yue 🎐

You trace his v-lines with your thumbs, feel the way the muscle shifts beneath his skin. It's idle worship, a touch that riddles him with anticipation. He's tense, nerves fraught and frayed. He knows what's coming, but knowing does nothing to settle him down.

"What are you so nervous for?" you fan the flames, perching your chin on the broad of his shoulder. Obscenely broad. You tilt your head to press your lips to his skin, biting into the thick muscle. He exhales heavily.

"I'm not nervous," he retorts through grit teeth, entirely unconvincing. He turns to look at you, column of his throat flexing with a swallow.

There's a fire in his eyes that'll be doused within the next thirty minutes. It's a token struggle that he puts up to feel better about himself. Something about that alpha pride. It's part of why you're so glad to be a beta, free from all the posturing.

"Get to it, already," he breathes. He tries to sound stern, attempting to feel in control of the situation.

Your hands make the slow journey upwards, feeling every dip and groove of his abdomen. Finally, you reach the bounty of his chest. His breathing stutters, tension pulling his posture tight as you cup both breasts.

"Heavier than usual," you remark, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, "You should have come to me earlier, Dei," you brush your cheek against his hot skin, let your tongue rasp over the flesh. He inhales sharply, hands curling into fists at his side.

You mouth at him. A strangled, throaty sound rumbles in his chest. The scent of his lashing pheromones lingers heavy in the air, an intoxicating mix of both alpha and omega scents that would send the head of any non-beta spinning.

"Is my regular participation in this humiliation ritual not enough for you?" he says, sounding stiff. You peer around him. There's already a visible tent in his sweat pants, pulling at the grey fabric. Knowing him, the tip's probably wet. Leaking like a faucet.

"You're so dramatic," you smile. Your touch slips south. Your fingertips draw a light path down his sides, feeling the ridges of his serratus anteriors, the dip of his waist. Following the grooves of his v-lines leads you to the waistband of his pants. His hands clasp onto your wrists, absolutely immovable. "You should take these off," you advise him, tapping the space above his waistband. You lightly push your fingers into the space above his crotch. "'Cause they look really good on you. I'd hate to ruin them."

"I have a washing machine," Mydei informs you dryly. He looks back at you through narrowed eyes, searching, "…I'll take them off, but," he swallows. His pupils are blown wide, honey amber irises pushed into thin rings. "I'm not going to be the only one naked."

You swallow. "Heard."

The shimmy out of your clothes is quick and shameless. You don't really care about looking desperate. Despite how much you tease, Mydei's wish is your command. If he wants your clothes off, they'll come off one way or another. Your obedience merely expedites the process.

The curtains are drawn and the blinds closed. There's no one here but the both of you, the towel on your couch and the faint whirring of the air conditioner. A faint chill sweeps over your bare skin, goosebumps shuddering up your arms and legs. You settle back down just in time to get an easy eyeful of him. His cock is thick and hard against his thigh, flared head flushed pretty pink. It bobs with each, slow step he takes in your direction. Your tongue swipes across your lower lip and he raises a brow. His hand snaps forward, faster than you can follow, and takes you by the jaw. He squeezes lightly, tips of his fingers and his thumb pressing into the fat of your cheeks.

"Pervert," he murmurs, but there's no bite in it. Oddly enough, some of the fight seems to have left him. You tilt your head, let your lips brush against his hot, open palm. A soft, affectionate sound rumbles in his chest.

He moves with the languid ease of a prowling lion, settling on the edge of the couch, his back to your front. He leans up against you, purposefully pushing a portion of his weight onto you. You spread your legs to make room for him, and feel your heart fluter when he settles in without complaint. Utterly and thoroughly domesticated.

You reach a hand around to his front, palm flattening against his sternum. Despite his previous grumbles, he follows your lead. His head winds up settled on your chest, his hair fluttering soft against your skin.

"Comfortable?" you ask, combing your fingers through his hair. He sighs at the touch, going limp atop of you.

"As comfortable as I can be," he replies, sounding much more miserable than he has any right to be. You huff, amused at his pouting, before directing your attention south.

His nipples are fat, swollen probably being a more accurate descriptor. Flushed and dusky, perched atop the plump mounds of his breasts.

You pinch. He makes a choked sound, jolting in your arms. The cut muscle of his abdomen tenses, and one of his hands flies up to cover his mouth. A droplet of liquid—milk, beads at the perked tip of his nipple, and then the other. It's a symptom typical to omegas in heat, much rarer for males—even rarer for O-type alphas, or alphas capable of displaying omega traits. It's the result of a hormonal imbalance or abnormality, a source of shame for many.

But for you? It's perfect. Your fingers press against the ample flesh of his bosom, dimples made against the fat, before taking his buds between your forefinger and thumb to squeeze. You repeat this motion several times, each yielding more droplets, until a steady stream forms. He squirms in your arms as you draw the milk out of him, one spurt of liquid after another. They roll down the fat of his pecs and into the grooves of his abdomen. You settle into a steady rhythm, working him over, feeling each breath as it winds in and out of his weary lungs. His heartbeat is wild beneath your palms. And the way his cock twitches, untouched, doesn't escape your notice.

His cheeks have flushed pink and his eyes are clenched shut. The space between his brows wrinkles up. At his side, his hands ball into fists. As a mere beta, you can only imagine how it must feel. His chest heaves with each panting breath.

"Are you alright?" you ask, a laugh in your voice. You pinch and pull, and are utterly unprepared for the near shout he lets out. And then—oh, he's glaring at you now, even while he's leaking all over your fingers.

"You're the worst," he laments, voice a little reedy.

You press down a little harder in response. A small stream of milk spurts from his left nipple, spraying into the air. So absurdly perfect that you could laugh, but you don't, if only to preserve what little pride he has left to cling to. Giving his left pec a break, you run your hand down to his tummy, stroking the upper part of his abdomen. His milk slicks your palm and your fingers.

"You're doing so well, Mydei," you coo to him, pressing a series of kisses to the top of his head. You pet him like he's a dog. Your nails lightly scrape at his skin and he hisses, arching his back. His breathing becomes harsher. "Do you want to keep going?"

His eyes open to glare at you. "Get it all out," he rasps.

"Your wish is my command," you hum, like you're doing him a favor. You return your attention to his chest tenfold, kneading his breasts and pulling at his nipples. His ragged breaths again become low moans and quiet gasps. His stomach twitches. One of his legs kicks out a little. His skin flushes all the way down to his shoulders, even the tips of his ears becoming a deep pink. The deep crimson lines on his chest flex and tremble.

His eyes shut and his lips are plump and parted. He looks absolutely ruined. You want to dig your claws into him. You want him to squirm and cry, want to sup on each dulcet sound. You want to worship his body with the reverence it deserves, pay blood tribute to each curve and bump.

You pinch, and twist, and sink your canines into the meat of his nape. He moans, loud and wild. His eyes blow wide, spine arching off your lap and into your touch. Ropes of cum spray onto his tummy, white streaking the hot skin. You release the vice grip you have on him, taking in the sight with several, slow blinks.

Huh. He's never done that before.

"Did you just…" you begin, already knowing the answer.

He groans as he comes back to himself, throwing his forearm over his eyes. His chest heaves with heavy pants as he claws to regain his bearings. The air is thick with the scent of him, all alpha musk and omega sweetness rolled into a single, heady combination.

"Don't say anything," he commands through gritted teeth. His arm pulls away and he fixes you with narrowed eyes, a fire in his stern gaze. His bark is worse than his bite.

"I can't believe you're asking me to not compliment my beautiful girlfriend," you lament, reaching down to touch his slick skin. He shudders beneath the touch, flagging cock now limp against his thigh.

"I'm not your girlfriend," he seethes, and pushes off of you. He leans over, snatching up a second, folded towel you placed next to you before you started. An act of magnificent foresight based on several past, very messy experiences. He towels himself off with restrained fury, wincing when the coarse fabric brushes over his (likely incredibly sensitive) buds. For the time being, you elect to remain quiet. This is the part of the routine where he gets fussy and needs some space and quiet.

most people have no idea about the tattoo—and hajime has gone to great lengths to keep it that way. he wears a compression t-shirt at the gym so there's no risk of it riding up and accidentally revealing it. he orders patches to conceal it on the rare occasion he goes to onsens. he never showers with the athletes at work, always either opting to shower at home, shower after the team, or use the staff facilities when available.

but in spite of all of that, he's not embarrassed of it.

he doesn't even really regret it.

it's just not anybody else's business.

the ink on his skin is a secret kept between him, matsukawa, hanamaki, the guy who tattooed him, and oikawa who was screaming on facetime in the background while it happened.

and now you, too.

your hand snakes up the back of hajime's sweatshirt as he stands at the stove preparing breakfast, cool fingertips tracing the curls of ink even without seeing them—having long mapped them to memory. hajime suppresses a shiver, not expecting the contact, as you crowd yourself closer to his back and lean your weight against him.

"i was trying not to wake you," he says quietly, the hand not holding the chopsticks he's flipping his omelette with reaching behind him in search of you.

"you didn't," you murmur into his back, catching his seeking hand in yours and twining your fingers together. "smelled food."

hajime laughs to himself, his eyes crinkling. he squeezes your fingers tightly as his heart thuds in his chest.

underneath his sweatshirt, your nails rake lightly against his skin.

"shouldn't i be making your breakfast?"

hajime transfers his omelette to the plate waiting beside the stove, flicking off the burner and then turning to face you. he wraps his arms around you and holds you properly now, your face burrowing into the collar of his hoodie the way you always do, his nose brushing your temple.

"wanted to let you sleep a bit longer," hajime grunts out, his cheeks burning a bit hot—still shy, sometimes, even after so much time has passed. "thought you might be tired after..."

you snort, your head popping up to look at him. "after you fucked me within an inch of my life into the wee hours of the morning?"

the fire burning under hajime's skin grows even hotter. he splutters a little, and struggles to meet your gaze.

"i'm not tired," you whisper, a mischievous smile tugging at your lips. the incorrigible one he fell in love with. "we were celebrating, after all."

hajime's eyes are burning a little bit, to complement the stinging in his cheeks. you lift your hand up to his face so you can feel the heat of his skin, and he rests his own hand—larger, more calloused than your own—to rest overtop of it. he looks at you, and sees happiness reflected back at him in your gaze. so fathomless he thinks he could drown in it.

hajime turns his face into your touch, and his eyes flutter closed as he noses against your palm.

he presses a kiss there. soft. adoring.

then another, just slightly higher, to the ring he put on your finger the night before.

he peeks at you again, that same heat in his cheeks, though not nearly as unbearable.

he's got another secret he doesn't regret now, one just as permanent as the ink in his skin, but this one won't stay hidden long. eventually he'll call his parents, and his nanay will probably get teary. then he'll tell his friends, who will put his mother's tears to shame. he'll leave the tattoo artist out of it this time, though—wherever that guy is now.

"happy birthday, hajime," you whisper to him with a smile he can't help but return.

he might keep this secret between the two of you today, though. just for a little while longer.

@cursed(your)wombz huh?

He had a pitch-black profile picture and a layout with nothing of note, a banner as equally colorless and unnotable, and a simple bio stating: 

I know what you want…

- C.

And beneath that was a link.

It stood out stark against the black background. You don’t click on it, of course- for fear of being something malicious, you’re avoiding it like you’d avoid a minefield. 

You’ve already heard one too many horror stories on here about such things. One click and you’d find your address posted somewhere. Instead, your eyes drop to the number of followers he had…and your eyebrows are immediately shooting up.

0 Following.

581k Followers.

Now that makes you blink.

Okay- alright, maybe it wasn’t the most astounding number you’ve ever seen throughout your expansive time on the Internet - but it was still niche celebrity-status. Especially on this app. Especially to be stalking an account like yours…where all you did was repost the stray picture of a pretty landscape or yell into the aether about your missing assignments for your friends to comment on. 

Now that was a little strange.

And so you’re scrolling down.

And you never quite know what you’re in for whenever you enter the realm of a person’s account—fanfiction with tags you never knew existed, one part of an argument on social media that really shouldn’t exist, mpreg. 

Which was all fine and dandy to be quite honest- you just never expect to be met with the most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The first picture you’re seeing- pinned.

Posted just an hour ago. It’s a mirror selfie taken at a low angle; of a man with his body angled towards the lens and his phone covering his face. In nothing but a towel. With nothing but his chiselled body. His beefy arms flexed as he takes the picture, biceps rippled with a few veins—though still lean and almost smooth to the touch. Pierced nipples. Defined abs. Your eyes linger on the sparse dusting of dark hair leading below, below, below his fluffy white towel…

The picture cuts off just a few inches past his navel. You know because you’re enlarging it.

The photo is almost vampiric in nature.

Somehow. 

Dimly-lit. Beautiful—he clearly knew his angles and lighting. It’s slightly blurry and you can’t make out much of the man’s features - nothing more than the slender length of his fingers, silver rings, and the outline of his dark (perhaps brown?) hair. Touching his shoulders. From just above the hem of his towel, the amorphous blur of a tattoo snakes down his left v-line - and no matter how much you’re zooming in, you can’t quite figure out what it is. 

Something twists at the pit of your stomach as you’re latching your eyes onto the very obvious bulge he was sporting through the towel - very.

The flash created a shadow of his lengthy cock—oh. Hanging between thick thighs, heavy and needy. And it also illuminated the slight dampness clinging onto his body; perhaps he’d just gotten out of the shower, or was about to take on after a workout. 

Whichever scenario it was, both made your thighs clench- fuck.

Fingers slightly shaky, you’re exiting out of the picture and scrolling down for more. 

The next post is a video seemingly taken from the very same instance: it was from the point of view of the beautiful man. Facing downwards, as he zoomed the camera in on his bulge and ran one vein-covered, ringed hand down his abs- down his pelvis- down to that throbbing erection and squeezed himself through his towel. 

And then through your speakers echoes out the most pornographic moan. 

Thank goodness your dorm had thick walls. 

And that’s when you decide that you’ve seen enough.

Not enough as in enough enough to block this strange man and move on with your life- of course, not. As quickly as your fingers would possibly let you, you’re exiting out of the video and scrolling up to a bio that seemed to have more to hide than the first time you read through it. 

The link stands mockingly stark - almost winking at you - against the dark background. You think you know what it is.

And you click on it.

Suddenly, your laptop screen’s flooding with a gaudy pink color. A loading circle swivels in the middle of it for a few seconds, before you’re met with a logo in swooping, slanted black script: C4mBoyfriends. Better than that boy in your dms.

Rapidly, you’re opening up a new tab and typing in the name.

“C4mBoyfriends is an adult streaming platform that hosts webcam performers that choose to label themselves as male. Here they can stream live video, post photographs, and interact on forums with a wide array of paying viewers—for a range of content catering to specific niches or sexual roleplays. C4mBoyfriends, since its recent launch, has shot up in the industry as one of the most-visited adult sites and the safest for its performers. All cuts go to the performers themselves and the site runs on separate donations from its audience.”

Ah- you’d guessed right.

Excitement burbles at the pit of your stomach for a few seconds. You’re clicking back onto the tab with the pink logo, and finding that it’d stopped loading.

It was in the layout of a streaming device, with static images of ongoing streams on one side of the platform, and different pages listed out on top. But what took up the majority of your screen was the vision of the very same man from before- from the mirror selfie, from the video.

This time, it was a stream.

@cursed(your)wombz is streaming—#1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends [101 week streak]. [Only solo]. Your internet boyfriend <3

0 Subscribed.

820k Subscribers.

455k Currently watching.

This time, he had his towel lifted up and his hands fisted around his fat cock.

Perfectly angled. 

Your jaw drops. He was about eight- maybe more inches, though you weren’t in the state to count. Way too entranced by the way his veiny, ring-decorated hands were wrapped around his cock. Large. He was just so loooong and standing tall between wide-spread legs, shiverin’ every time he’s gliding his hand up and down. Up and down. 

Again and again.

Getting faster by the second before he arches-

The edge of his thumb’s reaching for his ruby-red crown—then smearing the glistening liquid that just kept on foaming from the top. He lathers it upon his palm and drags it down his hot erection, making every inch gleam underneath the off-camera lighting.

You’re clicking on a button to increase your volume.

And just in time, too, because then he snakes his left hand down and squeezes his heavy balls- letting out a botched groan that leaves your shorts oh-so-wet. 

Deep and guttural; there’s a slight quiver in them as he whispers. “F-fuck.” Just so full and sensitive—the man’s head tips backwards and his hips buck off the cushioned chair. Sluttily. As though he was fucking something invisible. It’s creaking ever-so-slightly as he settles back down, composing himself just a little bit before he starts cumming.

Pearly white droplets of cum. 

Beading from the very top of his shaft - where he was the most pink n’ angry - shaking as he empties out. Globs of it start to glide down his length, and a few more collect where his silver Prince Albert’s piercing was positioned right beneath his mushroomy tip.

You’re just letting your eyes linger upon that little heap of satiny sap, when the man thumbs upwards and smears that, too. Such a mess.

And you think that might be all- but then he’s reaching his non-dominant hand upwards and pressing down on his frothing cockhead. Stopping himself from cumming - and as he leans to the side, you swear you’re glimpsing the twinkle of even more piercings on the upper side of his shaft. Was that…a Jacob’s ladder?

You’re rendered so damn speechless that you almost don’t register him speaking- “Awwww, did my pretty sluts wanna watch me cum?” 

A shiver runs down your spine at the hitched tone of his voice- drunk on lust. He’s slightly slurring. So alluring, you almost catch yourself nodding.

“Well, too bad.” The man meanly snickers, before he’s suddenly reaching out with his non-dominant hand and angling it higher. The screen shifts to display that very same mouth-watering body from the picture—though, this time with the addition of a black-and-white mask that covered his features from forehead to his sharp jawline. 

The only opening in it was a concave cutout for his mouth - almost reminiscent of a Phantom of the Opera mask. In the background was a clearly expensive bedroom of a clearly expensive home - far different from your single dorm - an artwork that you couldn’t name on the wall behind him. Something like a photograph or a portrait. Something about it was so precise- so cinematic. Like watching a movie scene. He continues, “Because you know why? You don’t deserve it.”

There’s a flurry of comments on one side of the screen, so fast that you wonder how he reads it.

“Didn’t I tell you to spam me with your nastiest stories in the chat?” He asks, and from beneath his mask you catch the outline of dark eyes shifting down those hurried words. Those needy comments. “None of you are nasty enough, so none of you get to see me cum…”

You’re tearing your eyes off of him to peruse what they were saying.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: nuuuuuu please, curse! i’ll get on my knees!!

@vampzo333: me too ME TOO

@likezmenpregnant: My story about the body pillow wasn’t nasty enough? TT

@CCpervnextdoor: AWWWW I’m begging~

@Curse’swifey: I’LL PAY YOU EXTRA PLEASEEEEEEE

@Curse’swifey donated 500 cherries.

“Tch- what a desperate bunch. Just fucking look at yourselves…” And though his words weren’t in the least bit nice, you couldn’t deny just how badly he made your cunt twinge. 

Curse…that’s what his name was, huh?

You’re squeezing your thighs together- your sleep shorts were definitely soaked. 

Curse rolls out the kinks in his neck just a little, and stares down at the camera with a crooked grin. “But that’s not gonna be enough. I said to be nasty- so be nasty.” The active chat becomes nothing but a blur once more: pleas, donations, stories half-typed in their urgency. “And in return I’ll moan whatever name you want me to moan when I cum.”

Before you know it, you’re opening up the sign-up page in a new tab.

Keeping Curse’s livestream playing in the background as you zip through your details. You’re picking out a username for yourself: Ietsmakeamovie and hastily going back to the ongoing stream with your newfound handle. Was it too obvious to make it the same username as your other account? The one that he had stalked?

Fuck- you’re too wound up to think of something else at this point. You decide that you’ll change it later…

Luckily, Curse’s stream didn’t have a paying threshold before you could comment. And you’re jittery with excitement as you pull the laptop closer to yourself and start typing out something—hitting send before you could overthink it.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Seeing you is the first time I’ve gotten this wet.

Curse’s eyes drift down the chat, and he seems to latch onto something. Eyes widening just a fraction.

“The first time?”

Fuck.

You’re feeling a jolt at the way he addresses you - never expecting him to pick out that comment amongst tens of thousands of others that were uttering even filthier things. Curse leans in and speaks with his deep tone, “Those other boys didn’t know how to treat a perfect pussy like yours, huh? This is why they call me the Internet boyfriend, baby.”

@Ietsmakeamovie: Yeah.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Fuck, you’re so hot.

@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t even wanna look away to touch myself.

You feel embarrassed typing it all out - but you console yourself with the notion that no one here knows who you are. And you don’t know anyone here, either.

Curse leans back and starts pumping his cock even harder—taking his left hand off the drivelling top. His milky-white precum is frenzied n’ sticks to his hand like glue, and the chat grows more and more excited as Curse’s actions do the same.

“That’s alright, baby, you don’t have to finger yourself.” He chuckles, eyes locked on the comments. “I’d be doing that for you if I was there.”

@Ietsmakeamovie: Wish you were. You’d reach so much deeper.

@Ietsmakeamovie donated 1000 cherries.

“Fuh-fuck—” He hisses, head throwing back in his chair. You take the time to admire the lines of his prominent Adam’s apple - the way it bobs every time he’s taking a shaky swallow. “No need to donate or anything, baby, just keep- ngh, talking t’me like this and that’s enough…”

@0003h0lesforCurse: holy shit. i’ve never seen him like this.

@CCpervnextdoor: Needy Curse I like it~

@bewbsRlife: KEEP GOING OP KEEP GOING!!

You giggle to yourself.

@Ietsmakeamovie: Enough to make you cum, Curse?

“Greedy, greedy girl…” Through the slightest gaps in his mask you’re catching the way his nose crinkles in amusement. A wolfish smile. “S’that what you all want?”

The chat explodes in agreement.

He cocks his head, “Movie?”

Was that your new nickname now? Hastily, you reply-

@Ietsmakeamovie: Mhm.

“Well then…” He grins, toned body arching off the chair. “Get ready for a show—” Darkened gaze narrowing at the comments, “And you better not take your eyes off of me for a single second- hump your damn pillows if you have to. I don’t care.”

Quickly grabbing your own puffy pillow, you’re stuffing it between your legs.

Right as Curse lets his head loll backwards- and his cum drizzles out of his cock. He’s been edging the poor viewers and overstimulatin’ himself for so fucking long now—all it takes is a few pumps to let the cascade of white coat his hands and his rings. Just the slightest bit of silver peaking through.

Hard and fast.

The man’s cockhead flushes even redder as he drags his high out deliciously. Every burst of dopamine. Every heaving pant. Every pretty moan escaping him. 

It seems to be ramming into him in waves- gooey ribbons of seed coat his digits. Getting smeared like a gloss across eeeeevery single inch, ridge, and vein—and since Curse’s pace was something furious, a few globs of cum splatter across the towel and onto his thighs. A mess that he’s seeming to love.

Because in the next few seconds, he’s wrung out just the final bits of pleasure in him- and is raising his cum-coated fingers up to his mouth and sucking. Staring straight into the camera lens as he does so.

You’re watching slack-jawed as those long, lacquered digits disappear between his lips. Finishin’ them off squeaky clean and letting his head tip to the side.

He mouths, “Movie—”

Part of your username.

Though you hadn’t asked for him to moan your name, as he’d promised to do to one of the viewers had they been nasty enough. And this special treatment…

Maybe he did it to every new viewer. Maybe he just liked how much you complimented him- though everyone else did, too. Either way, it’s perhaps what sets off the bursts of electricity between your legs—and soon enough you’re hurtling into a high you hadn’t even realized had been building up and up and up.

Your lashes flutter shut as the orgasm overtakes you. 

Hips ruttin’ away into the plushness of your pillow- you wonder just how much better riding him would be…

And that’s setting off a whole new layer of dopamine at your core, your cunt quiverin’ as white-hot pleasure makes your heartbeat throb in your ears. Chest pounding. Breaths heavy.

By the time you’ve finished pushing through your high, you’re coming to find that Curse had somewhat cleaned himself up with the towel and was bantering back n’ forth with the chat. He rests his head on one hand and sweeps his eyes down the usernames, “What happened to dear Movie, huh?” Curse pretends to pout. “The first stream wasn’t too much for her, right?”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: kekekeke you’re too freaky, curse!!

@CCpervnextdoor: So dirty~

@daddytoeknee: Must thank Movie for the show though…

Urgently, you’re gathering yourself and tapping a few buttons on-screen.

@Ietsmakeamovie subscribed to @cursed(your)wombz. 

@Ietsmakeamovie donated 2500 cherries.

@Ietsmakeamovie: It’d never be too much.

“Ahhh, there you are.” Such a beautiful smile smears across his face, and Curse’s leaning in to take a closer look at the comments. “And thank you for subscribing, same time tomorrow?”

You’re unsure whether that was directed at you or everyone viewing- but you’re chiming in agreement alongside the rest of the comments. And Curse reads through them, lingering for just a little while longer before he grins.

“Heh- bye, sluts.”

And he covers the camera, the stream cuts off. 

Yet your heart still thunders.

Ignoring the time at the bottom of your laptop screen, you’re then clicking on his profile and scrolling through what other videos he had…

.

.

.

It was your fault that you kept dozing off.

Honestly. 

You should have known better- and you know that you should’ve known better…but you couldn’t help yourself. After Curse’s initial stream, you spent some time browsing through the numerous photographs and short clips that he’d posted; there were even some saved streams that were each dirtier than the last—each with his attractive mask and his even more attractive voice, his sensual cock getting pumped over and over for the audiences.

And so you’d left a few comments, a few hearts.

Throughout all of them, you made the peculiar discovery that they were all more high-quality than the last. The standard of being the #1 on the site, you guess. But the lighting and angles were all just so perfect…

You’d watched them for just a little while- at least, what you’d thought was a little while. Because by the time you’re realizing that your laptop battery was dying, and your eyes were tired, you’re turning your head in the direction of the dorm windows and- fuck.

Why was the Sun coming up?

And so you’d rushed to get at least half an hour of sleep before you had to get up for your 8AM lecture. 

Professor Yaga taught Film 101 as though he was trying to scare everyone off it. Rigorous coursework and never-altered deadlines. Though you yourself wouldn’t consider him an unreasonable man, it was impertinent to be punctual and alert in his classes - and right now, you were feeling neither of those. 

By the grace of the universe, you’re somehow managing to stumble into class just two minutes after it starts. It’s not enough to rouse Yaga’s anger - and either way, you had made a name for yourself as one of his most avid students - though it does get you a sternly raised brow as you apologize and take the nearest open seat.

Just-so-happening to be in the very last row. 

At the very forgotten corner.

Right beside who you knew to be Yaga’s actually most avid student—Choso Kamo.

Had it been a race between the two of you - perhaps between the entire department - Choso would have finished five times before anyone’s even stepping past the finish line. You would’ve gotten second. And that wasn’t to diminish your abilities in any way - you’d long since proven yourself to be one of the best students this course had even seen - it’s just…Choso was a film nerd through and through. 

If there was anyone that could live up to such a title, then it was him.

Choso lived, slept, and breathed film and television. He could name any television show around the world with just a single frame, and most he could recite line-for-line. Oh, that? He learned Korean just to immerse himself in that scene in Parasite. That scene? It was from the 1957 Sri Lankan film Amba Yahaluwo, by the way did you know that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was filmed there, too?

Knitted vest. Hair in two messy space buns. 

Clunky glasses rested atop his nosebridge, and dark bangs covering most of his vision, you’d often see him tottering around campus with a column of books that was damn-near taller than him. And despite his towering demeanour - from your mental counting, Choso was around 6’2 or more - around most of the student body, he was the type that couldn’t meet your eyes no matter how many classes you shared with him.

Even now, as you seated right next to him and smiled- Choso softly yelps and turns away from.

You don’t take it personally, of course, as he was simply the shy type. And by the flush that rises to his high cheekbones, you know he - at the very least - doesn’t dislike you.

Situating yourself, you’re opening your bag and pulling out your laptop. Opening it- fuck.

The briefest flash of one of Curses’s previous streams—where he had his cock in his hands and his face contorted mid-ecstasy flashes across your screen. And you can’t slam your laptop shut fast enough- cracking it just the slightest bit to exit out of the numerous tabs, fingers nothing but a blur. Thank fuck your volume hadn’t been set on high.

Head ducked, you’re looking out from the corner of your eye to check whether Choso had seen anything. 

But if he did, he shows no indication.

Only keeping his back ramrod straight- his gaze ahead- his flush fiery as he listens to whatever Yaga was saying. 

And so you think you’re in the clear…for now…

Opening your laptop up once more, you’re logging onto your lecture platforms and attempting to forget about last night. Which was difficult when that smile upon Curse’s face, just beneath his mask - was the only thing running through your mind.

And before you know it, you’d been staring blankly at your screen for a few seconds—before Choso inches in just a centimeter closer. Unwilling to let himself take up even more space. He keeps his eyes trained ahead and his voice - fuck, you’d never heard his voice before but it was just so deep and measured, something you wouldn’t have expected out of him - low. 

Whispering to you, “H-he’s on Chapter 18 of Stone Butch Blues, we’re about to write a screenplay for the zoo scene.” 

“Ah…” You don’t know whether you’re more surprised at the timbre of his voice or the way he managed a proper sentence out to you. All your previous attempts at conversation throughout the semester had been futile—and you’d long resigned yourself to the idea that he was too nervous to ever talk to you. “Th-thank you.”

He doesn’t answer but nods in shy acknowledgement.

And as you’re opening up your file, you bask in the realization that Choso Kamo was actually hot underneath those glasses. If only you could see his features further…

Maybe you’re being a little delirious. Your eyes feel heavy. 

Heavy.

Heavier. 

Tap-tap-tap.

A shake.

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

A warm hand on your shoulder, by the time you’re opening your eyes- you’re looking up into even warmer, molten chocolate-colored ones. They were framed by fawny eyelashes and thick glasses that made his shy gaze seem ever-so-slightly amplified. 

You think you’re stunned for a few seconds before Choso speaks, “U-um…class is over.”

“Oh.” That makes you dart your head up and look around, noticing that most of the students had filtered in or were in the process of already doing so. “Oh, shit-”

You’d seriously slept through all that?

And Yaga had left you alive?!

No, you weren’t going to question this act of mercy—thank goodness for the last row, because he likely hadn’t been able to see you. Shooting upright, you’re grabbing all your things and hoping you hadn’t snored next to the sweet boy - “Thank you so much for waking me.” You’re turning towards him and saying, earnestness seeping into your tone. “Knowing me, I would’ve slept right through till next class. Might actually have been more convenient.”

He startles into a laugh then raises a hand up to his mouth and quietens himself down, “It’s alright.” You’re staring closely at the little bells of laughter, and he turns his eyes downwards. Bashfully admitting, “Happens to me too, whenever I stay up um- studying. Long night?”

You sigh, “You could say that…” Not a long night studying, but…

And as the conversation quietens down and Choso worries down on his bottom lip, you’re hiking your backpack up on your shoulders and saying. “Well, I guess I should be going then. Catch up on the recordings of the lecture and everything-” Turning, “See you ‘round—and thanks again.”

You make all of five steps before Choso finally gathers up the courage to call out-

“Wait—!”

Confused, you’re facing him once more. “Yes?”

And his hand was out, his fingers were slightly trembling. He was mouthing out the words as though still debating whether to speak them into existence - whether he was capable of. “I…we-” Eventually mustering up the courage once you give a reassuring nod, “When will we meet up?”

That makes you pause.

Was he…

“F-for the assignment.” Choso clarifies, a flush rising to his cheeks as he likely realizes he should’ve led with that. “Professor Yaga’s mid-semester project he always does…”

Ah—you’re clapping a palm on your forehead. How could you have forgotten? Yaga had announced at the start of the semester that about halfway through, the class would be paired up or put into groups to work on a collaborative project that contributed to about 50% of your grade. This semester, it was to write a full-length movie screenplay for a book or musical of your choice. And you’d been excited for it, in fact, but after the…activities of last night it’d completely slipped your mind that he’d be delving more into it this lecture.

And the poor boy stumbles through his explanation, “H-he let everyone choose their partners, and I wanted to wake you up but…you just looked so peaceful.” He fidgets with his fingers and flushes, “I th-thought one of your friends would come up here and choose you but-”

Probing him gently, “But?”

“B-but I’m afraid you ended up paired with me.” Choso just looks so genuinely apologetic- “I’m sorry- no one picked me either. I should’ve woken you up, but we can go talk with Professor Yaga about changing partners if you’d like-”

“Hey—wait.” You’re cutting off his spiel, something in your chest aching at the utterly devastated furrow between his brows. You take a step closer to him, “I would love to do the project with you, Choso. No need to talk to Yaga about anything.”

He looks up at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “B-but your friends…”

“I don’t really have close friends in this class, anyway.” You smile, “I’d much rather do it with you.”

“Really—?” Breathed. As if he couldn’t believe it.

And it’s after some time - and a deep inhale - that he speaks again. Finally sinking in that someone would choose him of all people—that you would, that he speaks again. “And um- would you like to work on the script at my place?” Before you can answer, his breath hitches and his head shoots up. “N-not that I’m pressuring you into…it’s nothing weird, I promise! We can meet anywhere else you like- the library, your place- wait, no that’s weird, too…”

“Choso- Choso.” You giggle. And if this was anyone else then you would’ve assumed that they were putting the moves on you. “I’m okay with your place.”

.

.

.

The apartment was a fair distance away from the campus dorms. 

Which made sense, you suppose, given the fact that less than half the people there would be able to afford the rent on such a place—especially after tuition. The highrise dove into the clouds, its vermicular body scaled in glistening windows and gold-accented furnishings within. You got the distinct feeling of being swallowed whole as you entered through the widely-gaped entrance, with several doormen and security that eyed you up and down, bowed at Choso.

You thanked them and made your way - slightly speechless - through the hallways.

This was everything you could ever dream of, and you’re sure you spot the odd actor or two down in the lobby. As you’re getting into an elevator the size of your entire dorm room, Choso punches in one of the highest floor numbers and turns to you-

Throughout the bus ride here, you’d been the one chattering away. And so it surprises you once he finally speaks, “I-I’m sorry…my place is a bit of a mess.”

“Can’t be as bad as mine. I won’t judge.” Who cares about a mess when he lives in a place like this? You couldn’t wait to go inside…

He pushes his chunky glasses upwards and gives you a shy smile, “Thank you.” Looking down at his polished shoes, “You’re so sweet.”

“Thank you.” 

And you rise upwards in silence.

Soon enough, you’re finding yourself being led up to his massive apartment. He’s punching in the numbers of the code and setting his backpack down—telling you to make yourself comfortable. And you shuffle inside awkwardly; past the lavish furnishings and the alien-shaped lamps that all rich places seemed to boast. 

He leads you in the direction of the master bedroom - where Choso said that his film collection was vast and likely to reveal techniques that the two of you would be able to incorporate into your own script.

“I even have a copy of Momijigari- it’s one of my most prized possessions.” He shoots you such a charming smile, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, over his shoulder. Heading inside. 

And you can’t help but follow.

A single step inside his not-so-humble abode and you’re feeling a sudden sense of déjà vu wash over you, rendering you unsteady on your feet. Not quite sure why, you’re sweeping your eyes around the space: the high-quality camera equipment in one corner (not unusual to see for a film student), the chic furnishings, and then over to the empty wall space above the king-sized bed, something in you remained dissatisfied as they find nothing there but white plaster.

Choso notices that you’ve stalled behind and looks over at you curiously—he was taking a seat on the carpet, laptop opened up on top of the coffee table. “Something wrong? I’m sorry, I know it’s really messy but-”

“No, you’re good.” You shake your head, “It’s actually not messy enough.”

He smiles.

That night, you went home and wondered why Choso’s smile looked so familiar.

.

.

.

The musical that you’d chosen for your ‘adaptation’ was The Phantom of the Opera, suggested by you, of course.

And if there had been any connection to the masked man you’d been watching the night prior, then you were just glad that Choso had no idea.

It was far easier, given the fact that it’d already been adapted from the initial novel—though that only meant that Yaga would be critiquing yours even harder. 

So you had to strive to be more cinematic, than the others in your class, stronger in ways than the ones before you - and though you doubt you’d ever match up to Schumacher’s visuals, there was little doubt as to whether you’d be the best amongst the students. This was a screenplay made to impress, and in the week since you’d pored over it—and Choso Kamo’s mahogany coffee table typing away at it, you only grew more determined in the fact. And throughout the week, you’ve been flitting in and out of that very apartment of his.

Choso had been a lovely partner for the project - the best you could’ve ever asked for - and you’re coming to find that he was actually far more funny than anyone ever gave him credit for. Far more open. Far more active when it came to something he was passionate about.

And of course, you knew that he’d be sweet.

Despite his initial insistence that he could do the project himself, you’d taken up half the work. And you’d joined him in browsing through his massive catalogue of movies, in searching up screenplays to read, and in annotating them for techniques when starting to write yours.

You’ve come to make friends with one of the doormen by now. 

Just today you’d watched the 2004 Phantom of the Opera adaptation. And after a few hours of occupying his space and getting to know the nerdy boy a little better, you’d go straight back home to…Curse.

Whenever Choso made you feel tingly with his sweetness, Curse would amplify that heat to right between your legs. 

It’s been a week of getting to know Choso Kamo, and a week of having Curse splashed across your laptop screen—cock furiously hard n’ his moans echoing. He’d smile and utter your username whilst wearing his iconic mask and it’d be a high strong enough to follow into the day after. And often Choso would ask you what you’re so happy about.

Today, in particular, Curse had just finished one of his streams - cumming aaaaaall over the desk this time - when he’d settled himself back down and started chatting with the comments. Responding to one or two of yours.

You’re just about to joke about why he was sticking so long after his orgasm when he speaks once more- 

Voice somewhat serious, “Alright, now…settle down, settle down.” Curse waves his hand airily at the camera, throwing a middle finger up when the chat only gets more frenzied. “Tch- what brats you all are, would you wanna roleplay that someday?”

@vampzo333: YES PLEASE.

@likezmenpregnant: How about you be the brat…?

@Ietsmakeamovie: I would like that. 

@sixeyesorsixh0les: ^^

@0003h0lesforCurse: ^

“Fine fine…” Underneath the mask, he rolls his eyes fondly. “But I really do have something to announce-”

@likezmenpregnant: You’re pregnant.

@Ietsmakeamovie: I’m the father-

@Curse’swifey: NO MEEEEEEEEEEE!!

“I’m thinking of getting a partner for these streams.” He finally admits, rubbing his chin as though still in thought. And your heart stops-

@bipplruletheworld: so down.

@Cursenoticeme44: Omg yeeeeeeeeees!!

@daddytoeknee: YESYESYES.

The chat practically explodes, and you’re unsure what to feel about it—after all, you don’t know Curse and it’d be strange to feel a little possessive over his solo streams, however, you did have your preferences. But then again, you can’t help but imagine just how much hotter it would be to have two people- perhaps to see him make expressions he never has before…

Ultimately, you’re quiet as Curse leans in and scans the chat. His brows furrow just a little as he sweeps through the blurring usernames, “I dunno…I’m still thinking about it- I haven’t even asked this person, to be honest. I just wanted to know what you guys thought.” Nodding his head along or huffing out laughter at some of the comments, “Movie?”

You jolt—at being called out.

He wanted your opinion specifically? You suppose you did contribute to about half his comment section most streams.

But you stall as your fingers reach for the keyboard. 

Biting down on your lip and contemplating for a little while. Though he waits as patiently as ever-

@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t mind!!

Something seems to wash over him as he reads your comment, nodding. “I see.” 

He moves onto something else and his expression was indiscernible. 

You’re flickering your eyes to the artwork behind him, the small corner of it peaking into the frame, and it suddenly hits you that it’s the theatrical poster of The Phantom of the Opera (2004).

.

.

.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

It can’t be.

There’s something your brain was telling you that you’re absolutely refusing to believe—after all, how many people in the world loved The Phantom of the Opera? Hell, how many people in the world have watched The Phantom of the Opera?

That didn’t mean that everyone you came across had a secret identity as one of the hottest streamers on C4mBoyfriends.

You were being paranoid, you told yourself. You were being utterly silly- and the next time you’re going over to Choso’s apartment was the very next day. Which wasn’t entirely ideal, given how much you’d tossed and turned after Curse’s last stream conjuring up all the possibilities…but Yaga wouldn’t accept a request for an extension even if you were set on fire in front of him. And so you went.

The pit of your stomach twists as Choso swings the lavish wooden door open and gives you a beaming smile. So innocent. So sweet.

He shakily pushes his glasses up as he welcomes you in. “Come in—s-sorry if I took a while to get to the door, I’ve been doing some decorating recently.”

His nervous smile is what makes you find your voice. And you’re dubiously looking around the luxurious apartment, “You need to do some decorating?”

“Believe it or not, yes.” Choso huffs. “Would you like something to drink? Or maybe to eat? I checked out that bakery you recommended last time and you’re right- they have the best Danish pastries.”

“Actually, Choso…” You’re shaking your head, shooting him a grateful smile. “I’m good. I’d think I’d prefer to start right away, if that’s alright? I really wanna get to Act 2 today.”

“O-oh, of course—!”

And he’s sweetly guiding you inside, whilst you attempt not to look like you’re taking two steps at a time. Back to that familiar room. Back to that familiar desk. Back to that (somewhat) familiar bed which most certainly did not have an artwork from The Phantom of the Opera on it—

You open the door and the first thing you’re seeing is the familiar plane of that white mask. The Phantom. 

Choso follows behind you and catches you staring at the poster. Gravelly tone echoing from behind, “I told you I did some decorating.”

And you jump-

Swivelling around to find him bearing you a sheepish smile, “Sorry if I startled you.” He pushes those chunky glasses up, “Tea?”

“S-sure…” You breathe, if anything for a thing to occupy your mouth with. Wait- not like that—!

And as Choso disappears down the hall, you’re taking a seat on the bed you’ve sat on countless, countless times before without a single care in the world. Now you’re sinking into the very - the very - edge as though it’d swallow you whole.

Body just resting on the plush comforter before-

“Hey, so I also have coffee if you would prefer?” Comes Choso’s sudden voice.

And you’re startling once more- “Just tea is fine, thanks.” Barely managing to get that through your lips, you’re watching as he disappears…as the sound of his footsteps echo…

Before darting off the bed and now heading towards the camera equipment you’d noticed in the corner the first time you’d been here. What you’d assumed to be part of another one of his classes or personal projects. Now, you’re leaning in and wondering with just which camera he showed his pretty cock off to millions, at just what height of his tripod he made your cunt so heated. 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck this was real.

Now, you’re noticing things in the room that you’d never noticed before. Like the ring light kept underneath his bed, and the dresser in the corner with numerous rings- those weren’t costume props or anything. They were pure silver.

Heavy.

Heavy, like the pit in your stomach—excited and swirling. Just trembling at the tips of your fingers - ever-so-slightly - you’re reaching out as though to touch it, as though to feel the alternate version of Choso that you knew longer than you knew Choso-

“Ah, so you’ve realized.”

And then his voice permeates the room.

The room that suddenly seems smaller, the room that suddenly seems to rise ten degrees in temperature - though goosebumps skitter across your skin. And almost as though in a horror movie, you’re turning in slow motion to face the bespectacled man who was now holding up a tray of steaming hot tea. 

He walks over soundlessly and sets it on the coffee table with a slight click! And besides that, Choso walks over to the dressing table and puts his silver rings on.

One by one.

His eyes hold court with yours through the mirror, “How long?” Voice a deep timbre. 

You’re taking a step closer without even realizing, “Um…just last night. Just now- actually.”

He chuckles and you realize he’s asking how long you’ve known about Curse.

“I-I found you by chance. About a week ago, actually…” And then you say what’s been on your mind ever since you had, “Ever since you liked and unliked my repost.”

“Ah, a rookie mistake.” Choso comments. “I should have known better than to stalk using my public account.” And with all rings now put on and glinting in the lighting of his bedroom, Choso shuffles through his jewellery tray to pluck his earrings in and one eyebrow piercing. And then…one lip piercing—a lip ring that twinkles mischievously as he smiles.

He rises and you think you’ve never quite appreciated his built frame. 

His deep eyes as they’re locking in on you. Echoing out, “Though…you really can’t say much- can you, Movie?”

And though you knew that he knew- you can’t stop the zaps of electricity running through your body. 

Sputtering out, “Yeah-” Your fists clench and you’re looking up at the object of both your fantasies and your secret interest these past few days - melded into one. “Yeah, I really can’t. Choso you’re so…”

“Different?” He fixes his glasses, “Though I really am shy, I can’t deny that- especially around you. But it helps to be a little more antisocial when I’m around idiots.”

He leans in closer- so close that his scorchin’ hot breath wafts across your features. You have no idea how you’d diminished such a distance so soon…

“And if my memory serves me right-” Choso taps on the edge of his chin, in mocking thought. “-I seem to remember that Movie agreed to have a partner on my stream.” You shiver. And he looks at you adoringly, “So how about it? Wanna make a movie, baby?”

You step a little closer. 

“Only if I get to match wardrobes.”

He chuckles and picks you up to spin you around-

And then it’s getting to work. And then it’s shuffling through his closet to find a mask that matches his own. 

He stretches on the rubber a bit and brings it to you—“I bought this one when I first started, but it ended up being too tight- I think it’d be just the one for you.”

It was. It fit perfectly.

And then he paces around the room and starts to set up- before Choso’s gaze catches you hovering around the bed, and then he’s clicking his tongue and forgoing the tripods altogether. With just the professional lights and the high-quality camera, Choso places the camera on top of the coffee table. Facing the foot of the bed - everything and anything could be seen.

Just with a few clicks he’s started the stream.

And with just a little nudge he’s urging you to sit next to him. 

“Hello, my little sluts—” Choso- or should you say Curse croons towards the camera. On one of his monitors you can see him being projected there - waving, in his knitted vest that clashed with his mask. You stand off awkwardly out of sight from the camera. He smiles. “As you can see, things are a little different today…”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: uuuuuu change of angle!! change of angle!!

@bewbsRlife: ARE WE GETTING A SURPRISEEEEEEE??

@likezmenpregnant: Pls be pregnant, Curse <3

“No- no, I’m not pregnant.” He laughs, “But I have been thinking about what we talked about last night.”

@bipplruletheworld: omg this can’t be…

“And guess what? I did what you guys told me about- and I talked to her.”

@bipplruletheworld: yessssssss

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE^^

@bewbsRlife: WOOOOOO-

@daddytoeknee: Omg where’s Movie, Ik she’d love this- heh. Imagine this WAS Movie though…

“So, my little sluts…” Choso announces, “I’d like to introduce you all to my new partner—” And he’s reaching out and clasping your wrist, looking up to check for reassurance before continuing. Miming whispering to the camera, “And this is her first time on stream, so be nice…”

You’re sheepishly walking into their view. 

Slightly bowing your intrusion into the stream, “Th-thanks for having me?”

“Isn’t she cuuuuute?” He asks the commenters, and there’s a flurry of agreements. You’re even spotting a few questions about your name n’ interests, even kinks, amongst those - all of which Choso waves off with a laugh. “Now now—we can have the Q&A later. For now, let’s get to the fun part…”

@Curse’swifey: FUCK THAT’S MY FAV PART-

@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Movie you’re missing out on a historic moment uwu

And the fun part consisted of clamoring onto the bed as fast as lightning. Letting the mattress dip n’ creak its protests out as Choso sits on it with his back turned to the camera, then lovingly pats his manspread thighs as a signal for you to climb on. Meaty muscles. Thick enough for you to want to sink your teeth into- how could you never have noticed?

Perhaps because this was the polar opposite of how he acted when he was on campus - always keeping to himself, never taking up too much space. Now he was practically vacuuming it all up so you had nowhere else to sit.

And you were more than happy to climb onto Choso Kamo’s lap.

Sitting your ass down on his readily-awaiting seat. From under your skirt you feel something hot—and throbbing between his legs. Cylindrically shaped and curved to the left.

Just the slightest movement makes his rock-hard erection twitch underneath- and you’re whimpering at the lewd sensation. At the way he drips out a hefty dollop of precum that seeps through his trousers and sticks to the front of your panties, making you gasp—“Ch-Cho-”

“Shhhh.” Choso wraps a hand ‘round your throat and cuts you off. 

And before you know it, he’s bouncing his knees to get you to slide your drippin’ pussy up and down his bulge. Up and down. Turning towards the camera, “Ya hear that?” Up and down. “My girl’s so needy- she’s already begging for it. But I dunno if she deserves it, huh?”

@bewbsRlife: I MEANNNN

@theh0rniestsoldier: i’m feeling mean today…

@daddytoeknee: Give her your mouth!!

“Mouth? I love that idea.” Choso titters.

And then he’s giving a teasing slap on the side of your ass cheeks—smack! 

“Please-”

“Sit on my face now, baby.” He purrs, eyes flickerin’ with pure need underneath his mask. Then leaning in to whisper in a loooow tone for only you to hear. “You know Choso, but let’s see if you can handle Curse.”

Then he leans back on the bed - his head pointing in the direction of the camera. 

And you’re shuffling up Choso’s toned, brick-hard body—straddling your knees upon either side of his head, veerin’ your hips right atop that pretty face. You’re sitting - right in front of the camera. Though nothing was revealed…yet. 

And Choso’s digging his tongue up to you instantly- he isn’t even making it past the fabric of your panties. But that doesn’t stop him from lettin’ his tastebuds take a looooong, luxurious lick of your swollen pussy.

Right down your sopping wet slit. 

Suddenly, the room echoes with one of his pornographic moans- the very same ones you’d listened to night after night through your laptop speakers. Now they’re even louder, and somehow even sexier, sending electricity shooting straight up, up, up from your core.

And even more treacherous was the way you’re feeling something cold…and metallic at the very middle of Choso’s tongue. Rock-hard. It takes whatever’s left of your rationality to realize that it’s a silvery tongue piercing smack-dab where his tastebuds kissed your pussy. Scraping alongside where you were most sensitive. 

Instantly; your head tips back and saliva starts bubbling at the sides of your lips. “Fuh-fuck…” And before you know it—you’re starting to drag your throbbing pussy up n’ down his features.

Short, barely-there jerks of your shy, shy hips.

And Choso chuckles huskily to himself at the cute way you were yearnin’ for his mouth. But what you didn’t expect was for him to reach one ringed hand up and squeeze the left side of your hips.

Your only warning.

Before he’s suddenly tightening his hold on you and reaching one more hand up- snaking it beneath your skirt like some pervert. Choso edges towards your throbbing cunt and places one good slap—

It’s the resounding smack! of skin-on-skin that makes you halt more than anything.

Jaw-dropped. Thighs quivering. The white-hot pleasure runs through your spine and leaves you barely hearing his roughened words, a tone lower than you knew his voice to be- as though drunk on the delicious taste of your pussy already. “Greedy, greedy girl…” Choso tuts, “Don’t tell me you’re trying to enjoy yourself without letting our dear audience in on the fun?”

Oh, shit.

You’re letting your head snap to where the camera was positioned and blinking its one gluttonous eye. Comments flooding the screen of the monitor so fast that you couldn’t read them-

You’d completely forgotten about the stream for a second. 

“I—oh, I um.” 

Yet another harsh smack! “Forgot, huh?” Amusement seeps into Choso’s words, as though he’d already guessed the situation.

You admit, “M-maybe…”

“I’m afraid I can’t blame you, baby.” Smack! “Curse’s mouth is too good, huh?” He yammers on and on, his tongue nudging deeper, his rippling tastebuds skidding into every ridge- as if trying to fuck you through your damn panties. “This pussy’s too good–she’s purring f’me already. Hear her?”

And you’re not sure why- but you’re nodding to whatever he says. “Y-yes—fuck.” 

“Mhm. So why don’t we let our lovely audience hear, too, huh?” You’re barely given the time to register his suggestion, before Choso husks out a command. “Lift your skirt up, baby.”

Your thighs squeeze around his head at the notion-

And your fingertips touch the short hemline of your skirt.

@Cursenoticeme44: Holy shit.

@theh0rniestsoldier: i’ve been waiting for thisssssssssss-

@daddytoeknee: WOW.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: bby’s so needy!!

@R€4leater: munch Curse #canon

The chat explodes as you let them bear witness to Choso’s face stuffed between your pretty legs- he’s redly-flushed and ravenous. They could see the slightest glimpse of his nose n’ the way he’s driving it between your sodden pussylips, diving and diving, they could see the glossy layers coating your cunt—and the way Choso’s pink lips come up to suck on it. 

Those handsome cheeks of his hollow out, as he’s makin’ out with your pussy through your panties.

Like a man starved.

Long canines slightly nippin’ at your folds- almost wolfish in mannerisms.

“Oh p-please…” You’re quivering atop him. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—just that it feels so good to have him veering his tongue hungrily against your cunt like this. And you wanted more.

More, more, and more.

Choso’s holding onto your restless hips with a clammy hand- he’s stuck to you almost like adhesive. And he guides your hips - he fucking slows them down - whilst you continue moanin’ and shaking atop his raw mouth. Glistening wet tongue extending even more than its usual length to slide-slide-sliiiiide your panties to the side-

And you’re gasping at the sudden whiff of cold bedroom air against your naked pussy. “Ch-” A spank. “I mean- fuck, Curse?”

“Mhm, m’here, baby.” He drawls out. Slightly slurring with all the extra globs of your pussy juices - pooling straight into your mouth, n’ Choso reaches up and smooches your soft swollen folds to smear it all around. Like some gloss. “M’here aaaaaand- so are 820k sluts that wanna watch you break.”

“B-break?” You’re gaping, “I thought you were just gonna- ngh, eat me out…?”

“Baby, Curse never ‘just’ does anything.” And you’re shocked to find him sliding his tongue out, tipping his head back to refer to the camera on the coffee table. “Isn’t that right, fuckin’ pervs?”

@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah.

@0003h0lesforCurse: duhhhhhhhhh

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU’RE THE BEST CURSE

@Fishygurodad: Fuck, her pussy’s divine.

“Heh…” Choso smiles into your cunt, “And so whaddaya say? How many slaps before I stick my tongue in her?”

@vampzo333: 3

@bbynohuuuuzz: 14

@Ilikepr1menumbers: 29

“Since m’feeling nice- read your favorite one out, baby.” He murmurs.

To which you’re unable to do anything but- you tilt your upper half just the slightest bit closer to the monitor and pick out the first one you can read through the blur of words and numbers:

@Fishygurodad: Until she cries.

Oh.

Your blood runs cold.

Your cunt grows heated.

And before you can either rectify your recitation or beg for mercy—Choso doesn’t hesitate before fixing the rings on his fingers to be slightly higher than before. Making sure they’re in line of him planting one- two- three good, loud spanks on your sobbin’ cunt. “O-oh my god- fuck, mmm, oh my god.”

Until the skin of his fingertips seems to redden, and your pussylips feel raw - “How about that?” He asks- not from you, but from the viewers.

@daddytoeknee: I don’t see her crying yet…also idkkkkk I’m getting Movie vibes.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: movie would’ve loved this-

And then it’s one after the other. Again and again, Choso’s emblazoning the rude outlines of his rings against yours - until you’ve fucking memorized the ridges n’ patterns of the one ring on his middle finger with the carving of an octopus. 

Tentacles flared out.

“Shit, not that damn ring again.”

And as he’s doing so he can’t help himself- fuck, he can’t heeeeelp himself. His canines dig into the sticky fabric of your underwear like a damn dog - and throughout the duration of what his hands were doing, you’re hearing the sharp riiiiip of fabric tearing—!

Soon enough, your panties are tattered and ruined in Choso’s maw- just from his mouth. He spits it out and continues swerving his thickened tips inwards to give a loving pinch on your clit—and you can’t help but burst into peals of shrill, needy cries. Both pain and pleasure mixing as he doles out a final swat-

Before Choso swipes your pussylips apart and spits- the glutinous glob of his saliva landing directly on your hole. He doesn’t give it the time to seep back out—instead, he’s surging up and shoving his face between your legs.

This time, without the barrier of your panties in the way. 

@CCpervnextdoor: HE FUCKING RIPPED IT OFF WITH HIS MOUTH??

@bewbsRlife: HOLY SHIT CURSE-

@Fishygurodad: Shiiiiit, I’d do the same ngl.

And then Choso’s shoving his tongue inside and slurpin’ all around your wet hole like a damn animal…

In and out.

In and out.

Probin’ into slippery sweet spots.

Chin hitting the back of your slit. Plastic mask rubbing against your clit. 

Choso’s pierced tongue was going absolutely fucking wild inside of you. He wastes no time before gripping either side of your cute hips and slammin’ your pussy down onto his mouth- hard and fast. The perverted nerd is slashing his tongue inwards, smearin’ apart your glue-covered folds. As deep as he could go. He doesn’t care if it hurts, he just needs to make sure that loooong slick muscle of his tastebuds were scrapin’ every inch of your walls.

With the curved tip of it, he flexes it against a sweet bundle of nerves. Making you buck with a pitchy moan of his name—“Ch-Cuuuurse—!” And the sensation was made even more delicious with the way his orb tongue piercing presses in contrast against your hot cunt. “It feels so good, Curse.”

“I already know.” Choso pipes up- cocky in all the ways you never knew he could be. “I already know- but what about those fuckers watching, huh?”

“W-well…” Spit drivels down your chin, and you’re struggling to keep your eyes focused to read the urgent chat. 

@bipplruletheworld: they’re so HOT!!

@NERDSAREMYBABYGIRLZ: OHHHH WHAT A MUNCH

@daddytoeknee: Me next <3

And it was clear that they were seeing the effect he had on you- how could they not?

Your eyes were dazed and teary, your thighs were shaking like leaves in the wind, Choso was making your body twitch—just from the way he’s reeling his entire tongue out. And breathing out steadily and slowly against your twitchin’ pussylips, freezing cold air that leaves you even wetter on top of him.

He’s unfastening his mouth - leaving it wiiiiide open for all the satiny ribbons of your slick to enter his gullet. And once you’re done- that isn’t enough riling you up.

Choso leaves a good slap on your folds and asks, “So…what about it?” Muffled through his mouthfuls.

“They agree- they agree—” You’re keening out. Star-struck, seeing pleasure burst behind your shuttered eyelids at the sudden stinging. “Fuck- you’re the hck! best I’ve ever had, Curse.”

“I agree.” He hums. And as if this entire ordeal wasn’t sinful enough, Choso’s swashing around the silky-smooth sap he’d collected from your leaking pussy. Letting the flavor seep into his tastebuds, before he’s then spitting again on your pussy. A semi-opaque layer of lewdness that coats your inner thighs in a sheen that catches the lighting. 

Perfect on camera.

You’re squeezing your wettened thighs together and creating an audible squelch!

“Awwww, look- this pussy agrees, too.”

The gooey addition startles you- and you rut.

Only straight down onto his awaiting fingers.

@girrrrrrrrrrth: oh, shit is he…

@legsopenforcurses: With the rings on, too!!

@likezmenpregnant: My show is onnnnn

It’s such a fucking mess for him to navigate- even with his own fingers. Soon enough, you’re arching your back as you feel him intrude a single ringed digit between those utterly swollen pussylips of yours—almost difficult to find your snug hole between them. You’re damn lucky that Choso’s fingers were slender as well as incredibly lengthy.

Because he’s circlin’ your tight orifice a few times - only a few times - before inserting the sections of his finger. Quirking just right and hitting the exact bundle of your nerves.

That infamous g-spot that made you yelp once he starts and keeps on hitting.

And his rings- oh, fuck, his rings.

Just so chunky and textured. They were the perfect designs to press up against your walls and massage them stupid- every drag meant that you’re feeling them dig into ridges n’ crevices you hadn’t even known existed. 

Hitting and hitting. Curling his dexterous finger and scraping- “Fuuuuck, oh my god.” The doughy tip of his finger soon becomes damn-near molded to the area where it was, and your eyes flicker to the back of your head as you continue anglin’ your hips so he could hit it perfectly. “Right there, Curse- r-right there.”

“I know.” Choso rolls his eyes - at least what seems like it underneath his mask. “That’s why I’m hitting it. Honestly…is my girl dickmatized?” He utters as he sucks on your clit—ultimately erupting a sobbing slurp! that makes him nod. “Mhm, I think my girl’s dickmatized.”

Tipping his head back before you can refute his claims. He then addresses the audience-

“Whaddaya think, my little pervs? Dickmatized already…maybe I should go easy on her, huh?”

@olderandR4w: nooooooooooo

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: NEVER.

@Fishygurodad: Go even harder.

“Tough crowd.” And with that said, Choso’s stuffin’ in just a few more fingers. Each with their own numerous rings and sopping wet sounds accompanying them—slurp!

One. 

Two.

You’re counting about three of his prolonged digits pushin’ your tight walls to their limits, rubbing your sweet spots raw with his constant bashing rhythm, before lustful fogginess coils around your brain. And it’s around here that Choso catches onto the glazed look in your eyes and chuckles—

“Ohhhh, you really are dickmatized.” He hums to himself, though you’re sure the professional mic picks it up either way. “And so soon, too. Probably hasn’t had a good finger-”

A fourth being added so that he can scissor apart your velvety channel whilst still multi-tasking with his other fingers to ram into your g-spot.

“-or even a good mouth on ‘er…” To emphasize his point, he presses a dramatically loud kiss upon your clit. One that’s making you bounce n’ bounce your hips atop his clammy face, and grind your throbbing nub down on his pointed nose. The addition of his mask just makes that cool touch even more lecherous. “My poor girl.” Choso still mutters out despite the way he’s gluing your cunt to his mouth. He pulls away from your clit with a loud pop! “What do you think, my slutty audience?”

At the slurring question you’re letting your head down to watch him. “Ch…Curse, what’ve you got on your mind-”

“M’just asking what else you deserve, baby.” He coos. And questions them once more, “How about a little quiz? Which parts of Curse are going to make my poor, poor girl feel the best? A). My fingers. B). My mouth. Or…”

And he pretends to listen to your noisy wet pussy once more.

“Or C…”  You could practically feel the grin plastering against your needy pussy. The way his eyes narrow in sinful amusement beneath his mask- you didn’t have to see his full face to know that Choso was enjoying this perhaps way more than he should. “—all of the above.”

And it was futile to think that they would answer anything else.

C floods your vision.

You’re letting your mouth droop, and your gaze meet Choso’s own between your legs- but you’re finding that you don’t have to say a thing for him to already know the answer.

And as expected, he gives a final roll of his tongue atop your clit - before munchin’ on your aching cunt once more. This time, he’s tunneling his fingers deep into your cavern whilst still licking inside with his prolonged tongue—when stretched out, Choso’s tongue could reach almost as deep as his fingers could.

Your cunt was being stretched-out to lengths you never thought about before.

Not only were Choso’s fingers thicker than yours, but his tongue was something ravenous- no matter how much you’re flinching in sensitivity, he isn’t slowing down. “Mmm-” He groans, barely breathing through even his flared nostrils. You’re hit with the distinct feeling that he thinks he doesn’t even have to breathe as long as he had you on him like this - “Mmm, hold still.”

Taking advantage of the fact to lavish your sensitive inches with kiss upon kiss. To grind his nose down purposefully on your clit. To glide his metallic piercing across those hidden spots. To bash your poor g-spot in again and agaaaain with his fingers before his tongue’s coming to the rescue to soothe the slightly raw sting-

So it’s not long before you’re throwing your head back and cumming.

Perhaps the strongest you’ve ever felt when you’re in the throes of your high.

You barter your hips forwards and keep up a steady pace - one that’s making Choso hit the exact spots you wanted him to during the peaks of your high. The utmost peaks. “Shit—shit, just like that.” Breathless. “K-keep going, baby, it feels so good.”

And he doesn’t even answer - too caught up in fucking you through your orgasm.

In the way you shudder above him. In the way you’re only getting even sweeter by the second-

Bodyheat raising a few degrees in temperature; your heart sings and the bed creaks with how much you’re jostling from above. This was even better than touching yourself to videos of him, there were so many thrills of bliss that he’s wringing out of you- like he’d wring out of himself during his solo videos. 

With both his fingers and his tongue, slurpin’ and sliding. Those doe-like eyes of his are edging straight to the back of his skull as he feels your drenched walls cleeeeench around his pierced tongue, as though it’s the best thing he’s ever fucking felt. And you’re acting on impulse - you really are - because the coffee table was positioned right beside the foot of the bed.

And all you had to do was reach your arm out to grab the simple camera there. Turning it into your point of view as Choso’s sweaty brown bangs stick to his forehead, as sweat trickles down his temple, as he lets out soft yet unyielding moans whenever you’re squeezing your thighs around his head.

@cockycockowner: no homo but that’s the most beautiful man i’ve ever seen.

@theh0rniestsoldier: woah he’s PUSSYDRUNK

@Fishygurodad: Show me his POV.

@daddytoeknee: Don’t you know that she’s his girl now smh?^^

@daddytoeknee: Movie-core- wya ml??

Choso cocks his head and keeps making out with your pussy in all the ways that make your toes curl—pleasure elongating from your orgasm and spreading into every part of you. Your vessels, your cells, your atoms.

They’re all buzzing with pleasure and still aching for more once Choso finally pulls away with a loud pop! of his lips releasing. 

When they do, you’re sneaking a look down at him and noticing just how red n’ swollen they were. Even the skin around his jaw was flushed with the constant ramming contact. And the viewers are just gobbling it up - subscribing bells keep dinging here and there, and everywhere. 

Just a single look at his stats on-screen reveal that Choso’s climbed up to 870k just since you’d started this stream.

And it’s after a little while - after he’s had his fill - that the dark-haired man finally taps at the side of your thigh to gesture for you to get up. Though, even then, he’s tightening his grip on your body—going against his own fucking instruction to press a final few open-mouthed kisses before he’s done.

He chases after your pussy with his maw for a little- before he’s finally sitting up.

And it’s only then that he seems to notice the camera in your hand, blinking his glazed eyes a few times to make sure he isn’t dreaming things up. Once it finally registers, the most attractive grin spreads across his face. “You changed POVs?”

“Had to.” You admit, “I wanted them to see how pretty you are…”

“Guess you finally learned about sharing, hm? Greedy girl.” He chuckles darkly to himself. And then he starts looming closer, “But you realize that the show’s not done yet, right?”

You gulp.

@Fishygurodad: Fuck her already, damn!! I’m only here for her.

@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Hate to admit it, but he’s lowk right. I think I’ve discovered I’m bi…

@vampzo333: ^^

@girrrrrrrrrrth: ^^

“So impatient.” He looks at the monitor, reading the chat and tuts. “Honestly- so ungrateful. I should end the stream right here and fuck her on my own terms.”

There’s a frenzied flurry of comments- all of which you were sure were begging for Choso not to stop and bashing that one commenter for attempting to start a revolution. To which you’re only giggling and handing over the camera to him.

Choso - as the expert - then positions it somewhere by the edge of the fluffy pillows: where they’d be able to see the expanse of both your bodies and where you’d soon be connected…

And then you’re shedding your clothes in a hurry- making it to your smart blouse before he’s reaching a hand up and tearing through it. The buttons hit the floor, and at your noise of displeasure Choso merely lets out a half-delirious giggle. 

He leans in and whispers, “I-I have a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt I’d love for you to wear.”

The change in demeanour gives you utter whiplash, and you can’t help but stare at him open-mouthed.

“What?” Choso asks, next moving on to shrugging off his own fabrics. They’re landing on a heap beside the bed, and your lips slightly part at the display of his red-hot erection—it’s just as large and sensual as all those streams had proven him to be. Polished strawberry top. Slender veins along the middle. 

A happy trail of dark brown - nearly black - glistened with the splattered remnant of his precum. Just like the gleaming mess across his chin, mouth, and cheekbones that Choso wore like a medal.

He was slightly longer than even on camera- and even prettier up-close. Way up close- he shuffles his body up yours n’ fucks your tits a few times to dollop out glistening translucent precum across yours tits.

“Lighting’s not the best here.” Choso explains- or at least attempts to pin an explanation onto that. Onto something he’s clearly been wanting to do for so long. “Had to highlight ‘em, baby.”

You scoff, “It’s just…” Throwing a cautious glance at the camera, you lower your voice. “You’re so different from how you are in real life.”

“Oh? And how did you expect me to be, huh?” He positions himself between your legs - wrapping both of them around his waist. Before then thinking better of it and throwing them even more lewdly around his neck instead—his plush priggish tip kisses your entrance. “Did you expect me to be like…”

He trails off.

He doesn’t need to complete the rest of his sentence- and you don’t think you’d have heard him even if he tried.

Because in that very moment, Choso’s jerking his pale hips back a mere few inches—then plopping his globular tip between your pussylips and push-push-puuuuuushing. Fucking past the initial restraint of your first ring of muscle, he’s funneling in some thick inches that make your heels bang against the muscles of his back.

And he doesn’t even seem to notice.

He doesn’t even seem to breathe as he’s letting his cock swerve inside. Get suctioned inside. Get his Prince Albert’s piercing crept down your sensitive innards. Get gobbled up between your greedy legs-

You clench ‘round him and Choso throws his head back with a low, broken moan.

“Oh p-please—” He’s babbling out through unsteady pink lips, a lazy line of dribble starting up from one corner of his mouth. Those long lashes of his flutter as he’s reaching one bulky hand up to grip the headboard, and placing his right one on your hips- keeping you steady.

Fingers trembling. Muscles rippling.

@likezmenpregnant: Woah…make him do that again…

@sixeyesorsixh0les: SUBBY CURSE HELLO??

@whimperwhiteboywhimper: oh I am SO here for this

@Fishygurodad: Whatever…

Your eyes bulge once his throat cracks with what sounds like a whimper—“Please it feels so good.” And though you couldn’t quite make it out, even the chat seemed stunned as Choso punctures out a broken stutter of his hips. Delving a few inches into your goopy insides- though not enough to bottom out completely, as you’re still too wound-up for him to fit completely. And you’re able to pinpoint exactly where he’s using the orbed metal of his first piering. With more to come…“Ngh- oh.” Broken noises emanating into your eardrums and the mic. “It f-feels shooooo good, baby.”

Choso’s head drops into the crook of your neck, and there - and there - you’re feeling his cheeky grin.

And suddenly you’re understanding.

Oh—he was toying with you.

And he was doing it in a way that’d completely fooled you- and perhaps all of his viewers, too.

But before you’re able to open your mouth to bite back something at him, Choso staggers his hips back and gives you a vicious jackhammer with his cock, “O-ohhhhh, my god—” Your toes curl atop his shoulders, slippery with sweat. He hadn’t even rammed all the way inside yet, and yet the slightly left-leaning angle of his shaft was driving you wild.

Big and thick.

Running the slick globe of his tip down your walls, Choso probes a direct hit to that spot you loved so much. And he knew you loved it so much—he’d mapped out your entire pussy earlier, of course.

And yet, he’s still gasping as though the pearls gates of heaven had descended right here and there. He’s letting his sweet caramel eyes widen convincingly as he peers down at you, “I-is that…the spot, baby?”

@Curse’swifey: HE sounds SO NGH.

@daddytoeknee: Daddy likey…

@daddytoeknee: Also Movie would’ve really LOVED this, huh?

You hiss, “Curse, you should already know-”

“But how could I know—?” He exclaims. “This is my first time, after all…” Then Choso’s plastering his clammy tattooed hips - with a snake on the side - to yours, as though the two were connected by the force of the world’s strongest magnets: pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing. Every single battering ram of his mazing cocktip ends up lodged against your sweetly bruised g-spot, marking his circumference out with the sheer pace at which he was hitting it. 

“Shit—” Your nails clench on the sheets, and feeling jealous- Choso guides them to fist his hair instead. “Shit, right there. It f-feels so good-”

“There?” The once-nerdy man breathes out in awe. Disbelief every single time - or at least the mocking imitation of one. Swipin’ a line of precum down your nervy spot once more, “Th-there, baby—?”

Something breathy- octaves higher in his tone. “Yes- yes there-”

“There-” Choked up and ruined. Husky grunts hatching in the back of his throat. There was something there in his words that you couldn’t quite pinpoint—a sort of undertone of primal need, primal amusement as he ruined your pussy with his speedily pap-papping hips, but acted as though he had no idea what he was doing. Every single syllable uttered was met with a thorough whack of his curved cockhead against your particular spot- “There there there there- there-”

“Fuh-fuuuck-”

“So this g-spot’s really m-mine now, baby?” Choso asks. 

You whine, back arching off the mattress. “Yes-”

“Does she really have my mark on it now?”

“Yes…?” Eyes shooting open as you’re half-registering his question in your hazed brain. He bores his dark eyes down at you intensely. And as though to emphasize his point, you’re feeling his perfectly round tip squeezing into your throat by the next few thrusts. Deeper and deeper.

His Jacob’s Ladder starting to ease its frigid way past your entrance and glide across the roof of your cunt. It was a sensation like nothing you’ve ever felt before. 

Choso probes even more, “I-is she really shaped to the shape of my cock now?” 

“Cho—ngh.” Quickly shutting your cockdrunken self up. Quickly reaching a ringed hand up to squeeze your throat- before he’s languidly snaking his way up to squeezing your pretty cheeks together.

Smushing your face in a way that was almost disrespectful- though, not that you were in any state of mind to call him out on it. And there’s a mean inkling in Choso’s tone as he coos, “Awww, b-baby, why aren’t you answering me?” Another rude slap! of his hips make your own sear in flames- that damn strength of his. Those damn piercings of his. “Is your poor, poor Curse not good enough?” 

Before you can answer, he’s looking at the blinking camera. 

“My babies, my girl doesn’t love my cock anymore…”

“I do—I do-” 

Squeezing his doughy-soft restraints - those contrastingly mean fingers of his - around your cheeks. He’s managing to smush your mouth shut and make you echo out the most pathetically pleading whines—as he fucks you. Determined and targeted.

The glossy rotund edge of his tip presses against your g-spot a few more times before you’re managing to make yourself take a peek at the comments on the monitor. 

Almost too far away- almost too blurry with the tears in your eyes. 

@Curse’snewestharem: Awwwww poor bby </33

@CCpervnextdoor: I would LOVE your cock, Curse!!

@girrrrrrrrrrth: is it just me or is he teasing us?

@Fishygurodad: ^^Yeah, he’s totally a fraud.

@Curseswombmommy: ^^girl shut up

“Th-they really think you’re oh-so-innocent…” You’re whispering up at him. Overstimulated tears in your eyes.

Breath hitching every time he’s surging his tattooed hips forwards and hitting that one spot particularly hard. Though there was never such a thing as too hard…

And Choso’s shooting you a secret smile - one just between the two of you - before morphing his expression into that of picture-perfect innocence. Roleplaying the demeanor of his nerdy self on campus, mixed with the utterly sultry—sexual way he was draaaaagging his lengthy cock in and out of your cunt.

Eventually, Choso’s emptying his inches out n’ bruising the bottom of your pussy. All of his nine - you seriously felt nine throbbing inches - inches shaping out the in-betweens of your legs. All of the beaded barbells of his Jacob’s Ladder massaging inside- the slitherin’ feeling of them making themselves at home. Zig-zagging and slithering. 

He feels the sponginess of your cervix and presses a hand down on your abdomen just to make sure, before changing that excitement into one of almost-genuine bafflement- “I-I really bottomed out?” Choso’s pinkish bottom lip juts out and quivers dramatically.

“Of course, you did.” You’re ready to scoff-

But whatever sarcastic sound was in the back of your throat gets quickly dissolved at the sight of Choso with genuine tears in his eyes. Glistening. “But I never- ngh, never thought I’d be able to.” He puts some more merciless pressure on your stomach that makes you buck—

And the only thing you can do is let your head tip back into the pillows.

The only thing you can do is let out a few mottled moans as he rubs over the small tummy bulge he was fucking into you. Pushing his palm down so that he could feel it. 

Whispering out, “I-I never thought this pussy would claim my cock as- ngh, hers, hm?” And for the moment there, you’re completely sure that he isn’t talking to you. Rather, your pussy that was sobbing out squelches after every one of his jackhemmerin’ thrusts. “And it’s not too big, right?”

“N-never—”

“Because m’just a nerd with a- hngh, biiiiiig fuckin’ cock.” How pitiful, right? He’s letting his long, dark lashes flutter as Choso avoids meeting your eyes—as though in shyness. He drills his hips even deeper - one unforgettable strike after the other following every word he spoke. “Just a big- fat- fucking- cock-”

“Please—!” Eventually, your arms reach upwards and you’re grabbing ahold of whatever part of him it is you could reach first. Which just-so-happened to be his bulky deltoids.

Choso’s brows genuinely seem to furrow at the lewdness of you digging your nails into his muscles, leaving your marks for everyone and anyone to see even after this stream has ended. And so he continues in his faux-innocent tone, “Oh? Did that feel good, baby?”

Purposefully slidin’ his cock across your g-spot so that you’d have to cry out. “Y-yeeees—”

“I didn’t even know, baby.” His mouth hangs open, and the most lustrous squelches! echo between your two connected bodies. Your cunt n’ his precum were making such messes…“I had no idea…”

His Jacob’s Ladder leaves your channel feeling raw n’ overstimulated- you feel raw and overstimulated. 

And you’re laid-out on the bed dazed and feeling so fucking good as Choso’s picking his pace up even more, you notice for a split-second that his hands have moved. No longer was he holding onto your cheeks n’ watching you squirm—now, the nerdy man hooks both hands around your sweaty thighs and pins them close to his body.

Holding them in place as he leans down, down, dooooooown until the caps of your knees hit your tits. 

You’re keening at the stretch, and a searing burn spreads from between your pussy and along your hamstrings. How did he even hide such strength underneath those soft knitted vest? Such a body?

Before you know it, you’re being pressed into your first-ever mating press.

And Choso gapes as though he was just as bewildered as you, “O-oh…did I do that?” He’s fucking asking you—however, when your stunned expression bears no answer, he turns and asks the same question from the camera. The bursts of replies obviously agree n’ tease him. And he’s shaking his head ever-so-slightly, “Did I really bend you in- heh-” A slight chuckle escapes him. “—half, baby?”

And what else can you do but nod and nod and nod—? 

“I think this is called a…breeding press?” He cocks his head ever-so-slightly, before shaking his head. “No wait- a mating press.”

“A m-mating press.” You’re repeating lamely.

“I c-can’t believe I’ve folded you into a mating press, baby.” Choso nearly snarls at himself, his hips accelerating until that rouge-tipped cock of his was almost nothing but a blur. “Can’t believe—s’like my body is moving before my mind, ngh. My fat cock’s not hittin’ you too deep, right, my girl?”

“Not in the l-least…”

And he really was long enough to make each and every probe feel as though it was slam-slam-slamming into your throat- the capped crown of his shaft was entering crevices n’ crannies you hadn’t even known you possessed. All marked out precisely by the silvery orb of his Prince Albert’s. 

Just then, after your answer, Choso reaches his left hand up to wrap ‘round your throat - and then hauls you back down to meet his slapping hips.

A thrust even harder than the ones before it.

Your breath gets snatched out of your lungs, dissipating into the heady air filled with the contact-riddled sounds of sex. Hard and fast. Only getting harder the longer you have your ankles looped ‘round his neck—“Not too hard, is it, baby?” Chosos asks you once more.

And you don’t have anything to spit out besides, “Oh f-fuck off.”

He gasps dramatically-

Well, not exactly dramatically. But in a way you knew was fake, and in a way that sends the chat exploding into comments.

The nerd pouts cutely, “Well, that’s not very nice…”

You’re rolling your eyes—right before Choso’s genuinely sending them rolling with his two fingers clamped around your clit. Using the silvery edges of his rings, he runs a few massages that end up with you sobbing and blabbering out your pleasure. 

@Curse’swifey: FUCKKKKKKKKKK they’re both so hot. THEY’RE BOTH SO RUINED.

@peepeesarebetterfictional: they both look like they’re gonna cum soon hehe

@bewbsRlife: CUM CUM CUM CUM CUM

Biting back. “I would argue th-that that’s not very nice, either.”

“But m’just trying to make my gorgeous girl cum…” And from where he’d been looming his pretty face above yours, Choso then lets his head droop down between your tits. During his ravenous pace, he’s roverin’ his mouth all over to kiss and suck at your tits, your nipples.

His cold lip ring drags across your left areola- and he catches onto the way you’re shivering. Before Choso then grabs your nipple between his lips n’ hollows his cheeks out sucking—“Promise m’just trying to make you feel- hah, good.” He mutters, slightly muffled. “Promise I just wanna fuck my cock raw if it means making my lifelong crush feel good…”

“Cho- Curse, are you…?” Your eyes widen.

And his own flap droopily a few times, “Hmmm?”

And that proved it.

That proved it.

Because Choso Kamo could be pretending to be a stuttering, panting, blushing mess on your heavenly cunt all he wanted- he could pretend to be pussydrunk out of his mind. But at the end of the day, it was impossible to hide when pretend turned into something…more. 

When the cocksure streamer that’d been driving you wild all this time morphs into the contentedly pussy-whipped nerd you expected him to be deep down inside.

His eyes genuinely glazed and blinking longingly.

His hair drenched in sweat.

His skin flushed with need- and only flushing even more fiercely the longer he kept his eyes on you. 

Without much ado, you’re throwing your hands around his neck and tuggin’ him as far as he could crane his neck when his entire body feels like collapsing onto you and into your maddening pussy. 

Choso pistons his hips slightly upwards to hear the slurp of his Jacob’s Ladder sliding across your walls, and he grooooans—

“Curse, baby…” You hum.

“Mhmmmm?” He replies with half-lidded eyes. Barely focused.

This was the big, bad #1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends? As though sensing your thoughts, Choso’s fingers grow a little more frenzied on your clit. “I need you to cum inside, okay?”

He jolts at the idea- that sinful, sinful idea. Before chuckling, “Never had any other plan, baby.” And then he turns to the camera, “What do you think, fuckers? Think my girl deserves to cum?”

@Fishygurodad: Yes.

@Curse’swifey: YES.

@likezmenpregnant: Yesssss~

@girrrrrrrrrrth: yesyesyes.

@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah-

He’s holding out a little longer to make sure there wasn’t a single ‘no’ in there - and had there been one, you’re sure that Choso would have stopped and edged your incoming orgasm until it was a wave of complete agreement.

Luckily for you, they liked you.

And all he does now is press down harder on your g-spot from inside, lingering, and massage a pretty heart on your clit once more, lingering—before a final, thorough stroke is all it takes for you to hurtle into your second high of the night.

For you to arch your body into his chest, and shutter your eyes. “Ch-Cho…” 

Barely a whisper. He’s crashing his mouth into yours to make sure that secret between you two isn’t revealed. And you’re moaning deeply into Choso’s mouth as you cum—“Feels so- oh. It feels so…”

“Mhmmmm.”

Unable to even find the words.

The only thing you can do is riiiiiide out the massive wave of your high. It’s torrential; pure bliss floods your system from head-to-toe, and no matter how much you’re squirming your overstimulated hips, Choso only succeeds in batterin’ away his pierced cock into eeeevery single hidden sweet spot inside of you. The ones that prolonged your bliss and left spikes of euphoria leading up to your brain.

Your cunt clenched so tightly around his cock- almost as though you didn’t want him to even pull out. And Choso’s sweaty head drops once more into the crook of your neck as he cums with a shudder.

The knot between his brows deepening, the bedsheet around his knees bunching up as he surges his body upwards. Almost animalistically.

Choso bottoms out his furious, twitching cock and keeps it there- “Oh, fuck…” It didn’t sound like he was acting once his bawling red divot starts splatterin’ out more milky white wads. Deeep in the back of your pussy, right where your womb was, Choso puddles out his ecstasy in long ribbons. “Oh fuck fuck fuck—fuck. Always knew it’d feel this good.”

Wave upon wave.

Toes curling. Eyes scrunching shut.

If you thought his moans were sensual before, then you weren’t prepared for the ones your pussy was able to drag out of him - ragged and hollow utterances of your name. Over and over like a broken record, like a mantra.

He’s fucking into you to milk them out of his hefty balls- then fucking you again just to pump those webbed wads right back in. From the top of his rotund tip and dooooooown to the tufts of hairs at his base. All nine inches of him being used to stuff you till the brim—

You’re sure your insides look like an utter fuckin’ mess by the time he’s slowing his tattooed hips down ever-so-slightly—still shaking from the aftermath of his orgasm. This was far stronger than anything he’s ever experienced before. 

Drunkenly, you’re blinking your eyes up at him. “Always?”

He smiles, “Ever since our first lesson of Film 101.” Admitting, he lovingly wipes off a bit of his cum you were foaming between your pussylips. “You referenced Pride and Prejudice when talking about the best lines of dialogue of all time, and I-I’d been a goner since then.”

“Corny…” You snort. Though you can’t help the flutter of your heart.

“So um- coffee after this?”

“It better be dinner.”

He laughs in agreement. “Also I bought a vibrating piercing the other day and have been dying to try it…”

Your eyes widen.

And once you’re helping him pull out- Choso reaches for the camera and gets a good shot of the cum leaking between your legs. Before you’re both waving at it, “Thank you for joining us, today—this was the most fun I’ve had on stream yet- heh.”

You’re shooting the camera a pretty smile, too.

And Choso kisses the corner of your cheeks, “Until next time. This has been Curse and Movie.”

@girrrrrrrrrrth: holy fuck??

@Curse’swifey: WAIT WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT NO WAY-

@bewbsRlife: HOLD ON-

@CCpervnextdoor: SAY SIKE RN?

@bipplruletheworld: oh my god that’s amazing.

@likezmenpregnant: Oh, a love story for the ages~

@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU TWO LOOKING FOR A THIRD??

@Fishygurodad: Damn.

@Fishygurodad: Hmu when he messes up.

@daddytoeknee: Stfu he won’t.

@daddytoeknee: Also I totally called it <3

A/N. I did NOT plan to have me inserted and beefing with Toji Fushiguro but here we are-

The bed felt warm. Your kisses always felt warmer.

Jing Yuan wasn't truly asleep.

He smiled into the cushy pillow when he felt the bed sink once more under your weight and you crawled atop the mattress to where he lay. He could smell the early sunshine on your skin: rich and heated, accenting your perfume and tumbling down your day-clothes in pleasant waves. You had awoken before him again, as you had the day before, getting through the morning like a gentle breeze through spring leaves. Fabric ruffled. A chime of jewels rang out in the quiet bedroom. You settled by his waist, tugging the duvet down with careful hands till Jing Yuan felt lines of sunlight drape over his body.

Your breath fanned across his shoulder and warmed his skin with potent affection.

Your hand ghosted his back before it began to rub even circles against his old wounds.

Tranquility rippled in the wake of your lips as you kissed his skin and abundant time shaped them into a smile. It was a road well travelled by you: the path from his toned bicep, past the deep scar on his shoulder blade, to the shallow dip of his spine. Your nose brushed against the relaxed muscles and Jing Yuan hummed a purr of content.

It was a sign he was conscious enough to bask in your attention.

"It's time to wake up." Your words were spoken quietly, drifting afloat a tone of adoration as you slid your hand to palm at his side. You massaged his skin tenderly. Lovingly. Your fingertips ghosted another scar and the General took to poorly feigning sleep.

(All of his senses were drawn to you. Perhaps if he kept his eyes closed for a moment longer you'd dote on him a little more.)

Gently, you scratched his back and Jing Yuan groaned. Despite his resolve, he flexed his hands against the mattress like a large cat instinctively kneading its bedding before he slipped them beneath the pillow. His muscles rippled as he stretched—he hugged the pillow in a tight hold, hands flat—letting his face sink into the cloud-soft material. His own hot breath bounced back across his face.

Your hand found its way into his milky, white hair.

"You've slept long enough."

Another hum—Jing Yuan made no effort to move.

"Jing Yuan."

A little more.

Continuing its journey of gentle caresses your hand brushed away the fluffy hair clinging messily to his forehead. Beneath the bangs, golden eyes blinked open lazily. They peered at you with the warmest of smiles bringing worn creases to their corners. They crinkled. They were aged with centuries past. Jing Yuan looked at you through thick lashes, heavy with sluggish sleep, and though his vision was strained he took you in like he did every late morning.

With one final stretch, Jing Yuan pushed himself up to lay on his side.

"There you are," you said quietly and his smile widened with affection. He chuckled at your expression—daylight reflecting in the gloss of your eyes—and reached out to trail a single knuckle against your leg. He knocked it against your knee. You once more brushed the hair out of his face.

"You look well," Jing Yuan commented, "have you eaten yet?"

A playful scoff left your lips. "I have. The birds kept me company since my own husband failed to join me. How cruel."

"You wound me," he drawled in response though his words lacked any true weight. There was mirth in your expression—Jing yuan read it well. He found it beautiful—how could he not—as sunshine illuminated your face. It glowed against the shadows of your features. Your smile was bright. Your eyes shimmered. Your brows furrowed with adoration. You leaned down again and he made room as you kissed his lips with the promise of love. The fabric of your clothes draped over his muscle and you lingered, grinning against his lips.

Your lips moved slowly—your hand cupped his face. His hair tickled your cheeks and his touch found your waist.

He met your gaze with half-lidded eyes.

"Come," you spoke, sitting up. Jing Yuan longed for more. "Get dressed. I'll plate breakfast for you."

"Whatever would I do without you, my love?"

The bed felt colder as you shuffled off its side, straightening your clothes once you stood flat on your heels. Your jewellery chimed again, gems and metal ringing quietly, your footsteps padding softly. You smiled as he sat up—grinned at the way fabric pooled in his lap. "Wake up on time, perhaps," you teased.

Jing Yuan couldn't help his chuckle. "Is that right?"

You hum, sitting up and letting your legs dangle over the edge. Zayne’s warm fingers slip through yours, holding tightly before he tugs gently, stepping closer when you slide off of the tiles of the roof, his arms wrapping around your waist to catch you.

“You’ve become more comfortable saying that,” you tease airily, flushing lightly when his hands smooth over your robes, brushing the snow from the thick, woven fabric. “Am I truly that precious?”

“You still doubt that?” he sighs, his hands reaching for yours once he’s satisfied with your robes. “We flew a kite together, did we not? The Lady of Anlan should know by now how she is worth to me.”

Pouting, you lean into him, eyes fluttering shut when he cups your hands with his, squeezing and rubbing to warm your chill-ridden hands. Zayne mutters something under his breath but you can’t catch it with the way the wind picks up around you, howling loudly. 

It’d only been two days since you’d arrived in the Northern territories, winter having already set in whilst you had made your journey here from Anlan. You thought you’d be staying in some sort of lavish inn, but when the hours had passed and you’d travelled deeper into the North, Zayne had informed you that this territory was also his – a generous gift provided to him by the Imperial Court. 

Zayne’s efforts during the war must have been second to none, given the fact that this mansion was almost the same size as the one in Anlan, erected atop a snow-covered clearing, deep into the mountains. You’d never seen anything so beautiful. Anlan’s spring was often windy, the air laden with the scent of blossoming flowers and ripe fruit. The air here though, was crisp and so startlingly fresh that every time you took a breath, you were sure you could taste the snow on your tongue. 

“Stop moving.”

Zayne’s voice is low in your ear as he pulls you inside the warmed quarters, his brows knitted together as he pulls gloves onto your hands, the fine garment patterned with different colors of layered cashmere. 

“I’m fine,” you insist, trying to pull your hands free only to receive a stern look from Zayne, his fingers lacing with yours. “I won’t fall ill, I am much stronger than you think me to be.”

“Any self-respecting husband would not allow his wife to catch her death,” he replies just as stubbornly, a smile pulling at his lips as you tug him through the hallways, towards your shared quarters.

The maids have a penchant for staring, you’ve realized. Unlike Anlan, the maids here seem more brazen, emboldened by the harshness of the cold. Still, they hadn’t bothered you and Zayne, hadn’t done anything in particular other than stare when they could, so you let them.

There’s a bath drawn for you behind the patterned screen the moment you step inside. Your gaze darts to Zayne’s, fingers tightening in his grasp, refusing to let him go when he moves towards the fire.

Your cheeks flush lightly as you pull at his robes, tugging him down to your height. “Would– would you like to join me?” you ask, feigning innocence as your fingers splay against his chest, eyes lighting up when you feel the stuttered beat of his heart through the fabric. You lean into him, voice lowering, “you were right, my lord. I am quite cold… perhaps you ought to keep me warm.”

Zayne’s brows shoot up in surprise, a noise rumbling low in his throat. His hand slips over yours, pulling it away slowly.

“Is that so?” he murmurs, his head lowering, nose brushing against yours. “I thought you were well? You said you would not fall ill.”

Your eyes narrow when you see the mirth in his eyes. “I– I might!” you sputter, glancing around to watch the last of the maids filter out of your quarters with a polite bow. “They say body heat is the best remedy for–”

He interrupts with you an amused huff, his hands moving to stroke your sides. You frown when he shakes his head, tugging the gloves off irritably before moving begrudgingly when he pushes at your back with an insistent touch.

“The bath water was drawn from the springs nearby,” Zayne says, standing behind you when you flop down onto a daybed. “It is said to be blessed by the gods.”

“The gods?” you echo, face twisting with discomfort when you feel a twinge of pain from pulling out the ornate hair pins buried firmly in your hair. 

“Yes,” he replies, his ministrations gentle as he brushes away your hands, beginning to pull out the pins himself. “The gods are said to dwell in the mountains nearby. We are quite close to them, so naturally it has been thought that the springs that come from them are also blessed.”

“I think I may be blessed,” you sigh dazedly, eyes drooping shut every now and then as Zayne runs his fingers through your hair, soothing away the tangles and knots. Your head lolls back when he strokes your hair, bleary eyes blinking up at him as you smile sleepily. 

Your gaze flickers to his lips, breath hitching when his fingers smooth over your cheeks, tracing the curve of your jaw. You’d thought that Zayne would have kissed you by now, but he had become strangely artful in avoiding your advances. Perhaps he wasn’t ready yet for such a relationship… perhaps his assessment of you had changed… the very thought is brushed away as soon as it comes, your distracted mind now latching onto the soft, fleeting press of his lips against your forehead. 

“Indeed,” Zayne whispers, voice deep and lilting, his lips skimming over your skin to kiss your cheek. “You must be if I have been led to you.” He smiles against your cheek. “The gods have been particularly generous.”

His words have you swallowing harshly – a weak attempt to dispel the rapidly swelling lump in your throat.

“You… you think I am a blessing from the gods?”

Zayne hums, his head tilting as he stares down at you. “Yes,” he says bluntly, his brows furrowing as though concerned by the breathlessness present in your voice. “You may very well be more auspicious than my jade seal.”

“Have you lost your mind?” you hiss, moving up onto your knees, leaning towards him. “If someone were to hear,” you lower your voice further, “not to mention relay such words to the Imperial Court of all things–”

“Then I would be glad,” he retorts, his hands cupping your cheeks once more, head dipping to let his nose brush against yours. “The Lady of Anlan holds a revered position within my heart, after all.”

A desperate, violent shudder racks through your body and you reach for his robes roughly. Zayne’s eyes widen in surprise, and you can hear the way his breath stutters, his lips parting. They look so terribly inviting – pink and unblemished – and you can’t resist the way your head tilts just enough to–

He pulls away.

“You always do that!” you protest, throwing your hands up as frustration sparks in your eyes. “You cannot just say such things and not expect to want something from you.” Your voice dips into something demanding, back straightening as you stand. “Kiss me, Zayne.”

“We… we mustn’t,” Zayne says, sounding hoarse. He distances himself, hands clasping behind his back, cheeks faintly dusted with a light shade of pink. 

“And why is that?” you ask testily, stepping towards him. “You had me sit in your lap, Zayne. You said that I was near and dear to your heart. You–” it’s embarrassing the way your voice wavers, “you brought me here so we could watch the aurora.”

“I know,” he rasps, looking stricken. “I did all of those things because I wanted to. And now, I cannot help but think I may overwhelm you.”

“Overwhelm me?”

“There are many things I want from you,” he murmurs, reaching for you, his arms slipping around your waist. Your breath hitches when he nudges his nose into your cheek before he nuzzles closer, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. “Terrible, wicked things,” Zayne whispers, “I cannot stop my mind from wandering when it comes to you. Every thought is consumed by your presence.”

You stand, completely and utterly frozen. The depth of his words leave you reeling, your fingers twitching at your sides helplessly. You had had passing romances before, when you were younger and naive and easily enraptured by a handsome smile, but this– Zayne has your heart lurching and racing unsteadily, the blood in your veins blistering newly with an unfamiliar sense of longing. 

He lifts his head a few moments later, warm, calloused hands sliding over your cheeks with a gentle caress. Zayne mutters your name – softly, slowly, ardently – every syllable rolling from his tongue like the sweet nectar from flowering jasmines.

“Zayne–” you choke out desperately, “I–”

A knock on the door of your chambers interrupts you, an attendant’s voice filtering through the crevices to request Zayne’s presence elsewhere. You begin to shake your head, an irritated noise leaving you when he begins to pull away once more.

“I shall accompany you,” you say, still slightly breathless and frazzled, “and perhaps then we might finish this conversation.”

“Later,” he promises, giving your hands one final squeeze. “You are still cold to the touch. Go and bathe, if you wait any longer the bath will have cooled.”

You huff out an irritated breath. “You aren’t being very agreeable.”

“No,” Zayne agrees, a small smile pulling at his lips, “I suppose not.”

When the attendant calls for him again, you sigh, pushing at his chest lightly. “Go then. But I will be waiting for you.”

Your eyes widen when he suddenly moves, hands settling against his chest when Zayne spins you around, crowding you in against the wall. Lips parting in confusion, you suck in a sharp, stuttered breath when his hand slides over the nape of your neck to cup the back of your head. 

“You tempt me too much.”

And then he’s kissing you, lips pressing against yours feverishly. You stiffen, just for one startled moment, before you’re drawing him closer, fingers curling into his robes. Zayne groans, his body shifting to press flush against yours until the hardness of the wall digs into your back. 

Zayne kisses you like he’s been starved, soft, pillowy lips slotting over yours again and again until your head spins. You can’t move with the way he’s cornered you, can’t breathe with the way he’s kissing you. It doesn’t matter, you think hazily, managing to wrap your arms around his neck, dazed eyes fluttering open when he draws away, panting heavily. 

His forehead rests against yours, and the heat of his body does nothing but set you alight. Leaning in, you capture his lips once more. It’s slower this time as you tilt your head, guiding the kiss until he’s tipping your head back to deepen the kiss, tongue brushing against yours fleetingly. You sigh into his mouth, fingers slipping into his hair when Zayne breaks away to trail heated kisses down the length of your neck, his hands squeezing at your waist. 

“I must go,” he rasps between kisses, his thumb digging into the underside of your jaw to feel your unrestrained, racing pulse. You jolt at the scrape of Zayne’s teeth over your skin, his tongue following soon after, soothing the bruised skin. “I… I really must go, my beloved.”

“Then go,” you murmur dazedly, any sense of urgency lost on you as your back arches, head tilting to offer up more of your neck. “I said– ah– I would wait.”

He hums, mirroring your languidness as his hands move deftly, pulling your robes apart until he’s able to see the curve of your body through the thin slip of your undergarments. His jaw works, a muscle in his temple fluttering as he stares. 

“You are welcome to stay,” you whisper, biting your lip. “After all, I am in need and is it not a Lord’s duty to take care of his wife? To cherish her?” You move, letting your robes fall from your shoulders, the heavy fabric pooling at your feet.

Zayne swallows, his hand coming to cover the lower half of his face. You smile faintly, your hands brushing against your breasts, drawing his attention to your hardened nipples. The low hiss he lets out is barely audible and you whine softly, batting your lashes. 

“You may very well drive me to madness,” he mutters, reaching towards you, letting his thumb brush the underside of one of your clothed breasts before his hand jerks back like he’s been scalded.

A soft laugh escapes you and you step closer until it's you that’s crowding him, breasts squishing against his robes. “Perhaps touching me more… thoroughly would alleviate such an ailment?”

“I know what you are doing,” Zayne scoffs amusedly, shaking his head, “have you employed such tactics before?”

You smile, eyes twinkling. “Only on handsome, royal lords who are exceedingly stubborn.”

“Is that so?” Zayne’s voice deepens, his nose brushing yours. “The thought does displease me.”

You raise your brows, eyes sparking with mirth. The hint of jealousy in his voice has nothing but hot arousal swirling in your stomach, your thighs clenching together involuntarily. Your smile grows wider when you spy the restless flex of his fingers by his side. 

“That will not do,” you murmur, reaching for his hand. “I am your wife, after all.”

Blinking up at him innocently, you guide his hand under the hem of your undergarments, between your thighs until his palm presses against where you want him. Zayne’s breath hitches, his brows furrowing when he feels the heat of your bare pussy, his lashes fluttering uncertainly. 

“You…” Zayne sounds choked, “you are this aroused?”

“Mhm,” you watch him carefully, a soft gasp leaving you when his fingers move suddenly, slipping through your damp, puffy folds. 

You try to keep your eyes open but it’s difficult with the way he’s taken to exploring you, lithe fingers gliding and rubbing, pressing and caressing. His fingers circle your clit experimentally, his brows raising minutely with interest when your hips jerk towards him. 

“Here, then,” he whispers, lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours. “Is this where you need me, my beloved? Or perhaps…” Zayne trails off, his fingers moving until they prod against your fluttering hole, “here?”

“Y– yes,” you whimper, shoving your face into his chest as your hips rock against his palm, clit catching along his calloused skin. “Yes, anywhere, just– just please touch me!”

“How desperate you’ve become,” he clicks his tongue, his fingers tangling in your hair. “Have I reduced my wife to begging?” He lets out a heavy sigh, lips pressing against your ear. “How unbecoming of the Lady of Anlan.”

A needy whine leaves you, your hazy eyes finding his as he circles your clit faster, the pads of his fingers brushing over the swollen bud. You try to speak but the words are stuck in your throat, a moan sounding through the chambers instead. Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, you blink blearily when you see a smile playing on Zayne’s lips. 

“I– nghh– suppose you are enjoying this, husband,” you grit out, panting against his mouth when he kisses you roughly. 

“I am giving you what you want, am I not?” Zayne rasps, a finger pushing against your clenching pussy once more, gently easing it in. “I am abandoning my duties for you, my beloved.”

You paw at his robes, eyes widening when he slips another finger inside, beginning to thrust them in and out of your pussy lazily. 

“Zayne–”

“Do you think they can hear us?” he asks, lips dragging over your neck once more. “The debauched noises that you are making? Perhaps that is why they have not called for me… because they know that I must stay to satisfy my insatiable little wife.”

You manage a poor attempt at a scoff. “I am not insatiable! I simply wanted you to–”

“Bed you?” Zayne interrupts, his arm winding around your waist when your knees buckle as his fingers curl and thrust into you harder.

“Ah– fuck–,” you mewl, stumbling backwards as he walks you towards the wall, pressing you against it once more. Your eyes roll back when he bites your neck, chest heaving uncontrollably as his lithe digits crook further inside of you.

“Tell me,” he murmurs against your throat, thumb finding your slippery clit. “Is that what you want, love? For me to bed you? To take you until you know nothing but me?” He groans when your hand slides down to grip his wrist, desperately trying to deepen the press of his fingers into your leaking cunt. 

You nod jerkily, faintly embarrassed by how wet you are, thighs dripping with your slick and Zayne’s knuckles coated with it. 

“P– please,” you gasp, rocking up onto the tips of your toes to kiss him sloppily. “You have teased– ngh– me enough have you not?”

“I had no such intentions,” Zayne whispers, tugging your head back to kiss you deeper, his lips capturing yours in a feverish kiss, one that leaves you gasping for air. “I… I was waiting,” he admits softly, brushing the strands of hair clinging to your sweaty skin, his fingers never slowing their pace. “I thought perhaps after seeing the aurora it would be more,” he trails off, flushing pink, “romantic.”

“Romantic,” you echo breathlessly, nodding dazedly as he fucks his fingers in and out of your aching pussy, his fingers finally brushing right where you need him, the ministration making your eyes roll back. “Right– fuck– of course.”

“Alas, you could not wait so now here we are,” he rumbles, thumb brushing over your lower lip as he watches you intently. “The Lord of Anlan with his fingers inside of his desperate, lovely wife’s cunt.”

You shoot him a scandalous look, unused to such words from a man who is usually so stern and composed and above using such language.

“I spent years at military camps,” Zayne explains when he sees your expression, his breath hot against your forehead. “Naturally, stories become abundant and imaginations begin to wander.”

“Did– ahhh– did you ever take a lover?” you ask, brows furrowing irritably at the thought.

“Never,” he sighs, his hand moving to cup one of your breasts through the thin undergarment, squeezing. “You are the first, my beloved.”

Zayne smiles when he sees the shock flickering across your face, continuing to squeeze your breast, his thumb brushing over your pebbled nipple with ease. He lowers his head without warning soon after, mouth latching onto your breast through the fabric. You moan loudly, fingers sliding through his hair as he sucks, tongue flicking against your nipple, his fingers slipping from the hold of your clinging cunt to press against your swollen clit.

“I–” you choke out, toes curling against the soft rug underneath you. “I– ah! am going to cum!”

“Then cum,” Zayne says softly, guiding his fingers back into your fluttering cunt with ease, curling them before he plunges them into you at an unforgiving pace. “I should like to watch my sweet wife come undone.” His mouth finds its way to your other breast, sucking it into his mouth, his tongue swirling and flicking and teeth scraping lightly, just enough to have you seeing stars behind your closed lids. 

You pull at his hair roughly drawing a wince from Zayne, but he doesn’t seem to mind when you do it again, instead mouthing at your clothed breast, his fingers scissoring inside of you when he feels you clench around him uncontrollably.

“Show me,” he murmurs hoarsely, “show me how I make you feel. Fall apart for me, love. Let me see what I have reduced you to.”

You can’t think straight, not with the way he’s taken to whispering into your ear, filth and sweet nothings pouring from his mouth as he fucks your cunt with his fingers and plays with your swollen clit. You try to peel your eyes open to watch him but it’s too difficult with how close you are, with how good it feels to have his fingers inside of you, reaching places that you never could.

“Let me hear you,” Zayne coaxes, his voice low and soothing. “You feel so lovely around me, my beloved. My sweet wife.” He kisses your cheek delicately and then your mouth, huffing amusedly when a ragged moan tears its way out of your throat. “That’s it, love. Just like that. Cum for me.”

You don’t need further instruction, squeaking when he pinches your nipple, thighs trembling violently and legs shaking as you fall into him. The force of your orgasm isn’t like anything you’ve experienced – so violent, so consuming that you can barely feel the stroke of his hand on your hair. 

“Good girl,” Zayne whispers, kissing your cheek as his fingers slow their movements, slipping out of your pussy carefully. 

You whimper when he rubs your clit gently, drawing out the last few aftershocks that rack through your body. Breathily heavily, you use Zayne’s arms to steady yourself, shivering when he kisses your forehead. Just when you tilt your head, you catch the movement of his arm, jaw slackening with disbelief as you watch his fingers disappear into his mouth. Your throat feels uncomfortably dry when Zayne sucks his fingers slowly – the very same ones that you had made a mess on earlier – cleaning them thoroughly while he stares down at you. 

“Oh,” you breathe out, staring blankly when he licks his lips.

A surprised yelp escapes you when he picks you up suddenly, your arms wrapping around his neck as he walks behind the partitioning screen, setting you back onto your feet. He helps you into the bath and by some miracle it’s still hot, steam curling from the surface as you undo your ruined undergarment and sink down into the heated bath. 

“You won’t join me?” you ask poutily, nuzzling into his palm when his thumb strokes over the curve of your cheek. 

“I’m afraid you have made me avoid my duties for long enough,” Zayne sighs, shaking his head. “We may not be at war but there are still certain things I must look after as the lord of this territory.”

“That was hardly my fault,” you protest, although you’re unable to stop the smile from spreading across your face before you lean over the edge of the bath and kiss him sweetly.

“No,” he muses, standing up to straighten his dark robes, “I suppose I cannot blame you for befitting your role as the Lady of Anlan.”

You watch him quietly, stifling a laugh when he shifts uncomfortably, catching his narrowed gaze. He drops a fleeting kiss to your forehead before he turns to leave, his hair swaying prettily.

“And when you come back,” you call out teasingly, sitting up in the bath, “will you do all those terrible, wicked things to me, Zayne?”

He pauses mid-stride, glancing back at you. You don’t miss the way his gaze drops – just for a moment – to take in the swell of your bare breasts before he turns, striding towards the doors.

“Yes.”

–

“Where is it?”

You grumble under your breath, rifling through your garments and robes that had been brought here, shoving your head into the cabinet to try and find the offending garment. 

You were sure you had brought it, especially following the knowing glances your maids had shot you, their giggles soft as they had helped you pack. A few more frantic rummages later, you find what you’re looking for, the sheer, silk nightgown nearly slipping out of your hands.

Zayne had to be returning soon, you were sure of it. At least an hour had passed since you had bathed, the lanterns outside glittering prettily in the growing darkness of the night. Shedding your robes, you slip into the nightgown, adjusting the straps before smoothing your hands over the thin garment.

It left little to the imagination, similar to your undergarments, although the fit was far more flattering. You crawl onto the bed, positioning yourself carefully, trying to channel an air of grace as you wait for Zayne to return. 

But when the hours pass and Zayne is nowhere in sight, you groan, slumping back against the pillows. There’s a dull ache in your shoulders from trying to stay upright in that awkward position, although it’s nothing compared to the ache between your thighs.

You squirm, still aroused even after the bath, pussy clenching longingly as you feel the phantom brush of his fingers against your skin. Glancing at the door, you will for him to come striding through the doors, eyes narrowing in concentration. The doors stay stubbornly shut, unbending against your will and you huff out a breath, unable to wait any longer, hand disappearing under the hem of your nightgown.

You’re already wet, slick beginning to drip through your folds as you slide your fingers between them, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. The press of your fingers against your clit is enough to take the edge off for now, hips bucking when a thrill of pleasure shoots down your spine. 

It’s already warm inside your chambers, but when the image of Zayne’s face materializes behind your eyes, you feel hot. Arousal curls around your body – heady and unforgiving – drawing a soft whine from your lips as you rub at your clit desperately. It’s nothing compared to Zayne’s fingers though, his lithe digits knowing as they had explored you despite his inexperience.

Even so, the thought of Zayne being all yours has a moan escaping you, your pussy clenching as you slip two fingers inside, beginning to pump them in and out. They don’t reach as deep, don’t satisfy you the way Zayne’s had.

“Z– Zayne,” you whisper, cheeks flushing with slight mortification at being so wanton.

But when your clit pulses, throbbing for attention, you whimper and move your fingers, letting them slip back up to rub at the swollen bud feverishly. 

“Zayne,” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut. “Zayne… ah– I need you.”

“I see you have begun without me, my beloved.”

You shriek, flailing as you sit up, pulling your hand free from between your thighs. He stands at the edge of the bed, somehow looking like a heavenly vision, his hair loose and flowing over his shoulders, the black robes a stark contrast against his pale skin. 

“Zayne, you’re here,” you laugh breathlessly, brushing your hair out of your face, “I… I was waiting for you.”

“Wearing that?” he murmurs, gaze dark as it travels over your body hungrily. “You truly have no shame, love.”

“Shame?” you echo indignantly, crossing your arms over your chest. “You did not have any shame when you were sucking my breasts through my undergarments!”

Zayne hums, his head tilting as he watches the way your thighs squeeze together. Your arms drop, the mattress dipping under your weight as you crawl towards him, settling near the edge of the bed.

“You need not stop on my account,” Zayne says finally, his hand reaching out to caress your cheek. “I want to watch you. May I?”

“You… you want to watch?”

“Yes.” Zayne’s voice is soft when he answers, a pretty flush of pink sitting high on his cheeks, the tips of his ears reddened.

His request has heat pooling low in your stomach, your fingers tightening into the blankets before you nod slowly, moving to sit back against the pillows, spreading your thighs for him.

Zayne inhales sharply when he sees you, nightgown pulled up to your hips, pussy spread open for him.

“Only if I can watch you,” you whisper, biting your lip as you let your fingers drift over your puffy folds.

You half-expect him to protest, but you receive a curt nod instead, your eyes widening as you watch him shed his robes and silks, breath catching when you finally see him bare. 

A few scars litter his muscled chest and abdomen, similar to the ones streaking across his forearms. You swallow harshly as you follow the lines of his body, gaze dipping down to find his cock already hard. It’s longer than you’ve ever seen and thick too, pre-cum glistening at the tip as it bobs gently, struggling with its own weight. 

“I do not think it kind of you to hide something like this from me,” you manage out, unable to look away from his fat cock, your fingers beginning to move against your own will, rubbing at your clit.

“My body?” Zayne murmurs, his hand wrapping around his cock as he begins to stroke his length, pace lazy and relaxed. “The opportunity never arose.”

You whimper softly, hips beginning to roll as your fingers move, circling your clit faster, hazy eyes watching as Zayne’s hand tightens around his cock, the muscles in his forearm and bicep flexing with every stroke.

“You look beautiful like this,” he whispers hoarsely, watching as you squeeze your breast through the nightgown. “Spread open and wanton for me to gaze upon.”

“Only for you,” you mewl, thrusting your fingers inside your aching cunt with a needy moan. “I need your fingers, Zayne,” you gasp, beginning to rub at your clit with your other hand, trying to spread your legs open wider, “mine– nghh– do not reach deep enough.”

“I am too weak to resist you,” Zayne groans, stepping forward, his fingers brushing yours aside as he sinks two digits inside of you without pretense. 

Your toes curl, hands pawing at his thighs before you find his cock, fingers greedily curling around the fat length. “I like it,” you murmur, hips rocking into his hand as you stroke him uncoordinatedly, “your cock.” Your eyes light up when it twitches, gasping softly when a glob of pre-cum beads at the tip, rolling down the side of his cock.

You surge forward without thinking, tongue dragging up along the length of his cock to catch the glob, lashes fluttering at the heady taste that spreads over your tongue. Zayne’s moan startles you, his chest rising and falling heavily as he stares down at you.

“I thought you were innocent,” he rasps, pushing your hand away when you reach for his heavy balls with interest. “I thought you were sweet, my beloved. But it seems as though…” Zayne trails off, leaning over you as he quickens his pace, fucking his fingers in and out of you, his eyes glinting when you cry out, thumb pressing hard onto your clit, “my wife is a temptress.”

“Then– ahh– fuck– you ought to be glad I am wed to you, Zayne.”

A low snarl tears its way out of his throat. “Eternally, love.”

You squeal when he drives his fingers into you roughly, the snap of his wrist audible before he’s kissing you eagerly. Your noises are muffled by his mouth, Zayne’s lips searing as he kisses you, his hand sliding up to settle around your throat loosely. He licks into your mouth the moment your lips part, stroking and taking until you’re left dazed and breathless. 

“I wish to taste you,” he mutters gruffly, his nose brushing against yours as he kisses you again. “Will you let me, my sweet?”

“Yes,” you slur, nodding and whining at the loss of his fingers, “I need you, Zayne.”

As though he’s been waiting for this very moment, Zayne drops to his knees, guiding your legs over his shoulders. Your fingers slide into his hair when he kisses your thighs, cleaning the slick smeared over your skin messily with a broken groan.

“Are– are you sure?” you squeak out, thighs trembling when his hot breath fans over your fluttering cunt. “You need not– Zayne!”

His name leaves you in a wail, your elbows giving out underneath you when he buries his face into your pussy. Your back arches, toes curling as you try and cling onto something – his hair, the sheets, anything – eyes rolling back when his tongue glides through your warm folds. 

“You taste divine,” he rasps, thumbing apart your folds, his lips pursing before he spits down onto your messy cunt. “Like the finest nectar.” A low groan escapes him as he presses his face into your pussy again, the bridge of his nose shoved against your clit, his tongue lapping at the velvety skin of your pussy before his lips move, suctioning around your clit.

Your hands slam against the bed, hips bucking uncontrollably as your inhibitions are pushed aside with every movement of his tongue, every squeeze of his hands around your thighs.

“You– oh– you said you did not take a lover,” you whisper dazedly, fingers fisting his hair to pull, one of your hands moving to press his face harder into your throbbing pussy, head tipping back when he moans. “How did you learn such things, Zayne? Your tongue– fuck!”

“The Imperial Library holds a great wealth of information,” Zayne murmurs, kissing your clit gently, drawing back to watch the pitiful clench of your pussy around nothing. “And a royal education covers… many things.” He glances up at you, the lower half of his face shining with your arousal, your cheeks flushing when he smiles up at you tenderly. “I only want the best for my wife.”

“The best,” you echo, mouth dropping open when he spits once more, spreading it all over your cunt as though it were something normal, “of course.”

“Are you not pleased with my efforts, my beloved?” he whispers, his voice lilting as he laps at your pussy, tongue prodding against the fluttering hole. 

“Quite ahhh– the contrary, dear husband.”

It is wicked, you realize, the way he’s able to draw such debauched noises from you, to have your body moving so wantonly to his ministrations. The coil of pleasure in your lower stomach keeps winding tighter and tighter, your breathing growing more violently ragged, thighs squeezing around his head.

Your legs jerk when he presses his tongue into your pussy suddenly, eyes flying open in a panic to find him watching you, always watching, his tongue beginning to fuck in and out of your cunt.

“Oh my–” you whimper, sweat beading over your skin, your body shaking as he holds you down by your hips, rising up to shove his face between your thighs deeper as though trying to force his tongue in further. “Zayne– Zayne!”

“Are you close?” he asks, words slurred with how his tongue is still buried into your cunt. “Hm? Will you cum for me once more? Fall apart on my tongue, my sweet?”

You let out a strangled noise in response, trying to grab for his hand, guiding it to your clit. Zayne understands immediately, his fingers beginning to rub in quick, tight circles while his tongue works into you, his free hand sliding up over your chest, long fingers pressing into your mouth.

Your lashes flutter at the unexpected intrusion, but you suck before you can stop yourself, grasping his wrist as you let your tongue swirl over the digits, hips rolling to meet his mouth. Zayne grunts when your thighs tighten around his head involuntarily, feet slipping over his back until his mouth finds its way back to your clit. 

The harsh suck he delivers to the throbbing bud of nerves sets you alight, a hoarse scream echoing through your chambers as your back arches off of the bed, your teeth sinking into his fingers as you writhe on the bed. You can vaguely hear Zayne’s wince and a slight tug has you releasing his fingers in a daze.

“If anyone is driving another to madness, it is you,” you mumble, refusing to look at him when he kisses your cheek, your body hot with embarrassment.

“There is no reason to be shy,” Zayne whispers, smiling against your sweat-slick skin, his hands rubbing over your sides and back when you curl up. 

“No reason to be shy?” you retort, swatting his chest. “Everyone must have heard!”

“It is snowing,” he soothes, his fingers adjusting your nightgown, “the wind is deafening and no one is stationed outside our chambers, my beloved. You may be as loud as you wish.”

“That is not the issue!”

“You were not concerned with propriety earlier,” Zayne counters, his eyes shining when you sputter.

“Propriety is one of my greatest concerns,” you say indignantly. “I am extremely passionate about propriety, Zayne.”

He laughs, pulling you up into his lap, your eyes widening when you feel the brush of his cock against your thighs. “Is that why you infiltrated my home?” he asks, his arms wrapping around you to draw you closer to his chest. “Hm? Is that why you scale walls and–”

You surge forward, shutting him up with a kiss, mewling when he sighs into your mouth. His hands can’t seem to sit still, wandering over your body but never straying as he deepens the kiss, fingers tangling into your hair.

“Be quiet,” you whisper, your hand slipping between your bodies to grasp his cock, still hot and hard.

“As you wish, my love,” Zayne murmurs, his head tipping back when you begin to stroke his cock.

You follow the length of his neck, down his muscled chest and abdomen, biting your lip as his cock twitches in your hand. Leaning forward, you kiss his neck delicately, smiling when you hear his breath hitch.

When you squeeze his cock, drawing out a spurt of pre-cum, a whine slips free from Zayne, his eyes fluttered shut and cheeks darkening in color. You click your tongue, teeth scraping over his neck in chastisement when he whines again, glancing up to find his teeth buried into his lower lip in an attempt to muffle the sound.

“Are you have a hard time staying quiet?” you ask teasingly, your free hand reaching down to cup his throbbing balls, smiling when his abdomen tenses and his hips buck. “It is almost as though you are… desperate, Zayne.”

“Gods,” he groans, his hand cupping the back of your head when you kiss his neck again, your breasts pressed against his chest through the sheer, silk fabric. “How is one to stay quiet when his wife plays with his cock?”

“You do make such pretty noises,” you coo, smiling up at him when he glances down at you with half-lidded eyes.

Not looking away, you let your tongue loll out, spit dripping lewdly from the tip of it, coating the head of his cock. Zayne moans, his fingers tightening around your hips as he pants, his forehead pressing against yours heavily.

“That’s it,” you murmur when Zayne whimpers, his eyes squeezing shut when you pump his cock faster, taking in the unbidden pleasure flickering across his face. “You’re doing so well, my love.”

“You– hahhh– you are using my own words against me.”

“And you are enjoying it,” you muse, spitting down onto his cock again, your pussy clenching when his cock throbs and leaks with heavy globs of pre-cum.

It coats your hand, his cock slick with his own arousal and your spit, leaking over your knuckles and down to his balls, staining the sheets below you. His cock twitches and you can feel his thighs tremble beneath you, the press of his fingers into your flesh becoming almost painful.

“You’re making such a mess, Zayne,” you sigh, kissing him sweetly, mewling when he whines into your mouth. “How unbecoming of a royal lord.”

“You– ahh– are wicked,” he rumbles, inhaling sharply when you squeeze his fat cock hard. “Such a wicked wife.”

A contented hum leaves you, your face nuzzling into the crook of his neck as you lick and suck, your hips rolling with need as you continue to play with his cock, your thumb swiping over the head of it. Zayne groans loudly, lurching into you as your wrist twists, dragging your hand along the length of his thick, hot cock.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his hand finding yours, trying to slow your movements. “You ought to stop.”

“Why?” you pout, teeth scraping along his jaw roughly, tongue laving over the fine stubble that lays across his skin. “Do you not wish to cum?”

“Not like this,” Zayne rasps, a ragged gasp leaving him when you massage his balls eagerly, letting them sit in your hand as you rub your thumb over the silken skin. “My beloved– hahh– I… I wish to be inside of you.”

You blink up at him, hands settling on his shoulders when he moves you, laying you down onto your back. Zayne’s fingers move deftly, rucking your nightgown up until it’s up over your head, his hands smoothing over your waist and hips.

You squirm on the bed, swallowing nervously when he settles between your thighs, his cock brushing against you briefly. He pauses when he sees your conflicted expression, his hands reaching for yours, fingers lacing together tightly.

“Do you wish to stop?” he murmurs gently.

“No,” you say, shaking your head, heart thudding in your chest. “I just… I… I like you a lot,” you mumble, biting your lip. “I did not think you would feel so affectionate towards someone like me.”

“You saved me,” Zayne says, his words sincere. “It was you that delivered the keepsake. Without you, everything would have been lost.”

Your lower lip trembles for a moment, your fingers slipping over his chest tentatively before your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him down towards you. Zayne’s lips find yours, soft and sweet as he kisses you, his long hair brushing along your skin.

“The gods have blessed me with your presence,” he continues, lips drifting over your jaw to place a gentle kiss to your fluttering pulse. “Do not doubt my affection towards you, my beloved. I–” he clears his throat, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, muttering your name. “I love you.”

“Oh.”

The air is punched out of your lungs as you register his words, gaze flickering as Zayne presses himself closer, like he can’t bear the thought of being kept away from you. Your stomach flips when he kisses your neck, arms tightening around his neck whilst your heart beats so violently that you can hear it in your ears.

“I…” you stare up at him when he draws back, eyes fluttering shut when he strokes his hands over your hair and down the sides of your cheeks. “I love you too, Zayne.”

He lets out a heavy breath, a small, affectionate smile playing on his lips. You smile back, allowing yourself to let out a shaky laugh when he kisses your forehead.

“Then I shall be yours,” Zayne whispers, his hands finding your hips, squeezing gently, “for as long as you wish to have me.”

You watch hazily as he grasps his cock, sliding it through your folds before he presses the head against you, his hips moving forward minutely. You bite back a whine when the head of his cock slips inside, already having begun to stretch you. Zayne groans, his heady gaze watching as your pussy stretches around the thickness of his cock, his brows drawn together as he rocks his hips forward.

“It–” you gasp, hand reaching for his blindly, your fingers entwining together, “it is too big, Zayne.”

Zayne growls, spurred on by your words as he thrusts experimentally, burying more of his fat cock inside of you. “And yet you take me so well, my love. Look at how well we fit.”

You glance down, watching with dazed eyes as his cock disappears into your pussy, inch by inch, gasping when you clench around him and realize how utterly full you are.

“Sucking my cock in so greedily, hm?” he murmurs, shifting his hips until he’s buried to the hilt inside of you, massaging your waist as your walls flutter around his fat length, trying to accommodate him. “What a pretty, greedy little cunt.”

You whimper, words failing you as he draws his hips back, his hazel-green eyes watching your every expression intently. 

“Feels– nghhh– good, Zayne,” you hiccup, nails digging into his broad shoulders, eyes rolling back when he drops some of his weight down onto you, his chest pressed firmly against yours.

“You’re so tight,” he groans, his hand sliding over your hair to hold you in place as he begins to snap his hips harder. “So warm– fuck– entirely and utterly perfect.”

“For you,” you cry out, feeling the bed sway with every thrust. “Only– only ever for you.”

That seems to encourage Zayne more than anything, his lips pressing against your ear as he snarls deep and rough, his thrusts beginning to grow quicker. You think you may very well be seeing the aurora, let alone stars as he grips your hips, drawing back before lowering his head, mouth latching onto your breasts.

You shake when he thumbs and pinches at one of your nipples, hands flying to his hair as his tongue swirls around an areola, flicking against your hardened nipple without abandon. The dark, coarse hair at the base of his cock scratches along your clit with every thrust, his balls slapping against your ass rapidly, the lewd noises erupting through your chambers.

 “I want you– oh– forever,” you slur out, cock-drunk and warm under his affectionate motions, a dopey smile spreading across your lips as he kisses your cheek. “May I have you forever, Zayne?”

“May the gods have mercy,” Zayne mutters under his breath, nodding against your cheek, a disbelieving laugh slipping out of him. “Yes, my beloved,” he replies, thrusting hard, burying his cock inside of you, a groan leaving him when your pussy clenches desperately around his throbbing, fat cock, “you may have me forever.”

A satisfied coo leaves you at his answer, your legs tightening around his hips as he rocks his hips, finding an unforgiving rhythm that has you whining uncontrollably. He muffles your noises with a rough kiss, hissing when your nails rake down his back. 

“That’s it,” he rasps in between kisses, fingers cupping your jaw to hold your head still, spit leaking from the corners of your mouths. “Mark me, my sweet. Make me yours, forever. Show me what I mean to you.”

In a sudden surge of boldness, you push at Zayne’s chest, shoving until he moves, falling onto his back. You’re crawling atop him before he can protest, relishing in his broken, hoarse moan as you sink down on his cock, rolling your hips without abandon.

“Gods– are you trying to kill me?” Zayne murmurs, his voice strained as you shift, shins coming to rest across his thighs as you place your hands on his chest, using him as support to let your hips rise and fall.

“I… I want you,” you slur, mewling when his hands move to squeeze your breasts, his nimble fingers toying with your nipples as you ride him. “Zayne– nghhh!! I want you, I want you, I want you!”

You jerk in his lap when his hand comes down on your ass, arms wrapping around his neck when he sits up, crushing his mouth to yours. It’s filthy and so terribly unbecoming for a royal lord and lady to be acting in such a way – so lewdly, so uninhibited. 

“Then have me,” he says roughly, hands clamping onto your hips before he’s guiding your movements, dropping you down onto his cock before lifting you and repeating the motion. “Fuck– have me, my sweet. Take my cock, that’s it, good girl… take everything I give you.”

You pant against his mouth, clinging to him, hands lost in his long tresses, pulling at his soft hair as you lick into his mouth messily, letting him jerk you up and down on his impossibly thick cock.

It’s all so overwhelming, especially with the way his cock is hitting exactly where you need him, against that sensitive spot that has you moaning loudly. 

“It’s too much,” you whine, face pressed into the crook of his neck, the pleasure in your stomach growing with every press of his cock inside of your dripping cunt. “Zayne, I– I’m close!”

“So am I,” Zayne whispers, an arm wrapping around your waist, his biceps flexing with every motion. “You’ve done so well for me, my beloved. Let go, hm? Cum on my cock like a good girl.”

You pull back to look into his eyes, stomach swirling in a shy, flustered daze when you see the warmth in his eyes and the soft smile that plays on his lips. 

“I love you,” you mumble, hips rolling to meet every press of his cock inside of you, your brows furrowing as you watch his eyes flutter shut. “I love you, Zayne.”

“Forgive me.”

Your mouth opens to ask whatever for, but he’s moving you onto your back, hands finding yours, squeezing tightly as his hips pound into you. A sharp scream tears its way out of your throat, your knuckles whitening as you hold his hands, eyes rolling back when he buries himself to the hilt with a particularly harsh thrust.

“Cum,” Zayne snaps lowly, his lips pressing against your cheek. “Cum for me, my sweet wife. Cum on my cock and I shall make you mine in every possible way.”

You don’t need any more encouragement, body thrashing under his when his fingers rub against your clit in one brief circle, the coil of pleasure snapping as you cry out and moan. Zayne groans at the sight, his hips stuttering when your pussy clenches hard, stubbornly keeping him inside.

“My beloved, we mustn’t–” Zayne gasps, his head falling forward as a long-drawn groan leaves him, his cock twitching inside of you.

You mewl, squirming when he spills inside of you, hot, thick cum flooding your pussy as your walls continue to flutter around his fat cock, the grip on his hands loosening. Zayne pants, his head falling against your shoulder, hair sticking to his back and arms, his breathing ragged.

His softening cock slips out of you a few moments later and Zayne manages to draw himself off of you, both of you exchanging dumbstruck glances when you notice his thick cum leaking out of you slowly.

“I…” Zayne swallows, brushing his hands over your aching thighs gently, “was not intending on an heir so soon.”

You flush, thighs squeezing shut. “Perhaps it will not take?”

You poke your stomach with mild interest, squealing when Zayne drapes himself over you, arms wrapping around his neck as he peppers kisses all over your face.

“And if it does?” he murmurs, nuzzling into your cheek. 

“If it does,” you sigh, cupping his cheeks, thumbs stroking over his skin tenderly, “I should expect my husband to take the utmost care of me.”

“Naturally,” Zayne smiles, his lips soft as he kisses you, a hand smoothing over your stomach.

You run your fingers through his hair when he shifts, biting your lip when he kisses your stomach. He glances up at you, and you smile, brushing his hair out of his eyes. You yawn as the heady, lustful atmosphere fades, replaced by something slow and syrupy in the aftermath of your intimacy, enough to have your eyes drooping shut sleepily. 

But perhaps the wind was never as deafening as Zayne thought because something loud thumps against the doors to your quarters, a flurry of hushed whispers following before someone mutters something about keys.

Your eyes snap open, mortified, while Zayne pulls himself off of you, tripping over his discarded robes before he’s grabbing at them and draping the thick robes over you. You try and sit up, to make yourself look at least a measure more presentable, Zayne cursing under his breath as he finds a new set of robes, pulling them over his body.

“My Lord! My Lady! Do not fret! We have heard your distress–”

A group of maids and guards alike stumble into your chambers, their panicked expressions fading as they digest the scene before them – Zayne leaning against a wall awkwardly, you sprawled over the bed, sheets rumpled and an utter mess and you engulfed in Zayne’s robes no less.

“We are perfectly well,” Zayne manages out, pinching the bridge of his nose irately. 

You smile wanly at them, your hands moving belatedly to smooth down your tousled hair. 

“Perfectly well,” a maid echoes, staring between the two of you before she’s ushering everyone else out of the chambers, her head poking inside before she shuts the doors. “I shall have a bath drawn. Would you perhaps like some tea? Cake? Sweet tea? I seem to recall we had–”

You bury your face into the pillows. 

Zayne sighs aggrievedly. “Please leave us.”

–

The new novel is delivered to you past midday.

You stare down at the title, rolling your eyes irritably. “The Cold Lord’s Boundless Affection: The Thrilling Sequel?” you scoff, beginning to flip through the pages agitatedly, skimming through the passages. “Why is a sequel needed? The first two were already bad enough.”

“Now, now,” Zayne murmurs, his lips brushing over your forehead as you squirm in his lap uncomfortably, “you mustn't be so easily vexed, my beloved.”

“You should be more concerned about this,” you hiss, waving the novel in his face. “This– this is a farce!” You scan a passage, finger pressing against the page roughly. “Upon noticing his wife’s distress,” you read aloud, “the cold lord swept her into his arms with such affection that she began to swoon.” You shake your head vehemently. “That is simply untrue!”

Zayne smiles up at you, his hand rubbing against your stomach. “Is it?” he asks, feigning confusion as his brows furrow, “I do seem to recall some swooning on your part.”

“I did not swoon, dear husband,” you grouse, tossing the book aside as you shift in his lap once more, trying to ease the dull ache permeating through your lower back. “If anything I was in charge of the situation and you were the one overcome with emotion.”

He laughs at that, his body shaking beneath yours and you huff out a breath, feeling warm with your own feelings of affection as he kisses your cheek. 

“In any case,” Zayne says, helping you stand as you sway unsteadily on your aching feet, “my affection towards you is boundless, is it not?”

“Is that why you have given me another child?” you mumble, staring down at your swollen stomach, rubbing your hand over it gently. “I cannot do with another set of twins, Zayne.”

“You did this all on your own, my lovely wife,” Zayne muses, his hand pressing over yours, eyes shining when he feels the baby kick gently. You smile faintly, leaning back into his chest, head tipping back as he dips his head, kissing you. “Was it not you who stormed into my chambers and demanded another?”

You huff out a breath, chasing after his lips when he tries to pull back, tugging him down to kiss him deeper. 

“I hardly demanded,” you whisper against his lips, eyes fluttering shut as he cups your cheeks, calloused fingers stroking over your skin soothingly. “I very cordially requested that you take care of me, Zayne. You took it upon yourself to bend me over your desk.”

He hums, lowering his head to whisper into your ear. “You were wearing my favorite nightgown, my beloved. One might have been inclined to think that his wife may have been tempting him.”

You bite back a whine, pressing your face into his chest to breathe him in. “I cannot fit in it anymore,” you mumble sullenly, playing with his robes. 

“And yet you look as radiant as ever,” Zayne whispers, his fingers sliding under your chin to tip your head up, forcing you to meet his gaze. He smiles when he sees you pout, kissing you gently. 

You sigh when he rubs your stomach again through your robes, the tension in your shoulders beginning to bleed out slowly. It’s short-lived however, the sound of a maid’s alarmed shriek making you jolt as a blur of color rushes past you. 

“Young Master! Young Miss!”

Blinking owlishly, you watch as your twins – only four – laugh and run away from their maids and tutors, darting through the middle of the courtyard and behind pillars and trees. 

“Again?” you sigh exasperatedly, unable to stop the fond expression spreading across your face as your children wave at you both, their little heads poking out from behind a statue, chubby cheeks rosy and eyes glittering with mischief.

Zayne smiles, his arms wrapping around you carefully, holding you tighter against him.

“They seem to take after their mother, no?”

You swat his arm, rolling your eyes. “You encourage them too much.”

A soft wince escapes you when the pain in your lower back worsens, your hand flying to your swollen stomach when you feel a strangely familiar wave of pressure beginning to press downwards.

“Zayne, I think…” you trail off, sucking in a sharp breath of air as you stagger, clinging to his arm tightly.

Concern flickers across his face, his hands moving to keep you upright as you gasp, feeling something wet rushing between your thighs until you glance down to find a small puddle of water at your feet.

You blink up at Zayne, watching as his composure wavers when he sees your dampened robes. The slight tinge of pallor to his skin and look of panic flaring through his eyes would make you laugh if not for the rapid waves of pain currently racking through your body.

You smile bemusedly, feeling the baby kick with renewed vigor. 

Groaning, your bleary eyes open. Your head is swimming. The pain is dull but powerful, as though hidden behind a layer, angry and wanting to be let out. Bright light through a window almost blinds you. You groan again, burying your head in a hard wall. 

Huh?

Your eyes shoot open. You’re laying on someone’s chest. You look up. Dazzling blue eyes stare down at you through a pair of glasses, a brow cocked up. Then you feel it — something hot and heavy slotted between your asscheeks, and a hand gripping your hip. 

With a scream, you jolt up, scrambling to get off the bed, only to fall right back onto the mattress when resistance meets your arms. 

Two faces fill your vision from above. 

Same dazzling blue eyes. 

One smirking.

One not. 

Both near-mirror copies of the other. 

You scream again.

They wince. 

“C-clones! You’re clones! Oh my god, please don’t probe me.”

The one on your left laughs so loudly it becomes your turn to wince. “Dude! She thinks we’re aliens!”

The other sighs and adjusts his glasses. “We’re not aliens. We’re twins. Monozygotic. Monoamniotic-Monoamniotic, to be exact.”

Lightly shoving the other by the shoulder, one of them says, “Jeez, don’t get all sciency around a chick. Just say ‘MoMo’, like I’ve been saying.” He turns to you, smiling. “We’re identical twins — I’m Toru, a Marketing student, and this ugly freak is Sato. Engineering. We’re both third years. And you are?”

Why are they acting so casual?

They’re in bed with a complete stranger, who could be a serial killer, and yet they’re introducing themselves to you like nothing’s remotely odd about the situation. Or maybe you’re in bed with serial killers. Hot serial killers, but that’s how they get you.

Unnerved by their matching stares, you stammer out your name, followed by a, “I’m an Anthropology student. Second year. It’s a pleasure to meet you?”

The sentence comes out less a statement and more a question, and you grimace at your unsocial self.

Toru leans forward, grinning. “You’re so polite. How adorable. Makes me wanna just gobble you up.” He mimics the actions of munching on your face, nom noming. 

His twin sighs again and lifts his hand up. Yours is brought up with it. All of you eye the thing that clanks and jingles with the movement. Sato drawls, “Instead of flirting with her, why don’t we address the elephant in the room — why the hell are we cuffed together and in his bed?”

That’s when you finally realise you’re not in your own dorm. The room’s much bigger, much more lived in and homely. Heck, the bed itself is bigger than the stiff single that the school provides everyone. Comfier, too. And with someone’s abs plastered all over the covers.

Posters of sporting legends litter the walls, as do posters of rock bands and carelessly stuck on polaroids of one of the twins, or both of them, or people you can only assume to be their friends. 

It even smells differently here than in your room; whilst yours smells of academic pressures and manically drunk coffee, this one smells of leftover thrill and aftershave. Clothes litter the floor, bordered by empty beer cans, and a pair of red lacey panties in the corner. 

Toru follows your eyes to it, and then hastily clarifies, “It’s not mine — I don’t crossdress or anything.”

Sato rolls his eyes, and snarks, “She knows that, idiot. She’s thinking what a pigsty your room is.” Glancing at you, he adds, “My dumbass brother’s incapable of cleaning up after himself. Judge him freely, he deserves it.”

Ignoring both of them, you lift your arms up, struggling with the new weight and gawk at the pink fuzzy cuffs adorning your wrists. Slowly, you say, “What…the…actual…fuck?”

You’re handcuffed to two strangers. 

Two hot strangers who keep women’s underwear in their rooms.

Frantically, you glance down at yourself and release a relieved breath when you confirm that you’re fully dressed in what you remember coming to the party in the first place: a short skirt you borrowed from a friend, a nice top, and beat up Converse that you wouldn’t mind getting beer spilled on. Your phone’s in your skirt pocket, along with your keycard. So all the valuables you brought to your friend’s apartment are still with you. Nothing feels out of place, which you thank god profusely for. 

But what happened after the round of pres at your friend? 

“I don’t remember a single thing that happened last night,” you voice aloud, frowning. “I don’t remember why we’re cuffed together, or who you two are to me.”

Not a single thing comes to mind — what you drank, who you spoke to, how much you drank, if you did anything crazy, if you lost some kind of dare and had to face punishment by being bound to two guys, and where your friends are.

Sato knits his brows together. “Neither. I only remember helping set up.”

“I don’t remember anything either,” his brother says, attempting to scratch the back of his head with the hand that’s connected to yours, laughing at himself, then finally using his free hand. He shrugs. “But then again, that’s not unusual for me. The best parties are the ones you don’t remember.”

You want to question how that could be possible, but you keep your mouth shut. 

“Anyone feel a key on them?” one of the twins asks, inspecting the holes of the cuffs that bind you to him. He looks displeased at the fuzziness of the thing. Your hand hangs limply in the air.

All three of you look, lifting covers, checking inside your clothes, on the desk, under pillows, and nothing. 

“Nope!”

“No.”

“I don’t see anything.”

Your heart begins to race, reality sinking in hard and fast and intensifying your headache. “We’re done for. We’re stuck like this forever. We’re going to die like this!”

“Calm down,” Sato deadpans, totally judging you based on how he fights the urge to look you over the rim of his glasses. “We’re not going to die. We just need to figure out who did it to us, where they are, and if they have the key — worse comes to worse, we don’t find them or they don’t have the key, we can just go to the fire station and ask them to cut us out.”

Toru whoops in the hair and ruffles his brother’s hair. The brother in question scowls and shoves the hand away. “Nice one, big bro. Didn’t even think of that; I was on the ‘we’re doomed’ boat.”

That makes sense. 

Yeah, there’s no need to panic. 

Except, there’s a major issue.

“Guys,” you start, lip trembling, “...I really need to pee.”

The two of them look at each other, then at you, then at the door, then back at each other. 

“C-can you hold it?” Toru asks, sounding more frightened about the idea than you.

You shake your head, legs crossed.

And that’s how you find yourself sitting on the toilet in his en-suite bathroom, flanked by two guys, who at least have the decency to look away. One of them whistles awkwardly, and the other taps on his phone. 

This is a nightmare. You don’t want to be pissing with an audience, especially not this close. It’s way too embarrassing. 

Sato clicks his tongue, pink tinting the tips of his ears. “Why aren’t you going?”

“‘cause it’s weird,” you mutter, shuffling on the seat. The toilet’s kept pretty clean. It looks practically unused, which just makes you feel worse about defiling it.

“You having performance anxiety, Second year?” Toru teases, rocking on the balls of his feet.

He doesn’t need to sound so amused by the idea, you dryly think. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you grumble, “Anyone would if they were in my position.”

“I wouldn’t,” Toru chirps, swinging the hands you two are joint at back and forth absentmindedly. “Hell, I’ll pee between your legs right now to prove it. I’ve got pretty good aim.”

“Please don’t.”

God, this is the most shameful thing that’s ever happened to you. What did you do to deserve this?

Left with no choice, you let the stream go and grit your teeth. 

One of them hums approvingly. “Solid stream — bitches with good pussy piss loud as fuck, and it do be sounding like you’re frying chicken.”

Your jaw drops. Aghast, you shake your wrist and smack his own hand against his leg. “Can you not comment on my pee, Toru?”

His twin smacks him upside the head. “Don’t call women bitches.”

He groans. “Does no one get the reference? Ugh, whatever. Just hurry up and wipe. I need to pee too.”

“Oh no.”

Both of your hands are connected to theirs… One of them’s going to have to get between your legs. When you look up at their suddenly stiff backs, you know they realised it too. 

Toru whistles low. “Who’s it gonna be, Second Year?”

“Why do I have to choose?” you ask, though you already know the answer. They’re basically asking you who you’re more comfortable with, and oddly, you don’t want to offend either of them. Is this your Sophie’s Choice?

Sato continues tapping away on his phone one-handedly. “Either one of us is fine to do it. It all depends on who you’d prefer — it’s not like we’re actually wiping for you.”

If you really had to choose, then…

Wriggling a specific hand, you shamefully mutter, “Can you do it with me?”

He sighs, and slacks his arm so you can pull your hand towards yourself. The twin has to bend down at the knee slightly, still looking away. He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. 

Through the whole thing, you’re cringing, cheeks flushed, and wanting the world to open up and consume you whole. Can this morning get worse? 

“Done,” you mumble, making sure no one’s looking at you. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sato mutters. 

On the other side, Toru grumbles so depressedly you can practically see a raincloud storming over his head, “Why didn’t you choose me? I’d be a good pussy wiper.”

More rises to your cheeks. You hurriedly pull your pants back up and flush. “No one was asking to wipe anyone’s…ahem. And the fact that you’re so eager is kinda the reason why I didn’t choose you.”

Toru raises his hands, and one of yours, in surrender. 

After you, they both take turns peeing. You look away, shutting your eyes tight for good measure. You even hum under your breath to distract from the sounds. Sato, you notice, clears his throat before he goes, whereas Toru mumbles some song lyrics. It sounds like Up by Cardi B. 

You hate that you’re hyper aware of every shuffle, every brush against you, every time their knuckles graze yours, and each breath they take.

The twins are hot.

Have you said that already?

Because they are. 

Maybe if they were uglier, more normal looking, you wouldn’t be so on edge.

And you know it’s wrong to think like that about strangers, but they are hot. Stupidly so. 

They’re the same height, with sharp jawlines and identical signet rings glinting on their pinkies. They’re definitely identical twins, but they look so different from each other, that with or without the glasses, you’d know who was who. Anyone would. 

Toru wears a white T-shirt with an arrow pointing upward and downwards ,and the words “Best Seats in the House” printed beneath it, whilst Sato has on glasses and a blue T-shirt layered over a grey long-sleeve, the front patterned with chemical symbols spelling out MoAN.

Toru is broader, his biceps visibly defined beneath the cotton, muscle pressing against the sleeves. The underside of his hair at the back is buzzed. He has a brow piercing. Sato, by contrast, is leaner, his frame slimmer and his hair longer and more shaggy. He’s still quite muscular in comparison to the Engineering students you’ve seen, which isn’t a fair comparison because most of the STEM guys you’ve met look like the stereotype. No offence to them.

Toru wears ripped light wash jeans that hang low on his hips, revealing a Calvin Klein band, and Sato’s the same except his are darker blue. Both jeans hug their asses perf—

No, bad.

Stop noticing things about them. 

After you get out of the cuffs, you’re never going to see them again, and it’ll be like this never happened. Don’t get attached. Don’t get too involved. Find the keys and skedaddle! 

The three of you wash your hands, taking turns to brush your teeth and wash your face, all awkwardly trying to shuffle with each other. It’s clumsy at first but you do eventually get a rhythm going. 

Eventually, you walk back out into the messy room, fresher and cleaner.

“We need to figure out what happened,” Sato states, brows furrowed. “If we got cuffed together during last night’s party, there’s a chance the key’s hanging around the frat house. We should look for it, jog our memories and retrace our steps.”

Toru scratches his stomach, revealing a flash of a white happy trail. His brother catches you looking. He cocks a brow. You snatch your gaze away. Toru says, “We won’t need to do all that — I think I know who did this to us.”

“Who?” you ask, louder than you intended.

He answers, grimacing, “A friend of ours. Sukuna. Well, friend’s a loose term. We’re frenemies, I guess. He’s funny, but he’s not the nicest guy around.” 

It’s a vaguely familiar name, but you know you’ve never met a Sukuna before. By the sound of Sato cursing, you get the impression that it’s not the name of a man who you’d be happy to find out has cuffed you to a stranger. And that makes you all the more desperate to get out of the way of whatever rivalry they have going on. 

“It’s a prank he likes to pull. He did it to Choso and a lamppost because the guy was giving family weed away for free to some girl, and that’s his literal cousin,” Toru explains. “If we gotta look anywhere, I think we should look at him.”

Smiling, you say, “That’s great! We have a solid plan.”

Sato glances down at you, not looking anywhere near as happy. Adjusting his glasses, he warns, “Sukuna’s an asshole. He’s not gonna be easy to get a hold of. Not to mention, if he did this to us, he must think we’ve done something wrong in his eyes, so he’ll be extra annoying.”

Much more cheerful in comparison, Toru throws an arm around his twin. “Now now, big bro. That’s not the spirit.”

They both look at you; one with a wide grin and the other with a deadpan expression. 

“We’ve got an adventure to go on — let’s have some fun.”

.

.

.

“Wait, you’re members of a frat?” you ask, marvelling at the two of them. 

What they’d said earlier only registered now, as you’re walking through campus, and now that you think about it, it explains why Toru has a room in the frat house in the first place.

Campus isn’t as busy as it usually is on the weekdays, which is good because it minimises the number of gawking you’re getting. Guess seeing three people cuffed together isn’t a very common occurrence, even in university. 

The three of you had decided to track down this Sukuna. Sato looked up something online and informed you that the wanted man’s a hockey player, and the team has practice right now, in preparation for tonight’s game. So you raced out of the thoroughly trashed frat house as soon as you could, wanting to make sure you could catch him, corner him, shake the key out of him all before noon. And before his whereabouts become unknown.

Toru shakes his head, and ruffles your hair. He’s quickly gotten quite familiar with you, not that you mind. “Nah, little lady. Only I am. Frat prez, actually,” he says, nodding proudly. “My brother here just comes along ‘cause he’s a party animal.”

Sato fixes him with a blank look. “I’m not a party animal. I attend these things because someone has to keep you out of trouble.”

Mischievously, Toru leans down to whisper in your ear, “He’s lying; he’s worse than me.” Then, he thinks for a second. “You’re not a frequent party goer, are you? I would have definitely seen you around before if you were.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not a party person. I just went last night because my friends insisted I go to at least one party this year, and after this, I don’t think I’ll be going to another one any time soon.”

Cuffs aside, the hangover you have is no joke and it’s enough to put you off partying forever. 

Toru petulantly whines. “No way! Don’t let this one weird experience give you a bad impression — my parties are legendary. You have to come again. I insist; I want to see you all drunk and stupid, and remember it.”

“Don’t peer pressure her,” Sato scolds before addressing you. “You should come over though. Party or no party. We’d definitely like to see you more. We can show you a good time.”

Their joint invite has your cheeks heating up. They just met you and they’ve already decided you were someone they’d want to hang out with again, and yeah, maybe they were just being nice, but it still had you all flustered. Especially because there seemed to be some hidden layer to the words ‘good time’; both of their eyes twinkled. 

Or maybe you imagined it.

On the way, about a thousand people stop to say hi to both Toru and Sato. The twins are clearly popular. 

It isn’t subtle, either. It’s not the polite nod-in-passing kind of recognition. People actually light up when they see them. Hands clap shoulders. Someone daps Toru up mid-stride. A girl across the quad calls Sato’s name flirtatiously. One even flashes both twins. Toru laughs. Even professors in suits, holding briefcases pause to exchange some words and inside jokes.

Toru grins wide and effortless, tossing out nicknames, bumping fists, slinging an arm around whoever gets close enough. Sato is smoother about it — a smaller smile, a tilt of his head, a few clever words that make people laugh just a second longer than necessary. 

No one even does more than glance at you. To their friends, you’re just another girl they’re in some dramatic predicament with. 

Between them, overshadowed by their popularity and fame, you feel out of your element. They’re definitely not the kind of people you could just casually befriend, not the kind of guys you would have ever spoken to, could have joined them casually for lunch, or schedule hang outs and know they’ll be there.

They’re just being polite to you, wanting to ease the discomfort of being cuffed to a complete stranger. 

Eventually, you reach the rink. You follow them inside, down hallways, past the people working there. You peek through the double doors and see a bunch of guys skating in full gear. It’s loud in the rink, the shape and emptiness of the stands reverberating the shouts and scrapes of skates on ice.

“Let’s go to the locker room whilst they’re there; we can go through his locker and his bag,” Sato suggests. 

The locker room?

Where men get changed and swing their dicks around?

Oh hell no.

“Wait— hold on.” You stop short so abruptly they nearly walk into you. Both of them turn, brows lifting in sync. You scramble for composure, heat creeping up your neck. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Toru squints. “Why not?”

Because I value my eyesight. Because I don’t need trauma today. Because I enjoy not being arrested.

You cross your arms, attempting dignity. “I can’t just walk into the men’s locker room.” They stare. You gesture vaguely, mortified. “I’m a girl?”

It comes out half question, half plea, like perhaps they’ve temporarily forgotten this extremely relevant detail.

Sato blinks. Toru looks down at you, then back at Sato.

“Oh,” Toru says slowly.

“Yes, oh,” you mutter.

The twins share a look.

Hands grip your wrists, dragging you inside despite your protests. They snicker together. You’re powerless against their strength, and you can’t even grip the doorway to pull yourself away because they’ve got control of your hands. Eyes shut tightly, you fumble in the dark, unable to resist their heavy, six foot tall bodies. 

Mustiness hits you as soon as the doors open, and you find your nose scrunching in disgust.  

One of them laughs. “No one’s here, Second Year. You’re good to open those pretty eyes.”

You swallow the nervous giggle down. Focus!

Eyes hesitantly open. 

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating long wooden benches scarred with skate marks and initials carved onto the surface. Open cubbies gape, stuffed to the brim with shoulder pads the size of riot shields, sweat-darkened jerseys, laces tangled in knots, and rolls of white athletic tape unraveling on the floor.

The place’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.

The air is thick — damp cotton, metal, cheap body spray failing miserably to mask the sour, unmistakable musk of hours spent skating in full gear. You’re careful not to touch anything unnecessary, lest you catch something.

“I’ll call his phone,” one of the twins says.

Ringing echoes through the empty locker room, bouncing against the metal benches and cubbies, and dirty towels and clothes haphazardly strewn around. God, men are disgusting. 

“Third row down,” the other twin mutters, following the sound.

Your Converse nearly land on a discarded compression shirt, and you jerk back like it might bite. You pass a rack of hockey sticks propped in the corner, tape chewed to shreds at the blades. A laundry bin overflows with damp towels. Someone’s half-empty protein shaker sits uncapped, abandoned, something beige and unidentifiable clinging to the sides.

“Found it,” the other twin says.

The phone vibrates inside an open locker wedged between a pair of shin guards and a crumpled practice jersey. His name is stitched above the number hanging on the hook — red fabric, white lettering, unmistakable.

You hover stiffly behind them, crossing your arms as though that will somehow shield you from the environment.

“See? No naked men swinging anything around,” Toru teases, swaying his hips at you.

“Shut up,” you groan, cheeks hot despite yourself. “This still feels wrong.”

Sato says, “You overthink too much.”

It’s not overthinking, you want to tell him. It’s the plain truth. The girls’ lockers are clean, tidy, and smell much nicer. Here, it feels humid, like you’ve strolled into Satan’s asshole. It’s fine for twins because they probably don’t know how good they could have it on the other side of things, and it’s not like anyone would bat an eye if the hockey team came back and they found them here.

Toru picks up a pair of boxers, making his brows dance at you, then throws it at his brother’s face.

He releases a disgusted sound, swiping it away. “Hilarious.”

They’re both looking. One in the locker, and the other in the bag he pulled out. As they do that, you ask Sato, “So you’re older?”

The twin with glasses nods. “By two minutes — best two minutes of my life.”

Toru says, “Ha. Ha. We both know the best two minutes of your life are when some poor girl lets you hit.”

“Better than your thirty second record.”

You laugh at their petty sibling rivalry. You admire how easily they could talk to each other, and to you, in spite of your situation, of how absurd this all is. It’s a thing to envy, you think. 

Pulling his head out of the musty locker, Toru looks down at you with a challenging smile. “You laughing at me, gorgeous? You think I can’t last longer than thirty seconds?”

Emboldened by the friendly atmosphere, you reply, “Proof’s in the pudding, isn’t it? If that’s your reputation, I’m sure there’s some truth to it.”

“Oh yeah?” He tugs, yanking you to his chest suddenly with the arm connected to yours. Hands steady your hips. Forcing your head to crane back to peer up at him, Toru grins down at you wolfishly, using his height advantage to intimidate you. “Care to let me prove you wrong?”

“I-I was just kidding,” you stammer out. “We need to focus and find the key.”

“I looked; couldn’t find it. Knowing how dedicated Sukuna is, he’s probably got it on him,” he responds, much more interested in something else now.

You gulp.

Heat covers your back. When fingers pinch your chin, keeping you from looking back, you realise the hands on your hips aren’t Toru’s. They’re Sato’s. 

They’ve got you sandwiched between them, leaving you with no place to go. Out of nowhere, the air has turned even more heated, almost suffocating. It renders you dizzy.

Sato whispers in your ear, lips grazing your ear, “Don’t be rude, Anthro. You told him ‘proof’s in the pudding,’ no? You gonna upset my baby brother by turning back on your words?”

The brother in question’s bending down slowly, teasing you by not quite touching your lips. Meanwhile, someone’s nose is running down the length of your neck, sending your hairs standing on edge. 

What the hell is happening?

Why are firm hands gripping you, lips brushing your skin, eyes watching your every move, hard bodies squeezing you till you’re panting? And why are you not stopping them? Why are you tingling between your legs?

Noises come from outside.

You all still.

They curse under their breath, scrambling off into the showers. 

At the furthest stall, you hide, eyes wide and a hand pressing down on your own over your mouth. Thunderous feet march in. A ruckus enters. The hockey team’s finished with their practice, and you could be caught at any second. Imagine the scandal if they found you between two guys.

Voices bounce off tile and metal lockers, loud and unfiltered.

“Bro, you call that a shot? My grandma could block that.”

“Shut up, you whiffed the puck twice.”

“Suck my balls, Rogers.”

“Gladly, Barnes.”

A bag hits the floor with a heavy thud. Lockers clang open in sharp succession. The sharp scent of sweat and ice drifts through the humid air.

“Who forgot to wash their jersey? It smells like death in here.”

“Pretty sure that’s just you.”

Laughter erupts — loud, careless, echoing. Someone yelps when a towel snaps against skin.

You squeeze your eyes shut as sneakers squeak across tile, as jerseys are peeled off and tossed aside, as the easy, post-practice chaos unfolds only a few feet away. They’re too close. Way too close.

Oh god, they’re all probably butt naked just metres away from you. 

How did things manage to go from bad to worse?

“Don’t make a sound,” Toru whispers, panicked. “The hockey guys cannot catch us here; they’re still mad from the time when we filled up their lockers with shaving cream and glitter, which they need to get over. It’s been days.”

“Pretty sure it’s because we’ve taken quite a few of their girlfriends,” Sato says under his breath. 

“It’s not even ‘taking’ when they seek us out. Like anyone would say no to puck bunny pussy.”

“You’re both fucking disgusting,” you hiss. They’re just as sleazy as any guy on campus, it’d seem. The only difference is that they hide behind their handsome faces. 

You’re leaning on Toru  as he presses himself tightly against the tiles, ducking down so they won’t spot his white hair from above the stall, all while Sato’s leaning on you, pushing in so his back won’t protrude. 

Packed like sardines, you’re aware of their hard muscles, of their much bigger sizes, and the ridges of their abs. The frat president can probably feel your tits on him, whilst the Engineering student can feel your ass on his crotch. Something hard pokes your stomach at the same time as something equally hard and hot slot right in between your ass cheeks again.

Lord, take me now, you pray, desperate for relief from the humiliation.

A leg slots between yours. You gasp. It’s Toru’s, but one look at his face and anyone would think you’re just imagining it. Don’t move, you tell yourself. Do not start riding his thigh even if you want to.

Sato pushes his hips forward, and consequently yours. You gasp. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice husky in your ear. “Got an itch you wanna scratch?”

Toru flexes his thigh, bumping hard against your clothed slit. You bite back your moan, wholly aware of the boyish laughter and shouting on the other side. He says, “If you gotta scratch, you gotta scratch, right?” 

They definitely know what they’re doing. Manwhores like them always know.

Laying it on thicker, the frat president whispers, “Don’t hesitate; use me. Go on, Second year. Make my day.”

The twins are urging you to ride his thigh, pushing and pulling. Neither of them care about getting caught, not really. You had initially thought Toru would be the biggest danger, what with his outgoing and flirtatious personality, but Sato’s just as bad as him; he’s guiding your hips with his own, hand sliding up your leg to creep under your skirt.

They’re twins from hell. 

Someone flicks your nipples through your shirt. You slump back onto Sato’s chest, breathing heavily as your hips grind on a muscular thigh. 

How did things come to this?

And why are you getting swept up in all of it?

“She’s so pretty, isn’t she, Sato?” 

“Stunning,” he replies. His hand tugs you down, making sure you’re grinding real good on his brother’s thigh. “How does her pussy feel?”

“Warm, and getting wetter. Fuck, it’d be so much better if she wasn’t wearing panties.” He directs his words to you, muttering, “How about it, angel? Gonna let me feel your pussy?”

“There’s people,” you gasp out, growing closer and closer to your end. This is so degrading — they’re watching you ride his thigh all on your own, watching you thrust your chest out, and squirm between them like some whore.

One of them smirks. “So if there weren’t people, you’d readily give me access? Dirty girl. Isn’t she dirty, Sato?”

“Downright filthy.”

When you shudder, someone slaps a hand over your mouth just in time to muffle your moan. Oh fuck you’re cumming on Toru’s thigh, a man you only met this morning, riding the muscle like it’s your pillow. Tomorrow, when you’re hopefully free and no longer attached to them, you’re totally going to want to never see them again.

Finally, you flop, twitching with the final waves of your orgasm. 

Your head’s patted. “Well done. You were very brave.”

You smack it away, and grouch, “That was underhanded, you guys.”

“You enjoyed it, Anthro,” Sato points out, and steps back, steadying you. He peers over, and nods. “Coast’s clear. But that means Sukuna’s gone.”

Simultaneously, your eyes land on the wet spot you left behind on Toru’s jeans. He presses down on it, then sucks the pads of his fingers, winking at you. You look away immediately, wanting to cringe at yourself. Voice shaky, whether from stress or from your orgasm, you wonder, “So what are we gonna do now?”

“We’ll have to ask around for where he’ll be,” Sato replies. “Lay it on him good and intimidate him into giving up this stupid prank of his.”

Frowning, you follow them out of the locker room, adjusting your skirt. “Can’t we just go straight to the fire station? Do we have to go on this wild goose chase?”

Toru fake pouts, and puts a hand over his heart. “You tired of us, little lady? Hate us already? Oh, we’re just terrible, aren’t we, Sato?”

“The worst.”

“No, no,” you hurriedly deny. “It’s not that. You guys are great.”

He beams, stringing his arm over yours and forcing yours to hang loosely from your shoulder.

“Then it’s decided — we’re chasing after our Sukuna goose!”

And once again, you’re left with no choice but to do as they say.

.

.

.

After texting some mutual friends for where Sukuna might be, the three of you wind up at his apartment building. The twins have been trying to get ahold of the man, to no avail. It seems he’s intent on forcing all of you to ride out his cruel prank. 

You texted your friends, trying to find out what exactly happened last night that might make this Sukuna person hate you enough to do this. You’re just some random girl, why would you be involved in the beef of some pretty well known guys?

They told you that they didn’t see you much at all during the party, that some time after arriving together, you disappeared and was only seen here and there, dancing and having a pretty good time with — and this is the really surprising part — both the twins, at different times. 

Videos and pictures were shared to you: you’d be in the background, always with a drink in your hand, smiling like you’ve never smiled before, and flanked by one of the twins almost all the time. The videos seem to be earlier in the night. No cuffs in sight. There’s definitely videos from later in the night, but the people who took them haven’t woken up yet.

“So we were hanging out a lot last night, huh?”

Sato makes a face that says, guess so, whilst Toru whistles an impressed tune. The latter jokingly says, “We’re meant to be, Second year.”

“Seven of the eleven pictures were of me and her,” his twin points out. 

“So? That’s just a one picture difference!”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Her ass on my dick helped me sleep last night,” Toru fires back, clutching your hand and bringing it up to his face so he can lay a kiss on your knuckles with a wink. 

Sato yanks you towards him, and you stumble his way in the narrow hallway. He licks the palm of your hand, one upping his brother. 

Face burning, you shove both of them back. “Can you guys stop? We need to work out what happened last night — how did we all get so drunk that we don’t remember how we ended up cuffed and in bed together?” Then, you frown. “We…we didn’t sleep together, did we?”

That was actually a question you’ve had since this morning, but you’d shrugged it off as being an impossibility. There’s no way two hot twins would want you, nevermind share a woman. However, after that little stunt in the locker room, you’re starting to wonder.

The frat twin laughs. “That’s cute. Isn’t she cute, Sato?”

“Adorable.”

They’re both laughing at you, and it’s irritating. Aggrieved, you ask, “What’s so funny? I don’t think it’s a ridiculous question to ask considering we woke up in the same bed with no memory of last night.”

Toru lifts his arm, and yours, rustling your hair with your own hand. “Babe, if you slept with me, you’d never forget. Trust.”

“Your mind could forget, sure, but your pussy wouldn’t; she’d still be feeling with me,” Sato says, matter-of-factly. His bright, all-seeing eyes flit down to the apex of your thighs as you walk, and you have to resist the urge to squeeze them together. 

Damn.

“Hey, we’re here — 666.” He snickers to himself, thoroughly amused. Toru nudges you. “Fitting, amirite?”

Before he could knock on, you stop him. “What are we gonna do if he’s in? Are you guys going to fight him?”

Sato drawls, “You watch too many movies, Anthro; we’re just going to ask him to give us the key. Sukuna’s an asshole but he’s not the kind to drag a joke on.”

“Yeah, he probably just forgot in the first place,” his twin added. 

“Oh.”

That makes sense. There’s no need to get violent. The prank’s not that harmful, you suppose.

They knock. You wait. No one answers.

“Is he not in?”

Toru tries the doorknob. The door opens. You all share a look. That feels pretty fucking ominous, like a trap laid out for you. “We’re not going in, are we?” you ask, looking up and down the hallway in case someone catches you three trespassing, or is it breaking and entering?

Whatever it is, it’s going to end you up in prison.

Lips graze the shell of your ear as someone whispers, “Scared of entering the devil’s domain with us? Think we’re going to eat you up? Hmm?”

“If you behave, we will,” someone else rasps at the back of your neck. 

“Stop fucking around,” you reply, flustered by the tingles erupting where they touched you. 

A hand presses in at the small of your back, and as the door’s opened, one of them chirps, “In you go, angel!”

You stumble inside, held up from falling only by the dense weight of two men chuckling at the little yelp you release. 

The door clicks shut behind you.

For a second, you all just stand there.

Sukuna’s apartment is…exactly what you’d expect, and simultaneously worse — just aggressively, unapologetically male.

A pair of hockey skates sits abandoned by the entrance, laces trailing like shed snakeskin. A duffel bag, half unzipped, spills tape rolls, spare socks, and a mouthguard case onto the hardwood floor. The faint smell of detergent battles unsuccessfully with sweat and something woodsy, his cologne, probably, clinging to the air.

The living room is small but decent — a worn leather couch with a throw blanket tossed carelessly over one arm, a low coffee table cluttered with protein bars, a TV remote, a half-empty Gatorade bottle, and a stack of lecture notes weighed down by a puck. His backpack is slumped against the couch, as though it gave up halfway through being put away.

On one wall: framed team photos. A hockey stick mounted horizontally. A couple of medals draped over the corner of the frame, like it hardly matters to him.

The kitchen is visible from where you stand. Open plan. Dishes in the sink. Not stacked to the ceiling, but definitely past ‘I’ll wash them later’ territory. A frying pan left out on the stove. A carton of eggs on the counter. A magnetic whiteboard on the fridge with scribbled practice times and what looks like a grocery list that just says: milk, rice, jerk off 3:37pm.

Weirdly specific, but okay.

You all step further in, handcuffs clinking obnoxiously between you. The fuzz tinkles your wrist every time one of them moves too abruptly, and it’s soothed by the brushing of knuckles and the rubbing of shapes by thumbs.

“Maybe he left the key here,” one twin says, scanning. “Let’s have a look around.”

As a unit, the three of you shuffle around. Drawers are opened. Closed. A quick glance under couch cushions. You check the kitchen counter with your free hand, careful not to knock over the precarious tower of mail.

The apartment is messy but lived-in. No mysterious stains. No broken furniture. Just a college athlete who does not evidently prioritise tidiness. 

Then—

Voices. From the hallway. Muffled at first: “…you said you were done with her—”

The three of you freeze.

“And I am,” comes the unmistakable low, irritated drawl.

“Oh really? Explain to me why I found her panties in your car!”

“They’re yours.”

“Shut the fuck up. I don’t wear blue thongs. I only wear white.”

“Ain’t nothing white and pure about you.”

“Fuck you!”

Your stomach drops.

It sounds like a lovers’ quarrel. You don’t know this Sukuna very well, or at all, but you’re one hundred percent sure he would not be fine seeing you guys in his place when he’s fighting with his girlfriend. 

Keys jangle outside.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

“Closet,” Sato hisses.

You don’t argue.

They yank you down the short hallway toward what you assume is the bedroom. The space is larger than you expect — unmade bed, sheets twisted, a jersey tossed over the desk chair. His cologne bottle sits uncapped near the nightstand. A lamp. A stack of textbooks. A charging cable trailing off the mattress like something that gave up halfway. But there’s no time to be psychoanalysing this man’s bedroom.

The front door opens.

“You said that last time!” the woman snaps, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.

You’re shoved toward the sliding closet door. It opens with a soft scrape. Inside: hanging shirts, mostly dark. Hoodies. A winter coat. Shoe boxes stacked on one side. A laundry basket half-full.

“All of us?” you hiss.

“Got a better idea?”

The door slides shut just as footsteps enter the bedroom.

You’re crushed instantly. Back against the wall. Toru in front of you. Sato practically plastered behind. The handcuffs force you closer than is remotely comfortable. Someone’s arm is wedged between your ribs and a stack of shoeboxes. A coat hanger digs into your shoulder. How are you back in this position again? 

Outside, the argument spills into the room.

“I’m not doing this,” Sukuna says flatly.

“You never do anything! You just— god, you’re impossible!”

A thud. Maybe something dropped on the bed. You hold your breath. Another thud. The mattress creaks. No, please don’t, you beg. 

“You knew what this was,” he says, voice colder now.

“And what is it?” she demands.

Silence stretches. You can feel Toru’s heartbeat through his chest where you’re practically pressed against him. Or maybe it’s yours. The handcuffs shift as someone adjusts their balance. The metal clinks. Loud.

All four of you freeze again.

“…what was that?” the woman asks.

You don’t breathe. Not a single one of you moves.

Sukuna’s footsteps approach. The closet door handle rattles lightly as if tested. Your heart actually stops. Like medically dead stops. Then—

A scoff.

“Probably the pipes,” he mutters dismissively. Footsteps retreat. The argument resumes, lower now. Tense. 

Inside the closet, you’re still crammed together like contraband. One twin’s breath ghosts across your temple. “If you make another sound,” he whispers so quietly it barely exists, “I’m framing you as the girl with the blue thong.”

You would elbow him if you had the space. It wasn’t even you!

Instead, you stay very, very still.

Their masculine scents engulf you. One of them smells like tacky aftershave done right, somehow, and the other is clean laundry. Both are intoxicating, as is the heat they exude which has you flushing in the cramped space. 

It’s tight and cramped here. You barely have room to breathe, barely have room for your lungs to expand. And you’re pretty sure you’re standing on someone’s foot, though no one complains. As slowly and carefully as you can, you adjust yourself, grimacing at the tightness and darkness in the closet.

“Stop squirming,” Toru pleads. When you glance at him, he’s staring up, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“What?” 

Sato whispers in your ear, “You’re making him pop a boner. Me too. Nobody tell you it’s rude to get a guy hard and not do something about it?”

“They’re right outside,” you whisper back. “Even if I wanted to, we couldn’t do anything.”

A thumb flicks your nipple. Your moan is stifled by a hand to your mouth. Toru says, and in the darkness of the closet you can hear his grin, “Oh, but you want to, don’t you. You want to so bad. I bet feeling us up like this, knowing you can get caught, is making your little kitty purr.”

“Little kitty? Seriously?”

“Shut up, Sato. Maybe if you said it more, you’d get laid as often as I do.”

“I get laid plenty, asshole.”

“Shut up both of you,” you fire back at the two of them, ear craning to hear what’s happening outside.  There’s no more arguing, which is a good sign, but there’s definitely signs of life, which isn’t a good sign; they’re still here. You can hear talking, hushed and intimate, as well as rhythmic creaking. 

Oh no. 

“Damn,” Toru says under his breath. “Ryomen’s fucking his girl. Guess I’ll finally be able to settle my bed with Fushiguro — does the psycho last longer than thirty seconds? Any takers?”

No one replies to him.

Through your breathing, you can’t help but listen to the sounds of moaning and groaning. There’s even some slapping involved, and a couple, ‘you like that?’, ‘you’re making a mess all over my cock, you little slut,’ and ‘picking a fight just to cum, you ain’t slick.’

That Sukuna guy is an aggressive one. 

“Is it weird to say, given our situation, that I think it’s nice that they’re so in love and can easily resolve their problems?” you say, as quietly as you can.

Both twins snort.

“They ain’t in love, Second year. They’re just horny and toxic, which makes for a great combo. And if I recognise the voice right, then that’s Cassie. She’s a mess, no offence to her. She likes stealing her friend’s man. Great tits though.”

“She’s just another girl in his roster; Sukuna doesn’t date. Not unless pigs are airborn.”

“Oh.”

The three of you are breathing heavily, constantly brushing up against each other. Toru’s shirt is scraping your hardened nipples through your shirt. Your ass is grinding behind you. Hands are gripping your hips under your skirt as another set sneaks under your top, clutching your waist and climbing higher and higher till it’s just about grazing the underside of your tits.

Is it the uninhibited moaning outside?

Or the masculine scent you’re enveloped in?

What’s got you so hot and bothered, squirming between them, whining to be touched?

A hand grips your hip, pulling you back. A hot thing hangs heavy behind you. Your breath hitches. Meanwhile, lips press to your temple, then to your cheek, and finally your lips. 

Toru doesn’t kiss you. Not yet. He first whispers, “Been wanting to do this since this morning.” Then he kisses you. It’s sweet, soft, and gentle. It gives you butterflies. A metallic thing scrapes your bottom lip, and when you gasp, he’s quick to explain, “Just my tongue piercing, babe. You’ll get used to it. Soon’ll be getting to feel it against your clit, trust.”

Something long and hard slides itself between your thighs. You stiffen. 

“What? Did you think I was gonna let my brother have all the fun?” Sato’s hands are gripping your bare hips, pulling you back and forth on his cock, which he ruts right up against your panties, cockhead prodding your clothed clit.

Panicking a little, you voice out, “What if they hear us?”

“You don’t want to be caught, Anthro? You better keep quiet then.”

One of them grope your tits, tweaking the hardened buds through your shirt, carrying your hand with his. You twitch with every flick, every scratch of a nail, and every pinch. Toru swallows your moans, greedily gulping them down. You really are getting used to the tongue piercing; it’s an addictive sensation against your own tongue. 

The heat between your legs is almost scalding, and the way it separates your pussy lips, greeting your throbbing clit on its way forward, has your hips working back in tandem. 

“Good girl,” one of them mutters.

The veins on the cock are felt by your sensitive skin. God, he’s big. Like really big. Would Toru be big too? Could you take any of their cocks? Both of them? Is that too filthy to think about?

Outside, a feminine voice calls out, “Ngh! Sukuna, right there! Harder, baby, please!”

“Don’t call me baby, you whore. Just take my cock and be quiet.”

You won’t admit it to anyone, but the sounds of skin slapping, headboard banging, and wanton screaming are getting to you. They’re setting the mood, and you’re growing less and less ashamed of the fact that you’re being thighfucked by one of the Gojo twins as the other shoves his tongue down your throat and squeezes your tits. 

This is even filthier than in the locker room. More lewd. Obscene. 

You’re rubbing yourself all over twins in a closet, hiding, and trespassing whilst the owner of the place is fucking his girl, and they don’t have a clue. If this is how parties end, then you might be inclined to attend another one of theirs.

“S-sato,” you whimper to his brother’s lips, “I’m gonna cum.”

“Fuck, me too.”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

Full body shudders wrack you. You clutch Toru’s stupid t-shirt, hips stuttering, and juices soaking your panties. Thighs tightening in pulses with the strain of your muscles, you wring groans from Sato right into your ear. 

“Shit, don’t cum all over me,” Toru hastily says, before picking up a random shirt off the hanger and shoving it between your legs just in time as Sato’s cock pulses in waves. “Ugh, that’s disgusting.”

“Thanks,” his twin mumbles, lifting your hand to his face. You fix his glasses for him, pushing it back up his nose bridge. 

“Where are you going now?” the girl asks, voice slightly muted by the barriers between you and her.

Bed creaking before feet pad on the floor, Sukuna answers, “Gotta stop by the ADP.” Silence. “Alpha Delta Phi? Gojo’s frat? Jesus, do you know anything other than how to bounce on cock? Forget it. I just need to go pick something up. Let yourself out whenever, but don’t be back here tonight. I’m having the boys over.”

“Oh, please, we both know that’s just code for having your other girl over.”

“Well if you know, then why bother playing coy about it. Yeah, I’m fucking other women, just like you’re fucking other guys. I don’t care and neither should you. Take a shower, nap, or whatever the fuck you want. Just don’t be here when I get back.”

“Fuck you.”

“You just did, sweetheart.”

Feet pad away and full silence returns to the room. In the distance, a door shuts. You all breathe out a sigh of relief, shoulders dropping. 

“What an asshole,” you say, pushing the closet door open for fresh air. 

“Told you,” the twins say in unison. 

The bed’s been left a mess, with a huge wet patch at the centre that you don’t want to focus too much on. Sato’s tucked himself back in his jeans expertly, and you’d think he’d never taken anything out in the first place. 

“Oi, Sato, lift her up for me.”

Sighing, the guy grumbles before lifting you by the back of your thighs. You fall back on his chest, head resting on his shoulder. Legs wide open, Toru kneels between them, grinning up at you. He winks, poking the wet spot you’ve made in your panties. 

“What’re you doing?” you ask, startled.

Toru shrugs, pulling your panties aside. He takes a deep inhale, nose skimming and coming back all glossy. “Just wondering what you taste like that. You both got to cum, so it’s only fair I get a little something too, no?”

“It’s logical. Practically a faultless argument,” Sato concurs, leaving a kiss on your heated cheeks to reassure you. “Don’t worry; he won’t bite.” A little hushed and more mischievous, he adds, “Not like me.”

Naturally, that does nothing to wash away the embarrassment of his twin being face to face with your puffy pussy. 

His smooth hands soothe the tremor in your thighs. “Just a taste, gorgeous. To tide me over till we make it back to the frat house to catch Sukuna. Besides, I want you to get comfortable with my tongue piercing.” 

He pecks your clit, then takes a longer lick of your pussy. You gasp, hands kept down by your sides by their own and unable to push him away. Toru is as unashamed as ever, shoving his whole face in your cunt and forcing squelches out when he tongues your entrance. 

“W-we’re going back to the -ngh!- frat house?”

Sato hums, seemingly unbothered by any of what’s going on. It might as well be any other Saturday. “We have to catch him there; I don’t want to spend the rest of my day chasing after him, when I could be buried inside your pussy.”

SLURRRRRP!

You cry out, toes curling. 

“So sweet,” the twin down there moans. “You gotta taste her, Sato.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, idiot,” he scolds. “And hurry up.”

“Quit telling me what to do — I like taking my time with good pussy, sorry.”

“Toru!”

Cooing, he mutters an apology to your cunt. “Aw, sorry, babe. Don’t mean to neglect you. Don’t worry, Toru’s here. Toru’s gonna make you feel so good, better than my brother’s tiny ass dick, I promise.”

Said brother scoffs. 

But you don’t care about their unnecessary competition. You can only focus on the jolts of electricity zooming from your pussy and exploding in your belly. You’ve never been eaten out so good, and not with a piercing you’re painfully aware rubbing just right through your puffy folds. It rolls against your clit. You moan.

“Feel good?” Toru asks, all smug. “Got the idea from our piercer friend. It’s a real hit with the ladies.”

You frown. “It’s impolite to talk about -hah fuck that’s good- o-other women when you’re between someone’s legs.”

Sato kisses your cheek again, and approvingly inserts, “Put him in his place, baby. Been trying to teach him manners since we were born and he never listens to me. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

“Quit talking about me like I’m some kind of dog,” Toru grumbles.

“Then quit acting like it,” you bravely snap, possessed by the desperate need to chase another high. “Make me cum already, before I ask your brother to do it instead.”

Another kiss, this time punctuated by a chuckle. “

“Kitty’s got claws. That’s fucking hot.”

Lips wrap around your clit, which is still sensitive from the incessant rubbing of Sato’s cock. That’s why when he finally sucks hard on the little thing, you cum again way too quickly. “Fuck, Toru!”

“Mm, that’s right, baby, ride my face and my tongue.”

Through your writhing and squirming, Sato holds you up, bearing your weight with ease, all while Toru laps up the juices oozing out of your pussy, like a puppy, like a man in a dessert. 

That’s three orgasms all in less than an hour. It’s a new record for you, which means your body isn’t used to it. On shaky legs, you’re set down. They hold you up, preventing you from collapsing on the floor. 

One of them ruffles your hair. “You did such a great job, Second year. We’re almost at the finish line, think you can manage a slight jog back to the frat house?”

How are they so chill? How can they act like nothing happened? There’s not even a single wrinkle on their shirts, whereas you look and feel like a mess. 

“Y-yeah,” you mumble, dazed and still experiencing waves of an orgasm that wasn’t supposed to happen so suddenly. 

Sato nods, pulling your panties back into place and patting your pussy. “We know a shortcut — it’ll give us at least fifteen minutes ahead of Sukuna. More if he gets distracted and walks slowly.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

.

.

.

“Oh my god…” you breathe out, staring at your phone. “I was dancing on a table?”

More videos and pictures are surfacing online now that the partygoers are waking up and getting over their splitting headache. And damn it, you wish they hadn’t.

Leaning over, Toru whistles. “That’s fucking hot. It reminds me of when my frat brothers hired strippers for my birthday, except your dancing is so much better.”

You elbow the little kiss up. “We both know that’s a lie. I’m dancing like a drugged up chimpanzee.”

“Like an unstable gas, just shaking about the place,” Sato adds. When Toru and you give him a look, a blush graces his cheeks. He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “So he can talk about strippers but I can’t mention anything related to the periodic table?”

That was a slip of his cocky façade, and it brings a smile to your lips.

He rolls his eyes at your look of adoration. Glancing at the screen, he says, “We didn’t have the cuffs then, and that was probably about midnight. Our parties typically end at 3 am, with some people lingering even later. So between then and 3am, Sukuna had slipped cuffs on us.”

“Do you think he drugged us too?” you wonder, speedwalking along the back of a building you’ve never visited on campus. “I mean, I’m just not the type to get black out drunk.”

It’s awful to suggest Sukuna, a man you’ve never met before, would be the type to spike peoples’ drinks, but it would certainly explain things. 

Toru shakes his head, running a hand through his messy hair. “I wouldn’t put it past him to slip us something that makes us more susceptible to doing stupid shit. Though, honestly, looking at how I’m twerking on my pledge, Itadori, I don’t think I needed anything more to get black out.”

“That’s just how you are naturally,” his twin snarks. 

To that, the frat guy laughs in disbelief. “You’re one to talk considering we have five videos of you writing equations on the entirety of the basketball team’s backs and yapping their ears off about Digimon, which you only do after the eleventh shot. Shots, mind you, you hate but never pass down.”

“Only ‘cause I need alcohol to survive your stupid parties,” Sato fires back. 

“Parties you enjoy!”

“Alright, alright, that’s enough, boys. Let’s just agree we all got messy on our own,” you establish, feeling like the two are way too close to tearing each other apart.

When you reach the frat house, Sato opens the door for you. Does no one lock their doors on campus?

You didn’t notice it in your rush to get out of the house earlier, how big and beautiful the house is. It’s old, ornately decorated with impeccable wooden floors and portraits hanging on walls. Of course, there are thongs, bras, streamers, limp balloons, used condoms strung all over the place, and there’s empty cans of beer and bottles of alcohol just lying about. But beneath all of the grime of a party done well lies a gorgeous home. 

Cleaners flit about the place, collecting trash and mopping floors. 

“Perk of living in a frat,” Toru proudly declares, “we never have to clean up after ourselves.”

“That is pretty cool,” you agree. 

Sato huffs. “It’s insanely privileged. And intrusive. I much prefer not having strangers constantly leaving their traces in my home.”

The three of you gracefully ascend the stairs, avoiding mysterious wet puddles and stains you didn’t want to think too much about. Sukuna doesn’t seem to be here, so they were right about the shortcut.

“So you live on your own?” you ask him, nodding a thank you to Toru who carries you over a stack of bottles. 

“Yeah, but we’re over at each other’s places so often we might as well not be.”

You giggle. “That’s so cute. You two just need to be together all the time, huh?”

Toru punches his brother’s arm over your head. “She’s laughing at us, Sato. She thinks we’re pathetic and psychotically close.”

“I promise, it’s only circumstance that keeps bringing us together,” Sato dryly says. “If I had it my way, I’d have said good riddance to him a long time ago.”

“My sentiment exactly — pretty sure I tried to eat you in the womb and that’s why you’re so ugly.”

A laugh escapes you.

Eventually, you reach their bedroom. 

Right back where you started.

Smiling, you say, “It’s funny that we did all that work just to end up back here because Sukuna was always coming by, isn’t it? Quite ironic actually.”

The door shuts behind you. 

“Look, Toru,” a dark voice coos, “she doesn’t know she’s about to be fucked an inch of her life.”

“I know,” an equally dark voice agrees. “I can’t get over how stinkin’ cute she is. Makes me wanna just eat her out till she faints. Think she’ll let me?”

“I think she’s been soaked the whole day and at this point she’ll let us do anything we want…isn’t that right, Anthro?”

The hairs on your arms stand on edge. Two foreboding presences flank you, reminding you that there’s no where you can go that they won’t follow, that you’re stuck with them for good, and that you couldn’t hope to fight them off even if you wanted to. Your panties might as well not be there by how your wetness is trickling down your thighs.

They drag you down onto the bed with them. 

Hands make quick work of your clothes: they pull down your skirt, taking your panties with them, they yank your shoes and socks off, and one of them even grabs scissors to cut right through the shirt before you can say anything. The metal grazes your skin, slicing right between your tits. 

“Wait, wait,” you yell, overwhelmed by the suddenness of their actions. “Sukuna! Sukuna’s coming.”

Sato says, “Not for twenty minutes — one of my friends said they saw him stop by the Student Council office.”

“Probably going to bother the Prez,” Toru snickers, pressing your panties to his nose and moaning. “Fuck, I love the way your pussy smells. The dirtier the better.”

Heat rises to your cheeks immediately, and you fall back onto Sato’s lap. He licks a stripe up your neck. “My brother’s got weird tastes. Forgive him, angel. He’s just born weird. I like to say I took all the brains in the womb.”

Toru snorts, throwing aside all your shredded clothes. “Sure, let’s pretend I haven’t had chicks crying to me about how you’re so mean to them, asking for me to be the nice twin.” 

The three of you kneel on the bed together, cuffs clinking when they clash, the pink fluff tickling skin. They’re both still dressed. You feel Sato’s jeans scratching your skin, the metal zip rubbing right up against your pussy, and Toru’s silly ‘Best Seats’ shirt grazing your nose as he towers over you. 

He brings up the hem, biting it, revealing washboard abs. You blink at it.

He says, “Lick it, Second year. Go on.” Hesitating, you run your tongue over his torso, starting from the white treasure trail, over his outie belly button, then his abs, and his chest. Of course he knows he has an impressive body. It’s important he knows you know that too; it’s an ego boost for him. “Such a good girl,” he coos. “I’ll be sure to fuck you real good as a reward.”

“Not until I’m done,” Sato argues. “I’m older so I get first dibs.”

His long fingers are parting your pussy lips, grinding his zipper up and bumping it against your clit. The texture’s weird, and wild, and it has you heaving, no doubt leaving behind your slick all over the metal teeth. 

Gripping your face with his free hand, Sato kisses you for the first time. He’s got your neck twisted back, the wetness of your pussy smearing on your skin. There’s no piercing, only a minty taste that you’re obsessed with. It’s messier, filthier, all tongue and spit, so different from how his brother kisses. 

You’re dragged back, and lips quickly replace Sato’s. That familiar piercing returns. You’re stolen back again. Then again. And again. They’re fighting over who gets to kiss you. You’re dizzy, breathless, creaming for more.

“Quit taking her,” Toru growls. 

“Fuck off,” Sato snarls. “Just sit there and look away. Three’s a crowd.”

“It’s not fair. You’re already getting to fuck her pussy first.”

“Oh? You’re so easy to give up?” He whispers in your ear, all smug, “My brother’s a pushover. Bet it turns you way off, doesn’t it? It’s alright, angel, you can tell him to back off. It’ll just be you and me, won’t that be nice?”

Fingers coat themselves in your pussy juice, rubbing your clit nice and good before pushing inside your pulsing hole. “No, babe, tell the nerd he can fuck off and go research where the clit even is. I’ll fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk away from my bed even when the cuffs are off.”

Neither of them will actually give up, no matter what you say, you know that. So you say, “Both of you. I want to be fucked by both of you. Please!”

“She’s so polite. Isn’t she polite, Sato?”

“Perfectly so.”

If someone had told you you’d be shared by twins in a frat house, you’d have called the police for harassment. Now, as you’ve said those words and they sigh and begrudgingly agree to allow the other to be here, you think this was inevitable.

Toru creeps back, working on his zip and freeing his hard cock. A hand shoves your face forward. If it isn’t for Sato holding you up, you’d be face planting into the sheets. 

“A-are you sure Sukuna won’t catch us?”

Fingers push in, scissoring your cunt and prepping your walls. They cruelly curl up against your g-spot. “You think she’s trying to piss us off by mentioning another man’s name, Toru?”

“I think it doesn’t matter — she’s gonna forget there’s anyone else outside these walls when I’m through with her.”

Right in front of you, Toru strokes his dick. It’s pale, flushed red at the tip and already leaking. He’s trimmed neatly. There’s even a tattoo on his hip that says ‘Lucky You ;)’

Your mouth waters. 

The salty pre is smeared on your lips. He taps it, once, then twice. “Say ahh, babe.”

Behind you, something pokes your pussy. It slides between your thighs again, spreading your juices on your skin. It enters you, inch by inch, slowly, making you feel every bit of him.

At the same time, Toru’s cock pushes through, filling your mouth. Both ends have to stretch wide to accommodate them. Already, you’re overwhelmed, overstimulated, over the fucking moon at being used so lewdly. Your friends are never going to believe how you spent your Saturday, and your future kids will never know just how wild their mother got back in college.

Soon, they bottom out, and it’s a miracle you’ve been able to take both of them at the same time. 

“Damn, what a talented fucking mouth,” Toru breathes out, head thrown back. “A star for you, Second year.”

“You should feel her pussy,” Sato grits out, fingers digging into the plush of your ass with the strain of resisting the urge to thrust over and over again in your cunt. “It’s the tightest thing ever.”

His brother groans. “Shut the fuck up, dude. I can’t stand hearing your voice. Respectfully. You’re ruining this for me.”

“Grow up.”

In tandem, they rut back and forth, starting off in small bursts first to let you get used to it, then steadily growing faster and faster. You’re basically being used as as fleshlight, fucked in the way they want, with little regard for how uncomfortably stretched out and twisted you are. And it feels amazing.

But…

Why does Sato’s cock feel so different?

Your cunt clenches down on it. He grunts, then chuckles. “You’re wondering what’s on my dick, aren’t you? It’s a piercing baby. Thought only Toru has one? Didn’t expect it from me, did you? You feel it scraping your walls? Feel me deep inside your perfect pussy?” 

And you can. You can feel exactly where he is, how deep he’s in, how satisfied your gummy walls are to feel something so big stretching you out, like a feeding a sacrifice to a hungry god.

You moan around Toru’s dick. He grunts. “Fuck, babe! You’re gonna make me cum early.”

“Pathetic,” Sato mutters.  A cold wetness lands with a thwack right on your puckering hole. You jerk. “Relax. Just trust me.” A thumb circles the hole, pushing in only knuckle deep yet it’s more than enough to have you feeling insanely full. “If we had more time, then I’d prep this tight hole to take me. This’ll have to do.”

Sato’s an ass guy?

Are you?

It’s never occurred to you to play in that other hole, though as he hooks his thumb in, you start to think you’ve been missing out this entire time. Toru, on the other hand, is obsessed with your tits. He keeps groping them, flicking the buds so you’ll moan even more around his cock.

Balls are swinging, bumping against your chin and on your clit. The bed squeaks and creaks with the force of their ploughing, headboard slamming against the wall. You wonder if the other frat guys can hear, if they know you’re a slut squirting around a cock as you get rammed by their frat president and his twin brother. It must be a normal occurrence with how whorish they both are.

Your tongue swirls around the unpierced cockhead in your mouth, licking the salty slit. The guy in front of you curses, still biting the hem of his shirt. You can see his abs constricting, the muscles under his tattoo twitching. . 

Sato breathily chuckles. “My little brother’s gonna tap out soon, and I’ll have you all to myself.”

Toru pushes back in immediately, not wasting even a single second. You have to breathe through your nose, the walls of your throat squeezing around the hefty intrusion. Whereas Sato’s long, Toru’s thicker — the difference is minute, yet you can tell. 

Feeling challenged, Toru scoffs. He taps your cheek. “Tell him he can spank you. Go on.” He pulls out.

You cough, throat hoarse already. “Spank me, Sato. It’s okay, I can take it.”

SMACK!

You scream around Toru’s dick. His hips jerk forward with a groan. The fucker didn’t waste a single second!

“So fucking tight!” He slaps your cheek again, hitting exactly where he had the first time. You moan, pussy pulsing. “You like that? Well, aren’t you a dirty thing.”

It’s a turn-on for Sato, you understand now. It flipped a switch in him, seeing the mark of his hand blooming on your ass; his hips are thrusting harder, hitting that gummy spot inside you that has you seeing stars and flooding down his cock, which practically rams you mercilessly.

The strength of his thrusting forces your throat to take Toru even deeper, a fact that the frat guy rejoices in as he holds you up by a hand on your tit, groping like he had before. The cockhead’s bumping the back of your throat, no doubt bruising you.

You cum, shuddering, but neither of them seem to care. They only notice the throbbing and rhythmic squeezing of your cunt and throat, groaning and grunting above you. 

“Poor nerd,” Toru snickers. “He’s gonna cum so quickly. It’s sad, isn’t it? It’s nice that you’re so charitable, babe.”

“Big talk for a masochist.” The older twin rubs your clit, occasionally pinching the thing just to feel you tighten around him. Darkly, he orders, “Dig your nails into his thigh. All the girls know he’s weak for pain. He even calls the older ones mommy. Sad, isn’t it? Disturbed, even.”

Panicked, he tries to grab your hand before it can grip his thigh through his jeans. But it’s too late. You’re faster. You dig your nails in as hard as you can so he’ll feel it through the material. He whimpers, hips stuttering. “Jesus FUCK!”

Hot cum spurts in your throat. You gag on the salty taste. Tears spring to your eyes.

Sato laughs, yanking you up by the air. Toru’s cock slides out with a pop!

Back flat on his chest, he holds you up with a hand around your throat. It presses in slightly, slowly stopping airflow to your head in intervals, holding enough to make you delirious. 

Aggrieved and peeved off for being forced to cum early by a cheap trick, Toru poutily kisses your lips, running that tongue piercing over the seam. He pushes a hand against your belly. You whine, feeling even more of Sato this way. “Let’s see how long either of you lasts like this, cheaters.”

“Fuck off—Christ! Shit!”

It only takes a mere second. It’s more embarrassing than Toru’s premature ejaculation.

At the sudden and impossible tightness, the older twin curses under his breath. White paints your walls. The heat is searing and it pushes you over the edge too. 

Quickly, you’re pulled off his dick, which is still spurting. Some cum gets on your face when you’re brought to your back on the bed. They’re manhanding you, positioning you like you’re a ragdoll, like you’re a mere toy for their pleasure. It’s hard to tell where up and down are, left and right, if it’s even the same day.

A cock pushes in, bullying its fat length with no hesitation. The aftershocks wrings out a deeply satisfied moan from Toru, who sinks in balls deep easily. He mutters petulantly, “If her pussy didn’t feel so good, I’d be too disgusted by your spunk all over her to get hard again.”

“Be grateful I’m letting you fuck her at all,” Sato retorts. He removes his glasses, squinting and finding the fogging of the lenses a pain in the ass. As he clears it out with the bottom of his shirt, he adjusts himself over you, obscuring your view of Toru. His heavy cock hasn’t lessened in density. It rests between your tits, soaked and sticky. “Stick your tongue out.”

You do. He makes a noise of approval. 

His hands push your tits together, sandwiching his dick. Sato’s shaven. He likes things nice and clean, it’d seem. The metal bars under his cockhead are hot against your skin. You can see them. They look painful. 

In between moans, you ask him, “Did the -hngh- piercings hurt?”

He shakes his head, lazily thrusting on your skin. His cock bumps onto your tongue, leaving drops of salty cum. You can taste yourself and him, and it oddly doesn’t disgust you.

Behind his brother, Toru pushes your thighs up, hooking them over his arms. Amused, he says, “He’s lying. He cried after, telling me he regrets it and he wants the piercings taken off. What a little bitch boy.”

“He exaggerates.” But the pink tinting Sato’s cheeks tells a different story. 

“Whatever you say, big bro,” Toru muses.

He yanks you back and forth on his cock, not exactly thrusting anymore. You’re back to being used a fleshlight, as a pocket pussy, dragged up and down the veiny length of him. He’s reaching deep, stretching you out even more than his brother did, though he doesn’t reach your cervix as nicely as Sato had. It hardly matters to you. The pleasure’s all the same. 

Thumbs brush over your nipples, flicking and rubbing, all while Sato squeezes your breasts tightly around his cock. His veins are prominent too, and they tickle your skin with every thrust. You swirl your tongue around his cockhead, teasing the underside where his piercings are every time he reaches your mouth. He throws his hair back, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“Fuck, that mouth. Real fucking sinful,” he mutters. 

Rocked back and forth, bruised and bullied from top to bottom, fingers digging into sensitive flesh, marking and claiming, with sticky juices drying on your skin and tears dripping down your cheeks from the overstimulation — it’s one orgasm after the other.

“Aw, are you crying?” Sato asks, smirking and not looking the least bit apologetic.

Toru chuckles. “For something so tight and greedy, her pussy’s real weak, don’t you think?”

“The weakest.”

Skin smacks against skin. Juices splash. Puddles grow beneath you. You can taste their cum, feel them and hear and see them everywhere. Even when you close your eyes, the shapes of their cocks are imprinted, practically burnt on your retina. They won’t stop talking, won’t stop commenting on how you tremble and tense around them. 

One of them moans pornographically. They both laugh.

“Hear how she moans? You’d think she’s on OnlyFans and she’s trying to rack in the subs. Dirty, dirty girl.”

“She does moan pretty loudly. Squeals like a pig too.”

Toru adds, “Oh and her pussy won’t stop talking back to me. Maybe she wants to debate the collegiate system with me, or give me a glowing review on my dick game.”

“Only you’d lose to a debate with a literal cunt,” Sato says, snorting.

“Oh because you’d win one? That’s what you wanna brag about?”

“I won one when I made her cum like three times on my dick today.”

“Pssh, you’re deluded.”

None of what they say gets to you. You’re too deep in the pleasure, in the euphoric bliss, to properly register what they’re saying. You just want them to keep fucking you, to keep stimulating your entire body. You want this to never stop.

Ankles locked around Toru’s hips, you yank him back, wanting more and more of him. It’s never enough. The hairs at his base tickle your clit before he grinds his pelvis against it. Your eyes roll back. 

Sato spits a fat dollop on your tit, barely assisting the glide of his cock, which easily slides between your tits — he just wanted to do that. The sight of you all messy, lips glossy, eyes dazed, causes the corners of his mouth to twitch. 

Spitting’s his thing. Panty sniffing is Toru’s.

The more you learn about them, the more your invite to Hell solidifies. They really are twins from the Underworld, just so filthy, so lewd, so damned.

“Fucking tight, squeezing me so good,” one of them groans, barely understandable.

“Pretty fucking tits, prettier fucking mouth,” the other says, eyes flitting between your face and your breasts, undecided where it wants to stay.

All three of you moan at the same time, bodies spasming, and clit and cocks throbbing. Everyone gasps for breath, the air humid and tangy. 

Finally…

“Ngh! Sato! Toru!”

Cum spurts on your face, and you have to shut your eyes to avoid getting some in there. They land on your cheeks and nose and tongue. More cum fills up your cunt. All of your juices mix together in a warm concoction. 

You’ve never been more full and deeply satisfied. You feel it in your bones, in your souls. 

The fluff of the cuffs are soaked with your sweat and cum, the metal clammy. There are marks on your wrists from where they’ve pulled too much or too harshly, and the sting only adds to the pleasure. 

Best.

Sex.

Of.

Your.

Life.

Probably best threesome too. Not that you’re planning on having any more.

“Fuck that was good,” Toru says, hands rubbing your thigh and your stomach. He pulls out, and you wince. The emptiness is upsetting, although it doesn’t last very long; his long, slender fingers push the cum leaking out back in, keeping you plugged for a little longer. 

“Mm,” Sato agrees, wiping cum from your face only to shove it in your mouth for you to suck off. 

“What kind of freaky circus act am I looking at right now?”

Heads flip to the door. You almost get whiplash from how fast you turned. 

In the doorway, a pink-haired, heavily tattooed man stands. He doesn’t look disturbed, just amused. His eyes drink in your form, from your face to your tits to your pussy, or as much of your body he can see from where he’s standing anyway.

“Oh hey, Ryomen,” Toru says, not making a move to cover himself or you up. He just stands there between your legs, absentmindedly rubbing your clit. “How you doing?”

“Toru!” you scold, still dazed but thinking more clearly than the other two, that’s for sure. “Ask him about the cuffs.”

Does no one care about your dignity?

Nudity between men might be normal, but it’s certainly not between men and women. Despite that, they’re acting like he just caught you hanging out. No one covers you up. The newcomer doesn't look away. They’re all acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Who you presume is Sukuna finally spots the pink cuffs. He groans. “You got it all dirty. God, I fucking hate you dumbass twins. Came back to pick it up, and this is how you repay the favour? You better get me new ones, Gojos.”

You blink.

Static rings in your ears.

“They…borrowed it from you?”

Sukuna quirks a brow, like he’s surprised you’re daring to speak to him. “Yeah, twin fucker. In exchange for the keys to their garage and whatever car I wanted to drive around for the weekend.” Then he seems to piece something together and laughs mockingly. “Jesus, did they sell you some story about how I cuffed you three together in punishment or something? How dumb can you be?”

Sato huffs. “Watch it, Ryomen.”

“Yeah, another insult from your lips and I’m decking you right across the cheek.”

“Whatever you freaks.” A ping goes off on his phone. Sukuna reads the notification. “Alright, I gotta get going. Get me new cuffs and keep me out of your shit. Don’t even know why you didn’t just get your own.”

Toru chuckles, tension disappearing as though it was never there to begin with, and his fingers still fucking inside you. “Lies sell better when mixed with a little truth.”

Disgusted, Sukuna scowls. “You sound like your nerdy brother. Don’t try to sound smart, Idiot Gojo. It don’t fucking suit you.” His eyes fall back to you. He smirks. “If you get tired of their pasty asses, I’m more than happy to fuck you right. You know where I live.”

He knew you were there?

Seeing the bewildered look on your face, he scoffs. “You all breathe so fucking heavily. You think I wouldn’t sense your stupidity radiating from my closet? I mean, I always knew the two of you were in the closet, but I never knew you’d be in there with a girl. Guess sexuality really is a spectrum.”

“Fuck off, Sukuna,” Sato growls, cock soft now and being tucked right back into his pants.

He waves a hand lazily. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going. Unlike her, I’m not interested in doing it with twins. I’ll see you weirdos around.”

“Wait!” you call out before he can leave. “The key! We need the key!”

Sukuna rolls his eyes at you. 

“You’re slower than you look,” he mutters, exasperated beyond measure. Louder, he says, enunciating hard so you’ll get it, “I. Don’t. Have. It. The twins. Are. Sexual deviants. Who lie. To get pussy. They have the key. They always had it. You think only with your clit or something?”

A pillow gets thrown at him, followed by, “Fuck off, Ryomen.”

With a middle finger aimed at all three of you, he goes back the way he came, leaving you with guilty looking twins who each fish out a small key from their pockets. 

“Oh look,” Toru weakly cheers, “we found it. Yay!”

One winces. “Guess we won’t need to go to the fire station.”

“What the actual fuck.”

From: [email protected] Subject: email? really?

Dear Gojo Satoru,  Clearly you can’t take a hint. Let me spell it out for you. I. Am. Busy. Leave. Me. Alone. Unhappily,  Your girlfriend P.S. Do not call yourself ‘big-dicked daddy.’ It upsets me greatly.

From: [email protected] Subject: keep being mean to me please im close

Dear adorable goth baby,  You’re so hot when you’re being mean. I already know you’re frowning in that cute way that makes me want to smother you in kisses and you’re rolling your eyes so hard NGH! I already said I’m sorry.  Please give me another chance. I’m so damn bored I started playing spin the bottle alone in my room. I made out with that picture of you sleeping with drool down your chin. Picture You was even getting handsy. ‘Down girl!’ I said. ‘Bad!’ Stay tight,  Toru (not Gojo Satoru, that’s like a slur coming from you, very triggering stuff) P.S. I am your big-dicked daddy tho I’m confused?

From: [email protected] Subject: shut up

Satoru,  I gave you multiple chances when I asked you to stop and give me at least 5 hours to study before we go out for dinner and I entertain you, you giant freaking child. But no, you just had to hound me with your dick, like I was supposed to be dickmatised and persuaded to drop everything at your beck and call.  Fuck, I’m getting mad all over again.  Stop emailing me. You’re gonna see me at 7pm for our date anyways. You can last 4 more hours. Yours not for long,  Girl who just wants to pass

From: [email protected] Subject: my bad bro

Sweetiepie :( I’m sorry.  I thought it was gonna motivate you to work hard. Pwease forgive me. Pwease? Towu is vewy vewy sowwy.  In fact, I’m so so so sorry, I’ll pay for dinner tonight. Scout’s honour. Asking for mercy and forgiveness,  Your boyfriend no matter what

From: [email protected] Subject: dinner? that the best you can offer?

You always pay for dinner. Last time I offered, you damn near wrestled me in the middle of the restaurant so you could get your card out first. We’re still banned from there, remember? Btw, you were never a Scout, don’t play with me.

From: [email protected] Subject: you gotta address me and sign off!

Dear love of my life who doesn’t understand how email etiquette works,  Of course I always pay for dinner — you’re broke and your family is destitute, I remind you lovingly. But even if you were as rich as me, or even richer (which isn’t possible, not to flex), I would still pay every single time. It’s the least I can do for reparations for the violence committed by my gender against yours. Plus, that restaurant sucked anyway — the owner is problematic towards immigrants and the servers don’t even know if the meat is locally and ethically sourced, like hello??? In the big 2025?!? How’s studying going? Do you need a snack or a smoothie to boost you?  I can drop by. Promise I won’t linger. I just didn’t see a purchase on my card for breakfast or lunch. Please don’t starve. If I can’t watch your ass jiggle when I hit it from the back, I’m gonna be devastated.  Yours most sincerely,  Satoru P.S. You have to be a Scout to say Scout’s Honour? Crazyyyyyy

From: [email protected] Subject: so fucking bossy omg

Dear Satoru (happy now?), Please don’t remind me of my family’s shortcomings. You know I like to pretend I came from a normal background. And stop being more woke than me. It’s hot. Studying’s fine, I guess. I think I forgot how to study. I’ve missed a lot of content too. If a certain someone hadn’t been clinging to me so tightly every morning, maybe I wouldn’t be so behind. God, you make my life so hard.  A smoothie and pastry would be lovely, actually. I can’t be bothered leaving my room to get some food. Just drop it off outside and disappear by the time I open the door — if I see even a glimmer of white hair, I’m going to freak.  Thanks. Love begrudgingly, A girl who’s gonna fail her exam

From: [email protected] Subject: you're not gonna fail

Dear cutie,  I don’t cling to you that hard. You’re dramatic. I wonder where you got that from. And last I checked, we have a safeword you can use anytime to get me away from between your legs if you really wanted to get to class. But I like our game where you pretend you’re not just as obsessed with me as I am with you (I know you get all hot and bothered when I reference Marx, dirty girl) Food’s outside babe. The line was stupid long and I ran into Fushiguro — remember the guy I told you has the highest body count on campus? He’s in a relationship now and he’s so pussywhipped lmaoooo Couldn’t be me. Hoping you’ll stuff your face and get all the brain power you need,  Satoru

From: [email protected] Subject: not impressed

I told you to disappear before I could see you.  You didn’t have to kiss me and hump my leg you animal. My neighbours were NOT happy with the pornographic noises you made, asshole.  Yeah, I remember Toji. Cool dude. Always wearing gym wear no matter the weather and for some reason hates you. Don’t make fun of him for being loyal and loving to his girlfriend. You’re probably so much worse. I envy his girlfriend. She probably doesn’t have to put up with a yapper who spams her with dick pics. Thank you for the food though. Very appreciated. What I didn’t appreciate, however, was the number and the smiley face on my drink. I already told you, if someone tries to hit on you, bark at them and tell them you have a girlfriend you worship endlessly. 

From: [email protected] Subject: EMAIL. ETIQUETTE. COME ON.

Look: Dear angry girlfriend I do in fact worship endlessly and beyond,  I’m sorry I didn’t follow your exact orders but I desperately needed a kiss from my girl. If I don’t get my daily dose, I wilt, like a rose. You know this.  And disrespectfully, f your neighbours. It wasn’t anything they hadn't heard from us before. Sensitive ears ahhh About Fushiguro — he does not hate me. Why does everyone say that?  We’re actually besties. We’re like dumb and dumber, but dumber is him obvi. Plus, once he gets some shots in him, he’s super in love with me. I get more over the clothes action from him than from you lol You never need to thank me for feeding you. I fear that’s like bare minimum. Get those standards up girl. Oh and sorry about the drink. I didn’t even notice. Leave it outside your door and I’ll get you a new one. I’ll even make a scene and call the manager over. Maybe I’ll buy the store and get everyone fired. Just give me the word babe. Yours forever,  Satoru 

From: [email protected] Subject: YOU ARE EXHAUSTING

Dear my sweetest, most frustrating boyfriend, Fine, I’ll forgive the kiss (I might have needed it too). And yeah, f my neighbours because the guy on my left loves playing Doctor Who Season 8 on repeat and on full volume every night like clockwork. It’s not even the best season! Forget about the drink. Just don’t ever go back there again. Number and smiley face aside, the drink is abysmal and tastes like bog water. Pastry is great though. 10/10 You’d really make a scene for me? Yours occasionally,  No longer starving girlfriend

From: [email protected] Subject: awww I knew you loved me really

Dear the Morticia to my Gomez,  I’d make a scene for you at the drop of a hat. I’d serenade you in malls, on campus, in a Michelin star restaurant, and in a lecture. Heck, I’d yell ‘BOMB’ in an airport if you asked me to – just maybe not an airport we frequent. There’s quite literally nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If you didn’t know that already, then I’m not as great of a boyfriend as I thought I was. I will remedy that immediately, my goddess eternal. Obsessedly yours,  Your husband in every way but legally (we can fix that)

From: [email protected] Subject: ugh

Dear Toru,  Stop being sweet. It’s disgusting. Come inside already. I’m done pretending I’m getting anything from the textbooks. I’m only giving myself a headache.

From: [email protected] Subject: woahhhh

You can tell I’m outside???

From: [email protected] Subject: you're loud as hell

I can hear you giggling at my emails, Satoru. You’re probably sitting on the floor, leaning against my door. 

From: [email protected] Subject: just got shivers

Damnnnn are you sure you’re not a witch?

From: [email protected] Subject: well?

Are you coming in or what?

From: [email protected] Subject: yippeeeee

Okay okay, yes I am. LOVE YOU BABY <3

You shiver as he pulls you just slightly closer, the firm line of his body meeting yours as his thigh slips between yours. “You look absolutely delightful,” Flins’s voice has dropped to that lower, smoother timbre he uses solely during sex, one you love, and his eyes have lidded with want. “What a sweet thing to come home to” — he kisses you gently, smiling when you melt into him and breathe out a soft Kyryll — “my darling, waiting on me with tea and her love…”

“Flins,” you plea weakly, kissing the corner of his jaw.

He soothes you with another kiss, a bit more heated than the first, and then more trailed to just below your ear. He sucks a mark into the soft flesh and you shiver when he blows cold air over the blooming bruise. He loves covering you in them, seeing lilac bruises — selfishly, possessively, he likes that the color is so similar to the color of his hair, the color his flames can be — blossom across swathes of skin, whether it’s your throat, your chest, or your thighs. Flins thinks they should all bear some mark of his touch. Despite the fact he follows many human norms, he cannot shrug his fae instincts, and his appreciation of an almost binding romance following a successful courting makes him happier than he feels he should admit — he feels it would be rather shameful to share those emotions (at least, until he has a ring to accompany the human customs that could justify such a greed). 

“I won’t tease, don’t worry. As much as you should be admired and loved slowly, I need to taste you. I don’t think I can wait today.” He gently shrugs your robe to the floor and kisses lower, goosebumps prickling in the wake of his mouth and cold fingers. Flins almost feels guilty, when his cold fingers press into your thigh as he guides you against the wall, and you mewl softly at the stark contrast of temperature. But you are far more intoxicating than any alcohol that has ever touched his tongue, leaving him without shame as he fully sinks to his knees before you.

Then, as a moment of clarity runs through him, “can I?”

You nod and help him guide your leg over his shoulder. “Please, Kyryll. I want you.”

He smiles. “I want you too, darling,” he presses a kiss just below where your underwear meets your thigh before slipping them off. “Always.”

He’s aware you tend to want him, regardless of propriety and time of day, too. But the way your voice softens and quivers when your breath hitches in anticipation delights him, and he’d be remiss if he ever intimately engaged without your explicit consent in the form of greedy kisses and soft whines of his name. Flins is drawn out of his thoughts when your hips rock forward slightly, aching for friction he hasn’t been giving by brushing kisses and his breathing over your inner thighs.

Flins can’t even whisper an apology for the wait — no, you force him to get out of his head as you tangle your hands in the roots of his hair and bring him to you, and he sighs as your scent envelops him and he tastes you across his tongue. He can’t bring himself to apologize, anyways. You’d excuse the time he takes to admire your figure in due time, and the first step to your forgiveness is flattening his tongue on your cunt and suckling at the clit in alternate motions, drawing out your arousal on his tongue with a devastating precision.

His fingers dig into your thigh and he shifts closer, spreading you wider the leg over his shoulder moves with him. He thinks this is what being drunk must feel like to humans — he’s already getting hazy, his focus tunneling to just the warmth and taste of you, and the way you quiver when something feels particularly good. Flins thinks he could spend an eternity on his knees for you, especially when your hips buck up and you start to use him, fingers tightening their hold as you force his nose and face into you and increase the pressure. He can hardly breathe like this, getting shaky, muffled inhales as he groans against you and your wetness drips down his jaw and on his neck. 

But he’ll never complain. Instead, he pliantly tilts his head back more and blinks up at you, eyes darker and unfocused as he flattens his tongue and you start to ride his face with fervor. You look beautiful like this, back arched like a bow string as pleasure sparks up your spine like a live wire, your chest heaving as your breaths get deeper and your head tilts back. He moans against you when you tug particularly hard, forcing your clit to catch on his tongue, swallowing the dripping wetness eagerly. He’s a bit dizzy, but he doesn’t let you off him — gripping your hips to keep you stable as you grind faster, tugging you against him and forcing your thigh to bracket his head as the angle shifts.

When you keen, he flexes his grip and groans. The soft tremors in your muscles tell him you’re close, as does the way your grip slackens and you start letting out tiny, helpless whines, just, “oh god, Kyryll, mmm, ‘m gonna—” before your voice chokes up and you whimper, melting against him as the rocking of your hips slows into small circles and jerks as his tongue continues to oversimulate your puffy cunt. 

He’s never tasted anything better, and he lets you push him away, gently steadying you with his hands and grounding strokes of his callused palm over your thigh. He blinks up at you, haze slowly clearing, and he feels his arousal now that his attention isn’t captivated — he’s aching for more of your warmth and sweetness, but he’ll settle for the shaky breaths that you let out and the fond stroke of your thumb over his cheek when he rests his chin on your stomach. He knows you’re wiping your arousal off his face, shy about the way it glistens in the low light, but he doesn’t mind. The softness of your expression and the gentleness of your touch is almost just as good.

“Come here,” your voice is a little raspy from the sounds he drew from you, and he can’t help his pleased smile as he gets off his knees. Then he kisses you, firmly and desperately, and his cock twitches in his pants when you tilt his head and hold him there to kiss and bite along his jaw. “You’re so good to me, you know that?” You ask breathlessly, sucking a matching mark beneath his ear that makes his knees feel weak. He loves when you are possessive of him, too.

“You deserve the kindness,” he manages, voice a little weak as his breath hitches when your hands blindly begin to fumble with and undo his shirt’s buttons. “The prettiest of women become muses, no? I should — ah — pursue art.” He swallows thickly as you slide both your nightgown and his shirt off before scraping your nails along his hip bone, teasing the trail of fine hair just above his waistband. 

You shake your head and kiss him to shut him up, eager and heated, and when your hard nipples brush against his chest, he backs you against the wall once more, tilting his head to eliminate every bit of distance between the two of you. He wants to fuck you against the wall. God, he wants to fuse souls and destinies with you, if he could, eliminate barriers and give into only baseless instinct when it comes to you — be driven by the helpless need to have you in every way he can.

“Do muses always get fucked against a wall?” You gasp breathlessly between kisses and he groans, frustrated and fond.

“Not if they have a good man.” But Flins makes no effort to guide you to the bedroom, hand going back between your thighs to smear your wetness on the skin and tease the tips of his fingers over your entrance, obsessed with the way your hips flex forward to try to suck them inside.

“Are you not a good man?”

“I’m afraid not,” Flins looks at you, and he can feel the intensity of his gaze — the flickering of his true self slipping out the cracks in bright lights. “I act rather unbecoming ways,” he admits, tugging his cock free of his pants and underwear, “when it comes to feeling your desire, little light.”

“Yeah?” You ask breathlessly, whining as he slowly presses into you and leaves another mark along your clavicle. “How so?”

He groans, dropping his head as he tries to regain any semblance of composure — he’s always brought to heel by the warmth and wetness of your pussy wrapping around him, the pulse of your heartbeat only making him burn brighter with desire. And whenever he burns this brightly, he feels his hold on humanity slip just a little. It makes him want to claim you, though he knows it is far too much to ever ask. “I just don’t treat you with the respect you deserve.”

Flins slides deeper into you and snaps his hips into you in a brutal pace, quick and controlled, and he enjoys the surprised whine you let out, the way it dies into breathless gasps and weak moans that claw out of your throat as you cling to him, unable to support your weight under his desperation. 

“I enjoy it, though,” you manage, messily kissing down his throat. “Like when you fuck me like this, it’s, ah—” he drives particularly deep at that, his thumb circling your clit viciously as the obsence sound of your wetness begins to drown out his labored pants and soft gasps, as your arousal drips down onto the both of you. “It’s so sexy when you can’t control yourself because of me.”

“Hah, control?” Kryrll nips your throat a bit harsher than he should, groaning when you clench around him and whine. “If I had no control… that would be really a sight, darling.”

“Want it,” you beg, tugging his hair and clawing down arms to grip his forearm tightly as your orgasm starts to build, clinging to him for any grounding sensation. “Do your worst.”

“You’re playing with fire,” he hisses, hand still going behind your head to protect it from meeting the wall as his rhythm loses all fluidity, just desperate, senseless thrusts and a sloppy attempt to match it on your clit. He can feel his abs tensing and he needs to see you quiver on him, so he tries his best to stave it out, tensing the muscles as he kisses you messily, really just breathing in your air and getting dizzy on the heat and tension between you. “I should never do my worst to you.”

“Kyryll,” you moan, grabbing his jaw and forcing his gaze on you from where it has slipped to the messy junction of your cunt and him, the way your wetness has stained his pants and left a ring of arousal on his cock. “Fill me up.”

That does him in, whining as you purposefully clench around him. 

But he can’t just leave you unsatisfied, so he keeps rocking forward, sucking in shaky, weak breaths, even as the overstimulations makes his nerve endings feel like they’re burning. You look even more beautiful in his haze — pussy drunk on your taste, still lingering on his tongue, and the velvety, silken caress of your walls milking him rhythmically. And the flutter of your heartbeat through your cunt makes him weak, the intimacy of knowing your body so well that the second your breath catches for just a beat too long, he wraps his fingers around your neck and tilts you to kiss him, nipping your lip harshly and swallowing your cries as the pressure shatters and you weaken against him.

“Kyryll,” you whimper when his hips continue mindlessly, stilling him with a push on his chest, grounding him with your forehead leaning against his. “Oh, god, I love you.”

“Mm,” he hums, and he still feels the ache, knows he could be inside you forever. For a moment, he considers sinking back to his knees and licking you clean, savoring every drop of you mixing with him in the best way he can get, just living down there until he can’t tell where you end and he begins. But you’re clearly tired, so he slowly pulls out and keeps you steady, pressing a kiss to your temple, breathes in the smell of sex for just a moment more before softening his gaze and guiding you towards the shower. “I adore you too, darling.”

Your driver, a round-cheeked boy with shrewd eyes, had already stopped a few hours back to feed and water the horses, but it was so hot that they still sagged with malaise. They stumbled over another bump; the front wheels of the wagon careened violently upwards. Beside you, Phainon stirred awake.

In his half-wakefulness, before his thoughts had any time to scoalesce into true existence, he almost looked like a young man. As he should have been, if he had gone through life without the constant stress of oscillating between ruin and survival; if, you thought, the two of you had met not as comrades but simply as a man and a woman.

“What was that?” he murmured. In seconds his brow had already creased with fear.

“Nothing,” you say. You rest your fingertips at the nape of his neck, brushing the hairs that had begun to grow long enough to brush his shoulders in an uneven mullet. He rested his cheek against your shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

His eyes roved over your face doubtfully, but it only took a fragment of a moment for his trust—or simple exhaustion—to win him over, and he sank into your side again. You shook your head in fond exasperation. You’d never seen him sleep so deeply, certainly never on night watch, when the risk of enemy ambush hung in the air like smoke over your scattered campsites.

You studied his face for a long moment. The boy was right in front of you. Focused on the road he may be, but even after all these weeks you still felt like someone might be watching, even when you and Phainon were traveling alone.

He leaned out front and called out to the boy, “How much longer till we get to town?”

“Just this morning,” he said, and then he glanced back at him from the corner of his eye to surreptitiously study his face before adding, “Sir. Should be there by mid-afternoon at the latest if the roads stay well.”

The roads already weren’t well, you thought dourly.

Bandits often lay in wait on the better-known trading routes. Although you both had chosen this road precisely because it was less traveled, the cliffs still offered vantage points from high above. Anyone could look down on you and map out their route.

“It rained a few days ago,” the handler explained. His hands tightened on the reins as he guided the horses around a spot where the dirt that had sunk deep into the earth, like a bowl.

“We might have to take a detour if the mudslide hasn’t cleared yet. I heard there was a flood somewhere up ahead.”

That news did manage to fully rouse Phainon, although it only put more stress on the crease between his brows. You rubbed your thumb sympathetically across his cheek.

By contrast, the handler sounded completely unruffled. He couldn’t be older than sixteen, with the kind of self-possession only found in teenagers who had spent half their lives working tirelessly.

Phainon, still bleary-eyed from sleep, leaned out to say to the boy, “How bad is it?”

A flood. So many crops, so many livelihoods, all wasted just before the harvest. Some villages would say God had punished them.

“Well, that’s all right,” you said absently. “I’m happy to take the reins from you if you need.”

The boy gave you a long, considering look, but what you had said wasn’t an insult to his pride at all and he was sensible enough to see that.

You had already moved to stand up, but Phainon caught your elbow and pulled you back to your seat. You protested under your breath, but it was no use once that frown had creased his brow. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, but the frown on his lips had already gone tense. The air between you was thick with the scent of sweat-damp linen and crushed wildflowers clinging to his clothes.

The boy driving coughed pointedly ahead; another dip in the road sent a jolt through all three of you.

As the landscape continued to roll idly by outside the wagon, the conversation had dropped off into a comfortable silence. You knew Phainon well enough to know he was already half-asleep again, but his fingers still played idly with the hem of your shirt.

“Say,” the driver said suddenly. “Your companion there carries such a strange sword—it is a sword, isn’t it?” Dawnmaker was lying flat on the floor of the wagon, skillfully concealed under layers of fabric and positioned diagonally so as to distribute its weight as evenly as possible. When Phainon was silent, he ventured, “Are you lovers?”

“Been a handler for long?” you ask instead.

He was good at not taking offense. You could almost hear the thought in his mind; not old enough to have seen many marriages, but old enough to know a thing or two.

“Going on a full year now, yes. I was supposed to help out on my father’s farm. This was my brother’s job but he was injured last year, and it wasn’t like my little sister could take this on. The horses don’t like her.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug, but you could tell it had piqued his curiosity. As he guided the wagon around a wide bend, he glanced backward again from the corner of his eye.

His next words were cautious but frank: “Say. You’re not, right? Married, I mean.”

Outside, sunlight dappled through oak branches overhead as they swayed lazily against an otherwise empty road.

“No.” Phainon shifted but did not speak, only leaned unconsciously into your touch. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose and muttered under your breath: Proper. As if either of you knew what that meant anymore.

.

At the gates of the town, Phainon tried to pay him for his silence.

The boy had taken to driving the wagon with surprising efficiency and even a small degree of pride over the last few hours. You could tell he wasn’t used to being treated as something fragile and soft, and his shoulders had set stubbornly back when Phainon extended his coin purse.

But despite the bravado he was only sixteen, after all. He looked down at the glint of silver in his palm.

When he spoke again, there was an edge to his tone: “I don’t want your money. I just think it’s a shame, that’s all.”

“At least take some extra for your family, then,” he bartered. “Buy your little sister something. These coins will be useless to us in the next town over anyway.”

The boy glanced back at you, his expression softening just a bit in spite of himself. He took the extra coins and stuffed them into the inner pocket of his vest.

When the wagon was out of sight, you handed Phainon his knapsack and asked, “What was that about?”

When he spoke, he did so in a tight, clipped voice. He sounded both angry and strangely lost. “Nothing.” he said. “What if he told someone? About us.”

“He’s just a child,” Your heart ached; you’d spent two days on the road with him, and you hadn’t even gotten his name. “No one would believe him anyway.”

Vendors were setting up for the evening market. Hawkers strode through the snarled streets to peddle everything from silver jewelry to jars of elixirs and jams, the wooden wheels of their handcarts clattering over the cobblestone. Merchants from faraway villages had come to assemble their booths, boasting sweet white peaches and globe-shaped cantaloupe from the morning’s harvest. They knelt, their sleeves rolled up to the elbows, to arrange large inked scrolls advertising their wares.

“The sun’s about to set.” Solemn-faced officials were already lighting the braziers.

You, distracted by the flurry of color just beginning to stir, stood rooted to the spot. A maypole, wreathed in green garlands and vibrant multicolored ribbons, stood beside the town hall. You point. “What is that?”

Phainon squinted. “Oh. That. A lot of towns have that. Usually couples will dance to welcome midsummer. I saw a few last year.”

“Did you dance too?” The image was so endearing it made you smile, remembering what he had promised you on the day you’d decided to leave.

“No, I did not.” He shrugged. “From what I’ve seen it’s mostly a dance for couples.” His voice tapered off as he considered.

As you made your way through the market, you became distinctly aware of the proximity; you could feel Phainon’s knuckles brushing your own as you walked. You found yourself wishing, stupidly, that he would take your hand, even if the passersby happened to see.

You tore your eyes away from his bandaged hands and said, “I think this is the furthest I’ve ever been from home.”

“When you say home,” Phainon said, with an open, earnest curiosity that you still had trouble reconciling with the hardened warrior you’d first come to know, “Where do you mean?”

With the band, of course. The answer came as quick and natural as a heartbeat. There was no stretch of land you could have called home, not when campaigns and the threat of ambush meant frequent relocation. Safety lay simply in the company of your mercenaries. Even now, you were still fugitives. You rarely ever stayed in the same town for more than four nights in a row at most; the risk of recognition was too high, when they had eyes as far as the sky had stars.

“It doesn’t matter,” You said, willing yourself to believe it. “I’m here with you now. And look! Have you ever seen strawberries that red?”

“We really should find somewhere to stay first,” Phainon protested.

“Nonsense.” You wave him away with an ease you weren’t quite sure you actually felt. “We never stay in one place for long. We have to make the most of it while we’re here.”

“But there are visitors from all over the place today, the rooms will all fill up—”

“Phainon,” You said with a laugh as you realized, “You’re overthinking it. You’re acting like me.”

“Well, now you’re acting like me,” He said stubbornly.

You shook your head. “I’m hungry from all that time we spent on the road. Aren’t you?” You knew you’d won when he only pursed his lips in reluctant consideration. “Let’s go while we still have first pick.”

This time you didn’t allow yourself to curse your own cowardice: impulsively grasped his hand and laced your fingers together. The weight was shockingly familiar, and only then did you realize that the last time you’d touched like this—deliberately, with bold intention—was by the lake, the first and only time you’d ever slept together. It seemed like so long ago. A secret, distant dream. You thought about that day often—was distantly ashamed, even, of the frequency with which you remembered what he had felt like inside you, how he’d gasped when you gripped tight. His warmth. His softness, which had so assured you when Phainon first offered it. Sometimes you wondered guiltily if he would ever want you like that again.

Sleeping beside one another in your tent, side pressed to side, had been almost tortuous. Every night you were acutely aware of Phainon’s presence beside—the weight of his arms, the steady rise and fall of his chest. What he smelled like, what he felt like.

Phainon only squeezed your hand and allowed you to lead him to the merchant’s booth. You didn’t let go even as he spent a long moment pondering the baskets of fruit before selecting one, not even when the cheerful merchant’s smile faltered with faint confusion when he saw your joined hands. Coins changed hands politely enough, but afterwards he hastily led you to a bench on a secluded cross street, shaded by elm trees and tucked away from the frenzy of the main square.

“What’s the rush?” You ask. Phainon heard you biting back a smile. “Oh, I think I know. Took so long to decide back there I think the fruits must have rotted by now.”

“These will be sweeter than whichever ones you were looking at.”

“Is that so? And how would you know this?”

“Who, between the two of us, was raised on a farm?”

“Years and years ago!” You scoff. “Somehow I’m still doubtful. They all look the same to me.”

“Try one first and then we can talk.” He picked one at random, plump with black seeds pressed deep into its scarlet flesh, still shimmering with chilly dampness from a recent rinsing. “Alright, give it to me.”

“Well?” He asked. Heat had risen in his chest just from the sight of you, and he bade his pulse to settle. This is ridiculous, you thought. “Your verdict?”

You took another thoughtful bite. “This is the sweetest I’ve ever had!” you declare. “I must have been a fool to doubt you.”

Phainon only smiled at you, as if he already knew.

“You know what,” You say finally, “You have a point. We, um, really ought to go look for that inn.”

.

The proprietor scrutinized you for several moments longer than you thought strictly and professionally necessary. His suspicious eyes passed over your short-cropped hair and tabard and the hunting knives on your belt, then lingered on Phainon—his height and bulk, the dull blade concealed and strapped to his back, the faded scar across his cheek and his expression, which to strangers always seemed grim.

“Well, you’re in luck,” he said finally. “I do have one room left.”

You almost collapsed with relief. All the other inns you’d tried had turned them away; perhaps a regular occurrence near festival days, but you’d begun to worry you might have to find yourselves back on the road a few days ahead of schedule. “Oh, thank you.”

The proprietor looked doubtfully between the two of you. “It’s got a window,” he said. “Nice view of the square. There’s one bed if you don’t mind that, but if you’d like I can see what I can do for an extra.” He inclined his head towards Phainon. “He’s tall, is what I mean. I’ll see what I can do about space.”

You exchanged a brief questioning glance. “That’s all right,” he said, and you nod in agreement. “You’ve gone to much trouble for us already.”

“All right,” the innkeeper said. He passed the keys to Phainon. “Five doors down the left, at the end of the hall. Come out to the main room at six if you’d like breakfast.”

Just as he had promised, the room’s singular window overlooked the square, the last of the evening sunlight casting a soft glow to the polished wooden floor. You drew the curtains closed and set your bags down on the low writing table next to the bed. Phainon closed the door to the room behind him. He tested the lock; it clicked twice, reassuring you of your privacy.

You lit the candles, and waited for him to speak.

“Do you feel,” Phainon murmured, “that people in this town don’t take too kindly to people like us?”

“What do you mean?”

“We visited four other inns. I don’t think those other ones were truly full. They barely glanced at their room logs before turning us away, didn’t you notice?”

You thought about it. “I suppose.”

He laughed without humor. “It’s ridiculous. They’re so afraid of us. It’s not even that they recognize us for who we are, it’s just because we’re—we’re—”

But there was no word for what you were.

You raised his hand and pressed soft kisses into the small valleys between his knuckles. “It’s okay, Phainon. We know who we are. Does anything else matter?”

“I guess not,” he murmured. He was so tall he had to crane his neck down—and down, and down—to press his lips against your cheek, hesitant and soft.

A question lingered between them, unspoken. At last you asked, “You’re not tired, are you?”

“No,” Phainon answered. He undid his belt and shed his plain tabard. He left it neatly folded on the seat of the chair, then knelt down to unlace his boots.

You approached then, your steps less confident as you crossed the room to sit beside him; the mattress sank beneath your combined weight. You smoothed down your skirts and tucked your hair back behind your ears, as if to steel yourself, before you leaned in.

When your lips met, you couldn’t remember what you’d been so afraid of. Phainon was patient; he let you lead the kiss, his mouth following the shapes that you made. You’d been so careful that first time, but tonight you were swept up in a newfound intensity. Now that he knew what it was like to be denied your taste, he kissed you greedy to store the feel forever in his memory so he would never forget. You opened your mouth; you made a soft sound of surprise when you felt his tongue prod between your teeth, and you panted, his arms wrapping around your midsection to pull you down on top of him.

“You know, on second thought, the market’s just outside,” you said in a weak attempt at a protest, even as you leaned back to bare your neck so Phainon could kiss you there. “And we did come all this way...”

“It’ll be quick,” he promised. His teeth grazed the pulse in your throat as he spoke. “The dancing’s tomorrow anyway. Change of plans, yeah? Is that okay?”

Your stomach clenched with want. “Yes.”

“I will say,” Phainon sighed, and the admission slipped too easily, as if he hadn’t meant it to: “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

“Really? I thought you’d never ask me again.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

Only when Phainon’s brows lowered in confusion did you realize how much you’d truly admitted. As you hovered over him, you bit your lip, considering; you didn’t miss the way his eyes drew down to inspect the movement, then dipped lower, where the neckline of your tunic had fallen away from your skin to reveal a glimpse of cleavage, before guiltily snapping back up.

“I mean I’ve been thinking about you like this,” you explained. “About having sex with you. A hundred times, you said.”

“Oh.” Despite your traitorous trepidation, Phainon only smiled faintly as he began to understand. “I think I actually said a thousand.”

“Better start now then,” You kissed him again, softly this time. “You’ve kept me waiting.”

“And you never asked me! Whose fault is that?” At your glare, Phainon only laughed. “I would have said yes, you know. I was waiting for you to ask me, but you never did. You’re not very subtle.” Before you could protest, “All right, let me sit up. And this...” He tugged at the hem of your chemise. “I… can I? I want to see you.”

You nod, and Phainon sat back to give you space. You took it off and discarded it by the writing table. His hands moved lower, brushing the bruised slit on your skin from the knife that had nearly taken your life.

When he froze, you circled your fingers around his wrist. “Hey,” You say calmly. “I’m here. Feel this?” You laced your fingers together. “We’re here together now. We’re safe. The danger’s in the past.”

Phainon grasped your hand back, nodding to himself. “We’re here,” he said, and again with more conviction: “You’re here with me now. I don’t want to think about the past—about everything we had to do just to get here.”

You offer him a smile. “Neither do I.”

“What do you want, then?” He was openly eyeing you again—a good sign, you thought, that there was no longer any trace of guilt in that ardent gaze.

“I want you,” you murmured, “to take off all your clothes.”

A pretty blush rose in Phainon’s cheeks, and he didn’t move. He hesitated for long enough that you almost retracted your statement—until he nodded uncertainly. He began to lift the fabric, but his hands froze. You realized he must be having one of those days again, when he didn’t quite agree with his own body; even now Phainon was subconsciously curling in on himself in an attempt to make his shoulders seem smaller, less threatening, more generous with space. All the treatment you’d gotten earlier in town must have only worsened the feeling, and all he wanted was reassurance from the one person he trusted to give it to him: proof that he was still loved.

“I still want to do this with you,” He said. “I just—I don’t know. It would make this easier for me. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize,” So you had come off too strong.

Phainon’s shoulders slackened with relief. Hopeful anticipation returned haltingly to his eyes. “Will you let me touch you?”

“Of course. Say, what feels good for you?” You asked. Last time he seemed to like being inside you, but today that seemed too overwhelming. You’d have to relearn Phainon again, from the very beginning.

“Oh. I’m not sure. This feels nice, though—whatever you’re doing.”

You were not, in your own opinion, doing much of anything right now, outside of simply holding him. “What do you mean you’re not sure?”

“Doesn’t it all feel the same?”

“What? No. At least to me it doesn’t. There are spots that feel better than others, for me.”

Phainon looked at you skeptically. “You found that out just by doing it to yourself?”

“What?” You faltered. “I—of course I did! Why do you think I take so long bathing sometimes?”

He wasn’t even teasing; his genuine question required an honest answer. Thinking of all those nights you’d stolen for yourself made your face heat with embarrassment. “Are you telling me you don’t?”

“I—sometimes I do. Sometimes.”

“And nothing feels particularly good?”

He looked away. “Mostly I try not to do it.”

“Why not?”

“I was waiting for you,” Phainon said, “to say that you wanted me.”

So that was it. You had always found it odd that Phainon had apologized for getting hard, the first time you’d had sex. As if that was something to be sorry about—as if you hadn’t been hoping to elicit that exact reaction from him! Was the shame rooted so deeply? Did he feel dirty? He constantly denied his own needs; he believed his body was a machine with issues that needed fixing, and arousal was only a distraction. If he touched himself, it was likely less of an indulgence and more of an inconvenient necessity. He was afraid to learn his own body—afraid to uncover the history there, or afraid to discover all the different ways he could still desire? Your eyes roamed Phainon’s face, but he refused to look at you. Did he not feel allowed to desire? Was he waiting for permission? From who?

From You?

“It’s okay,” you say.

You resolved to draw it out. No wonder Phainon said it would be quick; for him, it always was.

You moved clumsily. You wrapped your hand around his shaft and moved it up, then down, then paused because he had already begun to sweat and there was too much unpleasant friction and Phainon was quite aroused enough for this to feel as nice for him as you hoped it would.

“You really have been thinking of me,” you tease.

“Oh, shut up.”

And you did fall silent—but only because you were holding your breath. You shut your eyes when he felt under your chemise and skimmed his hands up your thighs, pinching and massaging the flesh there. Your lips parted when Phainon touched your clit, but still you made no sound. You twitched, almost involuntarily, when he pressed two fingers to the underside, and again when he fondled your scrotum.

Was that a good sign? “Did you like that?”

“Yes,” You sigh. Even like this, he still managed to grin roguishly up at you. “Very much.”

You tried to remember what Phainon had liked before—gentle touches, sweet coaxing, all those precious rarities of slowness that mercenary life denied.

Holding his arm flush against you made your chemise ruck halfway up your thighs, exposing the tip of your clit. Instead Phainon studied your expression, struck again by the innocence of your beauty. What a shame, he thought, that you had once hidden behind helmets and armor and rage. How could you not see it—the grace in your own body? You writhed in bed as your body sung with sensation, opening up to pleasure instead of denying it.

“How do you feel?” Your thumb stroked circles around Phainon’s tip, and finally—finally!, he thought gleefully—a soft moan.

“Good,” He managed. His chest rose and fell rapidly. “Could you do that again?”

“Maybe if you ask nicely.”

He groaned, dropping his head back onto the pillows. “Don’t do this to me.”

You stifled a laugh. So rarely did Phainon ever grant you a chance to see him like this: all thoughts fled from his mind, his calls for attention bordering on desperate. A finger ventured down to brush across your hole experimentally, but you winced and shook your head.

“No?” Phainon murmured.

“I… want to.”

Your mind was beginning to wander again. To pull you steadily back into the present, Phainon prodded, “You thought of me too?”

“You’re everything. How could I not?” You say indignantly.

“Yeah? What did you think of?” When you only dropped your eyes in an embarrassed silence, Phainon rephrased, “I want you to tell me, pretty.”

“I thought about you inside me,” You confessed. “I remembered how much you liked it, and I guess I just wanted to know again for myself, and—ah, never mind.”

Phainon looked at you incredulously. “You mean you want me to—?”

You groan, turning away. “See, this is why I didn’t want to say anything—”

“I didn’t mean it that way! I’m glad. I want to do it again. Whatever you want.”

You kissed him again, too giddy to speak.

“I have something else to tell you.”

“Go on.”

“I think,” He admitted lowly, “that I was about to come back there.”

“Ah.” You stare at him blankly for a moment, unsure what to do with this information. You floundered, then settled on, “Do you want to?”

Only after you had asked it did you realize the absurdity of your question, but Phainon didn’t seem to care.

“Tell me what you want, then.”

He licked his dry lips. “Please,” he begged, “Please let me touch you.”

The declaration gave you pause. All your bravado evaporated when you registered that he had called out for you specifically, that there was no one else he wanted—only you. You were so thrown that you wanted to make a joke, to backpedal and laugh it off. But Phainon’s eyes were blown wide, his cheeks flushed red with arousal, and finally he was looking at you, pleading with you, and you knew that you would shatter the moment, and Phainon’s precious hard-earned trust, if you did.

Instead you leaned down and said, “Okay.”

He felt it then, how your clit swelled and twitched tellingly in his hand. I am not helpless, he reminded himself as he slotted one of his legs between yours and grinded against you. You responded frantically, raising your hips to meet Phainon’s. I’m doing this because I can, because I want to, because she wants me to, and I know this because she told me. I’m making love to her—to the woman I love.

You lifted yourself up on your elbows to kiss Phainon, panting into his mouth when your hard clit slid against his clothed girth. Your nails dug into Phainon’s bare shoulders, pulling him closer. You tried to hide your face in his neck, but he ducked down and mapped kisses up your throat instead; your eyes slipped shut, your lips parting to admit a silent moan.

Phainon surged forward and fit a hand between you again, and you bit down hard on your lip as Phainon pumped you faster, so as not to make any sound. But he leaned in close and whispered by your ear, “It’s okay. It’s just me. Relax.”

What else might draw out those sweet sounds of yours again? A sense of duty propelled you now that Phainon had told you what he wanted. What did you even like? Then—belatedly—he realized that you had already told him.

He brushed his thumb between your lips, parting them slowly. You made a sound: a soft whimper.

He held it there as he pressed his tip flat against your warmth and rubbed circles into it. Your breathing grew labored, your back arching off the bed as your tongue darted against the pad of Phainon’s thumb. He didn’t know where to look. His eyes landed on yours, then the wall behind you, then dipped lower to watch your breasts sway as you moved, then slid closed again as his body relaxed and gave in. Your thighs shook with the effort it took to keep your legs open; your toes curled into the sheets beneath, seeking purchase as he stroked you faster.

Your body coiled tight when you came. You looked so sweet like this, so open and vulnerable, your face twisting almost desperately as it learned how to express a new kind of pleasure. Phainon’s frantic eyes sought out yours again, seeking out the one familiar sight as his body crashed through unfamiliar motions. You reached for him with a silent plea, and Phainon understood; he held your hand until the waves passed you over, and all was calm again.

Afterward you lay back down with your legs still spread, the fabric of your chemise stained where you had finished. Phainon listened as your breathing waned back to normal. You kissed up his neck, his cheek, the old scar across it.

“How was that?” Phainon asked. He pressed a kiss into the corner of your mouth; at the contact, he felt the corner of it lift in a smile.

You opened your eyes. “Very nice,” You murmured. Your orgasm had left you pliant and relaxed, but cold and vulnerable; this time you reached for Phainon with both arms, silently asking for him to hold you. You settled on your sides, Phainon with his chest pressed to your back. “I didn’t know it could feel this way.”

Phainon rubbed soothing circles into your side. He wished he’d thought to bring skin creams for you, and ruefully thought about the way your skin would feel when your sweat dried. “In a good way, I hope.”

“Mmm.”

“What did you like?”

Phainon expected you to mention what you had physically enjoyed, but instead you mumbled, “When you spoke to me. It’s reassuring. I get… nervous, sometimes, when we do this. But that always reminds me that it’s still just you.”

“What, like when I tell you what to do?”

“Exactly like that,” You agree. “When you talk to me like that, it’s not so different from what I already know. And then I don’t feel scared anymore.” Then you turn to look at Phainon over your shoulder. “What about you? Do you want me to—?”

Playfully he closed his teeth over the lobe of your ear. You inhaled sharply; Phainon, surprised, filed his suspicions away for later. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Maybe some other time. I’m too tired for anything else right now.” He wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his chin on your shoulder. Bewildered at the truth of the admission, he added, “I’m happy.”

“This must be what it’s like,” You agreed.

“Do you want some water?”

You didn’t respond. From the way your breathing had begun to even out, Phainon recognized with sudden clarity that you were about to fall asleep.

“Oh no you don’t,” Phainon groused. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

But your exhaustion had already seeped through to your bones, and you couldn’t extract yourself from it; you made only a noncommittal noise in the back of your throat. At this point it was hopeless trying to convince you to let him bathe you, but at least you still had enough energy to allow him to wipe you down with a damp towel, then pat you dry.

Phainon found a clean white slip among your belongings. He turned away to give you as much privacy as possible in the small room when you changed, but you said, “It’s fine. You can look. If you want to.”

You seemed uncertain, not quite ready to believe that Phainon might want to see you naked again, despite your sexual activities only moments before. So Phainon only grinned and said, “I’d be honored. Sit up and let me help you with it.”

“I wish everyone could feel like this,” You mumbled sleepily as you rested your head in the scarred skin below Phainon’s chest. “I promise I’ll try for you too.” Then you dozed off, your breathing peaceful and even.

Phainon was gone when you woke in the morning. You stretched an arm across the bed and found only a rumpled mattress beside you, still warm from Phainon’s body heat; he must have left not too long ago.

.

Sunlight pleaded with the still-drawn curtains for entry. Outside in the square, the clock tower chimed dutifully: once, twice... You counted six chimes. Distantly you wondered when he would return, but you were too drowsy to follow the thought. You rolled over, haphazardly kicked off the covers, and let the summer heat lull you back to sleep.

When you woke next, the blinds were half-drawn. Phainon was mapping the back of your shoulders with gentle kisses, leaving your skin fluttery and goose-pimpled in the trail of his lips.

“Phainon,” you murmured, arching into your lover’s touch, “What are you doing?”

“Good morning,” He whispered. “What does it look like? I’m waking you up.”

“The clock tower beat you to it. Already woke up this morning when you left around six.”

“Did I wake you that early?” Phainon paused to rest his chin on your shoulder. “I didn’t mean to. I went downstairs to get us breakfast.”

Finally you opened your eyes. “Breakfast?”

“So that’s what gets you interested.” There was a smile in Phainon’s voice. “Noted.”

He’d left a tray on the table laden with thick cuts of bread, several types of cheese, and a bowl of potato and leek potage. Two mugs of tafelbier had left damp rings on the wood. Beside those, a basket of fresh strawberries.

“Had to do my best with my farming expertise,” Phainon said with a knowing grin as he followed the path of your gaze.

“Stop trying to seduce me,” You admonished, your voice lilting with laughter. “It’s too early. Could you bring that over for me?”

Phainon rolled his eyes. “Still so bossy,” he muttered, but before you could respond he had already brought the tray over and balanced it carefully on your lap. His brow creased with concentration to make sure nothing spilled, and he was so earnestly focused at the task at hand that you fought to stifle another laugh.

“What?” Phainon demanded.

“Nothing.” You shook her head. You took a sip of tafelbier; it was lukewarm. Phainon must have left it sitting out as he waited for you to wake, then woken you up when he realized the ice had already melted. You watched with interest as Phainon absently tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear. “You’re very attractive.”

Phainon’s face, which had always seemed so stoic and grim on the battlefield, softened with bashful uncertainty. “Stop that. Can’t you just say thank you like a normal person?”

“Thank you. And you’re very attractive. And clever, even if I used to think you weren’t—I’m sorry, don’t look at me like that, I said I used to!—it’s just, sometimes you act without thinking and that scares me. And—” Something in the corner of your eye caught his attention. “Is this bread?”

“It’s bread, yes.”

The soft wheat flour tore so easily; you offered a piece to Phainon, who accepted. The golden brown crust crackled under the pressure of your hands. “How did you even get this?”

“Seems like this town is full of surprises.”

“We used to bring hard biscuits with us on campaign,” You said. “And those mutton cuts, do you remember, only we always had to salt it? If we even had salt. They only ever gave bread like this to the nobles. To people like the ministers, or—”

“Don’t,” Phainon said gently, “I don’t want to talk about the Nobles. Let’s eat. The soup’s already getting cold.”

Compared to what they had eaten on the run, you felt as if you were indulging in a feast.

“Is it not to your liking?” Phainon asked.

You blinked out of your stupor. “Huh?”

“The food,” he explained. “I thought you might like to try something new while we’re here, but if you don’t like it—”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just...”

You sighed. Would saying it cause him any pain? You knew Phainon had had a plan: traverse the countryside alone, better learn himself and his swordcraft, find something of his own he could lay claim to.

Falling in love with you had upended all of his plans. Didn’t Phainon ever resent you for it?

You shifted and, with effort, lifted your eyes to meet his worried gaze. “Last night you told me you were happy. If something’s... changed,” you managed, your voice strangled, “I need to know.”

“It’s not that I’m unhappy! No, not at all.”

You considered him for a moment, unconvinced. Your scrutiny unsettled Phainon. You set down your spoon and continued, “I’m just worried this might not last.”

“What might not last?”

“This. You and me. I didn’t know I could live like this until you showed me. All my life I’ve been someone’s daughter, or someone’s soldier, but now that we’re here and I’m your—your companion, your—”

“I’m your lover,” said Phainon, a little uncertainly.

“Yes,” You nod, relieved that he had said it. That note of doubt in his voice almost broke your heart; you rushed to affirm him. “It’s different. You’ve never made me feel like I belong to you. You always ask me what I want to do and indulge me when I suddenly have new ideas and you’ve been so kind to me for absolutely no reason—”

“Do I need a reason?”

“What?”

“I mean can’t I love you just because I can?”

“You always say that.”

“Because I mean it!” Phainon clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I meant it then and I meant it now. You’ve been kind to me. I thought I’d always be alone, that there was no one else in the world who would ever understand me and so what was the point in trying? But you showed me that it was worth so much—more than I can even tell you. I won’t give it up, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I won’t.”

“Doesn’t it hurt you to be with me?” You aak. Before he could respond, you went on, “We’re lucky that at least the wagon driver didn’t say anything, but last night none of the other inns would take us in. Haven’t you noticed? There’s something about us they don’t like and we can’t hide it.”

Phainon sat back on the pillows. For a while he only looked at his hands. Then he mumbled, “Is this about what we did last night?”

“No, that’s—” For a moment You could do nothing but gape at the complete non sequitur. “I don’t see how that’s even related.”

“It’s just that it seems like you’re ashamed!” Phainon accused. “Of me. Of us. No, look at me—” The maypole outside had stolen your attention, but at Phainon’s words you startled and met his eyes. He looked so hurt.

You reached out to touch his shoulder, then thought better of it and pulled back. But it was too late: he had already fixated on the hesitation in your movements. He said, “Why are you so afraid of me? Are you afraid you’ll like what you see, is that it?”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You are. You’re afraid to look at me. You’re afraid to touch me, at least when we’re not alone. Whenever someone asks, you always say we aren’t lovers.” He took a deep breath. “Is something wrong? We are, aren’t we?”

“Yes, Phainon. I told you already. How could you ask me such a thing again?”

“I told you I would stay with you. If you’re happy, why do you keep trying to leave?”

“I’m not trying to leave! Is that really how you feel?”

“Sometimes the way you act makes me worry. The things you say make me worry—”

“No!” You shouted with such vehemence that Phainon flinched away. You took a steadying breath and lowered your voice. “No. I’m sorry. It’s not that. I am scared, but not for the reasons you think. You’ve made me so happy that I don’t know what else to do with myself.” Phainon looked back at you then, his eyes softening. You took his hand, this time with no hesitation, and sat still as he tentatively laced your fingers together. “It’s just that I miss them. Everyone I left behind. They were all I had once. I’m happy with you. I really am. But how is it possible that we’re here together, and they’re still wherever they are?”

“They made their choice. We made ours.”

“Can you say that? You were one of them, too. So many of those men had hopes and dreams of their own.” You reached up and cradled the side of Phainon’s face with your free hand. “Just like you and me.”

“Maybe,” He conceded. “You really miss them?”

“Don’t you?”

Phainon did not, you knew all too well, tend to linger on the past. It had been easiest to hate him for his careless impulses; to charge forward, to act now and think later.

So you weren't surprised when Phainon said, “I can’t go back. They were my family too—but they expect me to be someone I’m not, and I can’t be that person, even for them.”

“I’m not asking you to go back.”

“Then what do you want?

What did you want? Leave it to Phainon to ask you what no one else had before. It still frightened you to hope; you had no capacity left for herself.

He waited patiently, his thumb drawing reassuring circles into the back of your hand.

“I’ve been thinking,” You began, “we could settle down somewhere, you and me. I know we talk about a cottage sometimes, but I want to do it, I mean really do it. We could build something just for the two of us.”

“You want to build a home,” Phainon realized, “with me.”

“Of course it’s you I want. Who else?”

You’d imagined it. If your memory stayed true, no cottages lay on the outskirts of the small town you had agreed on, but you supposed you and Phainon could learn to build one together. True, you both had plenty of experience destroying and little experience building—and yet who could dictate that it was too late? If you had learned anything during your travels with Phainon, it was that you both had time. You were still so young. There was still so much you didn’t know, and what a blessing that was: to know that you could look forward to discovery.

“Okay,” said Phainon. “Sure.”

“Really?” You ask skeptically. “That’s it?”

“What else is there to say? I’m not opposed to it. I like the idea.” He curled into your side again; “I’ve wanted to share my life with you for a very long time now. If this is what you want for us, then I’m happy.”

“No questions again?” You were still offended, somehow; you knew you often mistook Phainon’s flippance for a lack of heart, though in actuality his trust was simply so whole that he didn’t often feel the need to pry.

“Well, I guess—what about work? We’d stay in one place for so long. What will we do?”

“Funny thing is, I actually hadn’t thought that far yet.”

“No plan from you?” A low whistle escaped from between Phainon’s teeth. “That’s a first. I really must have rubbed off on you.”

“Well, I had to make sure you agreed first!” You countered. “Otherwise what’s the point? I guess I do have some ideas, though.”

“Do you really?”

“Ask me properly. I like it when you ask me.”

“All right, tell me your grand plan for what we’ll do when the two of us settle down somewhere.”

“We could start our own garden,” You began. “Raise livestock for ourselves. I could be an apprentice of some sort. Maybe I could learn from a blacksmith—or maybe a carpenter.” The idea took hold in your mind. “Carpentry’s not a bad thought either. Do you think I’d be good at that?”

Phainon smiled fondly at you. “If your time as company commander was any indication, you could do anything you want. Remember who you used to be? Imagine if she could see you now.”

“I guess so. You know, as a child, I always thought there was nothing beyond my village. That if I stepped out of its boundaries for even a second, bandits would find me and I would simply disappear and no one would look for me.” Your voice trailed off as you remembered.

“What would she think, if that girl could see me now?” You murmured. “Now that I think of it, I’m not even sure I know who she was.”

“She’d be happy that you’re happy, that’s for sure.”

“I suppose,” You conceded. “I think it would have been easier, back then, if I’d known this was waiting for me in the future. Strawberries! And I met you.” Your thumb traced patterns in the skin of PhInon’s cheek, just below his eye. “Younger me would be ecstatic that I snagged someone like you.”

“Stop going off topic,” Phainon chastised. It saddened you, that he had grown up so unaccustomed to affection that it took as little as a compliment to rile him up; “Only you would ever think that.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“And what am I doing,” He deflected, “in this plan of yours?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

Phainon considered this, then said, “Well, someone’s got to tend to our garden, yeah?” He studied his palms. “Don’t think I have much of a green thumb yet, but with time I could learn. I did pick up a few things from Castorice. She taught me how to grow flowers. I could start from there. And I could learn how to grow all sorts of crops as the seasons change.”

“Something along those lines,” He concluded indulgently.

“Who knew a big brute like you could be so thoughtful?” Phainon laughed, though it turned into an appreciative sigh when you ran your hands down his arm to holding them.

The unspoken hung in the air. You felt your mouth twist into a frown, but still you made yourself say, “You really want to? Will you be alright?”

“Oh. This again?”

“I just want to be sure,” You insisted. “I don’t want you to do this just because I want to. Be honest with me.”

You knew how much it hurt to lie about who you were. Phainon’s was a different hurt, but a familiar to your own.

Phainon rolled over to lay on his back. His eyes roved over the cracks in the ceiling. “I’ll be fine.”

“If we do this, we’ll move around a lot less. I know there were still other places you wanted to see—other places you wanted to show me.”

“They can wait. The sea will always be there if you want to see it. It’s not going anywhere. We can always meet it another time.”

“The sea?” You asked with interest. You were touched—that Phainon had seen something so vast and magnificent and thought of you.

“Oh, yes. With waves so loud they sound quiet. You’ve never seen it, have you? And these great sand beaches….”

“And these waves—with all that commotion, where do they go?”

“I don’t know. Home.”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“No, I’ve decided. Listen: They’re going home. They try for the sky but then they start feeling lonely on their journey, being so far away from the rest of the sea—where they came from—so they go home.”

“What happens when they go back?”

“Well, I suppose they’ve changed,” Phainon mused, “Now that they know what the wind feels like. That just means they’ll have more stories to tell back home, though.”

“And?”

“That’s what we’ll have too. Somewhere we can always return to when we feel lonely. Or if we feel like we don’t belong.”

You rested your cheek on his chest and pulled him close again, lacing your fingers. “I like your stories,” you said sleepily. The familiarity of his voice and the warmth of the midmorning sun lulled you to calm.

“Don’t believe me yet,” Phainon said ruefully. “I promised you so much, and the rest of Okhema couldn’t deliver—”

“I don’t regret leaving with you.”

“I made you feel alone. Like all you had in the world was me.”

“No, Phainon.”

“No?”

“No. Trust me. You always said you trusted me. You showed me all of it and asked me what I wanted. I could have chosen to stay at any old town, or wherever, even, but I didn’t. Think about it: Why am I even here now? If I’m staying with you, it’s because I want to.”

Phainon squeezed your hand, as if to solidify a pact. He looked down at you dozing on his chest and asked, “Are you tired?”

“A little,” You admitted groggily.

Phainon huffed a laugh; you felt his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, a soothing cadence. “Rest, then,” He advised. He ran a finger through your hair; when it snagged on a tangle, he set to work unraveling the strands, as deft as he had been with the laces on your dress. “I’ll wake you before the festival.”

.

In the end you were late. Phainon, lulled by the weight of your head on his chest, dozed off himself, and when you both startled awake it was already late afternoon. A lifetime of traveling had caught up to you, and now your bodies took any chance to catch up on years of missed rest. When it became clear the festivities would begin without you no matter how quickly you rushed, Phainon said, What the hell, and so you indulged in a few more minutes laying half-awake together in bed before he finally got up to plait your hair back in place. You meandered through the four or five blocks leading towards the town square. In many shops the lights were off and doors locked for the evening, and since there was no one watching you took Phainon’s hand as you walked.

This time you didn’t let go.

None of the dancing pairs looked like you: one man and one woman dressed in their finest, pressed trousers and colorful embroidered skirts twirling as they spun around the maypole, the tempo of the music so rapid that your eyes couldn’t even follow the footwork. But you hadn’t been born for any specific purpose. Much of life had no rhyme or reason to it.

He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things? 

One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark. 

That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way. 

“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery. 

He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this. 

“Oh hey, you’re home.” 

Home? 

He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.

You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago. 

You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”

First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?

Second, who even are you?

Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger. 

Fuck.

“Honey–”

Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again. 

“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”

Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth. 

There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru. 

Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.

“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”

He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”

“You also liked to argue, too.”

“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?” 

“No.” 

“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“

You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?” 

“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you. 

“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.” 

– 

“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”

The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere. 

“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”

Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”

“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”

“31.”

Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.” 

Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.  

“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”

“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody. 

Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude. 

“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion. 

He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”

Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?” 

“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”

“I tried my best! I swear!”

“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”

The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.

“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.

The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed. 

—

You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand. 

“Is the food good?”

“Sure.”

“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement. 

“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.” 

Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”

“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?” 

Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.

“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being. 

A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.

“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”

It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital. 

“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.

“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake. 

“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”

Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.

“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”

Sai wasn’t having that. 

Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite. 

But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.

“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”

“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself. 

You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous. 

“What?” 

There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”

“She’s weird.”

“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”

“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid. 

He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind. 

“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious. 

He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad. 

For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear. 

—

It’s been over a month. 

Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.

But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort. 

Over his dead body. 

Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.

So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.

Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising. 

Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married. 

Satoru looks over your body once. 

Twice. 

He totally understands his future self. 

He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks. 

It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you. 

You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure. 

“Hey… any good news?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.” 

“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“

“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”

You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.

After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”

“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”

The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine. 

But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him. 

You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?” 

“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.” 

It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here. 

“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered. 

He’s always had a thing for milfs.

Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now. 

“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”  

You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you. 

“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you. 

And you fucking miss that. 

He opens his mouth to respond. 

Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you. 

Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid. 

His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”

Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”

It’s starting to sound more natural.

“Y-yeah,” she sniffles. 

Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried. 

His little girl was a dream. 

—

Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.

It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world. 

He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does. 

It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.

With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table. 

The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions. 

You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off. 

“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”

He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?” 

“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.” 

You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact. 

Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.

It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake. 

Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”

Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now. 

“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone. 

Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”

“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”

“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“

“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”

“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“

“Kay’ good night.” 

Click.

Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head. 

He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning. 

“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?” 

“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.” 

“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him. 

“So is waking me up.” 

“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”

“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?” 

“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.” 

Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.” 

“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden. 

And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.

You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?” 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.

“I can take care of that, you know.” 

“What?” 

“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.

“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?” 

“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?” 

“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.” 

“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief. 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.” 

Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock. 

“Feel good?” 

His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”

You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.

“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask. 

“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient. 

His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”

“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”

You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are. 

His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all. 

"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.” 

“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.

It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that—  lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him. 

"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."

You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out. 

You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort. 

"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."

You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder. 

He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”

“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”

“You want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yeah.” 

Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper. 

“Better?”

He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”

“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.” 

He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life. 

Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”

“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”

He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch. 

Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you. 

“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself. 

When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him. 

You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.

And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.

—

It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back. 

What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?

He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.  

Acceptance. 

He likes his life here. 

You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.

No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second. 

With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life. 

You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache. 

He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start. 

You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.

“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.

There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”

He’s back.

“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”

—

Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.

Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers. 

Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly. 

Satoru was fucking devastated. 

Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo. 

God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point. 

One Year Later

“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone. 

It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job. 

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”

“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.” 

The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable. 

He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit. 

It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him. 

The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time. 

“And what can I get started for you today?”

His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.

“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”

“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie. 

“Name for the order?”

“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”

He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”

“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind: 

He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number. 

“I suppose such is my fate. Do fetch the carriage, will you? It is a long ride to London, and it would suit us all to be there before sundown.”

Poor Mydeimos could do nothing else but oblige, though he did so reluctantly and made his displeasure known to all. He snapped at the footman and the driver, curtly told your maid—poor Erinyes, you would miss her so!—that the ruby necklace she had picked out for you was too gaudy and she ought to replace it with the diamonds instead, and ordered the cook to make your favourite dish for breakfast, though you did not think you could stomach even a morsel of it. You appreciated his efforts, however, and tried, at least, to feign taking a bite so that he would not feel guilty.

In the carriage, where you sat still as a statue, you unfolded Lady Whistledown’s papers once more. It read thus:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Though this news has been nothing more than a rumour for the better part of a month, it has now been officially announced that the King’s wedding has been arranged.

The lucky young lady in question, however, remains something of a curiosity to this author—being neither a reigning beauty of the marriage mart nor a frequent fixture of our glittering assemblies. Indeed, one might wonder whether His Highness has chosen discretion over delight, or whether this match is yet another reminder that crowns, much like fortunes, are so often secured by strategy rather than sentiment.

Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations. The King has long been known for his reserve, his temper, and his marked disinterest in the softer pursuits of courtship. If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so under circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances.

Still, this author cannot help but observe that unions forged under necessity have a habit of producing the most interesting consequences. Whether this marriage shall prove a triumph or a tragedy remains to be seen—but rest assured, gentle reader, I shall be watching.

Yours truly, Lady Whistledown.

“Impetuous woman,” you said, tossing the pamphlet aside. “What does she know about me?”

“She is not entirely wrong, is she?” Mydeimos, who sat opposite you, said. “You did not want this marriage, and it is my fate to deliver you to it.”

This time, you truly did feel a pang of sympathy for your older brother. “You did say this was a match made the day I was born, Mydeimos. What could you have done to stop it?”

“Annulled the agreement,” he said. “Father and mother are no more, so how would they know?”

“Perhaps,” you said patiently, “but that betrothal is not the only reason, is it not? I know how our funds have been dwindling, brother. Our crops are failing, and you need the money in order to help our farmers and tenants.”

Mydeimos shifted awkwardly in his seat. He looked anywhere in the carriage but directly at you: his gaze darted from the window to the spot above your head, and back down to his boots. He’d worn his finest clothes—as had you, of course; it would not do to meet the King in anything less—but he looked smaller than you’d ever seen him.

“Yes,” he said finally. “It is for the money.”

“Then it is settled. I am quite fond of our estate and its tenants. Its upkeep shall keep me very happy.”

“I will do my best to ensure it,” Mydeimos said. “You will have to know a few things about the castle and the King—they sent me a whole book full of customs and information you ought to know as the next in line to be the Queen. Would you like to read it now?”

“Perhaps later,” you said, though in truth you did not want to read it at all. In fact, you found yourself wanting to grab the book from Mydeimos’ hands and throw it out of the carriage. Instead, you settled for imagining the pages being set on fire.

He nodded and reached over to pat your hand where it rested on the seat. “Try to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

You sighed and closed your eyes.

The palace was grand—grander than anything you’d ever laid eyes upon before, and much bigger than your manor back in Kremnos.

The footman opened the carriage door, and the evening air rushed in, cool and sharp, carrying with it the scent of roses from the palace gardens. You took Mydeimos’ offered hand and stepped down onto the cobblestones, your skirts rustling as you steadied yourself. The palace loomed before you, its white stone façade gilded by the light of the sun, making its windows gleam.

“What do you think?” Mydeimos murmured beside you.

You said nothing. Your gaze swept across the grounds—the manicured hedges, the marble fountains. Cold beauty, you thought. Beauty without warmth.

A line of servants stood waiting, their livery immaculate and their faces blank. At the head of this assembly stood a woman, tall and severe, with silver hair swept back from a face that might have been handsome if it were not quite so forbidding.

“My lady,” she said. “I am Lady Caenis, the palace stewardess. His Highness sends his regrets that he cannot greet you personally, but urgent matters of state require his attention.”

Of course. You forced your expression into one of gracious understanding, though privately you thought it rather convenient that the King could not spare even an hour to meet his bride-to-be. What urgent matters, you wondered, could possibly be more pressing than this?

“How very conscientious of His Highness,” you said. “I should hate to distract him from his duties.”

“Indeed. Come, your rooms have been prepared. Lord Mydeimos, arrangements have been made for your accommodation in the east wing. You will, of course, be free to visit your sister as propriety allows.”

The implied restriction was not lost on you; it meant, you suspected, that your time with Mydeimos would be carefully monitored and limited. The thought of losing even his company made something uncomfortably sad twist in your chest.

You walked through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced royals, their painted eyes seeming to follow your progress. Chandeliers dripped with crystals overhead, and your footsteps echoed on marble floors so highly polished, you could see your reflection in them.

“These will be your apartments,” Lady Caenis said at last, pushing open a set of doors carved with intricate patterns of roses and thorns. “The Dowager Princess’ chambers. They have been empty for some time, so we have had them thoroughly aired and refreshed for your arrival.”

The rooms were vast: a receiving parlour that opened into a bedroom, which in turn led to a dressing room and private bathing chamber. The walls were papered in silk the colour of early morning skies, and the furniture was lined with brocade. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, as though trying to warm a space far too large for such modest flames. French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked gardens so extensive you could not see where they ended.

“Your maid will arrive shortly,” Lady Caenis continued. “She comes with excellent references, and has served in the palace for many years. I trust you will find her more than adequate.”

“I had rather hoped my own maid might attend me,” you said. “Erinyes has been with my family since I was a child.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Queen’s household staff are all palace employees—it is tradition, you understand. Your brother’s attendants will, naturally, remain with him during his stay.”

“I understand,” you said, though you understood very well that you were being given no choice in the matter.

“The wedding is tomorrow at noon in the palace chapel,” the stewardess said. “You will have time this evening to review the ceremony with the archbishop, and there will be a private dinner tonight where you and His Highness will dine together. It is… expected that you use this time to become acquainted.”

How romantic, you thought.

“What time is dinner?” you asked.

“Eight o’clock. Someone will come to escort you.” Lady Caenis moved towards the door, then paused. “A word of advice, my lady. His Highness is not what you might expect. He is… complicated. I would suggest keeping an open mind.”

Before you could ask what she meant by that, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. You walked to the balcony and stepped out into the cool air. The gardens spread below you in geometric circles, hedges trimmed to sharp angles, flower beds arranged in unnatural patterns.

“Well,” you said aloud, “here we are.”

The gardens remained silent. Even the birds seemed to have deserted this place.

You turned back to the room and discovered that your trunks had already been brought up and placed in the dressing room. At least you would have your own clothes, even if everything else was being stripped away. Small mercies. You were examining the wardrobe—mahogany, you thought, and probably worth more than your family’s entire stable—when there came a soft knock at the door.

“Enter,” you called, expecting Lady Caenis again, or perhaps the maid you were to be saddled with.

Instead, Mydeimos slipped inside, looking furtive and uncomfortably in a way that reminded you of when you were children and he was sneaking sweets from the kitchen.

“I only have a moment,” he said quickly. “Lady Caenis made it quite clear that I’m not to disturb you while you’re settling in, but I had to—I needed to see that you were all right.”

You felt a rush of affection for your brother, this man who had always tried so hard to protect you even when circumstances made it impossible. “I am perfectly fine, Mydeimos. The rooms are lovely. Cold, but lovely.”

“Cold?”

“In spirit, I mean. They’re physically quite warm.” You gestured vaguely at the fire. “It’s all very grand and very proper and very… not home.”

Mydeimos crossed the room to take your hands in his. His fingers were warm, familiar, the same fingers which had cleaned your knees of mud when you slipped and fell in the gardens as a child, the same ones which had held you at night when you could not sleep in the weeks after your parents passed.

“I am so sorry, sister,” he said. “If there were any other way—”

“We’ve had this conversation before already,” you said gently. “There is no other way, and we both know it. I shall simply have to make the best of things. After all, how bad can it be? I shall be a queen, and I shall have all the gowns and jewels and power a woman could want.”

“But will you be happy?”

Would you be happy? You didn’t know. You couldn’t imagine it, but perhaps that was simply because you hadn’t tried hard enough. Perhaps happiness was something that could be learned, like French or needlework or the proper way to address a duke.

“I shall endeavour to be content,” you answered at last. “That will have to suffice.”

Mydeimos looked as though he wanted to argue, but another knock at the door forestalled him. This time, it was a young woman in a maid’s uniform.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I am Arielle, your new maid,” she said, curtseying. “Lady Caenis sent me to help you dress for dinner.”

“It’s only—” you glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—“four o’clock. Dinner isn’t until eight.”

“Yes, my lady, but there’s your hair to be done, and we’ll need to select the proper gown, and you’ll want to be bathed first, I imagine, after such a long journey. Best to start early and not be rushed.”

You supposed she had a point, though the idea of spending four hours preparing for a single meal seemed excessive even by your standards.

“I should go,” Mydeimos said, squeezing your hands before releasing them. “But I’ll see you tomorrow before the wedding. I promise.”

A flutter of panic caused you to ask, “Will you not be joining us for dinner?”

Mydeimos looked pained, his eyes darting away from you. “It would—it is not appropriate, my lady.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and watched him leave. 

Arielle was already bustling about the room, laying out several different options for evening gowns. “Now then, my lady, what do you think? The green silk might be nice—it brings out your eyes—but the ivory satin is more traditional for a first formal dinner with His Highness. Then again, there’s the rose-coloured taffeta, which is very fashionable just now…”

You let her chatter wash over you as you walked to the window again. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. By this time the next day, you would be married. You would be a queen. You would belong to this place, this palace, and to a man you had never met.

Lady Whistledown’s words came back to you: If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so in circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances. Well, you thought, at least your expectations were appropriately low. That was something, was it not? Better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to hope for romance and be bitterly disappointed.

“The ivory satin, I think,” you said, turning back to Arielle. “Traditional suits me just fine.”

If the maid thought there was anything odd about your tone, she didn’t show it. She simply smiled and began preparing your bath, humming a cheerful tune that did little to ease your mood.

You caught your reflection in the mirror—a young woman in a travelling dress, her hair slightly dishevelled from the journey. Tomorrow, that woman would put on a wedding gown and walk down an aisle and promise herself to a stranger. Tonight, she would sit across from that stranger at dinner and make polite conversation about… what? The weather? The state of the kingdom? How to divvy up your conjugal duties?

The thought made you want to laugh, but you suspected that if you started, you might not be able to stop, and that would never do. After all, you had very little choice in the matter.

“I am afraid the prince will not be joining you for dinner, my lady. He is… indisposed.”

“What?” you said, and indeed, when you looked around, the long table laden with the finest foods and the most delicious sweets was set for only one. “Is—can my brother join me, at least?”

“I am afraid that is inappropriate, my lady,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “You may enjoy your dinner in peace.”

“He is my brother,” you hissed. “After tomorrow, I may never see him again.”

“Lord Mydeimos will attend the wedding tomorrow, and you will have ample opportunity to say your farewells then. For tonight, His Highness felt it best that you have time to… acclimate to your new surroundings.”

“How thoughtful,” you said, and this time you made no effort to disguise the bitterness in your voice. “His Highness is proving to be remarkably considerate—first too preoccupied with matters of state to greet me, and now too indisposed to dine with me. One might almost think he wishes to avoid me entirely.”

“My lady—”

“Tell me, Lady Caenis,” you interrupted, “is the King always this… elusive? Or is it only his future bride he finds so distasteful that he cannot bear to spend even one evening in her company?”

The stewardess drew herself up, and for a moment you thought she might reprimand you for your impertinence. Instead, however, she sighed and something in her severe features softened just slightly.

“His Highness has his reasons for everything he does, my lady. I cannot speak to them, nor would it be appropriate for me to do so. But I will say this: he is not a cruel man, merely a… cautious one. Give him time.”

“How much time, precisely?” you said. “We are to be married in less than a day.”

Lady Caenis said nothing to that. What could she say? You were right, and you both knew it.

“Very well,” you said at last, turning away from her to face the absurdly long dining table with its single place setting at the head. It looked ridiculous: one plate, one glass, one set of silverware in all that vast, empty space. “I shall dine alone, then. As it appears I shall be doing many things alone from now on.”

“My lady—”

“That will be all, Lady Caenis. Thank you.”

You heard her hesitate behind you, the rustle of her skirts as she prepared to leave, but then, surprisingly, she spoke once more. “For what it is worth, my lady, I am sorry. This is not… this is not how I would have wished your arrival to be.”

You did not turn around. You could not bear to see whatever expression might be on her face; sympathy would be unbearable, and pity even worse.

“Yes,” you said quietly. “Well. Perhaps you might convey my gratitude to His Highness for his… hospitality.”

The door closed softly behind her, and you were alone.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at that single place setting, and the elaborate dishes that had been prepared for a meal that was meant to be shared: roasted pheasant, by the looks of it, and some sort of fish in a cream sauce, and vegetables arranged in artful little pyramids. Desserts gleamed on a separate side table—tarts and cakes and what looked like a towering confection of spun sugar. All of it was wasted on a woman like you, who found she had no appetite whatsoever.

You walked to the table slowly, your ivory satin gown whispering against the floor. Arielle had done an excellent job with your hair, pinning it up in an elaborate style that had taken the better part of an hour and left your scalp aching. Your jewellery—the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon—caught the candlelight and threw it back in cold, brilliant sparks. You looked every inch a princess, though you had never felt less like one.

Sitting down in the chair that had been pulled out for you, you stared at the feast spread before you. A servant appeared from somewhere—you had not even noticed him standing in the shadows—and began to serve you, spooning portions onto your plate.

“That’s enough,” you said when your plate was only half full. “Thank you.”

The servant bowed and retreated back into the shadows. You picked up your fork, examined a piece of pheasant, and set the fork back down again.

This was absurd! This whole farce was absurd. You had travelled for hours to get here, and had spent four hours being primped and perfected for a dinner with a man who could not even be bothered to attend. You had dressed in your finest gown, and allowed Arielle to arrange your hair until it was perfectly elegant, and had put on jewellery worth more than most people saw in a lifetime—and for what? To sit alone in a cavernous dining room and pick at food you did not want?

Lady Whistledown had been right, you thought bitterly. Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations indeed.

You forced yourself to eat a few bites—the pheasant really was excellent—and pushed your plate away. The servant materialised again, asking in hushed tones if you would care for dessert.

“No, thank you,” you said. “I find I’m quite finished.”

“Perhaps some wine, my lady? Or tea?”

“That will be all, thank you. I would like to retreat to my chambers now.”

If Lady Caenis found out that you had run away on the morn of your wedding day, you feared her wrath would scare you more than living as an old, unmarried spinster in some far-off county where the King could never find you. How could he? He had not deigned to see your face the evening before, as it was, so you were certain he would not be able to recognise you regardless.

Either way, you consoled yourself, the odds of the King himself finding you attempting to climb over the trellis on the garden wall was a chance that was nigh impossible.

The morning air was cool against your flushed cheeks as you struggled with the branches, your wedding gown—an elaborate confection of white silk and lace that had taken Arielle and two other maids nearly an hour to get you into—catching on every available branch and rose thorn. The skirts were impossibly voluminous, designed to make you look like some sort of ethereal being floating down the aisle, but they were decidedly impractical for climbing.

“Blast,” you muttered as another section of lace tore free with an audible rip. The gardeners would have a fit when they discovered what you’d done to their roses.

Arielle had arrived promptly at six. The next three hours had felt like a blur: the bath, the hair, the undergarments, the stockings, the gown itself with its thousand tiny buttons, and the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon.

Through it all, one singular thought had circled your mind: I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I cannot do this.

So when Arielle had stepped out to fetch your bouquet, you had made your decision. You had gathered up your ridiculous skirts, slipped out onto the balcony, and made your way down to the gardens. The chapel was on the other side of the palace—you could hear the distant sounds of guests arriving, carriages rattling over cobblestones, voices calling to one another. You had perhaps an hour before the ceremony was to begin.

“I wouldn’t recommend that particular route of escape, if I were you.”

You froze. The voice had come from below. You looked down and felt your stomach drop.

A man stood at the base of the trellis, arms crossed over his chest, looking up at you with an expression of blatant, unabashed curiosity. He was tall—as tall as Mydeimos, perhaps—and broad-shouldered beneath grand attire: an intricately embroidered coat, over a white shirt and dress shoes. His hair was light, ruffled gently by the breeze, and even from this distance you could see his eyes were pale, an unusual colour, like ice or the winter sky.

He was also, you noted with some irritation, devastatingly handsome. He had sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a mouth that was currently curved into a smile that suggested he found your predicament highly entertaining.

“Who are you?” you demanded, clinging to the trellis with increasingly aching fingers. “And what business is it of yours which route I take?”

“The trellis,” he said conversationally, “is nearly fifty years old. The wood is rotten in several places. You’re likely to fall and break your neck, and that would be terribly inconvenient for everyone involved.”

“I’ll take my chances,” you said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Breaking your neck on your wedding day seems rather dramatic, don’t you think? Even for a runaway bride.”

You stared down at him. “How did you know—”

“The dress is something of a giveaway,” he said, gesturing at the acres of white silk and lace. “Also, I am fairly certain I was meant to be marrying someone this morning, and given that she’s currently attempting to climb over the garden wall…”

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

“You’re the King,” you stated.

He executed a small bow. “Guilty. And you must be the sister of the Earl of Kremnos. My bride-to-be. Or perhaps my bride-who-was, depending on whether that trellis holds.”

This could not be happening.

“Well,” you said, because there truly seemed to be nothing else to say, “I suppose you’ve caught me, then. Congratulations, Your Highness. You can go inform Lady Caenis that the bride is making a run for it. I’m sure she’ll have some very stern words for me before she locks me in my chambers until the ceremony.”

“I could do that,” the King agreed. He moved closer to the trellis, one hand reaching up to grip the wood—testing it, you realised, checking its stability. “Or I could help you down from there before you fall and further ruin what appears to be a very expensive dress.”

“…Help me?”

“Unless you’d prefer to hang there until the ceremony begins. Though I should warn you, the chapel bells will ring in approximately forty-five minutes, and I imagine Lady Caenis will come looking for you well before then.”

He was right, of course. And the trellis was creaking more ominously by the second, and your arms were beginning to ache from holding your weight, and your fingers were getting scraped by the rough wood and thorns.

“Why would you help me?” you asked suspiciously. “I’m trying to escape from marrying you. Shouldn’t you be trying to stop me?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’m curious to see how far you’ll get.”

Before you could respond to that utterly baffling statement, he had begun to climb. The trellis groaned in protest—it had barely been holding your weight, and now it had to support his as well—but somehow it held. Within moments, he had reached your position.

Up close, he was even more striking than you had thought from below. His silver-white hair fell across his forehead in a way that seemed almost careless. His eyes, the colour of ice over deep water, studied you with an intensity that made you want to look away.

But you didn’t. You held his gaze and tried not to think about how improper this was, the two of you clinging to a trellis together on the morning of your wedding, close enough that you could smell him.

“Now then,” he asked, quieter now. “Where exactly were you planning to go, dressed like that?”

“Away,” you said. “Anywhere. Somewhere you couldn’t find me.”

“Ah. And you thought climbing over the garden wall was the best route?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Most people who attempt to flee an arranged marriage at least have the good sense to change out of their wedding attire first.”

“I did not have the time,” you said. “Arielle only left for five minutes, and I had to seize the opportunity.”

“Arielle is your maid?” he asked.

“Yes. The poor thing is probably having hysterics right about now, wondering where I’ve gone.”

The King—your husband-to-be, though you could hardly believe it—tilted his head slightly. “You know,” he said, “when Lady Caenis told me you had arrived yesterday, I thought about coming to greet you. I got as far as the corridor outside your chambers.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“I stood there for ten minutes, trying to decide what to say. How to explain…” He trailed off, looking away for the first time since he’d climbed up to meet you. “It does not matter. I didn’t come in. I left. And then at dinner, I… I know how it sounds, but you must believe me. I was truly indisposed. I know what you must think of me.”

“Why?” you asked. “Am I truly so horrific to look at?”

His eyes snapped back to yours. “On the contrary. We should get down from here before this entire structure collapses and we both end up in the rose bushes.”

 Having said this, the King began to climb down, and you followed, more carefully now, acutely aware of how close he was, how his body moved gracefully despite the precarious footing. When you reached the bottom, he held out a hand to help you down the last few feet. Your feet touched the grass, and you stood in the garden, cheeks aflame, your ridiculous wedding gown covered in dirt and torn lace and your hair coming loose from its pins.

“So,” the King said, “what will it be, my lady? Will you run, or will you stay?”

“You will not force me?” you asked.

“I may be a king, my lady, but I am no brute,” he said. “If you do not wish to marry me, we shall cancel the wedding immediately.”

“Tell me something,” you said. “And I want the truth.”

“All right.”

“Do you want this marriage?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t. I do not want to bind myself to someone who will likely grow to hate me, and perform a ceremony in front of hundreds of people and pretend that this is anything other than a political arrangement.”

The chapel bells began to ring—not the full peal that would announce the start of the ceremony, but the warning bells that meant it would begin in thirty minutes.

“If I stay,” you heard yourself say, “and walk down that aisle and marry you—what happens then? What kind of marriage will this be?”

The King was quiet for a moment, considering. “I cannot promise you love, or even affection. I have a temper, and I’m not always kind, and there are things about me that will likely make you regret this decision. But I can promise to treat you with respect, and to speak with you as an equal. I can promise to give you as much freedom as I can within the constraints of this life.”

“Tell me your name, Your Highness,” you said. “I should like to know this, at least, before we are to be wed.”

“Phainon,” he said, a little half-smile gracing his lips. “My name is Phainon.”

“Phainon,” you repeated, testing the way it rolled off your tongue. It was a strange name, foreign-sounding, but you liked it. In turn, you gave him your own name, which Phainon said once, and then once more, his smile widening. The bells rang again. Twenty-five minutes.

“I need to know,” Phainon said quietly. “Are you going to run?”

“No,” you said. “I’m not going to run.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” Phainon said.

“Do not, yet,” you said wryly. “I’ve a temper too, you know. And a sharp tongue. And I don’t take well to being ordered about.”

“I would expect nothing less from a woman who tried to escape her own wedding by climbing over a garden wall,” Phainon said. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He led you back through the gardens, not towards the main entrance where servants and guests might see you, but along a hidden path that wound between the hedges. You followed, your torn wedding gown trailing behind you. Upon reaching the servants’ entrance, Phainon led you through the corridors—until you ran into Lady Caenis.

She took one look at you both, at your torn dress and loosened hair, Phainon’s garden-stained shirt and your joined hands, and went pale.

“Your Highness,” she said faintly. “My lady. What—how did you—”

“My bride went for a walk in the garden,” Phainon said. “She needed some air before the ceremony. Nerves, you understand. I happened upon her and offered to escort her back.”

“Of… of course, Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said. “My lady, shall we get you back to your chambers? I shall send for Arielle to make some… repairs to your gown.”

“Yes, I suppose that would be wise,” you said, before turning to Phainon. “I shall see you at the altar, Your Highness?”

“You shall,” he said, smiling once more. “Don’t be late, my lady. I should hate to have to come looking for you again.”

You let Lady Caenis lead you away, back to your chambers. As Arielle exclaimed over the state of your dress and began the work of making you presentable again, you found yourself thinking about Phainon.

You had come to this palace expecting a monster. A cold, cruel prince who would treat you as some rare trinket or jewel. Instead, you had found… what? Not love, certainly. Not even affection. But perhaps something that could become those things, given time and patience.

“My lady,” said Arielle. “You’re smiling! I’ve never seen you smile like that, in all the hours I’ve spent with you.”

“Am I?” you said, touching your lips and finding Arielle was right. “How strange. I hadn’t realised.”

When the ceremony was finished and Phainon’s lips had touched yours and you had bid farewell to your brother, Phainon took your hand in his. You refused to cry in front of Mydeimos, though your chest ached when he turned his back on you and loped back to his carriage.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

“A surprise?” you said, and found you were smiling so wide your cheeks pained. “How nice!”

Perhaps it was relief that the ceremony was over, that you had survived the endless procession down the aisle, your hand tucked into the crook of Mydeimos’ arm, and persisted through the archbishop’s droning voice and the vows that had felt both impossibly heavy and strangely weightless on your tongue. Perhaps it was simply that you were trying very hard to be optimistic of this new life.

Whatever the reason, you found yourself genuinely pleased by the prospect of a surprise. How thoughtful of him, you thought. How kind, to think of giving you something on this day that had already been so overwhelming.

“Where are we going?” you asked as Phainon guided you down a corridor you had not explored. The palace was a maze, with identical marble floors and soaring ceilings that made you feel very small.

“You’ll see,” he said.

You walked in silence for several minutes, your wedding gown rustling with each step. Arielle had worked miracles with the torn lace and garden stains, but you could still see the evidence of your attempted escape if you looked closely enough—a small rip near the hem, a faint smudge of dirt on the silk. You found yourself oddly fond of these imperfections. They were proof that something real and true had happened this morning, something that belonged to you and Phainon alone.

Finally, he stopped before a pair of ornate doors, larger than the others you had passed, carved with intricate patterns of flowers and vines that seemed to twist and grow across the dark wood. Two footmen stood at attention on either side, and they bowed deeply as you and Phainon approached.

“Open them,” Phainon said.

The doors swung open to reveal a long gallery, flooded with light from tall windows that ran the length of one wall. The other wall was lined with more portraits—queens, you realised, generations of them staring down at you, their faces serious and severe. At the far end of the gallery, another set of doors stood open, revealing a glimpse of rooms beyond.

Phainon led you forward, and you found yourself looking around in wonder. The gallery was beautiful in a way that felt less cold than the rest of the palace. There were fresh flowers in vases in side tables, and the furniture looked comfortable rather than merely decorative. 

“These,” Phainon said, gesturing at the doors at the far end, “are your apartments. The Queen’s apartments. We renovated them after my mother passed—they had been closed up for years, and I thought… I thought you might appreciate them far more than I would.”

You looked up at him in surprise. “You renovated them? For me?”

“The work was completed last month,” he said. “I wanted you to have something that was yours, and yours alone.”

Your chest felt tight with emotion. He had thought of you, had planned for your comfort, even while he was avoiding meeting you. It was such a contradiction: the man who couldn’t face you, and yet had taken the time to ensure you would have a home waiting.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

He inclined his head, acknowledging your thanks, but his expression remained difficult to read. “Would you like to see them?”

“Of course.”

He led you through the gallery and into the apartments beyond. The rooms were magnificent. The receiving parlour was decorated in shades of cream and gold, with furniture that looked both elegant and comfortable. Beyond it, you could see a bedroom with a massive four-poster bed draped in silk, and what looked like a dressing room and private study. French doors opened onto a balcony which opened out to the garden.

“There’s a music room as well,” Phainon said, pointing to another door, “and a small library. I wasn’t certain what your interests were, but I thought—well, I thought it best to provide options.”

You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. This was to be your home. “It’s beautiful,” you said, and meant it. “Truly, Phainon, this is… thank you.”

He smiled, then, small and tentative, but genuine. “I’m glad you like it. I worried you might find it too formal, or not to your taste, but Lady Caenis assured me—”

“It’s perfect,” you interrupted. “Truly.”

You thought, then, that perhaps this marriage might not be so terrible after all. Perhaps you could be happy here, in these beautiful rooms with this man who had tried so hard to make you comfortable.

“There’s something else I need to show you,” he said. “Come with me.”

You followed him back through the gallery, back into the corridor, and then down a different path entirely. This part of the palace was quieter and less ornate. The portraits here were of kings rather than queens, and they looked even more severe than their female counterparts—men with hard eyes and harder mouths, who looked like they had never smiled in their lives.

Phainon stopped before another set of doors. These were not as grand as the ones that led to your apartments, but they were still impressive: dark wood carved with geometric patterns, simple but elegant.

“These are my apartments,” Phainon said. “The King’s apartments.”

“Oh,” you said, uncertain why he was showing you this. “They’re very nice.”

He didn’t open the doors. Instead, he turned to face you, and you saw that his expression had changed entirely. The man who had climbed the trellis this morning, who had smiled at you and held your hand—that man was gone. In his place stood the King you had heard about in rumours and whispers. Cold, remote, untouchable.

“There is something I must tell you,” he said. “Something I should have told you this morning, but I… I lacked the courage.”

“…What is it?”

“We will not be sharing apartments,” he said flatly. “You will live in the Queen’s chambers. I will live in the King’s chambers. We will maintain separate households, separate lives. You will have your duties—public appearances, charitable work, whatever other obligations come with being Queen. I will have mine. We will see each other when necessary for official functions, and of course for the production of an heir, but otherwise… Otherwise we will live separately.”

You stared at him, certain you must have misheard. “Separately?”

“Yes.”

“But we just married,” you said, and your voice sounded strange in your own ears, high and thin and confused. “We just made vows. We just—this morning, you said you would treat me with respect, that we would have honesty between us, that—”

“And I will,” Phainon interrupted. “I am treating you with respect by being honest with you now. This is how it must be. This is how it will be.”

“But why?” you said. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to be married to me, why go through with the ceremony at all? Why renovate my apartments and give me a library and a music room and make everything beautiful if you were just going to—to exile me on one side of the palace while you hide away on the other?”

“Because this is what is best,” he said. “For both of us.”

“Best? Best for whom, exactly? Because it certainly doesn’t feel the best to me. I left my home, my brother, everything I’ve ever known! I tried to run this morning, and you found me, and you gave me a choice, and I chose to stay. I chose you! And now you’re telling me that was a mistake?”

“I’m not saying it was a mistake—”

“Then what are you saying?” Your voice was rising now, but you did not care if servants heard, if the entire palace heard. “Explain it to me, Phainon. Make me understand why you would show me kindness this morning only to take it away now.”

He turned away from you, his shoulders tense. “I am the King,” he said, flatly. “And as your King, this is what I order. We will live separately. That is final.”

“You’re hiding behind your crown,” you said, sharp as glass and twice as cutting. “You are using your authority as King because you do not want to give me a real answer. What are you so afraid of?”

“I am not afraid!” he snapped, before taking in a breath shudderingly, and continuing, eyes downcast, “I am not afraid. This is the kindest thing I can do for you. You will have your freedom, your independence. You will be Queen in name and power, but you won’t have to—you won’t be burdened with—you will have a good life here. I will make certain of it. You will want for nothing. You will have everything a queen could desire.”

“Except a husband,” you said.

“I—”

“I see. You’ve made your position clear, Your Majesty. As my King, you have ordered that we live separately, and as your subject, I must obey. Isn’t that right?”

“Don’t,” Phainon said. “Don’t do this. Don’t twist this into—”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” You drew yourself up, straightened your shoulders, and looked at your husband—your King—with all the dignity you could muster. “I shall retire to my apartments. I assume you’ll send word when you require my presence for official functions?”

“Please—”

“That will be all, yes, Your Highness? Unless there is something else you need to inform me of? Any other surprises you’ve been saving for our wedding day?”

Phainon looked stricken, his face pale, but he shook his head.

“Then I bid you good night, Your Majesty,” you said, dipping your head in a bow before turning and walking away. Your wedding gown trailed behind you, and you held your head high even though your vision was blurring with tears you refused to shed. 

You found your way back to your apartments and closed the doors behind you. Only then did you let yourself lean against the carved wood, only then did you let the tears fall.

You had been so foolish.

This morning, on that trellis, you had thought you understood Phainon. You had thought he was like you—trapped, frightened, trying to be brave. You had thought perhaps you could be allies, and could face this marriage together and make something bearable out of a situation neither of you wanted.

How foolish you’d been!

He didn’t want an ally or a partner. He wanted… what? A queen who stayed in her own apartments and didn’t ask questions? A wife who existed only when he needed her for public appearances or the production of an heir?

You slid down to the floor, wounded and terribly lonely, and cried for your brother, who you had left behind, and your home, which you would never see again.

Thus did your honeymoon pass, in isolation and brittle solitude, and how desperately did you yearn for companionship for the duration of it! Arielle was chatty and talkative, but your positions could not allow for the kind of casual, mundane conversations that were allowed between friends. Lady Caenis, perhaps having taken pity on you, sent word for a lady she trusted, a friend’s daughter of the same age as you, and invited her to the Queen’s chambers for tea one evening.

Lady Castorice was slight but sturdy, her long, pale hair twisted into an elaborate braid and her hands folded neatly over the folds of her lavender gown.

“May I speak freely?” you asked immediately, upon settling down on the chaise in your parlour.

Lady Castorice blinked, surprised by the question. She glanced at Arielle, who was fussing with the tea service on a nearby table, then back at you. “Your Majesty,” she said, “I am not certain what you mean.”

“I mean,” you said, “may I speak to you as one person to another, rather than as Queen to subject? May we have an actual conversation, rather than a formal, stilted exchange where you tell me the weather is lovely and I agree?”

To your great relief, Castorice smiled, warm and genuine.

“I think I should like that very much, Your Majesty,” she said.

You gave her name. “Please, when we’re alone like this, call me as such. I’ve been called Your Majesty or some other variation of it nearly seven hundred times in the past week, and if I hear it seven hundred and one times, I fear I might do something very undignified.”

Lady Castorice’s smile widened. “Then you must call me Castorice. Or Cas, if you prefer—my nephews all call me Cas, and I’ve rather gotten used to it.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” you said. “Where does it come from?”

“My mother’s family,” Castorice said as Arielle brought over the tea service and began pouring. “They’re from the northern provinces, near the border. The names there are all rather old-fashioned. My nephews got lucky—they’re called Marcus and Julius, which are perfectly normal. I got stuck with Castorice.”

“I think it suits you,” you said warmly.

Arielle finished serving the tea and withdrew to the corner of the room, giving you and Castorice the illusion of privacy even though you both knew she was there, listening, as was her duty. But it was something, at least. Better than sitting alone in your beautiful apartments with no company but your own increasingly bitter thoughts.

“Lady Caenis told me you’ve been rather lonely since the wedding,” Castorice said.

“The truth is I’ve been going slowly mad with nothing to do but wander around these apartments and stare at the walls,” you said. “I tried reading, but I can’t seem to concentrate. I tried the pianoforte in the music room, but I’m dreadfully out of practice and it just made me feel worse. Mostly I’ve just been…” Crying? Raging? Wondering if I made the worst mistake of my life?

“Adjusting?” Castorice supplied gently.

“Something like that.”

Castorice set down her teacup. “May I speak freely as well?”

“Please do.”

“The palace is full of gossip,” Castorice said bluntly. “Everyone is talking about the new Queen who arrived a day before her wedding, and who has not been seen in public since. They’re saying the King has sent you away, that he’s displeased with you.”

You felt your cheeks flush with anger and humiliation. “Of course they are. What else would they say?”

“I’m telling you this not to upset you,” Castorice said quickly, “but because I thought you ought to know what’s being said. I want you to know that I do not believe a word of it.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I’ve known His Majesty since we were children—my family has always been close to the royal family, and I spent a great deal of time at the palace when we were young. I know that whatever is happening between you and the King, it is not because he’s displeased with you.”

“How can you possibly know that?” you asked. You hated how desperate you sounded, how much you wanted her to be right.

Castorice leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I saw him the day after your wedding. I was visiting Lady Caenis—she’s a sort of aunt to me, though not by blood—and he came to speak with her about some household matter. I have never seen Phainon look like that.”

“Did he say anything?” you asked. “About me?”

“Not to me. But I heard him speaking to Lady Caenis as I was leaving. He asked her to make certain you were comfortable, that you had everything you needed. He asked if you were eating properly, if you seemed unwell. When Lady Caenis told him you’d been crying… He looked as though she had struck him.”

You didn’t know what to do with all this information. It didn’t change anything—Phainon had still banished you to separate apartments, broken the promise he made on the trellis, and chosen to hide rather than face whatever it was he was so afraid of. This did, however, serve as proof that he was not entirely indifferent, that your pain had affected him.

Though perhaps that made it worse. If he cared, if your tears troubled him, why would he do this to you in the first place?

“I don’t understand him,” you said quietly. “One moment he’s kind, the next he’s cruel. One moment he’s giving me a choice, the next he’s ordering me to live separately as though I’m—as though I’m some sort of inconvenience to be managed.”

“Men are often cruel when they’re frightened,” Castorice said. “Especially men with power.”

“What could he possibly be frightened of?” you said. “He is the King. He has everything.”

Castorice took a sip of her tea, her expression thoughtful. “I do not know, but I do know that Phainon is… complicated. He always has been, even as a child. He feels things very deeply, but he’s learned to hide it so well that most people think he’s cold and unfeeling.”

“You speak as though you know him well.”

“I did, once,” she said. “We were playmates as children. He, myself, and a few other children of the noble families. We used to run wild through the palace gardens, getting into all sorts of mischief.”

“What changed?”

“His mother died when he was ten. The Queen. She was… she was wonderful, kind and warm and everything a mother should be. When she died, it was as though something in Phainon died with her. He withdrew into himself, and stopped playing with us or smiling so freely. His father—the old King—tried to reach him, but Phainon wouldn’t let anyone close. He built walls around himself, and over the years, those walls just got higher and higher.”

You understood this. You had built quite a few walls yourself after your parents died.

“How did the Queen die?” you asked.

“Fever,” Castorice said. “It swept through the palace one winter. Many people died—servants, courtiers. The Queen was tending to the sick, as was her custom. She never cared much for her own safety when people needed help. She fell ill herself, and within three days, she was gone.”

“That is terrible,” you said.

“It was. The King—the old King, I mean—was never the same either. He loved her desperately, you see. After she died, he threw himself into his work, into ruling, and Phainon…” Castorice shook her head. “Phainon was left to grieve alone.”

“I wish…” you said, “I wish to understand why he’s doing this. I want him to talk to me like he did that morning, honestly and without hiding behind his crown. I want—I want to not feel so terribly alone.”

“You are not alone,” Lady Castorice said firmly. “I shall come visit you every day if you like. We can take tea together, or walk in the gardens, or simply sit and talk about nothing in particular. And if you need someone to rage at about your impossible husband, well, I’m an excellent listener.”

You smiled. “Thank you. Truly, Castorice, I… thank you.”

“What are friends for?”

You spent the next hour talking, the way you used to with Mydeimos when you were younger. Castorice told you about her family, her two little nephews who rode horses and fenced, her mother who was constantly trying to marry her off to unsuitable men. You told her about Kremnos, about your estate and the tenants you had grown up knowing, about Erinyes and how much you missed her.

“You could send for her, you know,” Castorice said when you mentioned your former maid. “As Queen, you have the authority to hire whomever you wish for your household staff. If you want Erinyes here, simply send word to your brother. I’m certain he would release her from service.”

“Truly? I thought—Lady Caenis said tradition required all Queen’s staff to be palace employees.”

“Lady Caenis is very attached to tradition,” she said diplomatically, “but tradition is not the law.”

“Tell me something,” you said, pouring yourself more tea. “Do you know why Phainon—why the King—never married before now? He must be, what, five and twenty? Six and twenty? That’s quite late for a royal marriage.”

Castorice’s expression became guarded. “He is seven and twenty. As for why he waited… there are rumours, of course.”

“What sort of rumours?” you asked.

“Nothing substantiated. Just whispers, speculation. Some say he refused every match his father proposed because he was too particular, and—and there are those who say he’s been unwell, that he apparently has episodes where he’s not quite himself. That’s why he is so reclusive, why he avoids social occasions when he can. The old King tried to keep it quiet, but servants talk, and rumours spread.”

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It is a jarring turn of affairs that has made the ton increasingly worried about why, exactly, the King chose to marry a woman who was never seen in public again after the day of their wedding.

Three weeks have now passed since the ceremony, and yet Her Majesty remains conspicuously absent from all public functions. The King attended the opening of Parliament alone, dined with foreign ambassadors alone, and even presided over the annual charity ball—traditionally the Queen’s purview—alone, looking as forbidding and unapproachable as ever.

Some say the King and Queen maintain separate households entirely. Others whisper something more troubling: that the marriage has not been consummated at all. The succession, after all, depends upon an heir. And an heir requires a certain degree of proximity between husband and wife, the last this author checked. One can only hope His Majesty comes to his senses before his queen decides that the crown is not worth the loneliness and abandonment it brings.

Yours truly, Lady Whistledown.

You threw the pamphlet down on the dining table, a disgusted sneer twisting your lips. “Is this truly what they write about me? They think I have been abandoned?”

True as it may be, you certainly did not want for the entirety of British genteel society—or, indeed, the whole of England—to think that their King and Queen were stuck in a loveless farce of a marriage. It was despicably dishonourable and jilting.

Lady Caenis stepped forward. “Your Highness, there may be a rather… simple solution to this.”

“And what is it, Lady Caenis?”

“Seduce the King,” the old lady said simply.

You stared at her, certain you had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Seduce the King,” Lady Caenis repeated. “Get yourself into his bed. Make him consummate the marriage. Give him an heir, or at least make it clear to the palace staff that you’re attempting to do so. The whispers will stop once people believe the marriage is… functioning as it should.”

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment and indignation. “Lady Caenis, I—that is—you cannot possibly be suggesting—”

“I am suggesting exactly what you think I’m suggesting, Your Majesty,” she said. “You are a married woman now. You have duties, and chief among them is the production of an heir. The King may have decided to live separately from you, but that does not exempt either of you from the fundamental requirements of your positions.”

“He doesn’t want me,” you said. “He made that abundantly clear when he exiled me to these apartments.”

“Want and need are different things,” Lady Caenis said pragmatically. “The King may not want a wife in the traditional sense, but he needs an heir. You need to secure your position. The solution is obvious.”

You stood up from the table, too agitated to sit still. “You are talking about it as though it’s—as though it’s some sort of transaction. As though I must simply march into his chambers and—and—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, so flustered were you by the entire conversation.

“That is precisely what it is, Your Majesty. A transaction. This is not a love match. We all know that. But it is a royal marriage, and royal marriages have certain… requirements. You must get the King into bed, and you must do so in a way that ensures he returns regularly enough to get you with child.”

“I don’t know how to—” You stopped, mortified. “I’ve no idea how to seduce anyone.”

“It is not so complicated as you might think, Your Majesty,” the stewardess said. “Men, even kings, are relatively simple creatures when it comes to certain matters.”

“I will not debase myself by—by throwing myself at a man who does not want me. I have some dignity left, Lady Caenis, even if Phainon seems determined to strip me of everything else.”

“Dignity,” said Lady Caenis, “will not give you an heir, nor will it stop the whispers. And it certainly will not keep you warm at night when you’re still alone in these apartments five years from now, with no children, no purpose, and a husband who has grown so accustomed to your absence that he forgets you exist entirely.”

You stared at the old woman, seeing the hard truth in her eyes. She was right, and you knew it, even if you hated admitting it. “You speak very plainly, Lady Caenis,” you said.

“Someone needs to. Everyone else will dance around the issue with pretty words and false sympathy, but that will not help you. You need practical advice, and I’m giving it to you.” She moved to pour herself a cup of tea from the service on the sideboard. “The King is a man like any other. He has physical needs, even if he pretends otherwise. Your job is to remind him of those needs and present yourself as the solution.”

“And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?” you asked. “I don’t—I’ve never—”

“You’re a virgin, yes, and I suppose you do not know the… logistics behind this whole debacle,” Lady Caenis said, taking a sip of her tea. “That is fine. Many men prefer that in a wife, though the King likely doesn’t care one way or another. What matters is that you learn to use what you have.”

“Use what I have?”

“Your body, Your Majesty. Your youth, your beauty—yes, you are beautiful, don’t look so surprised—and the simple fact that you are his wife and therefore the only woman he can bed without causing a scandal. Men are not complicated in this regard. They respond to proximity, to a woman who makes it clear she is available and willing.”

You felt as if you were dreaming. This could not be real. You could not be standing in your breakfast room receiving instruction on how to seduce your own husband from a woman old enough to be your grandmother.

“I do not even know where his chambers are,” you said weakly. “Not exactly, I mean. I know they’re in the west wing, but—”

“Second floor, end of the corridor, doors with the royal crest carved into them. You cannot miss it,” Lady Caenis explained. “You shall need to go at night, obviously. After the servants have finished their evening duties but before he retires. Around ten o’clock would be appropriate.”

“And I’m just supposed to… knock on his door? Walk into his bedroom?”

“You’re his wife. You don’t need an invitation.”

“Of course.”

“One more thing,” she said. “When you do get him into bed—and you will, if you’re persistent—don’t expect tenderness. Don’t expect romance or sweet words or any of the things girls dream about. Expect it to be quick, possibly awkward, and almost certainly uncomfortable the first time. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you do it, and that you do it often enough to conceive.”

After Lady Caenis left, you sank back into your chair and stared at the discarded copy of Lady Whistledown’s paper. The words seemed to mock you: The marriage has not been consummated at all. Was that what everyone thought? That you were so undesirable, so inadequate, that your own husband wouldn’t even bed you?

Lady Caenis was right, as much as you hated to admit it. You needed to do something. You needed to take action, seize some control over this situation that had spiralled so completely out of your hands.

You stood up and walked to the mirror that hung above the sideboard, and looked at yourself, trying to see what Phainon might see. Your face was pallid from too much time indoors, and there were shadows under your eyes from too many sleepless nights. But you were young, and Lady Caenis had said you were beautiful, and surely that counted for something.

Your wedding gown had been beautiful too, before you’d torn it climbing that trellis. Perhaps you needed something else beautiful. Something that would make Phainon look at you and remember that you were his wife, that he had chosen you.

“Arielle!” you called, and your maid appeared almost instantly.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I need you to find me something to wear,” you said. “Something suitable for visiting the King in his private chambers in the evening.”

Arielle’s eyes widened. “Of course, Your Majesty. I have just the thing—a nightgown that came with your trousseau, made of white silk, very fine, with lace at the bodice.”

“Perfect,” you said.

Phainon did not look at all surprised to see you.

This was, perhaps, the most disconcerting thing about the entire situation. You had spent the better part of three hours preparing yourself: bathing in water scented with rose oil, letting Arielle brush your hair until it shone, slipping into the white silk nightgown that left very little to the imagination and wrapping yourself in a dressing gown for the walk through the corridors. You had rehearsed what you might say, how you might explain your presence at his door at half past ten in the evening.

You had not, however, prepared yourself for the way he simply stepped aside and gestured for you to enter, as though he had been expecting you all along.

“Come in,” he said, his voice quiet.

You stepped past him into his chambers, acutely aware of how thin the silk of your nightgown was, how the dressing gown did very little to preserve your modesty. The King’s apartments were darker than yours, decorated in deep blues and greys rather than the lighter colours Lady Caenis had chosen for you. A fire burned in the hearth; there was a desk covered in papers, a sitting area with two chairs, and beyond that, through an open doorway, you could see his bedroom.

Your stomach twisted with nerves.

Phainon closed the door behind you. When you turned to face him, you say that he was dressed for bed himself—dark trousers and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly disheveled, as though he had been running his hands through it agitatedly.

“Lady Caenis sent you here, I presume,” Phainon said, moving past you toward the sideboard where a decanter of amber liquid was placed.

You blinked. “How did you—”

“I met with Lady Caenis this afternoon.” He poured himself a drink and held up the decanter in silent question. You shook your head. “She also informed me that she had advised you to take… direct action regarding our current predicament.”

Heat flooded your face. “She told you that?”

“Not in so many words. But Lady Caenis has been managing the palace household for thirty years. She’s remarkably skilled at communicating without being explicit.”

“So you knew I was coming,” you stated, unsure whether to be mortified or angry. “You knew what I—what I intended—”

“To seduce me?” Phainon said. “Yes, it seemed the logical next step, given Lady Caenis’ particular brand of pragmatism.”

“And you’re just… what? Amused by this?” you said. The anger was winning now, hot in your chest. “You think it’s funny that I’ve been humiliated enough by these three weeks of separation that I’m reduced to—to throwing myself at you in the middle of the night?”

“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” he said. “I think it’s proof that I’ve handled this entire situation abominably, and that you’re paying the price for my cowardice. But I let you in because when Lady Caenis told me you might come here tonight, I—I couldn’t stay away.”

Your heart was hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You took a step forward, then another, until you were close enough to reach out and touch him.

“Do you want me?” you asked, the words coming out braver than you felt. “Not because we need an heir, or because Lady Caenis says we should. Do you want me? As a man wants a woman?”

Phainon inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut. “My God. You must think I am a fool, for I’ve wanted you every single day since the wedding, and it’s been torture staying away.”

Something loosened in your chest. You reached up and let the dressing gown slip from your shoulders. It pooled at your feet in a whisper of silk, leaving you in only the thin white nightgown that Arielle had picked specifically because it left very little to the imagination. Phainon’s eyes darkened, tracking the movement of the fabric as it fell, and you saw his hands fist at his sides.

“Then stop talking,” you said, “and show me.”

Phainon closed the distance between you and captured your mouth with his, nothing like the chaste, brief brush of lips at your wedding ceremony. His hands came up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you gasped against his mouth. You found yourself pressing closer, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders to his chest.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he said, pulling back, but even as he spoke, his lips were brushing against your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you shiver. “You should go back to your chambers. This is—we shouldn’t—”

“Stop talking,” you said again, and pulled him down for another kiss.

His hands moved from your hair to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the evidence of his desire pressing against your hip through the thin fabric of your nightgown. The sensation made heat pool in your belly, made you arch into him with a small sound. He broke the kiss to look at you, searching your face, and whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, because he bent and lifted you into his arms.

You gasped, your arms coming up to loop around his neck. “What are you—”

“Bed,” he said simply, and carried you through the doorway into his bedroom.

The room was lit only by the fire from the main chamber, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow. He laid you on the bed; the sheets were cool against your heated skin. You looked up at him as he stood beside the bed, and thought he might change his mind and send you away after all.

Instead, he shrugged out his shirt, his hands moving to the buttons. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, a scattering of scars across his chest and abdomen that spoke of a life that had not been entirely sheltered or safe. He was beautiful in a way that made you want to reach out and trace every line, every scar, every plane of muscle with your fingers.

He caught you staring and paused, one eyebrow raised. “Second thoughts?”

“No,” you said. “Merely… admiring the view.”

That earned you a surprised laugh, genuine and warm. He finished removing his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then moved to the bed, bracing one knee on the mattress.

“May I?” he asked, his hands hovering near the straps of your nightgown.

“Yes,” you breathed.

Slowly, he began to slide the silk down your shoulders, down your arms, exposing you inch by inch to his gaze. His fingers were warm against your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and you shivered despite the fire burning in the hearth. When the nightgown finally pooled around your waist, you fought the urge to cover yourself, instead forcing yourself to lie still and let him look at you, even though your cheeks were burning with embarrassment and something warmer.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. His hand came up to trace the curve of your collarbone with just his fingertips, feather-light. “You’re so beautiful.”

His hand continued its exploration, sliding down to cup your breast, and you arched into his touch with a gasp. His thumb brushed across your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure straight through you, making you squirm beneath him. 

“Sensitive,” he observed, satisfied. He leaned down, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and you gasped, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair.

Phainon took his time, alternating between gentle kisses and firmer pressure, using his tongue and teeth in ways that made you writhe beneath him. When he moved to give your other breast the same attention, you were already trembling, already desperate for something you couldn’t quite name.

“Phainon,” you gasped, tugging at his hair. “Please—”

“Please what?” he asked against your skin; you could feel him smiling.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, frustrated and aroused in equal measure. “Just—more. I need more.”

“Patience,” he said, but his hands were already moving lower, sliding the nightgown down past your hips, past your thighs, until you could kick it off entirely. You were bare beneath him, completely exposed, and you felt suddenly vulnerable. He leaned down to kiss you again, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hand was sliding between your thighs.

His fingers moved slowly, parting you gently and finding places that made you gasp and arch and whisper his name. He watched your face as he touched you, as though cataloguing every response, every reaction, learning what made you sigh and what made you moan.

“You’re so warm,” he said, his voice rough. “So soft. Tell me if this is all right.”

“It’s—” You broke off with a gasp as his finger found a particular spot, circling it with maddening gentleness. “Yes. Yes, that’s—don’t stop.”

Phainon didn’t. He continued his ministrations, gradually increasing the pressure, the speed, until you were writhing beneath him, your hips moving in rhythm with his hand. He slid one finger inside you, and the feeling was so overwhelming you cried out, your back arching off the bed.

“Easy,” he soothed, holding still. “Just breathe, my love. Does it hurt?”

“No,” you managed. “It’s just—it’s a lot.”

“I know.” He began to move his finger slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the intrusion. “Tell me if it becomes too much.”

It wasn’t too much. If anything, it wasn’t enough. You could feel something building inside you, something that made you restless and desperate and utterly focused on the sensation of his hand between your thighs.

He added a second finger, and you gasped at the stretch, at the fullness. It was almost uncomfortable, but he curled his fingers just so and found a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“There,” you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Right there, please—”

He obliged, stroking that spot while his thumb circled the sensitive bundle of nerves above. The dual sensations were overwhelming, maddening, and you could feel yourself climbing towards something, some precipice you’d never reached before.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice low and approving. “Let go for me. I want to see you come apart.”

You did. The tension that had been building suddenly snapped; pleasure crashed over you in waves that made you cry out his name, your body clenching around his fingers as you shook and trembled beneath him.

When you finally came back to yourself, trembling and gasping, you found him watching you with wonder.

“That was—” You stopped, unable to find words for what you’d just experienced.

“Beautiful,” he finished for you. “You’re beautiful like this.”

He withdrew his hand slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But Phainon stood, removing the rest of his clothing, and your attention was immediately captured by the sight of him fully naked.

He was magnificent, all lean muscle and smooth skin, and—

Your eyes widened at the sight of his arousal, hard and flushed.

“Will it—” You stopped, embarrassed. “Will it fit?”

That surprised another laugh out of him, though this one was strained. “Yes. Though it might be uncomfortable at first. But I’ll go slowly, I promise.”

He returned to the bed, settling between your thighs, before kissing you again, long and deep, and you felt him position himself at your entrance.

“May I?” he asked again.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

The pressure was immediate. You moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He was big—bigger than his fingers had been—and the stretch burned in a way that bordered on painful.

“Breathe,” he murmured, holding perfectly still. “Just breathe.”

You did, forcing yourself to relax, to let your body adjust to him. Gradually, the burning sensation eased, replaced by a fullness that felt strange but not unpleasant.

“Move,” you said, and he pushed forward another inch.

You could feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, could feel every ridge and vein as he slowly, carefully worked his way inside you. It seemed to take forever, this gradual joining, and by the time he was fully seated inside you, you were both breathing hard.

“God,” Phainon gasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “You feel—you’re so tight. So perfect.”

“You can move,” you said, experimentally rolling your hips.

The movement made you both gasp—him with pleasure, you with surprise at the feeling it created.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“Yes. Please, Phainon. Move.”

He did, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. You gasped, your legs coming up to wrap around his hips, and the new angle let him slide even deeper. He set a careful rhythm, slow and steady, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But the pain had faded now, replaced by pleasure that built with each stroke, each slide of his body against yours.

“Faster,” you breathed, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please—”

He obliged, increasing his pace, and you met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his. The pleasure built and built, spiralling higher with each movement. Phainon’s breathing was ragged now, your name falling from his lips. You could feel him beginning to lose control, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more desperate.

“I can’t—” he gasped. “I’m going to—”

“Yes,” you urged, feeling your own climax approaching, that same tension building in your core. “Yes, Phainon, please—”

He thrust deep one final time, and you felt him pulse inside you as he found his release, his whole body going rigid above you. It pushed you over the edge as well, and you cried out, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through you for the second time that night.

Finally, Phainon shifted, pulling out of you carefully. You winced at the soreness, the unfamiliar ache between your thighs. He noticed immediately.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked. 

“No,” you said. “It’s just—tender. Is that normal?”

“For your first time, yes.” He rolled to lie beside you, immediately reaching for you and pulling you against his chest. “It will be better next time. Less uncomfortable.”

“Next time?”

“If you want there to be a next time,” he amended quickly. “I’m not—I won’t force—”

“I want there to be a next time,” you said, pressing your face against his shoulders. “Many next times, preferably.”

You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, and you thought that if this was what marriage could be, then perhaps you could be very happy here after all.

“You asked me to bed her—I have! You asked me to provide her a companion—I asked Lady Castorice to provide her with companionship! Lady Caenis, I truly do not understand what more you want from me!”

“Her cycle is still regular, Phainon,” you heard the old lady snap. The door to the main dining hall was ajar, and though you could not see the two figures quarrelling inside, you could certainly hear them, loud and clear. “How often have you been bedding her? Once, twice? The Crown needs an heir!”

You stood frozen in the corridor, your hand raised to push open the door, your heart pounding. You had been on your way to meet Phainon for luncheon—he had started inviting you to dine with him occasionally over the past two weeks, stiff and formal affairs where you made polite conversation and tried not to think about the three times he had summoned you to his chambers in the dark of the night with a brief message: The King requests your presence.

Three times you had gone to him, had let him undress you and bed you. He was always careful not to hurt you, always made certain you found some measure of pleasure in the act, but there was something perfunctory about it now. You had told yourself you were imagining it; you convinced yourself that perhaps this was simply how married couples conducted themselves, that the desperate passion of that first night had been an aberration rather than a rule.

“Once or twice a week is not sufficient,” Lady Caenis was saying. “You need to be visiting her chambers every night, or better yet, move her into yours properly. The longer this takes, the more people will talk, and the more they talk, the more they’ll question—”

“I am doing the best I can,” Phainon interrupted. “I have given her what she wanted. I have dined with her, spoken with her, and fulfilled my marital obligations. What more can I possibly—”

“You can give her a child! That is your duty as King, Phainon. Your only duty that truly matters. Everything else—the dinners, the companionship, the occasional night in her bed—all of it is meaningless if you cannot produce an heir.”

“I am trying—”

“Not hard enough, clearly. Her courses came again this morning. Arielle informed me.”

“…I see,” Phainon said.

“Do you understand what will happen if you do not get her with child soon?” the stewardess challenged. “The whispers have already started again. People are saying the marriage is cursed, that you’re incapable, that she’s barren. And if those whispers continue, if months pass with no announcement of an heir—”

“I understand the political ramifications, Lady Caenis.”

“Then act like it! Stop treating this like some burden you can attend to whenever it’s convenient. She is your wife, Phainon. Your queen. And she deserves better than to be summoned to your chambers twice a week like some—some courtesan you’re obligated to pay.”

You felt numb. Was that what you were to him? Was that how he saw those nights in his bed—as transactions, obligations, duties to be performed and then forgotten?

“You don’t understand,” Phainon said quietly. “You do not know what you’re asking of me.”

“I’m asking you to do what every king before you has done: to lie with your wife often enough to get her with child.”

“You want me to go to her every night, to pretend that I’m—that we’re—” He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. “You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not.”

“I want you to do your duty,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “Whatever pretty illusions you need to accomplish that, I don’t care. But she needs to conceive, Phainon. Soon.”

You couldn’t stand hearing them discuss you as though you were some broodmare whose only value lay in your ability to produce offspring. You couldn’t bear to hear Phainon talk about bedding you as though it were a chore, an obligation, something he had to force himself to do.

You did the foolish thing and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” Phainon called out.

You pushed the door open and bent in a curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. Forgive me for being late—I was admiring some portraits in the gallery and lost track of time.”

Phainon’s face shifted through several expressions in quick succession: surprise, concern, before settling into the carefully neutral mask he wore so well. Lady Caenis, standing near the window with her hands folded before her, looked at you sharply, as though trying to determine whether you had overheard anything.

“Oh,” said Phainon, and his voice was gentler than usual, almost tentative. “You’re not late at all. I was just—Lady Caenis and I were discussing palace business. Nothing of consequence.” He gestured to the table, where luncheon had been laid out. “Please, sit. You must be hungry.”

You moved to your usual chair, acutely aware of both of them watching you. Your hands were trembling slightly, so you folded them in your lap where they couldn’t be seen. You felt exposed, as though the conversation you had overheard had stripped away some protective layer you hadn’t known you possessed.

Lady Caenis curtseyed briefly. “I shall leave you to your meal, Your Majesties.”

Phainon took his seat across from you. A servant appeared to pour wine and serve the first course—some sort of soup with herbs floating on the surface—and then retreated to the shadows.

“The portraits in the gallery,” Phainon said, picking up his spoon but not eating. “Which ones were you looking at?”

“The queens,” you said. “There are so many of them. All those women who came before me, who sat in my chambers and wore my crown and—” You stopped yourself before you could say and warmed the King’s bedchambers when duty demanded it.

“They are an impressive lineage. My mother used to tell me stories about some of them when I was a child. Queen Hecuba, who ruled as regent for ten years when my great-great-grandfather was too ill to govern. Queen Hippolyte, who established the first hospitals in the city. They were all remarkable women. As are you.”

The compliment landed wrong, felt hollow somehow, though you couldn’t tell if that was because of what you had overheard or because of something in his tone. You picked up your own spoon and forced yourself to ladle the soup.

“You’re too kind, Your Highness,” you murmured.

“Phainon,” he corrected. “When we’re alone, I wish you would call me Phainon. We are husband and wife, after all.”

You said nothing, only nodded and took another spoonful of soup.

Phainon watched you for a moment longer, then seemed to come to some decision. He set down his spoon and leaned forward slightly. “I wanted to ask—how are you finding palace life? I know it’s been an adjustment, being separated from your home and your brother. If there is anything you need, anything at all that would make you more comfortable—”

“I’m quite comfortable, thank you,” you said automatically.

“Are you truly?” Phainon’s pale blue eyes searched your face. “Because you seem… unhappy. And I thought perhaps—I thought perhaps we might spend more time together. Not just these formal luncheons, but—I don’t know. Perhaps you might show me the gardens you’ve been exploring? Or we could ride together? I understand you’re an excellent horsewoman.”

You stared at him, trying to reconcile this version of Phainon—earnest, almost nervous—with the man you had heard in this very room just minutes ago, talking about bedding you as though it were an unpleasant chore.

You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not. Was this the lie, then? This sudden interest in spending time with you, in making you happy? Was this another obligation he was fulfilling because Lady Caenis had told him to try harder?

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” you said carefully, “but I wouldn’t want to take you away from your duties. I know how busy you are.”

“My duties can wait,” the King said. “I—I know I haven’t been the husband you deserve. I want to do better. I want to try to make this marriage into something more than just… than just what it’s been.”

“Alright, Your Highness,” you said quietly, because who were you to disobey the King? “I would like to walk in the gardens with you very much.”

“That is the Ophrys apifera,” Phainon said, trudging along the gravel path with your hand tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, “more commonly known as the bee orchid. It is interesting to look at, is it not?”

You followed the direction of his gaze, to where a cluster of pale blossoms bowed beneath the late-afternoon sun. They were delicate things, ivory petals blushed faintly pink, their centres dark and velvety, uncannily like the bodies of bees poised mid-hover. Pretty, in an odd way. You hummed, noncommittal, and allowed him to guide you a few steps further along the gardens, where the hedges were clipped so neatly they might have been carved from stone. The afternoon sun filtered through the arches overhead, dappling his sleeve, your skirts, the path beneath your feet.

“They deceive pollinators,” he continued, undeterred by your lukewarm response. “The flower mimics the appearance and scent of a female bee. The males are drawn to it, believing it something it is not.”

“That seems rather cruel.”

“I imagine nature does not particularly care.”

“I didn’t know you took an interest in botany,” you said.

“I pride myself on my agricultural knowledge,” Phainon said, with a twitch to his mouth that suggested he was attempting modesty. “If I can make the lives of our farmers, who toil endlessly, easier, then that is a job well done, don’t you think?”

You considered him sidelong as you walked, the way the sun caught in his hair and turned it almost pale gold, the faint crease between his brows that never quite smoothed out, even when he smiled. He did not look like a man who spent much time thinking about crops and irrigation and soil health, and yet perhaps that was precisely why he did. A king’s mind, you were learning, rarely stayed where appearances suggested it ought to.

“I suppose it is, though I imagine they might appreciate lower taxes just as much as improved yields. What flower is that?” you asked, pointing to a cluster of blue flowers.

“Delphinium,” Phainon answered. “They’re rather poisonous, actually.”

Slowing your steps, you peered more closely at the tall blue spires edging the path. Up close, the flowers were impossibly intricate, each petal folded and layered, their colour deepening towards the centre like ink dropped into water. It seemed absurd that something so ornamental, so clearly cultivated to please the eye, could harbour harm.

“They don’t look like it,” you said.

“No,” he agreed. “They were brought here from the western valleys. The soil there is thin and rocky. Farmers cultivate them mostly for trade now—there’s a demand for the extract among apothecaries.”

“What happens if someone touches them?”

“Oh, that’s quite harmless. It’s ingestion that causes trouble. Numbness at first. Then confusion. In sufficient quantities… Well, the gardeners are well-trained.”

“I should hope so,” you said. “I’d hate to think the palace lost staff simply because someone fancied a taste of blue flowers.”

He laughed at that, bright and startled. “You’re not wrong. Lady Caenis would have my head if I let something so avoidable occur.”

The mention of her name made you wonder, not for the first time, how much of this walk—this easy conversation, these small smiles—had been orchestrated at her insistence. Would he still be here, at your side, pointing out flowers and indulging your questions if she had not decided it was necessary?

It did not matter. Enjoyment, even borrowed, was enjoyment nevertheless.

“Those are foxgloves,” Phainon said, following your gaze before you could ask. “Digitalis. Another poisonous one, I’m afraid.”

“Is everything here trying to kill us?” you asked, only half joking.

Phainon then pointed out chamomile—“good for calming the stomach,” he said, “and the nerves, if one is inclined to believe the old wives’ tales”—and rosemary hedges planted near the edges of the beds, meant to deter insects while scenting the air.

“It thrives in poor soil,” he explained. “Farmers plant it near their fields when the land has been overworked. It stabilises the ground and gives it time to recover.”

“Lady Caenis told me that Lady Whistledown has written about us again,” you said one night, curled up in Phainon’s arms, spent and deliciously exhausted. “It appears the general public is awaiting the news of an heir.”

“You know I don’t care about what others say,” Phainon said, running a hand up the curve of your spine. His lips were near your neck, and you could feel his mouth move against your skin as he spoke. “I am their King and you are their Queen; questioning either of us seems extremely redundant.”

“They say our palace walls are too high,” you mumbled, turning around in his arms to face him.

Though you were not certain what your feelings for Phainon truly were, you knew this: you were friends, or at least, so you thought. Walks in the gardens had become commonplace now, as had sharing his bedchambers and eating dinner together. So rarely did you have time to do anything else, apart from your official duties and spending time with your husband, that seeing Lady Castorice now had become a rare occurrence.

The bedchamber was lit only by the glow of a single lamp left burning on the side table. It painted Phainon’s bare shoulders in gold and shadow, traced the line of his collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The sheets were in disarray around you, twisted and rumpled evidence of what the two of you had been doing only moments ago.

“Too high,” he echoed softly, amusement threading his voice. “Is that meant to be criticism?”

“I wouldn’t know,” you said. “Lady Whistledown does enjoy her metaphors.”

Phainon huffed a quiet laugh. “She should be grateful for the walls. They keep us safe.”

“They keep everyone out,” you countered. “No one ever sees us.”

“They see us often enough.”

“Only at court,” you said, shifting slightly, fitting yourself closer to him without much thought. “She says it makes us inaccessible.”

“And does that trouble you?” he asked.

You felt him inhale, the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Your fingers curled lightly into the sheet near his shoulder. “I don’t know. I think I mind being talked about more than I mind being unseen.”

He hummed softly. “People will always talk. If not about our absence, then about our presence. If not about walls, then about heirs.”

“Yes. That.” You sighed. “Lady Whistledown seems convinced the whole country is holding its breath.”

“Let them suffocate.”

“That’s not very kingly of you,” you said, though you laughed despite yourself. You studied his face, the way his expression softened when he wasn’t being observed. Whatever this was between you—friendship, affection—felt nice.

“They’ll start inventing reasons,” you said quietly. “They already have. First it was the wedding being too rushed; then it was our separate schedules. Now it’s the walls.”

Phainon’s hand slid from your back to your hip, thumb pressing just slightly into the flesh. “Then perhaps we should give them fewer reasons.”

You lifted yourself a fraction, propping yourself up on one elbow so you could see him properly. “You’re suggesting…?”

“A ball.”

“A ball,” you said.

“Yes.” His other hand came up to your side.

You searched his face for irony and found none. “You realise that will only invite more scrutiny.”

“I realise it will redirect it,” he said. “They’ll talk about gowns and music and who danced with whom instead of royal babies.”

“And you think that’s preferable?”

“I think,” Phainon said, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before meeting your gaze again, “that it would be good for them to see us together properly.”

“Together how?”

“Dancing. Laughing. Being… married, and happy.”

You swallowed. “You don’t dance.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “I can learn.”

“For the sake of the country?”

“For the sake of my wife,” he said.

You shifted without thinking, knee sliding between his thighs. His breath hitched in response; his grip on you tightened just enough that you felt it everywhere.

“You’re very convincing when you want to be,” you mumbled.

“I haven’t even begun to convince you,” he replied, before leaning in, lips brushing your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. When you tilted your head to meet him, he kissed you properly, slow and unspooling. His mouth was warm, coaxing.

“We could host it within the month,” he whispered, pulling back just slightly. “Before the court grows restless.”

Your hands slid up his arms, fingers tracing muscle and scar alike. “And what would Lady Caenis say?”

“She would say it’s overdue,” he said, grinning, “and insist on seating charts and guest lists.”

“And on making sure I smile often enough.”

“She’ll insist on that regardless.”

You laughed softly. “Then why does this feel like your idea?”

He paused, and for a moment you thought he might deflect, turn it into another dry remark about duty or politics. Instead, his hand slid up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Is it so much of a crime for a husband to want to see his wife happy? You are happy, are you not? With me?”

“The happiest,” you promised, and found it to be true. 

You were happy. You were not certain what it was, this strange, golden thing that blossomed like a bud in full bloom whenever you were near Phainon. The other day, in the gardens, he’d pointed out a bed of merry sunflowers to you; they exhibited heliotropism, he’d explained, in the sense that they turned their heads to wherever the sunlight was the brightest. Perhaps that was how you were with Phainon—he was the sunlight, and you were the sunflower, basking in his warmth and glow.

He answered by kissing you again, deeper this time, mouth parting over yours, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you even realised you were opening for him. His hand slid between you, and you gasped softly into his mouth, fingers clutching at his shoulder. He broke the kiss only to murmur your name, before trailing kisses along your jaw, down your throat.

“We should plan it—the ball,” you breathed, even as your body betrayed you, arching into his touch.

“We will,” he said. “Tomorrow.”

“And the music?”

“We’ll have the orchestra.”

“The guest list?”

“I’ll let Lady Caenis handle that.”

“You’re very brave to entrust such a task to her,” you said.

Phainon’s mouth curved into a smile against your collarbone. “I have excellent motivation.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to bring his face back to yours. “And what would Lady Whistledown say if she could see us now?”

His eyes darkened. “She’d run out of ink.”

The thought made you laugh again, the sound dissolving into a soft gasp as his fingers slid into your warm heat once more, drawing you closer and winding you tighter. You pressed your lips to his once more, silencing whatever he might have said next.

Your courses came as per usual, and you sighed and told Arielle glumly to fetch you another washing-cloth. Lady Caenis would not be pleased, and neither would Phainon—though you knew his affection for you was not because of your ability to bear him an heir—but the day of the ball was tomorrow, so you were determined to remain in good spirits.

Arielle’s face was sympathetic as she handed you the linen. “Shall I inform the stewardess, Your Majesty?”

“No,” you said quickly, then reconsidered. “Actually, yes. Better she hears it from you than discovers it herself somehow. She always seems to know anyway.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Arielle curtseyed and slipped away, leaving you to sink back against the pillows of your bed—yours and Phainon’s bed, you reminded yourself, though in this moment it felt cavernous and empty.

It had been three months of sharing his chambers, falling asleep in his arms and waking to his kisses, learning the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his skin against yours. Three months of trying, hoping, waiting for some sign that all of this intimacy and tentative affection would result in the heir everyone so desperately wanted.

You pressed a hand to your flat stomach, willing yourself not to feel like a failure. It was early yet, you told yourself. These things took time. Your own mother had not conceived Mydeimos until two years into her marriage.

You were still dwelling on it an hour later when there came a sharp knock at the door, and Lady Caenis swept in. Her face was set in lines of severe disapproval, her hands clasped tightly before her.

“Your Majesty,” she said. The two words felt like a reprimand all on its own.

“Lady Caenis.” You straightened, trying to arrange yourself into something resembling regal composure despite the cramping in your abdomen. “I assume Arielle has informed you.”

“She has,” the stewardess confirmed. “This makes three months, Your Majesty. Three months with no result.”

“I’m aware of how long it’s been,” you said.

“It appears you and His Majesty have been rather… distracted. With garden walks and private dinners and this ball you’ve convinced him to host.”

“The ball was his idea,” you protested.

“Was it?” Lady Caenis raised a silver eyebrow. “Or was it another way to avoid the real issue at hand? To distract the court—and yourselves—from the fact that you have yet to conceive?”

“We are trying, Lady Caenis. Every night, we—” You stopped, your cheeks flushing hot. “It is not as though we’re not… fulfilling our obligations.”

“Is that what you think this is about, Your Majesty?”

“Is that not what you told Phainon three months ago? That his only duty that truly matters is getting me with child?”

Lady Caenis went very still. “You heard that conversation.”

“I did,” you said. 

“I see.” She was quiet for a moment. “Then you should also have heard me tell His Majesty that you deserved better than to be treated as an obligation. You deserve a husband who wanted you, not one who was merely going through the motions.”

“He does want me,” you said. “We’re happy. We—”

“Truly?” Lady Caenis challenged. “Or are you simply playing at happiness while avoiding the reality of your situation?”

“What situation?” Your hands fisted in the sheets. “That I haven’t conceived yet? That’s hardly unusual, Lady Caenis. My own mother took two years—”

“Your mother,” she interrupted, “was not Queen. Your mother did not have an entire kingdom watching her, waiting for her to fail. Your mother did not have a husband who—” She stopped abruptly, as though catching herself before saying something she shouldn’t.

“Who what?” you demanded. “Say it, Lady Caenis. Don’t stop now.”

The stewardess shook her head. “It is not my place to discuss His Majesty’s… concerns with you. However, if you and His Majesty continue to avoid discussing those reasons, to hide behind balls and garden walks and pretending everything is fine when it is not—”

“We’re not pretending! We’re trying to be happy. Is that so wrong? Why can’t you just let us have this?”

“Because happiness built on avoidance is not happiness at all, Your Majesty. It is merely another form of hiding, and sooner or later, what you’re hiding from will catch up with you.”

Lady Caenis left then, her skirts swishing against the floor, and you were alone again with your disarrayed thoughts and the growing fear that perhaps she was right.

Phainon returned to the chambers later that afternoon, his face drawn and tired. He had been in meetings all day—something about shipments and trade agreements—and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.

“Hello,” he said, and moved to kiss you, but you turned your head so his lips caught your cheek instead of your mouth. He pulled back, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said. “How were your meetings?”

“Tedious.” He studied your face, those pale blue eyes searching. “Has something happened? You seem…”

“My courses came,” you said. “This morning. Arielle informed Lady Caenis, and Lady Caenis came to… express her disappointment.”

“What did she say to you?”

“Does it matter? She said what everyone is thinking—that three months is too long; that we’re distracted; that we’re avoiding the real issue.”

“The real issue,” Phainon repeated.

“The heir, Phainon. The one thing all of this is supposed to be about.” You gestured between you, at the bed, at the chambers you shared. “Isn’t that what you said to her? That you were just going through the motions?”

“No, I—”

“No, I want to know,” you said. “Is that what this is? All of it—the garden walks, the dinners, the ball tomorrow—is it all just… just performance? Another way to fulfill your obligations while making it look like we’re actually happy?”

Phainon’s expression shuttered, closing off in that way you had come to recognise and dread. 

“How am I supposed to know anything about you?” you pressed on. “You won’t talk to me about anything that actually matters. You won’t tell me what Lady Caenis means when she says you have reasons. You won’t—”

“What did she tell you?”

“Nothing! That’s the problem! Everyone seems to know something I don’t. Everyone has some secret they’re all keeping from me, and I’m supposed to—to what? Smile and pretend everything is fine? Keep trying to get pregnant without knowing why it’s not happened?”

“It has been three months. That’s nothing. These things take time—”

“Then why did Lady Caenis make it sound like there’s more to it than that?” you challenged. “Why did she talk about your concerns, your reasons, about—”

“She had no right to say anything to you,” Phainon said, and now he was angry too, you could see it in the set of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. “This is precisely why I didn’t want her interfering. She can’t help herself, always pushing, always—”

“Always telling the truth? God forbid someone actually be honest with me about what is happening in my own marriage.”

“I have been honest with you,” Phainon snapped. “I’ve tried—”

“You’ve tried to make me happy,” you retorted. “That’s not the same thing as being honest. That is simply another form of managing me, of deciding what I can and cannot handle.”

“Becuase you can’t handle it!” The words exploded out of him, and you could see he immediately regretted it. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, say it,” you said. “Say what you really think. That I’m too fragile, too weak, too—”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“What is it I can’t handle?”

Phainon stared at you, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I think that this conversation has gotten out of hand. We’re both upset. Perhaps we should—”

“Add it to the list of things we don’t talk about?” You shook your head. “I cannot keep doing this, Phainon.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked; there was genuine confusion in his voice, as though he truly didn’t understand. “I’ve given you everything I can. I’ve moved you into my chambers, I’ve spent every night with you, I’ve tried to make you happy. What more—”

“I want you to trust me! I want you to stop protecting me from things and just—just let me in! Is that so hard?”

“I cannot,” he said quietly.

“When can you tell me?” you said. “When will you be ready? When I’m pregnant? When we have an heir? When you’ve decided I’ve proven myself worthy of the truth?”

“It’s not about worthiness—I’m doing the best I can,” Phainon said. “I swear to you, I’m trying—”

“Well, maybe your best isn’t good enough!”

Phainon flinched as though you had struck him. The colour drained from his face; he simply stood there, staring at you, his lips pressed together. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?” you called after him, panic suddenly replacing anger.

“I don’t know,” he said without turning around. “Somewhere you don’t have to look at me and be reminded of how inadequate I am.”

“Phainon—”

But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that somehow felt worse than if he had slammed it. The evidence of your shared life now seemed to mock you—his papers on the desk, your book on the nightstand, the tangled sheets that still smelled like both of you.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to be happy.

How could you have said that he wasn’t trying hard enough? How could you have looked at him—at the man who had tried so hard to overcome his own fears and walls—and told him his efforts were worthless?

The door opened again. Wildly, you thought Phainon had come back, but it was only Arielle, her face concerned.

“Your Majesty, I heard—that is—” She stopped. “Shall I fetch you some tea?”

“Where did he go?” you asked.

“His Majesty? I saw him hurrying towards the west wing. The old King’s study, I think.”

The west wing. As far from these chambers—from you—as he could get while still remaining in the palace.

“Leave me, please, Arielle. I wish to be alone,” you said.

On the eve of the ball, everything was gorgeous.

You danced with Phainon, and he held your hand throughout, and you tried not to pretend there was a large lump in your throat every time you looked at him.

It was a success. Everyone had seen you and Phainon together, smiling and dancing and playing the part of the happy royal couple. Lady Whistledown would write something glowing, no doubt, about how in love you appeared, how well-matched, how perfect, and it was all a lie.

No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t all a lie. The affection between you was real. The friendship was real. The nights you had spent in each other’s arms, learning each other’s bodies and rhythms and habits—those were real.

Thus, faced with nothing but your own thoughts and misery for company—for Phainon had retreated to his study the minute the ball ended—you realised you loved him.

You loved him. You loved his careful intelligence, the way he could recite facts about flowers and farming with equal enthusiasm. You loved the rare, genuine smiles he gave you when he thought no one else was watching. You loved the way he held you after making love, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, his breathing slowing to match yours.

You rolled over, pressing your face into his pillow, breathing in the faint scent of him that still lingered there, and finally, finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

“What has Lady Whistledown written about me today?” you said, once Lady Castorice had settled into the chair across from yours. Arielle hovered nearby, ready to pour tea at your beckoning, but otherwise, you and Castorice had the relative safety and privacy of your private drawing room. 

Castorice pulled out the latest paper from her reticule, unfolding it with a slight smile. “Shall I read it to you, or would you prefer to suffer through it yourself?”

“Read it,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m not sure I can bear to look at it directly.”

Castorice cleared her throat and began:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

This author is delighted to report that the ball hosted by Their Majesties last evening was an undisputed success. The King and Queen appeared in perfect harmony, dancing with grace and evident affection for one another. Her Majesty’s gown was a beauty of sapphire and lace, and His Majesty’s attentiveness to his wife was noted by all in attendance. Whatever concerns this author may have previously expressed about the state of the royal marriage appear to have been unfounded. 

The King and Queen are, clearly, quite content in each other’s company, and the evening’s festivities have done much to silence the more skeptical voices at court.

You listened, feeling oddly deflated. “That’s… actually rather nice.”

Castorice set the paper down on the table between you, her expression thoughtful. “How have you been sleeping?”

“I—what?” 

“Sleeping. You look tired.” Castorice studied your face with concern. “Are you unwell?”

“No, I’m just—” You stopped, considering. “Actually, I’ve been sleeping terribly. Last night especially. The bed felt too large without—” You caught yourself, felt your cheeks warm. “Without Phainon there.”

“Ah. Yes, I heard from the footman that he spent the night in the west wing.” Castorice poured tea for both of you. “That must have been difficult.”

“It was necessary,” you said, perhaps too defensively. “We both needed space after—after everything.”

“Of course,” your friend said, handing you a teacup. “Though I imagine His Majesty didn’t sleep well either. He rarely does, from what I understand.”

You looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing specific. Just—palace gossip, you know how it is. The servants talk. I’ve heard that His Majesty is often awake at odd hours. Walking the corridors, working in his study. That sort of thing.”

“He works too much,” you said. “I’ve told him he needs to rest more, but he doesn’t listen.”

“Mm. Though I wonder if it’s truly work that keeps him awake,” Castorice said. “My own nephew has nightmares sometimes; he wakes the whole house with his shouting. My uncle wanted to send him to a specialist, but Marcus refused, because he said it would make him look weak.”

“…Nightmares?”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious. Just bad dreams from childhood that he never quite grew out of. But it does affect his sleep terribly.” She paused, then added, “I imagine anyone who’s experienced terrible things at a young age might struggle with similar issues. The mind has difficulty letting go of such things.”

You thought about Phainon, about his mother’s death when he was ten, about all those nights you had slept peacefully in his arms while he—

Had he been awake? Fighting off nightmares? Trying not to disturb you?

“Are you all right?” Castorice asked.

“Yes, I—” You shook your head. “Sorry, I was simply thinking about something.”

“About His Majesty?”

“About everything,” you said. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“I think… I think Phainon is hiding something from me.”

“What do you think he’s hiding?”

“I don’t know exactly,” you said, frustratedly setting your teacup down. “Something about why he’s so afraid of getting close to people. Why he wanted separate chambers at first. Why he—why he sometimes looks at me like he’s waiting for me to disappear.”

“Grief does strange things to people,” Castorice said quietly. “Especially when it’s complicated by guilt. When someone blames themselves for something that wasn’t their fault, it can shape how they see the world, and how they see themselves.”

“His mother,” you said, and suddenly the answer seemed so simple to you, so obvious.

“Among other things,” Castorice said, “but that’s not really my story to tell. If you want to know what His Majesty carries with him, you’ll have to ask him directly. Or simply be patient enough that he tells you himself.”

You nodded slowly, understanding what Castorice wasn’t quite saying. Phainon had nightmares. Phainon blamed himself for his mother’s death, even though it wasn’t his fault. Phainon was afraid of losing people he cared about. Castorice was telling you this without actually telling you, because she knew Phainon wouldn’t want you to know; because she was your friend, but she was also loyal to him, and she was trying to help you both without betraying either of you.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Any time,” Castorice said, smiling. “Though next time, perhaps we could talk about something more cheerful? Like the fashion at the ball, or the truly scandalous amount of champagne Lord Ashford consumed?”

“He was rather drunk, wasn’t he?”

“Absolutely sotted. I’m amazed he made it home without falling into a fountain.”

“I’m still rather surprised by Lady Whistledown’s paper this time,” you said. “Last time she wrote about us, she was speculating about whether the marriage had been consummated at all.”

Castorice’s expression turned odd. “When was that?”

“Weeks ago. Around the time Lady Caenis was pressuring Phainon to—” You stopped, frowning. “Why?”

“Lady Whistledown,” she said carefully, “has never written anything about whether your marriage has been consummated. Or about heirs, for that matter. She’s mentioned the palace walls, and your reclusiveness, and the general state of the marriage, but she’s never been so vulgar as to speculate about… intimate affairs.”

You stared at her. “That’s not—I read it myself. She wrote about how the succession depends on an heir, and how an heir requires proximity between husband and wife, and—”

“I’ve read every single edition of Lady Whistledown’s papers since your wedding. I promise you, she’s never written anything like that.”

“But I saw it,” you insisted. “It was in the paper. It said—

“Who gave you the paper?” Castorice asked quietly.

“Arielle. She always brings me Lady Whistledown’s papers when they’re published.” You felt something cold settle in your stomach. “Are you saying—you think someone fabricated it?”

Though Castorice did not say anything further, you knew what she was thinking. Someone wanted you to believe Lady Whistledown was writing about heirs and succession, someone who had a vested interest in making you feel pressured about conceiving.

Lady Caenis.

You had to tell Phainon.

You had to tell Phainon. The thought consumed you for the rest of your afternoon, through Castorice’s departure and the hours that followed. You paced your drawing room, trying to organise your thoughts, trying to decide exactly how to approach this. 

Lady Caenis had fabricated a Lady Whistledown paper; had manipulated you into feeling humiliated and pressured; had orchestrated that entire conversation for you to overhear. However, you needed proof. You couldn’t simply accuse the palace stewardess of such deceit based on suspicion alone.

You rang for Arielle, and she appeared immediately. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Do you remember the Lady Whistledown paper you brought me several weeks ago? The one about—the one about heirs and succession?”

Arielle’s brow furrowed. “Your Majesty, I’m not certain I recall—”

“It was the week before I had luncheon with His Majesty. The day you brought it to me at breakfast, and I was reading it with Lady Caenis before I left.”

“Oh! Yes, I remember that morning, Your Majesty. Lady Caenis had asked me to deliver it to you specifically. She said it was important you read it before the next week.”

“And where did you get the paper from?”

“Lady Caenis gave it to me directly, Your Majesty. She said it had just been published.”

“I see. Thank you, Arielle,” you said. “One more thing: do we keep copies of old newspapers anywhere? An archive of some sort?”

“The library maintains a collection of all published papers, Your Majesty,” she replied, “including Lady Whistledown’s publications. Would you like me to fetch something for you?”

“Yes,” you said. “I’d like to see the Lady Whistledown paper from that same day.”

Arielle curtseyed and withdrew. You continued pacing, your mind racing. If you were right, and Lady Caenis had indeed fabricated that paper, then the library’s copy would be different from what you read—it would serve as ample proof.

Arielle returned twenty minutes later with a paper in hand. “From the date you specified, Your Majesty.”

You took, unfolding it, your eyes scanning the text. The article was about the palace walls, about your reclusiveness, about speculation on the state of your marriage. There was nothing about heirs or succession or conjugal proximity. The paper Arielle had brought you from the library was completely different from the one you had read that morning weeks ago.

Lady Caenis had fabricated an entire false newspaper to manipulate you.

“Arielle,” you said. “Please send word to His Majesty. Tell him I need to speak with him urgently, and ask him to have Lady Caenis present as well.”

“Your Majesty—”

“Now, please.”

Arielle’s eyes widened, but she hurried away.

“Arielle said it was urgent,” Phainon said, his head tilted in that manner he had when he was confused. You had asked him and Lady Caenis to meet you in the formal receiving room rather than your private chambers. “What’s happened? Are you unwell?”

“I’m perfectly well,” you said. “Thank you for coming, Lady Caenis.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. “How may I be of service?”

You held up the paper in your hand. “I’ve been reviewing some of Lady Whistledown’s publications. The one from several months ago, specifically; the day I—forgive my crude manner of speaking—but the day I first spent the night in His Majesty’s chambers.”

Phainon’s brow furrowed. “What about it?”

“It was a week before I overheard your conversation with Lady Caenis before luncheon, about how I needed to conceive and how you were only bedding me out of obligation.”

Phainon’s face went pale. “I—”

“I’m not finished,” you said. “The morning of the day we shared a bed, Arielle brought me a Lady Whistledown paper. One that discussed, in rather explicit terms, the question of whether our marriage had been consummated, whether we were capable of producing an heir. It was humiliating to read, and it made me feel—it made me feel like a failure.”

“I don’t understand,” Phainon said. “What does this have to do with—”

“Lady Whistledown never wrote that article,” you said, holding up the paper. “This is the real edition from that date. It mentions nothing about heirs or conjugal matters. The article I read that morning was fabricated.”

Phainon turned slowly to look at Lady Caenis. “What is she talking about?”

“Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said, “I’m certain there’s been some misunderstanding—”

“There’s no misunderstanding! Arielle confirmed that you gave her the paper directly that morning, and that you specifically asked her to deliver it to me the week before the luncheon, where—coincidentally—I overheard you discussing my failure to conceive with His Majesty.”

“Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said, patiently. “You were under a great deal of stress at that time. It’s possible you misremembered what you read—”

“I didn’t misremember.” You walked to the desk and laid out the paper. “Here. Read it yourself. Tell me where it mentions heirs or succession or any of the things I supposedly read. You fabricated a paper. You wanted me to feel pressured about conceiving. You orchestrated everything, all to manipulate me into seducing my husband!”

“That’s a very serious accusation, Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said.

“It’s also true, isn’t it?”

Phainon was staring at Lady Caenis with an expression you’d never seen before—something between shock and betrayal and cold, terrible anger. “Did you do this?” he asked.

Lady Caenis was silent for a long moment. “Yes.”

“You fabricated a newspaper,” Phainon repeated. “You manipulated my wife—”

“I did what was necessary,” Lady Caenis interrupted. “Your Majesty, you were avoiding your obligations. The Queen needed to conceive, and you were treating the marriage like—like one of your botanical studies. Something to be examined from a distance rather than actually engaging with.”

“That was not your decision to make,” the King said.

“Someone had to make it! You were content to keep Her Majesty in separate chambers, to visit her once or twice a week. The kingdom needs an heir, Your Majesty, and if you were not going to take that seriously, then yes, I took steps to ensure—”

“You lied to her,” Phainon said. “You manufactured evidence to make her feel humiliated and inadequate. You manipulated her into believing the entire kingdom was judging her for something that wasn’t even true.”

“I gave her motivation,” Lady Caenis said. “And it worked, did it not? You moved her into your chambers. You started spending every night with her.”

You felt sick, for she wasn’t entirely wrong—her manipulation had worked. You had gone to Phainon’s chambers that night. You had seduced him. You had pushed for more intimacy, more closeness, and yes, things had gotten better between you.

“Get out,” Phainon said.

Lady Caenis blinked. “Your Majesty—”

“Get out,” he repeated, louder now. “You are dismissed from this conversation. In fact, you’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”

“You can’t be serious—”

“I am perfectly serious, I assure you.” Phainon’s voice was cold. “You have served this family for decades, Lady Caenis, and I am grateful for that service. But what you did—manipulating my wife, fabricating evidence, orchestrating situations for your own ends—that is unforgivable. You are dismissed.”

Lady Caenis’ face had gone white. “Your Majesty, please. I was only trying to help. The succession—”

“The succession is not your concern. You’ll have until the end of the week to organise your affairs and find alternative accommodations. Your pension will be provided and I shall ensure you have adequate references for future employment. But you will not remain in this palace.”

“Phainon—Your Majesty, please reconsider. I’ve dedicated my life to this family—”

“And I appreciate that dedication, but it does not excuse what you did.” Phainon moved to stand beside you, and you felt his hand settle at the small of your back. “You violated my wife’s trust and manipulated her for your own ends, regardless of how noble you believed those ends to be. That is not acceptable.”

“I was only trying to protect the Crown,” Lady Caenis tried again, looking between the two of you beseechingly.

“I know,” said Phainon, “but the Crown does not need protection from my wife.”

Lady Caenis clasped her hands tightly before her. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Your Majesty.” She nodded to each of you in turn. “I hope you’ll understand, someday, that I did what I thought was right.”

She left, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving you alone with Phainon. You stared at the closed door. Lady Caenis, the woman who had run the palace household for decades and seemed like an immovable fixture of your life here, was gone.

“Are you all right?” Phainon asked finally.

“I don’t know,” you said. “Should I feel guilty? She was only trying to help, in her own twisted way.”

He looked away, seeming terribly tired, and sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know, either.”

Queen Audata was truly a magnificent figure in paint, and, not for the first time, you wondered what she was like as a person. 

You had come to the portrait gallery late at night, unable to sleep. The conversation with Lady Caenis had left you feeling unsettled, restless. Phainon had returned to his study after she left, claiming he had work to finish, and you had spent the evening alone in your chambers; so, you had risen from the empty bed and wandered the corridors until you found yourself here, standing before Queen Audata’s portrait.

She had kind eyes. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite the formal nature of the painting, and the crown and the elaborate gown and the regal bearing, there was warmth in her painted eyes. She looked like someone who had laughed often, who had loved freely. You wondered if Phainon remembered that, or if his memories of her were coloured only by grief and guilt.

“She would have liked you.”

You turned to find Phainon standing in the doorway of the gallery, still in his daytime clothes, his hair disheveled. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders tense.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I couldn’t sleep, and I…”

“You’re not intruding.” He moved into the gallery, coming to stand beside you. “I couldn’t sleep either.”

You looked at him more closely. “Bad dreams?”

He went very still. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a guess,” you said. “I’ve heard that people who experience terrible situations young often struggle with nightmares. The mind, apparently, has difficulty letting go of such things.”

“Who told you?”

“No one told me anything directly,” you said truthfully, “but I’m not blind, Phainon. I’ve noticed you’re often awake at odd hours, and that you sometimes look exhausted even after a full night in bed. I’ve noticed that there are moments where you seem… elsewhere.”

He moved away from you, then, his arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“I know.”

“It makes me look weak.”

“I don’t believe it does, truly,” you said. “Phainon, you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me, but I want you to know—whatever keeps you awake at night, I’m here.”

“You can’t promise me that,” he said roughly. “People leave. People die.”

“People get sick, and their mothers nurse them, and sometimes those mothers catch the illness too,” you said quietly. “And sometimes cruel men blame children for things that aren’t their fault.”

Phainon turned to stare at you, his face silver in the moonlight. “How did you—”

“I told you. I pay attention. And I understand why you wanted separate chambers at first.”

“I dream about it,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out. “About my mother dying, and my father telling me it was my fault. Sometimes I’m ten years old again, burning with fever, calling for her. Other times I’m watching her get sick, and I can’t—I can’t make her stay away from me, and then I wake up, and for a moment, I’m convinced I’m still that ten-year-old boy who killed his mother.”

“You didn’t kill her,” you said firmly. “How long have you been having difficulty sleeping?”

“Since she died. Seventeen years.”

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding the bed? Since the fight? Not because you wanted space, but because you didn’t want to see me?”

He nodded, unable to meet your eyes. “I’ve gotten good at waking myself up quietly, but I cannot always manage it. I thought—if you saw me like that, if you knew—”

“I’d realise I made a mistake in staying?”

“Yes.”

You closed the distance between you and took his hands in yours. They were cold, trembling. “Do you love me?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. “What?”

“Do you love me?” you repeated, looking up at him. “It’s a simple question, Phainon. Yes or no.”

He stared at you, and you thought he might deflect, might hide behind walls again. But he didn’t.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I love you. From the—from the moment I saw you on that trellis, covered in garden dirt, looking at me like I was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. I loved you then, and I’ve loved you every day since.

“I love you when you’re walking beside me in the gardens, asking questions about flowers you don’t actually care about just because you know it makes me happy to talk about them. I love you when you’re asleep, when you make that little sound right before you wake up, when you reach for me without opening your eyes. I love—I love you so much it feels like I cannot breathe sometimes, if you are not near.”

You kissed him, then, pressing your mouth to his with an urgency that bordered on desperation. You wanted him to consume you, to make you his wholly and completely, for just as he was yours, so too were you his, and how nice this life would be! How nice, to stay in the comfort provided by darkness and the stars, and hide from the heavens forever.

It’s a featherlight breach in comparison to the rest of him, and it wrecks you that this is only the beginning. That, despite him having barely done anything, your arousal already gathers heavily onto the pad of his finger. Undeniably wet. Sticky.

You remember he asked a question, and your whispers come out choked. Tight. “I- I don’t know what he’s saying—” Shoto pushes one thick finger in, smooth, sliding steadily along your walls that clench tight around the single digit. A whimper nearly breaks out before you clamp your mouth shut, the feeling of his knuckle cool stone against your entrance. 

This feels wrong. Wildly inappropriate as Kaminari mumbles to himself across the line. But it seems to barely affect Shoto as his only response is to tighten his arm around your squirming waist, pulling your back flush against his chest as he pries you open on his lap.

Two forgotten wine glasses sit on the table, barely touched. The aftermath of the party was strewn around the house: cups and stray chairs littering everywhere, a half-eaten cake on the kitchen counter, the space worn with the familiar echo of friends. 

All background to what’s playing out obscenely on the living room couch.

“Would you like my help?” he asks. A little too sweetly, as if he weren’t the reason for your fog-filled mind.

You hurriedly nod, though not entirely comprehending what he’s saying, teeth biting harsher into your lip when he slips another finger inside.

Shoto rests the side of his head against yours, red strands of hair peeking into your vision. He speaks—a low sound. A deep rumble that reverberates through your limbs, and you’re scared that you might cum from his voice alone.

You probably can. His effect on you is just that powerful.

“Tell him to go home,” he whispers into your ear, sending a shiver up your spine. Less of a suggestion and more like a command.

It comes out immediately, strained. Straight to the point. “Kaminari. Go home.”