It was Saturday market day in a touristy little mountain town—one of those places with hand-carved soap stands, hemp-wrapped crystals, overpriced sourdough, and way too many wind chimes. The street smelled like baked peaches and grilled sausage. Music played from a bluetooth speaker near a booth selling tie-dye thongs.
And right down the center of the street strolled them.
Two armless femboys—tall, lithe, glowing. Ren in tight black shorts and a mesh crop top, Cal in a plunging sleeveless tank and ripped joggers that did nothing to hide the way he swayed when he walked. Their shoulders gleamed with a fresh oil rub. Both barefoot. Both beautiful in a way that stopped conversations and turned heads.
They navigated with practiced ease—lips, shoulders, balance, and just enough dramatic flair to show they liked being seen.
A vendor selling kombucha dropped his tongs. Someone muttered "Fusion babies, huh?" under their breath. Another man just bit his lip and said "Damn."
Ren caught Cal’s eye, cocking a hip. “Three stares, two head tilts, and one guy dropped his vape.”
Cal smirked. “I think the tank top’s doing overtime.”
“Nah, it’s your thighs. Those pants are screaming.”
They passed a group of girls sitting on the curb, one of them whispering “Are they like… together-together?”
Cal grinned. “You think we should give ’em a show?”
Evidently, the Fusion Wave had done a number on their libidos. They knew this, but rather than continuing to isolate themselves until the effects wore off, the two had sought to make things . . . spicy. They had already waited out the entirety of the Lockdown, and it didn't seem like there would come a day where they wouldn't make intimate contact.
Ren leaned in, brushed his lips against Cal’s cheek. “Only if you can handle what comes after.”
“Oh, I can handle everything after.”
They stopped at a booth selling fruit popsicles. Ren leaned in and took one in his mouth, pulling it from the vendor’s hand with his lips—eyes locked on Cal the entire time. Juice dripped down his chin. Sticky. Slow. Suggestive.
Cal exhaled. “You trying to get me hard in public?”
“You already are.” Ren licked the juice from his lips. “Left side of your pants is struggling.”
They ducked into an alley behind a bakery—cool shade, out of sight. Cal pressed Ren to the wall, using only his body, his lips, his hips. Their mouths crashed together, popsicle falling to the ground, forgotten. Ren moaned against Cal’s teeth.
“God, I love it when you get all mouthy,” he whispered.
Cal kissed down his throat, grinding just enough to make Ren gasp. “You’re the one who started it.”
“I was being cute,” Ren purred.
“You were being dangerous.”
They were both breathless by the time they pulled away, flushed and half-laughing. A few crumbs of sugar and cinnamon from the bakery floor stuck to their calves. Cal looked down and said, “You know we’re gonna get arrested for indecent grinding.”
“Worth it,” Ren replied. “And we’re not done.”
Back at the street, they walked like they owned the place—sex on legs, no arms needed, bodies brushing with every step, laughter echoing like bells on the wind.
They didn’t just survive the change.
They thrived in it.