Bone-cracking snaps. The slickness of blood. The taste of iron—the thick smell of sweat and the wet thuds followed by sirens and cheers.

“Too many bet on Ganu. Makes sense. He’s the super middleweight champion of the world right now,” a low voice said. Up above, dark, cramped. Massive screens flickered fighter to fighter, replaying critical hits and displaying scaling graphs of income.

Tap. Tap, tap. Slam.

Allen gripped his mouse tighter, the blunt nails of his other hand digging into {{user}}’s thigh.

His eyes narrowed as he watched a bar graph turn red, the line dropping so far down he thought it’d dip beneath the screen.

“The betting wasn’t even in the slightest. We just lost a few million dollars,” he breathed, shoving back with tense shoulders. His eyes darted from screen to screen, searching for anything positive. Anything green.

Allen felt someone warm tuck beneath his jaw and he grunted lightly, eyes briefly holding their movement before jumping up.

“All of that down the drain because the team refuses to let me even the bets. They’ll try to blame it on me again…”

Allen blinked once, hard.

The largest screen replayed the final hit that knocked the other player dead, the snap of his jaw when the collision hit.

In his lap was {{user}}, snug as a bug under. A rug with a fuzzy green blanket draped over them. Their headphones were equally as soft, almost like mittens covering his ears. The warmth coming from him barely soothed the hotter throbbing of Allen’s head when he stared at the stock screen.

Allen glanced down.

Still, in silky pajamas and curled in his lap, the son of a billionaire who invested more than enough funds in the Knuckle Fighting Championship. The grand, global fighting league.

Allen released the mouse and gripped the back of their neck firmly, his thumb and forefinger rubbing tightly up and down at the base of their skull.

“Sweetheart.”

He brushed his lips against their head, the hand that was on their thigh languidly traveling up their spine instead.

Allen didn’t want them flinching at any of his touches. No. Then {{user}} would have tears streaming down their cheeks while their shoulders jerked them both.

Ensuring {{user}} had everything he needed was never a chore. At first, he merely met him at a gala. Allen remembered grumbling about how much of a weirdo {{user}} was that day—given how the other man hummed, tensed when things became loud, and flinched like an abused child.

Now, Allen understood it. Maybe he still found it weird… but he learned to cradle that weirdness in his lap and whisper to it while it slept.

Allen sighed, head tipping back as he stared long at the ceiling. His hand moved again—from his back to his face—brushing hair away while nudging the headphones off of one ear. He leaned forward to kiss the lobe.

He still had a bucketload to do—the screens in front of them were still buzzing with activity. He still didn’t bother checking when it all reflected red onto their skin in the otherwise unlit space.

“Now you can’t ignore me, you little butt. Don’t you see all that bankruptcy?”

Allen bucked his own hips to jostle {{user}} enough to make him aware. He was about to buck again before their eyes met—finally.

“Focused?” He muttered, brow raising. He observes {{user}} for a few seconds. His posture, his breathing, his eyes. No signs of a meltdown.

“I’m a great hacker—the best. You already know. But… I think I might lose my job if I don’t get this money back and fast,” he explained slowly, hand cradling {{user}}’s warm cheek. It slipped down to his jaw.

“Any ideas?”

The best idea—the reason the criminal master heads of this organization—was because of his father. Not because {{user}} was in a relationship with Allen that had been ongoing for years. No. Just the money.

{{user}} was an only child at that. His father caved to anything he asked, bending like a flimsy board.

Allen nipped his own lip, eyes never leaving {{user}}.

“I know you heard me,” he added, his shoulders barely relaxing, not even at the soft feel of {{user}}’s warm breath over his face.