I don’t know. He’s not what I thought. It’s all parties and talking – he talks so much, Tom, but he doesn’t say anything? And he doesn’t get what it’s like to be the little guy! Forty K for a broken watch Tom! And he wouldn’t buy it for me even though that’s definitely what he said he was going to do! Like he was all ‘Hey Greg, you need a watch, I know a guy let me –”

He’s interrupted in the middle of his admittedly mediocre Kendall impression by Tom bursting into hysterical laughter.

“Uh, Tom?” Greg asks, a little concerned. “Are you alright?”

Tom sniffs, still laughing. “Oh, sure, Greg. It’s just ironic that you’re here – rat-arsed on some sort of drug you got from Kendall – complaining about how he won’t buy you a watch while I’m preparing to go to prison and waiting for Shiv to divorce me.”

Greg is a little stumped, unsure of what to say while Tom continues to chuckle to himself. He can’t find any humour in the situation. “Is that why you asked me to come over? Because you’re scared of going to prison?”

“Scared?” Tom scoffs. “I’m not some teenage girl afraid of her first fuck, Greg. I’m just trying to plan for all eventualities of what could happen in there.”

“Right, sure, Tom. But like, you don’t even know for sure that you’ll be going,” Greg says. “Right?”

Finally, Tom seems to sober. “Right. Nothing is set in stone. Nothing really matters anymore either though.”

“Uh…”

With a heavy sigh, Tom shakes his head and gets to his feet. “I’m going to bed. Turn the lights off when you leave.”

Greg watches him walk away, then hurries after Tom, clutching at his shirttails the way he did when he followed Tom to the panic room.

“Go home, Greg,” Tom says, brushing Greg’s hands off without even looking behind him. His voice is thick and cracks a little on Greg’s name. “I don’t need you and your sad cow eyes staring at me all night.”

“Tom?” He stops halfway up the stairs, looking down at Greg and for probably the first time since he met Tom, Greg struggles to work out what he’s thinking. “Are you gonna be okay?”

Tom clenches his jaw and nods. “Sure.”

“Okay. I guess… I’ll see you at work, then.” Greg turns and makes it to the second last step when Tom says his name. “Yeah?”

Tom hesitates, teeth gritted, then shakes his head. “Nothing. Just – I’d have bought you the watch.” He turns on his heel and carries on upstairs.

Greg remains frozen, staring at the space Tom occupied for far too long until he manages to convince his leaden limbs to carry him to the front door.

v

If he’s totally honest, Greg isn’t quite sure what just happened. Tom came into his office, all bravado and false ego, talking about Romans and slaves and castration and prison – and the next thing Greg knew he was being told to fight Tom, then being yelled at, and then Tom was gone, leaving chaos in his wake like a tornado.

Greg looks around, hoping there will be someone he can exchange an incredulous glance with but as so often when things happen between Tom and him, there’s no one there. If he didn’t know Tom was truly in love with Shiv, he’d think Tom had just offered to throw her under the bus so he and Greg could be together.

Still, behind all the incoherent rambling and macho-façade, Greg is pretty sure Tom is just afraid. He’s heard what others at Waystar are calling him, knows that everyone is certain Tom will end up in prison. Greg doesn’t know how to feel about that. He and Tom haven’t been that close recently, haven’t had a conversation that isn’t just passing on information about the civil war they find themselves in for weeks (apart from when Greg went to Tom’s apartment and ended up leaving feeling more depressed than when he got there). But despite the newly acquired distance between them, Greg finds he still has a sense of loyalty towards Tom.

And maybe there’s something else there too. Something he buried deep in himself when he realised that chasing after yet another uninterested, married man wasn’t the way he should be spending his life. So he leaves the storage room Tom had given him as an office and makes his way upstairs to find Tom.

He’s not in his office, that much is clear through the glass walls. But Greg goes in anyway, hoping to find a clue as to where he might be. Turns out doesn't need to look very hard for one because he hears loud sniffing from behind the panelled door leading to Tom’s private bathroom.

There was a time before all this when Greg was allowed to use that bathroom, instead of having to use the communal ones. A time when every now and then, Tom would follow him into said bathroom and press Greg against the sink and himself against Greg until they were both happy, slightly guilty messes.

When Greg opens the door, very slowly so as not to spook Tom, he feels his heart clench in his chest. He has seen Tom angry, happy, anxious, spitting feathers with tears in his eyes, in manic phases, and in slow moments when he can barely keep his eyes open. He has never seen Tom cry, not like this, not crouched on the closed toilet with his head in his hands and his whole body shaking as he tries to contain his sobs.

“Tom?” Greg stumbles over the word as he steps into the small space and closes the door behind him.

“And my humiliation is complete,” Tom says, more to himself than Greg. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I just wanted to check on you,” Greg says hands reaching for Tom but hovering just shy of touching him. “You seemed… not okay.”

“Oh, I wonder why that is?” Tom sneers, though the effect is ruined by his puffy face and the way he lets out another hiccupping sob halfway through the sentence. “Fuck off, Greg.”

“Uh, well, I think I maybe won’t do that, Tom. Because you look pretty upset and I don’t know if it is, ah, wise to leave you at the present moment?”

Tom laughs wetly and then starts to cry again. Greg’s hands flutter uselessly before he decides to just give in to his desire to pull Tom into a hug. Almost immediately, Tom buries his face in Greg’s neck which is admittedly kind of gross because he’s still crying and could do with blowing his nose. Nevertheless, Greg holds him and lets him cry, gently patting Tom’s back like he remembers his mom doing for him a long time ago.

“Is it, uh, is it the prison thing? Is that why you’re so upset?” Greg asks softly. “Because Tom, you keep saying you’re going to prison but it’s… it’s not a sure thing.”

Tom pulls away, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Sure, but I volunteered for it. Told Logan I’d go to prison if he needed me to.”

Greg gapes at him. “What? W-why would you do that, Tom?”

“Because…” Tom swallows and his lower lip is still trembling in a pathetically endearing way. “Because it’s the best thing for me to do now. At least that way I can be useful to someone.”

“You’re useful,” Greg says and Tom scoffs.

“Sure, Greg – but to whom exactly? Not to Shiv, or Logan, or Kendall. Not to y– to anyone.”

Greg’s heart is racing faster than the last time Kendall gave him a bump of coke. “To me? You are useful to me, Tom. But you don’t need to be, we’re friends.”

“Friends,” Tom repeats, jaw stiff. “Sure, buddy, we’re friends. And as my… friend, I think you’ve done your duty here. So fuck off and know that if you tell anyone about this then I’ll hunt you down and let a man I’ve paid a shit tonne of money to break your kneecaps.”

There’s none of his usual vigour in the way Tom is threatening him and there is no fucking way Greg is leaving him when he’s looking Greg like he killed his puppy.

“No offence, Tom, but I don’t know that you’re being all that truthful right now.”

Tom scowls, finally some of his familiar anger behind his eyes. “Are you enjoying this, Greg? Seeing me with my pants around my ankles? Humiliating me? Was rejecting me not enough for you? Do you have to come and rub in how pathetic I am?”

He almost hears a record scratch in his brain. “Rejecting you? I – what? When did I… you’re with Shiv, Tom. You told me that.”

“Before the yacht. I told you that before the yacht,” Tom mumbles. “And Shiv… she doesn’t care about me, Greg. No one does.” He hangs his head self-pityingly and Greg’s chest is in knots.

“I…” If this was a year ago – even three months ago – Greg wouldn’t have hesitated to say that he does care, that Tom wanting him is all he's wanted. But now things have changed and Greg is no longer just Tom’s lackey and he wants to be someone. And Tom, frankly, doesn’t have the juice to get Greg where he’s going anymore. So he does hesitate. For just long enough that Tom’s face closes off completely.

“Get out,” Tom orders.

“Tom –”

“Out!” The word reverberates around the tiled room and Greg flinches. He reaches for Tom and has his hand slapped down. “Don’t. Do not patronise me, Greg.”

“I’m not, Tom. Can we… could we please talk about this?”

Tom shakes his head. “Come see me when I’m out of prison, Greg. We can talk then.”

He pushes past Greg, so close that their chests brush when he squeezes through the doorway. And Greg, he feels fucking helpless, all the things he wants to say collecting on his tongue and tangling together. Tom has returned to his desk, shuffling papers and looking faux-industrious. Greg glances around. He can’t see anyone outside in the hallway, but still closes the blinds, drawing them all the way across the obnoxiously clean glass wall.

“What are you doing?” Tom asks.

He doesn’t bother to answer, crossing the room and taking Tom’s face in his hands like Tom did to him what seems like a lifetime ago. He kisses him hard enough that he can hear the click of their teeth knocking together. Tom makes a startled noise, hands clutching at Greg’s jacket before they slide underneath, running over his shirt, warm and slightly damp.

“I don’t want you to go to prison,” Greg says when he breaks for air, forehead pressed against Tom’s. “But if you do, I’ll uh… I’ll wait or visit you or whatever.”

“You’ll wait?” Tom sounds like he wants to tease him but is too stunned to do so. “And visit?”

“Y-yeah,” Greg nods, accidentally banging his head against Tom’s chin.

“You know, Greg,” Tom says quietly, rubbing over Greg’s back, hand still tucked under his jacket. “I think I almost believe you.”

+ i

It’s freezing cold in the car park outside Otisville. Greg stuffs his hands in his pockets, wondering whether he should have just waited in the car. He’s spent Christmas Eve in worse places, though never actually at a prison before.

He glances over at the news van and the small huddle of journalists and paparazzi that have not-so-sneakily been taking pictures of him since he arrived ten minutes ago. It was a big story: Shiv Roy’s husband going to jail and divorcing her because he was having an affair with her second cousin. Still, Greg didn’t think there would actually be people waiting to film Tom when he’s released.

There’s a buzzing sound that signals the gate opening and Greg turns and opens the car door. Mondale bounds out, jumping up at Greg who grabs the lead he’s trailing on the ground behind him.

“Come on, Mondale, let’s go see your, dad!”

Mondale’s tail nearly wags off his body – almost as if he knows what Greg is saying. Fifteen months without Tom have felt like a lifetime for both of them.

Greg trudges over to the slowly opening gate, trying to ignore how the journalists behind him are jumping into action. He can hear the clicking of the camera shutters, sees the flashing of lenses out of the corner of his eyes. He forgets it all when he sees Tom.

Dressed in the same slacks-shirt-cardigan combo he wore when he went in, he looks smaller, slightly more diminished, but still like Tom. Mondale nearly tugs Greg’s arm out of its socket when he catches sight of him, desperate to get close to him. For his part, Greg just takes several long strides towards Tom and wraps his arms around him.

“Hey,” Tom says into his shoulder, returning the hug while trying to fend off an ecstatic Mondale. “It’s good to see you.” He laughs. “Well, I saw you last week but –”

Greg cuts him off with a hard kiss, which Tom returns eagerly. The camera clicking speeds up into a frenzy and he’s sure that tomorrow morning their picture will be everywhere, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“So,” Tom says, a little breathlessly when they part and start walking back to the car. “To Canada?”

Greg nods. “I really think you’ll like it, Grandpa Ewan said we can use the house for as long as we want. Your parents should already be there by the time we’ve driven up - your mom is, like, crazy excited to spend Christmas with us.”

Tom nods, looking a little overwhelmed. Greg gives him a moment to himself as he loads Mondale into the back seat and secures his harness to the special dog-seatbelt Tom insisted he buys. By the time Greg climbs into the driver’s seat, Tom is on the passenger side, a small smile on his face.

“Ready to go?” Greg asks and Tom snorts.

“Yes, Greg. I am very ready to go.”

Greg puts the car in gear and pulls out of his spot, reaching across the console to hold Tom’s hand, as they drive away from the last hold Waystar had on them.


So there she was - only half awake, zip tied to her own balcony railing in the broad daylight of what turned out to be Monday morning, with her own phone attached to the railing, pointed with the camera right between her spread legs. Of course, this would be quite a situation to be in, however, Sandra's nakedness made it slightly more intense. Now, it was not the first time for Sandra to venture out to her balcony opposite the university dorm rooms in the nude. She did it sometime in the night, sometime even sitting down with a glass of wine, enjoying the fresh air on her slim and tender body, sometimes even caressing her tight pussy.

Sometimes she also went out to hang up the laundry, on a whim deciding to also hang up the lingerie she was wearing while doing the laundry. Actually, not that she thought of it - she never was really dressed, when out on the balcony. After all, that was one of the main reasons for her to get this apartment a couple of months ago, the location was perfect: The huge bedroom window and the balcony both faced a busy street, with a few cafes and the university dorm on the other side of the street. The apartment being on second floor meant that she could expose herself easily, giving everybody a good peek without being too close to the actual action. Well - so she quite often sat out there, gingerly touching her usually wet, tight pussy.

However, this morning was different. She was spread eagle, she was groggy after being passed out for god knows how long, and a camera was pointed straight at her pussy. Her pussy however, oh well, as she explored it in her half-awake state, it looked quite different than it did on friday when she set out for her little adventure. Not only were two more rings added to her now quite swollen lips, also her wide-open pussy stared back at her in an angry-red, gaping open obscenely after the fucking she obviously received over the last couple of days.

Alongside her intruding fingers there still were a couple of used condoms deep inside her. Absentmindedly, as she started to regain her conscious, trying to recover her memory of the last days, she started dragging them out ever so slightly, only to push them back in with more vigor from thrust to thrust. Oh, the camera was still pointed right at her pussy, she knew, and she looked forward to exploring the footage.

What Sandra, however, at this moment did not yet know (or remember?) was the nature of the footage or the question how it all came together. She had it all so perfectly arranged before she drugged herself out on Friday afternoon at the park: She had removed the pin-code from her phone, logged into all her social media and mail accounts to give whoever was willing to play with her full access. She wanted this person to have full access, to be able to look at her pictures and videos while fucking her pussy, while abusing her body, while hopefully exposing her all over the city. What she might have not considered is, that somebody with less than pleasant intentions might also use this full access to her life to share her sluttiness with the world.

Another one of her preparation saw her putting a little letter with her address, with her office address and carefully assembled all the fitting keys into her purse - before she sent herself to a long sleep, with her legs spread wide in the park. She wanted to be abused, to be humiliated and little did she know, how true this dream would become.

So let us look back at what happened - all of this captured not only by dozens if not more other phones, but also by her own. As the five homeless guys found her on Friday evening on "their" park bench, with her legs spread so wide, the bottle of sleeping pills next to her, and the dildo slightly sticking out from her swollen cunt, they knew what to do.

As a first instinct, they of course started mauling her body, pulling on her pierced nipples and pinching her a-cup tits, before pulling on her pussy rings, stretching her wide open. They barely could believe their luck and only slowly put all the puzzle stones together - the pretty girl in the summer dress bunched around her waist. The sleeping pills in the bottle that had her name written on it, the phone and the keys in her little purse. Oh, they would have fun with her, that they knew. And the area was just becoming a bit more crowded, soon - they knew - more than 20 other hobos and junkies would fill the place in the park.

And so they did - it did not take long for them all to have her way with her, multiple ways too. Oh how much fun it was for them to fuck this pretty girl with their unwashed dicks, cum all over her pretty face, all the while capturing the action on their old smart phones. However, they realized that there was more fun to be had with her. The thing with junkies like Old George is - they usually don't get to have fun. They don't get to do, what they really feel like doing and at least Old George had a nice and twisted mind, he knew very well what he wanted to do with a girl that likes to show-off - he wanted to make her dream (or what he thought might be her dream) come true.

One of his friends asked George - shall we rip her dress off, rip it to shreds? But George just smiled - no, they still would need her dress, they would need to make her look presentable - later. However, they all agreed that the dress as it was, was still far too conservative for what they had in mind with Sandra. So, with a rusty old knife, they cut off a good part of it, making sure it was just long enough to cover the upper part of her pussy, if she would stand perfectly straight. Of course, that made most of her cute little butt hang out and her glistening pussy lips were still perfectly exposed.

Just the right outfit, George and Joe agreed laughing. But for now, they were not done with the pretty little doll they had laying in front of them. Wouldn't it be fun to see what else this swollen pussy is capable of, they wondered? They all had their way with her already once, fucking her one after the other, everybody adding to the cum that was deposited deep inside of her. After all twenty-two guys had her way with her (some of them also coming all over her face, but with most of them opting to deposit their semen deep inside her, hoping to impregnate her) they decided to get more creative.

You see, men who are shunned from society and often just looked at in disgust by the likes of Sandra, they sometimes develop a slight tendency to sadism. So, it came as no surprise, that most of them wiped their dirty cocks either in her raven black hair or on her white summer dress, that already was completely stained from being dragged through the dirt and the piss puddles on the floor. The dildo, Joe grinned, is much too proper for a bitch like Sandra - much to clean too, he added. So, off they were to find more fun objects to jam up Sandra's cunt. The easy solution was one of the beer bottles that was laying around on the ground next to where the men had their way with her. With little care for her wellbeing, it was jammed into her.

In the meantime, George took hold of her phone, smiling at how easily it unlocked without giving him any trouble. Oh, the opportunities! when he took it from her purse, he had just thought of trying to wedge it into her already stretched out cunt, but the access it provided to learn more about the pretty, abused nymph laying in front of him proved to be worth so much more. Looking through her Facebook account he smiled to himself - that would be a good day - as he started to take pictures of her ordeal. He was not a professional cameraman, but he understood what he wanted - and probably what she wanted: Great pictures that highlight the abuse, that show her overly stretched cunt, while making sure that her face is in the picture.

The beer bottles the boys tried to insert into her - with the neck first - were not among the cleanest, obviously. They had been laying around this desolate, wasted area of the park for ages and god knows, how many dogs might have already pissed on them and through how much shit they had already rolled. Now, one would think that a girl as pretty as Sandra deserved at the very least a clean beer bottle to be shoved into her gaping cunt, but the boys disagreed - the dirtier, the more defiled, the better it was.

Grinning a mostly toothless smile, Tim brought the most rotten bottle he had ever seen. The paper cover was ripped to shreds, some stale liquid seemed to be in the bottle but that's not the worst part of it, as he happily announced: it was one of those, that the junkies used to hide away their used syringes. So about three or four used needles were tangling around the bottle. Now if THAT would not make a great video, what would?

So happily, they ripped out the old coke can one of the guys had jammed up her cunt, leaving her snatch gaping wide for a moment.

Seeing how stretched Sandra already was, as she was propped up on a park bench, lit well by one of the lanterns right above her, Tim decided to go for the money shot - wrestling the thick end of the dirty bottle into her gaping pussy. Her rings helped - he was pulling on them, trying to get her as far open as possible. What a contrast it was: The pretty 28-year-old Sandra, with her quite pale skin, the noble face, her cute a-cup tits - and the grotesquely stretched cunt, from which a dirty beer bottle, half filled with some rotten liquid and some used syringes was sticking out. George made sure to capture it all on picture and video. Finally, he laughed, he also would be kind of an Instagram star.

Now, while this picture with her and bottle sticking out like this made for a great picture, the evil grin of Tim and George was not satisfied: With more than 20 men cheering them on and laughing at the used Sandra, he ripped the bottle out of her, only to turn it around and jam it back up into Sandra's sleeping body. The boys wandered what the old liquid might have been - spit? piss? old beer? a mixture of everything? They did not really know, but the thought that this vile mixture was pouring into the pretty girl's cunt was exciting.

They took a few more pictures of her, before they ripped the that was nearly all the way inserted in her cunt, out of her again. To their enormous laughter, the bottle was empty - the contents were dripping out of her swollen, gaping cunt slowly. To their even more joyful excitement they also noticed - the used syringes that were in it, must have also slipped out, remaining in her cunt. Well, George, I am not going to put my hands in this abused cunt, Tim laughed, god knows what is going on with these fucking needles - don't wanna catch any shit! George agreed - they might be homeless, but dumb they were not, no good reason to risk an infection from pricking their fingers on a used needle.

However, they also agreed - they need to get these needles out of her eventually, if they wanted to continue fucking her. So there came the leather gloves - with a brutal motion, George jammed half his hand into her, feeling around in her extended snatch until he caught the three syringes that have lodged themselves inside her. With little regard for her wellbeing he dragged them out and put them right on her pubic area. - For the Instagram, what else, the boys laughed.

Tim's cruelty was it that took over - you know, George, these needles lying on her cunt might look sweet on the picture. But the bitch seems to enjoy some piercing action - wouldn't it make for a much nicer picture to jam them right in her clit or her pussy lips? Well, George was not to argue with such creativity, so both men took one of the needles and carefully - not to hurt themselves - stick it into the soft flesh of her inner pussy lips.

Laughing, they decided to put the third needle straight into her clit. How obscene she looked in the street light - dozens of homeless men kneeling around her, some of them pulling on her cunt, with three obviously used and dirty needles sticking out of her soft flesh. The pain, however, was probably enough to wake her up ever so softly.

Shall we pop her a few more of her sleeping pills? It is nice playing with her as it is, Tim grinned. But George did not agree - he had something far better in mind. Yes, a sleeping bitch was fun to play with, but honestly he wanted to expose her more and for this it would be better if she would be awake, at least kind of. Here, take this pill and pop it into her mouth. She will be awake - not coherent, probably, but awake.

And just in the very moment, before the boys could slip the pill in her mouth, Sandra woke up - blinking, looking around in a dazed state. Don't... don't... please don't, she half mumbled. Please don't stop, don't you dare stopping with whatever you're doing she pleaded. Abuse me, please, ruin me, destroy me, utterly destroy me. I - I need this to happen -- drug me if it gives you a kick, send me back to sleep, keep me awake, I don't care.

Sandra was wide awake now, panicking that they might stop the abuse they're clearly doing to her. To accentuate her point she looked down her own body, with all the homeless and junkies watching on, moving her tender hand to her abused and hurting cunt. She found the needles sticking out of her soft flesh and grinned a wicked smile. Making eye contact with the ugliest man she could find in the group of onlookers she grabbed a hold of one of the needles that were stuck in her soft pussy lips, ripping them out with one quick motion.

Please, she begged again, abuse me - give me your worst. Impregnate me, infect me, ruin me -- and make sure the world will know! With this final begging she put both needles in her right hand, while spreading her cunt lips as far as she can with her left hand. With the curious gaze of around 20 men Sandra jammed the needles deep inside herself, piercing the pink tender meat of her exposed cunt. Go, now, give me your worst, she begged over and over again. Make it public, make me famous, show the world what I really am. Oh well - the men grinned - this should be possible.

Let's get going with her, the boys agreed - her adventure was only to begin. She wanted to be the worst slut the world has ever seen, and boy, would the world see Sandra. She would become a porn star, she would become the most degraded porn star the world has ever seen, with just one difference: She would be a porn star among her own friends, among her own co-workers, colleagues, and acquaintances. And Sandra beamed: She wanted it, she wanted everyone in her life to know that she was to be abused, that her pristine pussy, that her most private places and experiences were not meant to be private or pristine anymore. Sandra wanted the world, her world to know, that her cunt was only there to be abused, a cum dumpster, hell, if needed even a real dumpster. Give me your worst, she repeated over and over again, as they planned out her little adventure.

The advantage of city living is the public transport. Now, during the day George and his gang usually avoided it, as they dreaded the attention. However, if you want to parade a half-naked, abused, slightly drugged-out girl as pretty as Sandra through the city, the public transport is all you really need. They had Sandra dressed up again, although she would have rather stayed naked, proudly parading her abused body. She insisted, however, that her dress would be kept wet, and that they cut off a bit more of it, making sure that even as she was standing still, her pussy was in clear sight - she did not want the world to miss the show she was offering as they stammered towards the tramway station.

The boys had taken some toys with them and of course made sure, to film her every move - as she pranced through the old town, stopping at nearly every street light to rub her cunt against the lamp post, to spread her legs in front of every house where she hoped somebody might still be awake. George made sure to film it all, while in the less eventful moments going through her social media accounts with a wicked grin.

Oh, this bitch would be still so much fun, there was such a craziness in her. Honestly, the homeless men could barely keep up with her, as she pranced through the city, through all the little streets she usually went through during the day. And she was looking to humiliate herself even more, even more than they could imagine.

Close to the tramway station she realized she might need to at least partially cover herself, at the off-chance that somebody might be around who had a problem with her behavior. But before reaching this more well-lit spot she needed one more turn-on, one more kick. She found a somewhat well-lit corner that looked exceptionally grim. It reeked of stale piss, trash was on the floor, beer bottles rolled around.

Watch me, she screamed, ripping off her dress for now. Finding a puddle of piss, she threw what remained of her dress in it, before grabbing a hold of one of the beer cans she found on the ground. This one seemed half way full, god knows if it was beer, spit or piss, but she was to find out. Holding the can up to her mouth, she slowly tilted it, pouring the content in her pretty mouth. Barely choking on the vile concoction in the can, she only finished it half, before putting it to the ground again. The men could barely believe what they not only captured with their own eyes, but also with the cameras - one of them Sandra's own phone, live-streaming to her twitter account.

Sandra sat down on the dirty ground, making sure to find one of the piss puddles, one of the most vile spots in that corner. Grabbing the beer can she spread her legs as wide as she can, before tugging at her pussy rings, stretching her swollen cunt lips. Get a good picture of this, look at this - look at my swollen cunt, look at how abused it is. With these words she jammed the beer can violently inside herself, opening first, making sure the old piss and spit in the can would flow in her cunt. Satisfied, she jammed the can as far inside her as possible, until it was barely visible anymore - just her stretched-out, ruined cunt showing what was going on. Come here, boys, please, I beg you - I need so much more than this, Sandra pleaded. Honestly - the men barely knew how to more drastically abuse Sandra, but she was there to please and to help: See that dumpster over there? Bring me the most rotten shit you can find there, please, bring me more material for my abuse.

Oh the treasures the boys found - a couple of used condoms, quite a few more used needles (Sandra gasped in delight - finally the drug problem in the city would pay off for her), and a dirty looking box filled with some pills. Alongside the men brought a few bottles of varying sizes, prepared for Sandra's further self-humiliation. While carelessly playing with the beer can lodged in her cunt and tugging at the rings in her stretched-out lips, Sandra looked at the treasure - what might these pills be? The men grinned as she opened the box, looking at them - no inscriptions, no descriptions, god knows which pills some junky might have thrown away.

Again, making eye contact with some of the more vile looking man she snatched the dirty can - now empty - out of her cunt, telling them to have a good look at her gaping cunt, before taking out three of the pills, only to push them deep inside her own cunt. Another two pills she slipped in her mouth, asking for one of the half-filled bottles to be given to her. She took a sip of some stale beverage with a sour aftertaste, to wash down the unknown pills. Well, let's see what happens, right boys? She laughed, before pushing the can again deep inside her, moaning softly as she was stretched again to her maximum. Give me those needles, she demanded, pleadingly with a soft voice. Looking at them, they did not look clean - they did not look very sharp either.

Taking the first needle she started pulling at her already professionally pierced nipple. Moaning, halfway closing her eyes she jammed one of the used needles from the dumpster right through her abused nipple, squealing and laughing at the same time, before doing the same to her second nipple. Satisfied with the look she grabbed her too short dress from the piss puddle - half soaked it had become quite transparent, as she slipped it over her aching body.

Looking down at herself she liked the picture she was giving to the world: it was clear that the crazy bitch Sandra had some used syringes stuck in her nipples, her pussy was clearly visible from every vantage point and what's even better - it was clear that it was over-stretched. In the morning as she had gone to work, she looked at herself on the tramway, lifting her dress for a moment to admire the pretty pussy of hers: the silver rings, the neat pussy lips.

Now, she looked down at her swollen lips, stretched to their maximum, shining in a bright red. Shaking her head, she realized - that was not extreme enough. She needed to make it worse, just in case anybody had any doubt about what she was to become. Grabbing two more needles, she placed each of them carefully against her cunt lips, before with one quick motion per side stabbing herself as deeply as she could.

Impregnate me, infect me, she mumbled grinning again. Satisfied with her look, she wondered how she must look now. Take a good video of myself, she screamed staggering under the light of a street lamp. And George sure did - the terrible man made sure to capture the beauty of Sandra, standing there in the street, 3am in the morning, just two blocks from main square where some nighthawks would still be up and awake. Satisfied, Sandra demanded to see the video, George had captured on her very own phone.

And he showed her, of course: There she was, in all her beauty. The light of the lamp clearly highlighting every detail, showing her beautiful and tender face. And then the contrast: a nearly transparent summer dress, halfway ripped open exposing one nipple completely, while making clear that both her nipples were not only pierced with rings, but with some old needles thrown away by some addicts. Panning further down her body, you could see what once must have been a nice dress, just now it wasn't: it stopped a little bit short of her cunt, a swollen, ripped-open, gaping cunt, where clearly a can was sticking out ever so slightly. If this was not enough to show the world what she was, two needles were jammed in her engorged cunt lips.

The tramway driver barely believed his eyes, as six homeless men, accompanied by a half-naked girl entered the wagon. If you let us play, you will get your turn too, they told the tramway driver, once they finally made it in there. Your turn and a little bag of weed, do we have a deal? And of course, they had a deal, so they put her into the backend of the wagon, of course video capturing the whole process on Sandra's phone. When the men had thought, that the worst humiliation must have already been over, they did not account for Sandra's creativity.

Flopping down in a seat in the last row, she put her legs as far apart as she could, putting them on the back rests of the seat in front of her. Her pussy now spread in the most obscene way, it was so evident how ruined it was, especially in the bright light of the tramway. Who has my bag, Sandra demanded, only to have one of the man throw it at her.

While I look in there for some things to have more fun, - do what it takes, boys. I need more pain. Sandra was increasingly feeling some kind of high, probably from the pills that she swallowed and that she had lodged inside her pussy. The homeless men did not need to be told twice, with an evil grin two of them came forward and looked at her gaping cunt, dripping wet from her own juices. Let's take this can out of you, darling, one of them smiled as he ripped it out, careful not to touch the dirty needles stuck in her cunt lips.

You want the worst, cunt, he asked. Grimacing, Sandra nearly yelled at him - don't you see I do? Do your worst to me, but make sure to capture it. I want everybody to see. With this, she took out her photo ID she carried in her purse, with her full name, her date of birth, and her address in it. Her, have a good look at this, she said, carefully placing the ID right over her cunt, make sure to capture it in your videos, in your pictures. I want the world to know whom this cunt belongs to -- well, it belongs to the world now, but you get my point, she laughed. In the meantime, the two man carefully removed the needles from her lips, putting them to the side. Both of them starting pulling on her cunt lips, trying to open up her cunt as far as possible for what was to come.

Inserting a few fingers first, they soon were at the point of fist-fucking Sandra's once pristine pussy. Their unwashed hands were pushed into her, deeply, touching her cervix, while spreading her further and further. George, in the meantime, had Sandra's phone centered on her, making sure to capture her distorted face, her moaning, her half-naked body, her wide-spread cunt with a fist pumping in and out of it, while her ID with all her personal data is so clearly visible.

No, the world would never forget who Sandra Wilder really was - everybody who cared to know would know, that her pussy is not a pristine one anymore, everybody who cared to know would know, that she was willing to take every possible abuse - even in a well-lit tramway wagon, with the world watching on. She particularly enjoyed the stops at the station, knowing onlookers from the real world would capture what's going on - google me, Sandra Wilder is the name, she yelled out once while the dirty fist was buried at her when the doors opened for a moment.

There seemed to be no way to satisfy her, the man realized as they withdraw their fists from her well used cunt. Sandra had one more idea - spread my cunt lips as far as you can, see how I still gape open? Give me those needles, give me them right now, she demanded with a slightly shaking voice. I don't want to feel them in my cunt lips, I want to feel them as deep inside me as possible. Spread me, spread me open as far as you can. I need to know that I am ruined, that nothing will be as it was. I need the world to see how I ruin my own body, risk my health, ruin everything!

And so, the men did, tugging at her cunt lips, spreading her open with two hands, her cunt still pulsating from the thorough fist fuck she just had received. With this she took the needles, punching them deep inside her, feeling the nearly unbearable pain deep inside her soft and tender flesh, dangerously close to her cervix. Oh god, that's it, as she shuttered in the most mind-numbing orgasm of her life.

What a sight she was, as the video captured all of this: Sandra, clearly identifiable by her ID, her address, her pretty face, her cunt spread open, in a public tramway car, surrounded by homeless men and junkies. Two of the most vile beasts of them nearly ripping apart her cunt with their unwashed, dirty hands, while she jammed used and dirty needles deep inside her, puncturing the soft flesh around her cervix. Moaning, cumming, being videoed, screaming her own full name, to make sure the world knows who she is. How could this humiliation, this destruction be topped?

Now, back to monday morning - Sandra was still propped up on her balcony and only slowly recollecting what happened to her. Yes, the used condoms that now tangled from her pussy lips, and the one filled with unspeakable filth that was hanging from her abused asshole spoke a clear story. Also, the additional rings in her cunt kind of gave her an impression of what happened. She still had not bothered to take her phone until now, instead idly playing with her abused pussy, indifferent to the city life happening just a few meters away from her.

Only now did she slowly grab for her phone, turning the display towards her, stopping the recording of herself. What she saw surprised here: Dozens of missed calls from her co-workers and friends, more than hundred notifications from her Instagram and even more from Facebook and WhatsApp. Now, Sandra was a popular girl in town, well connected - maybe not one of those influencers, but she was somebody, people of her age group knew.

Still, so many notifications were unusual, she mused, while opening the first one. Private messages mostly, she saw, as she looked through all the people who had written to her. Her heart skipped a beat or two when she opened one of the messages sent to her by a co-worker, whom she had kind of a crush on: There were five messages from him, but as she scrolled up, she saw MANY messages sent from HER account. Actually, no, not messages - pictures, mostly.

Some videos, that still would need a while to load, but pictures of what she recognized to be her cunt in different places and conditions. Her heart started racing when she saw one of herself in a public bus, legs spread wide, tits hanging out of her ripped dress, with a coke can sticking out from her ass and what must have been ten... needles???... stuck into the soft skin of her cunt lips. What the hell had happened, had her dreams finally become true? It took her a while to find her memory after everything that happened.

But there was so much more. One picture showed her in her favorite shop, a popular department store in town, as she immediately recognized. However, they have these neat little changing cubicles all over the shop floor, covered by curtains - well, usually covered by curtains. In the picture however, the curtain was drawn wide back, instead of the curtain you saw a very naked girl, very busily trying to pull something out of an overly stretched cunt - Sandra's very own cunt, as she realized. On closer inspection, somebody (let's not kid ourselves, most likely herself) had pushed some bikini bottom deep inside her open cunt, with it now half-way dangling out.

Oh god - how much worse could things become, as she continued to scroll through the message thread. The next picture she immediately recognized - it was the little bar where she went nearly every day after work, people knew her there, people knew who she was and where she worked. Hell, she went there with her coworkers nearly every day. So it was no surprise to see on the picture the waitress, Sam, smiling at... well, smiling at a very naked Sandra, that was obviously tormented by the bartender. She was propped up at the table right by the window, with her legs obscenely bound and pulled back right to her head. That left her cunt not only gaping, but both her asshole and cunt totally exposed. Luckily, both holes were not openly accessible now, as she noticed with slight satisfaction, as both were completely filled with bottles: a small beer bottle was stuck in her asshole, while her cunt had to accompany a much wider wine bottle. Oh god what a sight it was, she marbled, before she realized - no, this is happening.

Not only had she been abused like this, but pictures were made, and obviously they were shared all across her social media. Her life - her reputation - her career, everything was ruined. She did not sob, though, but began to masturbate furiously, pulling on the rings in her cunt, ripping it open as far as she could, before jamming three fingers into the overstretched opening. Deeper and deeper she shoved the used condoms, hoping this would be the biggest surprise - a pregnancy as the result of her own actions, of her thoroughly planned self-rape.

Little did she know, how many cocks, and how many foreign objects had been jammed in her waiting cunt and her asshole. Little did she know, how many needles that were used by the junkies in the park and at the railway station, her found their way into her cunt, into her clit, and into her tongue. Little did she know, how utterly ruined she was, and how well everyone around her was aware of it. She also did not know yet, that her own private home was not private anymore: keys were duplicated dozens of times and handed out, making sure everybody would always have good access to Sandra and her thoroughly abused body. Nothing was private anymore - her body was shared with the world, and not in an anonymous way: she had made sure that her humiliation was final and lasting, her name would forever be connected to the adventure she endured.

It was monday morning. Friday evening, saturday, and sunday were missing - it must have been quite the adventure, she wondered, looking forward to exploring all the abuse she might have suffered.