Stress relief

15 year old Comet Harper struggles with the murder of his mother Sarah Harper and ends up staying with his poly neighbours.

The apartment was hushed that night, the kind of quiet that settles after too many days of noise and grief. Comet had finally fallen asleep in the guest room around 11 p.m.—curled on his side under the weighted blanket Maple had bought specially, lavender nails peeking out from the sleeve of one of Tinsel’s oversized hoodies. His breathing had evened out after an hour of soft, hiccuping sobs into Honey’s chest. Honey had stayed with him until the last tear dried, then slipped out, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear if Comet stirred.

The rest of them gathered in the living room—lights low, only the string lights Maple had hung weeks ago casting a soft amber glow. No one felt like turning on the overheads. They sat in a loose circle on the sectional: Honey tucked into one corner, knees drawn up; Axior sprawled beside him, one massive arm draped over the back; Maple cross-legged on the floor leaning against Axior’s legs; Tinsel curled into Moxie’s side on the opposite cushion, Moxie’s head resting on Tinsel’s shoulder.

For a long minute, nobody spoke. Just the hum of the fridge and the distant city traffic filtering through the windows.

Honey broke it first, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ve thought about him,” he said. No preamble. Just confession. “Before everything. When he’d come down to the coffee shop after school, all focused and stressed about exams, rambling about organic chem like it was the end of the world. I’d watch him bite his lip while he studied and think… God, I just want to pull him into my lap and make him forget the periodic table for five minutes. Kiss him until his brain goes quiet.”

Maple exhaled slow through his nose. “Me too. Not gonna lie. He’d sit in my chair for a fill and his hands would shake from caffeine and anxiety, and I’d hold them steady, paint his nails, and imagine sliding my fingers into his hair and tilting his head back. Telling him he didn’t have to be perfect at everything. Just had to feel good for once.”

Tinsel shifted, voice rough. “After the shooting… worse. He’s been so small. So fucking small. Clinging to us like we’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. And every time he falls asleep against my chest, I think about how easy it would be to slide a hand under his shirt, trace his ribs, make him arch and gasp and forget his mom’s not coming home. Just for a little while. Just to give him something that isn’t pain.”

Moxie stayed quiet longest. When he finally spoke, it was barely audible. “I didn’t know him before. But now… seeing him break every day, seeing how he still tries to smile for us… yeah. I’ve thought about it. About crawling into bed with him, pressing my mouth to his throat, letting him use me however he needs. Cry into my neck while I stroke him slow until he comes apart and can’t think anymore. Because I know what it’s like to need someone to take the noise away.”

Axior hadn’t moved. His thumb traced idle circles on Honey’s shoulder. When he spoke, it was low, measured—the same tone he used when giving bad news on the job.

“I’ve thought about it too,” he admitted. “Before: him looking up at me from the couch, all wide-eyed and rambling about some college app, and me imagining pinning him there. Fucking the stress right out of him until he’s boneless and quiet. After: holding him while he cries, feeling how small he is against me, and wanting to turn him over my knee—not to hurt, just to make him feel held. Controlled. Safe. Wanted. Take every ounce of that grief and replace it with something warm and overwhelming so his brain stops screaming for a few hours.”

Silence again. Heavier this time.

Honey rubbed his face with both hands. “We can’t. We won’t.”

“No,” Axior agreed immediately. “We won’t.”

Maple nodded, eyes on the floor. “He’s fifteen. Grieving. Traumatized. We’re the only adults he trusts right now. The second we cross that line—even if he begged—we become the people who took advantage when he was broken. We’d never forgive ourselves. And he’d never heal from it.”

Tinsel swallowed hard. “But fuck… I hate seeing him carry it all. School’s starting again soon. He’s got finals he hasn’t studied for in weeks. Nightmares every night. He wakes up gasping like he’s still in that hallway. I just want to… fix it. Take it all off his mind. Even if it’s only for one night.”

Moxie’s voice cracked. “We all do. That’s why we can’t. Wanting to help him isn’t the same as helping him. Wanting to fuck the pain away isn’t love. It’s using him to feel less helpless.”

Axior’s arm tightened around Honey. “So we keep doing what we’re doing. We hold him. We feed him. We sit with him while he cries. We help him with homework when he can focus. We drive him to therapy. We remind him every day that he’s allowed to exist without performing strength. And when he’s ready—years from now, maybe—we let him decide what he wants. If he ever wants us like that, it has to come from him. Not from us filling the void his mom left.”

Honey leaned his head against Axior’s shoulder. “He’s going to be okay. Eventually. And we’re going to be here. Without making it worse.”

Maple reached up, squeezed Axior’s knee. “We’re not saints. We’re just… trying not to be monsters.”

Tinsel huffed a small, tired laugh. “Speak for yourself. I’m definitely a monster. Just one who’s choosing not to bite.”

They sat with that for a while. No one moved to the bedroom. No one suggested sex to burn off the tension. They just stayed tangled together on the couch, listening to the soft sounds of Comet breathing in the next room.

Eventually Honey stood—quiet—went to the guest room door, peeked in. Comet was still out, face slack, one hand curled under his cheek.

Honey came back, sank down between Axior and Maple.

“He’s sleeping,” he whispered.

“Good,” Axior murmured.

They didn’t say anything else.

They didn’t need to.

The string lights stayed on all night.

Just in case Comet woke up and needed to see that someone was still there.

Two nights later—March 18, 2026—the apartment felt smaller than usual.

Comet had come home from school around 4 p.m. with dark circles already carved under his eyes and his backpack slung so low it dragged. Finals were three weeks away; he'd been cramming since the funeral, refusing to take breaks longer than bathroom runs. The group had watched the spiral tighten: skipped meals, snapping at nothing, staring at textbooks until the pages blurred.

Tonight it broke.

He was at the dining table—same one where they’d eaten birthday cake a year from now, but right now just a graveyard of highlighters, crumpled notes, and an untouched energy drink. The organic chemistry equations stared back at him like accusations. He’d been at it for six straight hours.

Then the pen snapped in his hand.

Ink bled across the page. Comet stared at the black smear for three seconds before the first sob ripped out—raw, ugly, like something being torn loose. He shoved the textbook off the table; it hit the floor with a thud. Then his face crumpled into his hands.

Honey was there first—always was. He dropped to his knees beside Comet’s chair, arms open. Comet collapsed forward into them without hesitation, sobbing into Honey’s shoulder so hard his whole body shook.

“I can’t—I can’t do this—I’m so fucking stupid—Mom would’ve—she would’ve helped me—she’s not here—she’s gone and I’m failing—”

Honey held him tighter, rocking gently. “You’re not stupid. You’re exhausted. You’re grieving. You’re doing more than anyone could ask.”

The others drifted in—quiet, careful. Axior turned off the overhead light, left only the string lights. Maple knelt behind Comet, rubbing slow circles on his back. Tinsel perched on the table edge, close enough to touch Comet’s arm. Moxie hovered near the doorway, then came closer when Comet didn’t pull away.

They waited until the sobs slowed to hiccups, until Comet’s breathing evened enough that he could speak without choking.

“I just want it to stop,” Comet whispered, voice wrecked. “The noise in my head. The deadlines. The—the missing her. I want to feel something else. Anything else.”

Honey cupped Comet’s face, thumbs brushing wet cheeks. “What do you need right now, sweetheart?”

Comet looked around at them—really looked. Six pairs of eyes, soft, steady, waiting. No pressure. No expectation.

“I want… to feel good,” he said, small but certain. “I want to forget for a little while. With you. All of you.”

Silence—brief, careful.

Axior spoke first, low and even. “You’re sure?"

Comet nodded. “I know im not legal yet. But even so… I trust you. More than anyone. I know you won’t hurt me. I know you’ll stop if I say stop.”

Honey searched his face. “We stop the second you want. No questions. No guilt.”

“I know.”

Maple leaned in, kissed Comet’s temple—soft, chaste. “Then we take care of you. Slow. Gentle. Whatever you need.”

They moved to the bedroom—big bed, soft sheets, lights dimmed to amber. Comet in the center, still in his school hoodie and sweats. The others stripped down to boxers, nothing aggressive—just skin, warmth, safety.

Honey started—always did. He kissed Comet slow, deep, letting him set the pace. Comet melted into it, hands fisting in Honey’s hair, small whimpers already escaping.

Axior settled behind Comet, massive hands sliding under the hoodie, stroking his ribs, his stomach—grounding, possessive without crowding. Comet arched back into him with a shaky exhale.

Maple knelt between Comet’s thighs, tugged the sweats down slow. Comet’s cock was already half-hard, flushed. Maple kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, working upward until he could take Comet into his mouth—warm, wet, unhurried.

Comet gasped—sharp, surprised—hips jerking. Tinsel caught his mouth in a kiss, swallowing the sound, tongue sliding slow and teasing.

Moxie stayed close, fingers threading through Comet’s hair, whispering against his ear: “You’re so pretty like this. Letting go. Letting us have you.”

Axior’s hand wrapped around Comet from behind—long fingers stroking in time with Maple’s mouth, thumb circling the head on every upstroke. Comet moaned into Tinsel’s kiss, body trembling.

They didn’t rush. No one pushed for more than Comet could take.

When Comet started babbling—“Please—more—need—” Honey pulled back just enough to ask, “What do you want, baby?”

“Inside,” Comet breathed. “Someone—please—”

Axior moved first—careful, lubed fingers stretching him slow while Maple kept sucking him off. Comet shook, tears leaking again—not from pain, from relief. From finally feeling something warm instead of cold.

When Axior slid in—slow, inch by inch—Comet keened, head falling back onto Axior’s shoulder. Honey kissed his throat, his collarbone. Tinsel stroked his chest, pinched his nipples lightly. Moxie kissed his tears away.

They found a rhythm—Axior deep and steady, Maple’s mouth relentless, hands everywhere else. Comet unraveled fast—too much sensation, too much care, too much everything he’d been starving for.

He came with a broken cry—whole body locking, spilling down Maple’s throat while Axior held him through it, murmuring praise against his neck.

They didn’t stop there.

Honey took over next—gentle, missionary, face-to-face so Comet could see him, could hold on. Maple rode Comet’s thigh while Tinsel and Moxie kissed him from either side. Axior stroked himself lazily, watching, waiting his turn again if Comet wanted.

Comet came twice more—once with Honey inside him, once with Maple’s mouth and Tinsel’s fingers—each time softer, quieter, until he was boneless, floating.

When it was over, they cleaned him gently—warm cloths, careful touches. Wrapped him in blankets. Curled around him like a living shield.

Comet’s voice was hoarse, sleepy. “Thank you.”

Honey kissed his forehead. “Thank you for trusting us.”

Comet’s eyes fluttered closed. “Don’t leave.”

“Never,” Axior murmured, arm draped over all of them.

They stayed like that until morning—tangled, warm, quiet.

The stress didn’t vanish. The grief didn’t disappear.

But for one night, Comet’s mind was finally, blessedly still.