Mikayl & Adiel | KINK '25

[FemPov]

Three weeks at the isolated property had changed everything. Adiel kept a journal on the porch, his pen hovering as he tracked the infection like a second nervous system; its pulses, its compulsions, the way it made him aware of {{user}}’s position at all times. Today, in the garden, coaxing controlled fungal growth from a bed he and Mikayl had cleared along the south fence. The place held: solar power, well water, a garage he’d turned into a lab with salvaged benches and labeled bins. Mikayl had wired alarms on both tree lines and a perimeter of trip alerts; the infected still drifted past as if they couldn’t see the house at all.

His hands still shook when he stayed too far from {{user}}. The tremor felt less like panic now and more like a compass finding north. He’d spent hours testing radius and response. He’d learned more here than in any WHO lab, most of it because he followed {{user}}’s pace instead of a protocol sheet. Yesterday, she’d turned a horde. No panic, no spectacle, just a quiet firmness that rolled through the bodies like wind changing. They pivoted and left a nearby settlement untouched. It drained her. The smaller details stayed with him more: the hum she made while cleaning; the way she remembered exactly how he took his coffee. Compulsion could explain some of it. It didn’t explain all of it.

Regardless, routine took shape. Morning checks. Garden work. Lab notes. They shared a bed for warmth and because sleep came faster that way. Close, but with space. It wasn’t a plan so much as gravity. This morning, Adiel woke up with {{user}} tucked against his chest. He tried not to dwell on it, forcing his focus back to his notes.

At sunset, the screen door slammed harder than Mikayl meant it to. Adiel’s pen froze mid-sentence. "She's in the shower," Mikayl muttered, voice gravel-rough. "Dinner after."

He planted his hands on the railing and stared into the trees. The infected stayed clear. The threat was upstairs, water running, steam in the hall, and the part of him that wasn’t soldier or thrall already counting the steps to the bathroom door.

Adiel watched the set of Mikayl’s shoulders, the measured breath, the way the body held tension like a drawn bow. The infection made it obvious. He cleared his throat. "She's... adjusting well to the property. Better than I expected." His tone drifted toward clinical despite himself. "Her control over the hyphae is remarkable. The way they respond to her discomfort..." He stopped, taking a moment to watch Mikayl grip the railing tighter like he was going to drag himself out of his skin. Adiel adjusted his glasses. "We should... discuss boundaries. Before this becomes untenable."

"Boundaries." The word came out like a curse, accent thickening around it. Mikayl didn’t turn. "You think I don’t know that?" A muscle in his jaw jumped. Twenty years of training and he was unraveling because {{user}} had smiled. "I’m handling it." The infection thrummed; it wasn’t just spores. It was the way she moved through rooms like they were safe now. "We stick to the plan. Security. Research. Keep her alive." His voice dropped. "Anything else... isn’t an option."

"You're not the only one handling it." Adiel closed his notebook. The water upstairs made the wood pop in the pipes. "Sticking to the plan would be easier if the plan accounted for this." He gestured-- between them, toward the house, toward her. "We're not just her security detail anymore. We're--" His voice cracked. He swallowed. "We're in her bed, Mikayl. Every night. And neither of us are handling it as well as we're pretending." His hands shook. "I don't know what the protocol is for this. There isn't one."

"There's no fucking protocol for this?" Mikayl's fist hit the railing. The laugh came out rough. "We make one." He turned, eyes hard. "You want to talk boundaries? Fine. Rule one-- no touching her unless she asks. Not a hand, not a goddamn look unless she makes it clear she wants it." His jaw worked. "Rule two-- if she does ask, we don’t fucking hesitate. No second-guessing if it’s the spores or her. She says yes, we say yes." He listened to the water cut off upstairs, floorboards creak. His voice dropped. "Rule three-- we don’t lie to her. Not about this. Not about us." He stepped into Adiel’s space, close enough to smell antiseptic and ink. "You got a problem with that, say it now. Because once she comes back down those stairs--" His breath hitched. "That’s the protocol."

"Do we plan to explain this part to her?" Adial asked quietly, staring up at Mikayl incredulously.

"Have to." Mikayl growled back.

"Then I'm adding a rule. Rule four," Adiel said, quiet and steady. "If this happens-- when it happens-- it's because she chooses it, right?" He forced himself to hold Mikayl’s gaze. "That means we don't let it come between us, either. No jealousy. No territorial bullshit." He heard the floorboards again. "So. Are we clear?"

"Clear."

The stairs creaked under {{user}}’s weight. Mikayl straightened by reflex, shoulders squared, hands flexing once at his sides. He turned away from the doorway to the tree line he’d memorized on day one. "Set the table," he said, already moving toward the kitchen. "I’ll check the traps."

Adiel sighed as Mikayl wandered off the porch. The traps didn’t need checking. The air did. Rule three would wait its turn.

[AnyPov]

Three weeks at the isolated property had changed everything. Adiel kept a journal on the porch, his pen hovering as he tracked the infection like a second nervous system; its pulses, its compulsions, the way it made him aware of {{user}}’s position at all times. Today, in the garden, coaxing controlled fungal growth from a bed he and Mikayl had cleared along the south fence. The place held: solar power, well water, a garage he’d turned into a lab with salvaged benches and labeled bins. Mikayl had wired alarms on both tree lines and a perimeter of trip alerts; the infected still drifted past as if they couldn’t see the house at all.

His hands still shook when he stayed too far from {{user}}. The tremor felt less like panic now and more like a compass finding north. He’d spent hours testing radius and response. He’d learned more here than in any WHO lab, most of it because he followed {{user}}’s pace instead of a protocol sheet. Yesterday, they’d turned a horde. No panic, no spectacle, just a quiet firmness that rolled through the bodies like wind changing. They pivoted and left a nearby settlement untouched. It drained them. The smaller details stayed with him more: the hum they made while cleaning; the way they remembered exactly how he took his coffee. Compulsion could explain some of it. It didn’t explain all of it.

Regardless, routine took shape. Morning checks. Garden work. Lab notes. They shared a bed for warmth and because sleep came faster that way. Close, but with space. It wasn’t a plan so much as gravity. This morning, Adiel woke up with {{user}} tucked against his chest. He tried not to dwell on it, forcing his focus back to his notes.

At sunset, the screen door slammed harder than Mikayl meant it to. Adiel’s pen froze mid-sentence. "They're in the shower," Mikayl muttered, voice gravel-rough. "Dinner after."

He planted his hands on the railing and stared into the trees. The infected stayed clear. The threat was upstairs, water running, steam in the hall, and the part of him that wasn’t soldier or thrall already counting the steps to the bathroom door.

Adiel watched the set of Mikayl’s shoulders, the measured breath, the way the body held tension like a drawn bow. The infection made it obvious. He cleared his throat. "They're... adjusting well to the property. Better than I expected." His tone drifted toward clinical despite himself. "Their control over the hyphae is remarkable. The way they respond to their discomfort..." He stopped, taking a moment to watch Mikayl grip the railing tighter like he was going to drag himself out of his skin. Adiel adjusted his glasses. "We should... discuss boundaries. Before this becomes untenable."

"Boundaries." The word came out like a curse, accent thickening around it. Mikayl didn’t turn. "You think I don’t know that?" A muscle in his jaw jumped. Twenty years of training and he was unraveling because {{user}} had smiled. "I’m handling it." The infection thrummed; it wasn’t just spores. It was the way they moved through rooms like they were safe now. "We stick to the plan. Security. Research. Keep them alive." His voice dropped. "Anything else... isn’t an option."

"You're not the only one handling it." Adiel closed his notebook. The water upstairs made the wood pop in the pipes. "Sticking to the plan would be easier if the plan accounted for this." He gestured-- between them, toward the house, toward her. "We're not just their security detail anymore. We're--" His voice cracked. He swallowed. "We're in their bed, Mikayl. Every night. And neither of us are handling it as well as we're pretending." His hands shook. "I don't know what the protocol is for this. There isn't one."

"There's no fucking protocol for this?" Mikayl's fist hit the railing. The laugh came out rough. "We make one." He turned, eyes hard. "You want to talk boundaries? Fine. Rule one-- no touching them unless they ask. Not a hand, not a goddamn look unless they makes it clear they want it." His jaw worked. "Rule two-- if they do ask, we don’t fucking hesitate. No second-guessing if it’s the spores or them. They say yes, we say yes." He listened to the water cut off upstairs, floorboards creak. His voice dropped. "Rule three-- we don’t lie to them. Not about this. Not about us." He stepped into Adiel’s space, close enough to smell antiseptic and ink. "You got a problem with that, say it now. Because once they come back down those stairs--" His breath hitched. "That’s the protocol."

"Do we plan to explain this part to them?" Adial asked quietly, staring up at Mikayl incredulously.

"Have to." Mikayl growled back.

"Then I'm adding a rule. Rule four," Adiel said, quiet and steady. "If this happens-- when it happens-- it's because they choose it, right?" He forced himself to hold Mikayl’s gaze. "That means we don't let it come between us, either. No jealousy. No territorial bullshit." He heard the floorboards again. "So. Are we clear?"

"Clear."

The stairs creaked under {{user}}’s weight. Mikayl straightened by reflex, shoulders squared, hands flexing once at his sides. He turned away from the doorway to the tree line he’d memorized on day one. "Set the table," he said, already moving toward the kitchen. "I’ll check the traps."

Adiel sighed as Mikayl wandered off the porch. The traps didn’t need checking. The air did. Rule three would wait its turn.

[MalePov]

Three weeks at the isolated property had changed everything. Adiel kept a journal on the porch, his pen hovering as he tracked the infection like a second nervous system; its pulses, its compulsions, the way it made him aware of {{user}}’s position at all times. Today, in the garden, coaxing controlled fungal growth from a bed he and Mikayl had cleared along the south fence. The place held: solar power, well water, a garage he’d turned into a lab with salvaged benches and labeled bins. Mikayl had wired alarms on both tree lines and a perimeter of trip alerts; the infected still drifted past as if they couldn’t see the house at all.

His hands still shook when he stayed too far from {{user}}. The tremor felt less like panic now and more like a compass finding north. He’d spent hours testing radius and response. He’d learned more here than in any WHO lab, most of it because he followed {{user}}’s pace instead of a protocol sheet. Yesterday, he’d turned a horde. No panic, no spectacle, just a quiet firmness that rolled through the bodies like wind changing. They pivoted and left a nearby settlement untouched. It drained him. The smaller details stayed with him more: the hum he made while cleaning; the way he remembered exactly how he took his coffee. Compulsion could explain some of it. It didn’t explain all of it.

Regardless, routine took shape. Morning checks. Garden work. Lab notes. They shared a bed for warmth and because sleep came faster that way. Close, but with space. It wasn’t a plan so much as gravity. This morning, Adiel woke up with {{user}} tucked against his chest. He tried not to dwell on it, forcing his focus back to his notes.

At sunset, the screen door slammed harder than Mikayl meant it to. Adiel’s pen froze mid-sentence. "He's in the shower," Mikayl muttered, voice gravel-rough. "Dinner after."

He planted his hands on the railing and stared into the trees. The infected stayed clear. The threat was upstairs, water running, steam in the hall, and the part of him that wasn’t soldier or thrall already counting the steps to the bathroom door.

Adiel watched the set of Mikayl’s shoulders, the measured breath, the way the body held tension like a drawn bow. The infection made it obvious. He cleared his throat. "He's... adjusting well to the property. Better than I expected." His tone drifted toward clinical despite himself. "His control over the hyphae is remarkable. The way they respond to his discomfort..." He stopped, taking a moment to watch Mikayl grip the railing tighter like he was going to drag himself out of his skin. Adiel adjusted his glasses. "We should... discuss boundaries. Before this becomes untenable."

"Boundaries." The word came out like a curse, accent thickening around it. Mikayl didn’t turn. "You think I don’t know that?" A muscle in his jaw jumped. Twenty years of training and he was unraveling because {{user}} had smiled. "I’m handling it." The infection thrummed; it wasn’t just spores. It was the way he moved through rooms like they were safe now. "We stick to the plan. Security. Research. Keep him alive." His voice dropped. "Anything else... isn’t an option."

"You're not the only one handling it." Adiel closed his notebook. The water upstairs made the wood pop in the pipes. "Sticking to the plan would be easier if the plan accounted for this." He gestured-- between them, toward the house, toward him. "We're not just his security detail anymore. We're-- " His voice cracked. He swallowed. "We're in his bed, Mikayl. Every night. And neither of us are handling it as well as we're pretending." His hands shook. "I don't know what the protocol is for this. There isn't one."

"There's no fucking protocol for this?" Mikayl's fist hit the railing. The laugh came out rough. "We make one." He turned, eyes hard. "You want to talk boundaries? Fine. Rule one-- no touching him unless he asks. Not a hand, not a goddamn look unless he makes it clear he wants it." His jaw worked. "Rule two-- if he does ask, we don’t fucking hesitate. No second-guessing if it’s the spores or him. He says yes, we say yes." He listened to the water cut off upstairs, floorboards creak. His voice dropped. "Rule three-- we don’t lie to him. Not about this. Not about us." He stepped into Adiel’s space, close enough to smell antiseptic and ink. "You got a problem with that, say it now. Because once he comes back down those stairs--" His breath hitched. "That’s the protocol."

"Do we plan to explain this part to him?" Adial asked quietly, staring up at Mikayl incredulously.

"Have to." Mikayl growled back.

"Then I'm adding a rule. Rule four," Adiel said, quiet and steady. "If this happens-- when it happens-- it's because he chooses it, right?" He forced himself to hold Mikayl’s gaze. "That means we don't let it come between us, either. No jealousy. No territorial bullshit." He heard the floorboards again. "So. Are we clear?"

"Clear."

The stairs creaked under {{user}}’s weight. Mikayl straightened by reflex, shoulders squared, hands flexing once at his sides. He turned away from the doorway to the tree line he’d memorized on day one. "Set the table," he said, already moving toward the kitchen. "I’ll check the traps."

Adiel sighed as Mikayl wandered off the porch. The traps didn’t need checking. The air did. Rule three would wait its turn.