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Despite Floyd’s initial difficulty in adapting to the change in environment, despite the heaviness of his body and the pain he’d experienced learning to walk, the more time he spends on land…
The more unique, land-only experiences he not only discovers, he truly enjoys.
Like basketball, obviously, since that was the activity he’d been interested in when it came time to join a club, even if there are times when the thrill of competition is lacking – and truly, it isn’t Floyd’s fault if his opponents aren’t enough of a challenge to hold his interest, whether in practice or a real game.
Like dancing, which is so different underwater. On land, Floyd has the additional challenge of keeping his balance as he moves to the music. He’s fallen countless times, but the desire – the pulsating need – to move his body persists, and he still considers dancing one of his very favorite activities.
His other favorite is playing with Goldfishie.
There are a lot of things that Floyd enjoys about spending time with Goldfishie. He’s always fascinated with how red Goldfishie’s face gets – how he’ll shout and sputter and sometimes, if Floyd is especially lucky, Goldfishie will make the funniest noises. Floyd knows he’s not the only person who evokes this response from Goldfishie, but the others don’t matter because Floyd does it best.
Plus, there’s always something new to discover. Like the way a little vein in Goldfishie’s head will pop out, a little bump that Floyd is often tempted to run his fingers over. Like the way Goldfishie’s voice gets all rough and rumbly, such a powerful sound from such a cute and tiny thing.
Of course, there’s also the excitement of deflecting Goldfishie’s collar, something that Floyd is able to do successfully more often than not.
At least, he is now. He’s had a lot of practice.
And there’s the way Goldfishie will catch himself, when he remembers where they are and what he’s doing, and he’ll rein in his fiery temper. At those times, Floyd wants to poke Goldfishie in the cheeks to see where the hostile words have gone, as if he might be able to set them free.
There are times, of course, when Goldfishie lashes out in a way that’s the complete opposite of fun, but that’s the exception rather than the rule. When he’s able to get over the distasteful feelings that Goldfishie stirs up, Floyd is back to eagerly anticipating their next encounter, so much so that Floyd actively started frequenting places where he knows he’ll be likely to run into the tiny teapot tyrant.
His fascination with Goldfishie is not exactly a secret. Jade knows about it. Azul knows about it. Goldfishie himself knows about it. And that’s fine, because playing with Goldfishie is fun.
Until Halloween.
Floyd had spied the Heartslabyul gang in their costumes, and his eyes had been immediately drawn to one member of the quintet – the smallest and brightest of the bunch.
Goldfishie’s costume had been no different from anyone else’s (although perhaps it wasn’t quite the same quality as Sea Bream’s – since the latter had been on the committee with Jade, and Goldfishie had not) but the thing was…
The costume just hit different when it was Goldfishie wearing it.
Goldfishie was always neatly turned out. Unlike Floyd, Goldfishie was super into following the rules, and the school dress code fell under that big ol’ boring umbrella, but the skeleton costume featured ragged bits of mesh on Goldfishie’s hat and belt. The accessorizing was an obvious nod to a skeleton’s interment, but seeing the tattered veil made Floyd wonder how Goldfishie’s red face would look behind it.
It made Floyd want to get close enough to see Goldfishie’s expressions through the flimsy curtain. Floyd had wanted to feel the veil beneath his fingers, but not to poke at Goldfishie’s cheeks in an attempt to get him to smile.
No, Floyd had experienced a new urge, one that had only grown stronger when Goldfishie danced with him, accepting Floyd’s unspoken invitation without protest or annoyance and smiling as they moved together.
Smiling at Floyd.
For the duration of the dance, Floyd hadn’t thought once of riling Goldfishie. He’d been too bewitched by the curve of Goldfishie’s lips, and Floyd had come very close to fucking it all up by giving in to the temptation to lean in and press his lips against Goldfishie’s through that tattered veil. He’d wanted to feel that smile against his lips, to find out how Goldfishie’s mouth would feel against his own, to close the distance between them in a way he never had before. Floyd had wanted to grip Goldfishie’s hips, press his fingers into the shiny dark fabric that looked like it was painted on, to pull Goldfishie close and never let him go.
At one point, Goldfishie had giggled at something Floyd had said, his eyes crinkling in genuine amusement, and Floyd discovered a new fascination – the sound of Goldfishie’s laughter. Goldfishie hadn’t seemed to notice the way Floyd’s eyes had widened at the sound, any more than he’d noticed the way Floyd’s eyes kept dropping to his mouth. All too soon, the song ended, and Floyd had watched Goldfishie walk away in those tight pants, the artfully ragged mesh floating behind him like smoke, ready to dance with someone else.
Floyd had felt a flicker of irritation when Goldfishie did just that.
That night, Floyd had lain in bed and jerked himself off for the first time since assuming a human form, arching his back and biting his lip as he came. It had left him feeling physically relaxed but emotionally confused.
Jacking off quickly became a habit. Touching himself, swiping his thumb over the bead of moisture that formed at the head of his cock, sliding his hand up and down his shaft – the whole process was the only thing that soothed Floyd’s irritation after a particularly frustrating encounter with Goldfishie – a situation that was becoming more and more common.
The very things that Floyd had once found endlessly entertaining now fueled his fantasies, images of a flushed red face beneath even brighter red hair bringing him over the edge. It wasn’t the sort of thing he could explain to Jade, who’d come out just the other day and asked Floyd if everything was okay.
The fact that Jade had asked meant that his twin already knew the answer to that question, but Floyd lied to him anyway.
Floyd had never lied to Jade before. He’d never needed to.
It wasn’t as if Floyd was always in a sour mood. Other than his obsession with Goldfishie taking that unexpected turn, Floyd still sought him out. Floyd still enjoyed playing basketball and dancing and parkour. He liked experimenting in the kitchen, testing out ingredients that were only available on land.
(That he’d fallen into the habit of incorporating strawberries or roses – and sometimes, both – into every dish was something that he tried not to think about too much.)
At the end of midterms, Sea Otter suggests throwing a party to celebrate, and Sharksucker jumps in immediately to second the idea. Despite Sea Snake’s protests and Azul’s insistence that it take place at Mostro Lounge, the party is a go.
Azul, of course, wants a steady stream of customers, and Sea Otter wants to invite every single student in their year. In the end, the guest list is pared down considerably. Of those who are outside the circle of individuals Azul loosely considers friends, he has ensured the list includes students Azul is sure he can take advantage of in some way. It’s just how he is, and Floyd is fine with that.
Because Azul’s machinations aside, the important thing to Floyd is that the coveted guest list includes those students who Floyd finds worth his time. Like Goldfishie.
Especially Goldfishie.
How they ended up here doesn’t matter – at least, it doesn’t in the moment. What matters is that it started with a couple of drinks, a couple of kisses, and now Goldfishie is tipping his head back as Floyd’s lips and tongue trail down his neck. What matters is that Goldfishie responds to Floyd’s kisses the way Goldfishie responds to everything Floyd does – fiercely.
Goldfishie is bossy and impatient, and Floyd can’t help laughing when Goldfishie lifts his head and stares at Floyd’s crotch, glaring at Floyd’s boxers like he wants to incinerate them.
Floyd wants to remember every detail – he has an excellent memory, after all – but more than that, he wants Goldfishie to touch him the way Floyd touches himself. When Goldfishie finally makes an attempt, he does it so cautiously that the only reason Floyd isn’t laughing again is because he can barely breathe.
Goldfishie’s fingers cautiously dance over Floyd’s erection like it’s a flute, and then he looks up at Floyd and swallows.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he frets, and he is so fucking genuine, Floyd just has to kiss him.
When Floyd presses a tube of lubricant into Goldfishie’s hand, it takes surprisingly little coaxing to get Goldfishie to slather it over Floyd’s dick, using so much that it drips onto the floor.
Floyd doesn’t care; he’ll deal with it later.
Finally, finally, Goldfishie takes Floyd completely in hand, and it feels so good, Floyd’s eyes begin to roll back in his head.
He’s close. He’s so fucking close – and then Goldfishie stops.
“Do you have condoms?” he asks in all seriousness.
Floyd does, actually.
He bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh when the first condom shoots out from between Goldfishie’s fingers and smacks against the side of Floyd’s desk. It’s not Goldfishie’s fault; his fingers are still slick with lube, and the condom itself is slippery, too. And fortunately, Goldfishie is more annoyed than embarrassed. Floyd assures him it’s fine – he has a whole box, after all – and then he has to hastily explain why he is in possession of that many (a recent acquisition after shaking down a sophomore who was probably never going to need them). The idea that Goldfishie feels jealous makes Floyd giddy, and he allows himself a chuckle when a second condom follows the first. On the third try, Goldfishie has managed to successfully unroll it all the way down Floyd’s length, and he looks so proud of himself, Floyd wants to kiss him again.
So he does.
The next part is awkward. Floyd knows he can take Goldfishie from behind, and that’s probably the easiest way to do this, but Floyd wants to see Goldfishie’s face. He wants to lace their fingers together and press Goldfishie’s hands against the mattress as Floyd fucks him.
That’s what he wants, but what he gets is a lot of slipping and sliding between Goldfishie's thighs. He isn’t complaining – it still feels good, and Goldfishie is making frustrated little sounds that Floyd finds fucking hot. Neither of them know what they’re doing, but Goldfishie has apparently done research, which Floyd also finds fucking hot.
He isn’t expecting Goldfishie to moan as Floyd fingers him. When they feel they’ve done enough prepping, Floyd finally, finally enters him. Floyd isn’t prepared when Goldfishie sucks in a breath, and he wants to abort the mission, but it feels so damn good. If feels so amazing, being inside Goldfishie, that Floyd isn’t sure whether to advance or retreat.
It’s only when Goldfishie takes the initiative and cants his hips, changing the angle just enough, that Floyd is able to slide in a little bit more.
Goldfishie’s knees dig into either side of Floyd’s ribcage, and Floyd is surprised at the strength in those tiny legs until he remembers that the man he’s fucking is a senior member of the equestrian club.
There’s a joke about riding in there somewhere, but Floyd’s eyes are closing. It doesn't just feel good, it feels better than anything Floyd has ever felt.
He begins to move, and everything - everything - about this is better.
Beneath him, Goldfishie’s breath hitches, and his fingernails dig into Floyd’s back, a complete departure from the excessive concern he’d had about hurting Floyd just a few minutes earlier.
Of all the reactions Floyd has ever gotten from Goldfishie, nothing would ever compare to this.
Floyd buries his face between Goldfishie’s neck and shoulder and presses his lips against damp skin. Goldfishie’s entire body is trembling, and his fingers are now desperately combing through Floyd’s hair.
“Riddle,” Floyd mumbles as he thrusts. Perspiration is dripping from his hair onto Riddle’s shoulder. “Ah, Riddle.”
The fingers in his hair give a sharp yank, and Floyd takes a shaky breath before lifting his head. Goldfishie is staring up at him. His mouth is partly open, as if he wants to say something, but it’s his eyes that draw Floyd’s attention. There are tiny beads of moisture dotting Goldfishie’s lashes, long lashes that frame large, pewter eyes full of emotion. Bright red eyebrows dip just a little, but the crimson hue that Floyd so adores is nothing compared to eyes like a stormy sky.
Goldfishie’s – Riddle’s – eyes are quite possibly the most beautiful thing Floyd has ever seen. They’re so beautiful that Floyd aches.
“Me too,” Floyd replies.
It’s possible that Floyd is lying – not on purpose, not to Riddle – but he doesn’t think he is.
And then he’s not thinking much of anything because Riddle is kissing him.
Fiercely.
What Riddle feels for Floyd might not be what Floyd feels for him – and Floyd isn’t even entirely sure what that is, not yet – but whatever it is, it’s close enough.