Oliver x Engel x Abbie
The Friction of Paper and Skin
The stifling atmosphere of the empty classroom was thick with the scent of pencil shavings and the faint, chemical aroma of the soap Oliver had been snacking on earlier. Abbie lay trembling on the floor, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. The weight that had been crushing the breath out of his lungs—the combined pressure of Engel and Oliver—suddenly lifted as they shifted their positions, giving him a momentary reprieve.
Abbie’s vision swam, his black slit-like pupils trembling. His white apple-stem hair was disheveled, and his face was a deep, burning crimson. He tried to scramble backward, but his limbs felt like lead.
"Look at him," Oliver chuckled, his voice dripping with mischievous delight. He adjusted his position, sitting back on his heels while his long, ankle-length white hair pooled around him like spilled ink. "He looks like he’s about to faint, Engel. Do you think we went too hard on the poor little apple?"
Engel, usually the moral compass of the group, looked down at Abbie with a conflicted expression. His long white ponytail swayed, and the blue and red feathers atop his head fluttered. Despite his gentle nature, there was a strange, heat-filled haze in his eyes that contradicted his protective instincts. He was blushing furiously, the red hue creeping up to the tips of his pointed ears.
"I... I don't know, Oliver," Engel murmured, his voice uncharacteristically husky. "He’s shaking so much."
Oliver grinned, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light. "He’s not shaking because he’s hurt. He’s shaking because he likes the attention. Don't you, Abbie?"
Abbie couldn't find his voice. He just shook his head frantically, his hands clutching at the floor tiles. But the teasing was far from over. With a deliberate, slow movement, Oliver shifted his weight and spread his legs wide, revealing himself to the trembling boy beneath him. The sight was startling—the pale, tight intimacy of his body exposed, stark against the black and white aesthetic of his school uniform.
Abbie’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. He swallowed hard, a visible gulp traveling down his throat. The sheer audacity of Oliver’s provocation made his heart hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"What's the matter, Abbie?" Oliver taunted, leaning forward and propping his chin on his pencil-hand. "Never seen a bully up close like this? You look hungry. And I know how much you love your snacks."
Engel, standing just behind Abbie, felt a surge of something he couldn't name. He looked down at Abbie’s trembling form, his gaze landing on the curve of Abbie’s own backside, visible through his white shorts as he crouched in fear. The sight caused a spark of primal desire to override Engel’s typical kindness. He didn't want to hurt Abbie, but the atmosphere Oliver had created was infectious, a fever that was burning through his inhibitions.
Without a word, Engel knelt down behind Abbie. His large, four-fingered hands reached out, steadying the smaller boy’s hips. Abbie let out a high-pitched whimper, turning his head to look at Engel with pleading eyes.
"Engel? Please..." Abbie whispered, his voice cracking.
"Sorry, Abbie," Engel breathed, his face leaning closer. "But Oliver’s right. You’re just too reactive to ignore."
Abbie let out a choked gasp as Engel leaned in, his lips making contact with the skin of Abbie’s rear. It was a sensation Abbie never could have prepared for—the warmth of Engel’s breath, the soft pressure of his mouth against his skin. Abbie’s face felt like it was going to spontaneously combust. He was caught in a pincer movement of overwhelming sensations.
Oliver watched the scene with a predatory gleam in his eyes, his "A+" mark seeming to glow in the shadow of his hair. "Don't leave me out of the fun, Abbie. You’ve got work to do, too."
He moved closer, pressing himself toward Abbie’s face, demanding attention. The proximity was suffocating. Abbie was trapped between Engel’s surprising hunger and Oliver’s relentless teasing.
"Do it," Oliver commanded softly, his voice a low purr. "Unless you want me to call Zip and Edward in here to watch you cry."
Terrified and overwhelmed, Abbie leaned forward. His lips trembled as he made contact with Oliver, his senses overwhelmed by the scent of soap and something uniquely *Oliver*. As he began to follow the bully’s silent instructions, a low, guttural groan escaped Oliver’s throat.
"Ah... there we go," Oliver sighed, his head tilting back, his long ponytail dragging across the floor. "Maybe you aren't so useless after all, little apple."
The room was filled with the sound of wet, rhythmic noises and the heavy breathing of three boys pushed to their limits. Abbie was making small, desperate sounds into Oliver’s skin, his face a mask of pure embarrassment and involuntary pleasure. Every time he tried to pull back, Engel’s hands tightened on his hips, grounding him, while Engel continued his own exploration, his tongue tracing patterns that made Abbie’s toes curl.
Oliver looked down at Engel, his eyes hooded. "You’re surprisingly good at this, Engel. I thought you were the 'good boy' of the school. Look at you, devouring him."
Engel looked up for a brief second, his face flushed a deep crimson, his feathers ruffled. "Shut up, Oliver," he snapped, though there was no real heat in it. He returned to his task with renewed vigor, his long white hair falling over his shoulders and masking the intimacy of his actions.
Abbie was lost in the middle of it all. The world had shrunk down to the heat of Engel behind him and the sharp, demanding presence of Oliver in front of him. He felt like he was melting into the floorboards, his mind turning to mush.
Oliver reached down, his pencil-hand tracing the line of Abbie’s jaw, forcing the boy to look up at him even as he continued. "That's it, Abbie. Keep going. Make me forget how much I hate math class."
The provocation only made Abbie work harder, his desperate need to please—or perhaps just to survive the encounter—driving him forward. His muffled sounds filled the gaps between Oliver’s occasional moans of pleasure.
"You're both doing so well," Oliver whispered, his hand moving to stroke through his own long hair. "I think I might have to keep you both here all night. What do you think, Engel? Should we let the little apple go, or should we see how much more he can take?"
Engel didn't answer with words. He simply pressed closer, his body heat radiating through Abbie’s back, his actions speaking louder than any protest he could have voiced. The kindness he usually wore like a shield had been stripped away, leaving only the raw, paper-thin edge of desire.
Abbie’s heart raced, the rhythm of his pulse echoing in his ears. He was terrified, he was embarrassed, and he was completely, utterly trapped in the middle of a game he never asked to play—but as Oliver’s hand moved to rest on his head, petting his apple-leaf hair, a small, traitorous part of him didn't want the moment to end.