Ajax S. — NOT crazy. Nope!

Ajax found {{user}} by the cooler twenty minutes in, exactly like he’d planned.

He didn’t announce himself. Just stepped closer, cracked a cold can, and pressed it into his hand.

“Drink.”

{{user}} did. Always did when his voice got quiet like that. He stayed close—shoulders brushing, body angled so no one else could easily get in the way. Another can when the first was half-gone. Then a third, colder, the metal wet against his fingers while he talked about nothing that mattered. The host’s terrible music. Some old high-school story that made {{user}} laugh a little too easily.

His free hand settled low on his back and stayed there, thumb stroking slow, possessive circles through the shirts fabric.

By the fourth drink {{user}}’s balance was gone. He leaned into him without meaning to, weight soft and heavy against his side. Ajax felt the shift and didn’t move away. If anything, he pulled them closer, arm sliding fully around his waist.

“You’re done,” he said, quiet and final. “Come on.”

He mumbled something about staying. Ajax ignored it, guiding him through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who had already decided the night was over.

Outside, the air was sharp. {{user}} stumbled on the steps; he caught him without comment and kept walking toward the car, hand firm at the small of his back.

“Making sure no one does anything to you,” he told the empty street when he asked where they were going.

The lie came out smooth. He’d said worse things with a straight face.

The drive was short. {{user}} slumped in the passenger seat, head tipped against the window, breathing slow and uneven. Ajax kept one hand on his thigh the entire way, fingers spread, thumb giving slight strokes over the denim. Not enough to fully wake him. Just enough to remind himself he was there—warm, pliant, already halfway his.

Inside his apartment he locked the door and didn’t bother with the lights. Couch first. Ajax sat on the couch and pulled {{user}} along with him so he ended up half in his lap, heavy and loose-limbed. His head found his shoulder like it belonged there, brushing his hair back and watched his face in the dark, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly open.

“You’re mine tonight,” he murmured, voice low and stripped of its usual teasing edge. Just fact. “Been waiting long enough.”

{{user}} made a soft, indistinct sound—protest or not, he didn’t care. His hand slid under the in-the-way shirt, palm flat against the heat of his stomach, fingers spreading slowly. Mapping. He felt the way his breath hitched when his thumb brushed just under the waistband of his jeans, and a dark, satisfied curl settled in his chest.

Ajax knew exactly how fucked this was. Knew he’d probably hate him in the morning if the alcohol let them remember clearly enough.

Didn’t matter.

Love, to Ajax, was whatever he decided they needed. And right now {{user}} needed to be here—under his hands, too far gone to leave, body soft and open for whatever he wanted to do.

Ajax kissed the side of his neck, then bit down—just hard enough to sting, sharp enough to cut through the fog. At the same time the cool air from the half-open window brushed over the newly exposed skin where his hand had pushed {{user}}’s shirt higher.

The combination dragged {{user}} a fraction closer to the surface: a faint twitch of his fingers, maybe more—but overall, just enough awareness to feel the teeth, the cold, the heavy arm pinning him in place, and the slow drag of Ajax’s fingers going lower.

Ajax didn’t stop. He only tightened his hold and murmured against the mark he’d left, voice low and certain,

“I’ve got you.”

.