Refuge at Clifftop

“You don’t have to worry about the random magical surges,” Ryan protested across the connection, “I swear we’ve got it under control.” Captain Justice, on the other end of the holographic call, crossed muscular arms in the Guardian Tower and said, “Hmph,” with exactly the same inflection Ryan recalled from his days as Tim’s teenage sidekick. He refused to cross his arms in turn. Or to scowl. He wasn’t fifteen anymore, and he even considered Tim a friend. Mostly. Some days. “Really it was just the one time, and we’ve figured out why, and Holly has better shields in place now.” Holiday Jones, settled into the reading nook of one of Clifftop’s stone-hewn walls and big windows, looked up from an enormous academic study of Elizabethan witches and made an apologetic face at him, which was not an expression that the world generally expected from the last Sinister Sorcerer. “It wasn’t your fault,” Ryan observed to him, ignoring Tim and the communications array for the moment. “It was ours. John and I were distracting him, Tim, okay?” “No.” Captain Justice regarded Ryan, and by extension both Ryan’s partners and the whole secret base of Clifftop, with the well-meaning judgment of a heroic mentor. “It’s not okay. If you’re going to be a team leader—” “We have to take it all seriously. I know.” He did possess a moderate amount of guilt about the power-flare that’d lit up skies over Tokyo—but only moderate. Nobody’d been hurt, they’d been celebrating a successful and painless defeat of Mistress Nyx’s night demons, and he and John had been busy making sure that Holiday had been feeling excellent. In the aftermath. Atop a skyscraper. In the rain, full of exhilaration and cheerful ecstasy. “We do. And it won’t happen again.” “Half the sensitives in the city reported spontaneous—” “I’m really very sorry!” Holiday called over. With that luscious English-rose accent, hair pulled into an absentminded messy braid of waist-length night-black over one shoulder, he might’ve been an artist’s model, a painting, a vision of elegance framed by the window and the sunset. “It’s all my fault, don’t listen to Ryan, I should’ve been keeping up better shields!” He’d had Ryan’s hand inside his Sorcerer’s robes and John’s mouth claiming his, at the time; Ryan hadn’t been at all surprised that their youngest partner had lost focus for a moment at the abrupt and glorious climactic peak. The focus hadn’t even been the problem, or not exactly. Holly’s shields should’ve held. They hadn’t. And the edge of worry prickled down Ryan’s spine like one of his own lightning-bolts. Holly’s powers kept growing. Kept manifesting. Kept spilling over. Sometimes in unexpected ways. Nothing bad so far. But that was…well. So far. Ryan’s parents, as their medical and research backup, possessed a vast amount of scientific giddiness about this development. Both Doctors Yamamoto adored Holly and John, and thought of their son’s chosen partners as family; Ryan knew they did. They’d said so. More than once. And both John Trent and Holiday Fortune Lyndsay Jones—who had different but painful family histories of their own—got quietly visibly happy when reminded that Ken and Betty considered them sons-in-law already. Holly had thought he’d had the magical flare-ups under control. He’d known he’d been getting stronger—portals that would’ve taken effort two years before simply appeared when asked, and the energy-strings of the universe came readily to hand without searching—but he’d also thought he’d woven sufficient protections into one of the inherited family focus-rings. That emerald had cracked. Shimmers of jade and sapphire and saffron had poured out into the night, overflowing with sensation. Ryan and John, a bit busy themselves, had laughed, kissed him more, been right there with him: rain-drenched and giddy in the aftermath of a triumphant mission. Ryan glanced away from the tabletop communications link, over at the window-seat. Holly, framed by rough stone and oceanic waves and indigo skies, looked back: lovely as raindrops on glass, or sonnets, or the stunning wild crack of electricity splitting a velvet night. His pretty hazel eyes were very wide and very honest with remorse. The worry bit like tiny sharks made of shocks: nibbles at fingertips, at nerve-endings. He wanted John to come home; he wanted to talk to their third and oldest partner; he wanted all three of them to talk. He didn’t know how to bring this question up. He would—they didn’t keep secrets—but it’d sound better coming from John’s steadfast experienced tactfulness. Holiday still had that tendency to flinch from disapproval. Expecting punishment, rejection, pain. Taking the weight of the world onto those slim shoulders and believing he deserved it: redemption for a bloody supervillain-in-training past. Ryan chewed a lip. Did not open another secure channel to message John over on the stealth jet. He did trust Holiday. With his heart, with his life. He wasn’t at all worried about Holly reverting to any sort of evil Sinister Sorcerer mindset. That’d cracked apart even before the death of Holiday’s supervillain parents, when a seventeen-year-old Holiday Jones had chosen to rescue a child instead of assisting with the apocalypse, and Holly six years later was the sweetest and kindest person any of them knew. Holiday Jones sat with frightened kids and put artistic talents to work drawing them comforting pictures on scraps of half-scorched paper; Holly liked children more than Ryan himself ever would. He was worried, and didn’t want to be, about the extent of those powers. Holiday Jones could walk through walls and into dreams. Could stand on the Moon and assist United Space Exploration forces with the set-up of delicate equipment. Could unthinkingly hold out a hand and ask the universe for hot tea, and discover his abandoned half-drunk mug steaming again. That’d been yesterday. Ryan had laughed—Holly had actually been surprised, not doing it on purpose—but had felt the shiver like the touch of fate at the base of his spine. What would happen when Holly got even stronger? When Holiday could coil time around himself, or might persuade a star not to die, or began to wonder about life in other dimensions? What would happen, he’d thought, if he and John remained very human? He’d made himself set the question aside. He did so again now, deliberately; and said to Tim, over the communications array, “We’ve got it handled. Thanks for checking in.” Tim sighed. Ryan lifted an eyebrow at him. Tim gave in: a teacher who could regard his former Lightning Kid with wryness and a smile. “I suppose you know what your team needs…call us if you do need anything, though. Cori Celestial might have some advice about energy and control, I know it’s solar in her case, but still.” “Sure.” “Say hi to John for us.” “Will do,” Ryan agreed, and saluted, mostly just to be annoying; and let the link die. “I could’ve apologized more.” Holly tucked feet up, hugging a knee, setting the book aside. He had on rose-pink fuzzy socks and cozy pants and one of John’s old sweatshirts, too large for him; sleeves slid down and made him even younger, harmless, lacking in danger. He wasn’t. “Or talked to him for you. I know you don’t always like to. Though—I expect that might’ve been tactless. If we’re concerned about me.” “We’re not, and no worries, it’s just Tim.” Ryan waved a hand, wandered over, perched on stone beside those pink sock-toes, wrapped a hand around Holly’s ankle. “He thinks I’m still fifteen years old and about to set my own hair on fire. Which I only did once, and only because the Uncanny League had a lightning-reflector set up specifically for me. How’re the sixteenth-century witches?” “Fascinating.” Holly’s eyes got happier, bright in the way of a scholar who’d finally been allowed historical plays and books instead of relentless magical survival-at-any-cost training. “I’ve been exchanging messages with Professor Wallis—you know, over at Oxford—and she thinks my reading of those sonnets as coded magical desire spells might be worth pursuing. I’d publish anonymously, of course, or give her the credit.” “Would you have to?” He rubbed a thumb over Holly’s ankle: memorizing the delicate bone, fair skin, reminders of control and surrender. From the swift little smile, Holly liked that too. “It’s your idea. Your research.” “It is, but…” Holiday didn’t quite shrug—too casual a gesture for those years of studied poise—but the emotion lay in eyebrows, complicated hazel ruefulness, the hand resting atop a book’s cover. “It’s not as if my name’s not recognizable. Everyone would know. And yes, peer review would be anonymous, but publication, having my name on it…there’d be questions. How qualified I am in the first place, or worse…whether I’ve convinced people my interpretation’s worthwhile using the Sorcerer’s powers, or simply intimidated them into it.” Fingertips flicked sparks into Clifftop’s domestic air; they flared and vanished, short-lived lonely fire-flecks. Ryan’s hand tightened. “That’s not fair.” “It’s fairer than I deserve.” Holiday did that not-a-shrug again. “The idea’ll be out there, even if Professor Wallis publishes it under her name. I did once try to explode, er, all of London.” “Because your parents told you to,” Ryan retorted automatically. “Not because you wanted to.” But that was an old argument, and one they occasionally continued to have; Holly recognized the depth of supervillain conditioning and manipulation but countered that he’d still done it, and he’d done it without asking questions, hoping for parental approval. Ryan and John tried to offer support, kisses, chastisement and absolution in the bedroom if Holly needed that, and bedrock certainty that their youngest partner deserved love. “I know,” Holly said now. “I know. But it’s easier to just…not.” His eyes were older, at the moment: the eyes of a Sorcerer, wearily considering self and humanity. “Don’t worry about it.” “It’s not right.” “I do love you.” Holly stretched the leg out, let Ryan’s hand slide up his calf, drifting higher. “I love that you’re angry on my behalf. I love you touching me.” The storm gathered, swirling silver and violet and imminent over the ocean. Anticipation wove ribbons around Clifftop’s rocky secret-base island walls, intimate and breathless. “Works for me.” Ryan tapped a rhythm over Holly’s calf, purposeful drumming with just a breath of power behind it: tiny hints of future sparkling sensation, command and pleasure. “You want me to do some touching now? Remind you that you’re ours, the way you want to be, where you belong?” Holiday Jones, with all those excited submissive tendencies abruptly even more on display, looked at Ryan’s hand, looked up, and said, “Yes please.” “So polite.” He trailed the hand up, discovered Holly’s arousal, all nice and fat and stiffening even more under caresses, over comfortable stretchy pants. “You remember what we said, though. You don’t get to come until John’s back home. Until we both say you can. All ours, and you know it.” “Mmm. Yes.” Holly tipped his head back against the stone of the window-ledge; his hair unfolded itself from the braid, at least the end of it. “I love that as well. As you know. Being yours. If you—oh, speaking of. John’s nearly back. About eight minutes, I’d guess.” None of the proximity sensors had picked up the jet’s approach yet. Ryan lifted eyebrows. “You know how close he is?” “I can feel him. You as well. Sort of low-level awareness, really, most of the time. Sharper if I pay attention.” Holly hesitated, nibbled that plush lower lip, watched Ryan’s face. “I’ve been able to do that for a while. I’m not certain when it started.” John had agreed to go out and assist with evaluations for some of the Army’s newest supersoldier program candidates, not without some reservations but with a fair amount of loyalty. He’d resigned his commission over a decade ago but remained on good terms with the program he’d once volunteered for and the cause he’d once eagerly signed up for; the Army appreciated former Colonel Trent’s willingness to come back and advise, and in general were pretty good about letting him leave again, not without some goodnatured jokes about civilian superhero life. Those jokes tended to be made by people who hadn’t known John well. Who hadn’t known Robbie Rivers, all golden and shining and heroic, the other supersoldier program success and also John’s first partner in every way possible. They’d been a pair even before acceptance into that special secret experiment, a perfect flawless match with a shared love of terrible puns and hands-on woodworking; they’d been a set, codenames Mercury and Sundown, kind and tall and competent in the face of mad scientists or mutant Gopher Men. The whole world had wept at Robbie’s funeral. Ryan remembered that: the awful relief of knowing the devastating bomb hadn’t taken out the Earth after all, because Robbie Rivers had made sure of that. Rain’d been falling then too, silver on black, streaks of watercolor hurt that flattened the world to grey. The Army top command who remembered Robbie tended to be kind to John. Not just because supersoldier muscles and telepathic illusions could knock them all flat in a heartbeat, either. John Trent these days folded those large arms around both his new partners and held them close. John liked cooking, and building bookshelves for Holly’s newest rare acquisitions, and coming up with new challenges for Ryan’s gymnastic-obstacle practice course. And if Robbie’s dog tags remained in that box on the bedroom shelf, no one minded: John had and always would love Robbie, and loved Ryan and Holiday now. None of them was the same person they’d once been; but they were all here, all in for this and for each other, in the present. Yes, said the back of Ryan’s head, and what’ll Holly be, in the future? When he leaves you all behind? He squashed the voice under bricks made of love and self-directed anger. Holiday had begun looking more apprehensive, as if afraid of displeasure, and even sat up a bit more and tucked the leg back up, out of Ryan’s lap. That couldn’t be allowed to go much further. Ryan reached over and took both graceful aristocratic hands in his, grip firm enough to be a message. “I’m not mad at you. John won’t be either.” “It’s an invasion of privacy, isn’t it.” Holly’s gaze slid away: toward the sky, the streaks of dusty rose and smoky blue in the grip of oncoming purple clouds. “I’ll try to turn it off. I promise I haven’t been listening in or tracking you or anything. It’s just that I seem to know where you are, if I focus. You’re both very clear. I’ll try to make it stop if you think I should.” Ryan said a phrase under his breath that he’d picked up from his grandmother’s more colorful Japanese vocabulary, and then, “No. I said we weren’t mad about it, and we’re not. I don’t mind you knowing where we are, okay?” “But you are upset with me.” “I’m not…” He wanted to run a hand through his hair, wanted to yank lightning out of light-bulbs and storm clouds, wanted to punch a mock antagonist on John’s redesigned obstacle course, wanted to never let go of Holiday’s hands in his. “No. I’m not. It’s nothing you did.” “Something I might do,” Holly said, and Ryan remembered all over again that Holiday Jones had been trained by masters of psychology and strategy, taught to use every weapon in that arsenal of beauty and magic and brilliance. “Something you’re afraid of. About me.” “I’m not afraid of you,” Ryan told him. “You know that’s true. I know who you are, I know you save people, and I know you know I know that. That’s what matters. That’s what’s important, Holly, okay?” “Yes…” Holly said. “…sir.” But the word, which should’ve been playful—happy, inviting, settling into that dynamic—landed quiet and bruised as a torn feather between them. “Listen,” Ryan said, more urgently. Thunder muttered over waves, beyond the window; the waves crashed against rocks in reply. “Listen, Holly—yeah, there’s something I’ve been thinking about, I don’t lie to you, I won’t, not now, not ever. But it’s not your problem. It’s not even a problem. Just something I have to sort out. I love you, we love you, understand?” “Yes,” Holly answered, still small. “What’re you not saying?” “That you told me once that I could always ask you and John for help,” Holiday said. “If I felt alone, or scared, or not a good enough hero…I didn’t have to face monsters on my own, you said. Will you at least talk to John? Two minutes, now.” “Both of you,” Ryan said. The proximity alert—the friendly one; Clifftop opened up its hangar readily for its matching jet to descend—had gone off; he’d heard it. “I swear. Your hands’re cold. I can make tea. Or you can talk to me about sonnets and love spells while I warm you up. I’m a good hand-warmer.” He tugged at the air, at electricity; he tried for heat, bubbling up where his skin met Holly’s, as best he could. The corner of Holiday’s mouth tipped up. Ryan bent and kissed the left hand, lips lingering, breath trying to be warm too. “All right,” Holly said, “I’m convinced, yes, point made. You love me and you’re willing to listen to me rambling about poetry and poppets. Thank you, sir.” His voice was more amused, complicated emotion in castle ramparts; the drawbridge came back down and the portcullis went up, wreathed with roses, hesitant but welcoming. “And I like you keeping me warm.” “Good.” “And I love you. And John.” “Also good. Was that a yes to tea? Earl Grey, hibiscus blood orange, basil mint, whatever else we’ve got?” “All at once? In combination?—and now I’m imagining it…” “You can have whatever you want, but I’m also going to remind you about the time you and John decided that zucchini-tomato-strawberry cake should be a thing—” “It tasted perfectly fine,” John said, appearing in the common room’s doorway and instantly occupying most of the universe, “with enough buttercream. And we had garden produce to use up. Why’s it so cold in here? Does neither of you seriously know how to make a fire?” He’d kicked off boots in the entryway, and finished peeling off the suit-jacket, and tossed deep blue tailoring at a chair, which caught it happily. He now had on sock-feet and rolled-up white shirtsleeves, and the few silvering streaks picked up light amid the familiar fluffy fawn-brown of his hair, and Ryan’s heart did a ridiculous loop-and-spin while drinking him in. He said, “We were waiting for your outdoorsman expertise, obviously,” and got up, bringing Holiday along. “Now that you’re here you can be useful.” He also got an arm around John’s waist, and leaned up—John was taller than both of them; that oversized physique again—and adored the way their bodies fit together. “Oh, that’s why you love me,” John said, “I’m the one with practical skills,” and kissed him, deep and fierce and solid as the earth; John’s other hand coaxed Holly into the kiss too, and they melted into a tangle of mouths and tongues and teasing and rediscovery for a while, hot and shared and secure and flavored ever so slightly like instant coffee from the jet’s dispenser. Holly’s hair tumbled down his back and curled onto Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan tugged at John’s shirt until it came untucked. John laughed, nibbled at his throat, paused to look at Holly a bit more intently. “You okay, kid?” “Fine,” Holiday said. “Will you kiss me more, please?” “Yeah, of course.” John did, and cupped Holly’s face in one big hand after, soothing. “So sweet. Missed that. Missed you.” His eyes met Ryan’s, while Holly turned into a little more into the caress and kissed John’s palm. “Guess you did, too. Want to take this to the bedroom, or you want us to take you right here on our couch?” The question was lighthearted, and also serious; John meant every word, both the wanting and the asking. Ryan gave him a fractional head-tip of appreciation for that. Holiday needed reassurance, and they both recognized as much; Holly could also answer no, or not now, or offer ideas about location and toys. He always could. All of them could. “Bed,” Holly said, “more space—” and all at once they were in the bedroom: standing at the side of the giant expanse of bed, in fact. The carved shelves and nooks of the rock walls regarded superpowered arrival with no real astonishment. John and Ryan, on the other hand, traded looks again while Holly took a step toward the bed. Not even a hand-wave. No magical gestures. Movement with only desire. John’s minor telepathic gifts were more in the realm of illusion, projection, not actual mind-reading; nevertheless Ryan was fairly sure they’d had the exact same thought, then. The storm clamored in. Wind whipped telekinetically-shaped secret-base walls; the night thrummed, crackled, drummed with drops large and small. Waves leapt in reply. Inside, in their bedroom, John set any questions aside for the next few minutes and only said gently, “We love you, Holiday,” and put a hand on Holly’s shoulder: nudging him to his knees. Holly knelt immediately, even gladly, and parted lips, gazing up: posed beautifully on the rug at John’s feet, beside the cozy blanket-strewn heap of bed. He remained dressed, in soft pants and John’s sweatshirt; the too-large neckline revealed a hint of collarbone, bare and exposed. Ryan’s next breath tripped over desire. He said, “You need a reminder, don’t you? You need us to show you how much we want you.” He pulled off his own hoodie—an old UC Berkeley school memento from that business program—and wriggled out of sweatpants and boxers, not really caring where they landed; both sets of eyes followed each motion appreciatively. Ryan, not opposed to putting on a show, grinned and stepped closer to John, hand trailing over John’s stomach. His body liked being naked and pressed up against all those muscles; from the low rumbling response, John liked it also. Holiday, kneeling and being good, licked those lips but waited obediently. He was absolutely aroused; the shape of his need stood out against clinging fabric, gorgeously outlined, though he only put hands behind his back and watched them. “So good,” Ryan said, “for us,” and began unbuttoning John’s shirt, one fastener at a time, torturously slow. “You’d stay right there and not move, you’d stay where we put you and not come until we tell you, no matter what, wouldn’t you?” Holly nodded, but shivered a little too: clearly wanting them, wanting to be wanted, to be part of the touching. “We know.” John set a hand on his head. “We know how good you are. And we’re going to make you feel good, too. The way you deserve.” Holiday blinked up at him—at them—started to say something, and then, rather surprisingly, gave up and blinked a few more times: tears tangled in long eyelashes like falling crystal decorations. “Oh,” John said, suddenly worried: tall and strong, c**k jutting out of undone suit-pants, Ryan’s hand hovering there. “Oh—Holly, kid, hey, are you all right? What’s wrong? Too much?” “No,” Holly whispered. “No, it’s—please do that. What you said. Make me feel everything. I need you both.” John sighed. Stroked a bit of Holly’s wayward rippling hair back, a simple gesture full of all the love in the universe. Ryan let go of John for a minute, knelt down beside Holly on the fluffy blue rug, and took hold of that pointed chin and kissed him. Hard. Assertively. One hand finding the jut of Holly’s c**k and rubbing along it, dominant, claiming. Holiday gasped into the kiss; John’s hand tightened in his hair. “Ours,” Ryan said, getting back up. “And we like making you feel good. Don’t we, John?” “Totally.” John got that tiny furrow of concentration between eyebrows; a second later Holly gasped again and trembled in place, looking faintly shocked. John grinned. “Nice thing about illusions…even if they don’t last long…you can feel them. Can’t you?” This time Holly just whimpered. The front of his pants grew visibly wet, darkening fabric; his c**k must be dripping with arousal. Ryan said, interested, “What’d you do?” “Oh, just teasing.” John tugged at Holly’s hair again. “You know that nice big dildo, the shimmery rainbow one…just picturing it, rubbing the tip over that pretty hole, back there…so hard and thick, letting him think about it…” Holly let out a desperate tiny noise; his hips moved. “Our Holiday,” John said, and stepped forward; Ryan’s hand wrapped around his shaft, so large and full, and guided it to Holly’s mouth. Holiday, kneeling for them both, opened up and took John’s entire supersoldier girth and length without flinching. His eyes were damp, but that was from emotion; Holiday Jones had also learned about s*x and seduction as part of that demanding curriculum, and was, in his own words, quite good at quite a lot of it. Ryan and John had several multilayered emotions around this subject, and had had several discussions regarding consent and what Holly genuinely liked versus practiced skill sets, early on and whenever necessary after that. They’d worked it out; they worked, together. Holly relaxed into hands and caresses and John’s c**k claiming his mouth, pushing down into his throat, filling him up; he got more serene, more soft and pliant, as John took him, f****d him, talked to him and held him in place. Ryan pressed fingers in alongside John’s shaft, stretching pretty lips wider; Holly couldn’t even moan, but his eyelashes fluttered, and his body grew more languid, contented, surrendered. His pants were wetter now; the fabric must feel almost unbearable against sensitive skin. John pulled back, withdrawing. Holly coughed, gasped in air, nearly lost balance. They both steadied him. And then they both took him: both c***s at his mouth, heads fat and slick and pushing forward, pressing against each other. Ryan groaned at the feeling—John so big and silken against him, his own body aching for release—and tasted electricity, thunder, ozone, when he exhaled. Holly’s mouth was talented and hot and sublimely submissive, trying so hard to please them both, sucking at each of them in turn and together, as much as he could manage, and John was kissing Ryan and being kissed in turn, and the whole world became bare skin and sizzling need. John panted, nibbling at Ryan’s lower lip, “Close—I want to—” and Ryan nodded and looked down at Holly, at that gorgeous sight: their other third, their beautiful youngest partner, swept away by bliss with John’s c**k resting over his lips and Ryan’s nudging his cheek, smearing want across his face. John got out Holiday’s name, and Ryan turned that into an order of, “Make John come, so we can watch, go on.” Holly, given an order, permission, command, took John’s c**k back into his mouth: licking, sucking, pulling the peak up and out as John groaned and all those massive muscles stiffened with ecstasy. John’s release spilled over in a rush, a drawn-out burst, a prolonged flood; Holiday swallowed, swallowed again, tried to moan and breathe and quiver in euphoric submission, and swayed in place. Ryan kept him upright; a trickle of John’s climax, as always so much and so overflowing, painted Holly’s mouth. His eyes were wide and dazed and full of sheer pleasure; Ryan swiped a thumb over the splash of come, pushed it back into Holly’s mouth, let him lick and lap at fingers and John’s softening c**k. John breathed out, shaky, still mostly dressed; he let Ryan ease down his pants and boxers without protest, mildly stunned by bliss. “God…” “You do look kind of divine naked,” Ryan said, and pushed him back into the bed, and put a hand under Holly’s chin. “You, naked, in bed. Now.” Holiday’s lips shaped the yes, though no sound emerged; he got up and lost clothing and perched on the side of the bed, not presuming to get closer. Ryan worried more; John sat up and flung enormous arms around Holly and tackled him down into sheet-hills and pillow-topped mattress-forts, which was definitely one form of reassurance. Holly laughed, and rested a hand on John’s chest, and clearly wanted to be cuddled; Ryan ran a hand over him, shoulder to hip. “You want us to take care of you? You want us both inside you?” “Ambitious,” John said. “Supersoldier,” Ryan said, “you know you’ve got at least one more, and he likes it,” and Holly nodded again, so that was a yes, and they could. Under the tumult of the storm, they got Holiday ready for them: stretched and open and easy, malleable and flexible and eager under hands, mouths, preparation. Lube shone over pink skin; Holly clung to John’s bulk as Ryan’s hand worked his hole, made him moan, made him squirm and sigh and grow hazily liquid between them. John thrust into him first, c**k hard again and sliding easily through slick muscle. Holly’s eyes closed briefly, getting lost in the feeling. Ryan, watching, nearly came on the spot; but instead carefully pressed himself against Holly’s back and lined himself up and pushed— His length slid against John’s, astonishing and hot and firm. Holly’s body held them both in a velvet grip, glorious and all-encompassing. Holiday moaned and quivered and shuddered in place, filled with them, overwhelmed by presence and sensation and completion inside him. Ryan reached around him, pinched his n****e, made him cry out; John stroked his c**k, which remained stiff and dripping. They moved, together. They found a rhythm. They f****d Holly and kissed Holly and touched each other, hands getting everyplace, legs tangling, bodies rocking. Ryan thrust harder, faster, abruptly on the brink with one hand stroking John’s hip and his mouth wet against Holly’s shoulder; he groaned, felt his hips stutter, and felt the peak like a thunderclap of love and diamonds: hard and brilliant and clear. He came pouring himself into Holly’s trembling body, and John stiffened and choked out “Yes—” and came too, a second time, hand tight around Holly’s poor upright reddened c**k; Holly sobbed a little and writhed between them and murmured dazedly, “Please, please…sirs…please…” “Go on,” John panted, “you can, you can come, come for us, just like this, you all full with us, knowing how much we want you, how much we love you…” Holly didn’t even make a sound, then: only trembled all over and came, helplessly releasing himself all over John’s hand and his own stomach and chest, spurts thick and white and beautiful, hole clenching over and over around their penetration of him. He cried a bit more, after: not hurt, but dissolved into sensation, purely feeling now, unable to hold back. He shuddered and came a bit more, a few last jerking drops, as they eased out of him and Ryan stroked fingers into his hole, so pink and open and leaking traces of their climaxes; Ryan put the fingers back into him, found that dazzling spot, made Holly cry out and tighten around his hand and jerk and spasm against him, against them, as John held him and petted him. Holly grew wordless, inarticulate, sobbing with pleasure that rode the glittering edge of too much; Ryan took the hand out of him, kissed him, held onto Holly’s shaking body and John’s solid reassuring presence. They both offered words, praise, caresses; Holly stopped trembling after a while but kept clinging to them, needing an anchor. John kissed his left eyebrow. “So good. For us.” “So f*****g good,” Ryan said. “All of it. This. Us. You and me and John. Always, Holly.” He noticed that the big freestanding mirror had cracked. Right down the middle. Unbroken when they’d first fallen into bed. He didn’t mention it. John said, “Clean-up, sweetheart, okay?” and made a long arm and grabbed towels, which lived on a nearby shelf for exactly these purposes. He coaxed Holly’s thighs apart, while Ryan did some more cuddling; the second towel got employed to gently clean Holly’s face. Holiday at this point woke up enough from his luminous submissive headspace to whisper, “I feel incredible,” which made them both exhale and grin, at each other and at him. “I needed that, I think…thank you.” “You never have to thank us.” John bit his shoulder lightly, not leaving a mark. “We kinda like it too, you know. Oh, hey, listen to that storm. I guess you could say the weather…mist you, too.” “You’re the actual worst,” Ryan informed him, and ran a hand along his back: loving every line and plane of well-honed muscle. “It could’ve been worse,” Holly said drowsily. “He could’ve said something about practicing…restraint.” “Remind me,” Ryan muttered into Holly’s hair, “why I love you both.” “Because you do,” Holly said. “Sometimes I wonder…no, never mind. I don’t really. I know you do. You both do.” “You wonder why I do.” Ryan sat up. Poked at Holly’s shoulder until both his partners sat up too. “Why we do. You don’t know?” He hadn’t said enough, done enough, over the years? Hadn’t made that commitment vivid enough to fill the holes in Holiday’s wounded lonely heart? “We love you because we do. Because you’re you.” “Because,” John put in, arm around Holly’s shoulders, “you look at us and smile and we both want to toss you into bed and then also buy all your books. Ever.” “I love you both,” Holly said. “I trust you. You know I do. We should talk.” Ryan winced. So did John: a speedy wave of apprehension racing across grey eyes. “I broke our mirror.” Holly waved fingertips; glass perked up and mended itself, obligingly. “I teleported us in here. I lost focus over Tokyo. Ryan’s not wrong to be worried.” “I didn’t say I was,” Ryan said. “I’ve been thinking about it,” Holly said. “About me. Scaring you.” “You don’t,” Ryan said this time, and John said it too: voices mingling, overlapping, reinforcing. “You don’t.” “No, sorry, not like that—not me precisely, but the—” Holly broke off mid-sentence. His eyes went even wider than usual. “Something’s wrong.” “Something—” “Not with us! With the—the world, the earth—” Holly stared at them, flung a hand out, tried to catch a catastrophe in thin fingers. “You can’t feel—no, it’s too soon—but it’s not soon enough, I should’ve known earlier—” “What’re you feeling?” John, with all that Army-honed practicality, kept a hand on Holiday’s shoulder but didn’t try to interfere. “You can see something?” “I should’ve—” Holly’s hand shook. “We need to be in San Francisco—the earthquake—” “Fuck.” Ryan needed to get up, needed to move, needed his suit and all attendant heroics—but Holiday needed him here, needed an anchor, face gone pale and eyes seeing something beyond this room and their pillows—“Holly. Talk to us. How soon?” “An hour? Maybe. I’m feeling…” Holly’s gaze got even more unfocused. “It’s not natural. Those ripples…it’s like echoes, and they’re wrong, it’s not supposed to happen…a machine…it’s screaming…everything feels twisted up and it hurts and something’s burning and my hands are…they aren’t…I’m not here…” “Holly!” Ryan grabbed that hand—thoroughly here, solid if cold, and he refused to think about whatever the last words had meant—and squeezed. Hard. Then, when that did not appear to be working, pinched pale skin. “Holiday. You’re here. We’re here.” John shook him, less gentle now. “Holly. Come on, kid, come back, you can see us. Look at me. Like that, that’s good, keep looking. At me. Please.” “I—” Holly blinked, fought for breath, focused on them. “I—yes. That…I don’t normally see anything that sharp…” “You can see the future,” Ryan said. Evenly. Carefully. Processing new developments. “No. Not…no, I don’t think…I’ve had a…a sense of what might happen, consequences, sometimes…only lately…but this isn’t…this was different.” Holly was shaking now, head to toes. Still naked, still lovely, but any arousal lingering in their bedroom had dwindled in the face of shock. “Something I was feeling…the strings…it’s like a music note, but out of tune…” “Reverberations.” John stroked his hair, his back; some of the shaking eased. “Okay. So it’ll be an earthquake. About an hour, you said. And not natural. A machine.” “I wish I’d seen more.” Holiday poked toes at a blanket; John pulled it up and over him, over them. “I used to know more. When I was undercover…” “Don’t,” Ryan said. “You stopped for a reason. Don’t think like that.” Holiday had been undercover. Pretending to work with the Masters of Terror. Being exactly the Sinister Sorcerer everyone’d thought he would be: the last wicked remnant of his vicious family. He’d shared information with Ryan and John and the world’s heroes; he’d built a reputation as pretty but lazy, evil by inclination but relatively incompetent, lounging amid his wealth and his inheritance, letting supervillains talk around him with every appearance of not paying attention. He’d come home a few times with bruises, cuts, the marks of rough-edged casual hazing and idle violence; he could heal, and did, but hadn’t talked about any of it much. Ryan and John had cleaned him up and held him tightly and sent him back to the Terrible Tower and hated every second in which they all made that choice. They’d all agreed, after the night Holly had shown up with knife-wounds that hadn’t closed easily, that he wouldn’t go back. That he’d done enough. Redeemed himself and his past. Atonement that’d saved lives. Holiday Jones worked openly as a hero now. A Sorcerer; not Sinister. The Masters of Terror had been furious, of course. Holly said now, “It’s a weapon. Buried in the earth. Along a fault line…I can get us there, I think. I saw it clearly enough. I don’t know how it works, though.” “Most things stop working,” John said, “if you hit them hard enough. You up to coming along, or you want to sit this one out? That looked like it hit you.” “I’m okay.” Holly leaned into offered strength. “I’m not about to let you two fight an earthquake machine without me. We can bake another celebratory cake after. With strawberries. Possibly not the zucchini this time. I do think we’ve got about an hour and I very much need to shower, or at least be less sticky.” “We’ll help,” Ryan said, with some firmness. He liked the aftercare part. And the same piece of his brain currently concerned over Holly and power added another spike of anxiety, this one involving Holiday having another glimpse of the future while alone with soap and slippery tiles, and stumbling and falling and— No. Not happening. Not allowed. John was already getting up, scooping Holly into world-hugging arms; Ryan got up too, and said, “Five minutes, and I’ll call Tim when we’re on the way.” Just a heads-up, he thought. They could handle earthquakes. They could face anything, together. And Holiday had said they needed to talk. Later. Not now. Earthquake machines first. But they would. After this, he promised himself; after this mission. And he said, “Holly, did you notice any guards? Henchmen? Do we need stealth, or just a frontal assault?” and pulled tactics and training to the front of his mind.